“You right, Jackson?” Kalyn asks, approaching me with a beer in his hand.

  “You seen Tomas?” I ask over Jarny’s rapping.

  “He went for a walk with Abby.”

  Great, I think. I settle at the bonfire, where Owen’s in conversation with someone I don’t recognize. I can’t help but feel differently about Owen since his stint in Big Boys. It’s like he’s got this dark side to him that I never realized was there, before he went away. It scares me a little, but it’s also kind of exciting.

  There’s a cooler on the ground beside him. I take a beer. It tastes so good when I drink it. I feel such a weight over me, but the beer relieves it somehow. I think I’m just dreading seeing Tesha again. I think about what I said to her. I thought I did love her, but I just don’t anymore. Strange, it feels like I never did.

  “All the mob back at your place?” Owen asks me.

  “Yeah,” I say, “drivin’ me crazy. They just run and yell and scream. All day and night.”

  Owen laughs. “You were like that when you was a kid, always trying to get me to wrestle with ya. I could go for a few minutes, then I’d be puffed. But you’d just keep trying to chokeslam me, even though you couldn’t even reach my neck.”

  “True,” I say. Owen heads for a piss and I want him to hurry back, so we can keep talking about how much fun I was as a kid. Then I see Tomas, walking back through the rusty gate with Abby. I walk to meet him and see there’s fresh vomit on his chin.

  “You right, Tommy?”

  “You need to get him home, he’s been spewin’,” Abby says.

  “Perfect,” I say. I nudge Tomas’s elbow and direct him to turn around. We walk back through the rusty broken gate, get to the road, and stop. Tomas bends over and vomits. When he stands back up, his eyes are watery and his nose is running.

  “You all right?”

  “Yeah,” he says, “just a bit of a lightweight. Sorry. I didn’t want to ruin your night.”

  “Don’t be silly. You didn’t. I was glad to get out of there, to be honest.”

  “Really? Why?” His voice slurs as he speaks.

  “Just my ex.”

  “Your ex? I never really had a girlfriend,” he says.

  I’m surprised, because he’s an attractive guy. He has a nice body. There’s a cuteness to his face. And he’s been in juvie. Girls like bad boys, right?

  “Really? Never had a girlfriend?”

  “Yeah. Never really wanted one. There were girls, but … you know?”

  He stops for another vomit in the gutter. I worry that Aunty Pam will hear and get mad at me for not looking after him properly.

  Tomas stands and collects himself. He wipes his mouth on his shirt, and we continue up the main street of the Mish. I walk closer to him in case I need to catch him.

  “You have such a good life,” Tomas says. His words are slurring even more.

  “I don’t, really.”

  “Yeah, you do. You got family, mates. You’re so lucky.” I hear him sniffle.

  “Are you all right?”

  Tomas starts to cry while we walk. It’s a soft cry, but I can feel it piercing something in me. I stop him, put my hand on his shoulder, all awkward-like.

  “You’ll be all right,” I say. “Aunty Pam will look after you. You’ll finish the comic book thing and won’t go back to juvie. It’ll all be okay.”

  Tomas sniffles again and a cheeky smile comes over his face. “It’s a graphic novel, not a comic book.”

  We both laugh and I give him a gentle push. We reach my front gate and walk to the front door.

  We creep inside, and all the kids are sleeping. We climb up the stairs and I direct Tomas to the bathroom. He soaks a towel in the sink and wipes away the remaining vomit from his chin.

  “Far out. I need to pace myself,” he says. I guide him into my bedroom and he falls onto his mattress. I take off my clothes and climb onto my bed. Lying back, it feels like my mattress is massaging me.

  I hear Tomas rolling around on his mattress. The springs bounce and bend beneath him. The moonlight shines through my window and lights his shoulder as he struggles to get his shirt off his body and throw it to the darkness. He lies on his back and I can see his nipples, his chest, the cluster of hairs that grow there. I see the brown of his neck, his curly hair, which spreads over his pillow.

  I feel the butterflies in my stomach. They’re flying around, and my heart rate is quickening. He hasn’t started snoring yet. The words are begging me to let them out. They bang on the door of my lips and pull themselves from the depths of my throat.

  “You awake?” I whisper.

  “Yeah,” he says.

  The words try to push themselves out again. My stomach is twisting, and I feel it telling me that it won’t let me go until I speak again.

  “You don’t have to sleep down there,” I say. I can feel my voice trembling, like I’m a baby deer taking its first steps. “You can sleep in my bed, if you want. There’s enough room.”

  “In your bed? With you?” he asks.

  “Yeah. Next to me.”

  His eyes open and I can see their brown as he gazes up to me. He sits up, and it’s so slow when he does so. He crawls on his knees to my bedside with his pillow in his hand. I roll away as he climbs onto my mattress and stops beside me.

  “This is heaps better,” he says.

  He rolls onto his side. His back is darkened in shadow, but I can see the aged cuts and scars that paint his skin. I could reach out and touch them. His hair falls away from his neck, and I imagine taking my finger there, brushing the skin of his neck. He would say it tickles. I would ask if he wants me to stop and he would say no. My double mattress doesn’t leave much space between us, but I realize I don’t want the space. I can smell his deodorant. Through my sheet, I can feel him breathe. I want him to turn over, so I can fall asleep in his eyes.

  Then he does turn over. He faces me, and I can see the white of his eyes as we just stare at each other forever in the dark. Tomas takes his hand to my face and brushes my cheek with his fingers. I feel the softness of his fingertips. We just stay still. We stare. I’m drowsy, but I don’t want to close my eyes.

  I wake to Tomas snoring in my face. The morning light comes through my window, and the summer heat comes with it. Tomas has covered himself with my blanket, still in my bed beside me. He wakes, stretches his arms, and cracks his neck.

  “Good morning,” he says.

  “Morning.”

  We stare at each other and I feel something in my stomach—something growing there somewhere. I don’t like it. I get out of bed, get dressed.

  “You okay?” Tomas asks.

  “Yeah,” I say. I just need to leave. I go downstairs, land on the couch with Henry and the boys. They’re all eating their cereal, but I’m not hungry. I receive a text from Kalyn.

  The mens group goin to the lake. You comin?

  Yeah, I reply.

  I’ll pick you up in an hour.

  The floorboards creak as Tomas comes down the stairs. He glances at me when he reaches the bottom. I try not to look at him, but I give in and watch as he walks to the kitchen. He pours himself a bowl of cereal and sits down at the kitchen table with Aunty Pam, who’s reading from her phone.

  “What you boys up to today?” she asks.

  “Dunno,” Tomas replies.

  “The men’s group’s going down to the lake, so I’m busy today,” I call into the kitchen.

  A day away from him. I just need a day away from him and then I’ll get back to normal.

  “Why don’t you take Tomas down there for a look?” Mum interrupts from the sink.

  “But it’s the men’s group,” I say. “For the men in the group.”

  “So what? Tomas is a man, he’s Koori—they won’t mind.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “I don’t have to go,” Tomas says.

  I stay quiet, but I’m heating up.

  “It’s all right—Jackson’s just in a mood,” Mum says. “You’ll be right with him, son.”

  I head upstairs and take a shower. When I get out, Tomas is waiting at the bathroom door with his towel. I walk past him, into my room, and shut the door. I stand there for a moment, until I hear the bathroom door close and the shower come on. I feel so angry and annoyed. I don’t know why. It’s not like me, really.

  I get dressed and wait downstairs with the boys. Kalyn’s truck pulls up out front. He honks his horn, and I roll my eyes again and head out the front door. Jarny’s in the front passenger seat, and the two canoes are in the back.

  “Tomas is coming,” I say. The boys don’t reply, so I turn and wait for him to come through the front door. When he steps out, he’s wearing my loose white shirt and black football shorts. He tiptoes barefoot along the hot stepping stones, and all my anger and annoyance feel like they’re weakening, because his legs are much longer than I’d care to notice.

  I get in the back seat and Tomas gets in from the other side, resting his sketchbook on his lap. Kalyn takes off and we drive through the Mish in the direction of town. I gaze out the window, watching the kids as they race along their lawns, trying to beat us. I watch the dogs as they laze on the road, not moving for anyone. I watch the sun as it beams through the few clouds that dare grow in the sky. I watch anything that isn’t Tomas.

  We arrive in the town and park beside the block of public toilets.

  “Want anything?” Kalyn asks.

  “Just a Coke,” I say, handing him some change from my pocket.

  Jarny follows Kalyn and they disappear around the corner, heading up the street. There’s silence between me and Tomas. I get out of the car, close the door behind me, and lean against it.

  “I’m sorry about last night,” he says through the open window.

  “It’s all right. We don’t need to talk about it.”

  It’s quiet again. I can almost hear him thinking about what to say next.

  “It was pretty weird,” he says. “Will you still help me with my story?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “All good.”

  We don’t speak again until Kalyn and Jarny come back round the corner. Kalyn throws me a can of Coke and I get back into the truck. We spin around and head back towards the Mish. Tomas sketches on a blank page in his book, next to my drawing of the Doolagah. I think he scares me, Tomas. Maybe more than the thought of a Doolagah. Maybe in a different way.

  We come into the Mish, head down the mountain, and turn into the camping ground. We pass Troy and the rest of the campers as they eat lunch. The smell of sizzling meat consumes us.

  We head onto another dirt road, deeper into the bush, and come out at the other end of the lake, stopping at a rusty gate. The other cars of the men’s group are already here. We all get out of the truck, and me and Jarny grab a canoe each. Tomas and Kalyn help us carry them over the fence and down to the lake water. Kalyn and Jarny climb into one and paddle away, and I’m stuck with Tomas.

  “Get in,” I say while the canoe is still planted on the sand. He takes a seat inside and I push the canoe into the lake. I climb into the back and take the paddle to the water.

  We’re quiet as we glide across the lake. In the distance, the campers are swimming about and having such fun. Their laughter carries across the water. Jarny and Kalyn also laugh in their canoe. Tomas stares down into the lake, watching the ripples and the fish as we pass over them.

  “You okay?” he asks, not looking up.

  “Yeah,” I say, though my tone is dull and unrevealing.

  After that, the only sounds between us are those of the paddle against the water, and the head of the canoe breaking through the waves as we travel. Jarny tries to splash us with his paddle, but he’s too far ahead to reach us.

  As we approach the bank, I see the Aboriginal men of the men’s group. They’re behind the trees but reveal themselves as we approach. They’ve brought the younger boys with them as well; they have paint on their hands and speak quietly to each other. One of the elders, Uncle Charlie, is painting the younger boys’ faces; they form a line to meet him. Next to him is Uncle Rex, who I reckon must be about ninety years old now.

  We land the canoe against the bank. I step out into the shallow water and Tomas does the same. I drag the canoe onto the sand and rest it by a tree, and Tomas follows me up the bank to the group.

  Kalyn’s already started working on a dot painting on the ground. He has a large piece of manila cardboard, and he dabs the tip of his paintbrush into the small jars of paint beside him and brings the paintbrush to the cardboard with precision, patience. Jarny is painting beside him, but it’s a landscape. He applies his strokes with a smooth, steady hand.

  “I been workin’ on this one,” I say to Tomas, pointing to a sheet of canvas resting behind a rock farther down the bank. I pull it out to show him. “I don’t paint too much no more.”

  Tomas gazes over the canvas—the sketched outline of a turtle, surrounded by blue and black dots, with its shell at the center of the sheet.

  “Wow,” Tomas says. “It’s nice.” His voice quivers.

  I kneel on the grass and grab the thin paintbrush that rests beside the rock. Taking the canvas over to Kalyn, I dip the brush into the paint beside him, take it to the canvas. I can feel Tomas watching my fingers as I press down and add to the dots around the turtle. I steady my hand and my breathing.

  “Why do youse come down here?” Tomas asks. He hasn’t taken a seat yet.

  I look out at the rest of the men’s group. They all look so comfortable, united. There’s Darryl, painting the white streaks across his son’s body. There’s Uncle Teeter, painting his didgeridoo, which he’s freshly carved from a eucalyptus tree. There’s Uncle Rex, who can’t do very much in his old age and doesn’t talk properly anymore. He walks with a walking frame and is always wearing a nice big brown jacket. Even though he’s old, I think he gains strength from the men when he comes to the group.

  Keeping Uncle Rex company are the brothers Lionel and Eric, painting their own canvases at the bank with their feet resting in the water. They’re the best footy players on the Mish—I remember Mum once said they reminded her of Anthony Mundine and Nathan Blacklock during their footy days. But they got a bit mixed up in the drugs and the drinking, and the stories I heard about them didn’t sound too good. Then Uncle Charlie got them to come to the men’s group, and they’re doing all right these days, I think.

  We’re a big family, each of us related, familiar. Even the younger boys love being painted up and are always eager to learn their dances from Uncle Charlie, even though they get super shy sometimes.

  “It’s a healing for us,” I tell Tomas. “The older ones, the younger ones. Some of us have problems with drugs, grog, family, relationships. Coming here and painting with the other boys heals us. Sometimes we go fishing and camping. It’s men’s business. We’re out on country, on the water. We reconnect with our spirituality.”

  Tomas sits down beside me. “Do you need healing?” he asks.

  “Sometimes,” I reply.

  Uncle Charlie calls us all to gather. We leave our paintings and come together at the bank. We sit in a circle on the sandy dirt, Tomas beside me. He edges his knee towards mine, and I can feel our hairs touching each other so slightly.

  Uncle Charlie wears his buttoned blue shirt and broad-brimmed hat, which is decorated with an emu feather. He holds his bucket in front of him, which he’s filled with gum leaves.

  “It’s been a tough year for a lot of you boys,” he says. “We’ve lost people, we’ve gotten into trouble and gone through some bad times. But each of us turning up here today, that shows our strength. That shows the importance of this group, and how we must stay together and stay united. If not for us, for the little ones.” He points to the younger boys, who are all painted up now. “Don’t these fellas look deadly? They are our future. We need to show them the way, because our culture isn’t getting any younger, but it can always get stronger.”

  We are all silent. We always shut up and listen to Uncle Charlie when he speaks.

  “What’s your name, son?” Uncle Charlie asks, turning his eyes to Tomas.

  “Tomas,” he says, his voice so light and croaky.

  “Where you from, Tomas?”

  “Penrith.”

  Uncle Charlie smiles. “Do you know the country where Penrith is?”

  Tomas shakes his head.

  “Do you know your totem?”

  Tomas shakes his head again.

  “When you go back to Penrith, you should spend time with your elders. I won’t tell you to do it, that decision has to come from you, but you should go to your elders. You should ask them about your country and your totem. Because that is your identity. A blackfella with no identity is a lost blackfella. He don’t know where he belongs.”

  “I don’t know my elders,” Tomas says. The whole group is quiet. “I don’t know my mob.”

  “You don’t know your mob?” Uncle Charlie asks.

  “Nah, not really. One of my caseworkers tried to connect me with things, but I didn’t care. None of that really mattered. I just wanted to have fun, then I ended up in lockup.” Tomas’s voice is so tender, it could break in the wind. “When I got out, they put me with Jackson’s Aunty.”

  “She’ll show you the way, Tomas,” Uncle Charlie says. “You just have to ask, and when she answers, listen to her. You been in trouble, done the wrong thing, made mistakes, but that doesn’t have to be who you are. We all make mistakes. It’s just a part of life, and we all grow a little bit every day.”

  As I listen, I begin to think Uncle Charlie should write a book or something, or go on a speaking tour.

  “You just have to make that decision,” he continues. “You can make a better future for yourself.”

  Tomas doesn’t respond. The rest of the group stays quiet. Uncle Charlie pulls a matchbox from his pocket. He ignites one of the matches and drops it into the bucket of gum leaves, which crackle with the fire. Smoke starts to bellow from the rim.

  “Come through the smoke, Tomas,” Uncle Charlie says. “Let it cleanse you of the bad spirits.”

  Tomas stays sitting for a moment, but stands at the encouragement of Lionel. Uncle Charlie stands to greet him in the center of the circle. He places the bucket on the ground.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20