each to each

Tomorrow is the day.

After I’ve walked in, I retire to the lounge room and sit there, completely exhausted, on the couch. Close to five minutes later, Marv calls and tells me. He doesn’t say hello.

“We’ll go tomorrow.”

“About six?”

“I’ll pick you up.”

“No,” I say. “I’ll drive you in the cab.”

“Good idea. If I get the crap beaten out of me, we might want a car that starts first go.”

The time arrives and we leave my place at six, making it to Auburn by nearly seven. Traffic’s heavy.

“I hope the bloody kid’s still up,” I wonder out loud.

Marv doesn’t answer.

Pulling up at 17 Cabramatta Road, I can’t help but notice it’s exactly the same sort of fibro shithole the Boyds used to live in back home. We’re on the other side of the road, in typical messenger style.

Marv looks at the clock.

“I’ll go in at seven-oh-five.”

7:05 comes and goes.

“Okay. Seven-ten.”

“No worries, Marv.”

At 7:46, Marv gets out of the car and stands there.

“Good luck,” I say. God, I can hear his heart from inside the cab. It’s a wonder it isn’t bludgeoning the poor guy to death.

He stands there. Three minutes.

He crosses the road. Two attempts.

The yard is different. First go—a surprise.

Then, the big one.

Fourteen attempts at knocking on the door. When I finally hear his knuckles hit the wood, it sounds like bruises.

The door is answered, and Marv is there in jeans, nice shirt, boots. Words are spoken but I don’t hear them, of course. I’m clogged with the memory of Marv’s heartbeat and the knocking on the door.

He walks in, and now it’s my heart I can hear. This could be the longest wait of my life, I think. I’m wrong.

About thirty seconds later, Marv comes rushing backward out the door. He hurtles. Through the doorway and onto the yard. Henry Boyd, Suzanne’s father, is giving Marv a hiding he won’t soon forget. A small trace of blood flows from Marv to the grass. I get out of the cab.

To give you an idea, Henry Boyd is not a big man, but he’s powerful.

He’s short but heavy.

And he has the will. He’s a kind of pocket-size version of my Edgar Street message. Also, he’s sober, and I don’t have a gun.

As I cross the street, Marv is splayed on the front yard like a frozen starjump.

He gets kicked.

By words.

He gets shot.

By Henry Boyd’s pointing finger.

“Now get the hell out of here!”

The small, steak-tough man is standing over Marv, beginning now to rub his hands together.

“Sir,” I hear Marv plead. Only his lips move. Nothing else. He speaks to the sky. “I’ve got nearly fifty thousand—”

But Henry Boyd isn’t interested. He moves closer to stand directly over him.

There’s a kid crying. Neighbors are collecting on the street. They’ve come out to take in the show. Henry turns on them and tells them all to get their big Turkish arses back inside. His words, not mine.

“And you!” He punishes Marv with his voice again. “Never, ever come back here again, you hear?”

I arrive and crouch next to Marv. His top lip is extremely large and dipped with blood. He isn’t particularly conscious.

“And who the hell are you?”

Shit, I think, very nervously indeed, I think that’s me . I answer quickly. Respectfully. “I’m just picking up my friend here from your lawn.”

“Good idea.”

Now I see Suzanne. She holds a small kid’s hand at the door. A girl. You’ve got a little girl! I want to shout to Marv, but I think very much the better of it.

I nod at her, at Suzanne.

“Get inside, Suzie!”

She nods back.

“Now!”

The kid cries again.

She’s gone, and I help Marv to his feet. There’s a stray drop of blood on his shirt.

Henry Boyd has tears of rage on him now. They puncture his eyes. “That bastard put shame on my family.”

“So did your daughter.” I can’t believe the words I’m hearing from my own mouth.

“You better get moving, boy, or you two’ll go home like twins.”

Nice.

That’s when I ask Marv if he can stand on his own. He can, and I walk closer to Henry Boyd. I’m not sure that’s happened to him a lot. He’s short but even more powerful the closer you get. At this point, he’s stunned.

I look at him respectfully.

“That looks like a beautiful kid in there,” I say. There are no shivers in my voice. This comes as a surprise, giving me the courage to continue. “Well, is she, sir?”

He struggles. I know what he’s debating in his mind. He wants to strangle me but can smell the strange confidence that dresses everything I say. Eventually, he answers. He has side-burns. They move slightly before he speaks. “Damn right she’s beautiful.”

Now I point to Marv as I stand as straight as I can in front of Mr. Boyd. His arms hang. They’re short and muscular. I say, “He may have brought you shame, and I know you left town for it.” Again, I look at the slightly bloodied figure that is Marv. “But what he just did in facing you—that was respect. You don’t get any more decent or proud than that.” Marv shivers and takes a slight sip of his blood. “He knew this would happen, but here he is.” Now I get my eyes to step into his. “If you were him, would you have been able to do the same? Would you have faced you?”

The man’s voice is quiet now.

“Please,” he pleads. I realize a giant sorrow has arrived in me for this man. He’s suffered. “Go on. Leave.”

I don’t.

I remain in him a few moments longer, saying, Think that over .

At the car, I realize I’m alone.

I’m alone because there’s a young man with blood across his mouth who has taken a few extra steps. He’s walked forward, toward the house. The girl he used to meet in the field and make love to till dawn is on the porch.

They’re staring, each to each.