Soft serve, p.11
Soft Serve, page 11
To Taz.
To Taz.
Heads jerk back as they each scull the contents of their cones. Vodka, the international drink of pain, stings their throats.
Pat’s eyes fill, and tears fall down her cheeks. Her body is shaking, silent and stoic. Something is shifting. A threshold. She looks around. The helmets and epaulettes bring an air of authority, and the wafer cones make her think of holy communion. The body of Taz. His name feels alive for the first time in two years as it echoes around the plastic room.
Soon, the only noise is the crunch of their cones.
We have to go, Tony says, and hands them all towels that he’s soaked in water. Take these to put over yourselves in case you get overrun.
Pat has never heard that word in this context before, but she instinctively knows what it means.
Where are we going? asks Fern.
Everton Scout Hall. Twenty-minute drive.
Google Maps won’t be working, Jacob says.
Yep you’ll need to follow us. And keep close. We have to move, Tony says.
They all lock eyes with each other: a tacit and deathly good luck.
They move out as a group, faces burning, throats stinging. Fern, Jacob and Ethan run to Jacob’s car, and Pat shuffles quickly towards hers.
* * *
As Jacob’s car speeds through the smoke, time seems to stretch itself out. Jacob holds their lives in his hands, Ethan yells instructions, and Fern is in the back, sorting out the towels and looking desperately behind them for Pat’s blue Subaru. The flashing lights of the truck in front guide them through the swirling hellscape. Embers whoosh over their windscreen like poisonous bugs. The distance between their car and the truck is like a thin elastic, a lifeline threatening to snap at any second. They glance out the window every now and then as they speed down the highway. Furniture shops and mechanics on the outskirts of town give way to vulnerable brown paddocks, waiting helpless and exposed. Spot fires are dotted around, searching for each other through the smoke.
All of them become silent as they see the motorhome on its side, scorched and smoking in a ditch, flames licking out from underneath.
An ache enters the car. The draw to stop and help pulls at them all, but they know they simply can’t. All they can do is hope that the motorhome’s occupants have made it out. That they’re fine.
Fire
Lotte walks from the truck towards the Everton Scout Hall. She still has no phone reception, but through the radio she’s learnt that the house is gone. She moves slowly to preserve a strange sense of limbo – until she sees her children and her mother, who she knows are in the hall, she can delay reality.
The hall is its own centre of gravity, pulling in people from near and far. Community members busily orbit around it, carrying blankets, clothes, red and blue plastic pallets loaded with bread and milk. Floodlights throw their fluorescence over the building, and a generator buzzes to the side. Lotte knows that the seniors’ salsa classes, town meetings and mum-and-bub yoga sessions will drift away into distant memory. This, right here, today, is what the peeling yellow building will always be associated with.
She walks up the steps, holding the railing, legs pounding, and stumbles towards the registration desk. She is experiencing a new kind of exhaustion. Fans hum and rotate uselessly, dogs poke and sniff around the place, and the shriek of a pet parrot splits the air, ratcheting up Lotte’s heart rate. Behind the desk, piles of pastel blankets sit next to sleeping bags and crates of bottled water.
She is looking for her family when she feels a pair of arms wrap around her from behind. Tana, her son.
We saved as much stuff as we could, he breathes into her ear.
She turns to hug him. His blue and white Messi jersey is wet with sweat; his smell is acrid. The hesitant fuzz on his fourteen-year-old upper lip is darkened from ash. She sees him suddenly as an adult. Over his shoulder, she notices her mother on a camping bed, fast asleep and covered in a blanket in spite of the heat. She continues scanning the room: Tia-Rose is in the corner, pouring orange cordial into white polystyrene cups and handing them out. Lotte can tell her daughter is trying to pour the perfect amount each time. Something she can control.
Lotte takes Tana by the hand and leads him over to the cordial station. Tia-Rose’s hands start to shake, ever so slightly, and Lotte senses her daughter’s nerves, as though Tia-Rose thinks that if she stops to hug her mum everything will collapse forever. Lotte walks around the table and joins her daughter on the other side, picking up the cups one by one and passing them along to Tia-Rose as she needs them. They work in silence, side by side.
The hall smells like sweat and dust, and smoke and must, and sounds bounce around the walls and up in the rafters: the yelling of names (people, streets, suburbs), the squeak and snap of camping beds being erected.
Alice approaches, her face sweaty and red. She’s carrying a cup of tea in one hand and three biscuits in the other. Lotte gives her a tense nod, and Alice moves around the trestle table, cautiously, as if approaching a skittish horse, and then loops her arm inside Lotte’s. At first, Lotte resists when Alice tries to tug her away, as if to say, These people need me here. But Alice persists, and Lotte reluctantly gives in and follows Alice through the choppy room and outside onto the front porch of the hall.
Alice sits them down on a hard wooden bench in the harsh fluorescent light. Moths flap and gently nudge against the light bulb above their heads. Alice puts the cup of tea in one of Lotte’s hands and then places the biscuits in the other. Lotte takes a sip of tea, but she can’t swallow it. It catches in her throat and she holds it in her mouth, hot on her tongue, until she releases it. She lets it dribble down her uniform and her tears follow. Great, wet drops, fuelled by her heaving chest. She feels Alice’s arm around her shoulders, squeezing her close.
Party
Yeah, it was okay. The title of the poem was a bit long, said Jacob as he picked up a cardboard box filled with glass bottles. And I couldn’t hear some of it.
Taz stayed silent.
The two of them were taking the empties out to the bins. This was the deal that Taz had struck with his mum: they could run the bar if they cleaned up afterwards. Fern and Ethan were in the kitchen, scrubbing oven trays with stuck-on burnt bits.
Taz was annoyed because Jacob had been prodding him all night, and the jabs had been getting looser as Jacob had become more intoxicated: Taz couldn’t pour a drink right; the theme didn’t make sense ’cause it was winter.
Dude, what’s up? Taz finally asked as they started throwing bottles into the recycling bin.
Nothing, Jacob replied.
The bottles that Taz threw in clinked against each other in the dark. The ones that Jacob threw in smashed.
Honestly, said Jacob.
They walked back to the marquee and began collecting dirty paper napkins and half-empty beer cans. It was two in the morning, and both Taz and Jacob had to use their hands to steady themselves on the tables every now and then. The loud music from the party still faintly rang in Taz’s ears. They moved around the marquee warily, bending down to pick up rubbish like two birds pecking at scraps, each ready to fight the other if required. Half the tiki torches had burnt themselves out and the coloured party lights rotated in silence, performing for no one.
I mean it, you’ve been having a go at me all night, Taz said.
No I haven’t.
About stupid shit. And you do that when you wanna tell me something.
What? No I don’t.
Taz continues: Yes, you do. I know you better than anyone. It happened when you got expelled and Mum and Dad said you couldn’t stay here.
What the hell? Why are you bringing that up?
Because this feels the same. You were annoyed at me for a week after that. Picking apart everything I did. Like you were pushing me to ask you what’s wrong or something.
Jacob sat down on one of the plastic chairs. Taz could see sweat gathering on Jacob’s forehead despite the cold night air, but realised too late what was about to happen. Jacob leant forward and spewed onto the grass.
Whoa, dude, said Taz as he rushed over and held open the plastic garbage bag that was in his hands. Jacob’s vomit spattered into it, over the remnants of the night: the leftover pizza crusts, the paper plates, the streamers.
With his eyes watering, Jacob looked up at Taz. Don’t go. Please don’t go.
I won’t. I’m here, man. I’ll hold this bag as long as you need.
No, Jacob said, trying to heave in breaths. I mean I can’t lose you as a friend.
Jacob began spewing again, and Taz kept holding out the rubbish bag. When Jacob had stopped, Taz tied up the bag, put it down on the grass and went to the bar. He picked up a beer and a Diet Coke from the leftover drinks bobbing around in the cold water of the esky. He walked back, sat down next to Jacob, cracked the beer for himself and handed the Diet Coke to Jacob.
Here. It’s good for the tummy.
This is supposed to be the other way around, Jacob groaned, holding up his Diet Coke and eyeing Taz’s beer. I’m nearly twenty, and you’re seventeen.
Pretty much eighteen.
Taz considered Jacob’s words – that their paths should be switched. Two best mates. Practically brothers. Jacob was the elder, yet Taz was the mentor. He’d sensed in Jacob, recently, an embarrassment in that.
It feels like you’re leaving me behind, Jacob said, eventually.
Taz sipped on his beer. Leaving isn’t the same thing as leaving behind, he ventured.
It feels like leaving behind.
Well. That’s kinda on you.
Jacob looked hurt. Thanks.
I’m not going to the moon. I just mean that I’m not doing something impossible. Just confident. And you’re the most confident person I know.
No, I’m not, said Jacob.
What are you talking about? Nobody does those moves on the dancefloor unless they’re confident. And you got your own bloody place before school finished.
Yeah, and I’m shitting bricks every day.
He’d never heard Jacob say this before. What are you scared of? Taz asked.
Everything, mate. Jacob paused, as if something was occurring to him. You’re my safe friend, he continued. When I know you’re gonna be somewhere I’m gonna be, I feel … good. I can tell you anything.
Taz didn’t know how to respond to Jacob’s declaration. Instead, he asked Jacob again what he was afraid of.
I dunno. Tomorrow, next week, what I’m supposed to do, what I’m supposed to say, rent, living alone. Change. Everything.
Well, sometimes all you need is a bit of a push. Taz reached out and shoved Jacob in the chest, hard enough for the plastic chair to fall backwards, taking Jacob with it. Jacob landed on the grass and his Diet Coke spilt down his arm.
Fuck you, Jacob said, laughing. He stood up and poured the rest of his can over the front of Taz’s shirt.
You dickhead, said Taz as he kicked him away.
Jacob righted his chair and sat it next to Taz’s. Something always drew them back together, Taz thought. Some strange gravity. They listened to the clanging of Fern and Ethan washing up in the kitchen.
Taz finally spoke. Let’s finish cleaning tomorrow.
He was about to stand up when Jacob grabbed his forearm, not hard, just holding it. Taz didn’t flinch. They sat there shivering for ages, as if neither of them wanted to break the spell.
Part Five: Closing Time
Pat is sitting in one of the booths, her hands folded in her lap. She feels paralysed as she thinks of the seven others driving off. She wonders how close they are to the scout hall, if they’ve arrived there safely.
She’d been following them through the carpark, lurching her Subaru over the lip and onto the road, when she remembered something. She threw the car in park, opened the door and ran around the side of the building, pressing her apron to her nose and mouth. She hurried through the restaurant (the fluorescent light from her torch made all the edges seem sharp) and headed down to the basement, to the employee lockers. She punched in her code to find the sheet of paper Blu-Tacked to the inside of her locker door: the final page of the letter Taz gave her on the morning he left. The letter, written on paper that he’d ripped from an exercise book, was full of memories, inside jokes, spots of gratefulness. The final page had only these words, scrawled huge, taking up the entire space: Thank you. See you soon X.
Pat had stuck it in her locker, where she loved to see it at the end of a shift, knowing she’d be back in his presence tomorrow.
She pulled the sheet off her locker door and headed back up, taking the stairs two at a time. Near the top of the stairs, she heard a sound. An enormous Whip crack, a hellish metallic boom. She ran out the side door and saw the twisting mass: a power line, untethered from its pole, thrashing around and spitting sparks on her car like an enormous cobra. It ended up limp, slung over the top of her car, but it had claimed its prey. Pat ran as close as she could and looked down the road both ways. She could hardly see a thing, just smoke turning black, too black to drive through. All she could hear was a threatening electrical hum and click. She thought to call Tony but there was no reception. She thought about running. But where?
And so she’s back in the restaurant. The final page of Taz’s letter is folded in her pocket, along with the other pages and her birth certificate – the two things she thought to bring with her this morning, just in case.
She has the strange sense of a vast cave opening up behind her. She can almost imagine the cool breeze emanating from the drip, drip of the glistening darkness.
She has pulled that sensation from a memory. When Taz was eleven, she had to pick him up from his school trip to Jenolan Caves – he’d been so homesick that she’d been told to retrieve him. Homesickness, the flimsy little weakness that burrows a long tunnel underneath boyish bravado and pops up, embarrassingly late, just as the parent has started to feel superfluous. She and Mike had fought about what to do. Mike wanted her to leave him there – tough love, it’ll be good for him – but Pat had relented. It made her feel warm, still wanted, still necessary.
When Pat arrived, Taz looked so pale and shaky, with his head bent forward as if he was trying to cover his eyes with his loose blond fringe. The year supervisor gave him over to Pat, saying, Poor pet says he has a bit of an upset tummy. A friendly hostage exchange with a wink and a nod between two adults, both playing along with Taz’s excuse.
‘Hotel California’ played on the radio as Taz looked out the window at the trees rushing past. He had been so excited to see the caves. He had researched it the whole week before, listing the different types of bats in there and testing her on the difference between a stalagmite and a stalactite (stalagmite might reach the top, stalactite must hold on tight). She knew he would have fought so hard against the draw home.
With a slight frown on his delicate face, he fell asleep in his seat. Pat woke him up when they were in the carpark of the caves.
What are we doing? he asked quietly.
Come on, mate.
Pat took him to the ticket booth, where she handed over too much of her pay cheque for a guided tour. It was led by a young black-haired German man with a collection of fine and tattered rope bracelets on his wrist. He had the effervescence of someone living and working in a land far away from their own. Taz was sucked in. Pat could tell that his neck must have hurt from craning to see all the bats and the fossils.
When the tour ended, they climbed back to the mouth of the cave. Pat had Taz’s hand in hers as they gazed into the expanse below. The breeze carried the cool ancient smell of eucalyptus as it eased past them.
They squeezed each other’s hands, two explorers with shiny yellow helmets on their heads.
* * *
Pat lets out a groan and uses her hands on the table to haul herself up from the booth. She begins to dodder around the restaurant, pretending to turn off the machines one by one. Sweat drips down her back. She imagines the beeps and mechanical melodies breaking the eerie silence. But the fryer and the grills are already in a deep sleep. She stops next to the soft serve machine, finger hovering over the button, no sudden movements. She’s holding her breath as thoughts flash through her. She moves her hand to her mouth and kisses it, then lowers her hand to transfer the kiss to the metal. She moves to the drink station, takes a paper cup and presses the Diet Coke tap. Nothing comes out, but it doesn’t matter. Her body seems to be on autopilot as she wanders to the playground. With her mind drifting up and up, she climbs the stairs of the slippery dip.
Pat stands at the top, self-preservation and self-destruction engaged in their pulse-quickening chemical battle underneath her uniform. She’s both intensely tired and electrically awake. Deep down, she knows that this is a battle in which there can be only one winner.
She’s looking around intently but for what she doesn’t know. A sign? A presence? A spark? She can’t quite get a hold of her thoughts. They wisp through her mind and out the top of it, up to the heavens.
Without thought there’s only instinct and it’s exactly that which makes her look out and see it: the writhing mass of orange in the gum that leans towards the restaurant’s golden arches, towards their fatty yellow heat. The tree is crackling and popping, and its leaves smell like a hospital ward. Clean and sharp and menacing. What a trick for Mother Nature to play, Pat thinks – to bend her mind back like that.
Now ablaze, the tree shakes in the gale and flings off embers like it’s in a panic. The embers zing all around, onto the carpark and the roof of the building, sinisterly disappearing into the gutters. Pat knows it only takes a few dry leaves, missed by Jacob and Ethan’s hose, for the fire to sneak inside, to slip through a broken tile, onto a wooden beam.
