The Slightly True Story of Cedar B. Hartley Read online

  ‘What are you all up to?’ came the sing-song voice of Marnie Aitkin as she crept up behind us. The lid had just come off and Kite and I had both bent our heads to peer inside. I looked up at her, then back into the hole. The dark, deep inside seemed way more interesting than a potentially zero conversation with Marnie. Kite lay on his belly and reached down to grab the light. He yanked it out and held it up for us all to see. ‘We’re just fishing for lights,’ he said.

  I smothered a giggle and Marnie said, ‘Oh sure, very funny.’ Then she folded her arms and tapped her foot in an irritating way, as if she was waiting for something else. She was wearing sneakers with high fat heels. Stupid, I thought (in my high-and-mighty, superior, know-all way) to destabilise your sneakers with heels, when sneakers should be for mucking around in and feeling comfortable. I squinted pointedly at the shoes and she pressed her well-shaped nose towards the sky as if she was ignoring us. But she couldn’t help herself.

  ‘Is that yours? You’re not meant to open up that hole,’ she said as Kite and I began to examine the light. I could tell she was annoyed because Kite wasn’t paying her any attention at all, even though her shoes were dramatic. It was brilliant.

  ‘Is now,’ I said.

  ‘We saw you in the newspaper, Cedar. If you ask me that’s a pretty stupid reason to do a show—for a dumb dog.’

  ‘No one’s asking you,’ said Kite, and he lay down again and squinted and peered and wriggled forward and reached down into the hole. I could see a yellow patch where the light shone in on something else.

  ‘What is it?’ I said, but before Kite could answer, Marnie, who was obviously not accustomed to being ignored in favour of a hole, burst out indignantly, ‘Anyway, Kite, if you hang out with Cedar you better be careful because her brother’s a thief and her dad was a drug addict. Everyone knows.’ Marnie thrust her chin towards me, just as if she was jabbing a spear at my throat, before she turned on her large heels and strutted off.

  I reared up and shouted at her, ‘That’s a lie. You’re making it up. You don’t know a thing about my dad. Or Barnaby.’ She stopped and turned around.

  ‘Well, that’s what Harold Barton says. He says his dad says so. Barnaby stole Harold’s skateboard. For his drugs. Why do you think Barnaby got sent away then?’

  She stuck out her lower lip and put her hands on her hips, and for a minute I thought I was going to rush up and slap her. But then I started to cry instead, which was the last thing I wanted to do, especially in front of Kite. I felt my mouth wobbling and I couldn’t even tell Marnie to go jump. She looked at me as if she’d just triumphantly snapped shut a handbag full of money for the bank, and then she strutted off, wiggling her bum in that fake grown-up way.

  A million things rushed through my mind and I couldn’t get hold of one of them. I felt like a bit of paper that had just been ripped up in pieces and chucked in the wind. I suddenly wanted to go home and see my mum. I wanted to disappear. My hands went up and covered my face. Kite put his hand on my back.

  ‘It isn’t true,’ I said.

  ‘I know.’ Kite bit his lip. I wasn’t sure he believed me. He seemed confused. His eyes were looking past me, as if there was another bigger thought in view. What did I know really? Maybe it was true. Maybe that was why Mr Barton had come over all steaming mad. And after that, Barnaby was sent away. And wasn’t there all this mystery about my dad and how he died?

  Oscar and Caramella were coming towards us. I didn’t want to see anyone. I was all out of focus and ripped up like a bad photo that someone had tossed in the bin. I told Kite I had to go. I couldn’t go to rehearsal. I had to go home. He nodded.

  Anyway, I didn’t even want to be near him if he did believe Marnie Aitkin. I turned and walked quickly away, leaving Kite to explain to the others.

  Strangely enough, when I got home there was a card from Barnaby. He has such timing.

  Yep, I thought, getting deeper and deeper. And what about the black swan? Was she on the bus with him? He never tells you what you want to know.

  I went and got that photo of my dad. He didn’t have red eyes or pin-shaped pupils. He didn’t look like a drug addict, but he didn’t look like Mr Barton either. Mr Barton wears a suit and has a big nose with purple veins running about like a highway in Los Angeles. My dad just wore a faded old shirt and a funny hat and his nose is like mine, actually; small and kind of chubby. His eyes look clear and bright and good. I can’t explain what I mean by good. They were just crinkled up in a good way. Friendly and true. I got Stinky and we lay together on the couch, waiting for my mum to come home. I thought about pulling out of the Acrobrats. I imagined them all sitting around and Kite telling them how I came from a bad family of drug addicts and thieves. Caramella wouldn’t believe it. She knew Barnaby. I knew Barnaby. He wasn’t a thief. I knew that.

  Well, stuff the circus, I didn’t want to be in it, anyway. If they thought I was a bad person then let them do it without me. I had better things to do. I might just run away myself. I’d go and find Barnaby. I’d bring him back and he’d tell me, he’d tell me just what went on and then I’d tell them. I’d tell Marnie and Harold and everyone. I’d write a goddamn essay about it and I’d nail it up to the lampposts. I’d hang upside-down from the plane trees and write it on my tummy in thick black texta and draw attention to myself by singing the Lord’s Prayer in Egyptian. I’d skateboard up and down the street, yelling out like an orphan newspaper boy. I know all about it. I know all about it.

  Yeah, we’d find Barnaby. Me and Stinky, we’d go together. To Perth. On the train. That night. Before anyone could stop me.

  ‘How about it, little hairy beast?’ I said to Stinky, who was gnawing at his rump and feeling quite smug about being on the couch.

  I leapt up, suddenly inspired by my solution. For just an instant I was excited. I jigged and paced and tried to get practical, but it’s always hard to be sensible when you’re feeling emotional and blurry. Stinky stared at me with a worried look. All I could know for sure was that if I didn’t get going soon, Mum would be home and then there’d be no hope of me going anywhere.

  I packed a bag; five pairs of favourite undies, three pairs of socks without holes, trackies, corduroy skirt, singlets, T-shirts and cardigan, sloppy joe, sunnies, beanie, mossie bite balm, toothbrush, Oil of Ulan for prevention of wrinkles, my new Palace Music CD to impress Barnaby, photo of my dad (for the drama of it), photo of my mum (in case I never came back), God Bless Love (favourite book from when I was a kid), Lucetius, On the nature of the Universe (a book of Barnaby’s that he hadn’t read yet and that I planned to read about half of on the train and to memorise certain quotes that I would let drop, at seasonable moments, when I got to Perth—the idea being that Barnaby would see how I had become alarmingly wise and mature, and as a result he would be more easily persuaded to return with me. What a plan! Boy! What a sophisticated plan!).

  Also in the suitcase (which the bag had now become), I stuffed a frosted glass pig full of coins, electric clock radio, jar of holy water from the Holy Mother, loaf of bread and a jar of honey, bread board, bones for Stinky, a red plastic whistle, diary, torch, and scissors—because you never know when you might need scissors.

  It was way too heavy.

  I took out the bread board.

  And the piggy bank.

  And the scissors.

  Fed Stinky some of the bones.

  Wrote a short theatrical note to Mum. ‘Mum, I’ve gone.’

  Then we left the house.

  It was that time when the day begins to turn into night. When the sky gets deep and glowing with the last bit of light. When the night plonks little sooty clouds in the sky. When there are smudges of yellow light coming out from windows, peeking under curtains and doors. When there are cars murmuring home and people turning in their gates with keys jingling in pockets and bags. When there are kids getting off the street and people are cooking spaghetti or chops, or leaving offices, and televisions are purring away in living rooms telling
the news in a tidy way.

  That’s how it was when I left the house. It was going-home time.

  I could only walk about twenty-three steps before I had to stop and put down my suitcase, which was still too heavy. I could smell mashed potato and fried fish coming out of the boys’ house. I saw Mr Barton drive his car up the driveway. The headlights shone on the house for a moment and I could see the box hedges in a line next to the brick walls, and then the lights went off and I couldn’t see anything. The trees in the street had papery leaves which trembled on the branches.

  I was getting a funny feeling. I wouldn’t say scared, no I wouldn’t say that, but something pretty close. The word ‘homesick’ sat in my throat like a big gobsucker. Could I be homesick already, only fifty paces down the street? I was ashamed of myself. What a sook, what a baby! I picked up my suitcase and dragged it onwards, thinking soldier, thinking Robert de Castella, thinking Hercules. Stinky trotted along like a little breeze. Obviously he had no idea that we were actually leaving home. Let me tell you, it’s harder running away when you really mean it.

  I wondered how Barnaby had felt when he left. I tried to picture it. For one thing, he would have been singing himself a song, a comforting, encouraging friendly travelling song. I tried to think of one, but all I could think of was Eleanor Rigby.

  It had a deserted feeling about it.

  I put my suitcase down again, since my shoulder was getting sore. I sat on the case and concentrated on the chorus,

  all the lonely people

  where dooo they all come from?

  because I can never hit the dooo note right, so I need to concentrate.

  Out of the corner of my eye, even in the midst of my singing, I recognised a tall dark figure approaching. It was the walk—unmistakable. One leg straight and dragging, the long body leaning away from the dragging leg, a slight hiccup in the opposite shoulder. Most of all, a sense that at any moment the long tilting shape could topple over—though it didn’t. It was Oscar.

  all the lonely people

  where dooo they all belong?

  Oscar? What was he doing lurching down my street, about to stumble across me and my suitcase and my faltering attempt at escape? He waved; his whole arm thrashed wildly in the night air. I stopped singing and waved limply back. Definitely sprung. I put my head in my hands and tried to find an explanation. I’m on my way to stay with a crotchety aunt who has sugar diabetes and needs me to take bread and honey? Oh hell, I thought, and what did Oscar think of me anyway, now that Kite had told them all about my disreputable drug-influenced immoral family?

  ‘Cedar! You look dishevelled,’ said Oscar. He towered above me, with his face like a moon. He clutched a brown envelope tied with string.

  ‘Dishevelled? Do I?’ I felt pathetic. Flattened-out. Stinky sniffed Oscar’s hand.

  ‘Yes. Kite told us you weren’t feeling well.’ He looked concerned.

  ‘Did he? Did he say why?’

  ‘No. But he was worried about you.’

  ‘Oh. I’m all right now.’ I smiled up at him and he smiled back. Then it was quiet, except for the distant rumble of traffic and the scratch of leaves scurrying into gutters. Oscar never seemed to be bothered about quiet breaks in conversation. He just continued leaning and wobbling there in the dark air above me, as if that’s normal. And I guess it is. You shouldn’t always have to say something. Generally I do, though.

  ‘So, Oscar, what brings you here?’

  ‘Bringing you this.’ He thrust the envelope towards me. ‘I was just going to put it in your letterbox. To make you feel better. It’s just a drawing I did for you.’

  ‘For me?’

  ‘Yeah. Because you weren’t well. So I went home and did it.’ He folded his hands and grinned.

  ‘That’s nice of you.’ I felt suddenly like I was about to cry again. But I didn’t let myself. I held my breath instead. ‘Shall I open it now?’

  ‘Yes. If you like.’

  I didn’t really want to open it then and there, in case it made me feel funny again, but I did anyway, because it seemed that I should. This is what the drawing looked like. I still have it today, stuck up on my wall, because it means a lot to me. Whenever I feel hopeless I look at that drawing.

  ‘That’s you in the middle,’ said Oscar, placing his finger on the spot.

  ‘Because you’re like the centre part of things, you’re in the middle of the web. That’s why I drew it like that. That’s how it feels. And if you weren’t here we’d all fall down.’

  ‘No, if anyone wasn’t here, we’d all fall down.’

  ‘Yeah. That’s true too. It’s lucky we’re all here, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah, it is.’

  ‘Cedar, I think you . . . ’ he stopped and blinked. ‘I mean, you planted seeds. Did you ever think what a thing could grow? You have a green thumb for people. That’s why there are trees in the drawing.’

  I smiled and I buried my heart in that drawing, and if it hadn’t been so dark you might have noticed me glowing, just a little.

  ‘Well, I’ll see you tomorow, Cedar,’ said Oscar, still grinning and glancing about.

  ‘Yeah, see ya.’ I couldn’t begin to explain to him all the feelings that were having a raging battle inside me. The noise of them caught me like a light catches an animal in the night, making it dumb and still. My eyes opened out wide trying to see what was battling what. I wanted to say something. I wanted to tell him that he was special and the drawing was especially special, but I couldn’t say it. I didn’t say anything.

  He beamed anyway, and stumbled off down the street, and I watched him go. He hadn’t even asked me what the hell I was doing sitting on a suitcase in the dark street singing Eleanor Rigby to a small hairy dog. Oscar never seemed to notice what was ordinary and what wasn’t ordinary.

  Yet he had another sense, an extra-ordinary sense. Or did he? Did he just happen to wander down my street and bump into me, and just happen to make me feel like I should stay and see this circus through? He didn’t even know. He didn’t even know what that drawing meant to me. But he’d done the drawing. He didn’t even know I was running away. But he’d delivered it at exactly the right moment.

  Sometimes life hits you at such a startling lightning kind of angle that you get pushed off your normal viewing spot. You stop knowing how things are. Instead of what you know, there are the patterns that stars make; the sound of the night breathing; the small aching spot where your feet touch the earth . . . And you’ve never felt closer to it. You think that if there is an It, you and It are nearly touching. You feel religious and devoted and tiny. Just for a moment you feel as if the whispering coming from the leaves and beetles and sky and footsteps and sighs is going directly towards your ear. So you listen.

  There, sitting on a suitcase, next to a stinky dog, in a suburban street in Brunswick, I had one of those moments. What I heard was Life telling me to go back and, as they say in the movies, face the music. Go home, it said. Go home.

  To tell you the truth, I was kind of relieved, since I was hungry anyway. I sat there for just a respectful moment more, and then I dragged that suitcase back home, trying to think of a likely story to tell Mum.

  Mum was so relieved to see me, she forget to get angry. I didn’t even need to tell her why I went; she thought it was her fault. She thought she wasn’t a good-enough mother. She sat me down and tried to explain how she was doing two jobs at once; she was working hard so that we could one day buy our own house, and she was trying to be a mother as well. And it was hard doing two things at once, and being a mother and a father (which made three jobs, really), and she wanted to be there when I got home from school and she wanted to cook me a good dinner every night, and she wanted to spend more time with me, and with Barnaby too . . . And then she was crying, and the funny thing was, it was me comforting her and saying it was okay, I understood. I promised I wouldn’t run away, and I promised Barnaby would come home soon. Who was I to promise that? But you do say extravagant thing
s when you want to comfort someone. I didn’t ask Mum about Dad or Barnaby, because she was already so sad and jumbled-up. So we went out to Cleopatra’s and ate falafel, and she asked me lots of questions about the circus and I could tell she was trying hard to be a good mother. She didn’t need to, but I let her anyway. I think it made her feel better. And I felt better, too. I love falafel. But not with raw onions.

  The next day was Saturday and I did my best to sleep in. I kept my eyes shut and tried not to think any thoughts. But the harder I tried the more they kept coming at me. I was getting all tangled up in thoughts.

  There was a banging at the door. I got up. It couldn’t be Mum. I knew she was still in bed. And Ricci never knocks—she just yells out your name from outside until you come. Caramella always comes in through the kitchen door. In fact hardly anyone knocks on our door, just the Mormons with their Jesus stories or Mr Barton with his thumping fist.

  It was Kite.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I said. Stinky wagged his tail. If I’d had a tail I wouldn’t have wagged it, but dogs don’t get moody or rude. At least, Kite hadn’t gone and squealed to everyone about those ugly rumours.

  ‘Look, I didn’t know what to say, before. See, I was confused about it, didn’t know what it meant. But I worked it out and I have to tell you.’

  ‘Tell me what?’

  ‘Look, was it a yellow skateboard with a drawing of a skull on it—Harold’s one that was stolen?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Well, in the hole, the other thing, it was that skateboard. I figured it might have been when that horrible girl was saying your brother stole it.’ (I can’t help noticing here that Kite doesn’t even remember Marnie Aitkin’s name.) ‘But then I worked out it couldn’t have been Barnaby who put it there because, firstly, why would he steal it if he just wanted to put it in a hole? And, secondly, I remembered that we saw Harold putting the light in the hole, so Harold must have seen the skateboard in there. He knew it was there and he didn’t say, which makes me think he must have put it in there in the first place. Harold must have hidden it and then told his dad that Barnaby took it. Did he have it in for your brother?’