THE SWEETNESS OF MUSK
Jake knows that if he spits onto the ground the red earth would be dry again in seconds. He spits anyway. Watches the dark spot quickly disappear. He wipes a hand over his head, feels the thick stubble of his hair. Feels his hand come away wet. He shifts on the verandah, leans back against a rail and looks down the hill. The town below shimmers in the heat. He watches as a toy car drives along the painted road, then disappears. He watches the stillness.

He squints and looks up into the sky. It’s not blue. He decides that it’s not often blue at all. It’s a lie. Like all dogs are brown, that vegetables are good for you, that touching yourself is a sin. That everyone dies. Today the sky is a grey. The grey of a ghost gum, that grey that is almost white but is a shade dirtier. It’s the grey of decay, of dying, the grey of giving up. He nods in satisfaction then looks to the paddock.

   He can see the cows udder deep in the bleached grass. Soon that too would be gone and the cows would turn the paddock into a dust bowl. He stands up, the ground hot beneath his bare feet. He looks for his father, looks away from the town but the sheds are empty. Nothing moves, there is no sound of work. The heat has swallowed all signs of life.
He shakes his pocket and hears a faint clink. He has found money, money now his and decides to walk into town. He walks on the edge of the road, on the dead grass, on the gravel. It’s not as hot as the bitumen. Experimentally he steps onto the white line, wondering if it’s cooler. It isn’t. A horn sounds, a voice yells, and he slowly moves back to the edge of the road. He watches as a dusty four wheel drive passes pulling a silver caravan with a blur of bright stickers plastered onto the back window. ‘The Gold Coast’, ‘Albury’, ‘Longreach’, ‘The Grampians’. He wonders briefly if there were really that many places to go. He doesn’t think so. He can only think of the town and the highway beyond. The black line stretching out, skimming the surface and beyond that nothing. He walks on, the sounds of the bees loud in the peppercorn trees.

At the bridge he leans over the railing, peers down into the shadows beneath. There used to be water here. There used to be fish, and eels as thick as his leg. Big black eels that fought when caught, that curled and squirmed, oozing dark blood as he cut them. Now nothing but the bulrushes remain, trapped in the dead creek. He leans over further and spits. Watches as it disappears amongst the shadows.

  The closer he gets to town, the more he feels his stomach tighten. He places a hand over it, expecting to feel it wriggling like the eels. It stays smooth and flat, warm under his hand. He doesn’t know the time but the hunger growling in his stomach tells him that it’s after lunch. He crosses the road carefully, looks to his right, to his left, to his right, lifting his feet with each turn of his head. The stores look inviting with their wide brimmed verandahs hanging over them like big soft bellies. Here the cement is cool, he would like to stop a while and enjoy it, but walks on, his head down, watching his feet slap the pavement. He hears laughter and looks up, then quickly back down. Two dark limbed girls in yellow summer dresses and white sandals come towards him. He can feel his face redden, feel his heart give a jolt and his stomach squirm in sympathy. They pass him without a word but he can feel their eyes on him, feel them digging slyly into his back.

   At the entrance to the store Jake wipes his feet, pats his pocket and finds the coins. He pulls them out. They gleam in his palm like the sun. His fingers close over them protectively and he walks into the dark coolness.

The vinyl is almost cold under his feet and he sighs, takes smaller steps and walks slowly. The woman behind the counter looks up from the magazine that she’s reading and gives a nod hello. She wears a sleeveless orange dress that is almost as bright as her face. The skin on her arms hangs loose, as creased as used wrapping paper. She has her hair hidden behind a green scarf and a band of sweat bridges her nose. She’s old. So old that she has always been behind the counter. He has never seen her out from behind it. He has often wondered if she has legs or whether she has wheels that spin her from one section of the counter to the other.

There is a zap and blue spark. Both of them look up to the catcher, a moth is incinerated, one wing hangs limply from the wire mesh.  The woman gives a cough and he turns to look at her.

‘What do you want?’ her words are easy to follow although her mouth moves very little. Jake wonders how she squeezes them out of such narrow lips. He walks to the glass counter holds out his palm and shows her the coins. She gives a breathy sigh then leaves her magazine. If he was taller he could look over the counter and see if she did use wheels. If she does have legs she makes no sound. He looks up to see her watching him. He begins to point and she follows slowly. Her fat fingers clumsy, the brown bag filling even more slowly.

‘That’s it. That’s two dollars worth,’ she says, her fingers closing the bag. He looks at her face suspiciously. She holds out the bag again. ‘That is what you get for two dollars,’ she repeats. He nods and hands over his coins, watching as they disappear into her meaty hands. ‘How’s your mother?’ she asks. Jake shrugs and looks away. His glance skittering over the icy drinks standing at attention in the humming fridge. He doesn’t want to talk about his mother, doesn’t want to think about her. The woman nods, ‘okay then,’ she says and wheels back to the register and to her magazine.
Outside the heat slaps him like an open hand. Sweat trickles down his side as he begins the walk back home. He feels the weight of the bag, opens it slowly, enjoying the suspense. He reaches in, a lolly disappears into his mouth. His saliva eagerly runs and he chews so very slowly.

As he walks he passes the four wheel drive and silver caravan. A grey haired couple stand beside it, straw hats on their heads, faces reddened from the heat. The man is holding a map, holding it close as he squints, one finger tracing a black line. ‘Ask someone,’ the woman says, taking her hat off and waving it in front of her face. ‘Just ask where the hell it is.’

‘I can find it,’ the man says. ‘Look, we left Gindibere, turned at Flinders Gap…’

The woman sees Jake and gives a tired smile. ‘Hey, honey, could you help us?’ Her voice is low and warm like runny honey. Jake ducks his head, quickly shuffles past, the sweetness of musk drifting in his mouth. He hears her say something to the man, but he walks on. He doesn’t need soft words, they make him hurt too much.

As he heads home he wonders about places he has never seen. About places like The Gold Coast, which he knows would be wonderful. He wonders about heaven, and then about hell. Whether death is a place that you need a map to get to. And if you’ve been there, if you could get a sticker to put on the back of your caravan.

The walk home is always quicker. It doesn’t matter how hard he tries to make it go slower. He takes baby steps, he takes two steps forward then a jump back, but all too soon he is heading up the drive. He has seen pictures where trees line the sides of drives like sharpened pencils stuck into the ground. He’d like that. Like to walk under the spreading shade. It would make it feel special, like coming home was something good.

Jake sits in the shade of the verandah and looks down to the sheds. There is still no sign of his father. He hears a movement inside and sits as still as he can. He shuts his eyes and tries to make himself disappear. With them shut he can see his mother’s face. The greyness that never leaves it, her lips pinched against the pain, the pale eyes that try and look deep inside him. He listens for another movement but can hear nothing. He opens one eye, no sound, opens the other. The house is silent.

The wish has worked. Not all wishes do. He’s old enough now to know that. He looks down to the sheds again, his hands held tight around the bag. He has saved some lollies for his father. Saved him ones that he knows he likes. A bead of perspiration drips from his face, drops onto the lolly bag. And quickly dries in the summer’s heat.

published in Going Down Swinging 2006