Nora & Kettle

by Lauren Nicolle Taylor

“Please Deddy, don’t shout tat me. It hurts ma ears,” she pleads.

  I watch his fingers curl into fists at his sides. “Speak properly, child!”

  She scrunches both sides of the dress in her fingers and sets her mouth in a hard line. It’s such a mistake, but she doesn’t know, doesn’t remember. “Ahm tryin’. S’not easy with you shoutin’ tat me.” She shakes her head, tears dripping onto the fabric and staining the dress further.

  He takes another step, and I step with him. “Are you saying it’s my fault you can’t talk like a normal girl? I’ve given you every opportunity, paid for the most expensive and sophisticated equipment. You ungrateful little shit.” He rakes a hand through his hair and tugs at it. I feel the wheel turning, the way the very air in the room changes once his mind has settled on hurting someone.

  She lurches away from him when he shouts, leaning back into the folds of fabric, in Mother’s clothes that have no hope of protecting her. She cries out when he takes another step, her fear getting the better of her, and she starts sobbing.

  Father stops for a second. I wonder if maybe he sees himself reflected in her eyes, sees the monster in a nice suit flaring with violence. But then he shouts, “Shut up. Stop crying. Stop it now!”

  But she can’t stop.

  He takes one more step and swings his fist at her perfect, undamaged face.

  “No, you stop!” I scream, stepping between his fist and her face. The punch pauses midair, his expression incredulous. He raises his eyebrows at me. “Don’t you dare criticize her for something that you caused,” I say, talking low but strong. I will not let him hurt her. I point my finger at his chest, where his heart beats only every other second. “She can’t hear because of you. You. Did. This. To. Her.”

  His lip curls and his eyes retreat. His elbow pulls back, and I scream, “Frankie, get out of here!” as I back up against the front of the bed and brace myself. She slips off the bed and the dress falls to the floor, billowing out with old air like a ghost has left the room. She pauses in the doorway, her eyes round and scared and looking just like our mother’s. “Go,” I urge just before his fist hits me.

  The punch is like a hammer to my temple. It cracks open barrels of pain that spill all over my mother’s bedspread. The ones to my stomach I hardly notice and actually, after a while, it all blurs to red. Somehow, I’ve ended up on the floor, the world flat, spreading endlessly before me in straight lines as if the walls have disappeared. His sharp, black foot comes at me over and over. I grip one hand on the underside of the bed and beg for unconsciousness as I fly up off the floor with every kick until I vomit. That’s when it stops.

  Disgusted, he shouts down at me, “Clean this up,” and leaves, slamming the door behind him.

  I kind of laugh at the idea that I’ll be able to clean up anything, and then I let out a whimper, the air in my lungs compressed into little balls of pain. I wonder if this time he’s actually killed me. I wait for blackness to close over me but nothing comes, just the hard light of the bedroom lamp and the hot air fuming through the window. Sighing, I carefully shuffle back until I’m under the bed, my cheek pressed to the floor, my hand around my stomach. I want to pass out. I want to stay hidden here forever, but everything hurts too much. My lips graze the wood floor as I murmur, “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you,” over and over again through a cloud of salt water and blood.

  As the world spins wildly, I start to believe that if I stepped out that window, maybe I could fly away. And that maybe Mother is better off where she is.

  My hair flops over my eyes, and I let that be my darkness. The door creaks open, and I retreat further under the bed. A small shadow dances across the floor, turns the lamp off, and comes to find me.

  Frankie squirms under the bed and forces her way into my unresponsive arms, folding them over her shoulder and burying her face in my chest. I begin to cry, shaking and rattling with tears that feel as hard as ball bearings. She reaches her pearly hand up to my face, strokes my cheek, and whispers, “Shh. Shh. Shh. Thenk you, Nora, you saved me.”

  I fall asleep with Frankie cradled in my arms. And I count the one blessing with my shredded pinky finger. She is physically unharmed, thank God.

  ***

  The morning sluggishly pulls me from sleep, tugging at the blanket beneath me until I am rolled into consciousness. Hot air pours through the window, and I try to drag myself out from under the bed to close it. Frankie still sleeps in my arms, and I carefully pull them out from under her head without waking her. I stand, I sway, the room tilts sideways, and it feels like it’s a steep climb to get to the window. I use chairs and furniture to tug myself toward it and manage to slide it shut. The snap opens my stomach and I turn and vomit in the dustbin by her dresser.

  I wipe my mouth, sweat beading on my upper lip, the pain in my head turning from splitting to completely cracked open. The smell of vomit wafts up my nose and I hurl again, stumbling toward the door. My view of the world is hazy, like the pollution of the city is hovering in the second story of the house. I blink, blink, blink, trying to clear it, but my vision doesn’t improve. Moving slowly to the bathroom, I grip the guardrail for support as if I might slip through the floor if I let go.

  I hang over the rail for a second and see my father leaning on the hallstand talking on the phone, the top of his dark hat bobbing up and down like there is an ocean beneath me. “Yes, they are both unwell. I think it best you don’t come in until next week; that will give them adequate time to recover. Certainly, I will pass on your well wishes. Goodbye, Miss Candace.” He glances up and I duck down, instantly regretting it as the world turns completely upside down. I manage to hold in my stomach contents until I hear the door close, and then I rush to the bathroom. Though by this time, there is nothing but bile left in there.

  As I wash, my vision clears enough for me to view my stricken reflection. I am shocked by what I see because I am unrecognizable. I can see why he cancelled the tutor. This cannot be hidden or explained away. The mirror wavers and wobbles like the surface of a disturbed pond and I gag, ripples of nausea rolling through me over and over. I cup my hands to the faucet and take a small sip of water, sinking to the floor.

  I can’t do this anymore.

  I won’t do this anymore.

  I hammer my thigh with a half-closed fist. My eyes shutter. My head slides against the porcelain sink, and I slip into blackness again. The condensation on the window sparkles like stars as I drift away.

  ***

  “Miss Nora.” Marie’s worried voice wakes me, as does her shaking my shoulder. I wince when her dimpled hand touches me. She creeps away from me, clutching her skirt in one hand. “Mister Deere said you were feeling poorly and that I should let you rest in bed today. I’ve brought you lunch. Do you want to, um, should I bring it in here or to your bedroom?”

  The smell of vomit is pungent and hangs on the air in disgusting dribbles. I lick my dry lips and hold my arms out to her. “Help me up, Marie,” I manage in a croaky, rinsed-with-acid voice. “Where’s Miss Frances?”

  “Oh, she’s in the playroom,” Marie answers as she hoists me up. I still feel a little giddy, but the nausea has subsided. I let Marie help me to my room, testing my feet as I go. They slap down like dollar bills on a bar, but I’m pretty sure I can walk on my own. When we get to my door I say, “That will do. Thank you, Marie. Tell Miss Frances to join me, please.”

  Marie nods and rushes to get my tray of food, drops it on the bedside table, and hurries out again to fetch Frankie. I shake my head and instantly regret it, reaching out to grab the dresser before I fall.

  He nearly killed me. I’m not hanging around to see what happens next. I drag my old ballet bag out from under the bed and empty it of things I will never use again. Satin ribbons twirl to the floor, slippers hitting with a wooden thud. I grab clothing and jewelry to sell, shoving them in the bag.

  A knock on the door makes me spin around too fast, and I put my hand to my head. It throbs into
my palm as the room spins, up and down, up and down. I’m on a carousel and I can’t get off.

  Frankie’s face peeks inside, a tray of food wobbling in her skinny arms. I hate the way she looks at me now. Whatever innocence she had left has been wiped away with the blood and the bruises. I don’t want my world to be her world. I won’t allow it. I beckon with my other hand. “Come in. Come in.”

  “What are you doing?” she asks curiously as she rumbles over to me and puts her tray on the bed.

  I try to smile, my face hurting. Pulling her close, I whisper in her good ear. “We’re going on a trip.”

  25. BAIT

  KETTLE

  A restless night’s sleep makes it hard to open my eyes, but the fishy smell creeping through the air runs a rake over my skin and jolts me alert.

  “I know,” Kin says, watching me shudder and wipe my nose. He shrugs and pulls his cap over his eyes. I eye him suspiciously, wondering why his shirt is buttoned up to his neck.

  I stand and stretch, yawning as I speak. “You could clear a subway car with that smell. I think we should go early and take a swim before the gates open.”

  He stands gingerly, and I narrow my eyes at his stiff movements. His chin touches his chest like he’s trying to avoid eye contact. I move under his face and look up. “What’s…?”

  His lip is split and under his eye is as dark as a scrape of boot polish. He stretches too and I catch the bruise on his left side as his shirt lifts, looking like purple finger paint spotted up to his armpits. My eyes widen, and he bares his flashy teeth at me. “Later.”

  I don’t know what to say. My mouth still hangs open as we walk briskly through the streets to the station. We’ll be ahead of most of the workers as it’s about 5:30 AM, but some will still get the jump. They’re the desperate ones. The ones that’ll tear your hair out and stomp on your face.

  Coffees and donuts in hand, we ride the subway to the docks. Jittery legs and shoulders bump against each other with the rhythm of the rail. The few men in the car give us a wide berth because of Kin’s stench, which fills the space like someone wiped down the windows with day-old fish.

  When the doors slide open at the last stop, Kin storms out, his eyes on the horizon as he moves straight through the middle of the deserted street, his long legs making it hard for me to keep up. When our feet hit the sand, I take off my shoes. Kin just walks straight into the ocean fully clothed, and I wonder if he’s lost it. Something happened yesterday, and it’s got him more aggravated than I’ve ever seen him. I’m worried about him and selfishly worried about the rest of us. I need him to hold it together. I’m not sure I can handle it all, all of them, on my own.

  He stands waist deep in the waves, silently staring past the edge of the water. I take off my shirt and wade in, splashing some water on my face and the back of my neck and wait. The morning heat is already fuming across the sand and the salt water dries almost instantly on my skin. I lick my lips, tasting the sea.

  He seems far away in more than one way and I move closer, cupping my hands to my mouth and shouting over the crashing waves. “Kin!” Cold water splashes up to my shoulders. It’s refreshing and shocking all at once.

  He turns to look at me, his face dark, planed of its usual cheek. He starts undressing, rinsing his clothes of the fish stink and wringing them out.

  I glance at my watch. We’re going to have a fight on our hands if he doesn’t hurry up. I point to my wrist when he turns around and he nods, wading shirtless toward me.

  Usually I’d joke that he’s showing off, but something about his expression and the cloud darkening his mood makes me think better of it.

  He carries his shoes in one hand, the leather already shrinking and bunching, his shirt slung over his shoulder. “Ready?” he asks.

  I nod. “Ready.” It feels like he’s talking about something other than the cockfight we’re about to enter into. I want to ask, but he told me ‘later’. I’m supposed to respect that because he would do the same for me.

  It’s a half-hour walk to the gates and by the time we get there, Kin’s clothes are dry, salt running in wavy lines up his pants and shirt like a water color painting I’ve seen in someone’s sitting room window.

  “You smell slightly better,” I quip as our feet hit the wooden sleepers of the jetty. Two ships sit, one behind the other, in front of us, their paint-dipped tops barnacled and rusty. It’ll be a busy day.

  I take a deep breath, my heartbeat picking up as I see the masses of men squashed against each other, fighting for life like fish in a net. And just like fish struggling to stay alive as they’re lifted from the water, we don’t want to fight each other but we each have our own life we’re struggling to maintain. At some point, survival instincts take over.

  We approach the back of the group, and I already feel like giving up. The crowd surges forward and falls back like the tide. There’s no way we can get to the front. But Kin’s eyes speak a different idea. He’s focused on the rattling wire at the front of the group and he starts pushing men apart, entering the swarm of bodies easily, just like he was wading into the sea again. I try to follow him, but the gap he’s made for himself immediately closes up after him.

  Wait for me, I think weakly because I know I’m not going to make it through.

  Kin’s tall figure stands above the crowd like a tree already struck by lightning. Dark and strong. Immovable but damaged. I pull through the crowd just as the gates slide open. I get a moment’s breath as space opens up around me before I’m crushed by the mob again and am desperately grappling and scratching at the backs of heads and the points of shoulders, trying to get in.

  Kin is in, his back to me. I’m almost there as the gates slide closed. The man in front of me screams out as his fingers nearly get crushed. I hear the bolt slam shut, the padlock clip into place, and I’m shut out.

  “Sorry, men.” The guard laughs. “Better luck next time, eh?”

  A chorus of curses almost sounds musical as the pressure relaxes and men turn away. I’m still gripping the fence. My eyes press through two hexagons of wire like funny glasses, Kin’s stalking figure framed by rusty wire as it gets smaller. “Wait. Can’t you let in one more?” I beg. Why won’t Kin turn around?

  The guard pulls a pack of gum from his pocket and offers me some through the wire. “Hang around. You can always hope someone gets injured,” he says with a wry smile.

  Other tired faces, tired bodies, take up positions on rocks and boxes around the gate to wait. Sadness fills my heart at the fact that we’re all sort of hoping for something bad to happen to someone else, someone who’s in the same situation as us. But I feel like I need to be in there. I feel like something’s wrong with Kin.

  ***

  I’m melting into the box I’m perched on, sinking in like furniture polish. The sun is high over the docks, blaring down on us with full force. It’s almost as if it’s vibrating, making a nasty noise like a wrong organ chord. The wind coming off the land is pushing any cool breeze further away. I mop at the sweat on my face with my sleeve, the smell of bird crap, baked seaweed and dead fish is making me want to leave.

  I think about going back to the beach when the fence rattles and the same guard that offered me gum parts the gate by a few fingers and shakes a bottle of water at us. I jump up, a little younger and sprightlier than some of the others.

  “Thanks, mister,” I say with a genuine smile. He grumbles something unintelligible that may have been, More work moving dead bodies at the end of the day.

  I offer the bottle around. We share the water, germs and all. A drip on the tongue seems to evaporate before it can do anything useful.

  The horn blasts within, marking lunch, and I stroke my throat, jealous of the food they’re eating right now and the sweet, warmish soda they’re drinking. My head hangs between my legs and I wonder if it’s safe to sleep here with five other men watching me and more specifically, the bag I have slung across my shoulders. I close my eyes but stay alert. r />
  A few minutes later, the fence rattles again and Kin’s voice hits my ears. “Oi! Kettle. Wake up!” I look up to see him waving half a sandwich in the air. “Nice. I’m working my ass off and you’re taking a nap,” he teases. Maybe whatever I thought was wrong was nothing after all.

  I walk up to the fence and he folds the sandwich over, pushing it through the gap into my hand. “Thanks.”

  He shrugs and arches an eyebrow. “You waiting for someone to get thrown out, huh?”

  I don’t admit I’m mostly here because I’m worried about him. “Yeah, well, we need the money.”

  He sinks down to the ground and sits cross-legged, his back perfectly straight as he leans against the fence with one shoulder and looks out toward the sea. “That’s very true,” he says, wiping crumbs from his lips.

  “Hey nip!” a man yells as he walks slowly between two containers, holding something up in his hands. Kin’s back becomes impossibly rigid, and he turns very slowly.

  I whisper his name. I don’t shout out. There’s no point.

  Everything comes together like wooden beads clicking to the end of a thread. One, two, three. The man approaches, and Kin still hasn’t turned all the way around. I don’t want him to, because in the man’s big, hairy hand is a limp mass of tabby cat fur. Tiger Lily swings lifelessly from the man’s clutches, and I can’t help but cover my mouth in shock. Kin’s eyes rise to mine and I shake my head slightly, my eyes stinging. I say without saying it. Don’t turn around. Don’t turn around. What’s coming is only hurt and pain, but there’s nothing I can do to stop this. Or him.

  He finally swings around, stands slowly, hardly making any noise except for a sharp push of air through his nostrils. I stand too, my fingers curling around the wire and gripping it tightly. “Kin, don’t!” I urge, but he’s lost to his anger and grief now.

  It’s so strange to be looking in on this from the outside. As I rattle the fence and yell again for Kin to stop, to think, memories of guarded boundaries twirled with barbed wire swim over my head like a school of fish. The water from their scaled bodies turns to drips of blood falling to the desert floor, rolling together and becoming coated in ochre dust. I shake my head. The here and now wins my attention as I watch Kin storm toward the man.