How to Repaint a Life by Steven Herrick

Author:Steven Herrick
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: University of Queensland Press
Published: 2021-08-03T22:38:51+00:00

22

Dust

On Monday morning, Isaac wakes with dust on his skin and the churning sound of machinery. He peers over the seat. A red tractor pulling a grass-cutting machine circles the racetrack, driven by a man wearing overalls and a wide-brimmed hat with a handkerchief tied around his mouth and nose. The machine kicks up more dust than grass. A murder of crows follow in the tractor’s wake, feasting on worms. Isaac checks his watch, cursing to himself.

The tractor putters down the straight, the slowest horse in the field. Isaac’s tempted to make a run for it when it’s on the far side but can’t risk being seen. He packs his bag, slips on his boots, then lies flat on the bench seat, settling in for the wait.

Eventually, the tractor pulls up near the canteen. The man switches off the engine and hops down, carrying a mallet. He walks with a limp to the front of the tractor, bends down and fiddles with something underneath the machine. After a minute of bashing, he scratches his bum and returns to the tractor seat, removing his hat and handkerchief and wiping his face before rolling a cigarette. He lights it and takes a long drag. The wind blows smoke across the track. The man puts his feet up on the tractor dash and wriggles in his seat, staring into the distance.

Isaac wonders what the man is thinking about.

After work, Isaac’s father would lounge on the back step at home with a can of beer and a cigarette. He’d take off his boots, hang his socks on the Hills hoist and drink until dinner, the bottles lining the bottom step. Isaac stayed in the kitchen cooking. His father expected to eat at six every night. The meal was always ready ten minutes before, but Isaac kept it in the oven, desperate never to be late. He’d watch his father from the kitchen window. A sip of beer. A smoke. A shake of the head. Bruised clouds, a hustling wind, tension in the air. Anger building like a storm.

On those days, Isaac would eat early while standing at the window. Then he’d wash the plate and cutlery and tell his father he wasn’t hungry to avoid sitting at the table with him. Being within arm’s reach was dangerous. His father would eat in silence while Isaac sat on the back step, thinking of the irony of them taking turns staring at the backyard every evening. As if the answers were in a patch of grass, a squeaking clothesline and a ramshackle shed.

The day he left home, Isaac resolved to keep negative thoughts to himself but to let the positive play out in life. Every time he did something helpful, something kind, he’d taken another step away from his father. A leap away from wounded silence. The further, the better. Unlike anger and violence, kindness repaid itself. Isaac’s reward was friendship with Joan. With Sophie.

The tractor starts again. Isaac checks his watch. He’s definitely late. He stretches out on the seat and stares at the metal girders spanning the grandstand ceiling.

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