Color of Blood(89)

“Well, in my dream—it’s a recurring dream really—he’s got his army uniform on, and he’s hugging me good-bye. In the dream, I guess I’m about five or six years old, which of course doesn’t make any sense, but in this dream he just says, ‘Good-bye, Judy. Ta.’”

“That’s all?”

“Yes. Not very interesting, is it? But in the dream I always feel so bloody sad when he says ‘Ta.’ It almost wakes me up.”

Dennis looked out the side window.

“How about your father?” Judy asked. “Is he still alive?”

“No, he’s completely dead, and the less I think about him, the better.”

“Oh.” Judy stared straight ahead at the bleached-out bitumen highway.

***

The geological changes were subtle at first—less foliage and more patches of exposed reddish-brown soil. Farm houses and sheep stations grew sparser until, almost as if a curtain had been raised on a theatrical set change, the land turned barren and unpopulated.

A thin sheen of dust covered the car, and Judy used the windshield wipers now and then to clear it. She said the Great Northern Highway ran north to the coast at Port Hedland and Darwin but warned that leaving the highway would mean traveling on dirt roads at slower speeds.

By the time they stopped in Mt. Magnet for a bathroom break and something to eat in the local pub, Dennis felt like he was driving over the surface of Mars. The ground was uniformly a dull red-ochre with sporadic clumps of forlorn bushes and white-blond grasses. Although they had the Cruiser’s air conditioner running, Dennis could feel the heat through the windshield. Stepping outside the car in the old mining town, he was assaulted by the heat and took several gulps of furnace-like hot air.

“Let’s get inside,” she said.

The pub was small but air conditioned. They sat at the bar and ordered sandwiches and soft drinks. Only one other patron, a weathered old-timer perhaps in his seventies, was in the room. The male bartender had long hair tied back in a ponytail and was garrulous to the point of being overbearing. Dennis had the feeling the bartender was starved for conversation.

Judy, to Dennis’s surprise, manufactured a story about how she and her American boyfriend were on holiday, driving to Darwin. Dennis smiled at the boyfriend part.

He ordered an egg-salad sandwich and noticed it came with the crust cut off. He grimaced at the first bite and pried it apart. Each slice of bread was covered with butter.

“What’s wrong?” Judy asked.

“It’s butter,” he said.

“Of course it is,” she said.

“Where’s the mayonnaise?”

“That’s a Yank thing,” she said. “Just eat. It’s good for you.”

And he did eat it. Judy noticed that the more abrupt and commanding she was with Dennis, the more likely he was to obey. It thrilled her in some inexplicable way to see this tough, abrasive, veteran investigator do what she told him.

While eating he took a sideways glance at her, noting how she flicked her hair over her shoulder so it wouldn’t fall in her plate. From the side he could see how ageless her face looked and how her eyes sparkled in the glare from the window.

“Dennis, what are you looking at?”

“Nothing.”

“You are such a bewildering man.”

“Of course I am.”

They left the pub, but not without scanning the parched and cracked bitumen parking lot. There was only a single ancient Toyota pick-up truck parked under a small tree, and on the other side of the parking lot underneath a gray-and-white barked eucalyptus tree milled a group of black people.

Driving back to the highway, Dennis said, “Were those Aboriginals?”

“Yes.”

“They looked poor.”

“Because they are poor.”

“What do they do out here?”

“Do?”

“Do they work? Go to school? Or just sit under that tree?”

“Well, some work, some go to school, and others just sit under a tree all day.”

“In Perth I saw a few of them near a park, but they were always just scooting by at the periphery, almost like ghosts,” he said.

“Are you making a social comment of some sort?”

“No, not really; I was just wondering. It’s just that I didn’t see a single Aboriginal working behind a counter in a coffee shop in Perth, or even shopping in a store, for that matter.”

“It’s a complicated situation,” she said.

“But do they hold jobs in offices and stores?” he asked.

“Some do. Many live in settlements far away from the city. The cultural differences are huge. And even when they do work at stations or farms, the males just take off sometimes and disappear for a while. They go walkabout.”

“Walkabout?”

“Yes, just wander off into the bush,” she said.

“What do they do on a walkabout?” he asked.

“They wander.”

“I saw a pile of empty bottles near those people back there.”

“And yes, some are alcoholics,” she said. “But I gather you Yanks didn’t do much better with your Indians.”

“We call them Native Americans. And yes, we screwed them pretty good. But at least we gave them casinos.”