Brown Skin Blue (5 page)

Sometime before McNabm Blue, I remember my mum telling me stories at night. Tucked up in bed. I have these recollections. She looked nice in those moments. Smiled. Patted me. Sometimes hugged me. I can't remember all of the stories exactly, just the feel of them being told to me. I remember princesses and gypsies, something about Australian animals and legends. There was one about blue umbrellas.

But, as I got older, the stories stopped. I don't know whether I've put the events together that way, or whether they actually happened, but I don't remember any stories after McNabm. She'd tell me to get to bed and that was that.

She soured as I grew. Like milk left on the bench. It came through her skin that went yellow. She shrunk inwards slightly each year. I grew and she shrank. At least that's how it seemed to me.

So I took to making up my own stories at night. In my head in the dark. I'd look up at the ceiling and imagine it was the storyboard of my own life. All I had to do was write the words. Make my mind bend and twist to get them right and it would all be there, waiting. Etched above me in a cloud that would follow me wherever I went. With stories I can fill in the dark bits of life. I can paint in things that are missing, things that should be there but aren't. Like my fathers.

We learnt about Aboriginal dreaming stories at school. We had to write one and draw the pictures. Mine was terrible. The teacher said so. I felt better knowing mine was just as bad as the kid's next to me. Deano wasn't there that week. I reckon I could have written a really good one, but I didn't like to stick out, either. But the ones I made up in my mind at night were perfect. They said everything I couldn't write at school. I've got a whole lot of them stored away. I've polished them up in my mind so they sound just right. They're an explanation for the bits of me that don't make sense. There's one about how McNabm hypnotised me like a chicken called
How the Boy Was Caught.
But this one's about how I came to have brown skin.

When the great fire had ripped through the bush like a hungry wave, the first white woman appeared out of the smoke. Leaves, flowers and seeds went black and crumbled to ash, but the trunks of the trees were strong and didn't die. They were black against the white smoke that rose up from the ground.

It was the kite bird that had lit the fire, taking a burning ember in its sharp talons and dropping it in the forest where all the small animals lived. Soon the flames ate up the trees and the red-hot jaws swallowed everything. The animals ran from their homes, their burrows and nests, running ahead of the fire into the open. That was where the kite bird was waiting, circling above and lookin' down. It swooped on them all, snatching bilbies and bush rats in its claws till its belly was full.

But after that first great fire had passed, the earth was laid bare and passion burnt black and white together. The smoke swirled into a white woman, and the black tree next to her left his roots and became her man. They lay down together in the warmth of the ash on the ground. Nine months later, their son was born, brown as the dirt under their feet.

If you look closely after a fire has gone through the bush, you'll see the black people standing tall and straight in the white smoke. And months later, up out of the brown dirt, comes new life. Trees grow back their leaves, flowers open and seedpods burst. The animals come back to nest. But the kite bird circles overhead, waiting and watching, always.

The bar is crowded. It's always busy on the weekend. I shouldn't be allowed to buy alcohol, I'm not eighteen yet, but no one has bothered asking my age. I'm tall. And maybe my serious, dirty, dark look make me appear older than I am. It only crosses my mind now that I'm here with Sally. She's changed out of her work clothes and she's wearing jeans and a T-shirt. High-heeled shoes and makeup. She's painted her eyelashes with mascara. Red lips and dangly earrings. She changed in my small toilet area and the thought of her wrestling in and out of two sets of clothes in such a small place was painful.

‘You always bring a change of clothes with you to work?'

She shrugs and raises her voice over the crowd. ‘Fridays I do.'

‘Where do you live?' I ask.

‘Malak. But I like going to different hotels on the weekend. I like meeting new people.'

I've almost finished my beer and Sally's on to her second already. I made a pact with myself before I'd even tasted my first beer that I'd never drink more than five a night. I don't know where that number came from, but somewhere I must have decided that it was a respectable number. Somewhere much lower than the twenty-plus my mum could put away of a night.

The pub is full of the smell of beer and froth. Sweet and earthy. People everywhere laughing through the cigarette smoke. The jukebox is blaring away in the corner. There's no set style to what comes on. ‘Sea of Heartbreak' by Johnny Cash has just started and he's singing of loss and loneliness and the sea of tears and I'm thinking of my mum sitting on the end of her bed singing along. She used to say
Johnny's a man who knows how to feel.
When we'd both go to the pub for dinner, sometimes, she'd give me a fist full of change and tell me to make sure Johnny was playing for at least five songs in a row. She couldn't sing very well – about as good as Boof, really – and the drunker she got the more she sounded like a howling cattle dog. Her music has always sounded familiar to me. I've never got the hang of the modern stuff. I don't mind it if it's on, but I don't follow bands and music like guys my own age are supposed to.

The blokes back at my old job would wear band shirts under their button-up work shirts. Eminem, Coldplay. Even Jimmy Barnes. Pictures of their favourite rocker clutching a microphone with mouths open wide and eyes closed with
emotion. Or the band name, logo style. All those shirts were black. The images were sticky coloured plastic that would peel away with age. Some blokes said they only washed their shirts when they really had to. Others wore their peeling patches with pride. Like a badge of loyalty. Only a true fan could reconstruct the full band image with only a few coloured splotches here and there. We were all Superman in our own way. Waiting till knock-off time to rip off the disguise and let our real selves loose. The self that really mattered. Except my shirts were just plain Kmart Bonds. Usually dark blue.

‘I'll get you another,' Sally says, standing up and walking towards the bar.

I watch her walk. She's got a way of handling her jeans and heels. I like her confidence.

There's the smack of billiard balls behind me and it's like someone snapping their fingers in front of my face telling me to wake up. Bloody hell, I'm thinkin'. What am I doin' here? I think about running back to my room and leaving Sally here, but then she knows where I live. It's no retreat. She'd probably come back knocking on the door, and then after a few drinks, there's no telling what I'd want to do with her.

That last thought makes my head spin. I've never been with a woman. I'd love to say that I haven't been with anyone, but I can't. Not honestly. In my last job the blokes at the pack-and-stack with me would always be mouthing off about their horny dicks. Which girls turned them on, which ones turned them off. Which ones they'd landed, the ones they were trying to land. I just listened and kept to myself,
and they never seemed to ask me anything directly. I wonder what it would be like to think about those kinds of things without a weighted noose around my neck, the feeling of bars and a squeaking caravan. I'm as geared up as the next bloke. But I push it down. I don't know what to do with it. It's like I've got a bomb inside me. If I don't end this ache inside I'm gonna explode and, if I do, I'm gonna die. Either way it's a disaster.

And there, in between my thoughts, is Mr Cash singing his sadness with a voice like the tone of your own pain. He's wishing the girl was his, but he's all caught up in his own sea of tears, drowning him down and holding him back and, with him singing it like he does, you believe every word and they're not even his, they're like your own.

‘You drink anything 'cept beer?' Sally's back with two drinks.

‘Not really.'

‘Wow,' she says, smiling. ‘Two words. Together.'

I'm smiling now, too. Despite everything. My palms are sweating and no amount of wiping them on my pants can get rid of it. She sees me. ‘Bait lick,' she says.

‘What?'

‘Bait lick,' she reaches under the table and finds my hand. She puts hers over them. ‘Can't get the feeling off your hands.'

‘Yeah. More like Bait-pat,' I say, pulling my hands away.

Sally puts her hands around her drink. ‘Do you like me, Barra?' she asks.

I choke on my beer. I'm coughing and spluttering and she's laughing, snickering into her hands, her body lowered over the table.

The song finishes and it's just Johnny, his guitar, and the ‘Sea of Heartbreak' over and over again and I realise I don't want to go through life not knowing what it's like to love so bad it hurts to let it go. The way I figure it, you can drown swimming or drown not trying, and being a man might just be about making a choice between the two. I want to be the kind of bloke that tests the feel of his body against the water even if it's more than he can break through.

‘What difference would that make?' I manage to say.

She shrugs. ‘I dunno. Just wondered.'

‘Hey,' I say, ‘come on. I want to show you something.'

Sally raises her eyebrows and stands. ‘Okay.'

I get up and walk out through the beer garden to the dirt patch. The air outside is thick from the day's humidity. There's a breeze up and the smell of wet dirt and eucalyptus hits me. Sally's beside me. A few guys whistle at her as we push our way through the crowd.

‘Shut up,' she says to a short bloke who tries to grab her arse.

The chickens are in the corner of the dirt, scratching at the fence line. I tiptoe over towards them, glancing behind to find Sally stationary with her arms crossed over her chest. I wave my hand for her to follow me. The air smells sweeter all of a sudden and behind the chooks, beyond the fence, is a small unruly garden. Big flowers droop down from the branches.

I saw those kids grab the chicken, and it looked easy enough, but now that I'm the predator, sneaking up behind the little feathered birds, I don't know if I'm going to repeat the trick or make a complete arse of myself.

The chickens are clucking and crooning, but they're more or less in the one place. I cross the ground tentatively, then just when I think I'm within reach, I lurch forward and make for the nearest feathers. The bird I'm aiming for squawks and flies off, but the one beside it is pretty slow. I feel my hands on its back and it's squashed down on the ground. A mound of feathers. The first thing I think is how soft the feel of her is under my hands. Nothing like Bait. I stand up with the little thing in my hands. Its neck is sticking out here and there, there's a low and slow squawk coming from its throat. I walk back over to Sally. She's scowling in a cheeky way, half-smiling. Her earrings glint like Christmas lights on a timer when the moonlight catches them.

I look her full in the face and smile. Then I wink. I flip the chicken over in my hands so it's flat on its back. I stroke the soft part over and over. The chicken goes quiet and still. Sally, too. I can feel it limp in my hands. I kneel down slowly and lay it on the ground and stand. Just like the day with the kids, the chicken just lies there. Stunned. Not moving.

Sally looks at me. Impressed. I feel triumphant. My chest expands, and for a moment I can't feel the noose around my neck. Time slows down while the chicken just lies there. Then, all of a sudden, it comes back into the world. Startled and flustered and full of life and confusion. It rights itself, runs off in a mad panic in no particular direction till it spots the
others back in the corner, and runs there on scurried little feet.

‘How did you do that?'

‘Just something I learned.'

‘That's the coolest party trick.'

Sally links her arm over mine and we walk back to our table. Our drinks are gone and there's no gap on the seat any more. She looks at me and shrugs. ‘Your room, then,' she says and walks in that direction.

We're sitting on my bed with a couple of packets of Samboy barbeque chips open and a Darwin stubby beer between us. We're sharing the bottle. Her lips then mine. It's the most intimate thing I've ever done.

Sally burps. ‘Pardon the pig,' she says, laughing. ‘Now. What's this about your list of fathers? I'm not going to leave until you tell me everything about it.'

I'm caught. She's lulled me like a bloody chook. I'm relaxed and happy sipping beer and eating chips, and she hits me with something I can't avoid. I can't leave. It's my room. And I don't really want to throw her out. I decide there's nothing else to do.

‘Well,' I begin, ‘my father could be any one of those five names on the list.'

‘Let me see.' She leans across me towards the pillow. I lean back so she can't reach it. Her body is over mine. Close.

‘Oh,' she says. ‘Like that, is it?' She doesn't move. Then she rushes forward and kisses me hard. On the lips. I'm so
bloody surprised I have no idea what to do. Then she slips her hand underneath my head and drags the paper out from under the pillow. She sits up. ‘Haha. More than one way to stun a chook,' she says, laughing.

She's reading the names and I'm reeling with the kiss. I can still feel her there. A pressure. I think I'm a landmine. One step closer...

‘Teabag. Toucan. Stumpy. Lovejack. Boomboom. Is this a joke?'

I sit up and wipe my mouth. She's left a sweet taste.

‘Really? You're not kiddin'?'

I swing my legs over the side of the bed. She's quiet now, lookin' at the paper in her hand. I don't know what to say. Or do. I suddenly remember what happened in the car. The words on the radio come flooding into my head and I'm sweating hard. Nausea rushes up from my stomach like a geyser. I rush from the bed over to the toilet and throw up.

I've got the toilet bowl cradled in my hands. My head's on the seat. Sally's at the door. ‘Come on, Barra. I'll fix you up.'

She helps me to the bed and gets one of my shirts and wets it in the basin. She's sitting next to me wiping my face and my arms with the wet shirt. Then she wets my hair. I close my eyes. No matter how hard she tries to cool me down, I'm on fire. Somewhere near my legs, my ribs. My balls. The beer's gone to my head and I'm swimming free, like nothing's real.

‘Shhh,' she says, but I'm not talking. All at once, the cloth is on the floor and she's on top of me. My grenade
is throbbing and I can't control it any more. Suddenly the feeling of wanting her is rushing up inside me and it's louder than my own fears and memories and I just don't bloody care about anything else. I hear the sound of a zip opening and then her hand is around me. I hear the beer bottle fall to the floor and the steady dripping froth of the last of it running free. Somewhere chips are crunching, but a soft, endless chasm has me and for now nothing else matters. At last the bomb inside me explodes and I am blasted to oblivion. It's just possible I could wake up a man.

I wake up in a panic. My pants are halfway down my legs and, for a minute, I can't understand what's happened. It's quiet. Hot. The room is flooded with orange light. Then I remember. I feel numb. I sit up and my head spins. But I have to piss. I see it on the fridge. Words in lipstick.
You're lovely, Barramundy. See you around.