Chapter 11
Our plan was to get him quickly. No point letting a week or two pass. If we did, maybe the burning desire to really put it to the guy would fade. There was no way we could afford that.
We found out that this Bruce Pat
terson had been getting it off with some other girl for about a month, thus leading our sister on by still coming over. It was a slap in the head for all of us that we allowed him into our house when he was into it with some scrubber around the city.
“Should we go bash him?” I asked Rube, but he only looked at me, with ridicule.
“Are you serious? Look at the size of y’. You’re like a Chihuahua and Patterson’s built like a brick bloody shithouse. Do you have any idea what the guy would do to you?”
“Well, I thought maybe the two of us.”
“I’m a weed myself” was Rube’s curt response to that one. “Sure, I’ve got a hell of a beard goin’, but Bruce could kill the pair of us.”
“Yeah, you’re right.”
What happened next was unexpected.
There was a knock at the door that was more like scraping, and when I opened it, my former best mate Greg was standing there.
“Can I come in?” he asked me. “Whatta y’ reckon?”
I opened the flyscreen door and he entered the house, just after taking a look over at Steve, who sat grim-faced as ever on the porch.
“Hey, werewolf,” Greg greeted Rube inside, to which Rube threatened to throw him out.
“Sorry,” he apologized, and I took him into Rube’s and my room.
He sat down under the window, against the wall. Silent.
“Well,” I asked, sitting on my bed, “if you don’t mind my asking, but what the hell brings you here?”
“I need help” was the swift, frank reply. He rummaged his hands through his hair and I could see the ‘druff go flying out. Greg always had a bit of a dandruff problem. He enjoyed it, shaking it out on the desk in school.
“Help with what?” I kept probing. “Money.” “How much?” “Three hundred.”
“Three hundred! Bloody hell, what the hell’ve been doin’ lately?”
“Ah, don’t ask. Just …” His face flinched a bit. “You got it?”
“Geez, three hundred, I d’know.” I went to my piece of carpet and got out what was stashed under there. Eighty bucks.
“Well, I’ve got eighty here.” I got out my bankbook thing and saw that I had a hundred and thirty in it. “So I’ve got two-ten all up. That’s the best I can do.”
“Ah, damn, mate.”
I joined him on the floor, against my bed, asking, “Just tell me what it’s for, will y’?” He was reluctant.
“Tell me or I won’t give y’ the cash.” This was a lie and we both knew it. We both knew I was giving Greg my money and I wouldn’t even ask for it back. That was all there was to it. But he owed me at least this. He owed it to me to say where my money was going.
“Ah,” he gave out. “One of me mates, Dale. You know ‘im?”
Dale Perry.
Yeah, I knew him all right. He was exactly the kind of guy I hated because he walked around like he owned the joint no matter where he went, and I hated his guts. In Commerce the previous year (a subject I should never have chosen), he had taken his metal ruler, heated it up on the heater, and then held it up against my ear, burning the absolute hell out of me. That’s who Dale Perry was. He was also in that big group chatting with the pretty girls at the football that day.
“Yeah, I know the guy,” I stated calmly.
“Yeah, well, a few of his older mates, they needed someone to pick some gear up for ‘em. Three hundred bucks’ worth.”
“Gear?”
Of course, I knew exactly what the gear was, but I thought I’d make this whole thing just a little uncomfortable for Greg. After all, I was giving the guy every cent I had on me. So much for buying myself a stereo or whatever. So much for that hard-earned cash I’d got working the past few weeks with Dad. It was all getting flushed down the toilet because a former best mate of mine came to me because he knew I was the only guy who wouldn’t let him down. None of his new mates would help him out, but his original one would.
It’s weird.
Don’t you think?
It’s not so much that the old friend is a better friend. It’s just that you know the person better, and you know they don’t really care if you’re acting like a poor, grovelling idiot. They know you would do the same for them. I knew Greg would do it for me if it was the other way around.
So yes, “Gear?” I asked him. “What are y’ talkin’ about?You know,” he answered.
I let him get away with it. “Yeah, I know.”
“Just light stuff,” he went on, “but a whole lot of it. There were about ten guys and they all threw in and they were all too lazy to go get it ‘emselves.” He slipped down against the wall a little further. “I got the stuff no problems, but things got bad when I had to sit on it for a night.”
“Aah.” I threw my head back and started laughing. I was pretty sure I knew now exactly what had happened.
“Yeah, that’s right.” Greg nodded. “Me old bloody lady found it under my bed and the old man threw it in the fire. It was like signing my death warrant…. I can’t believe the old boy chucked it in the fire, ay.”
By now, I was in stitches, because I could just see Greg’s old man — a tiny, curly-haired, wiry brute of a man swearing his head off and throwing it into the fire. It actually got Greg laughing as well, even though he kept saying, “It’s not funny, Cam. It’s not funny.”
It was, though, and that was what saved him for the money.
It saved him because I told the story to Rube and he shelled out the extra ninety bucks Greg needed, even though he threatened to kill him if he didn’t get it back in a fair hurry. The solution ended up being that I would pay Rube back from the money I earned with Dad over the next month or so and everyone was happy. Then Greg would pay the lot back to me.
For Greg, you could see the pressure released from his face. He didn’t look so drawn once that cash had found its way into his hand.
In the next room, Sarah was lying on her bed in a hundred pieces.
We walked past her on our way out back, where Rube, Greg, and I took potshots at goal against the fence. We took turns at being goalie. It was my idea (mainly because of the dream I’d had the night before), and I was actually just hoping I wouldn’t get a bleeding nose. Although, Rebecca Conlon wasn’t in the yard, was she? I thought I was pretty safe.
Of course, next-door’s dog started barking and the parrots went berserk.
It was all heightened when Rube phoned his mates. This was the conversation:
“Hello.”
“Hello, Simon. Ruben here.” “Ruben. How are you?” “I’m well. Y’ comin’ over?”
“Why not indeed. That sounds convenient enough.” “Get Cheese an’ Jeff.”
“Right.”
“Good-bye.” “Good-bye.”
When they made it to our place, we got a fully fledged game going.
Over and ov, we hammered the ball into the fence, making the most of the time we had before Mum and Dad got home. You should have heard it. Smash. Smash. The ball at both ends was killing it and the sound echoed around everywhere, followed by the shrieks and the swearing.
My team was Jeff, Greg, and myself and we were actually winning, even though we were smaller and weaker than Rube’s team. It was our hunger.
Four–two it was when next-door’s dog stopped barking.
“Stop, stop!” I shouted when I noticed. “You hear that?”
“What?”
“The dog.”
“Hey, yeah. It’s stopped barkin’.” I climbed up the fence and peeked over, and you won’t believe what I saw. The dog was dead.
“Geez, I think it’s dead,” I said, looking back at everyone else.
“What!?”
“I’m tellin’ y’s. Come have a look.”
Rube climbed up next to me and could only agree.
“Bloody ‘ell, I think he’s right,” he laughed back down to the others. “I think we’ve given the poor bloody thing a heart attack.”
“Y’ sure?”
“Or a stroke.”
“Oh no,” I said. “What have we done?” “What sort of dog is it?” Rube had had enough.
“I don’t bloody know!” he yelled down at Cheese. “I think it’s a, a —”
“Pomeranian,” I answered for him.
“What the hell’s a Pomeranian?”
“You know,” Cheese explained to the others, “one of those fluffy rodent-lookin’ things … I guess he just barked till he couldn’t take it anymore.”
Even the parrots over in the cage were looking morosely down at the dog.
“We’ve gotta do somethin’,” I said to Rube. “Like what? Give it mouth to mouth?” “Look, it’s shakin’.” “Oh, this is lovely, ay.”
I jumped over and took off my flanno shirt and wrapped up the dog. Rube came over and the rest of the fellas looked over the fence as we stroked the fluffy rodent-looking dog, wondering if it really was about to die.
After about fifteen minutes, our next-door neighbor came home — a fifty-year-old fella with a mouth fouler than all of us put together. He showed a lot of restraint, to tell you the truth as he raced out back, called us a few names, picked up the Pomeranian — whose name was Miffy by the way — and took it to the vet.
“Y’ think it’ll live?” we asked each other, back at our place.
“Mate, I d’know.”
Gradually, everyone left. Greg was last. “Man.” He shook his head on his way out. “I’d forgotten what it’s like round here.” “Old times, ay?” “Yeah,” he nodded. “Chaos.” “Absolutely.”
It really had been like old times, but I knew it was fruitless to think it would go on. We both knew that the next time he came over would be to pay either some or all of my money back. It was just the way things were.
In the evening, something I knew was coming came. The neighbor.
He came over telling Mum and Dad that they couldn’t control Rube and me, and because Rube was the only one out of us with any money left, he was the one who paid the man’s vet bill.
Miffy the Pomeranian, by the way, was okay. It was just a very mild heart attack. Poor rodent midget dog.
It was all pretty much the last straw for our mother, though.
She had us sitting at the kitchen table and she circled us, shouting and telling us off like you wouldn’t believe. She even held the wooden spoon under our noses, even though she hadn’t hit us with it since I was ten. I tell you, she looked ready to wrap it around our heads.
“Why do you keep doing this!?” she screamed at us. “Giving each other black eyes, giving bloody neighbors’ dogs heart attacks. It’s a disgrace…. I’m ashamed of you both. Again!”
Even Dad could only sit in the corner, completely silent. He didn’t dare to speak himself for fear of being the next to be set upon.
At the end, she really went crazy, getting the compost off the kitchen sink, and instead of taking it outside to put it in her compost bin, she threw it to the floor, picked it up, and threw it down again, this time at my feet.
“You’re like animals!” she shouted with even more volume than earlier. Then she said the thing that always seems to hurt the most: “Grow up!”
Needless to say, Rube and I cleaned up the mess and took it outside and stayed out there. We didn’t dare to go back in.
From her bedroom window, Sarah looked out at us and smiled, shaking her head through her suffering. She was laughing, which made us laugh a bit ourselves. It made Rube find his resolve again and say, “We’re still gettin’ Patterson. Make no mistake about that.” “We’ve gotta,” I agreed.
After a longer while, I reflected on the day’s proceedings, because now I owed Rube half the vet’s bill as well. Things had really gone downhill, I promise you“Damn that Pomeranian,” I suggested. “Huh,” Rube snorted. “Pomeranian with a weak heart. It could only happen to us, ay.”
There’s a guy in front of me on a dirt road at sunrise. He looks at me. I look at him.
We stand, maybe ten meters apart, until finally I decide to break the silence. I say, “So?”
“So what?” comes his reply. He’s wearing a robe and scratches his beard and tries to get a stone out of one of his sandals.
“Well, I don’t know,” I think to say. “Who the hell are you, for starters?” He smiles. Laughs. Stands.
When he’s ready, he repeats the question and answers it: “Who the hell am I?” A brief laugh. “I’m Christ.” “Christ? You actually exist?” “Of course I bloody do.” I decide to test Him. “So who am I, then?”
“I’m not interested in who you are,” and He walks toward me along the road, still trying to get that pebble out of His sandal. “Bloody sandals.” He scuffs, then continues. “Actually, I’m interested in what you are.”
“Which is?”
“Miserable.”
“Yeah.” I shrug in agreement.
“I can help,” He goes on, and I’m expecting Him now to give me the usual line all those scripture teachers give us on their annual pilgrimage to our school. He doesn’t.
Instead, He hands me a bottle with red liquid in it and motions with hands saying, “Bottoms up” for me to drink it.
“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.”