Huia Short Stories 9

by Anahera Gildea

  Tears viciously pricked her eyes. His words stung and her heart felt incredibly painful, as though it had been hollowed out like a pumpkin, ripe and ready for Halloween. She blinked furiously in desperation, willing the sudden gloss of tears to leave her eyes. She had been warned that he could be cruel, but hadn’t suspected that the calm of his words could cut her so deep. But she had come so far, she was not about to give up now. Her life depended on it. Her hand unconsciously crept over the swelling of her abdomen, and she gained strength in the knowledge that the child she carried needed her to be strong, needed her to find a way to provide a safe haven, a home where a living could be made. Her art was her solace, and in time would become her livelihood.

  Taking a deep breath and weathering the barbs in his words, she said nothing, squared her shoulders, and with a trembling chin she walked out, into the bright fluorescent lights of the shopping mall. Her taonga swung heavily as if laden with a sense of her shame.

  Her departure had not gone unnoticed. Careful, watchful eyes witnessed the interaction. Their owner sadly put down his brush. He had been watching as the young woman had walked into the room. He had seen the callous manner of the artist toward her and had seen her spirit wilt. He rose from his stool and left to find her. She wasn’t hard to find; she hadn’t gone far. He could tell that it had taken all her strength to leave with dignity; she had done her best to maintain a fragile veneer of composure. Now that was undone. Tears streaming down her cheeks, her vision a blur, she lowered her head, allowing the dark curtain to sweep forward, affording her the privacy of her pain. He reached out and touched her arm. ‘Are you OK? He doesn’t mean to be like that. I’ve known him for a long time, it’s just that he’s had a lot of heartache and sorrow in his life …’ Kind brown eyes stared up at her. He was a short portly man, with a pair of faded khaki cords and a brush cotton shirt, buttoned over a sturdy stomach. He reminded her of one of the Seven Dwarfs, but which one, she didn’t know. The light-hearted thought brought her a sad smile. He shrugged and, carefully looking at her face, he continued. ‘I’m sorry for the way he spoke to you; I only know that no one is able to get close to him. It’s like he has locked himself away in his stone tower and has forgotten where he put the key.’ The portly man shook his head and smiled. ‘May I?’ He gestured towards the sketchbook she still clutched to her chest. Reluctantly she gave him the book and he carefully examined her art, turning each page carefully as though it were made of delicate butterfly wings. ‘You have a lot of promise,’ he mused thoughtfully, and gently returned her sketchbook when he had finished. ‘I have seen you many times, and I’ve noticed how patiently you watch him paint.’ He sighed and then, looking at her thoughtfully, he quietly stated ‘Don’t give up, he needs someone like you. He doesn’t know it yet, but he does.’

  Not more than three days had passed, and she knew it was time to return. She gathered the threads of her courage around her like a protective feather cloak, fastened her woollen scarf and, with a quiet resolve, returned to where the artist worked. She sighed deeply. Though she was nervous, her understanding of him was a little clearer. She had pondered on the complexities of the artist and was still unsure of how best to approach him. But approach him she would.

  Nothing had changed when she entered the room. The lift of his shoulders and his tilted dark silver head, the slope of his brush and the intense sense of purpose that radiated from him as he worked, under the brilliant white lights, was familiar.

  His brush flicked skilfully over the canvas, blending, shifting, shaping, the azure sapphire background a swirling mixture of sea blue tones with the silhouette figure in the foreground beginning to take shape. She was drawn to the canvas, a distinct pulling towards the painter and his art. She knew what she had to do now, the sense of it forming in her mind and her heart, like a helpless moth that danced and flittered around a lonely lamp light, that had found its welcome and was finally home.

  He knew she was standing beside him; his hand did not stall. He could picture the tendrils of long dark hair and the soft outline of her face; he sensed her steady green gaze locked upon his creation as he worked. She was different this time, not the same young woman of a few days ago, who had bungled and blundered. A feeling of annoyance pricked him. Didn’t she know? He didn’t have time for her. Didn’t she understand that? But even as he sat there on his white stool and even as he continued to ignore her presence, moving his brush deftly over the canvas, that annoyance started to fade and morph into something else. A building sense of unease started to grow in the pit of his stomach; a sense of anxiousness started to rattle him. She did not move. The young woman quietly emitted an overwhelming sense of calmness. It ebbed out of her, slowly, gently encasing him in a tender white cocoon. How could that be? A grumpy twisted man like himself, his heart gnarled and snagged like a ragged root buried at the foot of a forgotten pōhutukawa tree. Quietly she moved and stood to the side of the canvas facing him; he could not ignore her now. His eyes angrily flashed to her face. He was ready to be defiant; his brush stopped its flight and in mid-air stayed poised. But what he read in her eyes, he could never have put into words. What he saw dulled the blade of his sword. She looked deep into the heart of his soul; her green eyes saw him for what he was. There was no look of pain, anger, humiliation or resentment in her eyes. Just a gentle, kind, unspoken understanding. Without a word she reached out and tenderly clasped his outstretched hand, his brush hovered in her grasp. The warmth of her touch began to slowly seep through his skin as she cradled his hand. His heart lurched with shock. It had been so long since anyone had touched him, yet alone held his hand. Her gaze locked onto his for a long moment and time seemed suspended. Carefully she lowered her eyes, extracting her hand from his. He felt rather than saw her leave something on the counter. When she had gone, he was not sure how long he sat there unmoving, staring at the still canvas with unseeing eyes.

  Turning his head, he glanced to see what she had left behind. There on the white table top, next to his wet brushes and oil paints, sat her red sketchbook, its faded cover and rough curled edges a reminder to him of a work not yet polished, not yet finished.

  Seasons bring change, as they always do, with shoppers visiting the mall. A chance to blow the cobwebs away from a seemingly endless winter that has seen the first peek of spring. A change of breeze and a sea of new tourists bumble into where the artists work. A gathering flock of people stands. The dark silver head can barely be seen, amid the people that surround him. They stand not so quietly admiring his work. ‘Amazing’, ‘Stunning’, ‘Gorgeous’ are some of the exclamations of awe that can be heard. He looks up and politely smiles at a few nearest to him, and adjusts his position on his stool before carefully, attentively, he continues to work the canvas.

  A large, burly woman with turtle neck folds and a prickly lavender sweater presses forward. The group parts and allows her a closer look. The sapphire blue is magnificent, the swirling sea blue tones with hints of turquoise utterly gorgeous. ‘Absolutely incredible!’ she exclaims, her eyes widening with pleasure, her fleshy lips curling over her teeth. ‘I love it! How much?’ The crowd listens intently, interested in what the artist has to say. A slight smile curves the edge of the artist’s lips.

  ‘This one is not for sale,’ he states.

  ‘Not for sale? Are you serious?’ The burly woman is blatantly surprised and a little bewildered. This is not the norm; surely all art is for sale – at a price of course! Just what price does this man want to sell it for, was the question that hovered like a wasp on her lips, but she never got the chance to ask.

  ‘No,’ he reaffirms. ‘This is not for the market; I have no intention to sell it – ever.’ His gaze locks directly onto the woman. The woman snorts, glares indignantly at the artist and shuffles off, to explore the work of the other artists nearby. A soft murmur rises up from the group and one young teen, her voice clear and enquiring, asks the artist, ‘Who is she?’ – her head bobbing towards the canvas. The artist’s eyes
never stray to find the owner of the voice, still looking towards the canvas he has created, that he has so ardently refused to sell. He replies in a voice that is softer than silken sands ‘she is my daughter.’

  And amid the swirling azure of sapphire and sea blue tones sits a captivating young woman, with long dark hair and gentle green eyes, her belly swollen and rounded. Tenderly nestled in the cradle of her arms, there is a tūī, his white and turquoise plume a stunning display of splendour. The tūī’s bright eyes are fixed on the young woman, while she sits and lovingly listens to his song.

  Failure to Deal

  Raschel-Miette

  ‘I feel like an ee cummings poem,’ she says.

  ‘What?’ he asks, playing with the tea bags; squeezing them against the side of their mugs with the back of a teaspoon.

  ‘You know, like I’m missing my capital letters, bunched into shapes that don’t fit me, trailing off the page …’

  He looks up when she pauses. She has her knees pulled up under her chin, her shins locked against the retro red Formica table that had taken her six weeks to pay off. She’s running her fingers through her long chocolate hair, over and over. He knows it’s something she does when she starts to go down. He thinks it’s like whistling to a dog, her black dog.

  She’s frowning and her nose is screwed up on one side; it makes him think of a doughboy. He loves how she does that when she’s thinking really hard about something.

  She says, ‘I feel like I should be laid out neatly across the page, correct grammar and use of capitals, just the right amount of commas and semicolons – but I’m not – am I? Can’t get there, even when I try.’

  She sighs and slumps forwards onto the table, her forehead making a solitary knock as it connects, and he jumps a little.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean baby,’ he dodges. It’s one of the kinds of conversations that make the skin on the back of his neck feel like it’s on fire from the inside.

  It’s like when she asks him if she looks all right, and she’s wearing red satin elbow-length gloves, fake diamonds and glitter eye shadow, and they’re only going to the Clubrooms. She looks beautiful. She looks amazing. But she doesn’t look right for the Clubrooms. And he loves her for that too. But when they get there, everyone stares at her, the girls say their bitchy things behind her back, no one talks to her and then she gets angry at him.

  He buries his face in the fridge and makes a big show of sniffing the milk. He pulls it out and offers it to her.

  ‘Is this milk still good baby?’ he asks her.

  He makes her smell it. He tries to change the subject. It doesn’t work.

  ‘Winnie the Pooh’s got capital letters in it though eh?’ he says.

  ‘What?’ she snaps, and her hands stop.

  He looks at the floor and sees the dents in her shins from the table, red and shiny. He shivers.

  ‘You know, Winnie the Pooh. That’s got capital letters and stuff. All good eh.’ He knows he’s made it worse; rubs at the back of his neck.

  ‘What’s Winnie the freakin’ Pooh got to do with how I feel?’

  She has no idea how cute she is when she’s angry. He thinks even the C word sounds cute when she says it.

  ‘What you said about ee cummings and capital letters and stuff … Winnie the Pooh …’

  She sighs. ‘A A Milne wrote Pooh, not ee cummings.’

  They haven’t moved off the uncomfortable subject and now she’s a bit angrier with him than she was before.

  ‘Wanna get a DVD tonight baby?’ He tries again. ‘Maybe a rom-com to get you all loved up and remembering of all the many, many things you love about me?’ He grabs the front of his jeans and jerks his hips like Jackson, smiling at her. ‘The things besides my super awesome Māori fulla-ness that is …’

  He knows he’s being an egg. He’s panicking. He panics every time now when he thinks he feels that black dog of hers coming back, looking to settle.

  They’d been going out for almost two years, finished school and working for that last one, when she’d decided that they should go flatting together. She’d said it like that because she thought he’d freak out if she asked him to move in with her, like a serious living-together couple.

  He’d known that if they did live together, he was going to be in for lady stuff and bad moods, fights about the toilet seat and towels on the floor, and secret-girl-beauty-stuff that might destroy his image of her forever; that it was all going to make or break them, but he hadn’t counted on dealing with something like this.

  She’d needed some time to herself sometimes, and he’d never thought too much about it because it meant he got to stay out later and drink more than if she was with him. Could be as much of an egg as he wanted to.

  It had taken him a while to realise what was really going on. At first, he’d thought she was sad because something bad had happened and she wasn’t letting it go. Like whales stranding. She always cried over that. He’d thought he could crack some jokes, tell her how pretty she was, and everything would be sweet.

  But nah.

  ‘Yeah great,’ she says. ‘Awesome. Let’s be one of those couples that just watch TV all the time instead of talking.’

  She really likes them talking. Her hands start up in her hair again.

  Part of him is thinking about screwing the tea and having a beer instead. Or taking off with his mates and leaving her to it. But she has a heart-shaped freckle in the corner of her left eye that she’d said she hadn’t had before she met him. And she wrote him love poems that made his heart want to bleed out his eyes. She said that he inspired her, gave her strength, that he was her hero. Him.

  She might be the only person in the world who doesn’t think he’s dumb and useless. Remembering that, his shoulders curl into his chest and his head feels heavy, hanging on the end of his neck.

  He sits down across the table from her, tries to catch her restless hands and make them stop. He puts them on the table, in the middle, and squeezes them. He wants to kiss her every time he looks at her. Her lips are watermelon pink, pouty, and always taste like cherry.

  His heart wants to bleed again, but for a different reason. It’s happening more often but she won’t admit it. He thinks she might lose her job.

  He’s scared he’s going to come home one day and find her in the bath; things drilled into the face of her forearms with his own Schick Quattro.

  But he can’t tell her that.

  Early on, she’d told him that it was just how creative people were. He wondered now, who’d told her that. He hadn’t wanted to admit it either, but when she wouldn’t get out of bed and couldn’t stop crying, he’d had to put its proper name on it.

  When they’d gone to her parents’ for tea one Sunday, he’d asked them about it while she was in the toilet. They’d thought it was a teenage angst/fashion thing and that it was about bloody time she grew out of it.

  The worst thing was that what they’d said had gotten to him. The next time when he’d come home and she was still in bed, he’d ripped open the curtains, pulled the blankets off her and told her to snap out of it, grow up, and sort her shit out. All the things on the ads that Kirwan told you not to say.

  He’d thought she might get angry back and that it would be better than her just lying there in the half-dark, curled around their little ginger kitten, sobbing into its fur and their wet-stained pillows.

  She hadn’t gotten angry though. Her eyes went all big and dark; he’d watched something light in them drain away like the tide going out through the thick braids of kikuyu grass edging a river, revealing the mud. Then she’d closed them. Her skin was so pale; just that heart freckle and the bruised purple crescents under her eyelashes. She looked like she could be dead, and he’d stopped breathing.

  Then she’d said, quiet, and slow, in a voice like static, ‘Don’t. You. Think. I. Wish. I. Could?’

  He’d taken off. Gone to training even though he was two hours early. He’d run around the field non-stop until his
lungs hurt and he felt like puking. Some of the other guys arrived, and he’d heard one of them making a joke about a mental missus. He’d thought they meant his. He’d loaded one up; wanted to push it right through the guy’s head, and landed it clean on his jawbone. He’d heard the cracks in the guy’s neck as his head whipped into his shoulder; had gone for more before he was pulled off, arms pinned behind his back, and pushed to the ground.

  Coach had taken him off to his van, made him get in and put a reason to what his fists had done. Had sat there next to him in a front seat littered with nails and screws and time-sheets, and waited while their breath frosted the glass like a shroud drawing closed around them.

  He’d thought of Maxwell Smart’s cone of silence and fought the urge to laugh like a crazy fulla, coughing out her and his story like he was spitting out pebbles.

  ‘You think decking someone is less shameful than her being unwell?’ Coach had asked. Shook his head and grunted in disgust at him before getting out the van. ‘How about you grow the hell up?’ he’d barked, and slammed the door.

  It could have been his boy-becomes-man moment. But here he was still being an egg about it. Her. IT. Thinking it would go away if they both pretended it wasn’t real.