Damien Broderick - Strange Attractors

In one of the cabins he
could see the old man. He was not smiling.
Hargreaves stood up with his pack in his hand and put a question on his face. The old man pointed towards the back of the truck.
Hargreaves went around and climbed in. Soon the trucks started
up. As they left town he could see the houses. They were painted a
brilliant white.
The truck moved faster than the wind, too quickly for the dust.
The old man came through the back of the cabin and beckoned. He
had a can of polish in one hand and a rag in the other. He handed
them to John Hargreaves.
The mirrors were stacked inside the truck. The old m an showed
Hargreaves how to clean them, and went back into the cabin.
Hargreaves started to clean the mirrors carefully, seeing his face as
he did so. He made circles with the polish and destroyed them with
the rag.
The old man put his head through and smiled at Hargreaves
working on the mirrors. He smiled back. At the open back of the
truck blew the dust. John Hargreaves cleaned the mirrors. He soon
forgot about the wind.
The way she smiles,
the things she says
©
GREG EGAN
Danny got home from the brothel just before midnight. He usually
stayed all night, but the whore had thrown him out.
‘Why? W hat did I do?’
‘You were saying things in your sleep. I don’t have to put up with
that.’
‘W hat kind of things?’
‘The kind of things I don’t have to listen to.’
‘What? Dirty things?’
‘Strange things.’
‘Frightening things?’
‘No. The kind of things that give me a headache. The kind of
things that give me a pain in the arse.’
‘Tell me one of them.’
‘I can’t remember. Go on, get out.’
‘You must remember some of it.’
‘Hey, Daisy! This guy’s making trouble!’
‘I’m going.’ Daisy was three metres tall, with arms as broad as
Danny’s chest. It was rumoured that she collected the menstrual
blood of all the whores, and drank it mixed with vodka, but Danny
knew that none of the whores menstruated.
The front rooms were in darkness, but the kitchen light was on,
Danny called out, ‘I’m home early’ as he walked towards the
kitchen, thinking that it was like walking down a dark tunnel,
perhaps like being born. He felt deja vu, he felt slightly stoned.
51
52
Greg Egan
‘Hi Dad,’
His son Tom stood by the stove, heating milk in a saucepan,
naked. ‘I’m making Milo. Do you want some?’
‘No thanks.’
W hat was wrong? Something had to be wrong. People aren’t
naked in kitchens, they’re naked in bedrooms and bathrooms.
Never kitchens. Something had to be wrong. Danny’s hands hanging by his sides suddenly seemed awkward, unnatural. He folded his arms. T hat seemed wrong, too, so he put them out horizontally,
stretched, then placed his hands behind his neck and rubbed it,
yawning.
‘How come you’re home so early?’
‘Oh, we got all the tracks done,’ Danny said easily. ‘One, two,
three, like magic. They must have been doing a lot more rehearsing
than I thought.’
‘An album in three hours, that must be some kind of a record!’
‘Oh, it’s all fucking computers anyway. None of the so-called
musicians even raised a sweat,’ Danny lied so well he felt genuine
disdain.
A joke. A pun. Weak, I know.’
‘W hat?’
‘Forget it.’
Danny wanted to say: Why are you standing in the kitchen
without any clothes on? He couldn’t. Tom didn’t seem to be embarrassed or self-conscious at all. Danny wondered: Is this what he does whenever I’m away? Wander around the house naked?
‘You’re up late. School tomorrow.’
‘Nag, nag, nag.’
Tom didn’t sleep naked; he bought and looked after his own
clothes, but Danny had seen him hundreds of times wearing
pyjamas, had seen them in the washing basket, had seen them on
the washing line. Maybe it was a phase he was going through.
Maybe he’d just had a shower, and had put the milk on the stove so
it would be ready by the time he put his pyjamas on, but then
Danny had walked in so he’d stayed to talk to him. Danny smiled
with relief. That was it, exactly. Why had he been so paranoid?
After all, why should Tom have made sure he was dressed before
going into the kitchen, when there