bathers – raises one hand and comically echoes the nurse’s question: Have you given a full account of yourself? The women who swim breaststroke side by side cease their chatter to tread water, and like two parrots point at him and ask Abel the very same thing, and the blonde, blue-eyed lifeguard – in her baggy blue shorts, red polo with ‘LIFEGUARD’ on the front – looks at him and misses the socket in her belt, her small water bottle takes ages to majestically float sideways to the floor while her lips move: Have you given a full account of yourself, Abel? A stack of kick-boards, dropped by another lifeguard, silently tumble to the tiled floor, Abel counts them one by one, a total of nine, gracefully bounce back up before settling to the ground … Breathing is strained, the numbers viral inside him, and his right palm itches like crazy. The overcooked wheelchair and skeletons threaten to break out of his chest to make their public debut, as a third lifesaver, running, airborne, glint of metal cylinder under his arm, is on Abel at the speed of lightning, and the giant pool hanger descends on Abel’s face as thick steam blows at him, swirling in his face, dampening his vision. Shapes float in and out before they can be identified; scrambled versions of his name hang in the air, and the nurse whispers, Not yet, mate … have you given a full account of yourself? … In the foggy mist multiple Romas – at ages seven, seventeen and twenty-seven – whip back their coiled black hair, bend over pinball machines, pull plungers back, and shoot silver balls out into the playfield humming, Pull the pin, hear the ping, silver ball bounce and ding … Keep control, flip it back to spin and thwack …
Breathing is less laboured, and the pains have settled to an irritating niggle. Wet nostalgia runs down his windscreen like racing tadpoles; no exhilaration can rival that of being back inside his Mini, the excitement machine, surrounded by swirling steam (an embryo cocooned in its mother’s womb) … Everything soft and warm, working perfectly, and lacking any application on his behalf, he’s heading where he wants to be … Ahhhhh, Abel breathes deeply, the back-seat sex smells still as pungent as in the excitement machine’s heady years; Abel rests his hands on the leather-covered steering wheel, what fun he had in that striped little car, but the voice Abel … Abel … Abel calls out again, Roma interrupts, bending down, sideways grin, gripping the plunger and pulling it back, Come back to me once more, Abel, then I’ll let you go … DING. The steaming excitement machine shoots off and even though he knows he’ll need to bounce off countless solenoid jet bumpers in the pinball playfield before he can reunite with Roma – just the prospect of being with her again, to hold her, just hold her, one more time in that brightly lit basement – his eyes are ablaze!
The steaming excitement machine stops in the small street outside his house, the first house he can remember; Abel reclines in the warm cocoon, amid the swirling steam, and a panorama kicks in, no projection required; not only does it not deny the images to him, it plasters them on his face like a moving screen. The badly worn picket fence, white paint flaked off years ago, flat plywood posts hanging off the corroded metal strip, all so familiar that Abel runs his finger along the sharp tip of a rusty nail and pricks his skin; a trickle of blood but no pain, and in fact he smiles, breathing in the intoxicating gardenia perfume of his mother’s much-loved bushes, and the gate swings back as it has countless times before and the tall lounge-room windows zoom all the way into the little striped Mini excitement machine to seek Abel. The afternoon’s bright sun tickles the plate glass and old Abel laughs as he well recalls this favourite time of day for young Abel, the hour he has to himself, between returning from school and his mother bringing home his twin sisters from kinder. Inside the house it’s cool and serene – a creative environment – young Abel sits on the floor surrounded by his wooden blocks, hands working feverishly, on a hot-to-trot mission, eyes burning with plans to build one massive structure using every block that his father has made him since the day he was born, an ambitious plan as his massive collection fills several boxes – square wooden blocks of all sizes, ranging at least a dozen vibrant colours, hand crafted and meticulously painted – quite the logistical challenge – then the highlight, the anticipated crowning glory – that Daddy home from work will glow with pride at the finished project: Good job, son, Abel my boy, give yourself a pat on the back … And Abel, laughing, would do just that, stand up, pat his own back, right hand over left shoulder, just as he’d done since he was a toddler and Dad would laugh and hug him – old Abel slaps away the father images still ahead of young Abel, time enough to suffer them later – focuses back on young Abel, a tray with a glass of lemonade and several chocolate teddy-bear biscuits, against his mother’s instructions to snack on cheese and fruit in this gap time after school, but Abel instead follows his Granny Annie’s advice. Much to his mother’s chagrin, after any meal at Granny Annie’s, she would produce a large round blue tray with lamingtons, chocolate teddy bears, Tim Tams, and white and pink meringues, and introduce it thus, A plate of sweeties to balance out the nasties of life … Next to the afternoon’s provisions lies the other protagonist of this performance, Wags, his dog, casting silent, longing glances at the biscuits, as only a big poodle bitser with floppy ears and brown-black curly coat can ever do. Occasionally, Abel tosses the begging black eyes a chocolate crumb, which the dog scoops in mid air, then lies down, one eye half open, scrutinising his master’s movements … Yes sir, old Abel smiles, in every possible way a perfect afternoon scenario – no matter what repugnant jet bumpers lie ahead on this playfield – the block building is inspirational, young Abel is well into establishing a solid foundation for his planned gigantic ‘city’ blocks structure, crawling around the impressive formation, adding blocks here and there, when Wags’s head snaps up, his ears rise, and he jumps, barks, then takes off, and a moment later the flap bangs on the kitchen’s doggy door … Hmmm, Abel stops the structure’s foundation work and cocks his head to one side for sounds of the dog’s return; it’s highly unusual for Wags to take off until the biscuit supply has been exhausted, and even back in the car, watching this 3D reality show, old Abel’s stomach begins to churn … Abel … Abel … his name is called again, but he fixates on young Abel once more as the boy chooses a few more blocks to balance onto the structure, but the serenity of the afternoon has been broken, Wags should’ve been back by now. Young Abel meanders outside, the piercing orange disc rotates warmth into the boy’s chest, but old Abel recoils against the hazard notice plastering that young torso, but young Abel is of course oblivious to any omen as he calls for his dog several times, then hears him barking in the distance. Abel calls him again, louder, and when Wags doesn’t appear Abel’s face firms; this disobedient dog needs to be read the riot act. He jumps on his bike and pedals furiously into the street, dragging the potent gardenia-scent cloak right past the parked grey and black excitement machine with old Abel in it, then swings into a small passage, and comes out in the hilly nature reserve that runs for miles behind the row of houses … The sight of the reserve fills old Abel with the warm and fuzzies; swamped by the adventures with Wags exploring that bush, playing flat-out chasey, climbing trees, smashing birds’ eggs for the dog to lick … but the best time of all, on weekends with Dad, the three of them exploring for hours, setting rabbit traps and wandering deep into the bush, sharing discussions on wildlife, the weather and the landscape, Dad’s large backpack yielding all treasures from a blanket to ham sandwiches, Tim Tams and even a well-wrapped meaty bone for Wags, not that that’d stop him, Wags would jump up mid-picnic to chase a kangaroo, returning puffed and empty-jawed, collapsing at their feet, head tucked … Never mind, Wagsie, Dad’d laugh, you tried your best, give yourself a pat on the back, mate … Abel’d jump up and pat the dog’s back and they’d all laugh, including Wagsie … But the best time of all was when Dad took him and Wags camping in the reserve, when they’d leave early morning straight after a hearty eggs-and-bacon breakfast, all carrying backpacks including the dog – Dad insisted that Wags contribute to carting the rations, so Mum sewed a small harness that strapped onto Wags’s back like the rescue dogs in the Alps – and they’d wander until they reached the bubbling creek where they set up camp in what seemed like their private reserve. But no matter the heavenly state of the camping site, this was truly an Ithaca journey – Dad told him the story of the journey to the mythical island of Ithaca; it wasn’t so much about the destination, but more the expedition – the adventure of getting there. Keeping a strong mind to reject imaginary monsters trying to scare them, concentrating on celebrating every step; nothing could touch them. Old Abel sees
