Call Me Evie, page 10
We walked around the gallery looking at the work of a famous photographer from Ankara, Turkey.
Stopping before an image of an old man, we stood side by side, my hand so close to Thom’s that my fingertips tingled. I could feel his warmth, a sort of energy between my skin and his. I looked down at his hand, then up at the image again. The colors were saturated. The creases in the old man’s skin were dark, as though filled with grime, and his individual facial hairs stabbed through his skin like a thousand blades of grass.
Thom tilted his head and I wondered what he was seeing. His parents had bought him a real camera and his Instagram account was stocked with hundreds of photos he had taken. Some were abstract—a blue sky bisected by a plane’s vapor trail. Others documented his trips through India, Japan, and Europe with his parents.
As if reading my mind, he said, “Great photographers can take something ordinary and find a way to make it beautiful.” I expected him to be joking, but he wasn’t smiling; he looked earnest. “I want to take photos like that.”
I smiled, wishing he would take my hand as we continued around the rest of the exhibition. I stood close to him and when it came time to leave, he touched my lower back, guiding me toward the exit. When he took his hand away again, my skin tingled with warmth.
“What’s next?”
“Gelato, of course.”
He led me along Flinders Lane to a tiny shop. Inside, we sat by the window and shared a bowl of gelato. The rain had stopped, although the wind was still strong. A newspaper flapped in the gutter like an agitated swan. Thom pointed out couples passing by the window, putting on funny voices as he invented their conversations. When I tilted my head back to laugh, he raised his phone and took a picture.
“Show me,” I said, still laughing at the voices he had given the strangers outside.
He held the phone behind his back. “It’s good,” he said. “Very photogenic subject.”
I took another scoop of gelato, then reached past him for his phone. Our faces were almost cheek to cheek. He tried out another voice and I clamped my lips together to keep the melting gelato from dribbling down my chin and onto my white shirt as I laughed. Instead it erupted out of my nose. Fuck. Then he was laughing too. I buried my face in my hands, tears of laughter pricking the corners of my eyes.
“That was the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.”
I was aware that I would probably never look more ridiculous than I did now, with passion fruit gelato dripping from my nose, but part of me didn’t care. He’d called me cute. His hand landed on the back of my own before I realized it. When I looked up he was watching me, his smile traveling from his lips to his dark eyes. It hurt how badly I wanted him to kiss me.
We headed to Flinders Street station, and on the train home he took my hand in his and I rested my head on his shoulder. He walked me to the corner of my street but I wouldn’t let him come any farther. I didn’t want Dad seeing us.
“We live so close,” he said.
“I know.”
“Here, I got you a souvenir.” He pulled something from the pocket of his coat—a postcard. On the front was the photo of the old man from the gallery. I hadn’t seen him buy it. We’d been together the whole time.
“Thank you,” I said, holding it to my chest. “How did you get it?”
He gave me a wink. The idea of his stealing something was exciting. I should have given it more weight, but the hammering of a smitten heart is so much louder than the conscience.
Our first date established the pattern for the next few: Dad dropping me at the movies or the mall, Thom walking me home afterward and presenting me with some small token—a snow globe, a pen, a flashlight—when we parted at the corner of my street. “It’s easy,” he would say of his newfound hobby, producing a key chain still in its plastic. “Like magic.”
* * *
• • •
Walking home from school that next week, I stopped to take some photos of myself in front of the city skyline, faded blue in the spring light, thinking I would choose one to send to Thom. I’d found that when he took photos or short videos of me, it gave me a surge of confidence. I’d hated the idea of selfies until we started going out.
A car pulled up to the curb beside me. I didn’t look at first, just resumed walking, plugging my earphones into my ears, my gaze fixed ahead.
The window on the passenger side slid down. “Kate, is that you?”
Willow’s dad. Had he seen me taking selfies?
“Hi,” I said, my cheeks burning. I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “Where’s Willow?”
“She’s at home. You need a lift?”
“That’s okay—it’s not so far.”
“Come on,” he said, pushing the door open. Poking out of the sleeve of his linen shirt, on the inside of his forearm, I saw a small black tattoo of a heart. A real heart. A beating human heart. His arms were tanned and thick with hair. I wondered if he had any more tattoos hidden away.
I climbed in, closed the door, and reached for my seat belt. “Thanks,” I said. “I’ll direct you.”
“Kate . . .” He turned to me with a smile. “I know where you live.”
Fourteen
The day I met Thom’s mum it was an anniversary. That’s what he called the fifth day of each of the three months that had passed since our first date, the fifth day of September. I was thrilled he took the small milestones so seriously.
We met at the place we’d dubbed the spot—where we had finally shared our first kiss—right under the eucalyptus tree in the park at the end of Thom’s street. There had been other kisses since then, but I felt an inner warmth every time we passed by the spot. I would always think about that moment when I stood on my toes and leaned forward, our lips touching, my hands on his biceps.
It wasn’t excitement I felt as he led me to meet his mum. My nerves were crackling and my stomach twisted.
“Mum knows you’re coming,” he said as he led me along by my hand. “I’ve told her all about you. Let me guess, Bomber Bennet hasn’t even heard my name yet, has he?” He was right; I hadn’t mentioned him to Dad.
“He can be a bit protective,” I said defensively.
“A bit?” he said. “What about the thing with the paparazzo? The guy is a legend.”
I didn’t know what he meant at first, then the incident came back to me. It had been more than a decade ago. There’d been a guy hovering with a camera as Dad led Mum from the hospital to the car. Dad had snatched the front of the man’s shirt and drawn his fist back, but at the last second his fist had transformed into a pointing finger, veins in his throat, his teeth gritted between words. That’s the image a lot of people associated with him. Dad ripping the camera from the man’s hand, holding the man against a wall with his forearm, and placing the camera on the footpath before driving away. Six months after that photograph made it onto the front page of the Sun, Mum would be dead.
“The guy deserved it,” I said, controlling my voice and my impulse to defend him. Not that he needed defending. I didn’t want this conversation heading in the direction of Mum, I didn’t want Thom to talk about her. So I added, “Dad is nothing like that in real life, you know.”
As we neared the door of Thom’s house—small and neat, white weatherboard with terra-cotta roof tiles—I pulled my hand from his and tightened my ponytail; I cut my hair so rarely that when it was loose it hung almost to my waist. I shoved my hands into the pockets of my jeans.
When Thom opened the door a gust of heat rushed out, followed by the rich aromas of rosemary, garlic, a lamb roasting in the oven. I could picture his mother: floral apron, red lipstick, loving gaze.
Inside, the walls were stark white, except for the art: single-colored paintings of shapes I could recognize but couldn’t quite place, as if I were looking at something familiar through an unfocused lens. We stopped to remove our shoes, placing them in a steel rack.
“Come say hi to Mum.”
I followed him up the hall, the polished wooden floorboards chilly through my socks.
“Mum,” he called.
We emerged into a small kitchen with copper pots hung above the stovetop.
“Well, hello,” she said. Her voice had the crispness of a schoolteacher, and her demeanor was serious, almost stern. She was rinsing her hands at the sink. “You must be Kate.”
“Hi,” I said. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Moreau.”
“Call me Suzie.” She smeared her hand down her apron, then offered it.
“She speaks French, Mum,” Thom said with pride. I rolled my eyes at him.
“Peux-tu parler français?” she asked.
“Oui. J’apprends lentement.”
“Très bien. Persévère,” she said. “Thom m’a tout dit de toi.”
Thom raised his eyebrows. “All right, Mum, I can understand that. You’re just showing off. You too, Kate.”
His mum batted him with a folded tea towel, then turned back to the stove.
“I’m still learning, so I’m not great,” I said.
“Nonsense, your pronunciation is perfect,” Suzie said.
Thom showed me around. The lounge room was small and conspicuously TV-free. One corner was lined with built-in bookshelves. He pointed out to the yard, where rain was beginning to fall.
“That’s the veg garden and out there in the kennel is Che, our Labrador. Named after the socialist revolutionary or barbaric executioner. You know, depending on who you ask.”
He led me back down the hallway, pointing out his parents’ room and the bathroom, then his mum’s studio, where he stopped. “No one is allowed in there.”
I supposed that room for Thom was like the upstairs bathroom at the house in Portsea for me—somewhere I could never go.
He led me into his room and closed the door.
His room was big, almost as big as the lounge. The walls were plain white, with no posters or pictures except for a long string of photos, mostly black and white, pegged along.
“So no TV, huh?”
“You noticed?” he said, flopping onto his bed. “Growing up it was kind of weird. I know it’s a bit of a trend now, the whole ‘no TV’ thing, but my parents have been like that since I was little. If I wasn’t into photography they’d probably have a thing about me having my laptop in my room.”
“What did you do for fun?”
“I don’t know. Scrabble. Thankfully the iPhone killed off all board games.”
“Scrabble’s not dead.”
“Of course you’re into Scrabble. I should have known you were too good to be true.”
I looked around the shelves and walls for any memento of his swimming days, but there was nothing. My eyes fell on the string of photos.
He leaned back on his bed and laced his fingers behind his head. His eyes met mine. A subtle wink. I could feel a blush coming on in my cheeks.
“What’s your favorite photo?”
“That I’ve taken?”
“No, just any photo.”
“Well, there are a lot from the Vietnam War . . . a whole series of them that are really powerful.”
“Powerful how?”
“There’s this photo that won the Pulitzer Prize. It’s of children running from a napalm attack. And a photo of a man seconds before his execution. Literally standing there with a gun to his head.”
“Sounds gruesome.”
“It is. But that’s reality.” He smiled. “It’s important to see the world the way it is. You can’t do anything about it if you’re not aware.”
“I guess.”
He sat up and gently nudged my arm with his fingertips. “Also, if my mum asks, my favorite photo is anything by Henri Cartier-Bresson.”
“Can I see your camera?”
He reached beneath the bed to retrieve a black case. He pulled the camera out and handed it to me. I clicked back through his photos: dozens of pictures of a tree, the twisting limbs reaching up into a marbled gray sky. Then a photo of a bloody dead bird.
“Gross,” I said.
“Oh, that—Che managed to finally catch one in the yard.” He took the camera from my hands, twisted off the long thick lens, and put on a short stubby one.
“Smile,” he said, bringing the camera to his eye. The shutter snapped with a crisp click, then again and again. He looked down at the screen. “You photograph really well. You’re beautiful through the lens.”
Beautiful. The word reverberated in my head. “Let me see.”
“Nope. I’m a man of principle; I never share my raw material.” The camera disappeared behind his back. I reached for it. He drew me closer, on top of him.
“A man, huh?” I teased.
He took my hand and placed it on his chest, leaning up for a kiss. “Is this man enough?”
I slid my palm over his shoulder and down his arm. His hands roamed my body, working down my spine. . . .
Thom’s house became our routine after that, his room our haven. I knew at some point I’d have to bring him home to meet Dad, but not yet. Not while things still felt so new.
PART THREE
Something Has Happened
In the past month, how often have you experienced memories that have made you upset, sad, or afraid?
0. never; 1. rarely; 2. sometimes; 3. often; 4. all the time
Fifteen
DISPATCHER: Emergency Services. Do you require police, fire, or ambulance?
CALLER: Ambulance. And I think police too.
DISPATCHER: Okay. Can you state your name?
CALLER: Peter Turner.
DISPATCHER: And the address where you require assistance?
CALLER: Well, I’m near the park on Central Road. I don’t know the street. I was just walking along and there’s someone slumped on the curb.
DISPATCHER: Central Hawkesburn.
CALLER: Correct. Yes.
DISPATCHER: Hawkesburn Park.
CALLER: Yes, I think so.
DISPATCHER: Are you with the victim now?
CALLER: Yes. He’s facedown on the road. There’s blood. As in under his head.
DISPATCHER: Have you touched the victim?
CALLER: No. I’ve just found him. Can you hurry, please?
DISPATCHER: Does the victim appear to be breathing?
CALLER: It’s hard to tell. I called and he didn’t move. I mean, he’s not moving at all.
DISPATCHER: Does the victim’s air passage appear to be obstructed in any way?
CALLER: Um. No. I wouldn’t say so.
DISPATCHER: An ambulance and the police are on their way. Can you stay put until they get there?
CALLER: Yeah. That’s fine.
DISPATCHER: It’s important that you do not touch anything.
CALLER: Yes, I’ll just stay here.
DISPATCHER: They will be with you shortly.
AFTER
Sixteen
The door slams and the house shudders. Jim drops the bag of groceries on the table and jams the charger into his mobile phone. He breathes deeply, holding himself over the kitchen counter. Taking his glasses off, he presses his thumb and forefinger into his eyelids. An electric mood fills the room with the weight of the air before a storm.
I turn back from where I’m sitting on the couch. “Hey,” I say.
He doesn’t look up.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Eyes flick open, glasses back on.
I step closer. “Did I do something?”
He traps me with his eyes. He’s aged. The withering of the past three weeks is there in the lines bracketing his mouth and the skin hanging from his jaw. Then the moment passes and he looks away.
“No, it’s not you.” He goes to the sink and rinses his hands. “I just chipped the windscreen.”
The color in his neck climbs to his cheeks, shines at his crown through his brown hair, then fades. He sighs.
“Did you have an accident?” I ask.
“No, no, nothing like that,” he says, frowning. He studies me as though I am an equation on a blackboard, something he knows he can solve if only he really focuses. There’s a pulse visible at his temple. “I just wish things could be easier for us, that’s all.”
I shift my gaze to the hills out the window. Is it only this time of year that the grass is damp and frosted in patches all day and the windows are fogged until noon? Some trees are electric green, some pale with spindly arms. Behind me a pot slams in the kitchen. “For fuck’s sake.” A cupboard bangs closed. “Why are these dishes out? Kate? You need to put the fucking dishes away.”
“What happened while you were out?” I ask, anxious now. “It makes me scared when you’re like this. Did you see someone?”
He shakes his head, the anger coming off him like heat. “Why is it important to you?”
I turn to face him. “You never tell me the truth.”
He’s on me in a flash, grabbing my upper arm.
Angry tears are stinging the corners of my eyes. “I’m seventeen,” I remind him. “Not a child.”
“Well, you’ve shown me just how much of an adult you are, haven’t you? Why else would we be in this town?” As if noticing my tears for the first time, he makes an irritated sound with his tongue. “Don’t cry, all right? Just stop it with the crying.”
“You used to treat me like an adult.”
“I know,” he says through gritted teeth.
“What happened today? Why are you so upset?”
“Just some kids throwing stones. Down near the estuary. They were eight or nine years old, they threw stones, that’s it. It just made me angry. When I stopped the car they didn’t even run away. I wish I could call the police.”
