the longer route home, keeping to the footpath that skirts the oval. The path meets a playground where there are swings and monkey bars and a slide, all these constructed from chain and steel and hefty slabs of wood, as if children have the destructive strength of draft horses. Plum dallies on a swing for a while, kicking back and forth. She imagines that she presents a thoughtful picture to any onlooker. She climbs the ladder to the top of the slide and sweeps down the slant of steel; at the bottom of the slide she leaps off yiking, clutching the backs of her thighs. “Uh uh uh!” she cries, skittering forward but bending backward, away from the pain. As the agony subsidesPlum whips in circles, trying to see if her skin is cooked or perhaps flayed. She hisses at the slide, snatches the invitations from the grass, and thumps off grouchily.
Detouring along the footpath has led her away from her usual route; but there’s another road, close to the playground, which will also wend her home. Plum stumps along, the invitations knocking her knee, impatient with the heat and wishing only to be home now, for the day to be done. She rounds a corner and sees, parked in the shade of a paperbark, a large, greenish, flat-flanked car so similar to Justin’s that the word jumps out of her —“Justin!”— and she halts as if lassoed. Plum doesn’t know Justin’s plate number — she senses indistinctly the thousands of details she ignores every day — but the vehicle’s familiarity, its relationship to her, is recognized in her marrow. She steps across the naturestrip, wary of bees, and peeks through the passenger window. There, on the long vinyl seat, is a scraggy striped fisherman’s cap that is indisputably Justin’s. There are his bronze sunglasses, folded on the dashboard. There, on the floor behind the driver’s seat, is the street directory that Plum herself gave him for Christmas; it doesn’t look like it’s been used.
Plum crunches a mouthful of Pop Rocks, puzzling. Mums had said Justin was at work, but the bottle shop is nowhere near here. She looks around at the house before which the Holden is parked, thinking perhaps her brother is visiting someone; but the house is clearly owned by a geriatric, there are roses along the fence and a revoltinggnome by the letter box, and no one young has lived there for decades. She could mull over the matter further, but it’s easier to lean against the blank wall of cluelessness. “A mystery,” she says, knowing it won’t actually be so. The reason why Justin’s car is here will not be astounding, due to the fact that so few things ever are. Plum walks away dispirited by the very dullness of existence.
Cydar is home when she arrives, and his presence revives her. She pushes through the jungly garden to where his bungalow, a large wooden cell as morose as a hangman, stands decaying in a corner of the yard. He is sitting on the bungalow’s doorstep, a slinky black-and-white cat smoking a cigarette which he ashes with a tap against the step. The breeze wafts flakes of ash across his feet, and he watches them skip his fine toes and flat nails with a concentration that fades when he looks up at her. Sometimes, when Plum thinks of Cydar, she sees a mobile of origami cranes turning gently near the ceiling of a tall white ornate house like the one in
The Amityville Horror.
She has never told Cydar about this vision, because doing so would be as bad as shouting something that desperately needed to be kept secret. Cydar is clever, capable of demolishing his sister and everyone else with a tilt of his head, a lancet-like word — but he needs care. Plum doesn’t know why, but she’s always felt this way.
She flops on the earth beside his feet, hoping to appear winsome. Somebody, possibly the vampiric girlfriend, has painted his toenails blue. His eyes are very black eyes,and typically their whites are very white; today, the whites are stained scarlet, as if he’s
Detouring along the footpath has led her away from her usual route; but there’s another road, close to the playground, which will also wend her home. Plum stumps along, the invitations knocking her knee, impatient with the heat and wishing only to be home now, for the day to be done. She rounds a corner and sees, parked in the shade of a paperbark, a large, greenish, flat-flanked car so similar to Justin’s that the word jumps out of her —“Justin!”— and she halts as if lassoed. Plum doesn’t know Justin’s plate number — she senses indistinctly the thousands of details she ignores every day — but the vehicle’s familiarity, its relationship to her, is recognized in her marrow. She steps across the naturestrip, wary of bees, and peeks through the passenger window. There, on the long vinyl seat, is a scraggy striped fisherman’s cap that is indisputably Justin’s. There are his bronze sunglasses, folded on the dashboard. There, on the floor behind the driver’s seat, is the street directory that Plum herself gave him for Christmas; it doesn’t look like it’s been used.
Plum crunches a mouthful of Pop Rocks, puzzling. Mums had said Justin was at work, but the bottle shop is nowhere near here. She looks around at the house before which the Holden is parked, thinking perhaps her brother is visiting someone; but the house is clearly owned by a geriatric, there are roses along the fence and a revoltinggnome by the letter box, and no one young has lived there for decades. She could mull over the matter further, but it’s easier to lean against the blank wall of cluelessness. “A mystery,” she says, knowing it won’t actually be so. The reason why Justin’s car is here will not be astounding, due to the fact that so few things ever are. Plum walks away dispirited by the very dullness of existence.
Cydar is home when she arrives, and his presence revives her. She pushes through the jungly garden to where his bungalow, a large wooden cell as morose as a hangman, stands decaying in a corner of the yard. He is sitting on the bungalow’s doorstep, a slinky black-and-white cat smoking a cigarette which he ashes with a tap against the step. The breeze wafts flakes of ash across his feet, and he watches them skip his fine toes and flat nails with a concentration that fades when he looks up at her. Sometimes, when Plum thinks of Cydar, she sees a mobile of origami cranes turning gently near the ceiling of a tall white ornate house like the one in
The Amityville Horror.
She has never told Cydar about this vision, because doing so would be as bad as shouting something that desperately needed to be kept secret. Cydar is clever, capable of demolishing his sister and everyone else with a tilt of his head, a lancet-like word — but he needs care. Plum doesn’t know why, but she’s always felt this way.
She flops on the earth beside his feet, hoping to appear winsome. Somebody, possibly the vampiric girlfriend, has painted his toenails blue. His eyes are very black eyes,and typically their whites are very white; today, the whites are stained scarlet, as if he’s
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