by Pip Adam
Around afternoon tea time Hank and I start to have problems in our relationship. Hank says I don’t excite her any more. I try to excite her. I make faces at the phone – she laughs a little and I wonder if it’s enough. She says things like, ‘Can we go now?’ I try to explain that I need to dazzle them at work for the next little while because my stats are bad and there have been complaints. She says, ‘We never go out anywhere any more.’ I try to explain the pressures of working in a busy call-centre. She says, ‘And, like, I’m not busy too?’ I say I value her work and she says, ‘You don’t even understand my work.’ All the time we’re having this conversation I’m not taking calls. I’ve logged myself into ‘Unavailable to take calls’ status. I watch the seconds tick by on my computer screen. Finally I interrupt her, ‘I can’t talk about this now.’ She says something about me being emotionally unavailable and I zip up my pocket.
On the way home Hank asks if we can have a little talk. My stomach drops. She says, ‘It’s not you, it’s me,’ and I start to cry, and say, ‘Don’t do this – I’ll do better, I’ll be better.’ She asks me to drop her off in the mud beside the path. As I walk away I turn and she’s gone, burrowed away from me, and I say, ‘I always thought that I’d see you, baby, one more time again.’
A Bad Word
Billy, Maybelline and I drive down from Christchurch. We get to Bonnie and Eddie’s at about four in the afternoon. Their son Jet runs to the door to greet us. We put Maybelline on the floor; they stare at each other, then Jet runs away to his room. ‘Kids,’ we all say and hug each other hello.
That night while we’re doing the dishes after dinner, on the outside of the window, which is wet and fogged with the heat from the sink, a white splodge appears. Eddie says, ‘Is that snow, or is that sleet?’ We look out the window – it’s pitch black and Billy says, ‘Snow,’ and we all agree. We go outside to watch it fall. ‘It’s like static,’ I say. ‘What about driving in it?’ Everyone nods. The kids have a bath. Bonnie reads Jet The Tiger Who Came to Tea. I stand next to the heat pump every chance I get. I make up reasons to stand next to the heat pump that have nothing to do with being lazy and cold. We eat some more and go to bed, and the kids wake up all night with snow jitters.
When the sun rises, the front lawn is white, and the driveway. The hills and the roofs of the houses are also white – like colour’s been made illegal. We look out at the snow and some of us move from foot to foot to keep ourselves warm. I put my foot down wrong and almost slip. ‘Fuck,’ I say. Jet looks at me. ‘That’s a bad word.’ Bonnie says, ‘Jet, don’t be rude.’ We look out on the snow. Everything that was black yesterday is white today.
We decide none of us are going anywhere for a while. We start to see cars moving on North Street and people walking on the footpaths. I can’t imagine what could be important enough to bring them out but people are walking on the footpaths. People die in this weather. They go out, slip over and freeze to death. We need food and Eddie needs to pick up a birthday cake for Bonnie from South Dunedin. It’s a long way away and Bonnie will worry about him driving, so we mess around home for a while. Billy makes scones with baking soda. Jet likes them. Bonnie and Eddie make wontons from scratch and the sun starts to come up Craigleith Street. The snow melts in some places and not others. Eddie walks out to start his friend’s car. Billy does the dishes, Bonnie plays with the kids and I stand by the heat pump.
Bonnie is training to be a dental technician. We used to work together in a library. She makes teeth and eyes. She hasn’t made an eye yet but she will, next year. Eddie walks over the icy lawn and down the driveway, kind of kicking his steps, brushing the snow away as best he can before he takes a step – testing each step before he takes it. I’ve already been out and getting back up the hill was the hard part. It’s a favour. His friend left the car here when he went on a trip. Eddie is walking down the icy driveway, slipping a little every now and then, to start his friend’s car so the engine doesn’t freeze. Eddie and Bonnie’s car is on the street. There’s no room for it in the driveway since their friend’s car is parked there.
People who live here tell people who move here to put socks over their shoes. I have never put my socks over my shoes – I’m not sure it would work if I did. I always thought it was a joke, like, ‘Gullible’s been taken out of the dictionary.’ I’ve fallen over a couple of times on ice – nothing serious. I’ve lost control of my car while driving badly: the consequences weren’t bad, just the swing the back of it got when I put my brakes on. People tell people who move here not to do that if they hit ice. ‘Go with the skid,’ they say. You can’t see it, that’s why they call it black ice. It kills people. Someone dies. They went into the river at Wanaka in their car. The news comes out that it was a Malaysian international student, who Bonnie had heard of but didn’t know well. I say, ‘It’s sad to die so far away from home.’ It sounds like the sort of thing I’d heard people say when people died. I regret it immediately.
The church bells ring. All the snow is gone and it is windy and horrible. The kids play and watch the television a lot. We watch a lot of The Wiggles. It annoys me. In the afternoon Eddie and Billy go out, under the guise of getting food, to get Bonnie’s birthday cake. Bonnie has two birthdays. She was almost a refugee because some countries changed some rules but her uncle bought a fake birth certificate so she has two birthdays – her real one and her make-believe official one. Bonnie says don’t worry about the food. I say, ‘I’m hungry. Get more food.’ After they go and it’s just Bonnie and me and the kids I think about the thing I have to do. I don’t do it. When they come back they say everyone is buying food – ‘It’s like Armageddon.’ We laugh and eat chips and bread and oil. I hide most of my share from the kids. Billy goes for a walk. I complain because I’ve been looking after Maybelline the whole time he was shopping but he still goes for a walk. Bonnie cooks, I check my email. Billy and Eddie forgot coconut milk. I say Bonnie should text Billy to get it. He goes to three shops in the freezing cold but no one has it.
We eat the curry without coconut milk. Billy cooks poppadoms and makes the smoke alarm go off. Maybelline eats lots and Jet eats lots and everyone is very happy and full and warm. I clear the table and put all the plates and cutlery in the sink. Eddie does the dishes. Maybelline has a bath and Jet has a shower. Maybelline pisses in the corner by the toys. Bonnie says she’s not sure what it is about that corner, but Jet always pees there too. She says ‘pees’, I say ‘pisses’, but not before checking Jet isn’t anywhere close.
We put the kids to bed. Bonnie reads Jet Ten Tired Teddies, Billy sings Maybelline a song and people start arriving. Eddie ushers them into the lounge and I sit with them and we all keep quiet. Eddie goes to say good night to Jet, and Bonnie walks into the lounge. Her eyes get wider and she says, ‘Oh, hi everyone.’ She has no idea what’s going on, it’s a surprise, but she’s polite. Then Eddie comes back carrying the huge chocolate cake from South Dunedin with candles and we all say ‘Happy Birthday’. People have brought other food and presents. After a couple of wines Bonnie says for her birthday she wants everyone to say what their superpower would be. Someone says, ‘Flying.’ Someone says, ‘I want to be able to get anything I want to come to me – like when I’m on the couch and the remote is on the table, I want to be able to get it without moving.’ Someone says, ‘Telekinesis.’ Bonnie says, ‘It sounds like you need a wife.’ I laugh and no one else does because his girlfriend is there. Bonnie says, ‘Sorry, oh, sorry.’ There is silence and Billy asks, ‘Bonnie, why do you have two birthdays?’ She says, ‘I have two names, too.’
Eddie wants everyone to watch a video, but everyone has work or school the next day. I stand by the heat pump for a while. Billy says, ‘Have you done it yet?’ I haven’t. He tells me we’re leaving tomorrow, while there’s a break in the weather. I go to the kitchen. Bonnie is doing the dishes. There are three piles of white plates with chocolate on them. I say, ‘Bonnie,’ and she says yes without turning round from the sink. Does she
remember the time the money went missing from her purse? When we were working late and everyone said it was me and I said it wasn’t. She looks at me over her shoulder and wipes soapsuds around her hands. And I helped her look for the money, behind the couch and under the desks. I say, ‘Bonnie it was me,’ and here it is, and I hand her an envelope. I say, ‘I wrote a note explaining it all.’ I hand her the note and the envelope and they soak up the suds as she takes them from me. I say I’m sorry and I’m clean now and thanks for having us. She holds the envelope and the note and looks at me. I look at the envelope and the B from where I wrote Bonnie disappearing into the water. I say, ‘It’s all in the note,’ and I’m sorry again and the money’s in the envelope, I adjusted it for inflation. I’m trying to do better and sorry and happy birthday.
Bleeding
He wasn’t feeling well. He hadn’t been feeling well for a while. He couldn’t remember feeling well, at least not in this financial year, and now this. He was bleeding. He’d tried to rationalise it other ways but, in the far stall of the men’s toilet on the fourth floor, there was no denying that he was indeed bleeding. He felt sicker, his cheeks fired up and his mouth went dry and then he said to himself, in his mind so no one could hear, it’s probably not as bad as it seems, there is probably a very rational and undisturbing reason for this and he flushed the toilet and washed his hands and went back to his desk.
The day wore on. It became increasingly easy to ignore until he remembered it and when he remembered it it sat on him like a parrot or a ferret. While the others went to a health and safety meeting he googled: bleeding anus. He didn’t want to but it was talking in his ear, bleating like a sheep. He felt like his cubicle was full of it and it was an animal and another animal and then a flock or a herd or a menagerie. As he looked at the results he asked himself, in his mind, if he was happy now. He asked if it was happy now? And it smiled back at him like it was. But, he had to concede that he was not now happy. It said Cancer. Had he lost weight? He looked at his belt and then smiled at his co-workers as they returned and ran his hands through his hair to make it look like he wasn’t looking at his belt.
Last week, when he’d dropped his children off, his wife had said, ‘You look tired.’ He’d looked at her and at Martin, her new husband who was hugging his children, and said, ‘Oh, no, you know, work and that.’ That was before he’d started bleeding. He wondered how long he should wait. How long was prudent. He pretended to eat his lunch at his desk and read the paper. As he glanced at his computer to see the time, he had new mail. Dorothy Kinbote in Actuaries was going for a drink after work, did anyone want to come. He wasn’t hungry but it was a goat. He replied, he was busy and needed to get home, sorry, one of these days, and his email came out, ‘Yes, pick me up on your way,’ and it was a long slim thing – like a weasel, he suspected. He had never seen a weasel. He may never get to see a weasel.
Dorothy arrived at his desk at around ten past five. He said, ‘Oh is that the time?’ and carried on typing for a minute. She sat behind him and said no one else could come, was that okay. He said ‘Yeah, fine.’ He wasn’t quite sure who he was but he knew he was still bleeding and as he turned around to her something wise gnawed at his stomach saying, in a calm and quiet voice, ‘Maybe you should have called the doctor? Most people I think would have called the doctor.’ Her hair was down and she smelled of something not wholly unpleasant. ‘Good day?’ he said, putting his jacket on as he sat, so he didn’t need to stand up with just his trousers on. ‘Not bad,’ she said, ‘better now,’ and she smiled and he felt like 135 men afloat on an ice floe. They’d only gone out there for fishing and he was sure they’d been told not to, but then there was a cracking sound and now they would need their cell phones to call for help. Did anyone have a cell phone?
He said he just needed to call his wife, his ex-wife and he phoned her number and she answered and of course he had nothing to say, so he asked about the kids and she said they were fine and was he all right and then he asked about Martin and she said, fine and he said, fine, and then ‘Oh, well see you next week,’ and he hung up. ‘Oh well, that’s all done,’ he said, moving pens on his desk so they all lined up with his desk pad. ‘I guess we can go now.’ She smiled.
The pub was warm and full but mainly with people not from his work. There was the odd person but they soon left. He kept his jacket on and got warmer and warmer and prayed the sweat wouldn’t break on his face. He went to the toilet occasionally, as little as possible and every time he tried not to think about it and every time he was still bleeding. People didn’t go to the doctor for this. Bodies didn’t go wrong like this, and if they did his body wasn’t going to. His body would go wrong in a lively, romantic way: a broken neck, a lung deflating, a broken heart. Something clean and heroic and worthy of a doctor. What doctor would want to hear about this. It would stop soon. Things like this were private things that went wrong for a week or so and then went right again without anyone having to know. Did he want another drink. Well, he looked at his watch and the dark outside and he started to say he should be heading home, they had work tomorrow and then he thought about home and how there was nothing there but him and his bleeding arse and he said, maybe one more and it patted him on the back and laughed its loud chimpanzee laugh and he laughed along, loudly and hoarsely and she ordered them another drink.
She seemed to be going on a great deal. On and on and on. He was having trouble following her. He hadn’t eaten since the bleeding had started. She was talking about something and he was nodding. He would like to have sex with her. He had no idea what part of him would, but something told him he should like to have sex with her. She was talking and he couldn’t quite hear her over the noise in his head and the noise of the bar so he nodded and she smiled and nodded some more and he thought this was a way to go. In his head he started making calculations about how much blood he had lost. He wondered if he could claim ACC for something like this, he wondered if he could get condoms and adult incontinence pads at the same place. Equations went through his head as he noticed her pull her bra strap back onto her shoulder. He made containers in his head and tried to remember cosine and tangent and filled the containers with blue liquid and measured them out into cubic centimetres, metres, kilometres – surely not kilometres. She was laughing and smoking. The pub was loud and warm and smoky and he nodded when she nodded and shook his head when she shook her head. And it said to him with the tapping of a thousand tiny feet that it was only a matter of time. Time, look at the time, would she have another. Go on. Go on. And she will and from the bar he watches her look around the room with the short straw from her drink still between her teeth. He turns too quickly and for a second sees it – all his organs melting and bleeding out of him. His heart bleeding out his arse. His brain. His Achilles tendon. Could he lose blood uphill? Then it was gone and he ordered the drinks and he pulled down his jacket.
Did he want to go dancing? Um, no. Not if she was the last woman alive and the world was an inferno, and the sea and the lakes, and you had to dance to get away. He wanted to have sex with her. She laughs and pushes at his shoulder knocking it off and it has to struggle up the chair leg and back onto his shoulder and it wobbles a bit. He wishes he was bleeding out his face. No, he replies, in her ear, which she has moved to inches in front of his mouth, he did not want to go dancing. He can see the holes in her earlobe where there used to be earrings. He wants to put it in those holes, those tiny half closed up holes. Could he make it small enough to fit? All the worry and the blood, would it fit? And it clatters and runs away to a corner and the bar is getting noisier and hotter and more smoky. She leans back. He says, ‘Hospo night.’ He doesn’t mean to but he says, ‘Hospo night.’ She doesn’t hear him – she keeps talking about dancing. She loves dancing. So he waits until the next time she smiles and nods and he smiles and nods and says, ‘Fuck you.’ And she keeps talking. ‘Fuck me,’ he says, and ‘Shut the fuck up and suck my dick.’ She keeps talking and he wishes she was bleeding f
rom her face. He wishes every one he knew and Martin and some people he suspected he didn’t know, he wished all of them would bleed every inside they had out of their faces. And it surprises him, it becomes liquid and long and everywhere, inside everything. He looks around the room and it calls him from everywhere and says it’s his brother and it will always be there for him.
He says does she mean dirty dancing and she smiles when he smiles. He leans into her ear again, that ear, and says she’s a very sexy lady and she leans into him, the straw still in her teeth and says she’s no lady.
As he helps her along the street the two of them get so close he can smell the skin that’s flaked from her scalp. She smiles when he smiles. She nods when he nods. It’s electric now. He’s pissing blood as well. She gets more beautiful with every step. She’s licking lipstick from her teeth and his car has dark upholstery.
She stops and bends into a doorway to vomit. He walks on, into the light of a street-light and it scatters and reforms and won’t be still.
‘Jesus!’ she says from behind him, ‘Jesus. Are you bleeding?’
He wipes the back pockets of his trousers like he’s looking for his wallet.
‘Jesus.’ She comes over. ‘You are. Look at you – you’re bleeding like a stuck pig.’
She’s close, she smells like vomit.
‘You’re the pig,’ he says.
All at Once
He was happy. It showed in his face. His whole body wore it like a soft layer over what used to be tenseness and bone. Everything about him, his walk, the tone of his voice seemed touched by the one dumb emotion. He held an ugly woman’s hand and he kissed her on the cheek. She was the mother and he was the father. The twins took pots and pans from the cupboards of the two-bedroom downstairs flat they rented. He made things stumble now, made them confused. They tried to hurt him and he laughed quietly because he owned them and directed them where he wanted. They were small and obedient in the face of all his joy. They arrested him. Police woke his family in the morning and at night, in the dark. They listened to his phone and talked to his friends and he smiled and relaxed and continued his work in a quiet revolt. He beamed and said hello to the people in the cars outside his home, took them coffee if they worked late and was always full of a lightness that gave him some kind of flight which made him hard to catch and impossible to predict.
