Here Come the Dogs (18 page)

20

Jimmy drops Solomon at Scarlett's house and drives to his mother's flat. Grace has just finished a long shift at the nursing home and is methodically watering the few plants she has on the landing. She's staring across the road at a stately, heritage-listed house when Jimmy climbs the stairs. She wraps him up in a hug.

When Ulysses Amosa had his second stroke, he lost the faculty of speech. He eventually regained it, but moved slowly and often spoke Samoan. He spent much of his time sitting on the landing. Sometimes he would play chess with Petar Janeski. The two men would speak in gentle and respectful tones to each other, punctuated by roaring laughter. They'd sit for hours talking about their plans to return to their homelands. They seemed to have a crystalline understanding of their parallel situations, of a certain type of manhood, of the centrality of the church. They'd repeated their plans like a mantra, to the point where Grace and the children would roll their eyes. Other times, Ulysses would pray, as if preparing for death. Grace fussed around him, saying he was silly for even thinking of it. Remembering his own father's congregation, Ulysses sang hymns and his voice was a ribbon that insinuated itself throughout the flats. He didn't know that people
listened; that it moved the residents of the flats to see such an enormous figure, rocking slowly back and forth, singing.

When Jimmy enters the flat, he sees the hole in Grace's flyscreen where a neighbour cut a circle out of it to make a veggie strainer. Her cat, Biggie, arches and sniffs Jimmy before rolling on his back and rubbing his head against Jimmy's ankle. Biggie then leaps up onto the ledge and starts dabbing lazily at a blowfly.

‘Miau,' says Biggie the cat.

‘Mraow,' says Jimmy.

Grace puts an LP on her cherished record player and soon they hear Stevie Wonder singing ‘Golden Lady'. She closes her eyes in pleasure. Jimmy stares out the window, also savouring it. All the dust and haze of dusk is boiling upwards and now the sound of people returning from work, turning on televisions and microwaves and irons and the clatter of skateboards and the whir of bike wheels and the forms of cats creeping and leaping and sphinxed on fencelines. Grace talks non-stop.

‘All the air-conditioners broke at work today. Blackout. In the middle of a bloody heatwave. Four days above forty degrees. You felt how hot it was – like hell. We tried our best, James, but it was just too much. Two patients died. One of a heart attack. I had just fed lunch to one of them – Suzy. You know what the last thing she said to me was? She said, “I learned a new word today.” Isn't that magical?'

‘What word?'

‘I didn't ask.'

As she keeps talking, Jimmy takes his shirt off, and begins working on her broken TV. He's always been good with electronics; in fact, he's the only one of the boys who could ever make a half-decent beat on an MPC or a computer. He even sold a couple of them to local MCs, beats with sped-up classical samples and crispy drums. Grace watches him from the kitchen while she sprinkles red capsicum, lemongrass and onions all over the snapper. His skinny frame – all elbows and ribs, inherited from her – is caged around the television like a spider. He turns his glittering, slanted eyes to his mother.

‘I think I saw my father the other day,' he says.

She looks up from the oven. ‘Where?'

‘Outside work.'

‘Don't be silly. No one's seen him in years.'

‘Yeah. I'm not even sure it was him.'

‘Well, tell him to get
fucked
if he says anything.' Grace swears rarely, but the emphasis is sharp. ‘Can't be him.'

They're silent then Jimmy says, ‘What did you see in him, Mum?'

Grace drips some soy sauce onto the fish and then puts it in the oven. She busies herself making a gin and tonic and Jimmy thinks she won't answer, staring deep into the glass as if there's a shipwreck in there. Then she tongues a tooth at the back of her mouth and says distractedly, ‘I lost a filling today. Bloody nuisance. If only —' She breaks off. When she speaks again, she almost sounds wistful. ‘Was young and dumb, I guess. Just had this danger about him . . . Stupid. I knew that I'd never be bored when I was with him, you know?'

‘How could you be with someone when you knew nothing good could come of it?' Jimmy's voice is harsh.

She smiles. ‘You came of it James. You came of it.'

They hold each other's gaze. Then he smiles and turns the television on, the picture perfect.

‘There you go, Mum.'

‘Good boy.'

‘No worries.'

He looks out the window and she continues to talk and set the table. She can't see but he is biting into his thumb so hard he draws blood. The sun goes down like a swimmer lowering herself into a lake and one by one the stars come out.

21

REPORTER: Now a heartwarming story. A young, local man trying to make a difference in his community, through basketball and hip hop. Solomon Amosa was a star basketball player who led his high school to two championships, and even represented Australia at under-sixteen level. A promising career was cut short by injury, but now Amosa is using his skills in a different way: to coach a basketball program for local children. Solomon, what gave you the idea to start Amosa's All-Stars?

SOLOMON AMOSA: Well . . . um . . . it just happened, really. Started teaching a couple kids how to shoot, how to dribble, then more and more started to turning up. Pretty organic, really – just word-of-mouth. Keeps them out of trouble, and me too.

REPORTER: So can you show us around a bit?

SOLOMON AMOSA: Well, this is the basic set up. Pretty simple, as you can see. They do all their drills on this court, running, shooting, dribbling. Three-on-three games, five-on-five sometimes. It's public property; so anyone who wants to volunteer, come on down.

REPORTER: And this tent over here?

SOLOMON AMOSA: A local party-hire shop donated this marquee; not every kid's into basketball, you know. Here, you can hang out, have a yarn, learn to draw or paint.

SCARLETT SNOW: You can rub the charcoal in with your thumb, see? Getting shadows right is the most important thing.

REPORTER: So what do the kids think?

TOBY McCARTHY: It's real fun and gives us something to do and that. Otherwise, we might get heaps bored and that.

MUHAMMAD KHAN: It's got everything we need – hip hop, basketball, mates.

SOLOMON AMOSA: I'm a uni dropout, you know, but I know about basketball and hip hop. I thought this could be the way I give back.

REPORTER: And you do it for free?

SOLOMON AMOSA: Yeah. I'm just here to help out, build a bit of a community. Community is important and I think it's something we've lost a bit. My father always said you should think about
we,
not just
I.

REPORTER: And I've noticed the music never stops playing.

SOLOMON AMOSA: Never. The beat goes on.

REPORTER: Well, there you are. The beat goes on. Back to you in the studio.

22

Jimmy watches Scarlett from the side. If she notices, she doesn't say anything.

His eyes move down her hair to her shoulders, the shadow of stubble beneath her armpit, down to her ankles and painted toenails. He runs his thumbnail along his jaw. Mercury Fire bounds up to him and Jimmy scratches him behind the ears, speaking to him quietly, keeping his eyes trained on his brother's girlfriend.

Practice is underway and the kids are playing five-on-five, half court. Solomon is barking orders, strutting up and down the sideline. ‘Box out, Muhammad! That's it!'

Whenever criticised, some of the ethnic kids have started saying, almost subconsciously, ‘Oh, racist!' Solomon calls a halt to practice.

‘Oi. Where did you learn to say that?'

‘Say what?' says Muhammad.

‘Using racist like that.'

‘Dunno.'

‘You know you'll get away with more shit if you call a teacher racist, ay?'

‘I guess.' Muhammad is looking at his feet. Solomon raises his voice and faces them all.

‘I don't wanna hear that shit, all right? I won't fall for it. I don't know what your teachers are like, but if I criticise you here, it's about
basketball,
it's to do with your attitude. Believe me, there's plenty of racism out there, but you start crying wolf all the time, when the real shit goes down, who the fuck's gonna listen? So don't bring none of that shit here – no mind games, no feeling sorry for yaself. Just play ball. You hear me?'

They all nod and the game continues. Jimmy is stunned and observes Solomon closely. Solomon, in turn, is watching the children with a sad expression, as if they have been failed somehow.

A group of young men turn up in a black SUV with tinted windows, all in various jerseys. They clamber out of the vehicle like stick insects. The appearance of one in particular is causing a commotion – a tall, lean Aboriginal fella. Jimmy looks to Solomon and sees his jaw muscles pulsing and that he's standing to full height. Jarryd Hooper must be back from America. There's something different about him, something even more assured and slick than the boy Solomon faced all those years ago. He shouts to Solomon immediately. ‘We need another player. You up, bro?'

Solomon doesn't hesitate. ‘Yeah, man. Let's do it. Kids – keep running those drills.'

As Solomon walks across the court, Jimmy realises it is not Jarryd but his younger brother Jack.

Jarryd had been Solomon's nemesis on the basketball court many years ago. He was explosive and cocky, just like Solomon. They said he could dunk over two shopping trolleys and was headed for a professional career. Solomon wanted his blood. A huge crowd had gathered to watch to two wunderkinds face off in the division one finals. Right from the start, Jarryd was having the better game, his six-foot-nine wingspan and vertical leap almost impossible to guard. Solomon gritted his teeth and defended him even closer and was soon forcing Jarryd to make a few errors. In one play, Jarryd went for a lazy fadeaway and Solomon stripped the ball from him and took it up the sideline as Jarryd chased him. Solomon wasn't to know it was the last time they would ever face each other.

‘Fundamentals, Solomon, focus on the fundamentals!' his coach yelled from the sideline. Solomon ignored him and went into streetball mode, imagining the blonde hardwood was blacktop. He waited for Jarryd to catch up and get into position in front of him. Then he began to dance. He faked right. Jarryd didn't bite. He hesitated to the left and Jarryd went for it completely, swiping for the ball. Solomon's mask dropped, and in a harsh whisper he said, ‘Be a man. Go on, cunt. Get me. Be a man.' He then crossed it back swiftly, with authority, and felt a surge within himself when Jarryd stumbled, his ankles twisting and unsure. Solomon drove to the hoop, went in for the dunk and, just as he pushed off his left foot, heard a sound as loud as a gunshot and felt the tendon corkscrew up the back of his leg. His world burst into flames.

Now, almost ten years on, with Jarryd playing overseas, his younger brother Jack and Solomon bump fists. If he is wary of Solomon, he doesn't show it. Jimmy is watching close, completely forgetting Scarlett's presence. The kids ignore Solomon's order to keep practising and gather around the side of the court, some sitting, some leaning on each other's shoulders. Solomon is acutely aware of the audience. This is a test. A song is playing from the speakers – ‘Trillmatic' by the A$AP Mob and Method Man, which is new but sounds like an early nineties song. It then drops into a Nas medley. The deadly, driving baseline of ‘N.Y. State of Mind'.

From the start, it's clear that Jack is even more of a prodigy than his brother. He has the sleek moves of a big cat. Solomon doesn't try anything fancy. A few drives, a couple of shots from the elbow, one particular no-look pass that gets
oohs
and
ahhs
from the sidelines. He looks slow and is beaten easily off the dribble. With the game on the line, someone flicks an alley-oop over his head and he jumps but doesn't come close to touching it. Jack appears on the other end, hovering against the sunset, his hand cupping the ball then crushing it through the hoop. Solomon is shining with sweat.

He gets talked into a second game and this time he's on Jack's team. A few people complain but, after seeing that Solomon's no longer a threat, no one argues too much. His teeth are bared, but not with
aggression, just with simple, dumb pain and resilience. He's warming now, though, enjoying playing distributor, second fiddle to Jack's flash. The younger man's razor movements are controlled and precise. The two seem to understand each other and are working together perfectly, separate parts in a mobile. Jimmy feels as if he is a witness to true beauty, an awakening, and Jack seems to feel it, too, having to say nothing, just communicating with his eyes. Solomon executes a pinpoint shovel pass between two defenders and Jack finishes the alley-oop smoothly.

Toby looks proud and Muhammad looks disappointed.

‘Oi! Get back to doing those drills!'

Jack claps him on the back. ‘Shit, cuzzo. You still got those moves.'

‘Nah, man. Has-been. Useless.' Solomon sounds defeated.

‘Doesn't look like it.' Jack nods at the kids. Solomon slowly nods back. Jack approaches the kids.

‘You listen to this bloke. He was the meanest baller I ever saw. Used to torture my bro, no bullshit. He'll teach you a lot.'

Toby asks, ‘Why didn't you go pro, Solomon? Like Jarryd?'

The atmosphere becomes awkward. ‘Dunno. Injury . . . nah, guess I didn't have it in me.'

Jimmy can see the look in Solomon's eyes is one of realisation – didn't love the game as much as I felt sorry for myself, kid.

Lightning outside but no rain or thunder, the sky perfectly clear.

Jimmy is lying on his bed, feeling flimsy, a photograph developing in a bath of chemicals. He's about to fall asleep when his phone rings. Private number.

‘James.' It's a man's voice, distant.

‘Who is this?'

There's no reply, just something like the sound of wind moaning over a gravesite or a limestone plane. Then there's complete silence, as if the line has gone dead. Jimmy's about to hang up, but then the man on the other end clears his throat.

‘Who is this?' says Jimmy again.

‘James, I'm worried about you. About your future. You have a great honour, but also a great hatred. You think the worst of the world. I know you long to be taken seriously – we all do. But wilfully bearing the burden of hate is no way to live.'

Jimmy recognises the voice. It's his father's. But it has a peculiar quality to it, as if filtered through water. It's deeper and more formal than he remembers it. He does not reply and waits for the voice to continue. There's a click and it does.

‘If they get recognised, mistakes are an important part of life; they enable us to change. Change in all its forms is unavoidable – peaceful change, violent change, inevitable change, change that cannot be expected at all. I was once standing on a plain facing a mountain. It was full of headless statues. The sky was black, no stars, no clouds, no moon, but I could see everything somehow. Everything was different shades of black. Then I saw a black river moving over the mountain towards me. It was moving very slowly and could only have been a few inches high. In hindsight, I think that river was the river of history. It was perfect and without ripple; it was like glass, and turned the whole plain into a mirror. But there was nothing to reflect in the sky. I heard a moaning and realised the statues were not headless at all. They were living humans; they were every person I had ever met. And we were all trying to move, but the river was up to our ankles, and it was tar.'

The line goes silent again. It sounds like the previous message had been recorded and then played down the phone line. Jimmy laughs. ‘Look man. I have work tomorrow. This shit isn't funny, ay. Whoever this is —'

‘You know who it is.' For the first time, it doesn't sound like a prerecorded message.

Jimmy runs his index finger over his lips, eyes downcast. ‘Well, yeah, if it is, I don't wanna talk to ya.'

‘I would have thought you'd want to talk to me more than anyone else.' Jimmy is silent.

‘Tell me, James, do you know how to cook?'

Jimmy's caught off guard. ‘Um . . . Nah, normally I just eat takeaway or microwave meals.'

‘Next time we talk, I'll teach you how to cook a curry.'

Jimmy snorts. ‘Yeh, right —'

The line goes dead.