Peter Carey - His Illegal Self

Walking out of breath along the passageway from Times Square to Port Authority a fellow freak came at them, smiling, long ringlets, badges across his denim jacket. He raised his hand to salute her.

Was this a creep?

When he slapped her hand she felt the slip of paper. How ridiculous was this.

He was PL? the boy asked.

Listen to you, she said. PL!

You’re famous. I know all about you.

No, no, not at all. I think you forgot me absolutely.

She looked at the little creature. Darling parrot. What could he know of PL, fucking Maoists with cashmere sweaters, shouting men, the thirty-second orgasm.

She uncurled the paper in her hand.

What is it, Dial?

Directions, baby.

For what?

She looked at his lifted eager face, realizing he had no idea what was about to happen. No one had told him a thing. These people with their fucking children, thrown here, dragged there, stolen by judges, given to grandmothers, holding her hand. It was not up to her to start his education. She did what she was told, found gate 10. A line had started to form and through the dark glass she could see a bus, the driver eating from a crumpled mess of silver foil.

When’s the bus get in, she asked no one in particular.

Don’t know nothing about no bus get in. This was a black man with his face cut by creases. He must have been seventy and the brand of the trumpet was marked clearly on his lips.

Where are we going, Dial?

This bus going to Philly, little man.

Dial retreated across the busy corridor, and here she and the boy squatted, watching gates 9, 10, 11 through the moving forest of legs. The line at 10 grew longer. She was waiting, as predicted. She wanted to give him the chocolate, but who knew how long they would be here. And he seemed perfectly content, his little body pressed against her thigh.

Do you have any idea what we’re waiting for?

He ducked his head and looked down at his shoes. It’s very interesting, he said.

She was still smiling when she recognized, at the end of the line, curved shoulders inside a London Fog. It was the sort of coat you find on Howard Street, folded beside power cords and shoes on the pavement.

Stay here, she told the boy.

The ugly sister of the revolution was waiting for her, thrusting an envelope at her as she arrived.

Here.

As Dial took the envelope, she felt the boy’s hand pulling on her dress. Across the hallway was her backpack, her purse, her Vassar letter, everything inside. She seized the boy’s shoulder. Stay here, she said fiercely. Do not move. By the time she was back the ugly sister had gone and the boy was offended with her.

Jay, she said, her heart beating, you mustn’t leave the bag. That’s my purse.

You hurt me, he said.

Shit, she thought.

She was looking at two round-trip tickets to Philadelphia.

Shut up, Jay, she said.

You called me Jay, he cried.

Shut up. Just don’t talk now.

You’re not allowed to say shut up.

She was not going to fucking Philadelphia.

Come here. She dragged him from the ticket line and into a narrow passage off the concourse. It stank. Smelled like someone was living here.

The kid was acting up. She was trying to read the tickets. She was so stressed she almost overlooked the faint pencil in a childish hand. Change of plan. Mrs. Selkirk expects you to go to Ph and be back tonight. You will be reimbursed for expenses. There was a Philadelphia phone number.

So she was to go to Philly. Like that. Well fuck them. Rich people. She was going to have dinner with Madeleine tonight.

The passengers were boarding. She checked the tickets again. They would not be back at Port Authority until almost midnight. Is that how you treat your child, you spoiled rich cow.

You cannot be a baby, she told the boy, squatting down in front of him so he would see she was serious. You’ve got to be a big boy.

I’m only seven, he said. His lip was trembling. You’re not allowed to say shut up.

OK. I’m sorry.

Because you’re not meant to.

OK. You’re right. She offered him her hand and he took it.

Will you call me Che? he asked as she stood.

Sure. Che. It’s a deal. But still he hesitated.

What?

Can I call you Mom?

A tree fell in Australia. The hippie car entered its crown, like a brick being forced into a shoe. Branches banged and broke beneath the tires and you could feel them spring up like busted bones or spikes and scrape beneath your bare feet on the floor.

Stop! the mother cried.

The boy grasped the front seat and peered over the driver’s rancid-butter shoulder. Leaves spun against the windshield like in a car wash, pouring rain. Then a jolt. He bit the seat and tasted blood. He saw a mighty branch, arched, white, bones showing through a skirt of leaves.

Flying buttress, said the Rabbitoh, the one with long black hair.

The mother was pressed against the boy, all tied up with worry. He could feel the heavy weight of the tree, pushing and groaning on the roof like a boat tied against a pier. The air was roaring, carrying inside its throat a clearer harder hammering. He wished they could go home.

Trevor lit a joint, and as its flame ran halfway up its length, the boy saw him twist in his seat and offer it to the mother but her arms uncoiled from around her chest and she struck at it. She shouldn’t have.

You’re getting high!

Sparks rushed from her hand which she whacked against the seat. A second later she took the boy’s hand and rubbed it as if he had gotten on fire as well. She should be careful.

Trevor quietly repaired his injured drugs. The boy could not tell if he was angry or not. He did not say a word but made a humming sound like Jed Schitcher who sold deer meat in the fall. Jed Schitcher’s name was on the packets in Grandma’s freezer but now the boy was thinking of Jed’s skinning knife, him breathing through his mouth, the steaming blue-white stomach never seen by eyes before.

I’ve got a kid here, the mother said.

Hello kid, said Trevor. You’re with feral hippies, Trevor said. How does that feel, kid? His voice went high as he held the smoke.

The boy did not like being teased.

A branch dropped on the roof and the mother sort of squeaked.

Number one rule, Trevor said, never pick up SMs.

The boy did not know what SM meant, only that it must be rude to his mother or himself.

You mean single mother, right? Dial asked.

Trevor picked his teeth.

Just take us to a shelter, OK?

This is a shelter, said Trevor. There isn’t a better shelter than this.

Please, the mother said. I know it is a drag for you. I’m sorry.

I think you should take us to the town, said the boy.

That made a great big hole of silence in the car. The boy waited with his heart banging in his ears. Then the engine started and Dial squeezed his hand real hard. The car scraped back out into the road. In a short time they got to the little township of Yandina where nothing lived but violent dark. Leaves and branches everywhere, the street looked skinned, rippling like melted tin.

No shelter here, babe, said Trevor.

But then they found a bright light burning.

There you are, said Trevor. Star of fucking Bethlehem.

The Rabbitoh poked the yellow headlights into the drive of the Yandina Caravan Park. You want to kill your kid, go right ahead.

We’re fine, the boy said. Thank you very much.

He felt the mother hesitating. Then he understood what she was seeing through the windshield-a grandma and grandpa with bare legs and black raincoats, poor people, mooring their shuddering trailer to the toilet block. The grandpa had varicose veins. He also had a long blue nylon rope-weightless, glistening, threading through the storm.