in front of Dad’s door. Listens. No snoring.
Dad. Dad?
Eh?
Going outside.
Careful.
Will.
Jacob gets his togs on. Rummages through the junk drawer in the kitchen. Finds a safety pin for the busted zipper on his coat. Takes the stairs quiet. Jogs, hands in pockets, all the way to the factory, cold coming through the tear in his armpit. Out back the factory Dean Spielman says Nice coat, for the umpteenth time. Jacob just blows on his hands, does a dude shake with the Cracks. Bobby Hollingsworth, Graham’s little brother, takes a haul on his puffer and says Colder than a witch’s tit out here.
Shouldn’t feel anything under all that fat, says Spielman, and Bobby flips the bird at his back when the Deaner turns and knocks on the black back door. Knocks again. Loud.
He always answers, but just opens the door a crack. You can see one eye. Part of his big bald head with the splotch on it. The scar on his lip. Teeth. You again?
Bobby always looks like he’s going to shit his pants but it’s him who says Us again.
Told you a hundred times, porker, don’t give tours anymore.
Let a bunch of other guys in last week, says Spielman.
Who.
Garth Hutchinson. Lyle Bunyan.
Liars.
We saw it.
Saw what.
The chocolate, says Jacob. You gave it them.
And what are you gonna give me, eh, little runner boy?
Jacob looks down. But Spielman says Give ya two bucks.
The Murph laughs. Two dollars. Rich boy. Get outta here. Freeloaders –
Are not, says Bobby, but his voice and face are shaky –
Little cocksuckers, says the Murph, out of here! And everybody jumps.
Boom. Door closed.
Holy motha, says Cracker, bending with his hand on his heart. Thought he was gonna grab one of us.
I’d hoof him in the balls, says Spielman. Fucken pervert. Let’s go.
It’s not true, says Jacob.
Is so. Lyle Bunyan brought him a Penthouse. That’s how he got in.
Lyle Bunyan talks daft crap. And anyway your dad reads Penthouse.
Ours, too, says Bobby, nodding and nodding and the ball on his toque bobbling and bobbling. Then he takes another haul on his puffer.
And Cracker hits him in the shoulder. Mum said just one pump, dumbo.
Have to breathe, asswipe. That hurt.
This hurt? says Dean, and he nails Bobby’s other shoulder. Jacob pictures nailing Spielman – right smack on the jaw, like Dad shows – except Spielman’s mum always gives Dad good deals on flowers. Plus Jacob’s hands, they’ve gone half-numb.
Let’s just go tobogganin, says Cracker, and Bobby says Yeah! like no one ever hit him.
McKnight can’t go tobogganin, says Spielman, he doesn’t have one.
Can borrow mine, says Cracker.
It’s okay, says Jacob. I should go home. My dad –
Needs you to cook dinner? says Spielman.
Shut up, Dean.
Make me. Dean stops walking. Make me.
Cracker stops.
Bobby stops.
But, Jacob – Ach– waves them off.
Yeah, Dean yells, run.
Jacob just keeps going.
I could catch you from here if I wanted!
Jacob keeps going.
Faster.
And doesn’t stop till he’s at the top of the stairs, his hands over his stinging ears. Stuffing falling out his armpit. Hard to turn the key in the lock. Hard to hold the key. Has to use two hands.
Just when Jacob comes in, Dad comes out of the bathroom. Looks like he woke up from a thousand years, but eyes Jacob up and down, says Look at the sight of you, boy.
Heat prickles Jacob’s face. Fingers, tingling. I’m okay, Dad.
Okay nothing. It’s bitterly cold out there. That’s you Monday, new togs.
Sundays are distance. Long, slow distance. Past the park. Past Potts’ farm. Almost to the big limestone house that belonged to the dead lady doctor who left all the books to the Glanisberg library. Jacob’s been meaning to get down there. And will, tomorrow. The library’s right next to the Sally Ann. Meantime, get the head up, boy. Focus. Replenish your fluids. Maintain your form.
Dad holds the jeans to Jacob’s waist, lets the legs flop flop down. Jesus Christ, boy, will you stop?
What?
Groan, you’re groan like a weed.
One of the little old ladies who minds the thrift shop looks up from her hemming. Hard to believe the size of him, John.
Eats me out of house and home, love, house and home.
Can’t keep him in clothes that fit, I’m sure.
Dad folds the Levi’s, grabs GWGs. No point in buying him new, dear. Kid grows so quick the clothes’d be down here before he wore them thrice.
No harm in second-hand, John, isn’t that right, Jeanie?
The other old lady just nods and folds a T-shirt and Dad says Right you are, love. Eyes the hem, speaks lower. These’d be about right, no, son?
Jacob looks along his leg and says Guess so.
Go and try them on then, while I have a look round.
’Kay.
On his way to the changing area, Jacob keeps an eye on Dad, wonders if he still looks, too. Just last spring Jacob thought he saw the green pullover. Hanging there. Nothing where feet and hands and a face should be. Just holes. Could have kept all those clothes. All of them. Worn them. But boom Dad pounded the patio table. Bugger it, it’s down the Sally Ann with the lot, the lot. And he broke down the other bed and yanked the drawers right out and stuffed garbage bags. That one’s mine, Dad. How would I bloody
