Darcy rode beside his father in the kombi, taking the long way back from the Yamala shops, Darcy changing the gears with his right hand while his father did the clutch, but Darcy missed third when he saw the missionary walking along Humphries Road. The kombi in neutral, his father just let it roll, half on the bitumen, half in the dust. Is that him? he asked, but Darcy said nothing. Roll down the window, his father said.
The missionary stood with his white shirt sleeves turned up and a narrow black tie, loosened from his collar because of the heat. Darcy’s father leaned across Darcy to the open window. I’ll take you to the top of the hill, he shouted.
The missionary opened the door, stepped up into the rumbling van. Make room, said Darcy’s father, and suddenly Darcy was sitting between them, putting the grocery bag down under his feet, and the missionary was saying a quiet American thank you.
I believe you two know each other, said Darcy’s father, starting up the road, doing the gears on his own.
The missionary removed a black baseball cap with risen letters that said UTAH. He ran his hand through his shock of thick hair. We have met, he said, yes.
Darcy wanted to offer him grapes from the bag but he didn’t. He glanced over, saw the awkwardness sewn in the corners of the missionary’s eyes. Did you read the Book? the missionary asked him.
Darcy turned his gaze to the floor, the missionary’s leather sandals, his dusty feet. I looked at the pictures, said Darcy.
So you’re a Mormon, his father said, and for a moment Darcy thought he spoke to him, then he noticed the missionary nodding, fiddling with his baseball cap. Darcy stared at the tattoo of the thorns on the missionary’s arm, he felt his knee against the missionary’s pants and a ripply feeling spread over him. He thought of the Rose of Sharon that covered his mouth, the weight of the missionary rubbing against him.
Are you married then? asked Darcy’s father.
The missionary’s smile was slight. It’s not compulsory, he said.
A truck ran past from the quarry and the kombi shuddered. We thought you’d have lots of wives, said Darcy’s father, didn’t we, son?
Darcy stared straight ahead, concentrating on the white line, the electric touch of the missionary’s leg.
I met your wife, said the missionary. She didn’t seem well.
That’s none of your business, said Darcy’s father, his change of tone sudden. Darcy eased his knee away.
The missionary turned the cap in his hands. I was on my way to see her now, he said.
Darcy’s father stopped the van, leaned over past Darcy and opened the passenger door. I can take care of my family, he said.
The missionary seemed shocked, stepping down to the roadside, mumbling something about trying to help.
Then keep away from my boy, said Darcy’s father. He jumped the kombi forward before the door was barely closed. Darcy didn’t dare watch out the side mirror to see the missionary getting smaller in the dust. He probably just wanted dinner, said Darcy.
His father pulled into the driveway and parked. I think I know what he wanted, he said. He got out and slammed the door and Darcy sat there, still as the sun through the windscreen, to see if the missionary would still walk past the end of the drive. Instead, he saw his father with a stick. With it, he propped open the bonnet of the Austin and unhitched the battery, removed the stick and let the bonnet crash down. He threw the battery in the incinerator. He’d taken out the Austin’s heart.