by Lisa Walker
‘Hermaphrodite?’ I didn’t like the sound of it.
‘They have both male and female sex organs. They still mate though.’
‘Oh.’ Every night while I was asleep thousands of bisexual worms were fucking nearby.
‘Pretty good, huh?’
I nodded. I was speechless.
Daniel went to a lot of trouble with the worms. He chopped up their food nice and small so they could eat it easily. Sometimes he tore up bits of paper and added that. He was like a farmer. It made him happy. He whistled while he tended to his earthworms.
Daniel is a practical person, but he became almost poetic when he talked about his worms. ‘You should see them when they mate, Edie. They lie together and cover themselves in mucus and then pass sperm into each other’s body. It’s beautiful.’
I think if I could have excreted enough mucus to engulf us both when we made love we might still be together. ‘What happens then; do they give birth?’ I was still feigning an interest in earthworms at that stage.
‘No, they get a ring of slime around their body with the eggs in it. The ring moves up their body and slips off. It looks like a pearl.’
I might not have liked earthworms, but I did like the proud and loving look on Daniel’s face when he talked about them. It made me think that he’d make a good father one day. If he could get that excited about a worm’s egg, imagine what he’d be like with a baby.
A dark brown and pungent liquid gathered in a tray below our worm farm. Worm wee. Daniel treated this like a magic elixir. He’d dilute it to the colour of weak tea, bottle it and give it to his friends. When we went to dinner parties he’d often take along a bottle of worm pee instead of wine.
I watched his friends’ reactions when he gave it to them, waiting for the recoil. They were always overjoyed. Fantastic. You got it from your own worms? I didn’t like to ask what they did with it, but I always filled my own wine glass.
I figured out early on that I was in a ‘love me, love my worms’ relationship. And I did love Daniel, so I coped. I went to extraordinary lengths to avoid being the one to feed them. Doing the washing up every night at feeding time worked well. Sexual favours were my fallback position.
This all worked well until Daniel went away for a week; he had a court case down the south coast. I had never been left in charge of the worms before. When we went on holidays his friend always came around.
Daniel briefed me on worm care. I tried to pay attention but the words jumbled in my head. All I could think about was feeding a quivering mass of worms. Fruit and vegetables, dairy, citrus, meat, onion, garlic… It sounded straightforward.
The first night Daniel was away I picked up Subway for dinner. I ate at the table, my eyes on the worm farm. Daniel always fed them after dinner, so they’d be circling their box, their wet pinky brown noses sniffing the air. I couldn’t eat much.
Sweat broke out on my forehead as I approached them. Opening the box, I closed my eyes, tipped the best part of a foot-long roll in and slammed it shut, breathing hard. I ate fast food a lot while Daniel was away and I was diligent in feeding the worms. I did it for Daniel.
I did notice a strange smell coming from the box by day five. I hoped they weren’t dying of starvation. I ramped up my efforts, giving them the remains of breakfast and lunch as well.
It turns out that worms are quite fussy feeders. Maggots, however, just love fast food. By the time Daniel returned they had totally routed the worms. Daniel took it hard. He looked like a farmer facing a crop ruined by drought.
‘It’s taken me five years to build up that worm farm, Edie,’ he said. ‘I told you not to feed them meat or dairy.’
It was like an outback tragedy . If tumbleweed had blown through our lounge room at that moment I wouldn’t have been surprised. I was tempted to say, ‘We can start again in California, cain’t we?’ but Daniel hadn’t read The Grapes of Wrath.
I now wonder if I subconsciously killed the worms on purpose. Freud would say that I chose not to listen to Daniel’s instructions. And Freud could have a point. Freud might also say that my id was looking for a way to escape a relationship that was destroying my ego. Maybe Sally was right and it does, after all, come down to ze vorms.
The good part is that my vermiphobia hasn’t been an issue since Daniel and I went our separate ways.
Now, as the garbage truck roars up our street, I am concerned that Daniel is going to get a poor impression of me by inspecting our rubbish. I am also very, very concerned about one piece of rubbish in particular.
Daniel steps closer to the bins as the truck nears our driveway.
‘Daniel,’ I squeal and run up to him. I fling my arms around him, pressing my sweaty body against his pressed shirt.
He puts his arms around me, but in a holding off sort of way, trying to keep some distance between us. He is still looking over my shoulder at the garbage truck, which is now lifting up the bin.
I grasp his chin in my hand and press my lips against his. This is successful in distracting him. His eyes meet mine, ‘Edie, I—’
I stop him with another kiss.
He steps backwards.
I try to hold on to him, but my hands are too sweaty to get a good grip on his.
‘I just called in to say—’
There is a rumble as the rubbish flows out of the bin. Daniel turns, just in time to see his bonsai vanishing into the maw of the rubbish van. It is pathetic, its tiny limbs naked of leaves; a brown and withered remnant of the glossy-leaved tree that once graced our coffee table. The only thing that connects it to the bonsai Daniel knew and loved is its red pot with Japanese writing. He pales visibly.
I feel like a murderer. ‘I didn’t do it,’ I say. ‘It killed itself.’
Daniel turns back to me. He blinks. For a moment I am afraid he is going to cry. He shakes his head. ‘You didn’t separate out the plastic properly either.’
We look at each other silently for some time. I feel like I know him so well and yet not at all. I wonder why he is here; whether he was missing me. Perhaps he thought I deserved another chance. Whatever he thought doesn’t matter now. I have murdered his worms, killed his bonsai and failed to separate out the plastic properly. I don’t know which of these crimes is the worst.
My legs are trembling from the run and the stress of seeing Daniel under such trying conditions. If there is a worse way to re-encounter a lost love I don’t want to know about it. As the garbage truck departs I sink to the kerb and put my head in my hands. While I don’t think I love Daniel anymore, we were, after all, together for twelve months and twenty days and the loss of love is sad.
I feel a hand on my back. Daniel sits down beside me on the damp, mouldy concrete.
‘Your pants,’ I say.
‘They’ll wash.’
I meet his eyes.
He smiles and I remember that we did have something nice together once. It wasn’t all a total waste of time.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘I’ve got a meeting nearby. At the Environmental Defenders Office. I wanted to see…how you are.’
I flap my Garfield T-shirt to dry it out. ‘And so, how am I?’
His smile broadens. ‘Just the same.’ He blinks again.
‘Have you got a new girlfriend?’ The question pops out of my mouth before I can stop it, but Daniel had lived with me for too long to be surprised by my gaucheness.
‘I’m seeing someone. It’s still kind of casual.’
I wait, my head on one side.
‘She’s a lawyer.’
‘A barrister?’
He nods.
The bonsai was right. I smile. ‘That’s nice. Nice for you. You can talk about law.’
‘Yes.’ He sounds doubtful.
‘You like to talk about law.’
Daniel nods his head in a vague way.
‘You used to like to talk about law.’
He shrugs. ‘Law’s all right. It’s nice to talk about other things too.’ He
chews his lip. ‘I did love you, Edie.’
Now I’m the one blinking . That ‘l’ word. Who knows what it means? ‘I loved you too, Daniel. I’m sorry about your bonsai. I tried to look after it, but, I think it had a death wish.’
‘It never would have worked.’
‘No. Bonsais obviously need special care. And we didn’t really get on. I think it meant well, but it didn’t have a very good bedside manner.’
‘I mean we never would have worked.’ Daniel looks at me strangely. ‘In the long term.’
‘Oh. No. We wouldn’t. You are from Mars and I am from…’ I pause, not sure what comes next.
‘A galaxy far, far away.’ He reaches out and squeezes my hand. ‘It’s an interesting world you come from, but it’s not my world.’
‘No. I can see that now.’
Daniel lets go of my hand. He glances at his watch. ‘I’d better go.’ He stands up and brushes the dirt from his pants.
‘Thanks for coming. It was nice to see you.’ These tea party words are the best I can do. If I tried to express how I really feel we’d be here all day.
Daniel kisses me on the cheek before he gets in the car.
I lean over and look in his window. ‘I’m sorry about everything.’
He gives a one-sided smile. ‘I’m sorry too.’
‘You’re going to make a great father one day,’ I say, but he is starting the car and he doesn’t hear me.
I watch him go, waving and waving until his car vanishes around the corner. As soon as he is gone I want him to come back. I think of a million things I should have said. If only my life was scripted better; if only I was more competent. And even though I think that I no longer love Daniel, I find I am crying. But not in a way that hurts.
‘You all right, Edz?’ It is Tim. He is perched on a bike which has a carry basket full of rolled-up pamphlets.
I nod, wiping my cheeks.
‘Did he dump ya?’ He gives Daniel’s departing car a narrow-eyed look.
‘Yes. I think I’m over it now though.’
‘That was quick.’ He sounds admiring.
I smile. ‘I suppose it was, wasn’t it?’
‘And you’ve got other guys, haven’t you?’
I now remember that he saw me coming out of the motel room with Professor Brownlow. Tim thinks I am a sexually adventurous surf star. I don’t want to disabuse him. It is flattering to have at least one person who thinks of me as a Sooty Beaumont type. ‘Yeah, you know, I’ve got a few.’
‘Way to go.’ He gives me a thumbs-up and coasts down the street, flinging papers with frightening force. I hear a window shatter as he vanishes out of sight.
Chapter Thirty-one
What do women want?
SIGMUND FREUD
I climb the stairs; I now have lead weights strapped to my ankles as well as in my shoes. My cheeks are wet with tears, but I am not sad about Daniel. It is more of a Lassie-Come-Home moment, a happy sadness. Daniel and I could never have worked, but we did love each other once. I can move on now.
When I reach the middle level I see Rochelle trimming branches in her Japanese garden. She is naked and, as I suspected, has no tan lines. The naked gardening must be a frequent pastime. I’m surprised I haven’t encountered it before.
She doesn’t notice me at first and I am not sure if I should just keep going up to the house. But then if she sees me going past she’ll feel snubbed and maybe embarrassed. She might take it as a judgment call on her nakedness.
‘Hi,’ I say.
Rochelle looks up. ‘Oh, Edie, I wasn’t expecting you, I …’ She holds her secateurs in front of her crotch.
‘Don’t mind me. It’s cool, nothing wrong with a bit of nude gardening.’ I concentrate on looking at Rochelle’s face, at being relaxed. Nudity is cool. Nudity is very north coast.
Rochelle smiles. ‘Oh good.’ She starts to trim the bushes again. ‘I feel so much freer without clothes, don’t you?’
‘Yeah.’ No. I like wearing clothes, but it sounds uptight to say so. The more clothes the better as far as I’m concerned. ‘I guess I’ve kind of cramped your style. Did you and Dad used to hang out in the nude a lot before I came home?’ I have probably interrupted their honeymoon Shangri-La.
Rochelle shrugs. ‘Yes, but it doesn’t matter. I just got used to nudity in Hawaii.’
‘Oh yes, Hawaii. How was that?’
Rochelle gets a dreamy look on her face. ‘It was…primal.’
Primal. And as she stands there, nude, in our garden, I can picture her working in the taro field. Rochelle is an earth goddess. If I had strong arms, brown skin and thick, gold, sun-bleached hair maybe I would like working naked too.
If I was to be naked outdoors I would model myself on that painting by Manet, Le déjeuner sur l’herbe. Reclining naked under a tree with a picnic would be fine. Working in a field in hot tropical sun is out of the question. I would fry in an instant.
‘I felt so at one with the land,’ says Rochelle. ‘I think I was a Hawaiian in my past life.’
‘I think I may have been an Inuit,’ I murmur. I continue up the stairs, leaving Rochelle to bond with the garden.
On Friday morning I wake to find myself in a strange frame of mind. It may have something to do with my dream. For a change, it was not a nude hiking dream. It was a nice dream. I curl my toes, remembering it.
Jay and I are sitting in separate armchairs, writing in our notebooks. I am feeling happy to have all the time in the world just to be in his company.
Jay looks up from his book. ‘Can you use purling in a sentence?’ he says.
‘A purling stream ran beside the house?’
Jay raises his eyebrows. ‘Good work.’
‘Kismet,’ I say.
Jay pretends to ponder, then he stretches his bare feet towards me so our toes touch. ‘We are each other’s kismet.’
The dream has left me feeling full of possibilities. It has reminded me that Jay likes words, he likes my writing. It has given me an idea. I am not sure if it is a Good Idea or a Bad Idea. Should I, or shouldn’t I? I lie in my warm bed like a mountain climber who has camped just below the summit of Everest on their way up. The blizzard is closing in, but this is a do-or-die day. Tomorrow I leave for Japan. Tomorrow, I suddenly realise, is also my birthday. I don’t want to leave for Japan on my birthday feeling that I could have done more.
If the bonsai was here it would probably tell me not to be ridiculous. But the bonsai has gone, and weren’t its last words Do what you want? In any case, I am in no mood to be deterred. Did Hillary listen to naysayers? Did Tenzing? Did Murakami? No, no and no. I look at the papers on my desk and decide this is a Very Good Idea. It is time to get off that carousel duck and back onto the highway.
Jay’s door is closed, as always, when I come downstairs. We have somehow managed to avoid each other all week. He has been out every night. It is like we have created a roster to ensure our paths do not cross. I imagine a time-lapse sequence of our house with Jay and I moving through it at a rapid pace, almost, but never quite intersecting.
I stand outside his room, holding my ‘Creamy Tuna Pasta’ piece in my hand. My eyes flicker over the words salty and sticky and olive oil . For a fraction of a second I wonder if this is, in fact, a Good Idea. I accelerate my motorbike, my heart beats faster. Before I can think too much about it, I push it under the door, leap out into space. Will I make it over the chasm? Who knows what effect it will have?
I walk into the kitchen and am opening the fridge door before I realise Jay is sitting on a stool drinking coffee. He was so quiet and so still, and so unexpected that I almost missed him. He gives me a faint nod. I stare at him. My fantasy motorbike runs smack into his brick wall and explodes with a bang. A queasy aftershock hits me.
He hates me.
I turn on my heels and retreat. What strange and warped side of me ever thought that sliding erotic literature under his door was a good idea? If that person was here now, I’d give her a good sl
ap around the face.
I find myself outside his door again. My eyes look back towards the kitchen. All is quiet. Perhaps I could just open the door…? That seems a little scary. Or perhaps… I kneel down and push my fingers under the door. Yes, I think I can feel the edge of the paper.
I am stroking the paper towards me with my fingertips when I notice a pair of bare feet beside me. They are the feet from my dream. I freeze. I don’t look up. A number of possible explanations for being on the floor outside his room run through my head. ‘I —’ Dropped my pen? Fell over? Saw a snake go under your door?
‘Excuse me,’ says Jay in his waiter voice. He opens the door and steps inside. The paper slides away from my fingertips as he picks it up.
I decide to skip breakfast and leave for work immediately. I turn the radio up loud as I drive and try to forget that I have humiliated myself in the worst way possible. I have exposed my fantasies for him to sneer at, or worse, ignore.
Professor Brownlow brings in a cake for my last day.
I smile as he opens the box at morning-tea time. ‘Did you make this?’
He shakes his head. ‘I have many talents, but cake decorating is not one of them.’
It is a crab larvae.
‘I gave them one of your drawings to model it from.’
‘That explains the missing maxilliped.’ I point at the licorice strips poking from its legs. Picking one off, I eat it. ‘Two missing maxillipeds now.’
We work companionably for the rest of the day. At five o’clock I get up. ‘Well, sayonara, I guess.’
Professor Brownlow stands. ‘I’d prefer to say au revoir.’ He walks over and kisses me on the cheek.
Oh, how that would have made me weak at the knees not so long ago. Now, it is just pleasant.
‘You’ve done a lot of good work here, Edie.’ He waves his arm towards my pile of drawings. He has stacked them next to the scanner in preparation for his Japanese Brine Shrimp paper. It is for a conference in America next month.
‘I hope your paper goes well.’ I turn at the door of the lab for one last wave. ‘I hope you’re big in LA.’
Professor Brownlow is watching me. ‘I hope you’re big in Japan,’ he says.
