The Elusive Language of Ducks

by Judith White

  Well, there you go. See? Murderer.

  Gosh. But she might not have died.

  She did. When I passed the following week, people dressed in black were streaming in through the gate with plates of food. The old man came out and spotted me. Told everyone that I was the one who’d found her. Ailsa. There was a cockatiel hanging in a cage from a hook over the verandah. It gave a screech, a blood-curdling scream. It was trying to tell the world that I wasn’t the one who’d found her but the one who’d killed her.

  So no one knew?

  No one. You’re the first person I’ve told in decades. Not even Maggie. Don’t know why. Why did I tell you? I don’t know. Just thought of it and out it came. It has never left my head actually. The guilt. And whether she was alive when she was looking at me. Whether I was the last person in her head before she died. I never played football again.

  He rubbed his arm, probing deeply into his flesh.

  Well, I feel honoured that you did tell me. But it wasn’t really your fault.

  She wouldn’t have died when she did if I hadn’t kicked the ball. Maybe the next day or several years down the track. But I was the one who kicked the ball. It hit right at the base of her neck. So it was because of me that she died then. About a month later there was a FOR SALE sign outside the house. And the cage with the parrot had gone. The only consolation, if you think about it, is that she would definitely have been dead by now anyway. So there you go.

  Well, Hannah said. She felt as though a tornado had suddenly passed through the house and left again.

  I don’t suppose, sweetie Hannah, that you have a bottle of brandy handy? Best thing in the world for after-confession trauma. And black eyes. And red eyes like myself.

  She’d dribbled the last of the brandy into her Milo on the night of Eric’s naked visit. She stood up, left the room and returned with a bottle of Cointreau.

  She gave him tea and oranges that she brought all the way from her china cabinet, and he thanked her in his wisdom for the stone, he babbled enigmatically. Sorry Lennie, he added, watching as she poured two shot glasses of the liqueur. She passed one over to him and he upended it as she held hers to her nose, inhaling the aroma rising from a bucket of citrus left in the summer sun.

  It’s magical, the essence captured, she said wistfully. How a smell can transport you.

  So where are you now? said Toby, pouring himself another shot.

  I’m . . . she hesitated. I’m with Simon, on a picnic in the bush. We have just stopped for a break on our walk. The sun is filtering through the trees onto the rotting leaves. I’m peeling an orange, and I break it into segments, offering them to him in my palm. He takes my wrist and he eats the orange pieces, and I can feel his tongue on my palm scooping up the orange. Then he pulls me over to him and kisses me—

  Enough! Enough! said Toby. A kingdom for a nuff!

  I’m sorry, said Hannah, suddenly embarrassed. You did ask me, though I wasn’t even thinking of it. I’m a bit at sixes and sevens today.

  You always are, sweetie, of late, I believe. His upright palm slunk across the table, folded around the square bottle. He poured himself another glass. These are tiny little glasses, he said with a wry smile.

  So where are you then? she asked.

  He stared into his glass as he swirled the contents within. She could see the vulnerable peach stone held tightly in his thin throat as he tossed back yet another mouthful. Finally he lifted his wired eyes to meet hers. I’m with you, Hannah. I’m right here with you. And my wife and your husband are together in rocky old Christchurch, and here we are here, rocking in our own sweet gentle way. So what do you think of that?

  Are they . . . are they having an affair?

  That’s a very good question. May I? he said, once again creeping his hand over to the bottle, this time pouring some into his emptied mug. Well, if you’d really like to know, I can’t tell you. They’re in cahoots, of course. They’re an intimate knot of co-dependence. Oh, didn’t they ever band together when I had a bit of a tipover . . . a little too much of whatever . . . ended up in hospital myself . . . your husband looking after my distressed wife. Extraordinarily touching. And then Feb twenty-second. I lost my job, the restaurant on the verge of collapse. Anyway, that’s all beside the point, whatever the point is. What’s the point?

  So, they might be?

  They might. My guess is no, but who knows? Simon cries a lot. Does it matter? What does it mean? A bit of earnest pacifying? They might be now. Alone and looking after each other in their respective despair. God forbid. They are so self-righteous. Sorry, sweetie, I know he’s your husband, but . . .

  Don’t worry, just say what you think. I want to know.

  Whatever for? As I say, what difference does it make? Do you love him?

  Well, yes, I thought I did.

  That sounds like passion in extremis.

  No, well, yes I do. Of course I do.

  Of course? Should we take these things for granted just because they have been a certain way forever? Are we able to trust the earth beneath our feet anymore? The sea lapping at our toes? Things change, Hannah.

  So, do you love Maggie? she asked, sipping at the Cointreau then abruptly swilling it back, her senses exploding with citrus.

  Let me tell you this. Your husband is in my house with my wife. Your husband thinks you don’t love him anymore. He thinks you love a duck more than you love him. So. He’s confused and needy. He’s out there working like a dog, scooping up liquefaction, hauling away bricks, checking on old ladies, et cetera. The earthquake has become his duck. And Maggie is tiring of me . . . perhaps he is becoming her duck.

  Is she? Is it the drugs, Toby?

  Don’t you start. It’s all under control. More or less. If you ride a rocky terrain, sometimes you fall off your bike, right? And if people happen to be at the scene, over and over, to help clean up the blood, it gets to them. Because after a while they are always waiting for the bigger one.

  He fiddled with the empty glass, then took a sip from his cup. We’re all the same, Hannah. Don’t you see? All of us. Every single one of us. We have our props. One day it’ll be walking sticks or an old fence to lean on as we contemplate the weeds growing over the headstones.

  He patted his jacket, dived into the lining, took out a packet from which he tapped a cigarette.

  Ciggie break, he said, running his fingers through his hair. He stood up and opened the ranch sliders. She stayed at the table. Poured herself a second shot of Cointreau. It was already making her light-headed. She realised that she hadn’t eaten at all that day. Just a gingernut, and it was way past lunchtime. She went to the fridge and opened a packet of smoked salmon not yet past its use-by date. Toasted a few slices of bread. Put the food onto a plate in the centre of the table, with a couple of small plates and a knife at each setting, sitting down just as Toby breezed smokily back inside to join her again.

  Thought we’d better have a bite to eat, she said, smashing a chunk of salmon upon her toast.

  Your duck, said Toby. He picked up the cigarette packet, turned it over and over on the table under his hand. He’s down in the garden getting stuck into a pillow.

  Oh, is that where he is? That’s Annabel. Annabel has changed things between us. He used to attack me, but now he has his pillow. He’d normally be staring at me, but we had a long complex night. So he’s been avoiding me.

  I see, said Toby, staring piercingly at her as she slowly chewed the salmon and toast. Auntie Hannah, I do hope I’ve arrived in time to salvage this extremely delicate situation. You see, what I have been leading up to is this. A proposition. I could drive you and the duck down to wherever it came from. Where was it? Cambridge? Te Kuiti?

  Te Awamutu.

  Te Awamutu, yes. We could have a nice road trip together. So — and here I’m divulging a little secret . . . Your husband will not return home to you while that duck is still here, do you realise that? This I do know. It has been stated. So I’ve been thinking. Duck goes,
your husband returns, and I go back to my wife. How’s that? But there’s no time for navel-gazing. It might even be too late. You have to choose. Duckie or hubby. It’s a Sophie’s Choice situation, I know. The excruciating dilemma. Who do you really love?

  Please, Toby, don’t be mean. I’m tired.

  And she was. She imagined them all sitting around discussing the situation over their dratted drinks, Simon spilling out the dratted beans to whoever every-dratted-one was — Toby, Maggie and Simon, the AA meeting, the duck-widowers’ anonymous therapy group. Everyone giving their two-penn’orth. And their sympathy.

  Toby bit the inside of his cheek, frowning, saying nothing as he absorbed the silence. Lining up the cigarette packet with the corner of the table. He leaned down to scratch his leg.

  Oh dear, he said. I didn’t realise it would be such a gruelling decision. So it is difficult to choose between the duck and the hard place. Between your husband of twenty-something years and a duck of six months. He was right. Blimey, Hannah.

  It’s not so simple, said Hannah.

  That’s what I was saying.

  There’s a certain matter of my mother to consider.

  I see. He leaned across the table and placed his hand over hers. Her heart swelled at the unexpected gesture of empathy, of kindness.

  Hannah, my love, my dear sister-in-law. I have some terrible news for you.

  She blinked. Those tears again.

  What?

  Your mother. Your mother . . . your mother is dead. She died nine months ago.

  Hannah jumped up, scraping her chair back to hit against the wall.

  For fuck’s sake! Stop mocking me! Do you think I’m a simpleton? What has Simon been feeding you, for heaven’s sake?

  Shit, said Toby flatly. Can we start again?

  You came to taunt me.

  Hannah, Hannah, no. Please sit down. I thought that maybe . . . Yes you’re right. I shouldn’t have come. I’ll find a hotel. Yep, diddlydum. Another Good Samaritan hits the dust.

  He reached for the Cointreau. She grabbed it.

  No. No more.

  He jumped to his feet.

  I beg your pardon, Auntie Hannah?

  She would never ever forget that fierce blazing in his eyes as his pale spindly hand landed once again upon hers, but this time with no semblance of kindness. They ogled each other as they each grappled with the bottle across the table.

  I think you’ve had enough.

  His fingers dug into hers, his nails cutting into her skin. Her own fingers clasped around the bottle neck.

  You’ve no idea how those particular words rile me. Those black venomous vicious sneering self-righteous words.

  Sit down, she commanded. To her surprise he did, feeling with his bottom for the seat of the chair behind him, refusing to let go of the bottle. She dragged her own chair closer with her foot and dropped as well, the bottle now landing in the centre of the table.

  She yanked her hand from beneath his. I don’t want an ambulance to have to haul out yet another man from my property within a period of twenty-four hours.

  The flare of anger subsided. Blew itself out. The crisp charred remains still stinging. Her heart motoring. She rubbed her hand with her thumb. He filled his cup, drank, then added the last drops from the bottle to her half-empty glass. She dropped her eyes from his, struggling to settle her breathing as she picked at an old lump of congealed food. She couldn’t remember whether the table was rimu or kauri. The grain of the wood streaking past her like a river. Each line a growth ring representing a season gone. She wondered what this tree had endured in its lifetime, how many earthquakes had rattled its roots.

  I’ll split, he said.

  No, don’t. Please. I’ll come down to Te Awamutu with you, if you still want to. It would be good to have company. You’re right. It has to be done.

  Whatever.

  But not today.

  No.

  Tomorrow?

  Fine.

  I don’t know what happened just then, she said.

  His elbows on the table now as he massaged his head, mumbling at the table. Look, sorry, Hannah. Apologies. Up early, well, up most of the night. A lot of pacing around before I got on the plane this morning. Forgive me. I shouldn’t have spoken like that. Not a good idea to fight with a drunk on a cliff-top.

  His long fingers digging into his head, circling through his wavy hair. She said nothing. Watching him as random thoughts flashed through her head. How many people were still straining to pull themselves from the debris-strewn water? How many people who, just a day before, had been idly contemplating the trivia of their lives only to find themselves, right now, releasing their last breath? How controlled and peaceful and ordinary her mother’s death was in comparison, lying flat in a comfortable bed as she and Simon waited together. And how many people in all the world were entwined together, at this very moment. She thought of the duck obediently sleeping on her lap all night. The whole night fighting the urge to slide her hand to rest quietly under the comfort of his wing. That was all she would have needed to complete such a strange and wondrous sense of unity with him.

  Finally Toby lifted his head. Pulled his eyes open by raising his eyebrows, and gave her a forced clowny grin, his grey lips closed.

  All my oomph has gone. Out the window. What were we saying?

  You were making me choose between the duck and my husband. Don’t misinterpret the hesitation. I miss Simon and I love him.

  At that she pulled her hand up to her mouth and bit the side of her finger. Her teeth dug so deeply into the flesh, harder and harder but still she couldn’t feel any pain. At least it stopped her crying.

  She pushed the salmon towards him.

  Eat.

  He groaned. Actually, Hannah, I need to lie down. Haven’t had much sleep. He took another gulp of the Cointreau and shuddered. Shit. He plunged his head into his arm and shuddered again.

  OK. I’ll get your bed ready.

  She went to the warming cupboard and took clean sheets and pillow cases to the spare room, her mother’s room, the room where she’d been sleeping the past two or three months. She could hear Toby in the bathroom, and then he was behind her, holding his bag. As she started to pull back the sheets, he stopped her.

  Hannah, Hannah, Hannah. No fuss. Don’t change the sheets, he mumbled. Any old gutter will do. Gravity is overwhelming me.

  She looked up at him. His face looked chiselled, every bone jutting into his waxy skin. The tide was sucking out from his flesh. She stepped back to let him pass. He staggered, then dropped onto the bed and tried to shove one shoe off with the other. Exasperated because it wouldn’t budge.

  Here, let me do it.

  She knelt on the floor and untied the laces. The shoe was long and polished. Brown with rows of indentations patterned around the toe and the edge. She tugged it away. His sock clung damply to his foot which dangled from his white leg. Then the other. This time she eased the shoe away more effectively, down from the heel and sliding it along the sole. She placed the shoes alongside each other and stood up.

  There you go, she said. He continued to sit, staring ahead.

  Hannah, he whispered. Look. He lifted a finger and pointed at the oval mirror hanging from the wall. She stood alongside him. He wouldn’t have been happy with his reflection. He could have been an old man, shrunken, stooped, his stormy hair above hollow eyes. His bottom teeth cluttered behind his drooping mouth. And she, looking hideous with her blown-up bruised eye.

  Ssssh, she said. You’re burnt out, that’s all. She stood between him and the mirror. Come on, lie down. He shook his head briskly and rubbed his scalp.

  Come on, Toby, she coaxed.

  Is she always there?

  Who?

  Your mother. Pointing at me.

  Don’t be silly, she said. It was you. You were pointing at yourself.

  It was your mother. Her lips were moving but I couldn’t hear. I couldn’t hear her. She had something to say.

/>   Hannah tugged the bedding from under his bottom. She hugged him. Ripples of fear shivered through his coat. He allowed her to lower his trembling bones and shrinking flesh onto the mattress, shaking the pillow before releasing his head into it. The skirt of her nightdress poked from beneath. Tiny cogs beating beneath his jaw, like the busy mandibles of a sea creature lodged under his skin. She hoisted his feet up and under the sheet. Pulled the duvet over his shoulders.

  I’m cold, he whispered. Freezing. My blood is crystallising. His fingers clawing the duvet around his ears, under his chin.

  She plugged in the electric blanket and switched it on.

  Water, he murmured.

  But when she returned with a jug of water he was asleep. She filled the glass on the bedside table and sat on the edge of the bed, staring into the mirror. Sheila was right, she had lost weight. She waited, closed her eyes and listened to Toby’s noisy breathing, whispered and conspiratorial, like tiny faraway voices of censure. Outside in the magnolia tree, the frenetic clicking and lazy plunging whistle of a starling. A plane, filled with hundreds of people, whirring precariously across the sky. A car driving past. Another car. The world continuing about its business.

  She opened her eyes again. Still there was just her own reflection framed, her eye buried in a swollen mocking wink. She stared into the mirror, at the mound of Toby under the bedclothes, at the wall behind her, at the small floral armchair sitting empty in the corner of the room. She searched for moving shadows, for shifting light. If only she could find a clue that her mother was more than just an urn — or half an urn — of ashes, buried under the bedclothes in a far corner across from Toby’s sleeping body.

  She bent over and kissed his impassive cheek. Lifted her hand and let it rest lightly on his cool forehead. Her blue nightdress poked from beneath the pillow. If she hadn’t been afraid of disturbing him, she would have tugged it out with the other personal detritus that had gathered under and around her pillow: face cream, hair ties, a few screwed-up balls of tissue. She turned the blanket down to its lowest setting and left the room.

  TELLING HIM HOW IT IS

  Down in the garden, the duck was sitting peacefully on one of his pillows where she had left it beside the day lilies around the pond. He jumped up when he saw her, rushed to nibble her feet and then back to Annabel for some unabashed sex.