The Choke Read online

  Dad lowered his arms. ‘What do you reckon, Justine? Good shooting?’ He looked at the jagged pieces of broken glass and shook his head at them, as if they had tried to get away, but he had seen them and they hadn’t escaped. Bang bang bang bang.

  I looked at the row of broken bottles. ‘Good shooting.’

  ‘That was your first lesson.’

  ‘Thanks, Dad.’

  We walked across to the truck and he lowered the tray. He put down the gun, sat on the tray and took a leather pouch from the back pocket of his jeans. On the side of the leather pouch were the letters R.A.L. with two snakes twisting around them. Raymond Andrew Lee. He took out a pinch of tobacco, put the tobacco onto the paper and rolled it into a cigarette. ‘Do you good to know how to shoot,’ he said. ‘Good for when you get a bit older.’ The cigarette bounced up and down on his lip, as if it was agreeing with him.

  ‘As old as Kirk?’ I asked him.

  ‘How old’s Kirk?’

  ‘Thirteen.’

  ‘Yeah, ’bout that old,’ he said. ‘That’s when it starts. Maybe a bit older. Now go down there and put all the broken bottles in a pile. Get ’em out of the way. This time we’ll go for the cans.’

  ‘Okay,’ I said. I walked down to the bottles. My legs were shaking. It was only my shoes, too tight for my feet, that held them together. I picked up the broken bottles and put them in a pile at the end of the row so that it was just the cans left behind. I walked back up to Ray. When his cigarette was finished he stubbed it out on the rock. ‘Time to reload,’ he said. ‘Get me six bullets from the box, Justine.’

  I did what he said, passing him the first bullet. He looked at it carefully, holding it close to his eyes, then away from them. He said, ‘You need to know how to look after yourself. So when you say, Fuck off, they’ll know you mean it. They all want the same thing.’ Was Dad telling me or the bullet? He pushed the bullet into the cylinder. I passed him the next one. ‘Don’t let ’em, Justine. They’re all the same. Every single last one, rich or poor, black or white, old or young, they all want it.’ He pushed in another bullet. ‘Most of the time, that’s all they want. Don’t give it to ’em.’ Dad turned a bullet in his fingers, looking at it from every side, then, as if he’d decided it was the same as the others, pushed it into the hole. ‘Make the bastards wait,’ he said.

  When the Smith was fully loaded, he said, ‘Get up and stand in front of me.’ He passed me the gun. ‘Only point it at the thing you want to kill.’ Dad placed his hands over mine. He stood behind me and I could feel the heat that came from his body. ‘Look at your target,’ he said. ‘First can.’ I looked at the white can of paint. ‘Don’t take your eyes off the target. Don’t think about anything else. Don’t even think about pulling the trigger. Keep your eyes on the can. Just remember, it’s you or your target. Which one of you will die today?’

  I looked at the white paint can; it had a bend in the middle, as if it had been kicked. Which one of us would die today? I felt Dad’s fingers over mine as he pulled the trigger. The sound threw me back against him. The can fell off the rock. A bell inside my head rang like an alarm. ‘Shot,’ Dad said. ‘Ready to go again?’

  Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Shot! Shot! Shot! Shot! Shot! Every empty rusted can fell down dead.

  In the truck on the way back to Pop’s Three, Dad didn’t talk. He rested his elbow on the window ledge as he drove, looking out from the front to the side, calm as if something had been emptied from him.

  When we got home Pop was on the couch watching the dog races. He said, ‘You get bread?’

  Dad walked out the back without answering.

  I went to my room. My ears were ringing and my head ached. I sat on the bed and pulled off my shoes. The bed tipped one way and then another. I knocked against the walls as I walked out of my room to the toilet. I stood over it and vomited. I stayed there, leaning against the wall. After a while I went back to my room. I lay on my bed and looked at the corner of paper that peeked out from the blade of the fan. I kept my eyes on the paper until the room stopped swaying.

  Only Aunty Rita wasn’t scared; she was strong enough to balance the volts. She knew exactly where to place the pads. If you missed even by an inch you could kill someone but Aunty Rita never missed. She fried the anger until the person was ready for a new start.

  21.

  On Monday morning, after I got off the bus, I saw the Hoopers’ car at the gate. Mrs Hooper opened the door. I stood by the fence and watched. Michael lifted his arm to me. I waved back and then his mother, Mrs Hooper, waved too, but I didn’t know how to wave back to her. My arm wouldn’t do it. I looked at the ground.

  Michael called out to me. ‘Justine!’

  I could hardly look; his mother was still there.

  ‘Justine, come here!’ he called.

  I walked slowly towards him without looking at Mrs Hooper.

  Michael said to his mother, ‘Justine’s shy.’

  I felt my face turn red.

  Michael said, ‘Hi, Justine.’

  I looked up at him, drew in a breath and was glad it was Monday.

  Mrs Hooper and me walked with Michael up to class. He swung his crutches forward, pulling himself along the path, and nobody looked or shouted at us, or said, Spastic elastic. It had all stopped now it was Michael and Justine.

  We were eating the popcorn his mum put in his lunchbox. She had sprinkled it with sugar and salt, so all the flavours were there. Popcorn fell to the ground at our feet. There was salt around our lips. ‘What do you want to do?’ I asked Michael.

  ‘When?’ he said.

  ‘When you leave school.’

  ‘I want to be an archaeologist.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘You dig for things. Like fossils. You go to a lot of different places—the desert, the snow, old places. You find things nobody knows about. You discover them.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like animal bones. There are still new animals to discover. And insects. And birds. We haven’t discovered all the birds. You find old buildings, things people used in the olden days.’

  ‘What sort of things?’ I asked him, licking sugar from my fingers.

  ‘Cups and plates. Weapons. Shields. You dig them up and find out what happened. You have to do all the work for yourself. Nobody explains it. You look under a magnifying glass, and write down what you find.’

  When Michael talked the jerks interrupted him, but he pushed past them to where the bones lay, digging them up, magnifying them until he saw every part and could put it into words.

  The crutches leaned against the desk like guns, ready if we needed to use them. Every other kid saw the guns and left us alone. Mrs Turning left us alone too; she didn’t ever come too close to Michael. We did our lessons; Michael helped me with the order of my letters, he helped me choose the right words and tick the right boxes. I stood beside him at singing practice. Sabine lifted the sides of her cheeks as she sang, Deck the halls with boughs of holly, fa la la la la la la la la!, and Michael and me decked the halls and the rooms and the desks and the walls with boughs of holly.

  22.

  The next Friday night Pop wasn’t home; he was at the Yolamundi Hotel with Sandy. Sandy was a good mate, but he only went out if Pop picked him up. He couldn’t drive after the war. Couldn’t find the bloody gearstick after that, said Pop. Thought it was under the bloody seat. I told him, Sandy, it’s a bloody car. But he wouldn’t touch it. Brought it all back, the whole bloody business. No more for me, mate.

  Dad had been home three weeks. He said, ‘Fuck, I’m ready to get out of here.’ He mixed rum with Coke. He poured half and half into his glass, threw in a handful of ice cubes and lay back on Pop’s couch. His legs stretched out across the cushions. Me and Kirk and Steve sat on the floor and drank Coke. We were watching Hondo with John Wayne as Hondo Lane. Dad said, Everybody gets dead. It was his turn, at the same time as Hondo. He raised his glass to the television.

  When the ads came on
Dad said to Kirk, ‘Your mother got a boyfriend?’

  Kirk and Steve looked at each other. Kirk said when Danny’s uncle showed him how to shoot he’d put a pillow over Dean’s head and pull the trigger. He couldn’t wait to see the feathers fly.

  ‘Does she?’

  Kirk said, ‘No,’ and kept his eyes on Hondo Lane. Kirk said even if the cops found out it was him who shot Dean it wouldn’t matter because as long as it was before he was sixteen he was too young to go to jail.

  Dad said, ‘She doesn’t?’

  ‘No. I don’t think so.’ Kirk said if he was found guilty he’d be sent to training school with minimum security and get his forklift licence.

  ‘Bullshit, she doesn’t.’ Dad took a drink from his glass. ‘Good on her. Why not?’ Dad’s voice sounded as if there was an ocean beneath it that left his voice on top, watery and rocking.

  My stomach rumbled. Pop had left sausages, peas, ham and bread on the kitchen bench. He told Dad to fry the bloody sausages. Dad stood up. He was bigger than a lot of the other fathers at school. He was bigger than Headmaster Prentice. He was bigger than the statue of the soldier in Nullabri. He burped when he reached his full height and Kirk and Steve laughed. ‘But a long time ago, I made me a rule. I let people do what they want to do,’ he said along with Hondo. He left the room. Kirk took a swallow from Dad’s drink. He wiped his mouth clean and kept watching John Wayne. Steve did the same.

  Pop told us not to touch the stove. Pop didn’t like to leave us, even when Dad was home. But Sandy had called and Sandy had saved his life twice. If it wasn’t for Sandy there’d be no Pop. Kids, your old Pop would be under the mud with the leeches somewhere between Burma and Siam. He got me through. The bastard got me through.

  We heard Dad talking on the telephone in the kitchen. ‘What are you doing? Now, I mean…Nothing…The kids are here…Later…You know how I feel…Bullshit, it’s not like that…Settle down. I told you…Nah, I drove her home…Nothing…Hey, baby, settle down…’ Dad came back into the living room and lay down on the couch. ‘Fucken women,’ he said.

  John Wayne as Hondo was talking to a lady in the kitchen. You smell all over like a woman, rich and warm and soft. I could find you in the dark, Mrs Lowe. The picture began to fuzz, lines crossing the screen. I got up to change the aerial. Pop said I was the best at changing it. It didn’t matter how lost the picture was, I could find it. Pop said, Well done, Justine. You got the knack.

  I could feel Dad’s eyes on me as I stood with my hands on the aerial. I moved it one way, and then another. Kirk and Steve were watching too. Kirk wished he had the knack and could find the picture, but he didn’t even try because he knew only I had it. I kept moving the aerial but the picture wasn’t coming back. John Wayne after John Wayne moved down the television screen.

  Dad said, ‘Your mother was the worst of the fucken lot.’ Your mother was the worst of the fucken lot. Dad’s words sent volts around the living room. He never talked about my mother. It was Pop who told me I was born breech, that it scared my mother away. I learned about the stitches that broke from Pop, not Dad. He told the Isa Browns: She should’ve have been cut out, but it was too late and, breech or not, out she came. Poor bloody Donna. Still, that’s no excuse, hey, ladies? No excuse, her own bloody daughter. Dad never even said Donna’s name. I kept moving the aerial but I couldn’t fix the picture. Your mother was the worst of the fucken lot. It didn’t matter what place I put the aerial, the picture wouldn’t come back. Dad looked at me from the bottom to the top. I felt hot. ‘You do look like her, Justine,’ Dad said. ‘Rita was right.’

  Parts of the picture changed direction; John Wayne was caught in a loop, pieces of him going round and round. ‘You got the same legs,’ he said. Dad raised his glass at my legs. I could feel Kirk and Steve looking at them too. ‘You’re like her in other ways,’ Dad said. ‘Can’t tell what’s going on, what you’re bloody thinking. What are you thinking, Donna?’ he said. His eyes were red, his words slurred—was he asking me, or Donna? Kirk and Steve didn’t speak or move. Their eyes darted from me to the screen. I couldn’t see John Wayne at all; he was blocked out by fuzz and storm. I couldn’t move my hand.

  ‘For Christ’s sake!’ said Dad, standing up. My hands dropped to my sides. Dad took the aerial and turned it. ‘She changed when she got pregnant. That was the end for us,’ he said.

  I sat back down. My stomach felt tight and sick. She changed when she got pregnant. Was it the breech? Pop said I got it wrong from the start. Was it me who changed her?

  Dad lifted the aerial and put it down again. It wouldn’t fix. Dad said, ‘Fuck it,’ then he kicked the television with his foot and picked up the bottle of rum. He swung it in his hand as he left the room. The picture fuzzed as if there was a blizzard inside.

  ‘Try again, Justine,’ said Kirk.

  ‘I can’t do it.’

  ‘Yes, you can. Try again.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘You can,’ said Kirk. ‘One more try.’

  I turned the aerial and John Wayne as Hondo Lane came back. He was holding Mrs Lowe in his arms.

  ‘You still got the knack, Justine,’ said Kirk.

  ‘Yep,’ said Steve. ‘You still do.’

  We sat held together in the space left behind by our dad. We watched right to the end when Hondo killed Silva and the Apaches had to find a new chief.

  ‘Go, big man,’ said Kirk.

  ‘Go, Hondo,’ I said.

  Later, we ate Pop’s bread with sauce. Kirk said, ‘She changed when she got pregnant. Did you hear that, Justine?’ The bread and the sauce turning in his mouth changed the sound of his words. He smiled, the sauce caught in the corners.

  ‘Did you know that Dad taught me how to shoot?’ I said.

  He stopped chewing. ‘When?’

  ‘A while ago.’

  His face dropped. ‘Bullshit.’

  ‘With the Smith,’ I said. ‘He took me into the bush.’

  ‘Bullshit.’

  ‘He did. Ask him. It takes six bullets and it’s heavier than the Mauser. A lot heavier.’

  ‘He showed you how?’

  ‘Yep,’ I said. I held up my Smith and shot Kirk in the face. Then I got up from the kitchen table and left him there. We went from full brother and sister to half, back and forth. Dad pushed us together then he pulled us apart.

  23.

  Now I wanted school when I used to want holidays. Michael waited for me and I waited for him. He was never in a hurry. It was as if I was a map book and when he opened it he could see all the lands and animals and weathers and conditions and pictures that I was made of, and wanted to know more. As if there would always be another page to turn, another picture to see, more information to learn.

  Everything was funny that had never been funny. Worlley boys and teachers and blackboards and schoolbooks and spelling tests and bus drivers and maths—all funny. Michael’s laugh was full of breath and groan; it blasted from him, and his body shook so hard that he knocked things to the ground—lunchboxes, drink bottles, books and pens and sharpeners fell to the floor. What could I do but join him, as if everything at school was funny and small, and not forever, only for now?

  We sat in front of a big sheet of white paper at the benches. We had coloured textas from Michael’s pencil case. Michael did a line and I made it a square. He added a body going down and I made it into a cabin. He did circles and I made them into wheels, he did steps and I made them the second storey, he did lines going up and I made them into antennae, he made them into crutches, I made them into guns, he made them into an engine and I made the engine into wings and the truck we had drawn could fly. He drew the road underneath and I drew the clouds above, then he drew the frozen sea that led to Antarctica, where no one had ever been before.

  24.

  The next Friday afternoon, when I came home from school, Dad was in the kitchen.

  ‘Come with me, Justine,’ he said, as if he’d been waiting.

  ‘Where are we g
oing?’ The smell of something sweet and strong came from his face and from under his arms.

  ‘We’re visiting a friend of mine.’

  ‘Who?’ Most of Dad’s friends were in other places; he saw them when he was away from home.

  ‘Just get in the truck.’

  ‘Justine?’ Pop called as we passed his bedroom. I stopped and stood in the doorway. Pop was still in bed. ‘Where are you going with Ray?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said.

  ‘Ray!’ Pop called out, his voice croaky. ‘Where are you taking Justine?’

  Dad didn’t answer; he was already out the front. I heard him calling me. ‘Justine! Get a move on!’

  Pop sat up in the bed, pulling his dressing-gown around him.

  ‘Justine!’ Dad called again. ‘Come on!’

  ‘I have to go, Pop,’ I said.

  ‘Jesus,’ said Pop. ‘What’s the bloody hurry?’

  ‘We’re visiting a friend.’

  ‘What bloody friend?’

  I heard Dad start up the truck. ‘Justine! Get out here!’

  ‘Pop, I got to go.’ I left the room and ran out the front door. Dad was already in the truck, his window down.

  Pop came to the front door. ‘Where are you taking her, Ray?’

  Ray didn’t answer.

  Dad sat tall and shining in the truck as he drove along the Henley Trail. There was a White Ox, already rolled, behind his ear. Soon he took the turn-off into Dray Road. Why would he take this road? Nobody lived here but the Worlleys. Dad hummed a song with the radio, the wind blowing back his dark hair. Baby, baby, nobody going to love you the way I love you, let me show you how.

  ‘Where are we going, Dad?’

  He didn’t answer me. Let me show you my way, baby, let me take you there, he sang.

  ‘Dad? Where are we going?’

  My way is sweet, honey, my way.

  ‘Dad?’