Slip of a Fish

by Amy Arnold

  Now they all think I should rest, and here I am, in our bed, and when Charlie was small she said rets. It was one of the things she said, and it wasn’t a word, rets, but we knew what it meant, Abbott and I. Everyone knew what it meant because it’s the words around the word that make the word mean something, and not the word itself. It’s true, but Abbott would say not now, Ash, and Kate would say not now, and maybe one of them or both would pull me in and kiss me to make me stop, or at least have a little rets. A little wrest. But what if I went on retsing? What if you always do what people want?

  Abbott and Lynn and Sashya must’ve been right about needing some rest. I was thinking about homophones when I fell asleep, that must be what happened and now I’m awake and there are voices downstairs and the clock says three o’clock, which means there’s plenty of time. Always plenty until there isn’t plenty and if you’ve got hair piled on top of your head, that’s where you can put it. Plenty of time. Bring it out when you need it. And there are voices downstairs and I’ll roll over and tuck my arms like wings and I’ll lie like this, because it isn’t uncomfortable, I’ll lie like this until the voices stop, because how can I go downstairs if there are voices, if there are people down there? How can I come down after my little rets, with homophones in my mouth and my ears when there are people sitting around, drinking tea and talking, talking. And there’s plenty of time. I can wait. It isn’t uncomfortable with my arms tucked in like this, the way Kate tucked her arm. The way she tucked it after the first time. Before she got dressed facing the wall, her back to me.

  ‘Did you get some rest?’ he says.

  He’s leaning against the sink, holding two empty mugs. He’s standing with the mugs and he’s almost swinging them and there’s something about the way the light’s coming through the window onto his face. There’s something about it.

  ‘You look a bit brighter,’ he says. But it’s him who looks brighter. There’s something about the way the light’s falling.

  Lynn dropped Charlie home. ‘It was on her way,’ he says. ‘So she popped in. Not for long. She wanted to drop Charlie home. She’s a bit upset,’ he says. Charlie.

  ‘Charlie,’ I say.

  She’s sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, Nelson by her side. His big head against her thigh. She’s sitting next to the Bird Bingo box. She’s sitting, and the cards are scattered around her, all the pairs that aren’t pairs until the other half of the pair has been found. She’s sitting cross-legged. She’s sitting there, pushing the cards around the floor.

  ‘Bird pairs?’ I say.

  ‘I’m not playing properly,’ she says.

  You can’t play properly with one person. You need someone else, you need to be a pair, at least a pair, and the cards should be turned over, but they’re not turned over and she’s pushing them around the floor, which isn’t the way you play if you are playing properly. But she isn’t playing properly. She’s pushing the cards around the floor, and she’s made some pairs, although that’s not how you play, but she’s paired some up anyway. She’s paired up the wrens and the tawny owls. The chaffinches, robins, song thrushes. She’s done all that, but she isn’t playing properly.

  ‘I like the female blackbirds best,’ I say. ‘Because they’re brown. They’re not even black.’

  She looks around. She looks at all the cards on the floor. She looks at the male blackbird lying there on the carpet. She puts her hand on him, she covers the orange of his beak with her hand and she pushes him across the floor towards me. And then I’ve got them. The male and the female blackbirds. I’ve got them both, and I put them together, I make them a pair and I put the female on top, because I like the females best, because they’re brown and they’re not even black and I didn’t think she’d cry, but she might cry. She looks like she might cry again.

  ‘Nobody else cares about male and female blackbirds,’ she says. ‘And everybody knows Bird Bingo’s a game for babies. And everyone knows tractor shorts are for babies too. And nobody has them, nobody wears them when they’re nearly eight. “Why did you have to wear your tractor shorts, Charlie?” That’s what Sophie said. She said, “Why, Charlie?”’

  And Charlie’s right. Tractor shorts aren’t a little bit special, not in the way Lynn meant a little bit special. Tractor shorts aren’t special like that and neither are bracelets made of flowers even though you have to take your time. You can take all the time you want, you can make them to last and they’re still not a little bit special.

  ‘I hate my tractor shorts now. I hate them.’

  She strokes Nelson’s big head. She strokes him. She presses down on his head with her small hands. Presses and presses.

  ‘Charlie,’ I say.

  She screws her face up. She picks up the pair of blackbirds. She picks them up and she throws them down and when they come down they land together. I mean almost together, the female and the male, and she might cry. She’ll probably cry and she makes her hands into fists, she screws them up, her face and her hands and she holds her fists against her eyes to stop the wet that’s coming, falling the way rain falls. She holds her fists there to dam the wet, but it’s making its way over the folds of her hands and onto the insides of her wrists and won’t stop, doesn’t stop, not yet, the way rain won’t stop when you want it to.

  A ghyll, a rivulet, a beck, a rill. She’s crying. She’s crying as she shuffles on her knees through birds, through pairs of them. She’s crying as she shuffles towards me and keeps on shuffling and puts herself, her whole self on the edge of my knee, her fists at her eyes, the tears coming down the way rain comes down.

  ‘I’ll hold you,’ I say.

  I could’ve held her.

  Now Charlie’s sleeping and here I am in bed again and Charlie isn’t crying, no, she isn’t crying now, she’s sleeping. I went in to check on her and I could’ve held her. I could’ve. But you can’t do the things you could’ve done. That’s the way grammar works. You can’t mix tenses. You shouldn’t. I could’ve held her and it wouldn’t have meant a thing because I’ve been holding her since she was small and now bedtime has come and gone and Charlie’s sleeping and I didn’t think she’d cry but it isn’t what you think that matters. It’s what happens, what happened. Actions, not thoughts. Abbott said all my reading and thinking won’t change a thing.

  ‘Concrete action, that’s what changes things,’ he said.

  Concrete actions.

  ‘Think of Gandhi, think of Martin Luther King,’ he said.

  ‘I’m thinking,’ I said.

  He said I’d made my point.

  Later he said, ‘Nothing’s changed though. See?’

  But nothing changes without thinking first. I like it both ways. Thought and action. That’s how I like it, both ways. Now Charlie’s sleeping, Abbott too.

  ‌

  Abbott asked if I wanted to grab a little breath of fresh air today. I don’t know where it came from. All this time he’s been wanting me to rest. All this time since, I mean. He hasn’t been keen on me going swimming. All this time he’s been suggesting I stay in, rest a little, read a little. A little more. And each time I stood by the front door with my swimming kit over my shoulder he tapped at his Second Core.

  ‘How many lengths, Ash? When can we expect you back?’

  He’s been wanting to drive me all this time. Down our hill, up our hill. It’s rough. All this time since, I mean.

  ‘How about grabbing a little breath?’ he said today.

  But I know about little. I’ve heard it before, I know the way its blacks come up against the surface. I know about them, all those littles, and Abbott might think I can’t remember, but I can, I remember them all, starting with Asle. Starting with Asle in his little rowboat, that’s where it started, with Asle in his little rowboat, and I could go on, I could go on. A little something, a little black dress, a little beck, little ghyll, little wash, little reads and rests, rets, another little rest. And don’t think I can’t remember more, because I know about little. I s
hould’ve said. I should’ve told him to be careful.

  You crazy boy. Tell me what you’re doing. That’s what I should’ve said. I mean, once you’re in. Once you take the plunge.

  I went outside. I stood outside in the street where he wanted me. I grabbed a little breath, I took in a little air and wondered if I’d been wrong about Abbott, using the word little I mean. I took a breath and in that breath autumn was creeping and I wondered if I’d been wrong, if all he’d wanted was for me to take a little breath, but when I went back inside he was whistling. Charlie and Nelson hadn’t moved from in front of the TV, but Abbott was whistling and wiping at the surfaces, and whistling.

  ‘I might rest,’ I said.

  He stopped wiping.

  ‘I thought you might like to swim. Later. Tonight,’ he said. He said he’d been thinking about rest. He’d been thinking about loosening the reins.

  ‘You know?’ he said. ‘Relaxing things a little bit.’

  He went back to his wiping, his whistling.

  ‘OK,’ I said.

  ‘It’ll be good for us,’ he said. ‘You’ll see.’

  It’s been a long time since he used the future tense. Been so sure, I mean. So I took him at his tense and here I am, reins loosened, and look, there, the moon’s grown so much it’s fit for spawning. Look at it hanging over the car park. Hanging between us. Me on my log, Kate in her studio. A sinking, swollen thing between us. Parturient, almost. Yes, that’s almost the word, and the problem with adjectives is always almost. I could never find the right one. Could never commit.

  ‘Happy, sad, angry, confused? Tell me. Ash?’

  But what was I supposed to do with all that choice? What was I supposed to say?

  Mother Moon. That’s what she called her. Our cosmic mother.

  And look at Kate now, in her sky-blue top. Look at the moon hanging over the car park and between us. Beginners begin at eight. She was never late, not for yoga, and this evening I went out without Abbott tapping his nice watch.

  Look at her, there in the studio, moving into the bridge in front of all those people. The beginners. Setu Bandhasana. She liked the Sanskrit. She liked it both ways. That’s what she said.

  We were in her bed and it wasn’t the first time, no. It was after that. We were in her bed, she was lying on her back. She kept her feet planted, lifted her pelvis. She didn’t have a stitch on.

  ‘The bridge. Setu Bandhasana,’ she said.

  ‘It helps the sperm on its way,’ she said. ‘Go on little ones. Swim. Swim.’

  She collapsed the bridge. She was laughing. I was looking at her.

  ‘Ash,’ she said.

  I thought I might cry. I didn’t know. It was her, you see. All of her.

  ‘Don’t look so worried,’ she said. ‘I like it both ways.’

  We lay looking out of the window. Neither of us spoke and the rain was coming down. The sky was rolling too.

  After a while she said, ‘What did it feel like to be pregnant? I mean, how did it actually feel?’

  I drew an arc above her bare stomach with my hand.

  ‘Like this,’ I said.

  She laughed. I thought I might cry. She was somewhere inside me. I thought I might.

  ‘No, really, Ash. What was it like? Was it rather beautiful?’

  I wanted to tell her how it was. Truthfully, I mean.

  It was the waiting I remembered most. The waiting. Summer crawled and I was heavy. I slept through the day. I slept all the time. I kept my hand on Charlie. Over her, I suppose. I kept it there whilst I slept, whilst we waited, and when I woke, in the moments after waking, Charlie would turn inside me and we were the only two who knew.

  Us two only.

  And how do you explain something like that?

  She said, ‘Ash? Was it rather beautiful?’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  Her eyes filled up then. I didn’t think she’d cry. I’d never thought she’d be the one to cry.

  I touched her stomach. I touched it where a baby would’ve been if it’d had the chance, and when I moved my hand away there was a feather. A white one. It came out of her the way a bud comes from a branch.

  ‘See, you’re beautiful,’ I said.

  It wasn’t like me to say a thing like that.

  ‘Put it in my purse, Ash.’

  I leant over her, my breasts were hanging down. Her sheet was as white as the feather in my hand. The feather that went to the top of Everest, that’s what it reminded me of. I told her about that feather, there and then. I told her everything, but I don’t think she heard.

  ‘You’re my guardian angel,’ she said.

  She reached for her lipstick.

  But I need to concentrate because listen, here I am, I mean, there she is, and those men again. Those men. The ones walking their dogs. They come to this copse all the time. Every time. They could be looking for birds, for feathers. They’re probably walking dogs. That’s what most men do. Yes, they’re probably only men walking dogs, although I haven’t seen them, no, I haven’t seen them with or without their dogs and now she’s at the window again. There she is in her sky-blue top and Abbott’s been thinking. It’s time to loosen the rains. Maybe he decided it that summer too. It never stopped raining. It must’ve stopped. It only stopped after. Afterwards.

  But for now he’s decided. It’s time to loosen them again.

  There’s a time for everything. Yes. But Papa didn’t like the Bible. He didn’t like plucking feathers from birds either. He didn’t like the Bible at all. He never said why, although Sashya did. She said her name was Sashya with a y and she thought I was writing it down. Lynn with a y too, although she never said so. And she never used to go to the window back then. Kate, I mean, not Lynn. With two ns. Two ns and a y. It’s time to loosen the rains. Abbott’s decided. And she didn’t go to the window back then.

  I’ve racked my brains, I’ve been racking my brains, and why isn’t there a difference between i and y.

  Kate goes to the window, but only since I’ve been coming. Only since. Here she is, at the window, staring out over the car park without waving or smiling. She’s staring out, past the moon, yes, beyond the moon, even though it’s swollen, bloated, she’s staring out beyond it.

  She shouldn’t. She shouldn’t come to the window and stare like that, stare across the car park without smiling or waving.

  And all of a sudden I’m tired. It’s come down on me. Like night. It never matters y or i, no wonder Lynn didn’t say Lynn with a y. She knew she’d sound the same and she seemed nice, Lynn, that first time. Friendly at least, and her hair. The way she piles it on top of her head. It looks pretty. I think Abbott would agree.

  All of a sudden. That’s what Kate said. She slept then, all of her, after that first time.

  ‌

  ‘What the eye doesn’t see the heart can’t grieve over,’ Joan said.

  It was the first thing she said when she saw me. I was taking a little breath of fresh air out the front just now, and I wondered if she’d forgotten about the bone, about posting the bone. How could she have forgotten? Altogether forgotten?

  Lynn was there. I suppose that’s why I was taking a little breather. She opened the front door herself.

  ‘OK to come through?’ she said. ‘Ab?’

  ‘Come through,’ he said.

  She didn’t take her shoes off. They clicked on the tiles as she came through. She came through. She said only me, but it wasn’t only her. She was carrying Liam in the car seat and Sophie was holding her hand. I was sitting on the stool in the kitchen listening to the sound of her shoes on the tiles. The girls went into the garden with Nelson. Abbott put the kettle on. I was sitting on the stool. I could hear the girls. I heard them throwing the ball for Nelson. Charlie was talking on. I used to tell her she talked on and here she was again, talking on, and some things don’t change. I sat on the stool and listened.

  ‘I’m afraid the little man needs a feed,’ Lynn said.

  She felt for the t
op button of her blouse.

  ‘Of course,’ Abbott said. ‘Yes. Feed away.’

  I went outside for a little breath of fresh air.

  The reins have been loosened. Abbott loosened them. That’s what I was thinking. I thought I could hear them flapping whilst I was out in the street, although there wasn’t much of a wind. I turned towards the direction of the noise and as I turned Joan put her hand on my shoulder. I hadn’t seen her coming.

  ‘What the eye doesn’t see the heart can’t grieve over,’ she said.

  She kept her hand where it was. I could smell cigarette smoke, but I didn’t mind that much. I was thinking of Lynn unbuttoning her blouse. I was thinking of her hair.

  ‘Feed away,’ he said and I think I saw his jaw relax, but I can’t be sure and you only get to see everything once and you can’t be sure. Not really.

  ‘I’m heading down the hill for a few bits,’ Joan said.

  She said we could head down there together. She took her hand off my shoulder. It was the first time Joan had invited me anywhere since she’d invited me to come through to her kitchen. I knew I’d be all right walking down the hill with Joan. It was fresh air I’d needed when she’d invited me in that time. That’s all I’d needed.

  We walked down our hill side by side. Joan walked slowly. I was thinking about Abbott’s jaw relaxing. I was thinking about Lynn undoing her buttons. I couldn’t stop thinking, even though Joan was beside me. Even though the smell of cigarette smoke hung about her. I was thinking about Abbott walking towards Lynn. Stepping towards her, I mean, and Joan was saying it was high time she got Nelson another bone. She was going to drop by the butcher’s anyway. High time, high noon, high seas. No. I was thinking about Abbott on his haunches. The girls were in the garden. Charlie, my Charlie. And Abbott was in the kitchen and I’m sure I saw his jaw relax and he must’ve stepped towards her, he must’ve crouched down, and Joan said, ‘You’re not vegetarians then?’ And Abbott leant in towards Lynn and put his hands around her breasts. He had to spread his fingers. They were full with milk, her breasts. Parturient, almost. Yes. He touched them. He was tender like a boy. He was nothing like Jay.