Heni Hani and the Magic Pendant: Part 1 (Heni Hani and the fears of the unknown)

by Peter Ness

  We kids piled in on top of each other, jockeying for position in the back seat. Teresa poked Jo in the eye accidentally with her bag as she pried her way in. Jo screeched loudly, pulling Teresa’s hair. Teresa slapped her out of the way. I shoved them both to one side, squeezing in. Mom clicked the seat back into place, and climbing in the front banged her leg on the car door. Wincing, she looked down annoyed at the ladder forming in her stockings. Pops (grandpa) hastily rearranged his wig, as he backed the car out. Then the greenish-yellow Volkswagen puttered, backfiring and spluttering all the way to school at a tortoise pace. After that Pops headed off to the deli with Mom, who was breathing a sigh of relief.

  The Apollo 11 lander touched down towards the middle of the day, at 10:36 a.m. Australian Central Standard time. Pops turned up right on cue in his little Austin utility at the Lower Primary School, radio blaring in the background. Then he handed out free fruit and flavored milk to all the grade ones and twos. They all lined up pushing and shoving their way into the line. Pop handed each child a piece of fruit and a bottle of flavored milk, even Jo. In the USA, it was still 8:00 p.m. the previous day (July 20th). We were 14 1/2 hours, ahead of Houston.

  At 3:15 p.m., and finally finishing our daily sentence of public school education, Teresa and I wandered apathetically across the road to collect Jo. We meandered home from school, loitering here and there patting this black spotted dog and that tortoise-shell kitty. Finally making it home Jo kicked the front door open. Then, we hurled our bags in a pile onto the lounge room floor, and kicked off our shoes. One of mine flipped through the air landing slam dunk into the pot of a small plant. The other spun across bouncing off the mirror’s stained Jarrah frame with a dull, thud! Then, noses in the air sniffing we followed an aromatic smell of strawberries and custard cream into the kitchen. Grans stood next to the table in an apron making a cake, mixing cream in a bowl.

  ‘Hands off Heni, it’s not ready yet,’ she said looking up. Slap! I winced at the sharp slap on the wrist. And, then Gran taught Teresa and I how to bake a cake. Meanwhile, bored, Jo switched Sesame Street on full blast. She sat cross-legged on the lounge room floor rocking side to side, laughing hysterically with Bert, Ernie and the Count. Then she watched Mr. Ed, giggling noisily with the talking horse. Wouldn’t it be fun to be a six year old again?

  Gran’s photo on the mantelpiece triggers fond memories; memories of black and white interspersed with sudden sharp color flashbacks reminiscent of a blue sky, Teresa’s maroon cardigan, or the dull green picket fence. Each time I think of it, even my bright navy blue school jumper, or Pop’s greenish-yellow Volkswagen gradually fade-out to dull, monotonous, greys. Then a dark pool of mud forms on the ground in the picture of my mind and turns pink, then crimson red, finally to a blood-red mix which hardens. I hate that color. Mud-cracks form. Then I remember: everything was black and white back then. At least, that’s all I see when the colors of my mind settle into a hazy mist.

  At 5:00 p.m. the crisp voice of the news reporter crackled out of our black and white His Masters Voice television. Armstrong’s first step for man, aired on the news. Propped up against the open kitchen door I sat watching the screen.

  ‘That’s one small step for man and one giant leap for Gran,’ Jo giggled.

  Bubbles floated up the side of my glass of lemonade. With a sweet aroma of grapes, it smelt so nice. Our faces and clothes were covered with white puffy cream. We gorged down most of the bottle, drunk as skunks. How Gran confused Nana’s homemade lemonade with a bottle of expensive sparkling champagne is beyond logic.

  Teresa had a hole in her heart when born. We never expected her to live long. She also had epileptic seizures and she certainly shouldn’t have been drinking alcohol. In fact, that applied to all of us, even to Gran.

  Teresa dropped onto the kitchen floor, a helpless sack. I flopped down next to her. Laughing hysterically we rolled around on the floor. Teresa’s face screwed up in delight, legs bouncing uncontrollably; without the pain. It was great to see her happy. The oven door opened and the smell of hot fruit cake wafted across to us.

  Nana (Pop’s wife) always left a packet of cigarettes and a box of matches on the television, just in case she forgot and left her bag at the shop. Jo glanced around to check no-one was watching. Then she sat up on the rocking chair in the lounge room puffing one of Nana’s cigarettes. Watching the moon landing Jo wondered what all the fuss was about. The cream soaked cigarette dropped onto the floor. Jo jumped off the chair accidentally stepping on it, extinguishing it. Giggling like a drunk now, Jo licked any remnant cream off her hands; cream with crumbs of biscuit in it. Taking another bite of her biscuit she licked more cream off her fingers. In the kitchen, Gran added icing to the cake, oblivious to Jo’s antics.

  The news reader continued with the Apollo landing. Gran hunted on unsteady feet for another bottle of lemonade. Teresa and I climbed awkwardly to our feet. We downed the remaining champagne in large gulps, slamming our glasses back on the table. I took the bottle, turned it upside down and drank the rest. It tasted like sparkling fruity perfume. Tapping the bottom I wanted to get out the last solitary drop.

  Splat! It missed my pink tongue. Landing on my rosy pink cheek it dribbled off.

  ‘Ha — ha — ha — ha,’ Gran laughed. Wobbling unsteadily on her feeble legs, she struggled to maintain any vestige of stability. Jo wandered in and began laughing with Gran, tripping over her own feet. Scrambling up she wandered in and out of the room, in a daze.

  ‘Oh this is so lovely Gran. Can I have more lemonade?’ Jo asked, holding up an empty glass. She lifted the empty bottle up almost knocking my face off. I squinted at the label.

  ‘Champagne. Huh? Is that a type of lemonade?’ I queried.

  ‘Yeah, let’s have more lemonade,’ Teresa said smiling and giggling.

  ‘It ran out, but we still have plenty of cream cake,’ Gran replied.

  ‘Can I lick out the container?’ I asked, drooling.

  ‘I want to—. Me too—. Oh! I feel sick,’ yelled a hyperactive drunken Jo, excitedly swaying on her puny little feet. Her face turned a drawn, pale, sickly white.

  ‘Let me! Me too,’ giggled Teresa as she sunk into a saggy pile below the table. She had drunk only a few mouthfuls, yet was still sloshed.

  ‘I feel sick,’ repeated a sickly, pale-faced, wobbling, Jo.

  ‘Oh! My child, you’re just a little excited,’ Gran said to Jo. ‘Why don’t you sit over in the lounge room, in the rocking chair?’

  Great move Granny!

  I watched through the doorway as Gran rocked the chair back and forth. Jo’s face turned paler, and then pastel grey. With legs of gelo I sat doing nothing, watching, spaced-out.

  ‘Your face is turning pale child. Oh! It looks like you are going to—,’ Gran said, placing a hastily arranged bucket in front of Jo, ‘— throw up? Well, what goes in comes out, I suppose.’ She laughed, patting Jo on the back. I screwed up my face as a nauseous odor wafted in to me.

  ‘How gross,’ I said, watching Gran wobble back into the kitchen, flush it down the sink and rinse the bucket.

  ‘Ah, there they are,’ Gran had found her long lost glasses. She put them on. ‘Too much cake,’ Gran suggested, and then she noticed the champagne bottle on the table. ‘Oh! I see. I see now. It’s all becoming quite clear now.’ Gran began to laugh at her own joke. ‘It’s all quite clear — as champagne.’ Teresa and I giggled. Then, I leant against the wall watching Gran laughing and laughing until her hips were sore. Her legs gave way, so she sat down on the floor near the gas heater resting. ‘Whoops,’ Gran groaned. ‘It gets harder as you get older.’

  A grunt came from Teresa from in the lounge room. She rotated the channel dial on the front of the television set. The music and lyrics from F-Troop bounced around the room. Teresa turned the sound on full blast.

  ‘Would you like some cream on your cake Gran?’ Jo yelled above the din, as she wandered back from the toilet. I looked up as she washed her tiny face and hands in t
he kitchen sink. She gurgled, spitting water back into it. Granny raised her eyebrows at me, looking for an answer.

  Splot! Splot! Splot! Dribble — Dribble — Dribble—. The tap leaked noisily in the background. I clambered to my feet and went to switch it off. Jo now held up an almost empty cream bowl, which had been abandoned on the side of the kitchen table, waiting to be washed. She licked out the bowl, getting more on her face than in her mouth. Wiping the whipped cream on her finger, Jo flicked it at me. I dodged it. Splats of cream went all over the floor and table. A line of cream sprayed over my otherwise clean white school shirt. I scooped some off an arm with a finger and licked it, then tossed the rest back in her face. It landed over her left eye, dribbling down her chin. Jo wiped it off with a chuckle. We all giggled. Now we were in the midst of a truly delightful cream fight.

  Then, Jo asked if Gran wanted some. Splat! It landed on Gran’s grey, curly and rather frizzy hair.

  ‘Like eggs in a crow’s nest,’ Jo said, giggling madly.

  Gran wiped the cream off her head with a finger, flicking it into my face. It landed as a single blob onto my nose. She let out a raucous laugh and smiled. Leaning backwards, I opened my mouth letting it slide in. Jo screamed in a high pitched voice. For a moment Jo stopped, staring back down at Gran. Then Jo ran around in circles screaming hysterically, kicking up her legs like a pony. I laughed loudly.

  It was about then that Gran started to roll on the ground holding her chest. Gran had drunk far too much champagne. Earlier in the day she had eaten pizza smothered in cheese and tomato sauce. Getting far too excited she suffered a massive hemorrhage in the midst of our cream fight. Or, maybe it was the shock of looking up and seeing Mother’s angry face — and hearing her cutting voice as she came in through the kitchen door. The door slammed hard shut behind Mom as she trounced in, hands raised in the air.

  ‘Oh, my god — you’re all drunk!’ Mother’s shocked voice rang out. The curtain was torn open, cutting the air like a knife. Bright light suddenly splashed into the room. Striding into the lounge room Mother turned the blaring television volume down. She walked briskly back into the kitchen, hands on hips, fuming. Jo was still running around in circles cream bowl in hand, giggling in hysterics. ‘Jo! Stop it!’

  The searing heat of Mom approaching anger washed in. Even so, my face still smiled. Like a plastic circus clown head it continued to rotate back and forth, mouth wide open. You know, like they do in circus sideshows. I looked up at Mom, catching a burning whack on the ears. I should have seen it coming.

  ‘You of all people should know better Hen,’ was all she said. Mother’s finger shook at me in anger, her hazel eyes flashing like a red hot poker.

  In the other room Teresa blew into a paper whistle — toot. Gran smiled back at Mom in the Kitchen. She spoke in a soft and yet satisfied voice.

  ‘We were having such a great time — such a wonderful party. We waited for you to come home dear. It’s so nice of you to join us — but, I packed my bags. I have to go on a trip now—,’ Gran was holding her chest, breathing shallowly.

  Toot! Teresa waltzed into the kitchen, blowing into the curled paper toot whistle. Jo wandered back into the other room leaving the cream bowl perched teetering on the side of the table. Now, wiping the cream from her hands onto her golliwog doll, she rummaged for a cigarette. Okay, where did she leave the matches?

  Mother turned, striding back into the lounge room, jerking the cigarette out of Jo’s mouth in disgust. Snatching up the pack of cigarettes and box of matches off the floor, and then storming back into the kitchen she disposed of the cigarette. Reaching high she placed the cigarettes and matches way up out of our reach on the top of the kitchen fridge. Jo climbed up off the lounge room chair now and traipsed behind Mother into the kitchen. My eyes followed Mother. She poured the rest of what we all had thought was lemonade, still in glasses on the table, down the sink one at a time, fuming as she did.

  My Favorite Martian, my favorite show, was on in the other room. Teresa turned the knob to Here’s Lucy and then flicked the channels back and forth.

  Jo waltzed back and stood over Gran. She stared down at the smiling face and laughed. No response came from Gran, just the same fixed smile. Jo stood hovering over Gran, looking down into those wide, open eyes. Eventually, Jo poked her.

  ‘Why has Gran stopped moving?’ asked Jo, poke. ‘Is she asleep?’ Gran smiled back at Jo, her eyes glazed over.

  ‘Gran looks so peaceful. She looks so happy,’ Teresa said, walking past. She picked up a piece of cake from on the table and began to nibble at it. ‘Gran usually snorts when she takes a nap. And, sometimes when she snorts she even wakes herself up. So, how come she’s not snorting now?’ Teresa peered at Gran, squinting, taking off her own glasses and then peering for a closer look.

  I gathered myself together and clambered, staggering to my feet.

  ‘Gran—?’ I stood over her and pushed her gently on the shoulder. She slid onto her side, landing the floor with a plop! ‘Gran —? Mom! Something’s wrong with Gran. Mom! Mom! Come quick!’ I yelled. Jo and Teresa stood next to me now screaming in high-pitched squeals.

  In the background, My Favorite Martian must have finished for the television focused on the moon landing. They repeated the news bulletin.

  ‘The headline news today — The Eagle has landed. American Astronaut Neil Armstrong has just stepped foot on the moon—. We repeat at 10:36 a.m. this morning Australian Central Standard time American Astronaut Neil Armstrong stepped foot on the moon. This information is relayed via the Australian Parks telescope in New South Wales.’ They then showed the famous landing with background static and black bars rolling at an angle down the screen.

  Mother walked over briskly, peering down at Gran. She squatted in her black high heels, the ladder in her stocking growing longer. Mother gasped, taking a deep breath. She touched Gran’s neck, feeling for a non-existent pulse. The tears welled up, clouding her eyes, dribbling down her cheeks. Wiping her eyes with a handkerchief now, Mom regained her composure, and then turning on her heels called us over.

  ‘Gran left us and went to heaven, dumplings,’ Mother eventually stated in a sad, soft voice, closing Gran’s open and now foggy, glassy eyes shut with the palm of her hand. More tears formed in her eyes. Sniffing, she wiped them clean with a handkerchief.

  ‘Why did Gran have to die?’ I asked. No one answered. Mother looked at us with a sad, sullen face. Holding tears back now she explained, in a soft voice but with a forced happy-face smile:

  ‘Gran has gone to heaven. She looks so peaceful — so happy. Look. She’s still smiling with a happy face. It must be great to be in heaven. Come, Jo. Teresa. No tears. Let’s all put on a happy face.’

  From Jo’s perspective Gran was just sleeping. We all smiled. Then we sat in a tight little circle holding Gran’s still lukewarm hand, waiting for the ambulance to arrive. I guess Gran was hovering above us and waltzing amongst us laughing. Still enjoying the joke, she probably wondered why we never responded to her anymore.

  ‘I got one on you Heni. Ha — ha — ha! Look — you still have cream all over your face. And my little Jo baby — you look so cute. Ha — ha! See you soon Teresa, my dearest one.’

  Gran went as we all want to go. She went out with a bang, not a whimper.

  #

  We held Gran’s funeral three days later, on a cold dark inclement day — windy and raining — but, aren’t all funerals like that?

  Mother took Jo and went to pay her last respects to Gran. I never went to the funeral. My job, at twelve years of age was to look after Teresa for several hours. But, I couldn’t even do that right. No one blamed me. They blamed fate.

  Too engrossed in playing toy cars and trains in the other room, I ignored Teresa’s weak pleas for help. I simply never heard her. By the time I came into the kitchen Teresa was in the middle of a massive epileptic seizure. It was too late, too late by a long shot. Teresa died because of me. I was very angry. I still am. She never asked my
permission, so I blame her for dying. I blame her, and I blame myself. She could at least have asked. Why couldn’t she just ask?

  Holding my hands tightly, Teresa tried hard to speak.

  ‘D-don’t cry Heni. It — it’s n-not your f-fault,’ Teresa stuttered, clutching at me, her eyes wide open.

  As the seizures got progressively worse, I sat next to her holding her hand, sobbing uncontrollably, tears pouring down my face.

  In the garden watering the roses, Pops heard me screaming. His ears pricked up and he headed for the door swearing. Hobbling in hurriedly, he dragged me off of Teresa. Then he phoned for an ambulance. It took a lifetime.

  But, it took even longer for Teresa to die. Her small legs and arms were twitching. The tears stormed down my cheeks, flooding the floor on which she lay. Pops frantically phoned for an ambulance. The switch board operator was on a break. Pops eventually got through. After that he phoned the café to get a message to Mother. She had just returned from the funeral.

  Teresa’s heart stopped pumping just after the ambulance arrived.

  Mother rushed to the ambulance, leaping in, watching with a hopeful expression as the ambulance men tried in vain to resuscitate Teresa. But by then it was too late, too late by a long way.

  Tears streamed down Mom’s hazel eyes in grief and in desperation. Crying, sobbing loudly, screaming in pain, she watched helplessly as her little girl shuddered, dying slowly in her arms. Teresa stared hard up at Mom, who patted her tenderly. And then she gave Mom a small weak smile. Slowly, Teresa’s little arms stopped shaking and trembling, and then stiffened as her eyes opened widely.

  Most people do not actually die from epilepsy. However, Teresa had a hole in her heart and had become weak from multiple operations. Teresa was so small, so thin and so frail. In the end her heart just gave out, well before her soul was ready to leave.

  By the time they made it to the hospital Teresa was just another corpse pushed down the hospital corridor. Her ghost slipped out of her body. It ebbed its way back to the house, dancing around me in a thin whisper of a shadow, trying in vain to wipe the tears from my eyes, but not being able to make contact with my skin.