Chapter 15
After everything that had happened, there was no chance of sleepin that night. I considered getting myself down to Octavia’s place, but decided to wait out the hours and find her the next day down at the harbor.
There was an old movie on TV.
I watched it until I staggered to bed and dropped in.
Earlier, I wrote some words and tucked them under my mattress, and lying in bed, they seemed to crawl out and step over me as I stared at the ceiling.
It was late when Rube came in, tired and clumsy. He tripped over his shoes after he swept them off his feet, and briefly, before he went to bed, he came and stood over me. With my eyes closed, I could feel the presence of my brother.
Keep your eyes shut, I told myself. I came close to saying something to him, but I remembered the kitchen and the fight, and the words and the fists. A hatred climbed into bed with me, whispering that I should be still and silent and wait for the intruder to leave.
The intruder.
It hurt to think of my brother like that, but in one glorious moment, he had ripped apart the first chance I ever had.
To touch a girl. To be with a girl …
“Hey Scraps,” I imagined him saying, but he said nothing.
He only stood there.
Even now, I wonder what he was thinking at that moment.
Was he contemplating throwing his hand down to wake me, to call me brother and say he was sorry? Or did he want to ask me why I couldn’t find a girl of my own? Did he want to plead with me to stop being his shadow?
I’ll never know, because the moment passed and never came up again. It ended when his feet dragged him over to his own bed and he fell down, on top of the sheets. It seemed fitting that night that Rube rarely covered himself in bed. He didn’t need the warmth, whereas I froze if I wasn’t covered up to my nose, lying there with just my snout sticking up for air.
The hours dragged themselves by, and when Rube began to snore it felt like insult being lent to injury. The sound tore open the night, as I lay there with visions swimming and circling in my head. It was mostly Octavia, but images of Rube and Steve and Sarah also made their way inside me. I kept seeing the drawing Sarah showed me — the blue suit and the boxing gloves. For some reason, the visions of Steve also bothered me. I kept hearing the words he’d spoken — it was funny how my two brothers were so capable of hurting me, and how my sister was the one who could see something in me to believe in. All this time, she’d been watching, and I guess, if it wasn’t for her, I wouldn’t have resolved that night to find Octavia the next day, and to face Steve one last time.
In the morning, I decided Steve would be first.
Around ten, I walked up to his apartment. I didn’t have to ring the buzzer because he and Sal were up on the balcony. He didn’t call me up. Instead, he disappeared and came down to meet me. It was a gesture, I guesse was coming to me.
He opened his mouth to speak, but I beat him.
“Where you on at today?” My voice was friendly. Giving.
Steve looked up at the balcony, but he didn’t answer my question. He said, “What are you doing here?” I could tell he was shocked that I’d come, to face him in daylight. “If I were you, I’d never speak to me again.” He looked away. “If I were you, I’d hate me forever.”
“But I’m not you,” I said. “I can’t beat up a group of guys one by one. I can’t kick a goal after beer’s been thrown at my head — hell, I can’t even kick one without the beer. But I can stand here, in front of you. I can look you in your eyes when you never expected to see me again. I can survive anything you do or say to me.”
The breeze took a breath.
It paused — stopped completely — and Steve spoke.
“Okay.”
For a last moment, I looked at him, then left. I moved out from under the balconies and called up to Sal, “I’ll see y’ later,” then turned back to Steve. “I might come up tomorrow or later in the week. Maybe we can go up to the oval.”
“Sounds good,” he replied, and we went our own ways.
That was the first part done. Now for Octavia.
I went by train to the harbor, and when I stepped out onto the platform, I felt like nothing today would stop me. All my thoughts leaned now toward the girl, and from the railing, I looked for the crowd of people that would be gathered around her, watching, listening, and taking in the music that flowed from her.
She wasn’t there, though.
The place that was hers was completely empty. Not even other buskers went there, because it seemed Octavia had ownership of it. The stretch toward the Harbour Bridge was only that — a stretch, a path. There was no music, and no people.
I ran down there and stood alone at the exact place, hit hard by the silence that surrounded me. For a few minutes, I looked wildly around, trying to find something, anything that would lead me to a scent of the girl.
Nothing.
I even asked some people if they’d seen a harmonica player.
They said there was one over on the other side, near the Opera House, and barely remembering to thank them, I took off. I ran around to the other side, past the ferry entrance, the ticket offices, and the boulevard of too-expensive cafés and restaurants.
Finally, near the Opera House steps, I could hear the sound of a harmonica and I hoped.
There! I thought, but when I rounded the corner, there was old man, sitting down, playing. No Octavia.
My hopes struggled forward.
They fell crooked as I moved in a staggered circle, looking and attempting to find her. I began walking the city, and soon realized that I’d be walking all afternoon. My feet took me through the entire city center, but all I found were those mime people, pen sellers for the Royal Blind Society, and the odd didgeridoo player. The girl was nowhere.
With aching legs and feet, I eventually boarded a train for Hurstville and walked back down to Octavia’s place. God, it was such a parody of the first time I’d walked down there. The nerves were even more intense now, but the reality was awful. It was almost obscene, because last time, I knew she wanted me. Deep down, I knew. This time though, if she was in there, I couldn’t be sure if she would come out. And even if she did, would it be to tell me to go home, go away, go anywhere as long as it was away from her?
It was late afternoon when I made it there and started the vigil.
Soon, an hour was gone and so was the light.
The streetlights scratched themselves on.
There was no Octavia. There was no girl.
There was only me, Cameron Wolfe, standing in front of a house where Octavia Ash happened to live. At one point, there was movement near the light that hid behind the front door, but no one came out.
You better go, I told myself, but not before I stayed one last minute and reminded myself of what this all meant. The cruelty of it walked past, digging its shoulder into me along the way. The cruelty, I thought, because here I was again, standing outside a girl’s house who didn’t want me — and this time it was worse, much worse, because she’d even asked me to stand there. Only twenty-four hours ago, she’d still wanted me, and now, it was all finished. I was still alone. I was still standing there, and now it wasn’t just a walk from home. Now I had to come a lot further to stand amongst the same failure, to feel the same aloneness and humiliation.
When I left, I looked back, and there was no one looking out the window or brushing a curtain aside to watch me leave. There was nothing but the empty street and me.
The next night was the same.
Then, the next, and the next.
I resolved to stand there every night until Octavia came out, no matter how long it took.
It became routine, like waking up and putting on your pants. My routine was getting up, walking to school, and contemplating all of it as I stared at graffitied desks and wandered through the lonely halls of each building. I noticed how much laughter there was at school. It came to me suddenly, like echoes, like paint. Like paint splayed over me, coloring me a sickly human color. I would do what had to be done there, then head down to Octavia’s, stand for two hours, and come home. Dinner was next, and walking Miffy, alone. Rube stopped walking him with me after the fight.
It was rareo see Rube at all that week.
The only time we spoke was when the phone started ringing again.
“It’s the Phonecaller,” I’d tell him. I never hung around to listen to what was said, and most times the phone was left dead. I could see Rube getting more and more frustrated, and I quietly felt glad that his womanizing had made his life at least a little uncomfortable.
As for the vigils down in Hurstville, the door finally opened on Friday night, but it wasn’t Octavia who came out. It was a woman who had clearly given Octavia the shape of her face, and her eyes and lips. She walked slowly, almost sadly toward me.
There was kindness in her eyes and I recall the sincerity in her voice.
When she was close enough, she said, “You’re Cameron, aren’t you?”
I nodded. “Yes, Mrs. Ash, I am.” I kept my head up and made sure to look at her. Keep proud, I thought.
“I thought it was best to come out and tell you that Octavia’s not here tonight — she’s gone to stay at a friend’s place for the weekend.” I could tell it pained her slightly to have to speak to me like this. “You should go home.” “Okay.”
I said the word but I didn’t mean it.
Nothing was okay, and I didn’t want to go home.
Before I walked away, I turned and asked, “The whole weekend?”
Mrs. Ash nodded. “Take tomorrow night off — you deserve a rest.” Her eyes swayed momentarily. “And Cameron?”
“Yes?”
“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry, okay?”
That was when I simply stood there. I didn’t want her pity. I wanted to spit at it. Throw it off me. Kill it. Yet all I managed to do was stand there a few seconds more and walk away.
I’ll be back Sunday, I said to myself when I turned off the street, and I wondered if the girl truly was at a friend’s place.
“You haven’t given up, have you?” Sarah asked me the next night, and I told her about the conversation with Mrs. Ash. We were in her room. Her photos and some other small drawings were sitting on the desk.
“Don’t worry,” I reassured her. “I’ll be back there tomorrow night.”
“Good.”
Like clockwork, I was there again the next night, and then every evening during the week. I stood there for up to two hours. Sometimes longer. A few times, it looked like rain, but it didn’t come until a week and a half later. I stood there and splinters of rain soon turned to nails. I remained standing there, soaked, and that was wfinally drew the girl out the front door and onto the porch.
“Cameron!?” she cried out, and I begged for her next words to be, “Come inside, come inside,” but they weren’t.
She came down toward the gate and the rain clamped down on her hair and dribbled down her face. Her voice was hard and loud, and it trapped me amongst the rain.
“Cameron, get out of here!” It was almost a shriek. Her green eyes were desperate and full of warm water, ready to mix with the ice that seemed to be bucketing from the sky. It didn’t even take a minute for her to be completely wet and she was so beautiful, it nearly made me choke. “Go!” she shouted again. “Go home!” She closed her eyes in pain and turned, to go back inside.
She was nearly at the front door when I found my voice. It made its way over my beating heart and into my mouth.
“Why!?” I called to her. She turned to face me as I went on. “Why are you doing this to me!?” I swallowed, and met her face. “You rescued me from this once. Why are you putting me through it again?”
Hurt, she moved to the edge of the steps, raised her head, and punctured me.
She said, “Well maybe it’s time you started rescuing yourself!”
It rained — harder and louder — and we stood there, each alone, as the words defeated both of us. Octavia was wounded and wet, and slowly, completely soaked with sorrow, she turned and went back inside. I remained at the gate, crushed by the heaviness of her words and the rain.
In the train on the way home, no one sat next to me because I was so wet.
There was so much of me, drooling all over the seat and onto the floor, sitting in a pool of defeat. At Central, I pulled my ticket out of my pocket, but all that was left of it was a soggy lump of paper. It would never go through the machine.
A collector was in the booth. She was a relatively old lady with some facial hair, and she was chewing gum. When I approached her, I held out the pathetic clump in my hand.
“That’s your ticket?” she inquired.
“That’s right,” I answered morosely.
She studied me for a second or two but decided to let me through. “One of those days, huh?”
“Shocker,” I answered, and she winked at me on my way past.
“Don’t worry, love,” she chewed. “Things can only get better from here.” To that, I said nothing. I only listened as my soaked shoes squeaked on the dirty tile floor, and I imagined the trail of wet footprints stretching out behind me. It felt like those footprints stretched back forever.
IF HER SOUL SHOULD LEAK
I’m with wet feet.
There’s a girl up ahead.
She doesn’t move fast, but no matter how hard I run, I can’t catch up with her. My feet become heavier and more sodden with every step. I want to call out, but somehow I know she won’t hear.
Even as other people pass by, I want to tell them. I want to say it—
I love that girl.
But I don’t.
Eventually, she turns a corner and by the time I make it around, she’s gone.
Defeated, I lean back to the cold, hard bricks, and I understand that there are many things I haven’t seen or felt or known.
At this moment, there’s only one thing I know for sure.
It’s about the girl, and it’s this.
If her soul ever leaks, I want it to land on me.