The Sky So Heavy by Claire Zorn Page A

alphabet magnets. There were a lot from what looked like Asian countries, maybe they went to visit family. There were some with African school children. There was a postcard with a portrait of another family, parents and three kids. Beneath the photograph it read ‘ Pray for the Kellys on mission in South-East Asia ’ and there was a web address.
    The front door opened and closed. Arnold came into the kitchen with the green bag. He handed it to me. I took it.
    ‘You don’t have to do this.’
    ‘I know,’ he said.
    ‘Okay. Hey, do you want these?’ I held out the bag of whisky bottles. ‘In exchange . . .’
    He frowned.
    ‘It’s whisky.’
    Arnold raised an eyebrow. There was almost a smile. ‘Keep it.’
    ‘Okay. Thanks.’ I turned to leave.
    ‘I have some orange juice. Would you like some?’ It sounded more like an exam question than an invitation.
    ‘Oh. Sure. Thank you.’
    ‘Sit down.’
    ‘Okay.’ I sat in one of the orange vinyl kitchen chairs.
    Arnold opened a cupboard and took out two orange and mango Poppas. He handed me one and sat down in the other chair. He didn’t speak and I wasn’t exactly bursting with conversation starters, so we just sat there sipping juice through our straws like we were six-year-olds.
    ‘Are, um, your parents around?’ I asked when I couldn’t handle the silence any longer.
    Arnold didn’t answer right away. Then his gaze flicked away. ‘They’re gone. They were over there, when the missiles hit. They were working for a church.’
    ‘Shit. That’s really intense.’
    ‘Yes.’
    I finished my juice and stood up.
    ‘I should get back to my brother.’
    Arnold got up. I followed him down the hall. He opened the front door.
    ‘When you’ve run out again, come back,’ he said. He didn’t look at me when he said that, his gaze remained focused out the door, looking into the distance.
    I went out. Hesitating on the front step I turned back.
    ‘Really, thank you.’
    ‘It’s nothing.’
    ‘I’m . . . I’m . . . you know . . . sorry you copped it at school.’
    His eyes met mine. ‘Are you sorry you treated me like shit or are you sorry that I’m the one who has the food?’
    I swallowed. ‘Um . . .’
    ‘Don’t worry about it.’ He closed the door.

Seventeen
    Mick came back. He was slighter, somehow smaller, like a building with its foundations sinking into the ground.
    ‘Is she still here?’ he asked, swallowing. His face had lost colour. I could see the wiry roots of his black beard beneath his skin. I led him inside. I didn’t ask him to take his shoes off. He didn’t look like he could manage it.
    ‘Dadda! Dadda!’
    He saw Zadie lying in her bed. He grabbed the doorframe to steady himself. Then he went to her, dropped to his knees, cupped her little head and pressed his nose into her hair. He looked up at me.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. As if there was anything I could have done to prevent her getting sick.
    Tears ran down over the sharp drop of his cheekbones and into his beard.
    ‘Where’s Mummy?’ Zadie asked.
    He closed his eyes and pulled her small body to him. She laughed.
    ‘Do you want a tea? We’ve got tea. You look cold.’
    He shook his head
    ‘Where’s Mummy? Where’s Zac?’
    ‘Zac’s at home, sweetie.’
    ‘Where’s Mummy?’
    He looked at me again and I could see the answer.
    I stuffed Zadie’s clothes into her bag and gave it to Mick.
    ‘It’s messed up out there, Fin,’ he said quietly.
    ‘Where did you go?’
    ‘The community hall first. But there wasn’t much help there. A lot of folding chairs and some first-aid kits. No doctors, just some SES guys. I asked them if the hospital was still open and they said they didn’t know. There’s no communication. All the batteries in their two-ways are flat. I drove down the mountains to the hospital. The highway was closed, barricaded off. But there were no cops there so I drove through. It took an age with the roads iced over but I got to the hospital. It