[Fiction]

Glove Puppet

"Melting Ice," from Glove Puppet

By Neal Drinnan

After Shamash's parents die in a plane crash, things begin to change

Shamash was quite religious in his own way. He seemed to rage against God; it was like opera. I felt strangely remote from the grief, as if it were a nuisance. I felt angry that the crash upset Shamash so much, but I couldn't feel as if I'd lost real grandparents. A pall settled over the Shadforth Street house that summer. Shamash lost interest in his dancing and David cast shows without him. Rosie phoned him often: "For God's sake, Martin, it was an accident. You know they wouldn't blame us. You can't keep doing this to yourself. We'll have to manage somehow. I thought you were the strong one."

I couldn't count on Shamash's moods then, not for quite a while. He was never cruel to me, though he was sometimes distant. I would go into his room at night and cuddle him. When he was crying he would wrap himself around me and rock me, or himself, to sleep (I was never sure whom the rocking was for). "Don't you ever leave me, Vas," he'd say. "Don't you ever get yourself killed. If anything happened to you I don't think it would be worth it anymore, do you know what I'm saying?"

He'd come good sometimes: "I don't suppose a proper dad's meant to cry like I do."

"So what if you do? It doesn't matter."

"You don't think I'm an old sook?"

"Nah, I was pretty sad when my Mum died. You're the best person I ever got."

"You think so?"

"Course. Reckon I was a lucky kid to get the best dad ever - 'specially on a railway station."

He'd cuddle me close and tell me I was the one sure thing in his life. I don't think I understood the depth of his misery then. Childhood refuses to know misery, it floats above, wondering what it must be like, waiting, one day, to find out.

Shamash was probably too consumed by his own grief to know how much I needed him. When we lay together like that, sometimes all night, he didn't notice how absorbed I was by him. He didn't notice how I stroked his back, how I buried my face in his chest, how the deep breaths I took when I was so close to him were to smell him, not to breathe. Big smells of Shamash, taking some of him inside me. It wasn't just the Eau Sauvage in summer, the Jazz in winter, it was the essence of him, the mannish smell I didn't produce yet.

How do we know exactly the right way to love someone? What is childish sensuality and sexuality? We imagine that somehow it just comes into being some time, conveniently, around the age of consent. But we all know that the cool and naughty kids start bonking as soon as someone else is prepared to do it with them. The whole world is turned on by young lovers. What's wrong with exploring the parameters a bit earlier?

By the time I was 11 my hormones were working overtime. I was deeply in love with Shamash, deeply in lust. I would bury my head in his clothes, especially his more intimate garments like leotards, underwear. He had a G-string, and the mere look of it excited me. The smell of him in the toilet brought on 'grown up feelings', when I was sure he was asleep and the warm nights kept us uncovered, I could sneak my tongue under his arm and, if I was very bold, I could taste other parts as well. I suppose even if he had woken up he would have been too embarrassed, too incredulous to comment on this sort of behaviour. He would have put it down to an untameable wildness.

Sound interesting? Read some excerpts and an interview:

Glove Puppet: Find out what people are saying about this exciting, sexualy-charged novel.
From the Prologue: At seven, Johnny Smith's mother dies, and he lets a stranger carry him away.
Cure: Johnny, newly rechristened "Vaslav," escapes with his new father to Australia.
Changling: Vaslav explores the highlights and lowlights of his new life in Sydney.
An Interview with the Author: Find out what gets author Neal Drinnan pissed off in this candid conversation.

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