What the Light Hides (13 page)

The processes of woodwork are predictable and calming, and I'm glad to lose myself in the work. I start by joining the sides of the chest. I secure the joints by putting a small piece of timber on top of them before hammering them into place. That protects the wood from being bruised. After that I begin the process of sanding. I work for several hours and it's only when I stop to get a drink of water that I check my phone. Vera would be home by now, but there are no messages from her. Instead I have two voicemails. The first is from Neil.

‘David,' he says, ‘I just spoke to Vera. She wouldn't tell me what happened last night, but she's upset. Are you okay? Call me back. Please, mate, just call.' He hangs up.

I don't call back.

The second message is from Shaggy, my old uni friend. We see each other about once a year, still bound together by the fact that we left uni not only on the same day, but at the same time. We marched out in the middle of a sociology lecture and proceeded to get insanely drunk while sitting on Shaggy's surfboard in the college dorm. Later he escaped to Coogee Beach and I moved down the road to the butcher's workshop.

I ring him back.

He picks up. ‘Benny Bobcat.' Neither of us can remember how that nickname came about and I'm thankful that he's the only one who remembers it. ‘Mate,' he continues, ‘I just wanted to see how you're going. We haven't talked for ages.'

Not since the funeral, I think. Not since the funeral when he had worn an ill-fitted suit and combed his long bleached hair so vigorously that it sat oddly to one side. For weeks afterwards it was Shaggy's effort to comb his hair that stayed with me more than anything else said and done that day.

‘I'm in Sydney,' I say. ‘Are you around today? I could catch the bus over in an hour or two.'

‘Of course,' he says. ‘Give me a call when you're close. I'll be at the beach.'

The ocean outside the bus window is flat and there is hardly anyone around. A red and yellow lifesaver flag billows in the wind. A buggy is parked nearby and the air smells of seaweed.

Once Vera and I met up with Shaggy here. It was summer and two weeks before she gave birth to Ben. There were people everywhere, overflowing garbage bins, thongs and scorched skin. The smell of coconut oil hung thick in the air. I held her hand and tried to stop people from bumping into her.

Vera hadn't liked Coogee very much. It was right after Keating's Redfern address and we were both inspired. ‘Things are changing out there,' Vera said, as we walked towards the beach, ‘but no one here seems to care about anything but getting a tan.'

She looked like a defiant warrior princess despite the polka-dot swimsuit she was wearing. The swimsuit was so unlike her—almost like the dress she had worn the first night we met—and I don't recall ever seeing it again.

The ocean was huge that day. Waves rolled in, one after the other, regular and precise as clockwork. Vera and I swam out past the break and bobbed in the ocean next to each other, rising and falling with each surge. We stayed there for ages. The voices of the beach faded and it was just Vera and me, and the deep pull of the sea.

At one stage Vera had looked over at me. She had tears in her eyes. ‘It's almost too beautiful,' she said.

I get off the bus and find Shaggy on the beach. He is sitting near the lifesavers' office gazing at the ocean, wearing a worn Billabong wetsuit.

‘Man,' he says as I sit down next to him. He pats me awkwardly on the back and passes me a beer in a brown paper bag. ‘I come prepared,' he says.

‘Have you been out today?' I nod towards the ocean.

‘Naw,' he says. ‘But they're promising a change this afternoon.'

‘Where's your board?'

He points at the purple longboard leaning against the wall behind us.

‘New?' I ask

‘Yeah.'

‘Looks good.'

We sit like that for a couple of hours. We don't talk much. At dusk the ocean starts to swell and Shaggy becomes restless.

I get up to leave. Shaggy gives me a sideways hug, and on impulse I say, ‘I think Ben is still alive.'

‘Yeah,' he says and nods. ‘There are stranger things between heaven and earth.' He looks out philosophically towards the sea. ‘A good kid, that Ben.'

I stop on the boardwalk to see him catch the first wave, then I walk to the main street and take the first bus back to Newtown.

The bus snakes its way through the industrial neighbourhood of Alexandria, past closed factory outlets, dingy back lanes and lock-up garages. Along Mitchell Road garbage bins are lined up like soldiers. It's almost dark by the time we pass Sydney Park. The four chimneys stand out against the evening sky.

Turning into King Street I spot a cafe that's open and get off the bus to buy something for dinner.

‘They're big,' says the young man behind the counter, as he clumsily wraps the sandwich. He has a crew cut and wears a nose ring.

A homeless man with matted hair and a long beard passes the shop, pulling a rattling shopping trolley behind him.

The young man hands me the sandwich and nods towards the homeless man. ‘They sleep in the park,' he says. ‘Near the chimneys. I spent a night there once. My dad threw me out, in the middle of winter.'

‘That must have been cold,' I say.

‘I couldn't feel my feet in the morning.'

My phone rings as I leave the shop—it's Maria. I answer while watching the homeless man walk to the park. Cars are buzzing past. Lights flicker and fall.

‘David,' she says. ‘I've been trying to reach you.'

‘Maria,' I say. ‘I really don't want to talk about it.'

She is quiet for a second, then says, ‘Talk about what?'

‘About Vera and me.'

A bus roars past.

‘Where are you? It sounds noisy,' she says.

‘On King Street.'

‘Can you hear me?'

‘Hold on a moment,' I say and cross the road. And without thinking I follow the homeless man into the park. Three runners in black spandex and neon-coloured shoes pass me, chatting breathlessly.

The chimneys sit on my right. A path of dotted lights leads deeper into the park. It's like entering a mystical landscape of hills and lakes.

‘Sorry, are you still there?' I start to climb the hill nearest to me.

‘Yes,' she says. ‘David, I need to speak to you, but I don't think we should do it on the phone.'

I reach the top and see the airport beyond the park. ‘Maria, I don't want to discuss my marriage. Really. Neil keeps ringing too.'

‘That's not why I'm calling,' she says. ‘Could we meet tomorrow morning? I could come to Newtown.'

Maria has never asked to meet me before. I sit down on the cold grass and say, ‘Is everything okay?'

‘No,' she says. ‘No, it's not. But I'll see you tomorrow morning. We can talk then.' Then she hangs up.

If it's not about Vera and me then it can only be about Neil and his drinking.

An intervention. That's the last thing I need.

A bird calls out in the direction of the lake, but otherwise everything is quiet. In the distance a plane ascends into the night sky.

The first word Ben said was ‘Fly' or more like ‘Fi'. He would say, ‘Fi, fi, fi,' when we swooped his plush aeroplane over him. He had two teeth and the sweetest smile. And he continued to love planes. When he was five I took him to Sydney. It was autumn. The weather was still warm and the sky clear. We drove to a park at Botany Bay near the airport. Ben bounced ahead as I opened the boot. He ran across the grass towards a small group of plane spotters and joined a man in his fifties with drooping cheeks.

I unloaded the boot and tried to persuade Ben to come and sit on the blanket with me, but by then the man was already demonstrating the wondrous workings of his radio scanner.

‘Ben's fine,' the man said. ‘He can stay with me if he wants.'

As I spread out the picnic blanket nearby I marvelled over the fact that Ben had already introduced himself. I drank the tea Vera had made and watched them chat until it was time to go.

‘Ben's a special kid,' said the man when we said goodbye. ‘He can talk to anyone. It's a gift.'

A lonesome runner passes the foot of the hill. He continues towards the chimneys and I notice a bonfire along the brick wall. The light illuminates the tarpaulin that covers some of the holes in the brickwork. It looks like a makeshift camp site.

Then it strikes me. What if Ben has decided to live here? I stand up and fuelled by the possibility I walk down the hill. Ben has never been shy or judgemental. Everything and everyone interests him.

The air is different near the chimney. The crisp smell of grass is gone. Instead it smells of unwashed bodies, rancid milk and petrol from the bonfire. Empty bottles and chocolate wrappers litter the ground.

I pass the holes in the wall. Every single one seems occupied. Some are empty, but filled with belongings: pillows, blankets, shoes and plastic bags. Others are covered over with tarps.

The homeless man with the rattling trolley sits next to the fire. He's younger than I first thought, perhaps even younger than me.

‘I'm sorry to disturb you,' I say.

His beard is matted and he smells so bad that I have to breathe through my mouth, but his eyes are kind and present.

‘Looking for someone?' His voice is strangely melodic.

‘Yes.'

‘Everyone is looking for someone,' he says. ‘Who?'

‘A young man, his name is Ben.'

‘Your son?'

‘Yes,' I nod.

‘Only one young fellow around,' says the man and I notice spittle in his beard. ‘The last hole, the one with the blue tarp. He has a dog. Don't touch it, it bites.'

‘Thank you,' I say, then remember the food I am carrying. ‘Would you like a sandwich?' I lift the brown paper bag for him to see.

‘Most obliged,' says the man.

The possibility that Ben might be just a few steps ahead makes me feel short of breath. I want to stretch out the moment as long as possible before I check. I search my mind for something to talk about, but the man has already turned away from me and is moaning quietly.

‘Are you okay?' I ask.

He stares back at me as if he has never seen me before. I wait, but when he doesn't answer I walk to the end of the brick wall.

A pair of dirty bare feet sticks out from under the blue tarp. They could be Ben's. My heart pounds as I pull the tarp to the side.

The boy bolts upright and the dog growls.

‘What the fuck do you want?' His hair is blond and his fists clenched. He looks like a small child coming out of a deep sleep.

‘I'm sorry,' I say. ‘I'm looking for my son, Ben. He's twenty-three. No, twenty-four.'

‘You don't know how old your own fucking son is?' He reaches for a backpack pushed up against the wall.

‘He's twenty-four,' I say.

‘And what did you do, old man? Slap him around? Punch him up?' He pulls out a packet of cigarettes.

‘No,' I say. ‘Of course not.'

The hole stinks. A sour stench of bad breath and shit.

He lights the cigarette and inhales deeply. ‘You're all the same,' he says and spits on the ground. ‘Liars, all of you.'

‘That's not true.'

‘Well, he's gone missing for some fucking reason, hasn't he?' The boy laughs, baring teeth brown and rotten.

When I get back to the house I sit at the desk and look out into the night. I know that I'm missing something. The boy in the park was right. There must be a reason why Ben disappeared. There must be some kind of explanation, but no matter how hard I try I can't seem to figure it out.

I spot the priest across the lane. He sits on the back stairs again. The light from the open door illuminates his red hair as he blows smoke rings into the night.

I want to run downstairs and insist that he listen. I want to give him a list of all the things that have happened from Ben's birth right up until now. I want to give it all to him for him to examine. But at the same time I can't bear to think that this man, this priest, might be able to pinpoint exactly what it was that made Ben leave. Because what if it's to do with me? How do I live with that?

I smell coffee as I am getting dressed the next morning. Pat must be downstairs. I check my phone standing by the window and realise that it's raining again. There are two missed calls from Neil. Fat drops streak the window and outside everything is grey. I force myself not to think about the lack of contact from Vera as I walk downstairs.

Pat is wearing a bright red T-shirt under an oversized woollen cardigan.

‘You look like you're ready to work,' she says.

‘This is how I always look,' I say and attempt a smile. ‘Although yesterday I wore a suit and almost ended up in a rally.'

‘Do you want coffee?'

‘Yes, please.' I sit down at the table. ‘Are you going to have some?'

‘I've already had two. I was here early.' She puts a cup in front of me and sits down. ‘I don't go to demonstrations and I always feel bad about it.'

I taste the coffee. It's strong and good.

‘Anyway,' she continues, ‘I'm sure you wouldn't have stood out wearing a suit. I know plenty of people who work in offices and go to rallies on their lunch break.'

‘I went to an anti-war protest once in a suit,' I say. And I remember Ben in his stroller, perfectly content amid all the noise and the people. ‘It was twenty years ago. I'd come straight from a meeting and didn't have time to change. I was punched in the face by a guy twice my size.'

I recall lying on the ground and seeing Vera jump on the man's back like a crazy person to stop him from punching me again.

‘And what happened?' asks Pat.

‘He ended up apologising. He said that I looked “aloof”, that I reminded him of his dad.'