His Illegal Self

24

The deceitful hippie was on a bus to far northern Queensland and she was left with fourteen acres and a piece of paper that said I give my car to Dial. Beside the Bruce Highway at Nambour, in the spewy waving exhaust fumes of the bus, the boy asked her, Can we go to a motel now?

Can we go to a motel!

But then she saw that frown-fold by his nose, the shifting secret eyes.

Oh Christ, she thought, what have I done? This had been an unblemished boy and the most remarkable thing about him had not been his handsome father’s face but his perfect trust, the way he put his hand in hers and sat beside her on the bus, so close, resting his cheek against her arm. His eyes had been limpid, gray, in some lights, a lovely sulfur blue. His hair had been tousled, curly. It was hard not to touch him all the time. And here he was, his soul all curled up and fearful of attack.

Can we, Dial?

She looked into his eyes and wondered if an equal and opposite rage was burning in that perfect little head.

Can we? Please.

She was already tense about how they would get back to Remus Creek Road. She had no license, could not drive a stick shift.

Can we?

He hung off her finger with his fist, marsupial. How can he have endured all this? In the car she found a crumpled oil-stained map.

Here, she said, what’s this?

Is it the sea, Dial? He pushed closer to her, and brushed his cheek against her arm.

We’re really near the beach, she said. It was the first time she understood where she had taken him. Would you like that, baby? She lay her hand on his head, the engine of his soul contained within her palm.

And stay in a motel!

Why not! She was not broke yet. She had Huck Finn inside her bag. They could play poker and eat pizza and swim all day.

OK get down on the floor, she said. She was insane, of course, even now, particularly now. Get down on the floor? The little creature didn’t even argue, just curled himself with the kitten, in among the dust and matches on the rubber matting.

Then she drove, best she could. Wrong side of the road.

As for the boy, he did not seem to mind the sneezing dust and deadhead matches, did not seem irritated that she kept moving her hand from the gear stick to his shoulder and back again. The confused scampy cat soon went off to sleep on the back window ledge, but the boy stayed hiding, knowing the mother loved him once again.

Did you really drive to Montana?

That was his real mother he was talking about. I’m not used to this car, she called. I’m sorry.

Did you have a map then?

It’s a stick shift, she persisted. I’ll get used to it.

Dial?

Yes.

With his stubborn quietness he was forcing her to look at him. She turned briefly, actually frightened of his seriousness.

Are you scared they will arrest me, Dial?

Don’t be silly, she said. She was driving way too slow. She could see the cars behind her and she was looking for a place to pull off the road.

We’re underground. That’s why I’m on the floor?

Don’t talk now. I’m concentrating.

You said I had to lie on the floor.

Shush! she said. There was a tractor yard up ahead and she pulled off. She counted seven cars pass by. Did she have to tell him now?

It’s safer on the floor, she said. Just generally.

Can I get up if I put on my seat belt?

Sure you can, she said, pulling back onto the road.

This was how you drove my daddy to Montana, right, Dial?

How the fuck did he know all this stuff.

It was an automatic, babe.

It was a rental, Dial. And with a bullet in your arm.

It was as if he was taunting her. In a minute he would want to see the scar.

Look, she said. This is so pretty. They were traveling between walls of green sugarcane. Above the giant grass towered a small wood house on stilts.

It was a.32, right?

The sugarcane gave way to a forest of thin raggy-barked trees, their white trunks like chalk marks drawn on darkness.

Right, Dial?

Cameron told you all this nonsense, she said at last. How old is Cameron?

He’s sixteen. He’s a Maoist.

Well, she said, the press is full of lies. He should know that.

She was pulling off the road, unable to go on. She could not look at him. She stopped beside a mess of churned-up gray soil and broken trees, a sad forest, cut off like a knife.

What are we doing?

She almost told him, I’m not your mother, but she got out of the car, pretending to look for something. She could not live like this, day after day. Some barbarian had been through these woods with bulldozers. There was not a flower to pick, nothing but these spooky injured trees with flaking skin like psoriasis. She tugged at the bark, and it came off in a long sheet, like paper.

That was it. She would take that back to him.

Look, she said. Isn’t this cool?

He looked at her more than at the bark. Did he know she had gone mad? What is it, Dial?

Australian tree bark, baby. You can write on it.

He turned it over in his hand, frowning. What do you want me to write? he asked at last.

Draw Buck, she said brightly, back behind the wheel.

I’m going to write a word, he said.

Let me see when you’re done.

She could feel him laboring beside her, serious, dogged.

Are you done?

He had written ANA.

She thought, I can’t stand this. It has two n’s, she said.

Are you angry with me again, Dial?

No, baby. I love you.

She kissed the top of his head. You know, some cats really love the beach.

Are you Anna? he asked.

Look, she cried. They had come onto a rise and there was the sea, miles and miles of it with yellow beaches disappearing into the chalky mist.

Beach! he said.