The Choke Page 10

  Aunty Rita said, ‘Oh, Justine.’ She put her arm around me. Aunty Rita outlined the heart with stones.

  I looked up and saw someone coming through the trees. Aunty Rita said, ‘It’s Ray. It’s your dad, Justine.’ She put her hand over her mouth. ‘Yo yo yo!’ she called like Chief Puma from McLintock!

  Dad called back, ‘Yo yo yo!’ as he came through the trees, his hand up and down over his mouth.

  Aunty Rita tipped back her head. ‘Yo yo yo!’

  When he was close, still running, he pulled his shirt over his head. When he came to the river he pulled off his boots and jeans. He was broad and tight with the muscles that lived under his skin. Aunty Rita jumped to her feet, still in her underpants and bra, and they ran down to the river. They called to each other, brother and sister, back and forth. ‘Yo yo yo!’ Their hands over their mouths. Both tall and shining. Dad jumped on the tyre and sailed out over the water, his legs pushing the swing high. He came crashing down, his arms wrapped around his legs, and the water splashed up around him in circles. Aunty Rita ran in after him. I watched as they fought, ducking and coming up and going under and splashing. Every drop of water between them was filled with light and electricity.

  ‘Ah! You got me, sister, you got me.’ Dad dragged himself up to the bank as if he’d been shot with an arrow. He lay on his back in the dirt, not scared of ants, not caring if they crawled over him, not scared of the sticks and dirt and stones hurting his skin, not scared of the light in his eyes. Aunty Rita fell back beside him, and they looked up at the bright, grey sky.

  ‘Your dad could never beat me, Justine.’

  Dad said, ‘She’s right, Jussy. I never could.’

  They lay side by side, their chests heaving. I lay beside them and listened to the trees growing around us. I heard the branches creak as they lengthened, I heard the roots as they spread, the leaves as they multiplied.

  Aunty Rita sat up, put her face in her hands and cried. Dad sat up beside her. He sighed and said softly, ‘Jesus.’ Years passed through his body, until he was a boy again. He knew why his sister was crying. He didn’t try to stop her. If he touched her he would have cried too.

  I looked past them and saw Lizzy in the trees; before the broken bones, before pneumonia and the hospital, before the war in Burma—the way she was in the photograph, with the flower in her hair.

  Dad said, ‘You okay?’

  Aunty Rita lifted her face from her hands. ‘This place…’

  ‘Come on, we better get back.’ said Dad. This place was still his home.

  Dad and Aunty Rita pulled on their clothes. Aunty Rita stood and held out her hand to me. As we walked she began to sing, A gallant knight, in sunshine and in shadow, had journeyed long…Her voice was deep and smooth. Dad joined in. Singing a song, in search of El Dorado. Then I sang too—we were Cole Thornton, J.P. Harrah and Maudie from El Dorado as we walked back to Pop’s. Over the mountains of the moon, down the valley of the shadow, ‘Ride, boldly ride,’ the shade replied, if you seek for El Dorado.

  When we crossed the yard I saw Pop in the chook run. ‘Here you are, ladies; here you are, Cockyboy; here, chook chook chook,’ he said, as he scattered the seed. Aunty Rita looked at me with a spark in her eyes. Another bastard rooster.

  Pop stepped out of the run.

  ‘Hi, Dad.’ Aunty Rita’s voice sounded caught in her throat.

  There was sweat on Pop’s forehead and chook shit across his cheek. Each of his legs was so thin that there was dark space in the shorts around them. He said, ‘Rita.’

  We stood in the yard: Rita, Ray, me and Pop. It suddenly seemed hotter. Cockyboy strutted around our feet like Pop’s guard.

  ‘Good to see you, Dad,’ said Aunty Rita.

  ‘You’re looking well, Rita,’ said Pop.

  Something ran between Aunty Rita and Pop, and hurt them.

  ‘How have you been?’

  ‘I’ve been okay.’

  It went quiet. I said, ‘Pop, Aunty Rita and me went for a swim. We went on the tyre.’

  ‘Jesus,’ said Pop. ‘Lucky you didn’t break your back.’

  ‘You used to swim in the river, didn’t you, Dad?’ said Dad.

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Remember that?’ said Dad. ‘Us and the bloody Worlleys at the river. Wasn’t it you that tied that bloody tyre up in the first place?’

  ‘It was.’

  ‘And the first one to use it. Mum went off her nut,’ said Dad.

  ‘She did. Then we made her get on it.’

  It was quiet. Lizzy was pulling at them from where she lay under the ground. They wanted to see her swinging through the air, holding tight to the tyre for as long as she could, flying higher, seeing the river beneath her. But when they did, it hurt them.

  ‘Christ, that was a long time ago,’ said Dad.

  ‘We’re all getting older,’ said Aunty Rita.

  Pop said, ‘It’s good to see you, Rita.’

  ‘Not what you say to me when I come home,’ said Dad.

  ‘You come home too often,’ said Pop. ‘You thirsty, Rita? You want a beer?’

  ‘I could murder a beer.’ Aunty Rita put her arm around me as we crossed to Pop’s fire. ‘Justine has grown tall,’ she said.

  ‘She eats all my eggs,’ said Pop. ‘You eaten, Rita? Ray fed you?’

  ‘Are you kidding?’

  Pop said, ‘Can’t believe I asked,’ and they laughed the same laugh, dry through the nose.

  ‘Hey, take it easy, sister. I offered you a beer,’ said Dad.

  ‘You did, brother. You offered me a beer, it’s true.’

  The feeling was light. The same as the sky over the Murray, warm and grey and light. I wanted to hold on to it. It was as if the hole in my teeth had been filled; I didn’t care about it anymore. I had my Aunty Rita! The Lees were a family with different parts—an aunt, a father, a grandfather and me.

  Pop put sticks on his fire. I sat beside Aunty Rita. Pop brought out chicken wings and grilled them on the fire. He sprinkled them with salt and put corn cobs wrapped in foil in the flames. He poured honey over the chicken wings.

  Dad said, ‘Special treatment, hey?’

  Pop said, ‘Shut up, Ray.’

  ‘Looks good, Dad,’ said Aunty Rita, and the smell of chicken wings and honey and butter filled the circle around the fire.

  I felt the dry river water on my skin, I saw dirt banked up behind the hairs and I stretched and felt them break apart. We were hot. It was summer, but the fire always burned. Keep the bloody Murray at bay, said Pop. The only time he didn’t light the fire was if he had gut trouble.

  Pop, Dad and Aunty Rita’s talking flowed around me like music. Soon it turned to song. But he grew old, this knight so bold, and o’er his heart a shadow fell as he found no spot of ground, that looked like El Dorado. They sang and drank beer and said, Ah, the big man, the Duke, Old Duke, you can’t go past the big man. All of them said it, as if they all knew the big man and loved him and his songs and all knew his search for El Dorado. The grey light darkened and the flames of Pop’s fire burned brighter, holding us close.

  I don’t know who carried me inside. It could have been Dad; it could have been Aunty Rita or Pop. I was laid on the bed. My shoes were pulled off. Someone kissed my cheek. I heard, ‘What a little beauty, you are, Justine.’

  18.

  The next day I woke up to the sun in my eyes. I got out of bed, crossed the hall and stood by the closed spare room door, listening.

  Pop came out of the kitchen. ‘Leave her alone, Justine. She needs a rest.’ The lines on his face were not as deep, as if a pair of thumbs had rubbed them smooth. I smelled eggs frying. I yawned and stretched and went into the kitchen. There was a plate of thick buttered toast on the table, beside the teapot. The teapot wore Lizzy’s pink knitted cosy that only came out at Christmas. Eggs and bacon and tomato sizzled in the pan. Pop smoked a White Ox while he fried. The smoke from the kindest animal drifted around the room, mixing with the smell of bacon. My mo
uth watered.

  Aunty Rita came into the kitchen. She was wearing striped pyjamas and her dark hair was in messy knots. She yawned and said, ‘Morning, Jussy.’ She tousled my hair. ‘That smells good, Pop.’ She sat down at the table.

  ‘The girls lay more than we can eat. New egg grit and better pellets.’

  ‘Ah, the girls…’ said Aunty Rita, grinning at me.

  Pop put the eggs, tomatoes and bacon on the toast, then he put one plate in front of Aunty Rita and one in front of me.

  ‘What about you, Dad? Aren’t you eating?’ said Aunty Rita.

  Pop raised his White Ox. ‘I’ll eat later. You start before it gets cold.’ He leaned against the bench and watched Aunty Rita and me eat eggs, hot tomato and bacon on toast, and it was as if every mouthful we took fed him something too. Aunty Rita put a lot of butter on her toast and so did I. Then strawberry jam. I drank milk to wash it down, and Aunty Rita drank tea.

  When we were scraping the plates Pop said to Aunty Rita, ‘How’s the Torry running?’

  ‘Alright. I ask a lot of her. Bit of a rattle anything over forty.’

  ‘Want me to take a look?’

  ‘That’d be good, Dad. Save me from getting ripped off at the mechanics. Can I take Justine out in your truck while you do?’ She turned to me. ‘Want to go out somewhere, Justine?’

  ‘Where to?’ Pop asked.

  ‘I don’t know. Into town? The bakery?’

  ‘Righto,’ said Pop, putting his White Ox out in the sink. ‘Bring us back some bread.’

  I was going into town with my Aunty Rita. I felt light, as if the balloons from my pyjamas were in my chest. I pulled on my skirt and top. Aunty Rita came out of the spare room in her checked coat and jeans. ‘Keys?’ she said to Pop.

  Pop took the keys from his belt. ‘Anything over forty in the truck you’ll hear more than a rattle.’ He carried his tool bag out the front to Aunty Rita’s car.

  We went down the side to Pop’s truck. The curtains were closed in the back-house. ‘Get up, Ray, you lazy bastard,’ Aunty Rita called out. ‘Some things never change,’ she said to me.

  Cockyboy watched us from his place on the top of the gate. ‘A lot of things never change,’ I said.

  ‘You got that right, sister.’

  ‘Hey, I’m not your sister!’

  ‘Niece. Close enough.’

  We got in the truck. She turned Pop’s key and the engine started. ‘Shall we run Cockyboy down on the way out?’

  ‘What if he comes back as a ghost?’ I said.

  ‘Christ,’ said Aunty Rita. ‘Imagine that.’

  ‘Spooky.’

  ‘Hey, Justine, got any room in that stomach for cake?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘You’re funny, Justine. Anyone ever tell you that?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘You’re the first.’

  Aunty Rita laughed. She turned on the radio, fiddling with the knob until it came to music. A man sang, Out where the skies are bluer, out where friendship’s truer…‘Perfect,’ she said. ‘Cowboy music.’ Out where a fresher breeze is blowing, out where the world is in the making. We drove down the road away from Yolamundi.

  Song after song played as Aunty Rita drove. I’m back in the saddle again, out where a friend is a friend, where the longhorn cattle feed on the lonely jimson weed, I’m back in the saddle again. We hummed along, and when we could guess the words, we sang. In between songs Aunty Rita said, ‘Don’t trust cowboys, Justine.’

  ‘What about John Wayne? He’s a cowboy.’

  ‘Except John Wayne. You can trust him.’

  ‘Just ask Pop.’

  ‘Ha!’

  When we came to the turn-off to Nullabri, Aunty Rita said, ‘Let’s keep going.’

  ‘What about the bakery?’

  ‘Forget the bakery. What if Relle’s there?’

  ‘Christ,’ I said.

  ‘God, you’re funny. Keep going to Echuca?’

  ‘Echuca,’ I said, as we sped past the turn-off. Pop never took me to Echuca. Too much bullshit for too much bloody money. And he didn’t like the crowds.

  There were wheat silos as big as castles along the road. There were more trucks. It was a lot busier than Nullabri; there were people visiting from the city, passing through, or farmers coming to town to buy supplies. The roads were wide, there were more shops with things for sale in the windows: shoes, dresses, books, chairs, beds. There was a stock and feed shop bigger than the one in Nullabri. Aunty Rita parked the truck on the main road.

  I saw the long bridge over the Murray. On the other side was Moama, where we lived in the house with the barbecue too close to the glass. ‘Can we cross it?’ I asked Aunty Rita.

  ‘The bridge?’

  ‘Yes. We could walk it.’

  ‘It’s a long bridge. You want to do it on foot?’

  ‘Can we?’

  ‘Sure. Why not?’ She took my hand and we walked up to the bridge. There was one lane for walkers and two lanes for cars and trucks. The bridge separated Moama from Echuca. Cars rumbled past us. Halfway across, when I could see the Moama caravan park, I stopped and looked over the side. My chest felt tight.

  ‘What is it, Justine? Are you alright?’ Aunty Rita asked me.

  A long way down was the deep brown water of the Murray.

  She said, ‘You lived in Moama for a while, didn’t you?’

  I said, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Before Donna left, right?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. Ray! My mum screamed when the glass broke. Ray, no! But Dad didn’t break the glass, did he? It was the barbecue too close to the window. Why did she scream that way?

  Aunty Rita held my hand tight. The bridge shook as car after car rumbled over.

  Way below us, the water in the Murray flowed forward. Soon it would reach The Choke, where it would push through and keep going. The traffic kept rumbling across behind us, car after car after car, the wheels rattling the metal in the pylons. Aunty Rita and me stood there for a long time, my hand in hers.

  ‘I’m sorry about your mum, Justine,’ said Aunty Rita.

  My chest loosened. ‘Let’s go back.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Aunty Rita.

  We turned around and walked back into Echuca. We walked along the main road looking in shop windows at cups and plates, dresses and books. ‘You want an ice-cream?’ Aunty Rita said. We crossed the road to the ice-cream shop. The shop was full of kids and mothers and fathers, and couples as old as Pop. All the flavours were in boxes behind the glass: vanilla and lemon and strawberry and caramel and chocolate. Aunty Rita said, ‘Choose whatever you want—my shout.’ My face felt hot. There were so many flavours I didn’t know if I could choose.

  Aunty Rita pointed at the rainbow flavour. ‘That one looks good,’ she said. ‘Let’s go two of those. Doubles. How does that sound, Justine?’

  ‘Good.’

  Aunty Rita ordered the double rainbows. Even though my stomach was full from a dinner of chicken and corn and a breakfast of eggs and bacon and toast and jam, there was room for the double rainbow.

  We sat at a picnic table near the port and watched the paddleboats carry people up the river. If the boats kept going, they’d reach Yolamundi; the Murray connected the towns like a road of water. The people in the boats leaned over the sides, pointing out the birds and the trees, taking pictures.

  Aunty Rita said, ‘I’m sorry I haven’t seen you more, Justine. It gets…it’s hard…with Dad—I mean Pop. But I’d like to visit more. Let’s stay in touch, hey? No matter what happens. You are officially my favourite niece.’

  ‘Your only niece.’

  ‘Oh, that’s right,’ she said. ‘You’re still my favourite.’

  When we drove up to Pop’s Three, Pop was at the front leaning over the bonnet of Rita’s Torry. When he heard us pull in he looked up, oil grease across his forehead, and waved his spanner.

  ‘G’day, Pop,’ said Aunty Rita.

  ‘How was town?’

  ‘Good. We ended up at Ec
huca,’ said Aunty Rita.

  ‘Echuca? What the hell for? Too much bullshit,’ said Pop, putting his head back under the Torry’s bonnet. ‘For too much bloody money.’

  Aunty Rita winked at me.

  We went down the side and saw Dad sitting at Pop’s fire, drinking a beer.

  ‘Starting early?’ said Aunty Rita.

  ‘Never too early.’ Dad raised his beer. ‘Where you been, darlin’?’ he asked me.

  ‘Getting ice-cream,’ I said.

  ‘Oh yeah, where’s that?’

  ‘Echuca,’ said Aunty Rita.

  ‘Ah, the big smoke.’

  ‘Busier than it used to be,’ said Aunty Rita.

  ‘Not as busy as where you came from. Must look small to you.’

  ‘Must look small to you,’ Aunty Rita said back to my dad. She wasn’t scared of him; whatever he said or did, she wasn’t scared.

  ‘How long you hanging around, Rita?’ said Dad.

  ‘I’ll leave on Monday, if that’s alright by you. Maybe I could take Justine to school on my way out.’

  ‘You take the bus, don’t you, Justine?’ said Dad.

  I shrugged.

  Pop stepped out of the back door. ‘Lunch?’ he called.

  ‘Feel like I’ve been doing nothing but eat,’ said Aunty Rita. ‘What do you say, Jussy? More?’

  ‘More,’ I said.

  ‘How do you handle it?’ Dad asked. We’d finished lunch and were sitting around the fire.

  ‘What?’ said Aunty Rita.

  ‘Bloody Tarban Creek. How do you do it?’

  ‘You get used to it.’

  ‘Dangerous, if you ask me.’

  ‘Nobody is asking you.’

  ‘You watch out for yourself in that place,’ said Pop.

  ‘Most of the time the patients are on too many drugs to be dangerous. A lot of them are just sad.’

  ‘Still using the zapper on ’em?’

  Aunty Rita put her empty plate on the ground. ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘Still using it.’