To the left is a bent house, all punched in by the wind and sun and the cheap materials folding it from the inside. I know what the rooms look like. Unstuffed furniture busted from slumping bodies. Bongs and needles and spoons the only shiny decorations. A handbag with its guts spilled out. Cups green and furred, their hairs topped with white spores ready to fly at a breath. Somewhere in a deeper room lies a body, alive, but only a body. Not enough breath from it to release the spores.
The body will rise in a few hours and resume its life. To my right, through the driver’s-side window, a dog in shitting position on a dry nature strip, staring at me, daring me to laugh. A pit bull. Ferocious fighting dog caught in that ridiculous hunched shape, the one moment of its
vulnerability.
Don’t worry, doggo, didn’t see a thing. And, by the way, have you seen my husband?
A car behind me flashes its lights, then the driver leans on the horn. I pull over. Angry red mouth blahhing as the car accelerates past, exhaust smoke, a finger from the window. The phone map says I’m in Dallas. It doesn’t look that different from Jacana or Campbellfield or any of the other suburbs I’ve cruised these last few days. Good people live here. They try. Their lawns are edged, porcelain cats pose silhouetted in windows, jaunty letterboxes await news from the local rag. Then some junkie comes and smashes up their house or breaks into their car or shits in the driveway. That’s why we moved.
Jewelee said to me last night, What the fuck are you doing, Mum, you think he’s out there waiting for you to drive past? You think he’s at the bus stop expecting a ride?
Two more streets. The darkness is gathering around the trees and the traffic lights are starting to glow with the supernatural colour they have at dusk. The night people are stirring, beginning to twitch, opening their yellow eyes…
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