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    Tarcutta Wake: Stories
    Tarcutta Wake: Stories
    Tarcutta Wake: Stories
    Ebook90 pages1 hour

    Tarcutta Wake: Stories

    By Josephine Rowe

    3.5/5

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    About this ebook

    In short vignettes and longer stories, Josephine Rowe explores the idea of things that are left behind: souvenirs, scars, prejudice. These beautifully wrought, bittersweet stories capture everyday life in restrained poetic prose, merging themes of collective memory and guilt, permanence and impermanence, and inherited beliefs. A mother moves north with her young children who watch her and try to decipher her buried grief. Two photographers document a nation’s guilt in pictures of its people’s hands. An underground club in Western Australia plays jazz to nostalgic patrons dreaming of America’s Deep South. A young woman struggles to define herself among the litter of objects an ex-lover has left behind.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherUniversity of Queensland Press
    Release dateApr 25, 2016
    ISBN9780702248399
    Tarcutta Wake: Stories
    Author

    Josephine Rowe

    Josephine Rowe is the author of three story collections and two novels, including A Loving, Faithful Animal, longlisted for the 2017 Miles Franklin and selected as a New York Times Editors' Choice. She has twice been named a Sydney Morning Herald Best Young Australian Novelist, and her collection Here Until August was shortlisted for the 2020 Stella Prize. Rowe holds fellowships from the Wallace Stegner Program at Stanford University, and the Dorothy and Lewis B. Cullman Fellowship at the New York Public Library, among others. She currently lives in coastal Victoria.

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      Book preview

      Tarcutta Wake - Josephine Rowe

      WILLIAMS

      Brisbane

      And she had this way of swivelling her head round, like an owl to talk to you as she drove, except not like an owl because the skin of her neck creased up in folds and she looked so old when that happened, though she wasn’t, not then, and Luke would lean over and say, Watch the road, Mum.

      And what I’ll remember of this time is split vinyl and continental breakfasts, fights about who gets the passenger seat, a wallaby cracked over the head with the jack handle and none of us talking till Lismore even though we know she’s done the right thing.

      We pull in silent to the motel, a low, sandy-brick L shape, with all the doors facing onto the car park and the car park mostly empty, mostly dark. Our room is No. 17 and there is a tv that only gets two stations and one double bed which my brother and I fall into fully clothed with only our shoes kicked off. But something wakes me a few hours later and I panic, forgetting where I am. I go over to the window on shaky legs and see her from the back, standing out by the road. A blonde in denim pedal pushers and white tennis shoes, standing in the light of the motel sign, like the ghost of 1967. Ghost of her younger self, holding a slim beer bottle down by her hip, fingers round its throat like she wants to swing it at something.

      In the dark of the room I find the bar fridge, take a bottle of cola from inside the door. Luke lifts his head from the pillow and says, Eli, don’t you drink that. Those cost like four times as much as they do in the shops, and I say, Shut up I’m not going to, and I go back to the window. Try to stand the way she does, the bottle dangling loose from my fingertips. Like I don’t care if I drop it. Like I don’t care about anything. She stands like that for a long time, just looking out at the road like she’s waiting for someone to come pick her up.

      In the morning there are flecks of rust-coloured hair dye in the bathroom sink, and Luke takes one look at her and says, That’s not going to change anything, Mum, because he’s older and sharper than I am but he still gets a slap for it, so we’re all silent in the car again, all morning, and I wish the radio still worked.

      When we get to Brisbane, she’s telling us, you won’t even remember. And I don’t know if she’s talking about Dad or the slap, or the wallaby or Victoria or that she was ever a blonde, but in any case I know she’s lying, cause she’s got her lips pressed into a pale line and her eyes fixed hard on the road.

      The tank

      It feels good to have the sun on him. To press his body into the sand, the hot wind across his bare skin finally drying out the open sores across his back, and across the backs of his arms and his legs.

      He stretches his arms out ahead of him and kneads lazy fistfuls of the sand. Breathes its baked salt smell through the damp shirt, which he’d taken off and folded to lay his head on, avoiding the constellations of dried blood. He lets out a low moan. Muffled by the shirt it sounds almost sexual, but there is no one close enough to hear. The tourist season has been over for a month, the nightclub closed and the long bronze girls gone, and he had not been embarrassed to peel his clothes away from the damaged skin.

      The sores appeared a day or two after he got out of the tank, and were still weeping when he came back east. The medics didn’t know what to tell him. A reaction to the chemicals and salts they used to keep the water clean, maybe. They’d never seen anything like it. He’d been told it was better not to dress them, and the fabric of the long-sleeve shirts that he wore to hide them stuck to the broken skin. Coming back, he had steeled himself for the questions. First there would be How? and then, almost certainly, Why? Why would you put yourself through that? Are you fucking crazy?

      The questions would come mostly from Ella’s friends. They were all like that, her friends. Quick to slag off the adf; quicker still to scrabble for any gory morsel he might throw them. They wanted waterboarding, starvation, dogs. They wanted to tell him how barbaric it all was.

      Yeah, well, he’d tell them. They’re not prepping us for a crafternoon.

      He’d stopped trying to explain the how and the why; they would always twist it somehow, use it against him. Use it to turn Ella against him. Ella used to call them off, change the subject. Talk about the Rilke quotes that cluttered his letters from Afghanistan. Let everything happen to you, beauty and terror … But these days she just watched to see what he’d say. To see how long it took him to stand up, drain his beer and throw her the keys to his car. Might see you back at the ranch, El, and he’d barrel home through the night air, walking beside the rail lines with his hands balled up in his pockets and the sound of the freight trains humming through the tracks. He knew how they talked about him when he was out of the room. Thought he was violent, that he had to be, to have been where he’d been.

      When he came back from selection she was waiting in the kitchen of his flat. He set his gear down on the floor and she stood up.

      So that’s it then?

      That’s it for now.

      But you said if you failed …

      I didn’t fail, I just didn’t pass. Medical release, he said, unbuttoning his shirt to show her.

      My god, Laith. You let them do that to you?

      It just happened. It’s no one’s fault. I can apply again next year.

      No. I mean, yes, you can, you can do whatever you want. But I’m not going to wait for you next time.

      It was his turn to say something but

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