The Fine Color of Rust by Paddy O'Reilly

on the bench and wrestles the legs off, hammers the meat with a mallet that he seems to have pulled out of his T-shirt, carves slabs of meat from every part of the carcass, zooms more sections through the band saw, and thrusts his arm up to the shoulder into parts of the cow that magically fall apart into cuts of meat. The air gets thick with minute particles of meat and bone and gristle, and all the while Hector’s grunting and shouting.
    â€œRound!” he calls as he flings a fan-shaped selection of rump cuts to the front of the bench. “Rib eye! Brisket!”
    â€œDone!” he screams, dropping his knife on the bench and raising his hands into the air. We turn to Mario, who’s staring at the stopwatch.
    â€œHoly Jesus,” Mario whispers. “He’s broken his own record.”
    It takes ten minutes for the applause and cheering to die down. The abattoir blokes crowd around Hector, slapping him on the back and punching him and hugging him.
    â€œIt’s not official because we didn’t have an independent timekeeper,” Mario’s telling the reporter, “but it shows you—Heck hasn’t even reached his peak. We’re going to take out the Australia-wide. Youse people don’t understand the talent we’ve got in this town.”
    â€œMario, you’ve been hiding this bloke away!” the mayor says. “We could get him on TV.”
    â€œHe’s got a big future. He’s only nineteen.”
    We all look at Heck. I would have picked him as thirty-five.
    â€œOutdoor work,” Mario says, shaking his head.
    The mayor keeps brushing at his robe. It’s an odd mottled color. I reach over to pick a bone chip from his gold chain.
    â€œDon’t worry, that’ll clean up. It was worth it to see Heck perform. He’s a champion.”
    â€œThe minister?” I ask.
    Out in the yard Norm’s got hold of a wet cloth and he’s wiping the minister down while Nick, the charioteer, leans against the car, watching.
    â€œBit of a dry clean and the suit’ll be fine. There, that feels better, doesn’t it?” Norm’s talking all cheery, like he’s pacifying a child. The minister stands with his arms out. He raises his face to Norm to have it wiped. I think he’s regressed. We can’t send him back to Melbourne like this.
    â€œSchool’s next!” I say. “Let’s get cleaned up before the choir.”
    The driver holds open the door while Norm and I help the minister into the car. Halfway to the school he snaps back to his old self, plugs himself into the mobile, and talks gobbledegook to someone about outcomes and competencies. When he pulls out the earplug he’s got the concrete smile back, festooned with a morsel of raw steak glued to his upper lip.
    â€œFascinating. What an experience,” he says. “So next it’s the school?”
    This would be the denial stage.
    â€œMaybe we’ll freshen up first at the Neighbourhood House,” I suggest. We don’t want him to go frightening the children.
    â€œGood idea,” he replies cheerfully.
    In the front of the car Nick swats a fly away from the windscreen.

11
    THE HEADMASTER’S TAKEN my signs off the school fence. I was happy with the misspelled one. It looked like one of the kids had made it. Now the schoolyard’s back to its usual self. Waist-high cyclone wire fence, a few bedraggled trees, adventure equipment that stopped having adventures years ago. The education department seems to have forgotten the school already. Heat rises from the asphalt in the yard, and cicadas make attempts at calls that peter out after a few strokes like a chain saw that won’t catch. I wonder if everyone arrived here before us, or if they’ve gone to the pub to celebrate Heck’s record.
    The door of the school opens and the grade-three teacher bounds down the steps and pitter-patters toward us, his hands waving and his little