by Jessica Bell
The crickets have just begun their nightly symphonic orchestra. The fridge shudders. The water filter bubbles. The clock ticks. The kitchen tap drips … waste-ing-wor-tah. Ailish is in Kit’s head, prodding, probing, nagging her to “Turn the tap off, Kit. You know we’ve got stage-three water restrictions.”
Kit rolls off the couch to turn off the tap, and notices a note on the microwave door: “If you’d like to be good to our planet, heat this on the stove instead.”
Kit smiles. After all the shit. She still thinks about the environment.
She opens the microwave door to find a plate of chicken curry and rice. The floorboards in the entrance hall creak. She stops. Listens. Cocks her head like a dog. She turns around to find Sein sitting at the counter. She gasps and jumps backward.
“Are you off your fucking cracker? You scared the shit outta me,” Kit snaps.
Sein smiles, void of joy, picking at a scratch on the surface of the counter with his thumbnail. “Sorry. The fly screen wasn’t latched, and I just thought—.
“Don’t worry.” Kit says. “I’m glad you’re here.” She sprinkles a little water over the food so it doesn’t dry out in the microwave. “Do you want some curry?”
Sein nods, still staring at his scratching thumb.
Kit puts the plate back in the microwave, turns it on, and sits on top of the counter between the stove and sink. She sticks her finger inside Ailish’s moisturizer pot and rubs some into her hands and elbows. Sein and Kit look at each other with half-smiles on their faces.
Who’s gonna speak first? Will he ask how it went with Mum?
But neither speaks. They just stare, both seeming at absolute ease with each other, yet on edge at the same time.
Kit glances out the kitchen window at the orangeless tree and clean concrete path. Now Roger feels more absent than ever. Before Sein cleared everything away, she felt that perhaps he had always been there with her in spirit, as if he’d left pieces of himself behind for her to nibble on once in a while. But now his pieces are gone. And all that’s left of him is his skeleton, the shell that once gave life to the fruit. Will the pieces grow back next season? Or will Ailish cut the tree down, like she keeps saying, so she has more room to plant her precious vegetables?
The microwave pings. She pulls the plate out and places it on the counter in front of Sein. He looks at it briefly, then continues to pick at the scratch and winks a thank-you. What Kit wants is for Sein to swipe the plate onto the floor. To smash it. Anything is better than this silence.
Slam me down on the counter and fuck me right here, right now.
She wants him to thrust the pain out of her heart, her head, her constant need to escape the possibility of her turning out like her mother even though she knows they’re exactly the same.
What is so wrong with being smart? Nothing, really. The only problem is, the smarter you are, the more life seems to hurt. Is that what I’m trying to run from? My involuntary reaction to analyzing my own pain? Screw this. I’ll just have to do this myself.
“Sein. Move the plate before it ends up on the floor.”
“What?” He looks up. Tears well in his eyes.
Kit ignores them. She doesn’t want to hear about it. Not now. Right now she needs to feed herself. And she needs Sein’s help. She needs him to be someone she knows he’s not—an aggressive male nymphomaniac. All Kit wants to do is bang her fist on the bench and yell “Now!” but she doesn’t. She couldn’t be that cruel.
“Please,” Kit whispers, trying to tame her tears.
Sein stands, the stool scrapes on the floor, and he transfers the plate to the sink. Kit wraps her arms around his waist from behind. Her veins pulsate. She shoves her hand down the front of Sein’s jeans. He sucks in his stomach. His breath deepens, quickens, as he flings his head back and winces as if she may have squeezed too hard. Without any warning he yanks Kit’s hand out of his pants and swings around. Kit steps back. Tears stream down their cheeks.
“What’s wrong? What the fuck is the matter?” Kit yells, pulling at her hair.
Sein looks at the floor, shakes his head. A cry like the yelp of an injured animal escapes his closed mouth. Kit just stares, unable to display the anger she feels for him destroying her fantasy. Unable to sympathize with the only person she has ever been able to identify with on an unspoken level.
She steps forward, lifting her arms to give him a hug, but he grabs her wrists. He holds them vehemently in the air, contaminating the space between them with flaming testosterone. Any tighter and his grip would assume the strength of a Chinese burn. Kit’s wrists sting, but she doesn’t move. She relishes it. A pain that washes pain away.
“Dad told me how Mum died,” Sein whimpers, and lets go of Kit’s wrists. He hunches over and breaks into a full-blown sob.
Oh my God.
Kit’s preoccupation drops from her like a man jumping from a high-rise building. He needs me. She rests her head on Sein’s chest, keeping her hands by her side, her body heat molding into his, to form some sort of electromagnetic connection. She envisions their nerve endings soldering together, faintly sparking as they bind.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Kit asks, speaking into Sein’s shoulder, and breathing in the familiar scent of his T-shirt. She can feel him shake his head. “Are you sure? You know, we could go get some takeout and lock ourselves in my bedroom. You can tell me.”
“Just shut up!” Sein barks, pushing Kit so hard she stumbles into the pantry.
Kit’s jaw drops. She thought he’d want that. She thought he needed some comfort. She stares at his contorted face. He wobbles his body in an odd lanky way, as if trying to shake pain out of it.
“Sorry,” he whispers. His eyes glaze over. He lifts Kit up onto the counter, wraps her legs around his waist, slides her as close as possible with both hands on her behind, and thrusts his tongue into her mouth. Gentle yet rough too. Kit unbuttons his jeans without looking and pushes them down to his knees with her feet. Before Kit even has a second to anticipate it, Sein lifts her dress, pulls Kit’s head back by her hair, and enters her from the side of her knickers. It’s over in less than a minute.
Kit’s hot. Sticky. Sweaty. Smelly. The best she’s felt all week. As Sein fastens his jeans, the front door swings open and bounces off the doorstop. The hinges squeak as it springs shut. Kit jumps off the counter and fixes her hair, looking at her reflection in the microwave door. Sein passes her the plate of curry after taking a mouthful first himself. He whispers, “It’s still hot,” with a mixed expression of relief and naughty-schoolboy cheekiness. Kit giggles, quickly wiping the shine of her saliva from around his mouth with a tea towel.
They both stand in a respectable position, leaning their butts against the counter, eating standing up, when Ailish walks in. Her hair is out and her cheeks are flushed.
“Hi, Sein. How nice of you to come over. I see Kit’s been hospitable,” Ailish says, nodding at the plate of curry in Sein’s hands.
Sein grins. Kit elbows him in his side, and he buckles over in melodramatic acceptance, pretending to choke on his food. Kit can’t believe Ailish hasn’t run upstairs yet to make herself “presentable” for Sein. What’s got into her?
“So how’s Eleanor?” Kit asks, with a mouth full of food. “Does she know that Ivy and I are officially the way half sisters should be?”
“And how is that, Kit?” Ailish laughs. “How should half sisters be?”
“Not joined at the hip,” Kit says with a smirk.
Ailish drops her handbag on the counter. “I see Sein was able to bring you back to life. Thanks, Sein. You’re obviously better at it than I am.” Ailish goes cross-eyed, picking an insect out of her hair.
Kit winks at Sein. “Yeah. I guess he is.”
“Well, I’m glad. Because I’ve got some news.”
Kit stops spooning curry into her mouth. Sein takes the plate from her hands and rubs her on her upper back, pressing his lips together in a way one might call hopeful.
Ailish sits on a bar stool and crosses her legs. “I found out where your father lives.”
“What?” Kit cries, looking at Sein, at Ailish, then at Sein again in disbelief. “Where does he live?”
“In Phillip Island. With his brother, Samuel. But that’s not the news.”
“Whaddaya mean?”
“Turns out I’m not the only one with secrets. Roger had a stroke.” Kit opens her mouth to speak, but Ailish lifts her hand, a signal to shoosh. “He’s fine. Recovering. Well. Recovered. Eleanor’s been using the savings she’d put aside for Ivy to pay for his medical and rehabilitation expenses.”
“You’re kidding?”
“Nope. And there’s something else that might bring a sparkle to your eye.”
Kit raises her eyebrows.
“Ivy knows nothing about it.”
Brian
Brian opens his eyes. Did I sleep? He looks at the lamp crystals on the bedside table. I’ll just get up. I can’t sleep. He lies still for a moment, trying to grasp his whereabouts. How he fell asleep at home and woke up at Ivy’s. Ah. The call. The freak-out. The taxi. The crying. The sex. The sex was good.
He tries to sit on the edge of the bed without waking Ivy. But fails miserably when his feet touch the carpet, and he accidentally lets out a ripper of a fart. Damn! It bubbles behind his balls and sends dread through his chest. He stares at himself in the wardrobe mirror. Maybe it’s just loud because it’s quiet in here. He’s afraid to move in case the smell spreads through Ivy’s silky cotton sheets. His torso constricts; goose pimples form around his nipples. Ivy giggles and rubs her eyes. Shit. Can she smell it? I can smell it. Shit. She nuzzles her face into her pillow and smudges makeup on it.
“Lovely,” Ivy croaks. “That’s so much better than an alarm clock. Can you stay over during the week too?” She waves her hand in front of her nose.
“Sorry,” he whispers.
“’S’not as bad as some I’ve experienced.”
“You should go back to sleep. It’s only nine o’clock,” Brian says, standing and pulling on his boxers. He catches the reflection of his right bum cheek in the mirror. He has a huge hickey on it. Are those teeth marks?
“What time did we go to sleep?” Ivy asks, struggling to open her eyes and shadowing them with her hand. She lifts both legs into the air and hooks the duvet underneath her feet.
Brian stands straight, motionless, staring out the window at the grey wet street. He can see a lady fetching the Sunday paper in her pajamas and gumboots. She rips the plastic off, pulls out the Christmas catalogues, and throws the newspaper in the street bin.
“Not sure, but I came around half four.” And I “came” around five.
Ivy grunts in agreement, rolls over, and pulls the covers over her head.
Brian stumbles into the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee. But he can’t find the percolator. Does she even have a percolator? Crumbs crunch under his bare feet and get stuck between his toes. The kitchen bench is bare, and the pantry is full of herbs, self-rising flour, canned minestrone soup, Jacob’s instant coffee, and old jars of strawberry jelly and Vegemite. There’s one jar of Marmite too, still sealed. That must be for emergencies.
The inside of the fridge looks like a hospital ward in the midst of a bomb scare. There’s a plate of moldy blueberry pancakes, a box of Chinese noodles with chopsticks and a fork still in it, and a couple of cans of Malibu and Coke. No milk. In the dish rack there is one bowl, one mug, one soup spoon, and one teaspoon.
Packed cardboard boxes, sitting dormant next to the kitchen table against the wall, stare at Brian. They tease him, rubbing the fast-approaching and ambivalent future into his face. I never asked for this. I should go back in, right now, and tell her we need to slow down. I’m not ready. She’ll understand. I’m sure she’ll understand. Yeah …
He returns to the bedroom and pulls the covers from Ivy’s face. She smiles with her eyes shut, like a child who’s secretly eaten all the Jell-O, or drunk all the chocolate milk. Brian imagines her with a brown milky moustache.
“Babe, do you have a percolator?”
“No. Just use the hot tap, or boil some water in the small pot on the stove. Everything else is packed away,” Ivy replies with a croak.
Brian doesn’t move. He looks out the window again. Now there’s a truck delivering the woman a tree. She’s wearing a heavy-looking coat over her pajamas this time. She pulls money out of her pocket and hands it to the delivery dude. Her husband runs out now to help her drag the tree into the house. He’s fully dressed and has his cell phone hooked between his ear and shoulder. The woman trips. She yells something at her husband. He drops the tree to the ground, holds his finger up to his mouth to tell her to shoosh, and continues talking on his cell. She stamps her foot, throws her arms up in the air, and yells something else before running back inside the house and slamming the front door. The dread of another round of domesticity pricks at Brian’s pores. Ugh.
Ivy opens her eyes and looks at him. “What’s up?”
“Ivy. We need to talk,” Brian says, stroking her fringe from her forehead.
Ivy sits up and leans against the headboard. She frowns, picking at some dry skin on her bottom lip. Licks it. Brian wants to bite it and make love to her again.
“Um, I know what you’re going to say,” Ivy says, nodding and pushing her hair behind her ears.
“You do?”
“Yes. And it’s totally fine.”
“It is?”
“Of course, it is.”
“Thank God.” Brian sighs. “I was worried I might really hurt you.”
“Don’t be silly. It won’t happen again. Anyway, we’ll have moved in together soon, and there won’t be any need for me to drag you outta bed at the crack of dawn. So don’t fret. I’ll be a good girl. I promise.” Ivy cocks her head to the side, winks, and pinches Brian on the chin. “You stay here. I’ll go make the coffee. I’m awake now anyway.”
Brian nods, unable to speak. He did it again. He’s letting her do it again. He’s doing it again. Being the rebound. He watches her in the mirror as she gracefully inserts her arms into a silk robe and secures it around her waist. She moves closer to the mirror and examines something on her nose. “I’m amazed I don’t have more of a hangover,” she says, bright and bubbly. “I thought I’d be complete rat-shit today,” she adds, then walks out the door with a little skip.
Brian lies down on the bed and stares at the ceiling. Why can’t I fall in love with a woman without any issues for once in my life? Why am I always signing up to be a bouncing board?
He remembers Ivy before he’d managed to get her to come out on a date. She seemed shy, sometimes introverted. Innocent but experienced. Confident, vulnerable, flirty, reluctant to lead him on. He thought these qualities meant her character had depth. He thought it meant they’d have a lot to talk about, that they would stay up late, drinking wine, confessing their deep dark secrets. But they don’t. They hardly talk at all. They just fuck, drink coffee, and smoke. Well, Ivy smokes. And he’s beginning to feel that Ivy’s character has so little depth because she doesn’t really know who she is. Dangerous territory.
Last night, when he arrived, Ivy was bawling her eyes out. She asked him to never let her call Kit again, no matter how much she started to miss her. Why? Why would someone want to tie off a connection with someone they love? Before he had the chance to ask why, she was all over him, like ketchup to fries, using sex to avoid talking about it. She blindfolded him and banged him like a bass drum. She was on top. He enjoyed it. He wanted more. So why does he feel so guilty? What if this keeps happening? Will she ever give reasons for her actions, or will he just get lots of sex and no talk? This should be a man’s ultimate dream. So why doesn’t it feel like one? Why does it feel like a mistake?
Do I already resent her for what she hasn’t done? No. The true question is, is she too much like my wife?
Kit
Eeny, meeny, miny, moe, catcha nigger … no … catcha
tigger by the toe. If it hollers let him go … eeny, meeny, miny, moe … You. Are. It. Kit’s finger points firmly down on Sylvia Plath’s Winter Trees, the book that represents pursuing a career in English literature. In front of her, she has also placed a fish fossil (archaeology) and a twenty-dollar bill (get a crap job, move out). Kit’s relieved. Looks like Mum got her wish. Fine. English lit it is, then.
“I’ve made a decision,” Kit says to herself in her dresser mirror. “I’m going to become an academic. How does that make you feel?” Kit picks up a pencil and holds it toward her reflection like a microphone. “I feel great. In fact, I don’t know why I didn’t just study literature in the first place.” She points the pencil toward her real mouth and says in a mannish voice, “That’s very interesting. So you’ll follow in your mother’s footsteps, after all. Hmm, but I’m curious, and if you don’t mind me asking, what about your father? Would you still like to meet him?” Kit gazes into her eyes, analyzing the melancholy reaction to her own question, and slowly moves the pencil toward the mirror again.
She stares at her reflection. She has faint wrinkles in the outer edges of her eyes. They sort of slant downward—sad, unconfident lines like Ailish’s. If they could speak, they’d say, “Please, throw me a rope.” She is her mother’s daughter down to the last detail. She bets, if she made the effort to check, that their freckles would be mirror images if they stood side by side. A tear trickles down Kit’s cheek. “I don’t know.” Her voice cracks like a struggling radio signal.
“Kit?” Ailish calls, knocking on her bedroom door. “She’ll be here soon. Are you going to come down?”
Kit puts the pencil down, wipes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and opens the door to find Ailish standing there in a floral dress and a clashingly floral apron, her wet hands in the air as if she has just pulled them out of soil, and with an unnaturally wide smile.
