Spinning Around

by Catherine Jinks

  Still, a lot could change in two years.

  I coughed into my handkerchief, and opened my mouth. But before I could ask for more details, a faint, sinister sound reached my ears. Above the noise of the video, above the clink of Emily’s spoon, above the distant scraping of trowels against brick, I could just make out the plaintive cry of a bored toddler.

  ‘Oh, piss,’ I said.

  He hadn’t gone to sleep after all. Or had he? If he hadn’t, he’d been awfully quiet.

  Too quiet.

  ‘Hang on,’ I moaned, lurching to my feet. ‘He’s awake after all.’ The three men looked at me blankly. ‘My son,’ I had to explain. ‘My son’s awake after all.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Hang on a minute.’ I beat a hasty retreat, leaving the door open behind me. As I trudged down the hall I could hear Cliff— the most avuncular of the three—attempting to converse with my daughter. ‘Hey, Emily,’ he said. No reply, of course. It’s a waste of time trying to talk to Emily when she’s watching television. ‘Hey, Emily,’ he repeated, ‘what are you watching?’ As if it wasn’t patently obvious. I wondered why they couldn’t just sit awkwardly in silence, rather than bothering Emily, who was perfectly content. Then I pushed open the kids’ bedroom door, and the sight that greeted me emptied my head of all thoughts but one.

  ‘Oh, my God!’ I squawked.

  It was appalling. Beyond appalling. I almost gagged.

  ‘Oh my God! ’ I wailed. ‘Jonah! Oh my God, I don’t believe it!’

  His nappy had come off. Maybe he’d taken it off—I don’t know. But while I had been coping with traumatic news in the living room, he had been quietly and busily painting the cot, the wall and his sheets with generous daubs of his own faeces.

  Yes, that’s right. Fingerpainting with poo.

  ‘Jonah, Goddamn it!’ I yelled, and his bottom lip began to tremble. ‘That’s dirty! Dirty! You know you shouldn’t do that!’

  He did, too—he’s not stupid.

  His face crumpled.

  ‘You’ve got it in your hair!’ I groaned. ‘Goddamn it, Jonah!’

  ‘Oh no,’ said Emily, from the door. I hadn’t noticed the patter of little feet. ‘Did he do a poo, Mum?’

  ‘Out of the way, Emily.’

  ‘Oh no.’

  ‘Don’t go in there!’ I rushed my whimpering son into the bathroom, where I stripped him of his remaining garments and wiped down his wriggling body with a damp facecloth. I didn’t know what to do next; my mind was a blank. The facecloth was soiled. His clothes were soiled. His clean nappies were still in the bedroom, with his change table—but it stank in there.

  No. Wait. I remembered the travel bag in the kitchen.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I growled, the heels of my mules slapping against the floor as I marched through the living room with Jonah on my hip. I didn’t even look at my visitors; no doubt they were frozen in attitudes of surprise and alarm. ‘There’s been a crisis,’ I added, leaving them to fend for themselves.

  Nick, of course, had heard the commotion. I had to pass him in the garden before I could drop Jonah’s dirty clothes into the laundry tub, and despite the forbidding expression on my face, he couldn’t resist asking me if everything was all right.

  ‘No,’ I rejoined. ‘It’s not.’

  ‘Something happen to the little feller?’ he inquired, over the noise of Jonah’s sobs.

  ‘He just undid his nappy and spread poo all over the bedroom.’

  ‘Aw no,’ said Nick. ‘Aw, that’s bad.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Aw, you naughty boy, eh?’ But he could barely suppress a smile. ‘Naughty boy for your mama.’

  I couldn’t laugh about it—not then. Not with all the mess still to clear up. First, though, I had to slip another nappy on Jonah. And dump him in his highchair with a chocolate-chip cookie, while I filled one of the laundry buckets. What else would I need? A couple of rags. Some disinfectant. Wet wipes?

  I could hear the sound of muffled laughter from the garden.

  ‘Can I have a cookie too?’ Emily requested.

  ‘In a minute.’

  ‘Please?’

  ‘In a minute, Emily.’ Water sloshed over the rim of the bucket that I was carrying. ‘Can’t you see I’ve got my hands full?’

  ‘Look—ah—we’ve obviously come at a bad time,’ Cliff remarked, when I staggered back into the living room. He and Austin were both standing again, nervously adjusting their belts and ties. ‘Maybe we could just, uh, leave you with what we’ve got, and if you can think of anything else that might help—like the address of that friend in Florence—give us a call. My number’s on the card there.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I muttered.

  ‘You wouldn’t be dobbing her in,’ said Austin. ‘She’s not played fair by any of us. She’s been lying to everyone. It’s a police matter now.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. I know.’ I wasn’t really attending. ‘Emily, you stay in the kitchen, please. Stay and watch Jonah. Tell me if he tries to get out.’ Plodding down the hall, I could hear heavy footsteps behind me. A foul smell hovered in the air, growing more repugnant as I approached the kids’ bedroom. Close on my heels, Cliff and Austin made slightly smothered noises denoting sympathy and dismay.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Cliff heartily, from a safe distance. ‘That’s a job and a half.’

  ‘Yes,’ I replied, through my teeth.

  ‘They’re little terrors, aren’t they? At that age.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘Well—you’ve got our details. If there’s anything else you want to know, give us a call. Thanks for your help.’

  ‘Thanks very much, Mrs Muzzatti.’

  ‘Sorry about waking him up.’

  ‘Yes. Sorry about that.’

  They let themselves out. For the umpteenth time, it crossed my mind that I ought to put a little sign up on the front door, the way shiftworkers do. Please do not disturb. Baby sleeping. I bundled all Jonah’s sheets into a ball. Happily, his cot is covered in smooth gloss paint, which is easily cleaned, but the walls were more of a problem—semi-gloss, and very pale. It’s a dim room, that bedroom (like most of the rooms in this house), but even in the murky light I could make out faint marks after I’d scrubbed madly at Jonah’s crude attempts to express himself. How would I ever get rid of the smell if I couldn’t get rid of the stains? Some kind of deodorising spray, or air freshener?

  Then the phone rang.

  Fuck, I thought. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  ‘Jim!’ I yelled. ‘Can you get that?’

  It was cheeky, I suppose, but what else was I supposed to do? Our answering machine had been busted for about two years, and I hadn’t been able to organise a message service, or anything. Just hadn’t got around to it.

  The ringing stopped. I heard Jim McRae’s murmur, but not his subsequent footsteps. When he spoke from the threshold, I jumped.

  ‘Someone called Ronnie,’ he said.

  ‘Oh—ah—tell her I’ll call her back.’

  It’s a cordless phone, so Jim was holding the receiver. He lifted it to his ear, just as Emily’s piercing protest reached mine.

  ‘Mum-mmee!’ she cried, thumping up the hallway. ‘It’s my turn to answer the phone!’

  ‘She’ll call you back,’ Jim told Ronnie, and signed off. Two seconds later, Emily burst into the room.

  ‘I was going to answer it!’ Emily wailed.

  ‘I’m sorry, sweetie. Next time.’

  ‘But it was my turn!’

  ‘I’m going to have to go, Helen,’ Jim pointed out.

  ‘Right. Yes.’ There were too many things happening at once. ‘I’m sorry. The job—’

  ‘You still want it done?’

  ‘Yes. Hang on.’ We couldn’t discuss it there—not in that noxious atmosphere. I rose and went into the hall, shutting the kids’ bedroom door behind me and nudging Emily along in front of me. ‘I just want to find out if this woman—this Cleary woman—is involved with my hu
sband,’ I murmured. ‘And I want to find out about her, too. Will that cost very much?’

  Jim lifted his shoulders. ‘You’d be looking at a few days’ work,’ he replied softly. ‘Say—five hundred dollars, to start with?’

  ‘Oh.’ I swallowed. Five hundred dollars! I could see my dishwasher flying out the window into the Land of Dreams. ‘Well . . . okay. Whatever you can do for that.’ I still felt distracted, and didn’t realise at first that he was surveying me intently, with a hint of calculation in his eyes. Emily was tugging at my jeans. ‘What?’ I asked her, wiping my nose on my sleeve.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Can I get my baby?’

  ‘Is it in your room?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well you can’t go in. Not yet. It’s too dirty.’

  Emily’s bottom lip trembled, but I ignored it. At last I had noticed Jim’s close regard. ‘What’s wrong?’ I demanded.

  ‘Oh . . . it was just something you said earlier. About your friend.’ He hesitated. ‘This Miriam woman—would she be the same one who spotted your husband with the girl? Only you mentioned something about how she investigated bank frauds.’

  ‘Did I?’ If I had, I’d completely forgotten it. Yet Jim had remembered.

  I was impressed.

  ‘It just occurred to me that you should consider the source,’ he went on. ‘If this friend of yours is bent, then maybe she was lying. About what she saw.’

  I stared at him in astonishment. The wheels in my head began to grind.

  ‘Why should she do that?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t know. You tell me. Is it the sort of thing she would do?’

  ‘No. Not at all.’ Then again, I would have said the same thing, once, if asked if Miriam was likely to embezzle money from the Pacific Commerical Bank. ‘There’d be no reason for her to lie,’ I protested. ‘I mean, what would be the point?’

  He shrugged again. It was the world-weary shrug of someone who was beyond surprise. ‘Like I said, I don’t know. Maybe she doesn’t like you. Maybe she never liked you. Maybe she wanted to stuff things up for you before she skipped town.’

  I simply gaped at him. It was too much to absorb all at once. Emily began to whimper.

  ‘I want my baby . . .’

  ‘Look, I don’t know the situation,’ Jim concluded calmly, ignoring her. ‘I don’t want to argue myself out of a job. I just thought you should consider all the possibilities before you pay up.’ And he waited.

  ‘Oh!’ The penny dropped. ‘You mean now? You want money now?’

  ‘I can give you a receipt.’

  ‘Will you—will you take a cheque?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s fine. If you don’t mind.’ As I gazed at him blankly, he explained: ‘It’ll show up on your statement.’

  ‘Oh, that doesn’t matter. Matt never looks at the statements. Not the savings account statements. Just the credit card ones.’ Knowing that my chequebook was in my purse, I headed for the kitchen, with Jim bringing up the rear. Emily trailed after us, still whining. I wasn’t thinking straight, or I would have realised that she shouldn’t have been with us at all.

  When we arrived in the kitchen, we found Nick stooped over the highchair, fiddling with its straps (which are a perpetual source of shame to me, they’re so dirty, but how am I supposed to soak them in NapiSan when they’re always urgently needed?). He straightened up as soon as we appeared.

  ‘Hello!’ he beamed. ‘I just come in because this little feller was gonna come a cropper, eh mate? Weren’t you? He was trying to get out.’

  ‘Oh dear.’ Jonah has a tendency to wriggle free of his harness. I could see that he was red-faced and glowering, but interested in Nick’s ministrations all the same. He loves builders. ‘Thanks, Nick. I’m sorry. I should never leave him by himself in this thing, he hates it, but I was just cleaning up in there, and I told Emily to watch him—’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. It’s fine. No harm done.’ With his usual innate courtesy, Nick turned to address Jim. He was always careful that no-one should be left out of a conversation. ‘You got to have eyes in the back of your head, when they’re this age. My son, he’s been to hospital three times. Never sits still. Always putting things in his mouth.’

  Jim nodded enigmatically.

  ‘You got kids too?’ Nick inquired, not the least disconcerted by Jim’s secretive air.

  ‘One daughter,’ Jim replied, in a measured fashion. ‘But she’s in her teens.’ (That surprised me. He must be older than he looks, I thought.) ‘When they reach their teens, you’ve got a whole new set of problems.’

  ‘Oh yeah!’ Nick laughed. ‘I bet.’ He launched into one of his long family anecdotes while I retreated into the living room, Jonah under one arm and my purse under the other. I had to dump them both on the floor before I could write out a cheque for Jim. My hands shook while I was doing it. Five hundred dollars would just about clear us out—though I was getting paid the next day, thank God. How would I explain the sudden shortfall to Matt? Perhaps I should take the initiative. Perhaps, before he exploded, I should demand that he explain himself to me.

  ‘Um—Jim!’ I called, waving my slip of paper. ‘In here!’ But it was Nick who stuck his head into the room.

  ‘Mind if I use the toilet, Mrs Muzzatti?’ he inquired.

  ‘No, no. Go ahead.’

  ‘Mummy. Can I have my baby now?’

  ‘No.’ Nick clumped past, scattering smiles and nods. Emily was hanging off my jeans again. Jonah was heading for the video machine, alas. Jim approached me on noiseless feet, like a cat. I couldn’t concentrate—there were distractions everywhere.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Jim, plucking the cheque from my hand. He spoke in a low voice. ‘I’ll try and keep it quick, but I can’t guarantee anything.’

  ‘No. Of course not. Jonah, don’t touch that video, please.’

  ‘Personally, I think the news is going to be good. I think your friend’s been putting it over on you for some reason, but we’ll see.’

  ‘What about the phone calls, though? I don’t know this Cleary person. I don’t know who she is.’

  ‘Right. Sure. Well, we’ll find out.’ Dragging his notebook from his breast pocket, Jim explained quietly that he did most of his work for Comcare and the big insurance companies— hence the fact that he didn’t carry receipt books around with him. But Stuart was a mate of his. And he didn’t mind the odd little job like this one, just to keep his hand in.

  ‘You don’t want any photographs?’ he queried, pressing the scribbled receipt into my sweaty palm. I could hear the toilet flushing.

  ‘Oh no. No.’

  ‘Good. That’s always a lot of work,’ said Jim. ‘Can I send you an invoice? In the mail?’

  ‘Well—uh—’

  ‘To your work address, maybe.’

  ‘Oh. All right.’

  ‘Mummy, look what Jonah’s doing!’

  ‘Jonah, stop it !’ ‘I’ll call you,’ said Jim, heading for the front door. I followed him, with many a nervous backward glance. I believe I’ve mentioned before that Jonah isn’t safe to leave—not even for a minute. But I had the same feeling about Jim McRae, for some reason. Perhaps I was slightly afraid that he would take the opportunity to poke around in my bedside cabinet.

  ‘Have you had a good look round?’ he suddenly queried, upon reaching the front door. It was as if he’d read my mind. ‘Checked magazines and things? Pockets? His wallet?’

  I rolled my eyes at the closed bathroom door, and put a finger to my lips. I didn’t want Nick hearing all my personal problems. ‘No,’ I whispered. ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s probably worthwhile.’ He had lowered his voice. ‘You never know.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Might save us a lot of trouble. You got a photograph? Of your husband?’ I must have blanched, because he murmured quickly: ‘So I’ll know who to look for?’

  ‘Sure. Yes, of course. I’ll—I’ll just get one.’

  I did, from the linen cupboard.
Matt at a picnic. Grinning gap-toothed through his stubble, Jonah on his lap. It was the first shot that fell out of the first envelope.

  ‘Right,’ said Jim. He took it. He studied it. And he was scribbling Matt’s work address on the back of it when Nick emerged from the bathroom.

  Nick raised his hand to Jim, who nodded and left. At which point Jonah came pounding down the hall, naked except for his nappy. He was dragging a plastic dog on a string.

  ‘Not in there, Jonah. Not in there. Not till I’ve cleaned up.’

  ‘I wanna go in.’

  ‘No. Wait.’

  ‘Nice feller,’ Nick remarked, following me back into the living room.

  ‘Who? Jonah?’

  ‘No, I mean . . .’ He gestured towards the sound of a car engine starting up outside.

  ‘Oh, Jim. I guess so. Emily, don’t leave that spoon there, you know what I’ve said about spoons on the rug.’

  ‘Is he your brother?’ Nick continued. ‘Your cousin, maybe?’

  I blinked. ‘Who, Jim?’ I said. ‘God, no! Why?’

  ‘Oh, I just thought you look . . . you know.’ He traced a circle over his face with one finger. ‘Related.’

  ‘Really?’ What an appalling thought that was. But perhaps all Anglos looked alike, in Nick’s eyes. ‘No, no. He’s just . . .’ Just what? My wits had deserted me. ‘. . . a friend,’ I finished. (How lame.) ‘An old friend.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Jonah suddenly demanded in outraged tones, pointing at the smears of ice-cream in Emily’s discarded bowl. He never misses a trick, that boy.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ I said, picking the bowl up. ‘You watch the mermaid, Jonah. When I finish cleaning all the mess you made, you can get your toys out of the bedroom. No—you leave Nick alone, please. He’s busy.’