Now Showing by Ron Elliott

I walked with her. The fire embers were clear now, warm and orange on the earth near her old house.
    â€˜It wasn’t the washing, it was the fucking people. The fucking customers. Strangers. When they’d give us the washing, they’d smile their smiles, “Here, this should help.” Like they were giving us a fucking donation. “Here you go, lass.” She’d have to kill herself every day to get their small change. And they wanted eternal fucking gratitude. Their squeaky Christian voices: “You should be very proud of your mum.” “I hope you help her.” My mother was a saint, Zac. Ask anyone. Everyone. In fact, the only two people in the whole world who didn’t love my mother were my father and me.’
    â€˜No.’
    She stopped and she pointed at me with a sneaky smile. ‘He said she put my name on the invoice cos she knew I wouldn’t come. He has no idea. She thought I caused the sunshine. The letters. Even near the end. I didn’t hate him. I hated her, for making me feel bad every day of my life, and I ran away, like he said, as soon as I could. And I never came back. Even when she got sick. Even when she tried to call. Even when she ... she died.’ Robin gasped but the gasp didn’t stop. It was like a ruptured pipe in her chest. Her cry came from inside but like it was nothing to do with her.
    I hugged her. She shook in my arms, her shoulders, her chest. The tremors kept breaking from her mouth in these awful moans. I hugged her until the gasps came back into shudders and pants for breath.
    â€˜It’s okay. Shhh.’
    â€˜I’m cracking up.’
    I hugged her so she wouldn’t see that I was scared too.
    Then she said, ‘She loved me. She loved me, and I hated her, and I ran away, just like him. Even when she died, I didn’t come back.’
    â€˜You’re back now.’
    â€˜It’s too late now.’
    I needed something wise to say, something hopeful and true and useful. I needed to say something to help her and I had nothing. I had no idea. I wasn’t smart enough.
    â€˜Are you crying?’ she asked.
    â€˜I’m sorry, Rob. I’m so, so sorry.’
    â€˜I should be. Not you.’
    â€˜I know. I’m sorry.’
    â€˜Stop it.’ She pushed herself away again. We were by the embers of the fire.
    I said, ‘No.’
    â€˜Leave me be.’
    â€˜You can trust me, Robin. You can trust me to know this stuff about you and still love you.’
    â€˜Haven’t you been listening? I don’t understand the word.’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜I’m not sure I love you.’
    â€˜Oh.’

    ***
    The dog fretting woke me. It was dawn and still cold. I eased out of my sleeping bag quietly so as not to wake Robin. She was asleep in her sleeping bag on the back seat, her cheeks smudged from tears and dust.
    I patted the dog and got the rifle and used the butt end to scrape sand out from around the tyre. I went and got a piece of weatherboard from the house and slid that under.
    One of the most beautiful songs on the Bo Diddley album that I can’t name because I can’t remember who burned the album for me is ‘I’m Sorry’. It’s got a slow musical intro with mournful guitar and piano and drums. Bo’s voice is distant. The backup singers are girls. I should have played it before we’d gone to bed; so we could have swayed slowly together in the desert. It’s a very sentimental song. Robin would have grabbed the rifle and shot me, if I’d done it. But it would have been neat.
    The dog whimpered and Robin popped up looking down at me digging.
    â€˜Hi,’ I said.
    â€˜Tell me I had a long bad dream.’
    â€˜It was all true and you promised me lots of sex.’
    She looked at the rifle. ‘It’s kind of a Swiss Army rifle isn’t it?’
    The dog whined again and Robin slid across the back seat to look over at it. She