Jasper Jones (18 page)

“I’m really sorry, Jeffrey.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“You know what I mean. Dickhead,” I say with a small smile. I bow my head. “I feel really bad for your ma. She must be really heartbroken.”

“Yeah.” Jeffrey nods. “She’s really angry too. Screaming and things. She even started yelling ‘fuck’ last night. ‘Fuck’ this. ‘Fuck’ that.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really.” And Jeffrey grins.

“I can’t imagine that.”

“I know. It’s weird. You should have seen my dad. He was shocked. He looked straight at me, like it was my fault.”

We both giggle. Out of relief. And then it gets infectious and we laugh long and hard. Can’t help it.

Then we get to talking about Doug Walters again. Jeffrey assures me that he hasn’t finished yet, that he is sure to go on with it tomorrow. I don’t have the heart to disagree. We discuss the merits of nipples
on men, and decide that there is no earthly purpose for them. We ponder how it is they get stripes into toothpaste.

Then I ask Jeffrey if he thinks animals other than humans know they’re going to die one day, or if it just comes as a surprise to them.

“Of course they don’t,” he says. “They’re idiots. Except monkeys. And oliphaunts, they might know. It’s about communication, probably. Per exemplarrrr, if you were the unwanted baby of a pirate and they left you marooned on an uninhabited island and you had no contact with another human ever, I don’t think you’d know about dying and stuff.”

“Reasonable assertion.” I nod. “Still, it’s a curious gift. You can’t
not
feel sad, knowing that you and everyone you know will die. So what would you rather? Would you rather not know and have it surprise you at the end, or know it your whole life and dread it coming?”

Jeffrey looks thoughtful.

“I reckon most people wouldn’t want to know. I reckon they’d rather not have to think about it. But I think I’d choose to know. Yarrr. Otherwise you’d just be fat and lazy and you’d just put everything off until some other century. If someone told you that you were going to die next week, you’d probably try to fit in as much as possible, go skydiving or whatever.”

“Right.” I nod.

“But you
can’t
not know it. Which is probably why they made up all that rubbish about heaven, to make people feel better about the whole thing. When Cheeses started saying, ‘Oh, you know, don’t
worry
. It’s not
all
over. After this stuff, you get to sit on a cloud and learn the harp and play volleyball in the nude, as long as you’re good,’ everyone just nodded and smiled and worried about behaving themselves instead.”

“I think Cheeses hates your tone.”

“Of course he does, Chuck. I am the speaker of the troooth. I should start a cult.”

The sky is a bright orange now. I can hear birds calling out in the
cool. And the whirring squeal of the kids next door, swinging on their clothesline over a sprinkler. Jeffrey kicks to his feet.

“Righto. I got to get back, Chuck.”

“Yeah, okay.”

His head snaps back and he slaps his forehead.

“I
forgot
. My dad is cooking dinner tonight because my stupid ma won’t come out of their bedroom. Cheeses Christ, it’s going to be a
nightmare
. Everything he cooks feels like phlegm and tastes like pus that’s been soaked in brine. Salted pus, Chuck. It’s like my mouth is trying to turn itself inside out. He thinks he’s the greatest chef in the world, but he is
lousy.
”

“Sounds like my dad too.”

“They should be banned. There should be laws against it.” Jeffrey says as he walks out.

“Motion approved, sir.”

I see him out the back door. I know I should say something appropriate and comforting, but I can’t think of what. Words fail me. Like they always fail me when I need them. I just crimp my lips and look hopeless.

Jeffrey salutes me.

“Chuck, I bid you a Jew.”

“And I owe your revoir,” I say, and watch him leave. He scuttles off, his shoulders rounded slightly in a way I’ve not seen before.

***

I sit and watch the news bulletin with my dad. Our ceiling fan rocks and spins above our heads, and we both nurse a glass of lime and bitters with ice chips. I’m expectant, hoping to hear something about Jeffrey’s relatives. Some kind of outrage. Marching and chanting in the streets, like I’ve seen before. But there is nothing about Vietnam at all. No report. No mention.

Instead, I’m shocked to see the Miners’ Hall on-screen, and people milling around Corrigan’s town center. Right there, inside the television. At first I don’t recognize it. My father sits forward in his chair,
almost spilling his cradled drink. He calls my mother, who bustles in from making dinner, drying her hands with a thin plaid towel. A frown of concern pushes her face down. She stands with her hands on her hips.

And there’s Laura’s photograph. Black-and-white. It’s a forced smile, like someone had to prompt it. There’s something missing in her eyes.

The news broadcaster is saying that it’s most likely she ran away, and he’s urging people in the city to look out for her. To call the police if they know anything, if they’ve seen her. The brick groans in my belly. And there are Mr. and Mrs. Wishart. Side by side in front of their house. Pete Wishart stands stoic. An awkward, resolute calm. Mrs. Wishart is a little less composed. Her face hangs, haggard. Her eyes are puffy. She doesn’t speak. She just nods with her mouth set tight as her husband cordially asks that people assist in any way they can. It is horrible to watch. At least Eliza isn’t there.

The news skips to another story. My father turns to me.

“I didn’t know about this at all. The report.”

“So what does this mean?” I ask.

“Well, it certainly means she hasn’t turned up yet, mate. Perhaps she made it to the city. It’s worrisome. I’ll admit that, Charlie. I really had a feeling she would turn up today. Maybe she got further than we thought.”

I am breathing fast. Fidgeting with my drink.

“So you still don’t think anything, I don’t know, more sinister?”

He sighs and shifts his weight toward me.

“I talked to you about that.”

“I know, but …” I point to the television.

“Listen. There is still nothing to suggest that there is, Charlie. Okay? Laura Wishart was at home and in bed on Thursday night. Her parents have verified it. And she wasn’t there in the morning. It’s as simple and as difficult as that. There are no signs of interference or struggle or anything of that nature. Everything suggests she might have just slipped out of her window and left.”

“By herself?” I ask.

“Probably. Apparently, I discovered today, Laura had a tendency to go out at night for long walks, but she’d always be back by morning.”

“Do they know where she went?” I am on the verge of panic. There’s a midge in my drink.

“No. Strangely, they let it lie. They didn’t talk to her about it. But it’s opened a can of worms. Now they’re thinking she may have been meeting someone at the river.”

I swallow heavily.

“Do they know who?”

My mother interrupts.

“Wes, I don’t think we should be discussing this. Not in front of Charlie. I think that’s enough.”

“What? Why not?” I object loudly.

My father shows a calm hand.

“Your mother is right.”

“
What
? Why?
Why
is she right? That makes no sense! Of
course
I should know about this!”

“Charlie!” my mother snaps.

“Charlie!” my father warns.

I glower. My mother flaps her tea towel.

“You
see
, Wesley?” She is brimming with emotion. “He’s just like you! He won’t bloody
listen
!”

She storms out. She slams the door.

I am dumbstruck.

“What was
that
about?” I whisper, gesturing at the door.

My father sighs again, and leans forward.

“Charlie, do you remember what I said? About diplomacy?”

“What? Sure. But …”

“Listen, you and I can always talk about this stuff
later
. Okay? Be smarter about it. Don’t provoke her. And believe me, I’m telling you more than enough. In other families, you wouldn’t hear a thing about this, so be grateful.”

He is right. He is always right. But something stubborn and unresolved in me still has to press at it.

“Okay. I understand. But just now, please, while we’re talking about it, answer me this: do they know who she was meeting?”

I can’t help it. I have to know.

My father’s face broadcasts dwindling patience. I am pushing my luck.

“No. They have no idea. And I couldn’t help them either. She wasn’t sweet with anybody at school, that’s for sure. She didn’t have a lot of friends. But it’s still conjecture that she was meeting anybody at all. It’s just as likely she was heading out by herself.”

“So does this mean that they will stop looking here? In Corrigan?”

“Charlie …”
My dad glances up at the door. We’re still whispering.

“What? She can’t hear. I
need
to know.”

“I know you’re concerned, mate.” He pauses and observes me for a moment. “Okay. No. It doesn’t mean they’ll stop searching. There’s lots of bush out there. They have the spotter planes for a little while longer. A few more days, I should think. And the dive crews are coming tomorrow. The search teams will operate as long as there are volunteers. But it’s a real needle in a haystack. She really has disappeared without a trace. It’s hard to know where to begin. She could have gone anywhere, really. She’s a clever girl. And if Laura doesn’t wish to be found, then that makes it all the more difficult. People are doing their best with very little. So I don’t know. I feel so terrible for her family. They must be going through hell.”

We fall silent. I stare at the floor for a time. Then, as casually as I can, I ask: “Can I come with you tomorrow? To help with the search?”

My father just frowns.

“Of course not, Charlie. No. Under no circumstances. No. End of discussion.”

He half smiles as he rises and rubs his thumb along my hairline.

“Remember what I said, too.” He points toward the door. “You’ve got a good head. Use it.”

I smile back weakly and nod.

***

Later, when I think about Jeffrey, I wish I’d tried to talk to my father about Vietnam. About the war there, and Jeffrey’s family, and how they got killed. None of it makes any sense. I want him to explain to me just how it could happen.

Strangely, of all the horrible things I’ve encountered and considered recently, dropping a bomb seems to be the least violent among them, even though it’s clearly the worst. But there’s no evil mug shot, no bloody glove. It’s hard to figure out who to blame. There’s something clean about all that distance. Maybe the further away you are, the less you have to care, the less you’re responsible. But that seems wrong to me. It should be in the news. It’s wrong that they died.

But if they weren’t Jeffrey’s family, would I care so much? That’s hard. Probably not, I guess. I mean, if you took every bad event in the world to heart, you’d be a horrible mess. You’d spend your life crying, wading from one tragedy to the next. You’d be a wreck. Maybe that’s why people stay in Corrigan and pull their hats low. The less you know, the further away you are, the easier it is to shrug and tut and move on. And so Corrigan remains a town of barnacles. A cluster of hard shells that suck themselves stuck and clench themselves shut and choose not to know about dying. And the way I feel right now, I don’t blame them.

I flop my pen up and down between my fingers so it looks like its made of jelly. I sigh. It feels like somebody is ripping my insides out. Like some kind of mongrel dog has ahold of my intestines, and it’s tugging at and wresting them right there in front of me, low and angry. And I feel like letting go, truth be told. I feel like letting the dog have me, letting myself spool out like an old woollen jumper until I’m empty and light.

What kind of lousy world is this? Has it always been this way, or has the bottom fallen out of it in the past couple of days? Has it always been so unfair? What is it that tips the scales so? I don’t understand it. What kind of world could let pretty girls get beaten and hanged? What
kind of world gives birth to Fish and Cooke, lets them fester and hate, lets them torment the innocent and make good people afraid? What kind of world punches someone for using big words?

Verbosity. Verbosity. Verbosity.

A world that kills parents and makes orphans of children and kicks away cricket balls and lies through its sharp teeth. That makes a decent person feel like rubbish all his life because he’s poorer and browner and motherless. That hosts three billion folks, each of them as lonely as the other. A world that’s three-quarters water, none of which can quench your thirst.

Bugger it. There is nothing directing this stupid play. There can’t be. If there is, He’s a crueller bastard than they give Him credit for. It’s timing and chance, isn’t it? Shit luck and good luck. You dodge bullets or you get hit.

Laura Wishart got hit. She’s dead. She really is. I buried her with Jasper Jones. I touched her while she was still warm, I carried her. And they’re out there, looking. They’re out there now. The police, the news, Corrigan. And I’m afraid they’ll find her. Somehow. And then they’ll find us.

Only one other person knows where she is, and I don’t know how Jasper and I can ever find out who they are. It seems the most impossible of tasks.

And what if we don’t? What happens then? If the search is abandoned, and if Jasper and I finally admit defeat. When Laura is just a bundle of lonely bones tied to a stone, do we leave the Wisharts to cling to their threadbare hope? Leave them to a life of speculation and prayer? I wonder if preserving the part of them that believes she made it to the city might be a good thing. The part of them that believes she might still be out there someplace. That there’s a chance, no matter how slim, that she’s making a life out there. That she’s doing okay. I wonder whether it would be comforting or torturous, to never fully know, to never put the matter to rest.