The Vintage and the Gleaning Read Online Free PDF Page B

car? asks the boy. The flash car or the ute?
    Flash car of course, says Wallace. You don’t take a ute to a funeral.
    The boys keep looking, shading their eyes. Wallace’s glasses fall onto his nose and he pushes them back up and they come down again, falling right off and Wallace tries to catch them, fumbling the catch and catching them again as they spin in the air. Wallace’s glasses have been broke more times than I can remember.
    Wallace sees me watching him and grins, holding up his glasses. He puts them in the pocket of his shorts. Without his glasses Wallace looks like he’s younger or smaller or something. Without his glasses he could be a different man altogether.
    Can’t see it, says the boy.
    It’ll come, says Wallace.
    We all of us look into the distance, through the rippling heat and the cars swimming in petrol fumes, distorting them to the eye, and they seem as though molten. The bright vaporous haze thrashes about like a live thing. We keep looking into the distance until all the cars have gone.
    Maybe he didn’t go, says the boy. Took a sickie.
    Wallace is still looking out at the empty highway.
    Course he went, he says. You don’t take a sickie from a funeral. Funeral is a sickie.
    Nah, Wallace says, pulling his shovel out of the dirt. He’s there all right. Probably riding with someone else. He’s probably riding with the widow. Up front with the widow. Probably comforting her. Being her shoulder to cry on.
    Wallace leers at me, the skin around his naked eyes soft and crinkled.
    In her hour of need.
    We go back to work. Wallace knocks off a shoot and then remembers his glasses, taking them out of his pocket and putting them back on. He picks up his shovel and drops it again, turning to look at the boys.
    Who ever heard of taking a ute to a funeral? says Wallace.

    Boss comes straight up and asks if Roy is crook too.
    Nah, says Wallace, hacking at a vine. Gone to a funeral.
    Boss stands shading his eyes with his hand.
    Well what about Spit? he asks. He still crook or has he gone to a funeral as well?
    Spit’s crook, says Wallace, Roy’s gone to a funeral. He slashes hard at the vine as he talks. Mourning, he says. Roy’s mourning. Spit’s off crook and Roy’s off mourning.
    Wallace stops working to mop his brow with his hat. He takes off his glasses and spits on them, wiping them on his singlet and holding them up to the light. Boss stands there watching him.
    Well, righteo, says Boss. Spit’s crook, Roy’s at a funeral, nothing we can do about that.
    Nope, says Wallace, studying his glasses.
    I mean, we’re a bit short-handed today, says Boss. But if Spit’s crook and Roy’s at a funeral, then that’s just the way it is.
    Roy’ll be back tomorrow, says Wallace. Might be back this afternoon. Depends how long all this mourning goes on for.
    All right then, says Boss. Fair enough.
    He walks off with his hands in his pockets. Then he turns around and comes back.
    So I take it someone’s died then, he says.
    Wallace is polishing his glasses with his hat.
    I mean, if Roy’s gone to a funeral I assume someone’s died, says Boss. I mean is that a reasonable enough assumption to make? Seems reasonable to me.
    Now he is smiling that smile of his.
    Wallace finishes polishing his glasses and puts them back on.
    George Alister, he says.
    He pulls his shovel out of the dirt.
    George Alister, says Boss. George Alister, ay? He toes the dirt with his boot, looking down at the ground.
    Wallace starts working again.
    So George Alister’s dead, says Boss.
    That’s right, says Wallace, knocking off shoots.
    Does anyone know how it happened? asks Boss, looking up and squinting.
    Something like a heart attack or something, says Wallace. Something like that.
    Wallace moves around the vine, chopping at it with his shovel, pushing the foliage back with his elbow and shoulder as he works.
    You knew him did you? Wallace asks