His Illegal Self

14

As Trevor slipped his trousers on, he never took his eyes off the mother.

You better come for a walk, he said.

Dial did not move.

Little chat, Trevor insisted, his mouth opening on the left side.

The boy watched everything, his throat gone very dry.

The mother held up the broken hem, meaning the hundred-dollar bills would fall out if she stood. This money was their life and death; she had made that very clear when they received it from his father’s friends. With money you could pay the pigs, buy a room with a bath, a real hotel. If someone might hurt you, then you gave them something folded. It was just like Grandma paid the janitor, the super, Eduardo, an envelope every Christmas. Do you think they really like you?

Can’t walk, suggested Trevor.

Uh-huh. Dial’s cheeks were pink as bubble gum.

The boy thought, Give him the money. Make him go away. He wished they had found his dad in Sydney but the squat they went to was filled with junkies who did not know his name. He wished his dad would drive into the street, right now.

Trevor called, Hey, Rabbitoh.

Jean Rabiteau was once more seated on the post office steps, cleaning his fingernails with a silver clasp knife. The knife seemed sharp. He was paying a worrying amount of attention to such a simple job.

Want to get the vehicle, mate?

The Rabbitoh uncoiled himself. When he was upright he removed his hat, flicked his glossy black hair out of his eyes. He replaced the hat so the brim was low and hid his thoughts from view. Then he wandered off down toward the Wild West bar, not hurrying, but prancy in bare feet.

John and me, Trevor said, we can take care of your items.

The boy thought, Just pay him. Make them go away.

At least there are two of us, said Trevor.

Dial laughed but her hand was wet and slippery.

Trevor raised a pale eyebrow and showed an old scar line hinged across its middle.

No one’s making you do nothing, he said at last. He paused to watch the sun slice across the mother’s great long legs. We can drive you to the bank in Nambour, he said. The big town with the sugar mill.

It was an ugly town; the boy had seen the cruel black stacks, the freight cars of sugarcane rolling through the thunder, a bad dream on the dark side of the earth.

Nambour, Trevor said. You saw it yesterday.

As he spoke, the Ford slid in, pinching its bumper hard along the curb. The Rabbitoh’s elbow was stuck out the window, but what the boy noticed most was a quick flash of silver in his hidden hand.

You can go back to Nambour, Trevor said. If you so desire, babe. We’ll drop you there right now.

The mother looked over her shoulder where the sad-eyed postmaster was sorting out the mail. She said, Can we discuss this somewhere less public?

The boy preferred the postmaster to watch over them, but Trevor took the mother’s hand and led her away from him, down the steps. She held out her hem like a bridesmaid at his cousin Branford’s wedding.

The car’s floor was awash with bad black water from the storm. The boy held Buck inside his woolly pouch. The pair of them, cat and boy, looked down together as the water surged and sloshed. As they accelerated up the highway five soggy Uno cards sailed out from under the front seat. Buck struggled, then went still.

Trevor’s arm lay along the top of his seat like a squeezing snake. They left the highway, drove past five small houses. Then the blacktop ended, and Trevor twisted himself to look back at Dial whose feet were tucked beneath her hibiscus skirt.

You could just fix up the hem, he said. Do you have a needle?

Dial kind of stared him down.

Do you?

Dial did not budge.

Or you can just get out, Trevor said suddenly. He jerked away. I don’t give a fuck, he said. But he did give some kind of fuck because he spun around again. If you go to the bank in Nambour, he said, they’ll call the cops before you leave. Christ, get over yourself.

The boy’s stomach tasted like the inside of a tuna can.

Please, Trevor said, and showed his ragged teeth, you have no fucking idea of where you are or who I am, so don’t be fucking sarcastic. You’re American. You wouldn’t know if you were up yourself.

The car slowed, then stopped. No one spoke. They should have left the car right then.

I’m sorry, Dial said.

In response the car began to creep between the walls of bush, and the Uno cards went under the seat and only three returned, two reds, a yellow.

What’s happening? the boy asked. No one heard him anymore.

The car left the dirt road for something worse, a kind of track which wound up a ridge, along a hillside rutted with deep tire marks.

The mother gripped the top of the seat in front. What’s going on here?

He thought, Just give them money, Dial.

Buck twisted and complained. Trevor told him to shut his mouth. The car smashed against the cutting and an acacia poked in Dial’s open window and left a long line of blood from eye to mouth. They were on a downhill slalom on a long shining streak of yellow mud-plunging, sick and slick, John swinging on the useless wheel, the boy now feeling throw-up in his throat.

There was one last bump and something heavy crashed on the metal floor. They came to rest at a flat place where people had driven in a circle.

What’s this? the mother asked.

The bank, said Trevor.

The boy thought maybe he would not vomit. He heard crows, saw burned-out cars, a lot of sorry-looking charcoal, bust-up fires.

We’ll leave you to count, Trevor said.

The boy’s stomach was a football of bad old air. He stayed with the mother as she slid the money from her hem.

Will you give it to them?

What do you think?

But what will happen to us then?

She put her arms around him and kissed him on his neck. Being squiffy in the stomach, he pulled away.

I don’t have time for this, she said.

She soon gave the hippies money. First she laid it on the hot hood of the wagon. Then Trevor counted. Then John. It was eighteen thousand one hundred American.

The boy said, I have to be sick.

All right, Dial said, where is the safe?

Trevor nodded backward at the woods.

Do we have to walk far?

Leave it to Beaver, said Trevor. The boy watched while he slipped between the saplings, hipless, no butt in his pajama pants. Then he followed, his stomach heaving as he ran.