Gingerly he climbed out, took the bag, the coachman frowning like he’d lost his mind. Tommy noticed the people watching, strangersall, though there was nothing to say they didn’t recognize him. He doubted he had changed much. He felt like a boy again.Making his way warily along the main street, everything as he remembered it, save the odd little change: the general storewhose signage no longer bore the name Spruhl; the courthouse with its flagpole, now missing its wooden stocks; the doctor’ssurgery, an older Dr. Shanklin at the desk, the man who was supposed to save Mary’s life but never did; and at the end ofthe street Song’s Hardware, where Tommy had once stolen a folding knife and briefly fallen for the owner’s daughter, who’ddone nothing more than talk to him, and delicately sweep the boards with her broom.
He crossed the street to the hardware store. It didn’t seem possible she could still be here, but then time had so littlemeaning to Tommy that it felt just as likely she was. He came up the steps slowly, aware of the eyes on his back. The frontdoor was open and a chair was outside and it was 1885 all over again. Mother was off buying groceries, Father was at the Lawtonsaleyards, Billy and Mary were waiting back at the house. There was still time to save them, to turn it all around, to changethe course of every life he had lost.
“Help you?”
Tommy blinked, his eyes adjusting, peering into the dusty shop. The man was standing behind the counter, wiping his handson a rag, loops of wire, rope, and rubber coiled on wall hooks behind. Tommy stepped forward, through the doorway, approachedthe counter. He lowered his bag. The shop hadn’t changed. Finally he focused on the man again, his age or thereabouts, butgood for it, a vitality to him, a freshness in his face.
“This still Song’s Hardware?”
“That’s what the sign says.”
“You’re Song?”
The man frowned. “Aye, Nathan Song—do I know you or something, mate?”
Tommy shook his head. “I was looking for Mia? Is she here?”
“Mia? What for?”
“Are you her husband?”
“Brother.”
“You came back,” Tommy said vaguely.
He spread his hands on the counter. Muscles roped his forearms. “What the hell’s this about?”
“I knew her, your sister.”
“Well, she’s married now, moved away, so if you’re some kind of old sweetheart you’re about seven years too late.”
“It’s not like that. Look, sorry—I used to live round here, that’s all.”
“Oh, yeah? Got a name?”
“She was good to me once, but I did something, took something, so here . . .”
Tommy scrabbled in his pocket for his billfold, peeled off a note and stepped forward, the note quivering in his grip. Songonly crossed his arms.
“What’s that for?”
“A folding knife. I stole it. From that drawer there. Mia was sweeping. Your old man was asleep on the porch.”
They both looked at the empty chair in the doorway. It was the exact same one. Nathan Song’s eyes narrowed, as if seeing hislate father sitting there, or seeing himself now in his place. Tommy lowered his hand.
“When was this?” Song asked.
“December of eighteen eighty-five.”
The shopkeeper laughed. “You taking the piss?”
“Nope. I came in for rubber tubing. Was going to take that n’all.”
“You stole some rubber tubing?”
He shook his head. “Mia put it in the book when no one else would.”
“Well, that does sound like Mia.”
“But she never knew about the knife. I need to set it right.”
“Hell,” Song said, laughing, “I think we can let that slide.”
“I can’t. Just . . . take it, please.”
He dropped the note on the counter. Song was reckoning something. “You must have been only a boy.”
“Fourteen. She was fifteen, she said.”
“Eighteen eight-five. Me and our Peter were at the diggings.”
“Yeah, she told me. Said you were coming back rich.”
Song laughed, looked about, spread his arms. “Can’t you tell?”
Tommy smirked. Song’s face knotted into a frown. “So this pocketknife you stole has been eating you up all this time?”
“Among other things.”
He nodded at the note. “And what, was it made of solid gold?”
“Call it interest.”
“All right, suit yourself,” Song said, sighing. He rang up the till, the drawer popped open, he slipped the note inside. “ThoughI’d feel better about it if you’d tell me your name.”
“Do you ever hear from her? Mia?”
“She writes sometimes.”
“Ask her, she might remember. Give her my best. Say thanks for the rubber tubing . . . and that I never did go to school.”
Nathan Song looked at Tommy like he might as well have been speaking French. Tommy picked up his bag and left. A little lightness in him as he came down the steps; a tiny ghost laid to rest. In the street he paused and glanced along the track heading west out of town, the track that would eventually lead him to Glendale. He swallowed heavily. He wasn’t ready for that yet, the ghosts were too big out there. He went to turn but glimpsed in the distance, trembling in the heat, the ramshackle buildings of the native camps. He hung his head. Some debts weren’t so easily paid. He understood that now. He wasn’t meant to forget, or bury it, as Arthur had once told him; it wasn’t supposed to be as simple as moving on. What had happened to the Kurrong, his role in it, what he’d done, was a part of him, a weight he would carry to the grave. And rightly so. It was the least he could do. Guilt was not a thing to be
