"They turned down the offer on the house," whispered Michael.
"Who, Mum?"
"Nah, the buyers."
"Why?"
But he wouldn't say any more. Jamie didn't push. Once, he'd caught Michael at the caravan park, wagging school, and hadn't said anything — he never knew whether it was out of loyalty or laziness. Once, he'd hit Michael in the mouth harder than he'd meant to and broken a tooth. I hate you, Michael had said, blood darkening the arches of his gum. It had only struck Jamie later that his brother might actually have meant it. That he might actually hate him. That he'd have reason. But Michael had calmed down, his face settling into an expression as smooth, cloudy as sea glass. He hadn't dobbed him in. They didn't talk to each other much, maybe, but they kept each other's secrets.
The dishes were done and then there was nothing to do.
At eleven that night his dad knocked on his door. He was holding an open wine bottle. His teeth shone chalky in the dark.
"Your light's on," he said.
"Sorry."
He stood on the concrete steps of Jamie's bungalow, swaying a little. His shadow stretched out long behind him and hung over the acacia shrubs. "Looks like no one's sleeping tonight," he said. "Not your mum either." He looked up the drive at the dark house and smiled broadly. He only smiled like that when he was drunk. "She can probably hear us."
"Dad."
"I thought I might just. ."he patted the air above the steps, "Do you mind…" now hoisting his bottle — the staggering of statements confusing Jamie.
They both sat down on the steps. His dad didn't seem to know what to do with the bottle: he clamped it between his two straightened palms, rolling it forward and back, then set it down with a loud chink.
"Big game next week," he said at last.
Jamie nodded. Unbidden, his mind cast back to the school assembly — he'd been onstage — could that really have been him onstage four days ago? That person seemed unrecognizable.
His dad said, "Well, at least you won't have to move."
"Those the buyers today?"
His dad laughed. "We're all set, right? Then she tells them to bugger off. Calls the guy a tight-arse, says they can't even wait another couple of months." "A couple of months?" Jamie regretted it as soon as he said it. You couldn't talk about that. Not without talking about after. There was no after.
"Sorry," he said.
But this time something came into his dad's eyes. "No. ." he said, "No, you should know." He glanced at the house again, then stared out into the garden. "A matter of months. That's what they told us in Maroomba." He spat on the ground away from Jamie. "It's her kidney. They can map it out like that. They're useless to fix anything but they can give you pinpoint bloody timelines."
Jamie froze — it was as though he'd stalled. He heard his dad's words. He'd expected them-he'd hoarded himself, day after day, against them — but now, when they came, all he could think about, obscenely, was Dory. The black tablet of his face. He hated it. He hated himself for it.
"I thought you should know," said his dad.
He could tell him: Dad, I'm in trouble — it'd be that easy — Dad, it's Dory Townsend. He wanted to, but there was no way. He knew what his dad thought of him.
"Does Michael know?"
His dad shook his head. Finally he said, "It's tough enough for him already."
The smell of wine was strong on his breath. They each waited for the other to speak. How did people speak about these things?
His dad said, "You know you can't work these holidays."
"Yeah, I know."
"I need you around the house." He fell silent. "Good boy."
After a time he said it again. "Good boy."
"Dad?"
"Yeah, son."
But the distance was unthinkable. His dad took a swig from the bottle and patted Jamie's knee. He stood up, teetering with undelivered advice.
"You been fishing."
"Yeah. With Cale."
His dad's face momentarily betrayed his distaste. Then he frowned. "I been thinking. We should do that again. Michael too. Would you boys like that?"
Jamie nodded. He saw, now, how the conversation would spin itself out.
"We could take the two-stroke."
When he was little, he used to run down ahead and start the outboard motor. Turn the water over, pump out the bilge. Good boy. Now, his dad looked dead ahead whenever they drove past the wharf, its silent throng of boats.
"And your mum, she'd probably like us out of her hair."
"Yeah."
"We'll have someone come over." You couldn't think of after, you only thought of now, and come to think of it, you didn't do that either — you were left with pools of memory, each stranded from the next by time pulling forward like a tide. The two of you, his mum had told him once, you thought you were so smart — sneaking out on your secret fishing trips. You'd both come home reeking of diesel. Her first relapse had come a matter of weeks after that trip to the rock pier. The seagull. No more time for fishing. After that, Jamie sensed a difference — a dilution — in how his dad treated them; though with Jamie, and to a lesser extent Michael, his attention turned offhand, buffered by wary disappointment. With their mum his behavior took the form of an impeccable courtesy. He moved her studio into the house. He quit his boat, started full-time woodworking. He laundered her sheets. Now, when you looked at him, five years on, and tried to see him without her, there was almost nothing left. What he'd given her, Jamie understood-what he was giving her still-he knew he'd never get back.
***
CALE CAME OVER THE NEXT DAY.
"Tammie told me to tell you," he said. He closed the bungalow door behind him.
"What?"
"Lester said Dory'll meet you after training on Monday."
"Meet me?"
Cale shrugged. "She told me to tell you."
Jamie stood up. It was Saturday: he had two days left. He guided himself, as though measuring distances, all around the small room. He made himself breathe. "I'm fucked," he said.
Cale didn't meet his gaze. "The final's next weekend," he said.
"So?"
"You know," he groped for the right words. "He might. ." He trailed off.
"What about Wilhelm?"
Cale looked at a complete loss.
"And that Chinese chick," Jamie said. "What about her?"
No charges had ever been laid. No evidence, or the evidence was inconclusive. Some Maroomba authority came down and said so. What no one said was that Dory and his uncle — a notorious flag-waver — had taken recerttly to assaulting Asians in that part of the bay. The town turning a blind eye. This body, belonging, as it did, to a faceless, nameless poacher, was just another case of no one's business. More than anything, what Jamie remembered was Lester's reenactment: the sheer joy of his punches — their appalling regularity.
The conversation faltered. Cale grim-faced. Jamie felt a sudden longing to talk to him, tell him everything — he was three years older, after all, had seen that much more of the world- then all at once he wanted Cale to leave him alone. They stayed quiet for a while.
"She said they weren't even together."
"Yeah," Cale replied instantly. "Tammie said that too."
Jamie hesitated, then said, "What should I do?"
"You're fast. Use your speed."
"What?"
"Throw sand in his eyes. Then get him in the balls when his hands are up."
Jamie stopped, shook his head. The conversation was unreal. "Fuck off. I'm serious."
Cale considered him, his face rough with the effort of understanding.