The coconut children, p.24
The Coconut Children, page 24
‘I don’t know about that anymore.’ To gather his thoughts hurt his head, and trying to speak snuck needles into his throat, but he needed to get these words out if he was to ever sleep again. ‘I used to be so angry all the time because I felt like, every day, the world was ending for me and I couldn’t do nothin’ about it. I didn’t know what would happen to me or anyone around me.’ He was trying his best to keep from mumbling. ‘But it’s different now.
‘The world is still ending again and again, for everybody, but for me . . .’ A jagged pain pierced his skull. He stopped to suppress a groan, then let out a breath and continued on. ‘All I know now is, if the world is ending, I hope it ends with you. You’re the last thing I want to see.’
Sonny’s breath hitched in her throat and by the time she could speak again – only to say his name – she was faced with silence. He had fallen asleep, leaving her to lie awake with his words circling her head again and again.
When the boys visited Vince the next day, he was in an even worse condition. They observed his symptoms – vomiting, persistent headache, loss of balance, disorientation, sleepiness – and diagnosed him with a concussion. They drove him to Alex’s house because he didn’t want his mother to see him like this. The boss took care of Vince’s family while he was recovering; men came by the house once to drop an envelope of money into the mailbox.
Everything was loud and bright and Vince only wanted to get away. He lay on the mattress in Alex’s living-room and groaned, knocked his fist against his skull and tried to evict his headache. He needed to make room for sweet dreams.
‘Yeah?’ Alex called from the kitchen.
‘What?’ Vince said hotly.
‘I thought you were calling me.’
‘If I wanted to call you, I’d say, “Hey, stupid, fat bitch,”’ Vince replied with a wry smile.
Alex grinned and strode into the living-room, tackling an already bedridden Vince, too faint to even move. He wrestled with Vince’s motionless body to mock him. ‘You wanna start something? ’Cause I’ll fuckin’ finish it.’
Vince could only squeeze his eyes shut in annoyance.
Alex looked down at him. ‘You got a headache?’
‘I will if you keep talking.’
‘You want me to call your missus? Get her to come visit you?’
‘Fuck no!’
This was the first time Vince had shown so much expression since he’d been hurt. He winced from the sharpness of his own voice.
‘Why not?’ Alex asked, pleased by his sudden passion.
‘Just don’t,’ he muttered. ‘If you see her, tell her I got the flu. Or whatever’s going around at the moment – I don’t fuckin’ know.’
‘Chlamydia?’
‘Fuck off.’
‘What? STIs are always in season.’
The next few days passed, its contents played out in Vince’s absence. He was stuck somewhere inside of himself. The only thing he remembered was Alex, or Tim Tam, or Danny feeding him a painkiller and holding a glass of water to his lips and saying, ‘Wake up to yourself. You’re living in a dream, bro.’
Without Vince in them, Sonny’s days inched by and by. She missed him terribly, and felt foolish for it. Had he been hurt? Had forgotten enemies finally caught up with him? Had being around drugs got him into a bad habit? The time that passed only deepened her suspicion: that after all that had been said about him, after his arrests and his time away, you’d think she’d have found a safer place to keep her heart. Sonny told herself he was more trouble than he would ever be worth. Now all that was left was to make herself believe it.
Almost two weeks had gone since Vince’s walkie-talkie confession, and the memory of it – his soft, faltering voice – would not leave her alone. She stood in front of the sink and washed her cereal bowl, wondering where he was and looking up at the sky as if he would be suspended from a parachute. When Sonny looked back down at her garden, Vince’s face beamed at her, at once eclipsing the sun. He was talking to her father over the fence. When she noticed that he looked just fine, her own symptoms went away. She hadn’t known that love came in a liquid form, that a boy could be both snakebite and antivenom.
While he and her father spoke, Sonny picked up pieces like ‘top soil’ and ‘spring-flowering bulbs’ and ‘free horse manure outside the racecourse in Warwick Farm’. She watched from the kitchen, taking particular care with this particular porcelain bowl. She looked down quickly when her father came back into the house.
Scrubbing away at the enamel of the already-sparkling crockery, Sonny asked, ‘What were you talking to him about, ba?’
‘Oh, I was just giving him some gardening advice. He wants to fix up his backyard for his family in time for spring,’ her father explained. ‘He’s a sweet kid.’
He’s a sweet kid.
‘Sweet?’ she repeated, as though to doubt it.
‘Yeah, very thoughtful. He saw me struggling to climb onto the roof –’
‘Why did you have to climb on the roof?’ she asked, alarmed.
‘Your mum wanted me to put some rat poison up there.’
Sonny scowled in disappointment. Her mother was always ordering him to do the dangerous work around the house.
‘It’s okay, Sonny. Vince saw me and climbed up there himself to do the job for me.’
‘Is he sick?’ she asked, trying to strip her voice of any sympathy she would not give indiscriminately.
‘Yeah, has been for some time now. He said it’s his first time getting out of bed in days.’ Then he paused to look at her. ‘How did you know he was sick?’
Sonny panicked under those all-seeing eyes.
‘Just a guess. I haven’t seen him at Drama class in a while,’ Sonny said, drying her hands on the kitchen towel roughly. She looked at her father as if to ask, How much do you know?
‘Oh, I see.’
That night, at 11.20 pm, he finally called.
‘Hey, Baby Blue.’
‘Vince?’ So he was still alive, she thought to herself. Not good enough. She cleared her throat and tried to be stoic. ‘I heard you were sick.’
Vince smiled to himself. ‘Yeah, I caught something pretty bad,’ he said, straining his voice. He needed to maximise his suffering just to see how she would react; felt himself entitled to some affection, even if it was as simple as hearing the concern in her voice.
‘You can’t just go and disappear whenever you get sick,’ Sonny said. Would he get the wrong impression and think she’d been worried about him this whole time? ‘It’s – it’s bad manners.’
‘I’m sorry, Baby Blue. I’ve just been out of it for a while.’
‘Have you been to the doctor?’
‘I can fight it off myself,’ he said, as a peace offering.
‘I can help you fight it,’ she said, as an invitation to war.
‘How?’
‘Come over to my room.’
‘Now?’
‘Now!’
‘What for?’
‘I’ve got something that’ll cure you.’
‘It’s alright, Sonny, I –’
‘Are you sick or what?’
‘I am!’
‘Well, then let me see you,’ she argued, before adding, ‘or are you just a big fat liar?’
Without another word, Vince got out of bed and went to the backyard. Whilst he was hurtling himself over the fence, Sonny had turned off her bedroom lights and was sitting on her bed, fidgeting with the touch lamp to figure out the perfect dimness to set the mood. Her head snapped to the door as soon as she heard his knock.
‘Come in,’ she called.
Vince found Sonny sitting on the side of her bed, contemplating, it seemed, the colour of her shadow. He looked at the posters of boy bands and the glow-in-the-dark stars plastered onto her walls. Something about the sight of piled books brought a feeling of admiration for her. Even the bodice-rippers. Vince adored the quaint cottage ambience of the floral bedsheets and the brass lamp, which burned a light they used to play shadow puppets against. The Bedtime Bear and the buck-toothed Bugs Bunny on her bed seemed to welcome him in. The Eeyore finger puppet he’d got her was sitting upright by her pillow. He laughed inwardly at the way the diffused lighting softened the two of them into almost-silhouettes.
‘What?’ Vince said, grinning at her as he closed the door. ‘You couldn’t light some candles?’
He backed away as soon as he saw the green medicated oil and metal spoon in her hands.
‘Oh, no,’ he said, and laughed quickly. ‘Nah, I’m good, thank you.’
‘It’ll help you!’ Sonny said firmly, holding her tools of healing like a broken glass bottle. ‘You probably got sick in the first place ’cause it’s cold and you think you’re too tough to wear a jacket. I just gotta take the wind out of you and you’ll be fine.’
She stood up and patted her bed, motioning for him to lie down.
‘Sonny,’ he winced.
‘You can handle it. It won’t hurt any more than any of your fights.’
Vince huffed, got on the bed, and took off his shirt. Sonny’s breath sucked as she drank in the sight of his bare back. Shadows fell on his skin and carved out the curvature of his spine, his rippling muscles, the basin between his shoulder blades. He lay down and waited. Sonny made a show of kneeling between his legs, sitting on the edge of the bed and twisting her back towards him, only to give up on all these positions with a huff. Finally, she straddled the back of his thighs; but not before remarking, ‘I know it’s hard but you’re just gonna have to control yourself, Vince.’
They laughed together and Sonny dabbed the oil over his back, kneading it with the heel of her hand. The smell of menthol and herbal love filled the air. Vince flinched and grabbed hold of the bed sheets before the cold metal spoon could even touch his skin. He heard her smile from behind him, or, rather, on top of him.
‘Sonny,’ he pleaded, turning over his shoulder to look back at her. ‘Be gentle, please.’
She laughed loudly as she started her work.
‘Oh, what the fuck,’ Vince groaned. He stared up at the black buttoned eyes of her toys, trying to find some consolation. ‘Amituofo, amituofo, amituofo, amituofo.’
Sonny scraped his back with the edge of the spoon in firm motions. She worked from his spine and scraped outwards as he squirmed beneath her. He was warmer than she could have imagined. The smell of menthol rose from his searing skin, mixed with his sweat and something unmistakably masculine. Sonny’s breath hitched in her throat and she wondered if he felt the same nerves that she did. What would her parents suppose they were doing in her bedroom if they were to wake up in the middle of the night to his groaning?
‘Will you please be fucking quiet?’
‘Sorry.’
After no time at all, the streaks on his back turned deep red and purple.
‘You trúng gió really bad,’ Sonny said, twisting the cap back on the oil. ‘But it’s a good thing we got all the wind out of you.’
‘Yeah, thanks.’ He turned back to give her a grin and pulled his shirt over his head.
‘Vince? What is that?’
‘What?’ he asked, swiping his hands over his shirt frantically to check for cockroaches.
‘That!’ Sonny cried, pulling up the hem of his shirt. ‘When did you get that?’
‘Oh, that!’ he said in relief. He pulled the bottom of his shirt up higher so she could see the entirety of the anatomical artwork, which included his hard-earnt abdominal muscles. ‘A while ago – I got it at Parra with the boys.’
‘What does it say?’ she asked, touching it as if to test whether or not tattoos smeared, finding any excuse to feel him.
‘You ever played Street Fighter?’ – Sonny nodded – ‘You know Blanka? It’s his victory quote. When he wins, he says, “Now you know the power of the wild!”, or some shit like that.’
‘Oh my god,’ she cried, crumpling over herself and burying her face in the pillow. ‘You know what? I’m just glad it wasn’t an ancient Chinese proverb.’
When they finished laughing and Sonny finally lifted her head, she wiped away a tear stain on the pillow. ‘So,’ she said, drying her eyes, still giggling. ‘I heard you’re starting to work on the backyard.’
‘Oh, your dad told you about that?’
She nodded. ‘Are you gonna plant flowers like how your mum used to?’
‘Yeah! I’ve been thinkin’ where to get them.’
‘Hmm . . . when we were little, we’d just creep into people’s front yards and steal their flowers.’
‘Hey, that’s not a bad idea! Alright, let’s go flower picking sometime then!’
‘I think you’re getting a bit ahead of yourself. You can’t go anywhere like this,’ she reprimanded, as if it were his fault for getting sick. She stared straight ahead at the wall in front of them.
Vince smiled to himself. He couldn’t remember ever being so pleased to listen to someone’s grumbling. He held Sonny’s head and pulled her close, cradling her to his shoulder. To his surprise, she relented as though her spine was made of melting wax.
‘I’ll get better soon,’ he said. Then, Vince touched his knuckles to Sonny’s cheek and almost burnt himself. ‘Careful, feels like you’re getting a fever yourself.’
Before he could even think of leaning in, her elbow whacked him in the face. ‘Get out!’
He could feel a bruise starting to form on his cheek, the colour of a kiss. Vince kept his promise – he recovered quickly after that day. He did as Sonny’s father instructed and turned over the soil, put down the grass seeds and kept the garden with always enough water to sip. Now Emma was allowed to play outside, and even the sun took a little longer to set.
Chapter 17
Getting to Gold
Spring was on its way, and Vince had anticipated its arrival before anyone else. At the corner of every street, and in the expression of every face, you could find something to praise. Girls let their hair out and kept the sun in the corner of their eyes like a childhood drawing. Boys buffed their cars to catch the light, and when they smiled they looked, if you’ll believe it, briefly at peace with the world.
The season took a little longer to reach Sonny. It tapped on her window and invited her to come out to play, but she ignored its calls. Vince had imagined this weather would be prime trampolining time. When he was outside edging the lawn or putting down fertiliser, he often glanced over the fence, expecting to see her leaping body. He was faced with languid air; her absence marked every inch of the world. He heard her mother’s screams; even louder, he heard Sonny’s silence. She was stuck in the pinball machine of her home.
Vince stewed, waited for nightfall and reached for the walkie-talkie when the lights went out in the house next door.
‘Hey, Sonny. Things not going too good at home?’
He lay in bed, waiting for a reply, wondering if she were asleep.
‘No,’ Sonny said, finally. Vince felt himself freeze at the wobbliness of her voice in that single syllable. ‘Not too good.’
‘What happened?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said, trying to steady her breath. ‘I don’t know why she gets like this. I just forgot to fold the fucking clothes.’
‘My poor Baby Blue.’ He couldn’t remember having ever folded an article of clothing in his entire life.
‘I cried so much that I got a headache. And I feel so dehydrated.’
He made no reply.
‘Vince?’
Sonny counted the forty-two seconds that passed. Then his voice returned.
‘Hey.’
‘Hello? Where’d you go?’
‘Open your door.’
‘Huh?’
‘Your door, Sonny. Open it.’
Sonny crawled to the end of the bed and reached for the doorknob. Just outside, right in the middle of the threshold, was a ceramic mug. Without thinking, her eyes tricked her into seeing kiss-curls of steam rising from the rim. Would the aroma of cocoa pull her in for a warm hug? Would two melting marshmallows make gooey eyes at her? She could already taste the slow, dark decadence and feel the whipped-cream moustache that was to dangle above her smile.
As she inched closer to the mug and peered inside, her eyes were splashed with a cold, chemical blue. There was a metal spoon inside, and the liquid was still swirling in the cup from the competence of Vince’s stirring.
‘Why’d you give me Powerade?’ Sonny asked, cracking up. ‘Is this your idea of comfort food?’
‘No, just thought you might’ve cried so hard that you’ve got to replenish your electrolytes now.’
Her stomach grumbled at the unavailability of hot chocolate. Her heart grinned at the warmth of Vince’s gesture. ‘Thank you.’
‘Don’t worry about it. Just leave it outside when you’re done and I’ll get it in the morning.’
She thought of Vince filling the cup with tap water and mixing in a heaped spoon of electric-blue powder to leave at her door. The two-ingredient recipe was simple enough. But as she took a gulp, Sonny finally understood how strange it felt to have somebody care for you, simply because they wanted to.
She pressed her lips to the walkie-talkie. ‘Can we just run away together?’
Vince laughed. He knew she used the word together in the most practical sense – he was the only person she knew with a car. He knew how fickle she was too; how she could only resent her loved ones for so long. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to imagine.
‘Where could we go?’ he thought aloud.
Thursday evening. With the sunset gently melting, the boys sat to smoke in the backyard. They had been discussing Cabramatta’s most recent casualty. Last week, a gang of young men had stormed into the function hall of a Year 10 formal and dragged a kid down the staircase. Four shots to the face. Execution style. They threw his body out of a plate-glass window and left him there for all to see. It sent a clear message: skimming drug money carries a death sentence. While the others talked about the laws that governed the lawless, the imaginary lines between territories, Vince could only think of the blood-stained blazer the boy would never live to return to his father’s wardrobe. The wood of the wardrobe, the wood of the coffin.
