Happy as Larry Page 3

  ‘Just pretend . . .’ Jemma commanded. ‘Just pretend this is the kitchen. And this is the laundry and this is the mum and dad’s bedroom. Can’t go in there because Dad is asleep. Shhh.’

  Jemma was only a few months older than Larry, but being the second child of four had equipped her with an assertive style of play. Larry grinned and obeyed.

  They dug their seats deeper and piled the walls to knee height for a four-year-old.

  ‘Just pretend . . . just pretend we are puppies and this is our kennel where we sleep,’ Jemma said, and they spooned together and cartoon-snored until a curl of Jemma’s hair tickled Larry’s nose and he giggled.

  Then Clinton was standing above them, his tracksuit pants bunched around his knees, penis aimed at the kennel. His thin lips curved into a malevolent smile as he sent a stream of piss splashing onto the legs of the hapless puppies. Jemma and Larry squealed and dashed clear. Clinton chuckled and rocked his hips from side to side until he’d peed evenly over the entire grass cubby.

  Denise ran and grabbed the boy by the shoulder as he was pulling up his pants.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she screeched.

  Clinton shook her off and, without looking, ran across the road and through the open front door of his house.

  Denise took her son’s hand and looked at his wet leg, gobsmacked. Jemma’s mother swept in with a packet of tissues and offered one to Denise before mopping at her daughter’s ankles. The children, unfazed, ran off to the play equipment, and Denise’s disgust waned. When she exchanged glances with Jemma’s mum, the pair of them giggled.

  ‘What on earth . . . ?’ Denise said, staring at the house across the road.

  ‘I don’t think the poor kid knows any better,’ Jemma’s mother quietly offered. ‘I don’t think he gets a lot of guidance in life.’

  Denise agreed, and the other woman held out her hand. Denise shook it, then realised she’d been offering to dispose of the tissue.

  They laughed again.

  ‘Denise Rainbow.’

  ‘Mary Holland.’

  ‘I think I’ve seen you at church.’

  Mary nodded and looked at her shoes. Her face coloured and Denise realised that Mary Holland was probably the shyest person she’d ever met. They settled beside each other on the park bench and, while the conversation contained moments of silence to begin with, the women gradually found a gentle rapport. Denise told Mary about her Mal’s Saturday deliveries and Mary explained that her husband – Christopher – worked all week driving a truck for Villea City Council. She said he was entitled to his rest on Saturday mornings.

  And when do you rest? Denise wondered.

  She’d seen Mary’s husband from a distance at church, but they’d never made eye contact, let alone met. His body bulged flabbily against the seams of his ironed white shirt. Even with his hair shower-wet and neatly parted he still seemed grubby. Perhaps it was the full, wiry beard.

  Denise guessed that the demarcation of roles on gender grounds was sharply defined in the Holland household. It got her thinking.

  That afternoon, when Mal came home, Denise told him of her plan. From then on, when her boys went fishing on Sunday mornings, she’d lie in bed. She’d skip the nine o’clock service and go to the one with the sermon at eleven instead. Mal thought it was a great idea, but the mention of the fishing ritual sent him scurrying mysteriously out the front door.

  ‘I’ll be back,’ he called.

  He returned twenty minutes later, smiling and cradling a plastic fishbowl. Inside the bowl, inside a drum-tight plastic bag, an orange-and-white fishdarted nervously about. Mal stooped and let the boy look inside.

  ‘Fishy!’ Larry squealed.

  ‘Yes, Larry, your fi sh. Pet fish. You’ve got to feed him and look after him. Give him a name. What do you want to call him?’

  Larry panted with excitement, his body shaking.

  Denise rested a hand on his shoulder. ‘Isn’t he beautiful? What are you going to call him? He’s orange and white . . . look!’

  ‘Got him from Stan,’ Mal whispered to his wife, arranging the bowl on the end of the breakfast bar. ‘Netted it with a strainer in his front pond. They’re breeding. There are hundreds in there.’

  ‘Hundred,’ Larry said.

  ‘Yes, hundreds.’

  ‘No, Hundred. That’s his name. Hundred.’

  Denise snorted and looked at Mal.

  Mal smiled. ‘Why not? It’s a good name, Larry. Hundred it is.’

  When Mal got up on Sunday morning, Larry’s pyjama sleeves were dripping and Hundred was gulping at the air from the wet floorboards. Mal scooped him up and explained that Hundred had to stay in the water or he would die.

  ‘Like a toadie.’

  ‘Yes. Like a toadie down the jetty.’

  Mal dropped Hundred back into his bowl and hoped for the best. They ate breakfast and dressed as quietly as they could, loaded up their gear and set off for the long jetty at four-year-old kilometres per hour. They met Vince, as they often did on Sundays, on the way home from his morning jog. His cheeks were coloured but he hadn’t raised a sweat.

  ‘Finse! Finse! I got a fish! Hundred. I got a fish.’

  Vince hoisted the boy onto his hip. ‘You got a fish? How can that be? You’re only just going down to the jetty now. How can you already have a fish?’

  Larry rubbed the grey stubble on the old man’s cheek. ‘No, silly, it’s a fi sh, Finse. A fish in a bowl.’

  ‘Ah, a goldfish.’

  ‘No, he’s orange and his name is Hundred.’

  The old man kissed the boy’s brow and lowered him to the pavement. ‘I’ll have to come and meet this Hundred.’

  ‘Always welcome,’ Mal said, and they parted.

  Mal pondered, as they arrived at the jetty, how it was that a big-hearted man like Vince could end up with a withered old hag like Muriel. He and Muriel had never formally met, and the odd times they’d made eye contact over the front fence she had met his smile with an immovable scowl and hurried inside. Denise had met the same indifference. They heard her often enough though, bellowing at the dog, at Vince, at the television. Mal suggested they were opposites attracted. Denise thought she’d been hurt.

  Halfway to the tip of the long jetty, perched on weather-beaten deckchairs and buckets, was the cluster of old men known to themselves as ‘the Crew’. Their average age was a tad shy of seventy and many of them had been wetting lines on the same part of the jetty since they were Larry’s age. Theirs was a private club in a public domain, though Mal knew he’d penetrated their ranks when Gorky (wearing a lopsided beanie mostly covering the remains of the ear eaten by cancer) once offered him a few nice squid that he’d jigged the night before. Mal had graciously accepted, though he didn’t know what to do with them. The family was still living at Fishburn Street then and Mr Montanetti had turned the slimy pockets of white flesh into the most delectable calamari. Mal had turfed their guts and skin into the compost bin and almost swallowed his tongue that night when he returned to the bin and found the offal glowing mutely.

  It was Mal’s patience and his commitment to fishing every Sunday – whatever the weather – that eventually softened the old men. That and his effervescent little boy.

  By the time Larry was allowed out of his backpack and onto the jetty, several months of Sundays had passed and he knew his place in that world. The Crew were unanimously grandfatherly with the boy. They showed him the fish they’d caught and chuckled at the intensity with which he stared into the bucket. They all watched him near the edge and trained him to fetch the net when someone had a fishon the line. He knew his place and played his role to perfection. Larry was the smallest living member of the Crew. Gorky reckoned he should be called ‘the Sunday Jetty-fishing Support Officer’.

  That Sunday of the gulping goldfish, after the USA sent forces to the Persian Gulf, Larry collected toadies and lined them up on a single grey wharf timber. He counted them again and again and pressed them with his sneaker to
hear their flaccid bodies squelch. He watched intestines ooze from their fatal knife wounds and reassured those few tourists who stopped to admire his collection that they were all dead.

  And that afternoon, when Vince Hammersmith ventured next door to meet their newest family member, Hundred was floating on his side.

  Larry looked at the fish in surprise, then scooped him out of the bowl and inspected him closely for signs of life. He pressed a finger gently on the distended belly and sighed before sharing his diagnosis.

  ‘He’s dead. Hundred is dead.’

  ‘Ah, that’s a shame,’ Vince said, stroking Larry’s hair. ‘He was very pretty.’

  ‘That’s a shame, isn’t it Fince?’ Larry said. ‘He was a very pretty fi sh, wasn’t he Fince?’

  ‘Beautiful.’

  Mal held out his hand and Larry obligingly dropped the dead fish onto it. ‘We’ll bury him in the yard, hey?’

  ‘That sounds like a good idea,’ Vince said.

  ‘That sounds like a good idea,’ Larry said.

  ‘Right,’ Mal said, hiding his smile. ‘That’s what we’ll do.’

  UNLIDDED

  EYE

  BARELY A MONTH later, Ronald Reagan, the eighty-three-year-old actor turned US President, revealed to the world that he had Alzheimer’s disease, and Mal Rainbow rescued a wild baby rabbit from the clutches of a sadistic kitten. The rabbit travelled the remainder of Mal’s route in his lunch bag and appeared surprisingly bright-eyed when he presented it – with a magician’s flourish – to his son.

  Larry was instantly and incurably in love.

  In the back yard, they made a temporary hutch from a wax-coated cardboard box that had originally contained broccoli. Larry tried unsuccessfully to feed the rabbit a carrot. It wiggled its little grey nose when the carrot touched it, but would not eat.

  ‘Leave her alone for a little while,’ Denise suggested from the kitchen window. ‘Sometimes they like to eat by themselves.’

  Larry squatted beside the box and watched for a full minute.

  The next time Denise looked up from her dinner preparation, Betsy, the Hammersmiths’ dog, was in a barking frenzy and Larry was carrying the box and talking quietly to the rabbit as he walked around the yard.

  ‘This is the fence,’ he said. ‘That’s a tree. See the tree?’

  Denise smiled and shook her head. If it survived, it survived.

  After two laps, Larry was clearly bored with walking the box around the yard. He asked his mum if it would be okay to take Jemma to the park.

  Denise frowned and scanned the yard from the window. ‘Where’s Jemma?’

  ‘In the box. That’s her name.’

  ‘Okay. Only in the park. I’ll come and get you in a little while.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Larry disappeared from view and a shiver of stranger-danger made Denise’s fingers tingle. She’d never had reason to doubt the safety of the park next door, and they’d made so many visits there that it sometimes felt like an extension of their yard. But still, the feeling was there. She convinced herself it was irrational, that it was good for Larry to visit the park by himself. Independence. Autonomy.

  Behind her, in the lounge, a reporter chattered on about the tenuousness of the ceasefire in Northern Ireland. Larry had the park to himself for a total of six minutes. A screen door slammed and Clinton was there beside him, marvelling over Larry’s shoulder at the little tuft of cuteness. When he reached in to pat her, Larry turned the box away.

  ‘You’re not allowed to touch her. Her name’s Jemma and she’s just a bit sad and she wanted to go for a walk.’

  ‘Oh, okay,’ Clinton said. ‘If she’s sad, you should give her a ride on the slide. That will make her happy.’

  Larry’s eyes lit up. He put the box down and scooped the rabbit out with one hand. Her tummy felt wet and she scrabbled with her paws against him. Larry dropped her. She landed on her feet but made no attempt to escape.

  Clinton picked her up. ‘You stay at the bottom to catch her,’ he said, and began to climb the steps of the slide with one hand, the rabbit tucked against his chest. When his hand was on the second top rung, Jemma wriggled free and dropped the metre and a half to the ground. She lay where she’d fallen.

  ‘Woops,’ Clinton said. ‘Stay there. It’s all right. She’s all right.’

  He picked up the fluff-ball and dusted her clean before climbing the ladder again. At the top of the slide, Clinton sat with his legs spread and lowered Jemma between his knees, right on the point of no return. He patted her ears flat against her back and called to Larry. ‘Ready?’

  Clinton pushed her with the same vigour he’d normally use to clear another child from the slide. Jemma was briefly airborne, her legs kicking at the air as if trying to regain balance, then she hit the plastic with a clunk and skidded into Larry’s hands. Clinton followed her down the slide and knocked Larry and the rabbit onto their backs on the bark. Jemma rolled and finished up on her side again. In the scramble to collect her, Clinton bumped into Larry and stood on the bunny. Jemma squeaked and the boys looked at each other, startled.

  ‘Woops,’ Clinton said again. He picked Jemma up and patted her clean. ‘She loved that, didn’t you, Jemma?’

  Jemma’s whole body was shaking. Larry took her from Clinton and lowered her into the box. ‘I think she might be hungry now.’

  But she still refused to eat.

  ‘I know!’ Clinton offered. ‘We can give her a rollercoaster ride.’

  Larry looked at the assortment of play equipment. ‘How?’

  ‘Well . . .’ was all Clinton said. He lifted her from the box and weighed her in one hand. He tossed the bundle into the air and caught it with both hands. He tossed her again, only this time his catch was not complete. She bounced off his fingers and sprawled on the grass. He picked her up by the ears and cast her skyward again, this time with all his might. The throw was crooked, and she spun and hit the slide.

  Larry put her in the box. The boys squatted on either side and watched, but she didn’t eat; didn’t move. Her nose no longer twitched when touched with the carrot.

  Denise arrived. ‘How’s Jemma?’ she asked.

  ‘Still not hungry,’ Larry said.

  And the following morning, when Denise ventured into the laundry, she found her son crouched with his chubby finger pressed to the rabbit’s unlidded eye.

  ‘Yep. She’s dead. Jemma’s dead.’

  STOP

  ON SATURDAY 10 DECEMBER 1994 – the day before the Russians sank their boots into the breakaway republic of Chechnya – Mary Holland arrived at the park with her brood but they didn’t stop to play. Tim, her eldest, was booked to work on the dunking machine at his school fête.

  Denise read between the lines. ‘Would you mind if Larry and I tagged along?’

  ‘Please do,’ Mary said, and blushed.

  ‘Yay!’ Jemma yelped. She grabbed Larry and danced in a circle.

  Denise knew for a fact that Larry had no idea what a fête was or what he was dancing about.

  He would soon find out.

  They could hear the music and see a large orange jumping castle wobbling in the carpark. The school-crossing signs were up and the crossing lady – dressed in the white-and-orange uniform of an attendant – was waiting for customers. Her stop sign gleamed as though it had recently been polished. It reflected colours, a burnished rainbow like fish skin and abalone shell. Around her neck hung a silver whistle.

  Denise heard Tim whisper, ‘Oh no, not the lollipop lady,’ and saw him stiffen.

  ‘Form a line, please,’ the lollipop lady commanded.

  It was the voice that gave her away: the brassy military tone of a woman who gave orders but seldom took them. It was Muriel Hammersmith.

  Denise felt her own spine straighten as her neighbour stepped into the traffic, stop-sign first. Muriel halted a mini-van going in one direction, then hesitated. A salt-chafed brown Escort with P-plates was bearing down on the crossing, and the dr
iver was chatting with her passengers.

  Mrs Hammersmith raised her hand imperiously. The driver looked up just in time. She braked hard. The tyres yelped. Her passengers lurched forward in unison and the car stalled.

  Muriel Hammersmith held her pose for several deliberate seconds before straightening. She rolled her shoulders and adjusted her uniform before bringing the whistle to her lips. Her cheeks bulged as she let off an ear-piercing military double-peep. Adults and children flooded across the road from both directions, backs straight, elbows locked. They gave Muriel Hammersmith a wide berth. Larry let out his breath in a great rush when they reached the other side.

  Mary Holland pointed out some of the teachers and other parents as they strolled through the fête. Denise realised – with a quiver of something in the pit of her stomach – that it wouldn’t be long before she’d be buying a uniform for Larry. She wondered if he’d be going to Villea Primary School with Jemma and Tim – and Clinton, no doubt – or if she and Mal could afford to send him to St Patrick’s.

  When they’d seen everything the fête had to offer and the air had gone from the jumping castle, Mary invited Denise and Larry to her place for a coffee. The invitation was a big thing coming from Mary the church mouse, and Denise knew that it was her solemn duty, as a Christian and a friend, to accept. The notion had crossed her mind that Mary would be the perfect babysitter for Larry, but the thought of looking after Mary’s screaming horde in return made her baulk. She still wanted to check out Mary’s home, though, and properly meet her husband.

  The place was as neat as a display home, and Christopher was nowhere in sight. Mary explained that he’d gone prospecting in the headwaters of the Cradle River and wouldn’t be home until after dark. In fact, at her own kitchen table, with a steaming cup in her hand, Mary explained a great many things. Denise couldn’t get a word in. Mary told tales of the gold rush of 1862, when the mountains behind Villea were home to five thousand people, of the townships of Sentine and Florence that sprang up then disappeared in the two frenetic years that followed, and the fires of 1875 that burned the hills clean. Except for the myriad mine shafts and the occasional lump of rusted metal or shard of glass or china, the bush had erased most of the evidence of human existence from those times. The cemetery was now part of the national park, and the concrete slab that was once the footings of the bank had been converted into a picnic area off the Cradle River Road.