AllFreeNovel
Share Us
At the end of the game, his dad wasn’t there anymore to drive him home. And they’d lost, 19 to 14. Because the kid had scored a try after running over Beckett.
The long walk home, his arm and head aching, carrying his muddy rugby boots and his bag, sweating in the heat and humidity even though it was autumn. Arriving at the shabby white house with the palms around it and heading up the footpath, because there was no choice.
His dad at the kitchen table, having his first beer of the day, looking up when the screen door slammed shut behind Beckett and saying, “There he is. Took you long enough. Reckon you ran and hid after that performance. Small wonder.”
Beckett’s two younger sisters staring up at him owl-eyed, frozen by their dad’s tone.
His mum saying, “Wash your hands and have a sandwich, darling. You look as if you need it,” and setting the plate on the table.
Beckett not saying, “I came home straightaway,” because there was no point arguing. Just dropping his boots and bag and taking a step toward the sink.
He’d never forget the sudden sweep of his dad’s hand, the scrape of the plate across the table, the crash as it landed, the way his sisters had jumped. Or the way the dark blood had suffused his dad’s face as he said, “No bloody cowards eating at my table. You hear? Every dad in the place laughing, shaking their heads at my son.Myson! You fall off a tackle like that again, don’t bother to come home!”
Beckett hadn’t known what to say, or what to do. It wasn’t the first time, but it didn’t normally happen as much to him. He kept quiet and kept his head down.
It normally happened to his mum. No matter how much she kept her head down, it wasn’t enough.
He knew what she did afterward, though, didn’t he? That was why, when his mum bent to pick up the shards of broken porcelain, the scattered, greasy pieces of ham and bread that were everybody’s tea, he said, “No, Mum. I’ll get it.” And cleaned it up with the shame burning hot in him.
The shame, and the anger.
He dropped his shoulders, now, and did his best to drop the memory. His mum was gone, and his dad might as well be, as far as Beckett was concerned. He’d run as soon as he could. South to the University of Queensland for university, then taking a job with a builder that he’d started five days after they’d put his diploma in his hand. He’d mostly left the anger behind, and had done his best to leave the shame, too. And when he’d held Janey in his arms that first day, with Abby smiling up at both of them, looking white, sweaty, and exhausted, because she’d worked so hard and hurt so much, he’d made a silent promise to them both. The same promise he’d made to Abby on the day he’d married her.
I don’t know how to do this. How to be a husband. How to be a father. But I know how I won’t do it. Ever.
That was why, when Troy dropped the towel from around his skinny shoulders in the echoing space of the indoor pool, Beckett put his arm around his son’s shoulders, gave him a cuddle, and said, “I’m proud because you’re here. I’m proud because you’re scared, and you’ve come anyway. That’ll always be enough for me.”
“OK,” Troy said. Small voice, worried face. And Beckett dropped his arm and watched his boy march to the edge of the pool. He watched his shoulders lift as he took a deep breath, and he watched as he slid into the water.
Quinn, taking them through the same exercises she did to start every class. Blowing bubbles. Floating on their backs. Floating on their stomachs. Quinn counting, and encouraging them to count, too, in their heads. Quinn encouraging, praising. Quinn, who’d won three gold medals, leading the group in applause because her latest scared student had found the courage to float.
And, finally, the part Troy had always balked at. The kids leaving the side of the pool and swimming up the lanes using their arms and legs in an uncoordinated, clumsy approximation of a stroke.
Troy holding onto the side, looking at Quinn, then looking at Beckett.
Beckett nodded at his son. And held his breath.
Troy put his face in the water. He put out an arm, and then another one. His legs kicked.
He swam.
Four strokes. Five. And back to the side, hanging onto the wall with the water streaming over his face. Quinn putting up her hand, and Troy high-fiving her. Quinn telling the class, “Troy swam! Let’s give him a hand.”
Five kids and Alexis’s mum, applauding like mad. Troy’s face turned to Beckett’s again, shining with a grin this time. Janey beside him, saying, “Dad! He swam! Troy swam!”
Beckett tried. He did. The tears were there, though, and one of them spilled over, then a few more did. He put up a hand to hide his trembling face and said, “Yeah. He did. Well done.” Looking at Quinn, then, her face shining with that same joy, and taking his hand away, because he had to mouth the words.
Thank you.
She nodded back. Brisk. Capable. And went on with her lesson.
There was no freedom like leaving the past behind. No freedom at all.
41
PRIVATE DISPLAYS OF AFFECTION
That day changed something, maybe, because Troy finally made another friend, a boy named Michael who liked dragons and pretending, and the two of them and Claire had so far spent two Saturday afternoons in the attic and three Sunday mornings at Claire’s place, stomping mazes in the snow and playing pretend games about castles and wizards, building magical worlds out of wooden bricks. Which meant that Beckett had been able to join Quinn twice at the gym and once for skiing, now that she couldn’t run outdoors anymore. Taking a strength-training class or, especially, trying in vain to keep up with Quinn on skis or in the pool was an experience—a humbling one. Nobody focused like Quinn, and nobody worked harder. Didn’t matter what it was. And he’d just say … she was a pretty good teacher, on the ski thing, but more than that, she was the kind of student who was a pleasure to teach.
