I got that in the game.
Mike was the only one who never bought the bullshit. He’d give me a look if he saw my busted fingers, or the bruises over my ribs. But it didn’t matter. By the time I was sixteen, logic won out over passion.
Why’d I give it away? Because I figured it out. Footy was beautiful. Footy was pointless.
I could never win.
*
‘D’you remember when we used to go yabbying?’
Dad’s voice wakes me. For a second I wonder where I am, then everything slams back into focus. It’s Wednesday. My leg aches from this morning’s physio session. There’s a bitter taste in the back of my throat.
Dad’s standing over by the window, looking out.
‘I used to shoot a rabbit the night before,’ he says, ‘and you’d wake up keen as mustard. Grab the bucket and get the net from under the house. You were always so bloody excited to go. Even if I made you carry the rabbit.’
He sounds like he’s talking to himself, but I think he knows I’m awake, the same way I know whenever he’s in the room. Psychic tension.
‘We’d walk to the rez,’ he says. ‘Take our time. Find a nice shady spot on the bank to sit and bait the net. Stretch our legs while we waited for the net to fill up.’
The feel of it comes back to me. Hot sun baking my skin, flies on my lips, the weedy decomposing smell of the reservoir.
‘I remember,’ I say softly. ‘You’d have a coldie and a smoke while we waited.’
Dad nods at the window. ‘You used to draw in the mud with sticks. Build those little mounds of stones.’
‘You never let me skim them.’ I remember that, too. He used to cuff me over the head, say I’d stop the yabbies from coming.
Dad grins. ‘When the flies got too much for us we’d haul in the net.’
I think of the mud-streaked bodies of the yabbies. The green and purple and blue of their shells, the way their giant pincers snapped helplessly. Out of their element, their glistening armour was just extra weight to carry around. I always felt sorry for them, especially the big ones. They’d survived so long in the murky underwater pecking-order of the dam, grown to such a size, and there they were, floundering in the net: defeated warriors. It almost felt mean to take them home and eat them.
‘They were nice-sized yabbies,’ I say.
‘Bloody great eating,’ Dad agrees. ‘Into the pot, then onto the newspaper on the table. Bit of vinegar, salt…’ He shakes his head and makes that sound that always reminds me of horses nickering.
I wonder where this is all going. The yabby memory is from ten years ago, but I’ve got fresher ones. Less pleasant ones. There’s still a bruise on my cheekbone from when we fought over the rifle I borrowed to help Rachel. Dad was pissed about it; the rifle was unlicensed, so the sarge confiscated it.
‘We had some good times, didn’t we, Harris?’ Dad turns around. ‘We haven’t always seen eye-to-eye, but there were good times.’
‘Sure, there were good times,’ I say slowly.
And there were. Like when I’d ride on the tray of the ute, jouncing down to Five Mile. Or when Dad and I would sit together of an evening, on the couch at home, watching quiz shows and competing to see who could answer the questions on the telly first. Or my best memory: Dad working on an engine in the shed, showing me where to use the tools, the radio oozing out some daggy seventies song in the background as the cool afternoon bled the heat out of the shed walls.
Those memories have a clear crystalline bite. They could’ve happened yesterday. But I remember them so well because they were standouts. Like a leaping redfin on your line, they jump up easily from the grey background.
At the moment, Dad’s only focused on the fact I’ve replied in the affirmative. To Dad, being agreed with is the only acceptable response.
‘Yeah, there were good times,’ Dad says, nodding. ‘Which is why I’m gonna ask you to do this. I know, I know… We have our barneys, and you were keen to move to Melbourne. But this is important, Harris.’
I get a cold clench in my gut. ‘What’re you talking about?’
Dad presses his point. ‘It’s bigger than you and me. Bigger than a few spats.’
‘Dad –’
‘I’m sick, Harris,’ Dad says. He looks right at me. ‘Cancer.’
