27

HUNTER

Hunter walks to his bedroom window, pulls the curtain open and looks out to the street below. A dog wanders down the footpath, sniffing in the grass. It cocks its back leg against a fence and piddles. Hunter opens the window and whistles. The dog pricks its ears and lifts its leg, as if waiting for a signal. Hunter whistles again. The dog runs off down the street. He watches until the dog is out of sight.

He thinks of the excursion today. How everyone stood around under the awning, watching the rain fall, while Jesse and Kate handed out leaflets. He knew there had to be a better way. He’d stuffed the leaflets into his jacket pocket. No way was he handing them out to people who’d throw them away once they walked around the corner.

When he saw the sushi shop at lunch, he couldn’t resist. The girl behind the counter had asked for his order. Hunter bought two chicken teriyaki rolls, before asking, ‘Can I speak to the manager?’ No please, no whining voice, just a simple request. When the manager arrived, Hunter was glad he was Japanese. Hunter bowed. The manager bowed in response.

‘My father is managing director of Dalton Enterprises,’ said Hunter. ‘They own the Dalton building, just around the corner.’ Hunter remembered the name of the building easily, they’d all been staring at it for an hour in the rain. ‘They have one hundred and ten workers,’ Hunter paused, letting the number hang, ‘and my father is planning a surprise party for the anniversary of the company.’ Hunter cast his eyes along the array of sushi behind glass at the front counter. The manager noticed and seemed to half-bow once again, before reaching into his pocket for a business card and offering it to Hunter. Hunter smiled and pretended to read the card. ‘Will you be able to supply that much food?’ Hunter asked.

The manager beamed. ‘Certainly, just ask your father to call me, anytime.’

Hunter tapped the card on the counter. ‘Expect a call this week, sir.’ He turned, then hesitated. ‘One more question, sir?’ The manager leaned forward.

‘Where do you, I mean where does your company, stand on the issue of whales?’

The manager looked confused. ‘Whales?’ He looked at his array of food, as if he was caught serving something illegal. ‘Whales?’ he repeated.

‘Dalton Enterprises is a …’ Hunter searched for the right word. What would Kate say? ‘An environmentally committed company. They could not buy off anybody who supported the killing of—’

‘We understand. No whales.’ The manager brightened. ‘Chicken.’

Hunter removed the leaflets from his jacket and offered them to the manager. ‘Perhaps you’d put these leaflets on the counter? It’s a Dalton …’ He couldn’t think of the word.

The manager took the leaflets and studied them. He frowned.

‘Of course, if you don’t wish to support …’ Hunter held out his hand as if to take them back.

The manager gripped the leaflets. ‘No. It’s okay,’ he replied, placing the stack of leaflets beside the cash register. ‘We support,’ he glanced at the leaflets and attempted to smile, ‘the whales.’

Hunter nodded. ‘I’m off to see my father after lunch. I’ll be sure to tell him about this.’ He bowed again, careful not to smile until he was facing his schoolfriends.

Hunter turns from the window and sits at his desk. He remembers the looks on Kate and Jesse’s faces when he told the class what he’d achieved. For once his ‘father’ was useful, he thought.

‘Hunter?’ Mrs Riley stands at the entrance to his bedroom.

‘Hi, Mum.’ He blushes, even though he knows she can’t read his thoughts. No-one can.

‘I want to talk to you,’ she looks nervously out the window, ‘about … something.’ She attempts a smile. ‘I bought some chocolate eclairs.’ She turns and walks downstairs to the kitchen.

Hunter hopes it’s nothing to do with his father and New Zealand.

The kettle whistles in the kitchen. His mother leans against the counter, staring at the steam. Hunter walks across the kitchen and removes the kettle from the stove.

‘I’m sorry, Mum,’ he says, wondering why he’s apologising.

He sees the teapot on the table, the lid already off, the tea-leaves black against the white china. He pours the boiling water over the leaves and replaces the lid. Hunter returns the kettle to the stove, waiting for his mum to speak. She still hasn’t moved.

They stand in the kitchen for what seems like hours before she sits down at the table and gestures for him to join her.

‘I’m sorry, dear,’ she begins.

Why are they both apologising?

‘I want to talk to you about,’ she blushes, ‘something I want to try. But I won’t do it unless you think it’s okay.’

Please don’t let it be moving to New Zealand, Hunter thinks. He notices his fists are clenched on the kitchen table, waiting, expecting the worst.

Mrs Riley presses her hands hard against her temples as if she’s trying to stop herself from thinking too much. Hunter reaches across to touch his mother’s shoulder. ‘It’s okay, Mum,’ he says, nervously. ‘Whatever you do is okay.’ Except New Zealand, he thinks.

To stop his mind from racing, Hunter grips the teapot and pours the brew. When the cup’s full, he gently pushes it across the table toward his Mum. He takes the chocolate eclairs from the brown paper bag and places them on a plate.

‘I want to look for a friend,’ his mother whispers, ‘on the internet.’ She glances at her son.

‘A friend?’ Hunter repeats. ‘An old schoolfriend?’ he asks.

His mother laughs. ‘No. A man friend,’ she says. She takes a sip of tea, the steam rising from the cup. ‘To go out for lunch sometimes. Maybe a picnic. Or an afternoon at the beach. To help me forget your …’ She looks hopefully at Hunter.

He knows what she means. Anyone but Dad. He imagines his mum placing an advertisement on dating sites. Friendly, caring woman looking for anyone. Anyone but my ex-husband. He wishes he could do the same. Boy seeking Dad, for friendship and afternoon footy games. Must not own sports cars and frisbees.

‘I won’t go out at night.’ His mother reaches for his hand. ‘Only lunch. Just for the company.’

Hunter nods, unable to speak. What if he doesn’t like her new friend? What if the man asks Mum to marry him? Who wouldn’t want to be with his mum. What if the new man has children of his own? And they have to move in together? He’s thrown out his father’s clothes only to replace them with a sonky half-brother who whines and cries and wants Hunter to watch dorky TV shows and help him with science experiments. What if the man calls him Hunts? Hunter shivers.

His mother clanks the cup back on the saucer. ‘Let’s forget I said anything.’ She picks up a chocolate eclair, but doesn’t take a bite. She puts it back into the paper bag and carries it to the bench. She looks out the window and sighs.

Hunter looks at the single eclair, lonely on the plate. He takes a deep breath. ‘It’s okay, Mum. I understand.’ Maybe it’s like getting a new teacher every year at school. It takes a while to get used to them, but eventually everyone learns to cope. The teacher does what they do and Hunter spends lots of time asking if he can go to Walter.

Mrs Riley turns and walks toward Hunter. She reaches for him and he presses his cheek against her stomach, closing his eyes. Her arms wrap around his shoulders. She strokes his hair and laughs. ‘Why would I need anyone else but you, Hunter?’

Hunter keeps his eyes closed and repeats, ‘It’s okay, Mum. You can have …’ He forces the words out, ‘Just not like Dad.’ He turns his face toward her dress and starts to cry.