Gravity Read Online Free Page A

we could handle it.’
    As if on cue, Simon let out a Cro-Magnon howl from the lounge room. Dad and I looked at each other, his stubbled jaw reflecting the guilt I was feeling.
    We should have done more.
    Simon changed. Well, maybe he didn’t change; maybe Dad and I noticed for the first time how much work it was looking after a two-year-old locked in the body of a man.
    He wouldn’t let Dad or me wash him. It was his protest. The first two days, when Dad and I tried everything to wrangle his twenty-two year old body – with its mankyarmpits and crusty arse – into the flow of water, Simon would trip out. He’d punch and flail and kick and scream. He cracked the shower glass and sheared the cold tap off the wall. Dad gave up after Simon laid him out on the bathroom floor with an uppercut. We resigned ourselves to living with the smell.
    Mum phoned in the early evening of the Friday after she left. I answered it. It was just normal old Mum, sombre and terse, like she was ringing from Catalpa to let us know it’d be a late dinner. It was normal old Mum but I felt as awkward as hell and my brain just wouldn’t work. The phone fell silent and Dad stared expectantly at me. In the end, I just handed the phone to him and as soon as I did, all the words I’d wanted to say came flooding into my mind.
    Oh it’s good to hear your voice, Mum, glad you’re okay. Where are you? Do you have any idea when you’ll be coming home? I miss you. So does Dad. So does Si.
    I wanted to say that and more but I’d been dumped by the unexpected wave of awkwardness in hearing her voice.
    Dad was humble on the phone, his voice squeaking like an adolescent’s.
    â€˜We’re doing okay,’ he lied.
    He wrote down the address and phone number of the place she was staying in Springvale. She was paying the rent weekly, one week in advance.
    Dad found the courage to ask her when she’d be back, but Mum didn’t have the courage to answer.
    â€˜When you’re ready,’ he cooed.
    Mum couldn’t see the desperation in his face, but I could. The phone call ended and Dad, filled with a false cheer thatmade him seem sadder than usual, declared that we’d go to the pub for a counter meal. It was Friday after all.
    Simon must have shit his pants. He rode to the pub in the back of the ute so Dad and I didn’t notice until we’d settled into the crowded bar. Splitters Creek noticed. It was Col Terry, the publican, who had the guts to say something.
    â€˜Righto,’ he shouted along the bar. ‘Who’s shit their pants?’
    There was a chorus of ‘Wasn’t me’ and ‘Cor yeah’ and ‘What is that stink?’ then Dad looked at me. He stood on the bronze foot rail and addressed the whole pub.
    â€˜Sorry about the stink. It’s my son Simon who’s the culprit. He won’t let us wash him since Adrienne left. If anybody has any suggestions, we’d love to hear from you.’
    He sank back onto his stool and there were tears on his eyelashes. My dad, the rock, was melting.
    Col Terry was apologising, saying that he didn’t realise it was Simon. Then Col’s wife, Emma, was there with her hand on Simon’s, whispering in his ear. Next Emma was leading Simon by the elbow out the back.
    â€˜She used to be a nurse in Orbost,’ Col said. ‘She’ll look after him.’
    The stink of shit was eventually swallowed by the smoky yeast of the bar. Squid Hegarty slapped Dad on the back and said the full resources of the Splitters Creek fire brigade were at his disposal. Dad forced a grin.
    Half an hour later, Si and Emma returned. The hair on Emma’s brow was wet. Si was clean-shaven and a half-smile had settled on his lips. He was wearing one of Col’s old black Bundy polo shirts and a pair of grey tracksuit pants. Hesmelled of powder and stale cologne and Emma had parted his hair on the side like Mum used