Underdogs Page 8

  "What is it?" I ask.

  "Wine." "Yeah?"

  "Actually, no, it's red cordial -- you're too young to be drinking."

  "Aah, y' wet blanket."

  "Hey, don't blame me. It's not my fault, I'm telling you. It was me old man who wouldn't let me give you the real thing. So you can blame Him."

  "Okay, okay ... What's up with Him anyway?"

  "Ah, He's been under a lot of pressure lately."

  "The Middle East?"

  "Yeah, they're at it again." He comes closer and whispers, "Just between you and me, He was close to calling the whole thing off last week.

  "What? The world?" "Yep."

  "Christ almighty!"

  Christ's face looks disappointed at my words. "Oh, yeah. Sorry," I say. "That sort of talk's no good, ay."

  "No worries. Look." Jesus has decided it's time to get down to business. "I really came to give you this."

  He pulls something out of a robe pocket and I ask,

  "What's that?"

  "Oh, it's just some ointment." He hands it to me. "For the bleeding nose."

  "Oh, great. Thanks very much."

  CHAPTER 12

  If you're wondering if we ever did get our mate Bruce Patterson, well, we didn't. We planned it out and everything, but we just never went through with it. There were more important issues at hand at home, like the frostiness that was afforded to Rube and me by Mum and Dad. They were obviously pretty unhappy about the kind of lives we were leading, and the way we had this knack of em barrassing them. You might also think that this frostiness may have dampened our enthusiasm for somehow getting back at Bruce for Sarah, but it didn't. Not really. Steve told us to let it go as well. He was back to his "I'm better than you people" routine and he told us we were idiots. It all intimidated me just a little, but not Rube. He was as keen as ever, and he truly believed that we weren't responsible for next-door's dog having a heart attack. He explained to me that we couldn't help it if the stupid mutt was weak as water.

  "Hell, it's not illegal to play soccer in your own backyard, is it?" he asked me. "I guess not." "You know not."

  "I s'pose."

  Stewing over it for a few days, Rube finally came into our room and told me what the plan was and what it all meant. He said, "Cam, this is gonna be my last job." You'd think the guy was Al Capone or something. "See, after this last effort, I'm retiring from the robbery, thieving, vandalism game."

  "How can you retire if you never even had a career?"

  "Ah, shut up, will y'. I admit I've had my ups and downs, but it's gotta stop right here. I can't believe I'm sayin' this, but I've gotta grow up."

  I thought for a while, in disbelief, then asked, "So what are we doin'?"

  "Simple" was the answer. "Eggs."

  "Ah, come on." I turned away. can do a lot better than lousy eggs."

  "No, we can't," and this was the first time I'd heard Rube speak on this subject with reality in his voice. "The truth, mate, is that we're hopeless."

  To this I could only nod. I then said, "All right," and it was decided that we would go to Bruce Patterson's house on Friday night and egg that beautiful red car of his. Maybe his front door and windows too. I was truly glad as well that this was the last time because I was getting sick of it.

  Another unavoidable fact also made this whole thing harder than it should have been. It was the fact that I still couldn't get my mind off Rebecca Conlon. I just couldn't, no matter how hard I tried. I thought of her and wondered if she would be there this week, or if she would be off again, having a life without me. It hurt sometimes, while at others I convinced myself that it was all far too risky. Just look at Bruce and Sarah, I told myself. I bet that guy was as obsessed with Sarah as I am with this other girl, and I bet he promised himself never to hurt her, just like I've been doin' -- and look what he's done to her. He's left her a crumpled mess, lyin' on her bed all the time.

  When Friday evening came, I think Rube and I were too tired to go through with it. We were sick of ourselves, and with two cartons of eggs sitting in our room, we decided not to go.

  "Ah, well, that's it, then." Rube said it. "If you have to think about it so long, it isn't worth doin'."

  "Well, what are we gonna do with all these eggs?" I asked.

  "Eat'em, I s'pose."

  "What? Twelve each?"

  "I guess."

  For the time being, we left the eggs under Rube's bed, but I myself still took a trip out to Bruce's place.

  I went down there after dinner and walked past his car and imagined myself throwing eggs at it. The thought was ridiculous, to say the least.

  It made me laugh as I knocked on the door, though the smile was wiped off my face when a girl I assumed was Sarah's replacement answered. She opened up and stared at me through the flyscreen.

  "Bruce around?" I asked her.

  She nodded. "You wanna come in?"

  "Nah, I'll be right." I waited out on the porch.

  When Bruce saw me, he looked pretty confused. It wasn't like he and I had been good mates or anything. It wasn't like we had a pool and he'd thrown me around in it or as if we'd kicked footballs around together. No, we'd barely even talked, and I could see he was afraid that I might be here to give him a serve. I wasn't.

  All I did was wa for him to come out of the house so we could talk. Just one question. That was all I had, as we leaned on his front railing, looking onto the street.

  I asked it.

  "When you first met my sister ... did you promise yourself never to hurt her?"

  There was silence for a while, but then he answered. He said, "Yeah, I did," and after a few more seconds, I left.

  He called out, "Hey, Cameron." I turned around. "How is she?"

  I smiled, raising my head, resolute. "She's okay. She's good."

  He nodded and I told him, "See y' later." "Yeah, see y' later, mate."

  At home, the night wasn't finished. An act not of vandalism but of symbolism was to occur.

  At around eight-thirty, Rube walked into our room and something was different. What was it? His beard was gone.

  When he presented his post-animal face to the rest of the family, there were claps and sighs of relief. No more animalistic face. No more animalistic behavior.

  I myself kept hearing Bruce Patterson telling me that he had promised to never hurt my sister. It hunted me, even as I sat through an extremely violent movie on TV. I kept hearing his voice, and I wondered if I would ever hurt Rebecca Conlon if she would let me get near her in the first place. I was hunted all night.

  It's jungle and I'm with her. I can't see her face, but I know I'm with Rebecca Conlon. I lead her by the hand and we are moving very fast, ducking around twisted trees whose fingers are branches spread like cracked ceiling under gray sky.

  "Faster," I tell her.

  "Why?" is her reply.

  "Because he's coming."

  "Who's coming?"

  I don't answer her because I don't know. The only thing I am completely sure of is that I can hear footsteps behind us through the jungle. I can hear a hunching forward, coming after us.

  "Come on," I say to her again.

  We come to a river and plunge in, wading hurriedly across the freezing cold water.

  On the other side, I see something upriver and I lead her there. It's a cave that crouches down amongst some heavy trees above the water.

  We go in. No words. No "In here."

  She smiles, relieved.

  I don't see

  I know it.

  We sit down right in the back corner of the cave, and we hear the meditative water of the river outside, climbing down, down. Slow. Real. Knowing.

  She falls.

  Asleep.

  "It's okay," I tell her, and I feel her in my arms. My own eyes try to sleep as well, but they don't. They stay wide awake as time snarls forward and silence drops down, like measured thought. I can't even hear the river anymore.

  When.

  The figure enters
the cave. He walks in and pauses. He sees. Us.

  He has a weapon. He looks. Smiles.

  Even though I can't see his face, I know he smiles. "What do you want?" I ask, afraid but quiet so I won't wake the girl in my arms.

  The figure says nothing. He keeps stepping forward. Slow. Reeling. No.

  There's a sound, like a slit, and smoke rises from the weapon the figure is holding. It rises up to his face and wraps itself around it. It tells me that something terrible has happened, and Rebecca Conlon stirs slightly on my lap.

  A match is struck.

  Light.

  I look at her.

  Know!

  This.

  She's hurt, for sure, because I see blood dripping from her heart. Slow. Real.

  I look up. The figure holds the lit match and I see his face. His eyes and lips and expression belong to me.

  "But you promised," I tell him, and I scream, to try and wake up. I need to wake up and know that I would never ever hurt her.

  CHAPTER 13

  As usual, Dad and I went to work on Saturday, at the Conlon place.

  Rather than keep you in suspense (if you even still care by now), I might as well let you know that this time she was there, and she was as brilliant as ever.

  I was still working under the house when she came

  to me.

  "Hey, I missed you last week," I said when she showed, and immediately chastised myself in my head -- the statement was so ambiguous. I mean, did it mean I missed you as in I just didn't see you (which was the intended message), or did it mean I was really heartbroken that you weren't here, y' stupid bitch? I wasn't sure what me I was sending out. Overall, I could only hope she thought I was saying we just didn't see each other. You can't seem too desperate in a situation like that, even if your heart is annihilating you from the inside.

  She said, "Well ..." God, she said it with that voice that made her real. "I wasn't here on purpose." What the hell was this? "What?" I dared to ask. "You heard." She grinned. "I wasn't here ..."

  "Because of me?"

  She nodded.

  Was this bad or good?

  It sounded bad. Very bad.

  But then, it also sounded good, in some sick, twisted way. Was she having me on? No.

  "I didn't wanna be here because I was" -- she swallowed -- "scared to make a fool out of myself -- like last time."

  "Last time?" I asked, confused. "Wasn't it me who said something stupid?" It was me all right, who said, "I like workin' here." I remembered it and cringed.

  We were both crouched down under the house and these wooden beams hovered over us, warning us that one loss of concentration would leave our heads nice and bruised. I made sure not to stand up straight.

  "At least you said something." She pushed her argument.

  Suddenly, something poured out of me.

  I said, "I wouldn't hurt you. Well, at least I'd try like hell not to. I promise."

  "Pardon?" She stepped away a bit. "What do you mean?"

  "I mean, if ... Did you have an okay weekend last week?" Drivel. Drivel talk.

  "Yeah." She nodded and stayed where she was. "I was at a friend of mine's house." Then she slipped it in. "And then we went over to this guy's place -- Dale." Dale.

  Why was that name so familiar?

  Oh no.

  Oh, great.

  "Dale Perry?"

  Dale Perry.

  Greg's mate.

  Typical.

  A hero like that.

  I could tell she really liked the guy. More than me. He was a winner. People liked him. Greg did.

  Though he could depend on me.

  "Yeah, Dale" she replied -- confirming my worst fears -- nodding and smiling. "You know him, do you?"

  "Yeah, I know him." It dawned on me then as well that this Rebecca Conlon was most likely one of the girls in the group at Lumsden Oval, on that day that seemed decades ago now. There were a few girls like her there, I remembered. Same real hair. Same real legs. Same ... It all made sense. She was local, and pretty, and real.

  Dale Perry.

  I almost mentioned that he'd nearly burned my ear off just over a year ago but held it back. I didn't want her thinking that I was one of those completely jealous guys who hated everyone who was better than himself -- which actually was exactly the kind of guy I was.

  "My best friend reckons he likes me, but I don't know...."

  She went on talking but I couldn't bring myself to listen. I just couldn't. Why in the hell was she telling me this anyway? Was it because I was just the plumber's son and I went to an old state school while she most likely went to a Saint something-or-other school? Was it because I was the kind of guy who was harmless and couldn't bite?

  Well, I came close.

  I almost stopped her to say, "Ah, just go away with your Dale Perry," but I didn't. I loved her too much and I wouldn't hurt her, no matter how much I myself was hurting.

  Instead, I asked if she knew Greg. "Greg Fiennes or something?"

  "Fienni."

  "Yeah, I do. How do you know him?"

  And for some reason, all these tears started welling up in my eyes.

  "Ah," I said. "He was a friend of mine once," and I turned away, to keep working and to hide my eyes.

  "A good friend?"

  Damn this girl!

  "My best friend," I admitted.

  "Oh." She looked through my back. I could feel it.

  I wondered if she was getting the picture here. Maybe. Probably. Yes, probably, because she left then with a far too friendly "Okay, bye-ee." Had I heard that before? Of course I had, and it gashed my throat with reality.

  The whole altercation didn't drive me through the day like the disappointment of last week had. No, this time I limped through it.

  I felt something awful in me.

  Limping on.

  Dad saw me and gave me a serve for being so slow, but I couldn't pick it up. I tried like you wouldn't believe, but my back was broken. My spirit was crushe I had the chance to tell her off.

  I could have hurt her.

  I didn't.

  It was no consolation.

  As I worked, I constantly had to pull myself together and it was such a struggle. It was like every step was out to get me. Blisters on my hands started opening up and feeling kept creeping into my eyes. I started sniffing at the air to get enough in my lungs, and when the day was over I struggled out from under the house and stood there, waiting. I really wanted to collapse to the ground, but I held it together.

  I felt itchy, dirty, diseased -- by simply being me. What was wrong with me?

  I felt like the dog that's got rabies in this book I was reading in school, To Kill a Mockingbird. The dog, it's limping and slobbering all over the road and the father, Atticus, he surprises his son by shooting it.

  I'm walking along top a fence line that seems to stretch for an eternity. Somehow, though, I know that it will stop at some point. I know it will last as long as my life.

  "Keep walking," I tell myself.

  My arms are out to keep me balanced.

  On either side of me, there is air and ground, trying to get me to jump down into it.

  Which side do I jump?

  It is early, early morning. It's that time when it's still dark but you know the day is coming. Blue is bleeding through black. Stars are dying.

  The fence.

  Sometimes it's stone, sometimes it's wood, and sometimes it's barbed wire.

  I walk it, and still, I am tempted by each side that flanks it.

  "Jump," I hear each side whisper. "Jump down here." Distance.

  Out there, somewhere, I can hear dogs barking, although their voices seem human. They bark and when I look all around me I can't see them. I can only hear barking that forms an audience for my journey along this fence.

  Purple in the sky.

  Pins-and-needles legs.

  Shivers down my right side.

  Concussion thoughts.

  Footsteps.r />
  Alone.

  Take one after the other.

  Barbed wire now

  Where do I jump?

  Who do I listen to?

  Daisy sun, maroon sky.

  First part of the sun -- a frown.

  Last part of the sun -- a smile.

  Dark day.

  Thoughts cover the sky.

  Thoughts are the sky.

  Feet on fence.

  One side of the fence is victory....

  The ... other side is defeat.

  Walk.

  I walk, on.

  Deciding.

  Sweat reigns.

  It lands on me, controlled, and drips down my face.

  Victory one side.

  Defeat on the other.

  Clouds are uncertain.

  They throb in the sky like drumbeats, like pulses.

  I decide --

  I jump.

  High. High.

  The wind gets me, and high up, I know that it will throw me down to the side of the fence it wants.

  Wherever I land, soon enough, I know I will have to climb back up and keep walking, but for now, I'm still in the air.

  CHAPTER 14

  Where did I go from there?

  What did I do?

  How did things turn out?

  Well, this is basically the end, so the answers should be in these next few pages. I doubt they will surprise you, but you never know. I don't know how

  smart or thick you are. You could be Albert Einstein for all I know, or some literary prizewinner, or maybe you're just middle of the road like me.

  So we might as well cut to the chase -- I will tell you now how things pretty much finished up in this wintry part of my life. The end began like this: Moping.

  I did it for the whole of Sunday, and on Monday at school. Something churned in me, start in my stomach and rising till it was reaching its arms up to strip my skin from the inside. It burned.

  On Wednesday at school, I had a bit of a conversation with Greg, mainly because of the beaten-up look of his face.

  "What happened to you?" I asked him when I ran into him in one of the walkways.

  "Ah, forget it," he answered me. "Nothin'." But we both knew it was really pretty obvious that the fellas he'd bought the gear for were still unimpressed by his efforts, even after he'd come through with the money.

  "They got you anyway, ay?" I asked. I smiled mournfully as I said it and Greg smiled as well.

  "Yep, they got me," he nodded. His smile was a knowing, ironic one. "They decided on giving me a hidin' for the inconvenience I'd caused them.... The original guy was out of gear so they had to go somewhere else. They weren't impressed."