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The Prodigal Sonby Alex HoganShaun came
back. Mum went to collect him from the city and brought him
back.
He’d been living in a small room in an old abandoned office building
inhabited
by others like him – homeless, druggies, crims, prostitutes.
We found him
sitting on the floor in his room, holding his hands out to the ring of
blue
flames on the primus gas ring to try and warm them. He let
mum pack up
his things – the few he had left – and bundle them, and him, into her
car. He assured
Mum he
wasn’t on drugs, although I knew he took marijuana, but he figured that
didn’t
count, and besides, he didn’t care if he had any or not. Back
home, in
the country town where we grew up, he couldn’t get any – at least not
without
seeking it out – and he didn’t go out at night. During the
days he went
shopping for mum and helped with the housework, but mostly he tended to
just
lie on his bed – staring. Mum was so
happy
to see him home, safe, and not going to pubs and parties, that she
didn’t
question his staring. “He’s finding himself. He’s
learnt his
lessons, soon he’ll come out of himself, you’ll see.” He was four
years
older than me. As kids we played together, but when he
started high
school he didn’t spend much time with me, his little sister.
He was often
out in the afternoons or locked in his room. It was only on
Sunday
afternoons, when Mum and Dad went out to visit friends, that I’d see
him.
We watched Countdown together. I was a weenie-bopper by then,
in love
with all the pretty boy pop stars. He’d laugh when I cooed
over them, but
always in a nice way, never to make fun of me. But when he
finished fourth form at school he left. Left school and left
home.
Dad railed at him about wasting his education and wasting his
life. But
the more he railed, the further Shaun went. He stopped
answering the
phone, and ultimately had it disconnected. **** I tapped on
the
door and waited. After a bit the door opened. Shaun
was lying on
his bed. He could just lean over to open the door, without
getting off
the bed. I brought in some vanilla slice. He
smiled. “I haven’t
eaten that for years,” he said. “Since when?” “Since last
time
I ate it with you.” Since he
left
home. He asked where Mum and Dad were. “Out visiting Mr and Mrs Griffiths.” It was Sunday afternoon. “Some things
never change, eh?” he asked, with a half smile.
He picked up the spoon and started to pick away at
the vanilla
slice. “These things always were hard to eat,” he said. I smiled. I ate some
of the
slice with him, then looked up.
I
cleared my throat, “Shaun, I know I shouldn’t ask this, but …why did
you
leave? And why have you come back?” He grinned,
but
just stared out the window. “Sorry, you
don’t
have to answer.” We sat and
ate
for a while longer, making a mess of the cake and us. “Do you
still
like the pop idols?” he asked. I
laughed.
“Yeah, well, some. But I am more picky these days.” “Still like
em
tall and thin?” I blushed,
and
nodded, “but with tight jeans these days.” He
laughed.
“Yeah, bring on the tight jeans.” We ate some
more,
in silence, until the slice was finished. As I scraped the
last of the
creme off the plate, he leant back on his bed. “Do you
remember
Colin?” he asked. “Ahh…yeah, I
think. He was a mate of yours?”, even though he was
in sixth form
when Shaun was only in fourth form. Shaun
nodded, and
stared off into space again. I heard the clock ticking in the
lounge
room, echoing down the hallway. “He died.” “He
died?”
He can’t have been more than twenty-four. “Yeah…of
AIDS.” Shaun looked directly into my eyes, my brain, my
consciousness, as
if seeking something from me, but then turned away and gazed off into
that
place in the air that he kept looking into. I had heard
of
AIDS, it was that new, terrifying disease. Slowly the pieces
started to
fall into place. “And…you?”
I managed to ask, at last. He shook his
head. “No. I have a clean slate. I have
another sixty years
in front of me––” I saw tears in his eyes. “––but he…has
none.” |