Happy as Larry (7 page)

‘It's okay. We could go to the park. I'll ask my mum if it's okay.'

Denise laughed, but not out loud. When she turned the life-sized doll and revealed its featureless stockinged face, Larry gasped and took a step back in complete horror. She saw him shiver. He ran from the room.

She found him on his bed, his face pressed into the pillow, body shaking. She rubbed his shoulder.

‘Sorry, Larry, I didn't mean to frighten you. I didn't think . . .'

Larry rolled onto his side. He was laughing. ‘I thought it was real! I thought it was a real kid, not a doll!'

They laughed together, but when she came into the lounge later where Larry was watching an old black-and-white
Gilligan's Island
, she found the doll lying down behind the couch.

To Mal, the making of the dolls had a bizarre feel of Frankenstein's monster about it. He was certain Dr Freud would have had something interesting to say on the topic. But he resisted the urge to push the dolls out of sight. They were disturbing, but they were
something
. He made enough wood-and-wire frames one Sunday after fishing to keep Denise occupied for a couple of months. She bought clothes from second-hand shops and stumbled upon an elderly volunteer at a Salvation Army thrift shop who offered to sell finished dolls on consignment through her stall at the Villea Sunday market.

And they sold.

One Wednesday night when Denise was at the film club and the lounge was glutted with sulking dolls, the boys found a new and vastly improved use for them.

Mal was bowling his son across the shiny floorboards in the lounge and Larry, spinning uncontrollably, accidentally kicked the legs out from under a doll. It hit the floor with a satisfying crack and brought another down as it fell. Mal then propped the dolls against each other until they resembled the pins in a bowling alley.

With his arms clamped around his head, Larry became the ball and earned a few small but gratifying bruises knocking the dolls down.

The game ended in breathless laughter when a doll lost its head.

Mal made the repairs, but the dolls never looked spooky again.

GILLIGAN

P
PRINCE
C
HARLES AND
Princess Diana went public about their plans to divorce the day before Larry's sixth birthday. The news brought Denise to the point of sniffles, but it was a little outpouring compared to the tears Larry cried on his birthday, the difference being that Larry's were tears of joy.

Mal made his boy a bike. It was cobbled together from hard-garbage wrecks salvaged in May and de-rusted with black paint from a spray can at a total cost of six dollars. The mongrel bike – with its odd-coloured training wheels and ‘Par Avion' stickers – made Larry squeal with delight, but it was the mongrel puppy that came with it that reduced him to tears. The dog was the runt from Dominic Evans's neighbour's dog's sixth accidental litter and it had arrived home on that Saturday afternoon in Mal's jacket pocket.

It was love at first sight, and, for the first time in Larry's life, there was no doubt that the feelings were mutual.

The dog's pedigree, had it been traceable, would have read like a canine shopping list. It had a grey, wiry-looking outer coat over rusty puppy fluff that was the softest thing Larry had ever felt; softer than rabbit fur, softer than Denise's doll stuffing, softer than cotton wool. He couldn't keep it away from his face.

‘Has it been wormed?' Denise asked.

‘Well, I . . . no . . . I don't think so.'

‘Not on your face, then, darling.'

But Larry couldn't resist. The puppy had a pink tongue that licked at the speed of sound and mopped up his tears of delight before they'd left his cheeks. Its fully turbo-charged tail just didn't stop ticking.

‘How much was . . . it? He or she?'

‘It's a he,' Mal said, his own eyes misting at Larry's palpable delight. ‘Free to a good home.'

Denise hugged her husband's elbow. ‘What are you going to call him, Larry?'

Larry looked at the dog's face. His eyes lit up.

‘Gilligan!'

Gilligan, unlike Larry's other pets, survived. Vince taught him to sit during afternoon tea, using biscuit crumbs for rewards. When Jemma came over after school, she and Larry would dress the dog up and walk him in the park. Gilligan rarely barked, except at Clinton Miller, who had picked him up by the ears on one of their first meetings.

Clinton came over every night after school. Denise was wary, but felt sorry for him. She fed him Oreos and apples and spoke to him the same way she spoke to Larry. In her presence, Clinton was well-mannered, but as soon as her back was turned, he changed.

‘Stop it, Clinton.'

‘Stop what?'

‘Stop kicking me. I'll tell my mum.'

Kick. Kick. Kick.

‘I'll call the police.'

‘My dad's a policeman. If he comes, he'll kick you, too.'

‘I thought your dad was a doctor?'

‘He is. He's a doctor policeman. He gets paid a million dollars. A million dollars a week.'

‘My dad's a postman.'

‘I know that, idiot.'

Kick. Kick. Kick.

While Larry was getting his bike from the shed one Thursday, Clinton decided to explore Mal's piles of salvaged gear.

‘Hey, you're not allowed in here,' Larry said.

‘Well, I'm here, aren't I?'

‘Clinton, stop it.'

But Clinton ignored him. He found a cigarette lighter and, using both hands, managed to produce a flame after three strikes.

‘Muuuum,' Larry sang.

‘Shh. Shut up,' Clinton hissed, his eyes scanning for something to burn. He made the paint blister on the edge of the table.

‘Mum!'

Clinton melted the end of a ballpoint pen and made the flame lick against the lacy plastic curtain in the louvre window. The curtain ignited with a pop and quickly became a sheet of flame. Clinton dropped the lighter and ran straight out the side gate, across the road without looking and through his screen door. Larry could only watch as the curtain turned to burning liquid and dropped to the concrete floor. Memories of the Fishburn Street house paralysed him, but the flames died and grey smoke rolled out the door. Larry collected the lighter and pushed on the blackened remains of the curtain with the toe of his shoe.

‘What is it?' Denise said.

Larry jumped and dropped the lighter.

‘What's burning? What have you done? What have you
done
?'

Larry cried and ran to his bed, but Clinton was back the next night.

Gilligan was the only one who saw through Clinton's façade. He always kept one eye on him and nipped Clinton if he played too roughly with Larry. The dog became the little boy's older brother, protector and favourite toy. He slept on Larry's bed, and when Larry was at school he never left Denise's side.

‘He's a good dog,' Vince said. He'd brought over a shopping bag full of plump mandarins from the tree in his back yard and Denise made him a cup of tea.

‘He is,' she agreed, thankful the dog couldn't talk. She'd told him things she'd never tell another human. He was a good listener. The best. When life got the better of her, he sat at her feet and stared up with his oakwood eyes.

Vince told the dog to sit, sipped his tea, and then rubbed Gilligan's ears. The dog leaned into him and closed his eyes blissfully. ‘They take on the personality of their owners.'

Denise looked at the old man. What did Betsy say about him?

‘Betsy's Muriel's dog,' he said, as if he'd read her mind.

Denise chuckled. ‘What would your dog be like?'

‘I had a dog once. A poodle named Rocky. Smartest thing on four legs. He could do all the tricks but we had a sort of telepathic connection, I reckon.'

He looked up, eyes misted. ‘Got me through some pretty rough times, old Rocky. He was a good friend.'

Denise's throat grew tight. She called Gilligan over and buried her face in his neck. She thought about hugging her neighbour but the thought was as close as she got. Hugging the dog was uncomplicated. She'd never had pets as a kid; never really had friends. They'd moved around too much for that. It was this house, this dog, this neighbour bringing her undone. Sometimes, the light of contentment made the shadows in her past seem darker.

TRYING TO
FLY

T
HE YEAR
1997 unfolded as the year of cosmological adventures: the space shuttle docked with the Russian Mir space station, the first probe landed on Mars and disappointingly found no Martians, and the comet Hale-Bopp came so close to Earth that the Rainbows could see it from their back yard. In that year, the year he turned seven, Larry became aware of habits that had formed around him.

Mal had a beer habit. It involved cleaning, mixing, bottling, tasting, sharing, laughing.

Denise had developed an Oreo habit which included buying, opening, splitting, scraping, crunching, sighing.

And they shared a news habit that made him feel alone. If he opened his mouth from five-thirty onwards, he'd be shushed into submission unless he timed his words to coincide with the ad breaks. When the TV died, Mal couldn't fix it, so he went out late on Friday night and bought a new set, a bigger set, with a remote control. The ad breaks seemed to disappear altogether. Larry realised his dad surfed three channels' news bulletins to avoid them.

At that point, Larry developed a habit. When the news started, he'd stand in front of the TV until somebody got mad. When they growled at him, he'd step to the side and then slowly inch back in front of the screen.

‘Laaaaarry. How many times have I told you to stay away from the TV? Move. Now. Please.'

That was his cue to step to the side again and begin his creep anew.

‘Larry!' Denise would shout, and Mal would get up from his chair.

Larry would run into the yard and indulge his best friend.

Gilligan had a stick habit. A habit they could share. Find, drop, (throw), find, drop, (throw), find, drop, (throw), find, drop, (throw), find, drop . . . drop . . . drop . . . bark, (throw). He preferred sticks tossed by Larry but would chase anything thrown by anybody: flying toys, balls, sand, shells, toadies.

Gilligan became so obsessive about his stick habit that it almost cost him his life.

Mal had taken to fishing the deeper part of the channel with an old bamboo surf rod. Larry loved the whipping sound it made as his father cast a heavy sinker into the blackest part of the inlet.

On the Sunday in question, Larry noticed the sinker – poised behind Mal ready to be flung into the deep – bounce against Gilligan's left ear.

The dog spun around and spotted the lump of grey metal dangling near his snout. It jiggled enticingly and as he stepped up to sniff it, it took off.

So did Gilligan.

He careened into Mal's leg before launching himself under the handrail and off the edge of the jetty.

Larry, Mal and the Crew had time to suck a collective breath as Gilligan vanished. They held that breath.

There was no little doggy-bomb into the water three metres below: instead, there was a dull metallic thud. A solid wave of bodies surged to the handrail and began laughing.

The dog had landed in a boat, an aluminium dinghy moored fore and aft to the pylons of the jetty. It nodded on the swell and Gilligan stood in the bow, tail wagging slowly, stunned but apparently unhurt; a living canine figurehead.

It took ten minutes to rescue him. Mal climbed back up the ladder with one hand and Gilligan squirming and licking at his face, wedged under his arm.

‘Maybe we should leave him at home next Sunday,' Mal said. His eyes had narrowed the way they did when Larry stood in front of the TV.

Larry nodded, but he was torn. How could he choose between Gilligan and Mal? He was surrounded by a thick cloud of confusion. For one reason or another, he thought of the dead Japanese boy on the stretcher and shivered.

Sundays were Larry's favourite day of all, but every Sunday was different, too. Sometimes, when the fish were biting, the men were happy and full of mischief, but other times, even when the fish were biting, the men grew serious and so few words were spoken that it would be easy to think they were grumpy.

Somewhere on the way home, usually as they turned into Condon Street, Larry's father would sigh and sum up the day.

‘What a fantastic day to be alive, hey Larry, my boy?'

‘Well, that was a good day, hey Larry?'

‘Not a bad day today, Larry?'

‘We've had better days, haven't we Larry?'

‘Some days I think we'd be better off staying in bed, my son.'

And some days he'd just sigh. The sigh meant nothing without the accompanying expression. With his chin up and eyes bright, the sigh was a song of contentment. He was probably thinking about the garden or work on Monday. If he had his head forward and his jaw muscles twitching, a nose sigh meant something else altogether. He was probably thinking about the nanna Larry had never met or, more likely, Denise. Larry knew that something wasn't right with his mother. She was a cloudy day.

But on that dog-in-a-boat Sunday afternoon as they turned into Condon Street, it was Larry who sighed. He'd spotted the form crouched on the kerb in front of their house: Clinton. He'd probably been waiting for hours. Larry knew that whatever personality the day had had up until this point, it would end up like Clinton, scratched and dented by his special brand of fun.

Mal noticed. ‘You don't have to play with him if you don't want to.'

‘I know,' Larry said, deflated. He knew if he didn't play with Clinton, nobody would, and then Clinton would get madder and madder until he did a bad thing. Playing with Clinton was like keeping your room clean. You just did it or the nagging would start and it would never stop.

Gilligan growled as they drew close. He cut across Mal's path and almost brought him down with his chain as he distanced himself from the black-headed kid who smelled of old cooking oil and urine.