Stories from the Edge

Don't Call Me Sweetheart

The girl came into the kitchen from the veranda, jerking the screen door open so that it thudded against the outside wall. She strode to a table near me, kicked a chair from under it, swung a bulky canvas bag from her left shoulder and slammed it onto the table. Her face was red, her jaw set. She breathed heavily and muttered something to herself angrily. As I stood with my back against the sink, a foam cup half filled with cola in my hand, watching her, our eyes met. She held my gaze.

"What do you want?" she said.

She was about eighteen years old, tall – nearly my height – and thin. She had a boy's figure, with wide shoulders and narrow hips. Her brown hair fell straight to her shoulders with a slight curl at the ends. A floral dress hung loosely on her frame.

I lifted my cup and drank from it. "Nothing," I said, instinctively. That wasn't accurate so I jerked my thumb at the label on the front of my shirt. "Someone called a taxi," I said. "Rodney, they said. I can't find him so I helped myself to a drink. Do you know who he is?"

She shook her head. She reached into the canvas bag and took out a packet of cigarettes and proceeded to light up. I noticed her hands shook. She inhaled deeply, tilted her head back and blew smoke toward the ceiling. She had brown eyes, rimmed by thick eyelashes and she wore no make-up. Her full, kissable lips pouted as she exhaled. I didn't remember seeing her outside when I was searching for Rodney, among the crowd of partyers. I was sure I would have noticed her.

"Ok," I said. "Rodney's probably taken a ride with someone. I'll be off." I drained the cup and tossed it into a bin next to me. I appreciated the cold drink on a hot summer night but suddenly the combined smell of alcohol, cigarette smoke and marijuana in the humid air of the house turned my stomach. I made for the front door.

"Hang on."

I stopped. The girl had spoken. I looked at her. She turned her head toward me.

"Maybe I could do with a cab," she said. "I want to get out of here."

"Fine. Where do you want to go?"

She sighed and a shiver ran through her body, despite the hot, stifling air in the kitchen. "I don't know. Home, I suppose."

I wondered what she was on, or coming down off. I didn't want her throwing up in my cab. "I'm down the road a bit, to the left." I didn't wait for a response but walked toward the front door, weaving between people. I passed a closed door on my right, through which I heard men laughing. Near the front door was a crowded lounge room, with a stereo playing music and a guy wearing a tutu standing on a coffee table. A TV was on in the corner but no one was watching it. There were a few people in the front garden, trying to escape the heat and failing. It was after midnight and still hot and humid. The radio had said no relief was due anytime soon.

I got into my cab, started the engine and turned the fan up to high. After a few minutes the rear passenger door opened, the bag landed on the back seat and the girl climbed in. She closed the door and settled back, her head against the headrest, her eyes closed. I waited.

"Ok," I said. "Where do you want to go?"

I looked at her in the rear vision mirror. For a moment I thought she had fallen asleep. Then she gave a start, opened her eyes and said, "Oh, I don't know. How about we just drive around for a while?"

This sort of talk makes me testy. I swivelled to face her. "You got any money?" I said.

She looked at me for a moment, then opened the bag, reached in, took something out and tossed it onto the front passenger seat. It landed and bounced. It was a roll of fifty-dollar notes, held together by a rubber band. I picked it up between my finger and thumb. There were about ten notes. I put the roll carefully back onto the seat.