Peter Carey - His Illegal Self

Who? the boy insisted, trying not to be whiny.

Please, Dial said. I’ll explain. Trust me.

Instead of explaining she drove six miles to Nambour, then fifteen miles to Maleny and another five miles south until they could see the weird broken teeth of the Glass House Mountains shoving out of the prickly bush below the velvet sky. The road was thin and bright black along the grassy ridge and when they came to the phone box Dial parked the car as best she could, nervous about tipping over into the valley below. She got out of the car with a piece of paper held between thumb and finger, fluttering in the breeze. In her other hand she carried the jam jar of coins and the boy stayed in the car with the window open, the soft breeze washing across his skin.

Trevor pushed into the phone box too.

The boy was left alone to be half sick. He did not want to go, not yet, later. Maybe Dial could pay Grandma to have a visit so she could see it was really nice. The rain had stopped and the rabbit’s fur cloud was high enough to see all the way to the coast. He imagined Lex and Sixty-second, and the deep dark streets, not letting his mind walk very far.

They rushed out of the phone box, Trevor frowning, Dial blowing out her cheeks.

What? he asked when they got in the car. What?

Dial was busy turning the car around. For a moment the back wheels got stuck and then they broke free, tearing away from Maleny, leaving lumps of yellow mud along the center of the road.

We have to go to Brisbane, baby.

Why?

They won’t let us make an international call from a public phone.

At the Brisbane GPO there were police everywhere, like ants pouring from a nest. He looked down at his feet so no one would see his face.

Just be quiet, Dial told him. OK?

He took her slippery frightened hand and stayed tight against her as they walked up the steps of the huge building like a church or synagogue. No air-conditioning. Should have been. At a high counter Dial paid money and was given a ticket with a number on it and then they went into a waiting room with long wooden benches and black telephones around the walls, each one set in its own wood-paneled booth.

This is fancy, the boy said. Old style.

Yes.

When their number was finally called, the three of them pushed together into the booth which smelled of whatever gases people make when they are sad or scared.

Hello, Dial said.

He pressed against her as she asked for Mr. Warriner. Phil.

The boy thought, Flake.

He must be home by now, she said to Trevor.

Hello, said Dial. Hello, Phil.

She listened. She said, Is that Phil Warriner’s room? Then she listened again.

That’s not your business, she said. I want to speak to Phil.

Then, without saying another word, she placed the big black phone back on its hook. The boy did not see Trevor slip away but Dial found him among the crowd out front. Trevor had his hand across his mouth, his eyes flittering like mad, and the boy knew he was scared.

Cop, Dial said. In his room.

Trevor stared into the distance.

He was from Brooklyn, said Dial. The cop. She looked down at the boy.

I bet you know your grandma’s number?

Trevor said, I’ll meet you at the car at three.

The boy thought, What will happen to me? He watched Trevor’s smooth hipless glide, right through a crowd of policemen getting on a bus.

Where is he going?

Do you know your grandma’s phone number?

He looked into Dial’s glaring speckly eyes. Everything was hidden in the black bit where Grandpa told him not even God could see.

Why?

She took his hand and he let her take him back to near the high counter where she did that crouching-down thing.

Listen, she said, the idiot’s in trouble.

Trevor?

Phil. If he’s in trouble I’m in trouble too. Just let me explain it to your grandma before Phil makes it worse.

That’s what I said, the boy said. I told you ages ago.

He was crying now, not knowing what was right or wrong. They did not have a tissue. She fetched him a telegram form to blow his nose and it was hard and smeary on his skin and he had to use his wrist instead. Dial took a fresh telegram and wrote both numbers, Sixty-second Street, Kenoza Lake. Through tears he watched her paying at the counter.

It was nighttime where Grandma was, her little swimming body must be hardly showing beneath the surface of her bed, the crackling radio playing to keep away bad dreams. When the phone rang she must have got an awful fright.

Hello, Dial said, this is Anna Xenos.

Xenos? The boy could hear an ambulance. That’s how he knew Dial called the city first.

I am your daughter’s friend, Dial said. Anna Xenos.

The boy was not mentioned. His grandma could not see him or imagine where he was. A policeman was eating a sandwich and leaning against the counter while he talked to the pretty plump girl who handed out the numbers for the calls. Blood oath, the policeman said.

Dial’s senses were as alive as cat’s whiskers. She noticed how the policeman was staring at the boy. She heard a tumbler being moved across a glass-topped table in New York City.

OK, Anna Xenos, the old lady said. Do you know what time it is?

Dial thought, I’m nuts to have this conversation.

The police have arrested your accomplice, the grandmother said.

The word -accomplice- turned in her gut.

He’s in The Tombs right now.

She did not know what The Tombs were exactly, but what she imagined was pretty close, and she hated the old lady for how she said toombs from a Park Avenue address.

She looked down at the boy and saw with what misery he clung to her. He was wrung-out looking, sweaty nosed, tugging at her skirt. Poor boy. Poor Phil in his zoot suit. She had been embarrassed to talk about it, but her prissy silence had gotten him locked in jail.

He’ll be in court in the morning.

For Christ’s sake, he’s a lawyer. He’s my lawyer.

Let me talk to Jay.

No, not yet.

Dial imagined an old-fashioned telephone, its cable frayed like her mother’s corset. She waited while it crackled in her ear.

Do you really have to be so cruel, Mrs. Selkirk said.

Dial pushed the greasy telephone to the boy and he took it in both hands.

Darling, is that you?

The boy heard her voice dragged up from the martini deep of sleep.

Yes Grandma.

Jay?

It’s me, Grandma. He saw her gray hair brushed out for bedtime.

Did they hurt you, Jay?

No Grandma.

The boy had heard his grandma weep quite often, like wind through fall leaves, but not like this, a storm of lashing and bashing and gulping. Then it stopped real quick.

Phil will tell you, the boy said quickly. I’m OK.

Who?

The lawyer, Grandma. He went to fix it all up. Everything’s just fine.

The police have him, darling, don’t you worry.

Everyone is kind to me, Grandma. Phil is nice.

Jay, where are you?

Maybe he should have said where he was. He did not know. The policeman had bushy sandy eyebrows pushing down upon his eyes and he stood with his bottom stuck back, so the lettuce in the sandwich would fall on the floor and not on his badge.

Jay, you have to say.

Dial had her ear right next to the phone. She took it from him and he was pleased he did not have to decide.

Listen, Dial said, I’ve paid for six minutes, so don’t waste time.

I’ll have you in Sing Sing, said Grandma Selkirk making static in her ear. I can trace your call, you little fool. How much money do you want?

Why don’t you just talk to my lawyer and see if you can settle something. I don’t want money.

Lawyer, oh please.

In that oh please Dial heard only privilege and condescension.