Valiant, a spotted dog’s head poking out the window, the speedo watched religiously — all this journeying, from hard seed to sublime smoke, melts through time to peacefully unbuckle Cydar from normality. He had kept to himself the fact that, when Plum was sitting beside him, he could see her skull through her skin.
A rich, virescent, rank-smelling drug, strong as a train and loaded with paranoia: Justin, when he tries it, will be reduced to jabbering imbecility. Even Cydar, usually impervious, had had to fight the anxious urge to grip Plum by the collar and plead,
Don’t: whatever you’re doing, don’t do it.
Cydar loves Plum and always has, from the moment he saw her on the day she was born. He remembers the hospital, standing beside Fa at the nursery window, pressing to the pane a card that said
Coyle;
he remembers the nurse walking the aisles of cribs until she came to one, their one,
his one.
Slotted inside her blankets, Plum was only a baby — only a baby’s head, in fact, swollen as an apricot, spout-lipped, bald — but Cydar had craved to reach through the glass,
hello hello hello.
He had sought his father’s eyes, and they had exchanged a look they’ve never shared since. Hushed and shivery. This new thing come to change everything. Make Cydar no longer the youngest, give Cydar something to guard. Plum loves Justin more than she loves Cydar, people usually do and cannot be blamed, and although he’d hoped that his sister might be something other than usual,Cydar accepted the situation years ago. It’s never diminished the rumble of responsibility he feels in his chest for her. But the honk of her voice, the slope to her stance, the sore look of the skin on her forehead, the unwillingness of her clothes to fit well: all these are making Cydar, who loves Plum more than anyone does, reluctant to look at her. The desperation which singes the edges of her — this is even worse. She’s not fourteen, but sitting on the bungalow step Cydar is sure he sees how her life will unfold.
Be fearsome,
he wants to tell her.
Defy.
His own life depends on her doing so. His existence will never be all it can be if Plum stands in its corner, happy for and proud of him, but misaligned and alone. She will stunt him, and he will let her.
A blackbird breaks his concentration, the dope abruptly drops him from its teeth. Cydar yawns and straightens, rubbing his eyes with a fist. It’s impossible to guess how much time has passed since he sat on the step and struck a match, but it must be nearing dinnertime. He stands up cautiously from the torpid trough of stonedness, and the chemicals sink through him to settle at his feet as heavily as boots.
The interior of the bungalow is lit like a cinema in which Gatsby would have watched silent films. The fish tanks emanate a frosty radiance that’s shot through with amber and emerald. There is a damp, purgatorial smell. Standing against a wall are the handcrafted housings of an expensive hi-fi. Cydar flicks a switch, and threadlike needles jump. As the stylus arm rises, the record on the turntable begins to spin. Every day ends with The Velvet Underground.
There’s not much time until lamb fritters, but enough to make a start on her homework. Plum takes the recorder and the book of tunes out to the swinging lounge on the veranda, and sits with the instrument perched on her lips and the book splayed over her knees. Plum is not musically inclined, and the noise she blows from the plastic tube is discordant in the extreme.
Like a cat trodden on by a plumber,
her music teacher says, having grimaced out the same line several hundred times over the past decade. Yet Plum persists, because she has in her head a seraphic image of herself playing a flute. She would be the exact person she wants to be, if only she could play the flute.
And Maureen, cooking dinner in her kitchen, might hear her playing, and come outside.
In fact, in the shadows, it is Plum’s brother Justin who listens,
A rich, virescent, rank-smelling drug, strong as a train and loaded with paranoia: Justin, when he tries it, will be reduced to jabbering imbecility. Even Cydar, usually impervious, had had to fight the anxious urge to grip Plum by the collar and plead,
Don’t: whatever you’re doing, don’t do it.
Cydar loves Plum and always has, from the moment he saw her on the day she was born. He remembers the hospital, standing beside Fa at the nursery window, pressing to the pane a card that said
Coyle;
he remembers the nurse walking the aisles of cribs until she came to one, their one,
his one.
Slotted inside her blankets, Plum was only a baby — only a baby’s head, in fact, swollen as an apricot, spout-lipped, bald — but Cydar had craved to reach through the glass,
hello hello hello.
He had sought his father’s eyes, and they had exchanged a look they’ve never shared since. Hushed and shivery. This new thing come to change everything. Make Cydar no longer the youngest, give Cydar something to guard. Plum loves Justin more than she loves Cydar, people usually do and cannot be blamed, and although he’d hoped that his sister might be something other than usual,Cydar accepted the situation years ago. It’s never diminished the rumble of responsibility he feels in his chest for her. But the honk of her voice, the slope to her stance, the sore look of the skin on her forehead, the unwillingness of her clothes to fit well: all these are making Cydar, who loves Plum more than anyone does, reluctant to look at her. The desperation which singes the edges of her — this is even worse. She’s not fourteen, but sitting on the bungalow step Cydar is sure he sees how her life will unfold.
Be fearsome,
he wants to tell her.
Defy.
His own life depends on her doing so. His existence will never be all it can be if Plum stands in its corner, happy for and proud of him, but misaligned and alone. She will stunt him, and he will let her.
A blackbird breaks his concentration, the dope abruptly drops him from its teeth. Cydar yawns and straightens, rubbing his eyes with a fist. It’s impossible to guess how much time has passed since he sat on the step and struck a match, but it must be nearing dinnertime. He stands up cautiously from the torpid trough of stonedness, and the chemicals sink through him to settle at his feet as heavily as boots.
The interior of the bungalow is lit like a cinema in which Gatsby would have watched silent films. The fish tanks emanate a frosty radiance that’s shot through with amber and emerald. There is a damp, purgatorial smell. Standing against a wall are the handcrafted housings of an expensive hi-fi. Cydar flicks a switch, and threadlike needles jump. As the stylus arm rises, the record on the turntable begins to spin. Every day ends with The Velvet Underground.
There’s not much time until lamb fritters, but enough to make a start on her homework. Plum takes the recorder and the book of tunes out to the swinging lounge on the veranda, and sits with the instrument perched on her lips and the book splayed over her knees. Plum is not musically inclined, and the noise she blows from the plastic tube is discordant in the extreme.
Like a cat trodden on by a plumber,
her music teacher says, having grimaced out the same line several hundred times over the past decade. Yet Plum persists, because she has in her head a seraphic image of herself playing a flute. She would be the exact person she wants to be, if only she could play the flute.
And Maureen, cooking dinner in her kitchen, might hear her playing, and come outside.
In fact, in the shadows, it is Plum’s brother Justin who listens,
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