The Good Daughter (28 page)
Rebecca says, ‘Maybe she didn’t treat him right.’
He tips his head. ‘Maybe … I can’t see how that would be the case, though …’ He pauses. ‘Are you gunna look into it? I don’t mind. I understand that’s something you might wanna do.’
Rebecca looks a moment at her father. ‘It’s actually a bit strange the way they asked me to babysit.’
‘Was it, love?’
‘Sudden, like they’d been waiting for a chance. Almost like they wanted to get to know me.’
He hasn’t listened. He’s eyeing the carburettor sitting at the end of the table. She can see his thoughts have drifted outside into the shed, wound their way under the bonnet of the truck. He pulls the carburettor close and uses his fork to pry back a seal. He wipes the back of his arm across his mouth and pushes aside his dinner. ‘I’ll tee it up,’ he says without much thought to what he’s saying, ‘and if you want, I’ll put in a few quiet questions about who your real dad might be …’
Rebecca reaches across and touches her father’s hand. ‘But you’re my real dad,’ she tells him.
43
It seems Rebecca’s father can’t go long without dogs. He’s gone and bought a whole mongrel litter. There are bitzer brothers and sisters everywhere. The little unco dopes make Rebecca smile. She sits in the grass beside the driveway and lets them climb all over her. She’s in school uniform. She laughs and hides her face from their small needle teeth. The morning sun shines warm on the top of her head. Over by the shed her father tinkers with the truck. He washes nuts and bolts and engine parts in a tray of diesel. The school bus rumbles down the road. Rebecca disentangles herself from the puppies and picks up her bag.
The driver gives Rebecca a cold once-over as she climbs the steps.
‘We’re running late,’ he says, and looks off down the aisle.
Rebecca pauses by the railing. Zach Kincaid is up the back seat of the bus. He’s sitting in the same spot he always does – dead centre. She’d half expected him to slide sideways, into a less prominent position. His gaze lifts to meet hers as she comes down the aisle. She smiles. His expression is mild, hard to read. His hair has been cut short. His face is lean, but not from lack of food, she doesn’t think. His body is surprisingly filled out. If anything, it looks as though he’s hit the gym. The new shape to his face might be because he’s lost some of his softness. His features aren’t boyish any more. The short sleeves of his school shirt fit snug around his upper arms. His legs are stretched out in front of him, feet crossed at the ankles, and there’s definition in his thighs, thickness in his calves. Could pre-season footy training have started? Rebecca is happy for him. Not too many boys will think to mess with him, even with his mantle somewhat tarnished.
The bus pulls away, Rebecca sways and walks towards him. A flush of embarrassment and the same shyness Aden caused sweeps through her. She feels her chin dip. She blinks like some Victorian-era fool. Sweat springs up on her palms, heat races up her face. She wasn’t expecting this … Only Zach Kincaid could emerge from a scandal with such poise, sudden credibility and increased handsomeness. She could curse him for it. She pulls herself together. ‘You back at school, Kincaid? You took your time.’
He doesn’t speak.
‘Come back to brave the masses?’
She leans against the steel upright beside her. She’s in two minds whether or not to sit down next to him. The steady way he looks at her has her sliding into her own seat, the one she always chooses. She sits with her back to him, and puts her school bag between her feet.
‘Moved on from drug dealers, I hear?’ he says.
‘What would you care, Kincaid?’ Is that resonance she detects in his voice? Was he always that baritone?
‘How’s your dad?’ she asks after a moment.
‘How’re your new best friends, the Newmans?’
She glances back. He stays straight-faced, not giving anything away. She returns her gaze to the front. ‘I like spending time with the Newmans.’ After a pause she says, ‘I’m glad your dad is going to be all right.’
‘I thought being one-eyed suited the old man, but he’s got full vision back.’
‘That’s good. And your mum?’ she asks. The question takes some effort.
‘Someone wants to buy one of her paintings.’
‘Really?’
‘Dad can’t believe it; he reckons he’ll have to take her seriously now.’ Zach’s humour is evident in his lighter inflection. ‘She’s trying to tell us her behaviour is a result of her creativity. Not sure that’s gunna wash with Dad, although he did say this morning that if that’s the case, and a couple of paid-for paintings excuses everything, then she better have a gallery in the main street, neon lights, dancing girls out front, so everyone’s clear.’ He laughs.
Rebecca would like to turn and face him. But it feels like a leap of faith. Sun angles in through the window. She closes her eyes. She can’t believe she’s back here, feeling the same things she felt. Too nervous to take a seat next to him, too afraid to talk – for fear it will stop when someone new files on. If she could pick, if she had the luxury of choosing, she’d leave behind this uncertainty, and move instead into a place where acceptance extended beyond her front gate and further than her family. Although considering how her family has grown, it is, perhaps, too much to ask. Rebecca looks at her hands twisted together on her lap. Something catches her eye. She turns her head. Drawn in the dust on the bottom of her window is a love heart with the initials ZK and RT inside it. It’s on the outside, in mirror image, so that she can read it from where she’s sitting.
Rebecca feels Zach watching her. There’s no malice, no resentment. He’s not leering. He’s waiting for her.
VIKING
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First published by Penguin Group (Australia), 2010
Text copyright © Honey Brown 2010
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ISBN: 978-1-74-253080-2