Happy as Larry (9 page)

Something was digging into his back. Lips and stubbled skin pressed against his face. Something was filling him with warm breath and suddenly he was alive again, exploding with wet coughs, and crying. Crying against the pain in his back. Crying for the peace he'd lost.

His father was holding him, dripping on him and staring at his face with big eyes. The other men were cheering.

‘You okay, Larry? You all right? Please be all right, matey. Speak to me.'

With his whole body shaking from the inside out, Larry vomited on his father's wet sleeve. ‘I'm cold,' he said.

Mal moaned with relief.

Gorky draped his coat over Larry and kissed him on the forehead, noisily and a little roughly. ‘Thought we'd lost you for a minute there, Larry. That would have been no good. No good at all.'

Gilligan bumped Mal's leg and Mal shoved the dog with his boot. ‘You, you mongrel.'

The dog shook and sprayed the men, sending the dry ones scurrying and cursing.

After they'd bathed Larry and put him to bed, Mal told Denise the full story, stammering and stumbling over his words. She'd never seen him so lost. He'd stopped talking by the time they lay in their own bed, but Denise could feel it in his body as he stared at the ceiling, his hands clamped behind his head.

Mal was punishing himself, reliving the horror.

‘You saved his life.'

‘But if I hadn't taken him down there in the first place . . .'

‘Don't be ridiculous. You've never had a problem before. You saved his life.'

Mal sighed.

‘We can't wrap him up in cotton wool. As much as I might want to . . . he has to understand where he fits in the world. Remember the housewarming? Remember when he fell off his bunk and bumped his head?'

Mal rubbed his face. ‘I just feel like such a useless, neglectful, irresponsible father. What if he had drowned?'

Denise knew the feeling. It walked with her every day of her life. Something clicked in her head.

They were a family. They had each other. They would survive.

‘He didn't drown.'

‘Yes, but . . .'

‘I have a confession to make.'

Mal looked at his wife. ‘Oh?'

‘I left Larry in the supermarket.'

Mal laughed, and when she finished telling him the story, they kissed, embraced, and found the peaceful sleep of the redeemed.

MAGIC
FINGER

L
ARRY CHANGED
. A
T
first Denise thought it was shock – the after-effects of coming so close to death – and then she blamed the cold that had rendered Larry unfit for school on Thursday and Friday. He just didn't seem as happy.

Larry's death hung in his limbs. He kept imagining how sad his mum and dad would have been if he'd not come back. He thought about Gorky, Vince and Jemma and all the tears they might have cried. To die would have been the meanest thing he could do to the people he loved.

When Sunday arrived and Mal geared up for a return to the jetty, Larry's cold was at its thickest and greenest and after a brief but tumultuous battle of loyalty – Mal feeling loyal to his son, Larry feeling sick but loyal to his father and their Sunday ritual – Mal left on his own.

The following weekend, when Larry's cold had receded to a sniffle and the bright air was heavy with the perfumes of springtime, Larry decided to stay home again while his father fished.

‘I still feel a bit sick,' he said.

Mal shrugged. ‘That's okay, Larry. Maybe next week.'

But the next week saw Larry and his mother walking hand in hand to the eleven o'clock service.

Larry didn't know what to expect. Mostly, church was like his memory of drowning – calm and peaceful and loving – and the sun turned the stained-glass windows into rainbows. Jemma was there with her family. She and Larry hugged and jiggled until Jemma's dad grabbed her by the shoulder and sat her into a pew, finger to his lips. He was a big man with a full beard the same colour as his head hair. His shoulders were rounded and his belly was trying to escape from his shirt. From Larry's viewpoint, the big man's hairy navel seemed to be peeking at him through the buttons of his neatly ironed white shirt. An eyeless socket. Jemma still smiled but she rubbed her shoulder where her father had held her. Denise led Larry to a seat three rows from the front.

The priest spoke in a language Larry could barely understand. Sometimes his words reminded Larry of the news. The congregation prayed and filled the building with song, and afterwards they had cups of tea and cordial and stuffed their faces with lamingtons and little squares of chocolate cake. The kids snuck outside and played chasey through the church gardens until Jemma's father grabbed her and Tim by their shirts and shoved them towards their old twin-cab Toyota ute.

Denise and Larry smelled flowers on the way home: freesias and hyacinths, daffodils and tiny purple violets.

‘What did you think of church?' Denise asked as they turned the corner into Condon Street.

‘Good.'

‘Really? What did you like most about it?'

Larry pondered for a moment, then shrugged. ‘The cake.'

Denise laughed and squeezed Larry's hand. ‘Do you think you'll come again?'

‘Can we go tomorrow?'

‘Tomorrow's a school day.'

‘The next day?'

‘No. I only go to church on Sundays.'

Larry stopped. Church was on fishing day. It was a realisation as sharp as a pencil and it made him think hard.

Denise just stood there, staring at his furrowed brow. ‘You don't have to come. You can go with Dad.'

Denise felt his grip tighten. He'd spotted Clinton power-walking towards them. Clinton had something tucked under his shirt, his arms crossed awkwardly over the bulge.

‘Can Larry come to play?' the boy asked.

‘Well, I don't know . . .'

‘Please, Mum?' Larry said.

It was Denise's turn to look confused, but for Larry, going with Clinton right then was a way out of making a decision about what to do on Sundays.

‘What do you have under your shirt?' Denise asked.

‘Nothing.' The boy unlocked his arms and pulled a can of deodorant from beneath his top. ‘It's underarm spray. It's empty. Mum said I could have it.'

‘I see,' Denise said.

Clinton fumbled with the nozzle. He pressed the lid with two fingers but there was no gas. He made a hissing sound with his mouth and pretended to spray the concrete at their feet.

‘All right, I'll come and get you in a little while for lunch. Stay in the park.'

The boys raced to the slide and Clinton dropped the spray can on the mulch to free up his hands for the climb. They slid down in quick succession and dashed for the ladder again.

Denise went inside to make sandwiches.

From the corner of his eye, Clinton watched her go.

‘Hey, Larry,' he whispered. ‘Do you want to see some magic?'

‘Magic? Yeah.'

‘Shh. Come over here.'

Clinton collected the can and huddled under the slide. Larry squeezed in beside him and noticed that he didn't smell strange for once. He smelled like flowers.

Clinton shook the can and the contents sloshed. He extended his pointer finger, took aim and covered it with a burst of spray.

‘Whoah,' Larry said, recoiling. ‘I thought it was empty.'

Clinton's eyes narrowed and he bared his teeth. ‘Watch this.'

He took a white plastic cigarette lighter from his pocket, expertly rasped the wheel with his thumb and set his sprayed finger alight.

Larry gasped. The gold-and-blue flame seemed to be coming from Clinton's skin. Candle-finger magic.

After several seconds, Clinton shook his hand and the flame went out.

‘Whoah! Doesn't it hurt? Do it again,' Larry whispered hoarsely.

Clinton obliged with a longer spray and a longer burn that took two shakes to extinguish. ‘Do you want to try?'

Larry held out his hand.

Clinton shook the can briefly then made Larry's entire hand wet with the cold spray.

‘Isn't that too much?'

Clinton shrugged and lit Larry's hand.

Larry panicked. Although he felt no pain, the flames were too close and he shook his hand wildly and wiped it on the ground. Clinton laughed. The fire coughed and spluttered but wouldn't go out.

Larry could feel it burning. He squealed and shook even harder. Squealed and shook and ran.

Denise met him at the front door.

The fire was out but Larry was still screaming and shaking his hand.

‘What is it? What happened?' She got down on one knee and grabbed his arm. ‘Where does it hurt?'

The skin was red and the fine golden hair was gone from the back of his hand. ‘What happened?'

The pain and the flames had vanished. Larry looked at his fingers both sides, blinked, then looked again.

It
was
magic.

‘I . . . I hurt my hand. On the slide. I hurt my hand.'

‘How? Where does it hurt?'

‘Everywhere. It's better now, though.'

Denise frowned.

‘I slipped off the slide and banged my hand. It's okay now.'

He perched himself on a chair and ate his sandwich.

Denise knew Larry was lying. He was covering up for Clinton's mischief. She could feel herself getting steamed up. The grotty child from across the road was a constant source of grief and anguish for her and her boy, and whenever Larry cried or got in the way of the television, she knew it was Clinton's behaviour rubbing off by association. She wished she could find a way to stop Larry from playing with the boy and being at his every beck and call. She wished Larry could say no to him and mean it.

Presently, Mal arrived with two good-sized flathead in a plastic shopping bag. Larry burst from the table to check them out and poke them with his reddened finger.

‘Have a look at his hand,' Denise whispered to her husband.

Mal held the boy's fingers aloft. He noticed the hairless glow. ‘What happened?'

Larry yanked his hand free. ‘I hurt myself on the slide.'

He sock-skated into the lounge.

Mal looked at his wife.

She shrugged. ‘Clinton and a deodorant can.'

‘It looks sunburned.'

She nodded. ‘I don't feel I can leave them together unsupervised.'

‘So don't,' Mal said, flatly.

Denise crossed her arms, slowly. Deliberately.

‘Sorry,' Mal said. ‘I wasn't saying it was your fault. I was . . .'

‘Oh? What
were
you saying?'

‘I was saying that Clinton can't be trusted. There's something not right about him.'

Denise's arms fell to her sides. ‘I know what you mean. I prayed for him the other day.'

‘For Clinton?'

She nodded. ‘Prayed he'd move house.'

Mal shook his head, smiling. ‘That would be nice, but there are plenty of Clintons in the world. Larry has to learn how to stand up to them. I hope we're there when he does.'

‘To do what?'

Mal shrugged. ‘Just be there. Moral support.'

‘To pick up the pieces?'

Mal thought for a moment, and then sighed. ‘Feel like going for a ride? You and me and Larry? Get out of the house for a while? It's beautiful out there.'

‘A ride on what?'

‘Stan's got a bike he said you could use.'

‘A pushbike?'

‘Yes. A mountain bike. It's got gears and everything.'

‘I haven't ridden a bike since I was a kid.'

‘You don't forget stuff like that.'

Maybe, she thought, a ride would help her forget the little devil from across the road.

A TOOTH IN
THE HAND

I
T HAD BEEN
Anita Ward's bike. It was built for a man, but it had a huge padded saddle. Sitting on that saddle, with an oversized helmet on her head, Denise felt her heart racing. Larry told her she looked like a clown. Mal grabbed the seat and she squealed.

He smiled. ‘Just trying to help. Here, I'll start you off. Are you ready?'

Denise moaned, but got her feet on the pedals as Mal steadied her. Next thing, she was pedalling and Mal had let go. Mal cheered.

Her body remembered.

The three of them – with Gilligan on a lead – rode on the footpaths to the edge of town. Mal led them over the old railway and onto a gravel bike path that followed the Cradle River, tree-lined and fragrant, into the hills. Gilligan was let off his chain and he scampered ahead, nose to the ground. The track was mostly smooth, with the occasional pothole still holding muddy water from the rain a week before. Near Villea, there were signs of human occupation – chip packets, a plastic milk carton, an upturned shopping trolley – but the closer they got to the weir wall, the more wild the vista became. Larry's front wheel seemed to be magnetically attracted to the puddles, and before long his back and legs were freckled with mud.

‘Be careful,' Denise called, again and again.

Mal wanted her to shut up and let the boy enjoy himself, but he could see they had roles to play. His job was to open the door to adventure; her job was to worry. Larry sloshed through the puddles anyway. Mal rode slowly. He fought with his postman's urgency and hung behind his wife and son. He noticed the birds, the smells, and felt a creeping sense of contentment. He felt his lungs truly fill for the first time in months, and then he thought about Larry drowning and those thoughts turned to cold hard rain.

‘Be careful,' he said to the boy.

The dog propped to drink from a puddle. Mal had to brake hard and swerve to miss it.

‘Get out of the way, Gilligan, you crazy animal.'

Denise chuckled. Larry pedalled.

They rode and rode, without great effort or dialogue. The track became narrower and steeper. Mal could hear the roar of the overflow in the distance and knew they were approaching the weir wall. Eventually, the track dissolved into a short set of stairs and they dismounted, puffing quietly and removing their helmets.