The first hour driving north they listened to a best of REM compilation CD and traded few words. The freeway became a single carriageway and the suburbs turned to new builds spread further apart and without trees. The houses were the same shape and had roofs the same colour. Soon they passed areas of land cleared for upcoming developments and after that only signs for coastal townships to the west. The vegetation was low and sparse. The sky ahead held high scattered clouds. The weather was mild and they wore shorts and light jumpers.
At a petrol station they bought sausage rolls and ginger beers and Drumstick ice creams. They finished the sausage rolls and ginger beers outside and kept the Drumsticks to eat in the car. The young man got the keys from the attendant to use the toilet and when he came back out the older man took the keys from him. The older man went in and looked down into the bin and checked behind the cistern and hand towel dispenser. He scanned around and caught himself in the mirror shaking his head. He walked out.
Both men swore at having to wait to pull out onto the highway behind a row of semi-trailers they had overtaken earlier. The REM CD started again and the young man asked if he could change it. He put on a CD of American rap. Several times the older man moved to turn it off but stopped himself.
They turned left and drove for another fifteen minutes before they passed a welcome sign to a township and slowed down. Everything felt still and quiet. Only a few driveways had vehicles and not a single person could be seen out in the open. One street was lined with old gums and the afternoon sun stretched their shadows across the road. The buildings ranged from newer holiday mansions close to the water to caravans and mobile shacks further back. Their own family shack showed a few signs of aging but was otherwise unchanged. The older man pulled some keys from the glove box and unlocked a utility box and the cabin itself. The cabin released a scent that was salty and musty but above all familiar. They stepped in and paused to take in the dated holiday décor and furniture. Light through the faded pink curtains fell onto the brown linoleum flooring and plastic countertops and table. An old striped couch sagged in one corner beside a bookshelf of boardgames and paperbacks. Opposite was a faded beanbag in a spiderman pattern. The young man pulled back the curtains and the full light brought them back to the present. The older man who had almost said something about everything being the same turned and saw that the young man was not the child from his memories.
Let’s unpack, he said.
By the time they headed out again the sun had faded but was still bright and clear and warmed the skin. They walked along the tea-coloured river and some of its spray whipped up at them on the wind. The bare sandy path turned to grass shaded by short trees and palms along the front of the caravan park. The smell of a barbecue drifted by. That and running sprinklers were the only signs of other people. Past the caravan park the river turned away and ran parallel to the ocean, separated by a strip of dunes. They continued straight over the dunes to the beach. The sea was clear despite the wind and choppy crests. To the south the land stretched out to form half a bay and to the north the beach cleaved a long open curve. The older man hopped down into the water as far as it was deep enough to take a shallow dive and he came back out to collect his snorkel and flippers. They went in together up to their waists and spent a minute spitting into their masks and pulling on their gear.
They swam straight out. Here and there one of them dove down to inspect the beds of seaweed or spinifex shells or small sandy fish on the ocean floor. Releasing air before rising, the bubbles raced ahead to the surface.
They sighted a rocky outcrop and made their way over to it. They split up to explore its corners and ledges. The young man swam over the flat top just below the water line.
Over here, he called.
The older man looked up and swam over and they treaded water and watched a wobbegong shark swaying against the rock. A surge of swell pushed them over the shark and they fought to clear away to a safer distance.
They moved on. An octopus crawled from one ridge to another. Down in one of the deep lower ledges the antennas of a lobster poked out. Fish flowed by, alone or in schools.
They grew cold and swam towards the shore. Along the way a large ray glided over a sandy stretch and out beyond their sight.
The sun was on its descent and the sea was calming into a dark reflective layer. They stared out and dried themselves.
Looks nicer now than when we went in, the older man said.
The young man nodded.
Pretty much got the whole place to ourselves.
Yep.
Better than when we used to come on school holidays. It’d be packed.
As the sun reached the horizon several small trawlers came into view headed in the direction of the jetty and boat ramp. From the corner of his eye the older man watched the young man watch the boats.
The birds cooed and garbled as the men walked in the chilled morning air to the kiosk. They bought the paper and iced coffees and walked back to the cabin and sat in the sun and read and drank. The older man suggested a game of tennis at the caravan park courts but when he went to look he could only find racquets and no balls.
See if I can get some at the kiosk tomorrow, he thought out loud.
Hm, responded the young man.
It got to lunch time and the older man fried some sausages and onions that they ate wrapped in sliced bread with squirts of mustard and tomato sauce.
They looked through the board games but there was nothing good for two people. The pack of cards was missing full suits. They tried the word puzzles in the newspaper but gave up having only completed a few.
Late afternoon they repeated the walk to the beach and went out snorkeling again. The water was rougher. Churned up sand fogged the visibility underwater. The young man gave up after a short spell and swam to shore. The older man persevered until he was spooked by being out alone.
The young man and his towel were gone.
The young man wasn’t at the cabin either. He arrived an hour later as the older man was frying some pre-made meatballs and boiling water for spaghetti.
Where you been?
Just a walk, said the young man.
The older man drained the spaghetti and served the food into bowls.
Next time tell me.
The young man started eating.
I mean it. Hey. Look at me.
The young man looked at the older man.
Stop acting like a kid. This isn’t a holiday. No pissing off. You do exactly what I say. Alright?
The young man held his look.
I want a response. Now.
Yes. Dad.
The following day brought rain and an answer to how long they could keep it all up.
The dad woke early to the loud pattering on the aluminium roof and couldn’t fall back to sleep. Even from within the cabin he could make out the scent of eucalyptus and powdery soil carried by moisture on the air. He remembered how as a baby the son had always slept best under low and breaking clouds. That had been a long time ago in another country with an altogether different rain that made no sound or smell.
His thoughts drove him out of bed. The son’s bedroom door was shut and he treaded quietly until he decided it was late enough and he fried some eggs. When he was done eating he gathered and washed the dishes and dried and put them away.
He sat on the couch and reread over parts of the newspaper bought the previous day and tried to start one of the paperback thrillers off the bookshelf. He kept listening out and looking to the door to the bedroom in which the son slept. Then he had to retrace where he was up to on the page.
At midday he went to the door and pressed his ear against it. He placed his hand on the door handle. After a moment he let go and stepped back. He went and opened the front door and stared at the dripping outdoors.
The son emerged mid-afternoon in his boxers and singlet. He ate two slices of bread and drank a glass of milk standing up.
Going back to bed, he said and shut the bedroom door behind him.
The rain eased and the older man found a flimsy umbrella and left the cabin. He hadn’t changed out of his sandals but at least they wouldn’t soak up water like shoes. Halfway along the route the rain picked up again and the wind brought it sideways. He collapsed the umbrella and when his t-shirt became drenched he took it off.
At the beach he stood and looked out. The ocean looked unaffected by the rain. He walked in and lay on his back and stared up into the grey clouds as drops streaked by. The sun was hidden and he had no sense of time.
After coming out of the water he strolled along the beach and came within view of the jetty. Several trawlers were unloading. It was later than he had thought. A few locals gathered to buy catch. They hustled back and forth between the car park and the jetty in their raincoats. He squinted his eyes to watch the locals and the fishermen interact. Sea gulls swirled in the wind overhead or bobbed on the waves. A figure on the jetty talking to a fisherman looked like his son. He walked ahead until he could see better and the moment he was certain he stopped. He bit on the nail of one thumb and stood like that for some time until he sucked in a deep breath and turned and walked away. He took residential streets where some houses had lights on in some of the rooms but he stared down and ahead and kept tapping the side of his hip with his fist.
The cabin door wasn’t locked and the son’s bedroom door was open. The older man went in. He turned over the clothes and looked through the cupboard and under the bed. He came back out and stood on the spot. He started tidying and packing up the main room.
A while later the son came in. He smiled and held up a plastic bag.
Dhufish, he said.
Right.
It’s cleaned and everything.
How’d you pay for it?
Said I could give a hand unloading tomorrow.
Uhuh.
The dad took the bag and cooked the fish. They ate it with a side of the leftover spaghetti with butter melted through. The son offered to wash up. The dad sat down and tried to continue reading the paperback thriller. The effort distracted him enough that he didn’t notice the son go into his bedroom and return.
You went through my stuff.
The dad sat up.
You can pack anyway. We’re leaving in the morning.
Why?
No people. No money. No taking off.
There wasn’t any money. I haven’t done anything wrong.
So you say.
Just because I talked to the fishermen.
Don’t take me for an idiot. I wouldn’t trust them any more than I trust you.
I can’t just stay inside doing nothing.
The son was crying.
I knew this wouldn’t work. I’ve been too easy on you. I’m taking you to Giggidup.
Fucking hell.
Don’t blame me. That’s the way it is.
The American rap CD came on and the dad ejected it and put in the REM best of compilation. They followed the road out of the township and turned right onto the same highway that had brought them up. After several kilometres they took a turning lane off the highway and headed inland along a road that only curved a few times. Whenever another vehicle came from the opposite direction they had to edge over onto the loose gravel. The sky was packed with fast moving clouds as if the wind was sweeping them away after the recent downpour. The land turned firmer and the bush thicker and taller until they entered a long stretch that had been scorched in a fire the last summer. Young shoots of dark green broke up the vast black. The REM CD ended and the son asked if he could put on his music and the dad said no. He switched on the radio.
The road ended at a T-junction and they had to wait for a stream of dust-covered cars and trucks to pass in both directions before pulling out onto the south-bound lane. This highway was straight and flat and they travelled at the same static speed as the vehicles before and behind them. They passed flat dusty farmland and industrial agriculture buildings. Glimpses of hills beyond the farmlands to the east rose into a range that drew nearer. They turned left off the highway and headed towards them.
The dad turned off the radio and tried to talk. He told the son how he had known Reece since he was a similar age to the son. Reece was level. It would be better out on the orchard for the son to get his act together. With a stranger. There would be plenty of work and nowhere to go. Reece had helped another friends’ boy a while back by taking him in.
You just want me to suffer, the son said.
All I ever do is help you. That’s the problem because you never bloody help yourself.
I do.
News to me.
I try.
Well now you can prove it. This is your last chance. After this…
What?
They approached a road sign and the dad’s attention turned to finding the right turn off. Once back on track he made a last attempt.
You think everything will last forever. That’s why you never put in the hard yacker. Instead you look for easy outs. Even just a few weeks out here you reckon is a life sentence. But it’s not. Everything passes. One thing ends and another begins. Sometimes you just gotta see it through. A few weeks is nothing. Just try. Please.
This was your plan all along. You just want to get rid of me.
That’s not true.
The land swelled up and turned green and forested and they slowed down for several bridges or to pass through townships with old stone or timber halls. They turned off onto ever smaller roads and eventually onto a loose dirt driveway leading through orchards to the end of a valley where there was a homestead and large sheds. They pulled up and a man around the same age as the dad came out.
Jim, said the man.
Reece, said Jim.
This your boy?
This is Shane. Shane, Reece.
Grab your stuff and bring it up.
Shane unpacked two bags and lifted them onto the porch.
Head on through, said Reece. Your room is down the hall. Last door on the right.
Shane lumbered between Reece and Jim and disappeared into the dark passageway.
How long you want him here for? asked Reece.
However long you can put up with him for.
If he works he can stay forever. We’re going into main harvest.
Good. Wear him out.
How much do I need to keep an eye on him?
I don’t know. He’s been ok. He knows it’s up to him now.
He might hate it.
Probably.
What if he bolts?
Nah, he won’t. He’s too lazy for that.
Alright.
Jim received a call a week later.
Must’ve jumped ship in the middle of the night, Reece said. I drove round all morning looking for him.
Jim arrived the next day and stayed with Reece for a week. He heard how Shane had acted keen and worked hard for the first few days before becoming moody and quiet.
I should’ve warned you, Reece said.
It’s not your fault, Jim said.
Jim slept in the same bed Shane had slept in and each time he crawled into it part of him expected to find it warm. During the day Reece went to work and Jim took an old photo of Shane to neighbouring properties and businesses in town and the next towns over. People greeted him with smiles or curiosity before he explained why he was there at which point their expressions turned to something like pity or judgement or both. He came to hate this moment. Worse was when they asked questions and he went away thinking over all the parts he had avoided saying. At the end of each day he kept hoping he might walk in to Reece’s house and find Shane. There was more chance of that than getting anything from the locals. On the morning before he drove back to the city suburb where he lived Jim went to the local police station and filed a missing person report. The officer acted interested until he heard more about Shane and then his eyes glazed over and his energy dropped like an electric toy with a dying battery. Jim came out of the station with his hand over his mouth and his tongue kneading his cheek. He looked left and right down the street one last time and then up at the small round clouds casting shadows over the buildings and countryside. He started the car and turned off whatever started playing on the stereo and backed out onto the road.
Matthew Crowe is a writer from Western Australia. Having lived until recently in Scotland, he is now based in Canberra. His stories have appeared in Dostoyevsky Wannabe: Dundee, Passengers Journal and Westerly Magazine.
Sonia Redfern is a New York City-based painter exploring landscapes on reclaimed fabrics. Born and raised in Brooklyn, Redfern moved to Arizona to pursue an undergraduate degree in astrophysics, though her concentration pivoted to visual arts. While she remained enamored with astronomy, she found a deeper sense of fulfillment in her visual arts practice. Redfern continues to bring her curiosity about the world from science into her artwork. Upon graduating with a BA in Studio Art from the University of Arizona in 2007, Redfern relocated to South Korea and later to Australia. Her years away from home influenced her visual vocabulary, and helped to inspire the fabric works that she creates today. Redfern has exhibited nationally and internationally, including in Washington DC, Illinois, and South Korea. Her work is in private collections throughout the United States, as well as in South Korea and Israel.