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Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780864739971 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Victoria University Press |
| Publication date: | 05/01/2014 |
| Sold by: | Bookwire |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 182 |
| File size: | 572 KB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Empty Bones
and other stories
By Breton Dukes
Victoria University Press
Copyright © 2014 Breton DukesAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-86473-997-1
CHAPTER 1
A fear of eels
After dinner they go out to see the eel. It lives beneath Ray's driveway in a drainpipe that joins his ditch to the neighbour's ditch. Over the road are mangroves and then the harbour. The ditch water goes up and down with the tide. Ray lobs in the last sausage. It floats for a moment then rolls and sinks to the bottom.
'How big?' says his dad.
Ray makes a size with his hands. 'Like your arm.'
His dad nods in slow motion, as if he doesn't believe.
They look back at the water. Little fish – tadpoles or baby eels – bunt the sausage, causing it to shift about.
'Nevaeh,' Ray says.
Over dinner he's been telling his dad about the funny names of some of the patients at the hospital.
'That's not a bad one.'
'Heaven backwards.'
His dad raises his eyebrows.
'There,' Ray says, pointing.
The eel comes halfway out of the pipe and stops, wagging its head side to side.
'Strewth,' says his dad.
Shooting forward it gulps the sausage. It's low tide and the ditch is narrow, so to get back to the pipe it has to make a tight turn. Its sagging fin breaks the surface, and then its tail. The sound is like children slapping bathwater. The rippling water browns.
'Show's over,' Ray says, but neither of them moves.
'What about Low-Garden?' asks his dad. 'Denise Low-Garden. Do you remember?'
After the divorce, Ray's dad shifted across town. He joined a singles club and a few girlfriends followed. Ray was eight at the time and the whole thing stirred him up a little. He only met Denise a couple of times. Long hair and lots of wrinkles, that's what he remembers. She'd seemed way older than his mum. Later on he'd found a letter she'd written. It called his dad selfish and said he'd hurt her.
The foil corner of a chip packet is caught in the grass on the bank of the ditch. Ray squats near the edge and collects it.
'Well?' his dad says, holding out his hands.
Ray shrugs and looks at the rubbish.
'We went to the Chathams one Easter,' his dad says. 'Crayfish, muttonbird, blue cod.'
'I never went to the Chathams.'
'I know that, but what about Denise?'
It's warm and clear. There's the smell of mangrove mud and road tar.
'The first star,' says Ray, still squatting.
His dad looks as if he's going to say something, but then he tilts back with his hands on his hips. 'Ah,' he says in agreement, and then, seeing Ray watching, he smiles and exaggerates his posture. 'The old teapot,' he says.
They turn and go back to where wooden steps lead to a small deck and the front door. There are frog sounds, and already a morepork is hooting. Ray's dad puts his hand on Ray's shoulder. 'It's good here,' he says. 'I'm glad I came.'
Ray fills the jug. The dishes are rinsed and stacked in the sink. Between the sink and oven the small bench is wiped clean. In a glass on the bench there are some leftover sprigs of parsley. It grows out the back in a pot by the washing-line. He's got sage and basil there too. On the toilet cistern there's a handful of rosemary jutting from a pint glass. He'd been excited to see his dad, and in showing him around the flat, he'd said in an unusually confident voice, 'It's not much, but it's home.'
The jug starts to boil. His dad's standing in the living room. There's a two-seater couch and a table not much bigger than a school desk. The kitchen and living room are all pretty much one. His dad shakes himself and makes popeyes as if surprised by something. He stretches. 'That flight,' he says for the second time since arriving, 'it really took it out of me.' Dunedin to Auckland apparently was in a normal plane, but from Auckland it was a dodgy little propeller-powered job.
'There's a Low-Garden at the hospital,' says Ray.
'A what?'
'Dr Low-Garden,' says Ray. He feels good. The visit's going well. He's proud of his little place.
'Daniel?' asks his dad, letting his arms drop. 'Tall, pale, a squash fanatic.'
'You still talk in lists,' says Ray, holding up a teabag.
'That's the teacher in me,' says his dad, as if Ray's observation was a serious one. He nods at the teabag.
'He's not tall,' says Ray, 'maybe our height. I don't know his first name.'
His dad raises a hand as if measuring Denise's son.
Ray looks doubtful.
'There can't be that many Low-Gardens,' his dad says, and then, 'Denise liked to worry about him. You two should talk – you're both from Dunedin.'
'He's a doctor.'
'So?'
Ray pours water into two mugs. 'I'm an orderly.'
'Yeah?'
Ray doesn't say anything, just carries the cup to his dad who says, 'Jesus, Ray. This is New Zealand.'
It's the sort of thing that's started them off before.
'What's that got to do with it?' says Ray. 'New Zealand?' He stands with his narrow shoulders hunched and the mugs in fists at his chest, and the words come out with force – more the way you'd expect someone to talk at the end of an argument. But it works and they both tip back and look at the mugs and at each other as if reminding themselves of their roles as host and guest, as if remembering that this is night one of a five-night visit.
His dad reaches for the mug.
'It'll be hot,' says Ray, then in just the way his dad would say it, and as if the flat were fitted with all sorts of perch, 'Now, where shall we sit?' After a bit of silence they talk about Dunedin's lack of summer, about Ray's workmates, about the crowds at Auckland airport, about the All Black captain and the fuss over his new haircut, about all the species of subtropical plant Ray's dad saw coming down from the airport, about the neighbours in Dunedin and how they're always asking after Ray, about the neighbour's dog, Hank, who had bad breath and diarrhoea, who got x-rayed and who, it turned out, had a whole rotting chicken lodged in his gullet.
'What did they do?' asks Ray.
'Massaged it up.'
'Who did?'
Ray's dad smiles and makes a smoothing motion with his hands as if following the body of a thick snake. 'The vet.'
'Hell,' says Ray.
Ray's dad looks into the bottom of his cup and laughs. After a moment he puts the cup down and says, 'Right?'
'Yep,' says Ray, standing and helping his dad turn the couch into a bed.
The next day they get stuck into the weekend. Ray's dad has always loved the outdoors, and since shifting north Ray's been right in there too, so after breakfast they take a long harbour walk where he points out the birds: spoonbill, gannet, reef heron.
Sunday, it buckets down, and after a run his dad goes out the back in his togs with a bar of soap. Halfway through the rain stops and Ray has to get the hose. In trying to give his dad a fright he gives it full pressure, but his dad takes two steps forward and welcomes the water with raised arms. There's a little extra meat around his belly and the beard is an obvious difference, but other than that, despite thirty years, there isn't much between them.
Monday. With only enough leave to take Wednesday off, Ray's at work. His dad doesn't mind. He's going to have another run, and then do more birdwatching.
None of the orderlies like their jobs. Not liking the job is part of the job description. Sore feet, shit pay, eight hours of slavery. But just quietly, Ray doesn't mind. They get regular breaks, a uniform allowance and time and a half for weekends and nights. It's not what he had in mind when he was younger, but it's a lot better than living on the dole in Dunedin with your old man.
So he's almost smiling (it's midmorning and he's pushing a female patient in a wheelchair down the sixth-floor corridor) when he sees Dr Low-Garden striding towards them. Ray slows, checking the man's height, trying to see if there's any of Denise in his face, trying to make eye contact, to say 'Hello' or 'Gidday' to see if there's a way into asking about his identity. His dad will like it if he does – he'll like hearing whatever information he can gather, and he'll like that Ray asked. But it's as if there's a system of weights between them, because as they get closer the man speeds up, so that now, in coming upon them, he's one gear short of a run. He's got a neat haircut with a fringe that catches the air. Broad like a midfield back, he wears a neat, dark shirt and dark trousers. Stethoscope round his neck, cellphone clipped to his belt, he passes them with such confident urgency that the woman in the chair asks in a loud voice, 'What's he got to be so pleased about?'
'You didn't say anything?'
'No, but if it's him he's no taller than us.'
Out in front of the yacht club, they're up to their waists in the harbour. It was his dad's idea. 'To beat the heat,' he'd said, when Ray got home from work. It's Ray's first Northland swim. He's seen plenty of people out there before, but something about going in alone, with no one in town really knowing him, has always made him wary. He's enjoying it though. When he takes a step, the harbour's muddy floor squeezes up level with his ankles. His dad wants them to swim out to the green pylon that marks the nearside of the harbour's channel, but Ray's not so sure.
'And you didn't say a thing?'
'He shot past, probably he was off to save a life or something.'
His dad doesn't say anything, just moves further out, waving his arms back and forward. 'Hi,' he says in a loud voice, as if addressing the two men aboard the dinghy moored near the pylon, 'My name's Ray. My old man knew your mum.'
Ray scratches the back of his head and then puts his hand through his short hair.
'You've nothing to be ashamed of, Ray,' says his dad, looking back. 'You're bright. I always tell people that.'
The mud around Ray's feet has settled. His legs bow in the water's briny refraction. His dad has turned towards the dinghy. He's got his hands on his hips. Ray raises one foot and then the other. Mud rises. He thinks of the eel, of its slapping tail, the spikes of its saggy fin, the way its eyes sit off its face. He wants to get out, but in that thought there's shame and what follows is anger. He lunges forward and starts swimming.
At high school, Ray wore a West German army jacket all year round. He dyed his hair dark, tried to get some facial hair going, and pretended to be into the punk bands. He liked the idea of Dungeons & Dragons, but didn't like the nerds who played. In his twenties he smoked – weed and tobacco – and drank. Anyway, sport was never his thing, and in swimming for the pylon, his dad goes past him easily.
When he gets there his dad's holding the bottom rung of the ladder that serves the light at the top of the pylon. He's chatting with the fishermen, asking about the depth and the sort of fish they're after. Ray tries not to breathe too noisily. He swam the last section hard – wanting to get to the pylon, wanting to appear competent. There's a current and the water is colder. The ladder is encrusted with barnacles. The boat and the men aboard her are reflected colourfully on the water's surface. One of the men is baiting a large hook with half a fish. Ray faces the shore. His car looks like a dinky. The yacht club is a face of black windows. There are whip-thin aerials attached to the roof, which needs repainting. He lets his free hand dangle. He feels weak. He should ask for help, but now his dad's discussing the pros and cons of the new Dunedin stadium. I'll go hard to begin with, Ray thinks. I'll get through the current and the deep water and then float the last bit. Round the shore he sees two people on bikes. The sun is high. Behind him one of the fishermen laughs. No one's gonna drown on a day like this. Something slippery crosses his leg. Without saying anything Ray sets off.
He remembers a teacher telling him once to pull with his fingers together. He kicks hard. Your legs are your engine. In taking a breath he wears a small wave. He stops and coughs and tips his head back. The sky is the same blue. His body shapes down and out to sea like a fang. He starts again, throwing his heavy arms just over the surface of the water, breathing with his face forward towards the shore. Okay, he tells himself, okay. He goes onto his back and kicks, but water gets in and he coughs and rolls over. For a moment he feels better and makes a few good strokes. Then the cold, draggy weight returns. He develops a grabbing doggy-style and makes enough splash for two people. He worries that the pinching in his lower leg will turn into full-blown cramp. He thinks of sharks. But then it's okay. He's through the cold water and beyond the current. The temperature and the softer, saltier texture of the water is a comfort. He's more buoyant and he slows the motion of his arms. He can see the bottom – see the little black breathing holes there. He chugs on. The towels and one of his shoes have fallen from the bonnet of the car. He stops and reaches with his toes for the muddy floor. It's not there. He sinks and kicks out, wanting to see how far he has to go, wanting to feel something hard. Mud wobbles around his flippering toes. Surfacing, he breathes too soon and gets a lungful. A long rectangular block replaces the hollow, pliable parts of him that deal in air. His arms scrabble and clutch. Then his dad arrives.
Tuesday. Ray's in the staffroom stirring his Milo when Dr Low-Garden walks in. Ray goes red. The doctor (along with the weather and now the harbour swim) has become the visit's default setting. 'Just call me Dr L.G.,' his dad said, having got him ashore. CPR wasn't required, but when Ray doubled over, spewing and coughing and burping away, his dad held him by the elbow and made gentle circles between his shoulders.
The doctor walks to the watercooler and crouches with a plastic cup.
'You're Denise's son,' blurts Ray.
The man looks, but Ray doesn't give him time to speak. 'My dad knows you.'
Smiling, the man stands and sips from his cup.
Ray takes the silence as a denial. 'You're from Dunedin.'
'Who's your dad?' asks the man as Ray gulps at his drink, taking in the tan and the chunky sports watch. Windsurfing, Ray thinks, and then, he'll be noticing my uniform: cheap blue trousers, turquoise polo shirt. Embarrassed, he thrusts out his identity card. 'Alan. Alan Stevens. I'm Ray Stevens,' and now mumbling, hating his dad for starting this, 'He went with your mum for a while.'
'Alan Stevens?'
'A schoolteacher. It doesn't –'
'I remember,' says the man. 'He was a runner. Yeah ...' He makes a flannelling motion over his cheeks and chin. 'He had a beard.'
'And still does,' Ray says.
'I liked him,' the man says. 'How is he?'
It's the relief Ray feels in watching Daniel fondly remember, combined in some vague way with his watery scare, and the fact that in the last few months he's been at himself to join a club, or try internet dating – anything to meet some people – that results in him telling Daniel he should come over that night, that he should question his old man in person.
'He'd be almost forty,' says his dad, when Ray tells him.
'He doesn't look that old.'
'He was a couple of years older than you. He still would be.'
Ray doesn't smile. Still in his uniform, he's sweaty. What he wants is to get into his shorts, go out the back and give his herbs some water. Instead he's nervously looking at a shopping list and wishing he'd never stopped at the bloody staffroom.
'Some beer?' says his dad, watching him. 'Beer, wine and snacks: chips, vege sticks, hummus.'
Ray's peeling a carrot when there are footsteps on the deck and then knocking. He looks at the clock. If it's Daniel he's early. Still holding the carrot, he opens the door. Daniel. Dressed just as he was at the hospital. He's got a bottle of wine. Ray's words get caught and he nods dumbly as if he rather than Daniel is the guest, as if rather than coming for dinner he's arrived to ask Daniel's daughter to the formal. In trying to shift the attention from the blazing colour his face is taking he stares over Daniel's shoulder, at where the mangroves are under hot sun.
Daniel turns to look at the mangroves and then, still smiling, turns back. He raises his eyebrows. 'Hi,' he says.
In thinking he'll tell Daniel his dad's out for a run, Ray forgets any sort of greeting. 'Dad's out for a run.'
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Empty Bones by Breton Dukes. Copyright © 2014 Breton Dukes. Excerpted by permission of Victoria University Press.
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