The Fine Color of Rust by Paddy O'Reilly Page A

painted on the outside and a static seascape behind. The mechanical rotation of the outer plastic globe makes a reassuring grinding sound once each cycle like the slow purr of a contented cat.
    â€œWhat is it, Jakie?” I whisper from the doorway.
    â€œI’m not a bush pig,” he whispers.
    â€œOf course you’re not,” I say firmly. I sit down beside him on the bed and rest my hand on his hot, sweaty chest. “Why would you think that?”
    â€œThey said so.”
    â€œWho said so?” Anger starts to rise inside me. I remember I started thinking about bush pigs after Melissa and Jake began joking about them. “Where did this come from, anyway?”
    He doesn’t answer. His steady breathing makes my hand rise and fall as he drifts back to sleep.
    â€¢Â Â â€¢Â Â â€¢
    NEXT MORNING I’M waiting for them at the breakfast table with a pile of bacon on a plate and the spatula jutting from my hand. Melissa and Jake both sit down at the table without speaking, without looking at the bacon. I dish the crispy strips onto buttered toast, slop on scrambled eggs from the frying pan, and hand them a plate each.
    â€œWhat’s going on?” I ask. “What’s this bush pig business?”
    â€œNothing.” Melissa has her stubborn face on.
    Jake’s eyes begin to redden. The circles under his eyes are even darker today. The heat went on and on all night until even the bugs got exhausted and stopped making noise at about four in the morning. There was an occasional crack as the tin roof shucked off the heat of the day and the house settled and sighed. Not only did no one sleep properly, I’m also feeling the effects of my romantic night with Johnnie Walker, and I’m in no mood to be messed with.
    â€œI don’t want silence or sulking or tantrums. Tell me what it’s about. Who called you a bush pig, Jake?”
    Silence. My throbbing head. Jake and Melissa stare at their plates. The crispy bacon is wilting, the eggs are getting cold, the toast is going soggy. The urge to shout is rising in me and I want to smother it—I must not become a shrieking single mother.
    â€œSo . . .” I lighten my tone of voice. My back is still to the children. “I’m not cross. I want to know, that’s all.”
    â€œI had a project on bush pigs,” Melissa says.
    â€œThen why would Jake be upset?” I turn around to face them, my expression a mask of control and calm.
    â€œI called him a bush pig.” Melissa shoves a blackened curl of bacon into her mouth as if that will stop me asking her questions.
    â€œIs that it, Jake? Did your sister call you a bush pig?”
    Melissa’s staring so hard at Jake he’ll start sending off smoke in a minute. He crosses his hands over his lap.
    â€œI need to go to the toilet,” he says. Little liar.
    â€œIt’s true! It is, Mum. I did call him a bush pig. I’m sorry.”
    Something smells here. I’m sure she’s lying. But she’s as stubborn as her father. I turn to Jake.
    â€œLies come back to bite you on the bum. You know that, don’t you, Jake?”
    â€œI want to go to school now,” he says for the first and probably last time in his life. “Did you put a banana in my lunch?”
    The boy is obsessive. I take the banana out of his lunch box and open Melissa’s.
    â€œI’m not having it!” she yelps.
    â€œWhat is it with bananas and this family?” I say. “They’re good nutritious food and they’re cheap.”
    â€œThey stink!” Jake and Melissa say together.
    By the time I’ve finished the washing-up, Melissa and Jake are ready to head off. I drop them at school and drive on to the Neighbourhood House, sweating in the hot morning sun.
    At ten thirty my sister Tammy calls to let me know Mum’s in hospital in Melbourne.

7
    â€œWHAT’S THAT NOISE?” Jake has an unerring knack