Happy as Larry (11 page)

Denise sent Larry to his room. It didn't happen very often and Larry knew things were serious when he was banished. He was still sitting at his desk chair when his father returned from work and his parents took it in turns to bawl him out.

‘I think it was mostly Clinton's idea,' Denise grumbled. ‘But Clinton didn't come into my house and steal one of my dolls.'

‘Tell us the truth, Larry,' Mal said, sternly.

The more they tried to indict Clinton, the firmer Larry's resolve became to take the entire blame. It made no easy sense to him, either, but it was the right thing to do.

‘Larry?'

‘It was my idea.'

Mal huffed and ran his fingers through his hair. ‘Where were you when all this was going on?' he snapped at his wife.

‘I was inside,' Denise howled.

‘On the computer, no doubt.'

‘What's that supposed to mean?'

‘Nothing. You just spend a lot of time on the computer, that's all.'

‘What, like you spend time drinking in the garage?'

They stared at each other.

Denise covered her mouth.

Mal's eyes already said sorry, but it was too late.

Larry put his hands over his ears.

They'd all felt it. Their family had begun to crack.

GOOD EYES

E
ARLY IN THE
new century, Vince sold his car for three hundred dollars and didn't buy another. Early in the new century, a motorcycle replaced Mal's work pushbike. The post office paid for him to get his licence, and after a frustrated and snarling period of adjustment, Mal warmed to the machine. Early in the new century, Mal's body forgot what it was like to pedal up a hill and began to change shape. Larry noticed the change. His father seemed heavier in the couch. The chair his mother sat in when she played mahjong and surfed the internet had also begun to sag and developed a creak that sounded like a cry of protest every time she sat down.

One school morning, Larry awoke late to find his mother asleep in her chair. Her face was pressed into the keyboard and the screen was a long ticking line of Ss. She jumped when he touched her and couldn't stop apologising as she hurriedly packed his lunch and walked him to the door. Larry ran to school – ran all the way and was delighted at how quickly he arrived, the cool air sharp in his throat. He ran home again that evening and enjoyed the rattling rhythm his empty lunchbox made in his backpack. He ran to school and back all week. He ran to the jetty on Sunday morning; Mal refused to run with him and arrived with his rods and tackle bucket more than five minutes after Larry. He ran home from school on the Wednesday night of his tenth birthday and was met at the door by the painted face of his neighbour.

Vince was made up like a clown. ‘Sorry, Larry, we're not ready for you yet. Come back again later.'

Larry could only laugh.

Vince smiled and backed against the door.

‘Nice make-up, Vince.'

‘You like it? Your mother did it. Happy birthday.'

They hugged on the doorstep and the familiar smell of the old man's clothes made Larry breathe deep.

Twisted streamers and purple balloons had been taped to the ceiling in the lounge and the whole place smelled of baking pastry. A bath towel was draped over Denise's computer monitor.

‘Here he is,' she sang from the kitchen. ‘Happy birthday, Larry.'

She was spraying pressure-packed cream on the top of plastic cups full of burgundy jelly. Larry hovered over the mountains of party food and licked his lips.

‘Go and get changed. Your friends will be here any minute.'

He took his schoolbag to his room but was distracted by his new pocketknife. He'd never been so surprised by a birthday gift as when Mal had given it to him that morning. He lightly raked his fingertips across a blade and felt little electrical surges in his body: sparks of responsibility and power. It would be easy to do the wrong thing with a gift like that. You could make a fishbleed. You could kill something with that knife. At the sound of children's voices he hurriedly tucked the knife into its pouch and stashed it in his underwear drawer.

With the four Holland kids in the house, it sounded as though the party had already started. Larry had wanted to invite just Jemma, but they came as a set. Tim was twelve and Larry's party was obviously beneath him. He flopped on the couch and looked bored. Like her big sister, April hugged Larry and wished him the best. Jemma had made him a birthday card with layers of scalloped coloured paper, pictures of fish and a scruffy red dog that could only have been Gilligan. Little Jack kissed the big boy on the lips, demanded that he open his present, then told him it was Lego. Jemma put her hand over her brother's mouth and Larry pretended not to have heard. A sports car. Technical Lego. Larry's smile grew wider.

There were friends from church and friends from school. Stan and Anita Ward gave Larry a new game for his games machine, one that prompted a contemptuous snort from Tim. Mal was the last to arrive. He didn't change out of his work uniform and didn't fix his helmet hair, just took over from clown-faced Vince as the music controller for pass-the-parcel. Vince stepped out the back door with a parting wink just as little Jack ripped through three layers of paper, effectively halving the length of the game, eliciting a collective groan from the cross-legged children.

They ate party pies and sausage rolls, cocktail frankfurts and fairy bread. Tim sulked when he wasn't allowed to watch television. After the feeding frenzy, Mal shouted over the din that they were in for a special surprise before they cut the cake, and everybody had to gather in the back yard. They were instructed to sit on the lawn. Tim ripped up tufts of grass and threw them at his sisters. Jemma ignored him but April whined and dobbed.

Mal was asking for quiet when a voice cut across the yard.

‘Larry?'

A dozen heads turned to see a mop of unruly black hair poking above the park fence. Clinton had his fingers curled over the top of the palings and was struggling to keep himself aloft.

‘Are you allowed to come and play?'

The children who knew him groaned.

Clinton just hung there, waiting.

Larry looked at the grass between his feet.

‘No, mate, Larry's busy at the moment,' Mal offered.

Clinton pretended not to hear him. ‘Larry?'

Larry felt everybody's eyes turn on him.

It had been years since the image of the dead boy on the news had haunted him, but there he was, right in the middle of his mind's eye: slightly crumpled on the stretcher, slightly bloodied, indisputably dead. He could still feel that chill of confusion in his guts but it held no sway over his actions.

‘Come over,' Larry said. ‘It's my birthday.'

Gilligan growled as Clinton fumbled at the side gate. Mal called the dog, patted it, and waited until Clinton was sitting before making his introduction.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, I now have the pleasure of introducing to you . . . no expense spared on the part of the management . . . to a performer of unparalleled excellence. Be prepared to be dazzled. Be prepared to be spellbound. Please make welcome . . . the amazing Vincento!'

Vince emerged from the garage carrying a cardboard box and wearing a hot-pink wig and bulbous clown nose. The clown suit he'd donned was creased and faded. He tripped on something invisible in the grass and the crowd laughed. He put his box down and looked twice at little Jack before reaching down and patting him on the head with a white-gloved hand. Jack recoiled and took a swipe at Vince with a small fist. Vince calmed him with a sternly raised index finger, then gently reached forward and pulled a gold-wrapped chocolate coin from Jack's ear. It was so seamless and smooth that even Tim gasped. Vince pretended to bite the coin, then handed it to Jack.

‘What do you say?' April whispered to her brother.

‘Thank you, clown.'

Vince made bunches of flowers materialise. He juggled balls, dropped them and bounced them off his head as if it was an accident, and the crowd was mesmerised. In all the years they'd been his neighbours, the Rainbows had never seen this side of the man. He'd been to parties with the family for years and never let on, yet it all seemed so completely practised and professional.

Every time he bungled, he looked sternly at the audience and repeated his mantra: ‘Now that's why you should never try this at home, ladies and gentlemen. I'm a professional.'

He said it so often that he could get the crowd rocking with laughter just by raising one finger and saying, ‘Now . . .'

He took what looked like a blackened bass-drum beater and a bottle of water from his box. He wet the end of the stick and held it aloft. He focused on the stick and mimed that the audience should too. He made straining noises and rubbed his temples. He focused again and strained until the beater shook with the exaggerated effort. It shivered, and then spontaneously ignited. Vince blew on the flames and waved the stick about but it wouldn't go out. With a look of revelation on his face and a spare finger in the air, he reiterated his warning.

‘Now . . . you should never try this at home, ladies and gentlemen. I'm a professional. Remember?'

With his head tilted back, he extinguished the fire stick in his mouth. He held it aloft in triumph and it lit up again. He rattled it and puffed at it then put it out in his mouth again. He stepped across the yard to the vegetable beds and the pesky fire stick lit up again. He jiggled and blew again then realised he had his water bottle. With an affected flourish he took a swig from his bottle and prepared to blast the stick out but while the fire was certainly fire, the water wasn't water. The yard lit up as Vince spat a three-metre fireball at his own back fence.

Several children squealed and clung to each other.

‘I felt the hot on my face!'

‘How did he do that?'

‘That's not water,' Clinton offered.

‘Der,' Tim said. ‘It's petrol.'

Mal chuckled. ‘No way. It's not petrol, mate. It's water. It's magic.'

Clinton stayed and ate cake with the other kids and took home one of the lolly bags that Denise had put together.

Denise helped Vince strip the make-up off his face after the kids had gone. She was gentle around Vince's eyes but practical when scrubbing the rest of his face.

Larry sat on the lounge-room floor and Mal helped him construct his Lego car.

‘You're a dark horse,' Mal said to his neighbour.

Vince chuckled and looked to the teacup cradled in his hands.

‘Yes, you were fantastic,' Denise added. ‘You've obviously done that before.'

‘Once or twice. Not for a lot of years though.'

‘Oh?' Denise said.

‘I moonlighted as a clown up until I was forty. Just kids' parties and fêtes, that sort of thing. My father was a proper circus performer.'

‘Why did you stop?' Mal asked. ‘You have a great talent.'

Vince chuckled shyly. ‘I don't know about that.'

Mal stared at the side of Vince's head. The dregs of the make-up tinted his skin a deathly shade of grey. He'd been their neighbour for years but that afternoon Mal hardly recognised him. Mal sensed they were standing on the edge of some dark memories. What makes a man stop being a clown?

Vince looked up and realised they were waiting for him to speak. He shrugged. ‘I guess I just grew out of it. It was quite a difficult period of my life, turning forty. I won't bore you with the details. I doubt I'll be restarting my career now, anyway. That was a treat for Larry. I can't see a bloody thing these days. Sorry. Excuse the language.'

‘That's all right,' Denise said. ‘What's wrong with your eyesight?'

‘Oh, just getting old, I think. Having trouble reading those large-print books now. Did you see how many times I fumbled with the juggling?'

‘I thought it was all part of the show,' Mal said.

Larry piped up from the floor. ‘I could read to you,' he offered.

The adults turned and stared at him.

‘You could, Larry,' Mal said. ‘His reading is excellent, isn't it, Denise?'

‘I don't know,' Vince said. ‘I love westerns and war stories.'

‘What's a western?' Larry asked his father.

‘Cowboys and Indians.'

‘Really?'

‘I think Larry would be okay with that sort of thing. He's been reading chapter books for years now,' Denise said.

‘What do you think, Larry?' Mal said.

‘I could try.'

Vince was nodding. ‘Okay. Okay, thank you. Maybe I'll come over after school or something. Give it a try.'

‘What's Muriel up to?' Denise asked. It had been very quiet next door: no barking Betsy and no ranting wife for days.

‘She's up in the city for a few days. Her sister's had a little op and Muriel's gone up to give her a bit of a hand.'

‘Nothing serious, I hope.'

‘Women's business, apparently.'

Denise and Mal exchanged understanding looks over Vince's shoulder.

Muriel killed the clown.

It was dusk when Mal remembered to put the wheelie bin out for the Thursday-morning rubbish collection. Over the rumbling of the bin's wheels he could hear what sounded like a child screaming blue murder. Screaming and a siren. He stopped on the driveway to listen. The siren got closer and the child didn't let up. The screaming turned to fractured shrieks of real pain. Agony. Mal could feel it in his stomach and his pumping heart. He wanted to run, but was frozen to the spot.

The siren abruptly stopped. The ambulance surged into Condon Street.

Across the road, at Clinton's house, the flyscreen cracked open and the screaming child was carried onto the street. Mal dropped his bin and sprinted to the woman's aid. The boy's mother – the pasty-skinned woman in the headscarf cradling the boy must be Clinton's mother, thought Mal, though he'd never seen her in all their years living across the road – coughed and whimpered and shook.