Edwina Shaw.
CHAPTER 1
Three Days
Brian
Look. See that box? My dad’s in there, in that box they’re putting into the ground.
I can hear him scratching on the lid.
I want to scream and jump in after the clump of dirt they get me to throw, pull off the lid and rescue him. But my legs won’t move and I stand like an empty tin man as the mud thuds on top of the shiny wood, muffling the sound of his fingernails tearing.
Two weeks ago Dad told us he was dying. Me and my little brother Douggiesitting there eating breakfast like it was any other day, Vegemite toast turning hard in my throat. Mum sucking the guts out of a cigarette and blowing it out towards the window, not looking at us.
‘I’m not going to get better,’ he said.
‘Oh,’ we said. ‘Oh.’
What did he mean, I wondered. He’d been sick a long time, become skinny and bald and ugly, but people always got better. You got sick, you took your medicine no matter how bad it tasted, and then you were better. That’s how it went.
‘I’m going to die,’ he said, then got up and left us sitting there.
‘Mum?’ I said. ‘It’s not true, is it?’
Douggie didn’t say anything, just sat there with a half-chewed piece of Weetbix still in his open mouth, his eyes big and wide like a possum’s in torchlight.
‘Mum? He’s joking right?’
Mum blew out the last of her smoke and ground the butt into her ashtray. ‘Of course he’s not joking, Brian,’ she sighed. ‘Your father’s sick. Maybe you’d have realised if you weren’t always off playing the fool with your friends on that bloody creek. Don’t you notice anything that’s going on around here? He’s very sick. He’s going to die.’
‘I don’t get it.’
‘What’s there to get? You’re big enough to understand, to start pulling your weight around here.’ She rubbed her forehead. ‘You’re going to have to be the man of the house soon. I can’t do it on my own. I just can’t.’
‘You mean he’s really going to die?’
‘For God’s sake, how plain do I have to make it?’ She gulped the last of her tea. ‘Yes. He’s going to die. D.I.E.’
‘You mean like Fluffy?’ Douggie got it quicker than me. Our guinea pig had been mauled by the neighbour’s red setter last winter and we’d had to bury the bits in a shoebox under the Poinciana tree.
‘Like Fluffy.’ Mum nodded to Douggie with a closed-lip smile.
He started to cry, even though he’s only about a year younger than me, and Mum held him close and patted his hair.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry boys. I don’t know what we’re going to do.’ She glanced over like she expected me to cry too.
I didn’t. I’m thirteen, way too big to cry. Anyway I didn’t feel like crying. I was trying to figure it all out. It couldn’t really be true. Guinea pigs, cats, dogs, people on TV, soldiers, they die. Not ordinary people like us. The nuns reckon Jesus died then came back to life again three days later. Old people, they die. Dads don’t.
I couldn’t eat anymore, it all tasted like the box we’d buried Fluffy in. I left Mum and Douggie holding on to each other at the table and went to my room, closed the door and lay on top of my unmade bed listening to the washing machine go round and round and round.
When I couldn’t stand the whirring any longer, I got down on my knees and pointed my fingers to heaven like the nuns had taught me and promised to be good forever if only God would change His mind. I promised I’d never tease Douggie again, or pull his hair or make fun of the stupid way he talks. I’d make my bed and help Mum wash up and never talk back or sneak any more ciggies or money from her purse. I’d do all my homework and not throw rocks from the overpass. I wouldn’t even think about touching girls’ tits. I’d grow up and be a priest. I’d do that and never have any fun ever again, if that would make God change His mind. I made a deal, a bargain to save Dad’s life. It felt like God
CHAPTER 1
Three Days
Brian
Look. See that box? My dad’s in there, in that box they’re putting into the ground.
I can hear him scratching on the lid.
I want to scream and jump in after the clump of dirt they get me to throw, pull off the lid and rescue him. But my legs won’t move and I stand like an empty tin man as the mud thuds on top of the shiny wood, muffling the sound of his fingernails tearing.
Two weeks ago Dad told us he was dying. Me and my little brother Douggiesitting there eating breakfast like it was any other day, Vegemite toast turning hard in my throat. Mum sucking the guts out of a cigarette and blowing it out towards the window, not looking at us.
‘I’m not going to get better,’ he said.
‘Oh,’ we said. ‘Oh.’
What did he mean, I wondered. He’d been sick a long time, become skinny and bald and ugly, but people always got better. You got sick, you took your medicine no matter how bad it tasted, and then you were better. That’s how it went.
‘I’m going to die,’ he said, then got up and left us sitting there.
‘Mum?’ I said. ‘It’s not true, is it?’
Douggie didn’t say anything, just sat there with a half-chewed piece of Weetbix still in his open mouth, his eyes big and wide like a possum’s in torchlight.
‘Mum? He’s joking right?’
Mum blew out the last of her smoke and ground the butt into her ashtray. ‘Of course he’s not joking, Brian,’ she sighed. ‘Your father’s sick. Maybe you’d have realised if you weren’t always off playing the fool with your friends on that bloody creek. Don’t you notice anything that’s going on around here? He’s very sick. He’s going to die.’
‘I don’t get it.’
‘What’s there to get? You’re big enough to understand, to start pulling your weight around here.’ She rubbed her forehead. ‘You’re going to have to be the man of the house soon. I can’t do it on my own. I just can’t.’
‘You mean he’s really going to die?’
‘For God’s sake, how plain do I have to make it?’ She gulped the last of her tea. ‘Yes. He’s going to die. D.I.E.’
‘You mean like Fluffy?’ Douggie got it quicker than me. Our guinea pig had been mauled by the neighbour’s red setter last winter and we’d had to bury the bits in a shoebox under the Poinciana tree.
‘Like Fluffy.’ Mum nodded to Douggie with a closed-lip smile.
He started to cry, even though he’s only about a year younger than me, and Mum held him close and patted his hair.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry boys. I don’t know what we’re going to do.’ She glanced over like she expected me to cry too.
I didn’t. I’m thirteen, way too big to cry. Anyway I didn’t feel like crying. I was trying to figure it all out. It couldn’t really be true. Guinea pigs, cats, dogs, people on TV, soldiers, they die. Not ordinary people like us. The nuns reckon Jesus died then came back to life again three days later. Old people, they die. Dads don’t.
I couldn’t eat anymore, it all tasted like the box we’d buried Fluffy in. I left Mum and Douggie holding on to each other at the table and went to my room, closed the door and lay on top of my unmade bed listening to the washing machine go round and round and round.
When I couldn’t stand the whirring any longer, I got down on my knees and pointed my fingers to heaven like the nuns had taught me and promised to be good forever if only God would change His mind. I promised I’d never tease Douggie again, or pull his hair or make fun of the stupid way he talks. I’d make my bed and help Mum wash up and never talk back or sneak any more ciggies or money from her purse. I’d do all my homework and not throw rocks from the overpass. I wouldn’t even think about touching girls’ tits. I’d grow up and be a priest. I’d do that and never have any fun ever again, if that would make God change His mind. I made a deal, a bargain to save Dad’s life. It felt like God
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