The Harpy

by Megan Hunter

  We were driving down a long, quiet, residential street. There were no other cars in sight, no speed bumps, not even any pedestrians on the pavement. On a lamppost, a single bird shook its feathers, bent its head. I took one more look in the mirror, saw the boys making contact with each other now, squeaking with exertion, their outraged voices clear and high across the car. I could feel the rage rising, harshly familiar, a neglected friend. My nails dug into the density of the steering wheel, a pain grazing through my jaw as I clenched my teeth.

  I put my foot on the accelerator and held it there, sensing the speed build in my chest, its force beginning to flatten me against my seat. As we sped up I could feel, rather than hear, the quiet taking over the back seat. Without looking, I could tell that Paddy was back in his belt now, looking straight ahead. Only when I got right to the end of the street did I lift my foot, slightly, begin to slow down. And only when I heard nothing for a number of seconds – only a smooth silence – did I check on them, seeing their faces watery and still in the mirror, neither returning to daydreams, or to fighting, but staring ahead, their eyes misted, unreadable.

  ~

  She is a bad mother, people might say.

  But: Is a mother a human? they might ask. Or: only human-shaped, every limb in the right place?

  ~

  31

  I met David Holmes in a restaurant I had never been to before: it had always seemed like a place you would have to dress up for, to wear the clothes widows wore in slick American dramas: tight dresses cinched in with a belt, sheer tights, patent leather stilettos. There was no occasion on which I could imagine booking this place: no birthday or anniversary that would make me seek its cream walls, the chic houseplants which covered its windows, making it impossible for passers-by to watch patrons eat.

  David had specified the place and the time: I had left it open for this, for him to be in control. It had already seemed enough, to send it –

  Okay. When? L

  – in the middle of another sleepless night, the unslept hours like a black ocean around me, the bed a flimsy, rocking raft in the darkness. In the morning, I had to check that I had actually sent it, that I hadn’t – as I’d done so many times before – simply stroked the message, left it in its place. I had never deleted it, liked to come back to it when my mind was particularly restless, when I feared my thoughts could burst from me, escape into the plain air beyond the window. They stilled me, these words: they made me pause.

  He didn’t reply for a number of hours. He had given up hoping, perhaps, regretted sending a message in the first place. Or he was just busy. Working. I tried to imagine him in a white lab coat, or in a busy lecture theatre, in front of a hundred students. But it was too difficult: he was only available in still frames, holding a glass of cheap faculty wine, taking a sip, making a small, polite expression of disapproval.

  Now, I wondered if I would recognize him. I gave his name to the model-esque maître d’, as though this was a business meeting. She held out a suited arm, gestured towards the back. Of course: he wouldn’t sit close to the windows, even with the ferns for protection. Most likely, very few of the people he knew would come to a place like this either. They would have neighbourhood restaurants near their elegant, bay-windowed homes. They would know the waiters by name.

  I saw him before he saw me: he seemed to be reading the menu with interest, and I wondered if he was going to choose some drippy, pungent brunch: eggs Florentine, perhaps, something I would have to watch slurping into his mouth. But as soon as I arrived at the table he put the menu to one side, firmly. He rose from his chair, gave me a closed-mouthed smile, a brisk handshake – the skin dry, cool – his eyes meeting mine before he sat back down. He looked more casual than I had seen him before, in a pale blue Oxford shirt, no jacket, the top button undone. He was older than I’d remembered; the skin on his neck was loose and drooping, his hands on the table lightly furred and covered with liver spots. He must have been at least ten years older than Vanessa. No wonder, I thought before I could stop myself, she had wanted Jake, his firmness, the still-boyish softness of his skin.

  I looked down then, worried I was going red. I knew he was assessing me, the wronged wife. I had dressed in the best clothes I could find, but could feel my stomach inflating slowly over the brink of my trousers, my legs sinking too far into the leather of the chair.

  It must seem strange – that I asked you here.

  He said this without the tone of a question, as though he was completely sure of my feelings, that he had already assessed them, and found them reasonable. Reasonable was – I imagined – the highest goal of people like David and Vanessa Holmes, people with expansive bedrooms and tiny mortgages, who grew up believing it was reasonable to have the lives they wanted.

  I nodded, sipped the water that was already poured at my place.

  What did you want to see me about? I would not make small talk, I had decided: I would not put him at ease.

  The waiter was coming over now – as David opened his mouth to speak he stopped himself, waited until I’d ordered, rearranged his hands on the table as I asked for tea. He still didn’t appear nervous, only seemed to be taking the action that was appropriate in the moment. I had the sense that he would always know what to do, in any moment.

  I actually— He cleared his throat; it was the same noise I’d heard on the phone. A protracted, liquid grunt. My stomach plunged, and recovered.

  I actually have a request. A – well – a favour to ask.

  I had my hand resting on my mouth, I realized, when his eyes flicked to it. I moved it down. I was barely aware of what my body was doing: it was the opposite of how he arranged himself, the slow way he made any change in his position. Perhaps, when he was younger, he had been more fluid, but I doubted it: I had met a few versions of his type at university, leftovers from an earlier age, men who knew exactly how to arrange themselves.

  Right. I frowned, briefly: I couldn’t help it.

  The waiter came with my tea, checked whether David wanted anything – calling him sir – before returning to the front of the restaurant, the light from the windows that seemed faded, distant, as though it was already in the past.

  I wanted to ask whether you could speak to your husband – he winced slightly when saying this last word, I noted – about his work situation. About whether there was a possibility – a chance – that he might find – another grunt – employment. Elsewhere.

  Still, there was no questioning tone. It was closer to an order than a favour, I realized. This felt more like the identification of something I already knew than fresh knowledge: of course Professor David Holmes would never truly ask something of me, make himself vulnerable with a genuine request. He could, however, expect something from me.

  This whole thing has been awful for my wife, you know – for Vanessa. The picture . . . I know she would never say anything. Would never ask . . . or you. But she’s so happy there. And she didn’t send it, so . . .

  It was interesting, how anger appeared and disappeared in front of this man. How it dared to rise, tentatively, but – having nowhere to go, no possible expression – disappeared back inside me, was reabsorbed, seemed to be conveyed to my own hands instead, to their quaking, their inability to hold the dainty china cup without spilling my tea. I tried to keep my voice steady, at least.

  Does Vanessa know you’re here?

  He shook his head quickly.

  No. It would only upset her. She’s been doing better – recently.

  So you’re staying together?

  For the first time, I saw irritation present itself, before he could do anything to stop it: the smallest curve of his lip, an involuntary tightening of skin near his eye. His voice, when he spoke: just the lightest inflection of anger.

  Well, yes. Of course. I believe in – he picked up a napkin, put it down, moved his leg; he was struggling, for a brief moment, to find the appropriate movement.

  I believe in forgiveness. As do you, I presume
? A nastiness now, unmistakable, his mouth and eyebrows moving at the same time. For a moment a wave of horror-heat threatened: did he know? I shook it away, visibly, my head moving; he couldn’t know.

  No? Well. That’s interesting, definitely, but absolutely none of my business. His movements were exacting again, contained. But, as I say, if you could suggest—

  I got up before I knew I was doing it: my chair fell to the ground with a loud crash, the noise breaking through the tinkling, ambient background of late morning. From the corner of my eye, I could see David Holmes reacting, or choosing not to. He was looking straight ahead, completely still, as though absorbing new knowledge, reaching an interesting conclusion.

  He made no movement to help, did not call out my name. It’s a shame, I could imagine him saying, shrugging his shoulders. Sad for her. Even when I was almost at the door of the restaurant, it seemed that I could see him, without turning my head, that I could watch the exact, smiling way he gestured the waiter over and asked for the bill.

  ~

  A piece of time, breakable, glass-transparent.

  I watch her again: she walks away from the restaurant, moves down the street. It is a bright day; she raises her hand to shade her eyes, sees the light pass through her palm, jewelled red.

  The world moves around her as it always does, a hive of unknown lives. None of them noticing, none of them suspecting – even for a second – what she has done.

  ~

  32

  When the boys were babies, I often thought of going away. I imagined the seaside B&B I would book myself into, the way the light would come in the mornings, as though it didn’t even notice that I was there. Objects themselves would be different, I imagined, kettles, pillows, shower heads, shoes: nothing would ask for my response. Nothing would need me.

  I want a sunny day! Paddy wailed on the morning of his party. The day had started grey and cool, and I wondered what we had done to make him believe we could control the weather. Perhaps this was just one more party preparation I had forgotten to make. Did I have enough food choices for vegetarians? Had I planned enough games, or would there be some horrifying, gaping hole in the entertainment provision, as there had been at Paddy’s sixth birthday? Fifteen tiny people staring at me from the middle of an empty wooden floor. Endless games of musical statues, until the older, cleverer children started to complain.

  I spent the morning cleaning, tidying, making sandwiches in triangle shapes, cutting up dozens of carrot and cucumber batons that would not be eaten. It was important simply to have them displayed, to show that you were aware of the need to give children vegetables. I worked at a professional pace, my hands moving according to their own logic, slicing, arranging, decorating, blurred by speed, by the patterns they seemed to know instinctively, familiar shapes made in ease. I kept looking up – to see if anyone else would notice how fast I was, how accurate – but nobody did.

  We had decided to have the party at home, to save money, but I had completely forgotten all the work this entailed, the large and growing gap between our house in its daily state and a house considered fit for public view. There would be twenty children there, including our own, a much higher number than I was expecting. Most people were not going away, it seemed; I had tried to sound happy when responding to every acceptance. Wonderful, I’d texted several times. Paddy will be thrilled.

  Jake couldn’t understand why I was going to so much effort: as with the Christmas party, he seemed reluctant to have it at all, seemed to want to keep our family a sealed unit, an airtight container.

  You’ll tell Paddy it’s off then, will you? I’d challenged him, but he’d only shrugged.

  I’m sure he’ll love it. He had said this in a friendly way, as though my party-planning were a benign affliction, something that did good in the end. Ever since that afternoon in the upstairs hallway – our cheeks touching, my clothes pulled back – Jake seemed softened, placated: he no longer sighed loudly when he passed me, acted as if I was an obstruction in his way. On the morning itself, he helped, blowing up balloons, hanging a banner across the kitchen, hiding prizes for a treasure hunt.

  A children’s party, like a death, is never real until it is happening. It cannot truly be planned, or imagined. It is always unexpected. When the boys – they were all boys, despite my best efforts – burst in that day, I could see that, whatever my preparations, the party was going to be an ordeal. Or perhaps, I began to realize, it was because of my efforts, my stubborn insistence on adherence to the pirate theme, with all its associated weapons, the eye-patches that impeded each child’s sight.

  We opened the doors to the garden, watched them all tumble into the brightness – it was sunny now, unseasonably warm, and Paddy had thanked me for it – sword fighting on the grass, clambering onto the trampoline.

  Shoes off! I shouted, putting the sound too much into my throat, so that it felt scraped, worn away. Jake stood at the doors with me, laughing at the sight of ten miniature pirates bouncing together, patches wobbling, swords pointing in the air. I watched him, amazed by the way he was able to find this funny rather than disturbing. I leaned into him, slightly, tried to absorb it by osmosis: this relaxed delight, the slight distance that seemed the key to enjoying parenting. I tried not to think of how much easier it was for the husband – the way family could be secondary, without excuses or apologies. We stood like that for two seconds, maybe three, soaking up the sunshine, its heat so like the warmth of love on our faces.

  There was a broken scream from the trampoline, a stuttering yelp that turned to silence for a moment before erupting into a pure, baby-like cry. The children stopped bouncing abruptly, the netting sides settling back into place. And from the middle of them, two of the children – Paddy, and his friend Thomas – moved forwards. They were covered in blood.

  It had been briefly exhilarating, to be given so many children to look after, when I knew I was barely capable of looking after two. As their parents left them – looking relieved, barely bothering to make small talk – I felt almost like confirming my credentials, my qualifications in child rearing. But I had none. I just smiled and tried to look competent, mature, motherly.

  Now, with two injured children moving towards me, blood dripping from their noses, from their eyes, from their chins, I could see this was a mistake. I was no mother. I was a silly girl who had slipped and ended up in this kind of life. But I could play the role, as I always had. I rushed forwards, and Jake rushed forwards. I went towards Thomas first, looked at his face in the high sharp focus of panic. I could see straight away that there was one cut causing all the blood, maybe two inches across his forehead, a tear in the usual smoothness, an aberration. He’s okay. This from Jake. He has a nosebleed.

  I realized he was talking about Paddy, felt a rich rush of guilt at the way I had focused my attention on the other boy.

  They must have bumped heads, or – I looked down at Paddy’s hand, which held a small wooden sword.

  That’s not your sword, love, I said, realizing what must have happened. He’d borrowed someone else’s, this strangely sharp thing, it must have jabbed Thomas by mistake – or on purpose – as they bounced. I prayed silently that it was an accident. Please, please.

  I got a paper napkin, held it against Thomas’s head. Outside, Jake ordered everyone off the trampoline. Paddy sat by my side, holding a wad of bloody tissue to his nose, taking a gulping sob every few seconds.

  He hit me, Mummy, he gasped thickly through the blood – I looked down at Thomas, who shook his head unconvincingly, his eyes filling with tears. I felt a surge of joy: it wasn’t my child, after all, who had committed an act of violence. It was this child, with his wholesome, ever-present at the school gates mother, his imposing, suit-wearing father. I smiled broadly before I could stop myself.

  Well, no one should hit anyone, should they? I said blandly, making my mouth serious, trying to move my head equally between the two of them.

  But, Mummy, I didn’t! Paddy started to prote
st. The sword hit him by accident, and then he punched me. He was spluttering now, the blood from his nose still covering his teeth, his lips, spraying across the table as he spoke.

  Put your head back, I told Paddy. Anyway, let’s just remember – I did look at Thomas this time, I couldn’t help it – Kind hands, kind words. Isn’t that what they say at school? My pulse was returning to normal, at last. I tried to breathe slowly. It wasn’t my fault, I kept trying to remember. I had given Paddy a good party; I had done everything I could.

  I texted Thomas’s mother, Sarah, as soon as it happened. It was important to be accountable, I knew that. To follow all the steps, as they did at school, where they sent home Accident Reports, strangely bureaucratic documents that featured a police murder-style outline of the human body, the injury a wobbly circle. Hit shoulder on another child’s head. Fell in the sensory garden. Applied ice.

  Thomas banged face while on the trampoline, I texted Sarah. He okay, no stitches needed we think. X

  Was the mention of stitches reassuring, or not? Was a kiss inappropriate, or would the tone be too abrupt without one? I resisted the urge to apologize in the text, but when she arrived to collect him, the sorries poured out of me, liquid exhaustion, landing at her feet.

  No problem, she said, tight lipped, inspecting Thomas’s head. But then: How many were on the trampoline? She was looking straight through to the garden, where four or five boys, now weapon-free, bounced in the sunshine.

  Well, there were quite a few, we took the swords away . . . I’m so sorry, Sarah, I really am. I feel terrible.

  I did feel terrible, at that moment, even though Thomas’s cut looked nearly healed already, his face glowing from playing musical bumps. He had eaten particularly well at the picnic, telling everyone loudly that he was a vegetarian, then eating five cheese sandwiches and a pile of raw vegetables. I told Sarah this, to make up for the injury. I was a good mother! I had chopped fucking carrots!