Slip of a Fish

by Amy Arnold

  I didn’t want to look into that thing. I pressed on with moving the log instead, got on the other side of it, crouched down and hung the weight of my body over it. I stuck my fingers into the grooves of the bark, I managed to get a good grip. Right, I thought, and dug my feet into the earth and tugged. I tugged. I heaved three times and on the third time I fell back, fell onto my back, but the log hadn’t moved. It hadn’t budged. I knew it was heavy, yes, but I’d moved it before. I’d rolled it until it dead-thumped against the wall.

  I got up onto my knees after that. The men with dogs were talking. ‘They aren’t near,’ I said out loud. But still. I decided to leave. I decided to head back through the copse and check for that cut through once and for all, yes, and just as I was getting up I remembered. I remembered putting a stone under the log to keep it in place. That’s what I’d done after I rolled it against the wall. I laughed at myself. The stone’s doing its job well. That’s what I thought, and I laughed. It wasn’t a loud laugh, I didn’t want the men with dogs to come over, and it was getting quite dark in that copse, in the dark, beneath the sycamores.

  I scraped at the soil under the log. Felt its damp. Felt it coming through the knees of my jeans. I was scraping with my hands and whilst I was scraping I felt her mouth too, the shadow of her unhinged mouth. Then her laugh. I thought I could hear it playing on the bones in my ears. I couldn’t concentrate, not with that mouth, that laugh. I couldn’t think, couldn’t straighten my thoughts, couldn’t be sure I’d put the stone there in the first place. In any case. I couldn’t quite remember.

  But just as I was about to give up my fingers got hold of something smooth. I held onto it, gripped on, I was trying not to listen, I was trying to ignore the shadow of her mouth, because I had the thing in my grasp, and that’s almost what they say. I had the stone in my grasp, so I pulled.

  I pulled. I pulled more than once, but whatever I’d got hold of wouldn’t come out from under the log, so I got down further, put my cheek on the ground, my eye level with the base of the log, and that’s when I saw it. The root.

  As soon as I saw it I said, ‘Not now.’

  I said it twice. I said it out loud, but there it was, snaking out of the dead wood in front of me. I said not now again. I knew I had to stop. Kate was at the window with her mouth, laughing, and I had to stop, but she was the one who’d started this, she was the one who was always talking about being radical.

  Yes, she was the one who started it. Her huge mouth gaping.

  ‘Haven’t you? Wouldn’t you ever? Do something? Ash? Ash?’ she said.

  Radical, something radical. That’s what she wanted, always wanted, and she said, ‘What’s wrong with you? The way you gawp.’

  Yes, yes, she was pleased with gawp. She wasn’t always kind, almost never tender, and I’d scraped up the words, a whole book, I’d been picking up the words one by one, none of them radical, and now her gape, my gawp, possession must be the opposite of radical, but nobody says, nobody mentions the words on the carpet. Must be harmless.

  Dogs and Emilys especially.

  Sticks, girls, gulls, boys, that’s what they were, and Kate wanted me unlatched, that’s what she wanted, she wanted me loose, loose, loose, like rains, the way they have to fall.

  And how can I sleep now? How will I ever sleep?

  To be honest I was scared kneeling down there under the sycamores, although it wasn’t the first time she’d threatened to swallow me. It wasn’t the first time I’d contemplated her mouth and it was dark. I was getting quite cold. But there it was, her mouth, moist when I went in. And I knew when she left, I knew as soon as she left I’d have something, because I’d always known that doing and having were the same.

  I forced myself. I forced myself to stand up, get up from where I was kneeling and look.

  And how will I sleep? How will I ever sleep?

  I looked. The moon had gone. It cheered me. I hoped she’d swallowed it. I hope it’d given her something to chew on. I laughed at my joke, laughed out loud, quite loud and I suppose it took me by surprise, the laugh. And what about the men, the men with the dogs? It was dark, yes, and I needed to get back, but there it was between us, the stickiness, the silence or whatever it was that was bigger than the car park. And that was when I decided. That was when I decided to climb up onto the wall.

  I climbed up. Stood up, and made myself as tall as I could. I took a deep breath. I looked over towards the studio and there she was, yes.

  ‘Kate,’ I said.

  I projected my voice.

  ‘Kate,’ I said.

  I waited a moment. I waited until I could see down into the pit of her mouth, then gestured towards my log.

  ‘Look, Kate. My log. It’s grown a root.’

  ‌

  And now Abbott’s taken Leaves of Grass. The moment I opened my eyes I knew. I’d had it here next to the bed, right on the floor by the bed, that’s where it was before I went to sleep, and now it’s gone.

  He’d had it in him from the start. He’d always maintained that reading a fat book of poetry all the way through was weird.

  ‘From cover to cover?’ he said. ‘Weird.’

  He said you couldn’t trust a man who celebrated himself. Do you know what that means, Ash? Do you? And what could I say, but I didn’t have to. He picked up my book. He held the weight of the words in his hands.

  Leaves. Leaves, leaves in his hands.

  He held the book. Turned it without opening it.

  ‘Walt. Short for Walter, or what?’ he said, and when I didn’t answer he put the book down.

  ‘Always something of your dad in you,’ he said then.

  But Papa wasn’t having any of that American stuff. Keats was his boy. I wore a blue dress, stopped short above my knees, I couldn’t have been his boy if I’d wanted to.

  Abbott’s taken Leaves of Grass. He’s done something radical, at last.

  Radical, radicle, share the same root, although it had never crossed my mind until now, and anyway, in the end, she was first. It was all about downward-flowing energy, and she must have been right because they came from her feet, the roots. Began with a radicle, it always does, but now I see it, now I see her. All square roots, cube roots, her great tap root, wherever it was going under the carpet. Under the carpet, and that’s when I followed, that’s when I came.

  He’s taken Leaves of Grass. He slipped that fat book from under my nose and I suppose I must have been sleeping. I suppose he must have been waiting, waiting until I was falling. He must have known I wouldn’t catch myself the way you sometimes can. He must’ve known and taken it, slipped it from under my nose.

  ‘Flabby stuff, Whitman,’ Papa said, but Keats was flabby stuff too, or loose at least. He didn’t know what kind of boys he liked, Papa, not really. And where is he now, with my book, my leaves, where has he taken it? I knew as soon as I woke he had.

  And here he is now. Must’ve left me sleeping after he slipped that book from under my nose. And what does he want me to read, if I don’t read Leaves of Grass? What will I read, because he’s always asking, what can you do, Ash, what can you do to keep your spirits up?

  Here he is. Listen, parking the car. Reverse parking on our hill, his revs too high and that’s how I know him, but not the only way. I mean, that’s how we know people, isn’t it? He took Leaves of Grass. He had it in his hands whilst I was sleeping. Fat books shouldn’t be read from cover to cover. Inside, poetry, inside, he celebrates himself, his man-root and I know what it means, always knew what it meant.

  And it isn’t nice, thinking of his man-root, Whitman’s, I mean, and nobody said, but I think he liked it both ways. Still. I liked Leaves of Grass, all that optimism. I read it from cover to cover and more than once. It started on the train, on Papa’s knee and Abbott knows. He knows all this. I told him the whole story, and he shouldn’t have taken it, although reading and having are the same.

  I can hear him reversing, his revs too high. Doesn’t know which way to turn the whe
el.

  I heard him parking the car. I went to the window, pressed my face against it. I couldn’t make out whether it was raining, I couldn’t tell, but the pane was cold. Abbott was reversing, in and out, backwards and forwards, was turning the wheel and it wasn’t right. Charlie and Nelson were sprawled across the back seat and he was turning the wheel and didn’t know which way.

  I went downstairs and stood in the hallway where she’d come through, only me, two ns and a y, although she’d never said, she’d never stressed the y. It was Sashya who did, and where was Sashya now there was only Lynn left?

  I stood by our front door. I had things to say. I knew what I was going to say. I was standing near the front door because he had to come through, had to walk through, it was the only way in, so I knew. Stand here and wait, I thought, and I thought about the words I would say. I waited for the revving to stop. I had things to say. I knew about Leaves of Grass, I’d known as soon as I’d woken.

  You shouldn’t take things, I was going to say.

  I was standing in the hallway and he’d never known how to reverse, although he liked driving. He said he did. Liked the feel of the keys in his pocket. The way they weighed him down. Never known how to reverse. Not instinctively. Not like birds, who know enough to know motion, and never, ever fly backwards.

  Pull down on the left to send the back left, look in the mirror, look back. In and out like that, the wrong side of the wheel, and it’d been a long time since, and I didn’t think she’d cry. I didn’t think, and later. Thought I could make it OK, because it doesn’t hurt if you don’t mean it that way. I opened her legs. Tenderly. I promise. I promise you.

  Papa was tender. Abbott too. His hands on my book, on Lynn’s breasts, like a boy, he was, though you can tell by his hair he isn’t. F Scott was receding too and Whitman liked to wear a hat, a smelly hat. His beard probably smelt too and Jay was different, he always looked quite clean and I saw the way he rode her. The way he wouldn’t let her up. I heard Ryan say:

  You cunt.

  Abbott shouldn’t have taken Leaves of Grass. If he’d wanted something he could’ve taken Haiku. But nobody wants Haiku now. It’s easy to wash your hands of seventeen syllables, it’s easy once you’ve seen how easily they slip downstream. I was ready to confront him. I was behind the door. I wanted my book. It was a step too far, taking it, slipping it. You shouldn’t take something that’s been read from cover to cover. You shouldn’t stare without waving. I had to stand on the wall after that. I had to be the one to break the silence. I had to be the one to say.

  And they always want words, they’re always asking for them, but Abbott’s forgotten. I had too many, enough to go on with. I mean, he used to say I went on, kept going on. I must have had words to be going on. Going on about that film, he said, but it wasn’t the film, it was Utsjoki I was going on about, it was the lake, it was Kevojärvi, the photo.

  Look at these two wading. Do you think they’re men or women? Boys, perhaps? I’d wanted to say.

  I’ll tell you what I think but it doesn’t count.

  I was by the front door with something to say. It had been a long time since and I wasn’t sure I’d remembered that photo properly. The pair wading, their arms around each other, or holding hands, I couldn’t remember. I thought perhaps I should find the photo. I thought perhaps I should rest, but I wanted my book. I was ready to confront Abbott, I’d been waiting for the revving to stop and the revving had stopped and I was ready and they’d have to come through with or without. Only me. I needed a rest, yes, I thought perhaps a rest would help.

  He found me sleeping. He told me I’d hardly moved an inch the whole time they’d been gone.

  ‘Perhaps you should get up?’ he said.

  He was crouching down. He was holding onto my arm a little too tightly. Five thirty-five on his Second Core, up against my face.

  ‘Ash,’ he said.

  And big watches are more dangerous than small ones.

  ‘Ash.’

  Charlie and Nelson were behind him.

  Charlie and Nelson. It’d been a long time, and she must’ve noticed by now. I sorted the words, the whole book. One Girl, One Dog. I shut it when I was done. A hardback would’ve been more secure, but it was all for her. All of it for Charlie.

  ‘Ash,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you should get out of bed before it’s time to go back there again.’

  I didn’t see why. There are ways to be radical without moving. No need to get up and go back for the sake of a circle, for the sake of going round. I tried it before, going round, swimming in fours. Didn’t get anywhere but tired. Swimming in the lake is different, there are bigger circles at play, but if you don’t rest from sleeping it’s difficult to sleep. Yes, I know that now.

  I should’ve got out of bed before it was time to go back. Should’ve got out of bed when Abbott said get up. Get up. Charlie and Nelson were there, and I’m used to him, Big Head, I’m used to him now.

  It’s difficult.

  It’s difficult to sleep. Inside the tilt of the earth. And what kind of circle takes summer, brings autumn on? Ellipses are something else. You can’t quite trust them. People are better with circles, are better with one to twelve, but it creeps more quickly, autumn.

  All of a sudden. That’s what Kate said, ‘Have you noticed how it’s getting dark early all of a sudden?’

  It wasn’t like her to talk about the dark. It wasn’t like anyone to talk about the dark. Abbott never says a thing about it. She shivered when she spoke. She wasn’t cold, she promised. She said it was more of a chill.

  ‘Sends a shiver down your spine, the dark. Doesn’t it?’

  I didn’t say.

  I didn’t say it’s just the way the dark comes on. Didn’t say I knew its momentum, liked it even, knew it would gather, knew it would slow, after the equinox, into the solstice, knew the tilt of the earth, polar nights, all these things, didn’t say how much I really understood. Rhetorical questions aren’t for answering.

  Abbott never says anything about the dark, although once.

  Once. He said I’d save myself a lot of grief if I stopped looking at the sky. I put grief in my collection after that. It should be a homophone but it isn’t. It doesn’t matter that much.

  He’s lying next to me right now. His mouth, his nose, our air rattling in and out of it. He doesn’t know which way to turn the wheel. He sleeps as if nothing’s changed and never says y although he said grief.

  Once.

  Better when it speaks, grief, isn’t it? And if it doesn’t it isn’t, or it is. No one said, and you can’t save yourself. You can’t save yourself from grief unless you save yourself from love. Papa would know. He’d know where to start, which way to turn the wheel. He’d say, you might as well get up and figure it out, Ash.

  See, Abbott never stirs. See.

  He’s always on his back, lying still. Signe was too, on her back. On the final page of that book she was still lying, lying on that bench, and then.

  And then.

  She felt for her breasts. I wasn’t expecting it, Signe, I wasn’t expecting, amidst all those words, to be woken up, roused, not on the final page.

  Wake first then sleep. Love first then grief. After all, love ends in grief. All love ends in grief. It’s too dark to get up and figure it out. I wasn’t expecting to be aroused. I wasn’t even sure how to pronounce her name. Signe, Signe, Signe.

  I should get up. That’s what you should do if you can’t sleep. Get up. And look at Abbott and the way he lies and where has he put Leaves of Grass? Where has he put my Leaves of Grass? I should look. I shouldn’t let something like the dark stop me. I’ve been watching, yes, and most people are more afraid of the light.

  I knew what he’d done with it. All of a sudden I knew. I got out of bed and walked down to the landing in the dark. The way I walked, he wouldn’t wake. I knew. I knew he’d be there, lying on his back when I crawled back in.

  I walked away, crept I suppose, could hear the air moving in an
d out of his nose, could hear it as I walked down the landing, past the bathroom. Her door was on-the-jar. Charlie says Mrs McIntosh says, and I like it, on-the-jar. Who wouldn’t?

  I crept towards the door. Didn’t want to wake her, she always slept lightly, she was always easily roused.

  Don’t go to her. Wait for her to settle, Abbott used to say. She was small, too small to settle, he’d say and I’d wait, I’d hover, and I couldn’t see clearly until she had.

  I was standing at her door. I knew where he’d put it, Leaves of Grass, all of a sudden it had come to me. I couldn’t see, but I heard her stir. And she always slept lightly, always leapt lightly, she knew when they’d go, the swifts, that summer, and I knew too. I knew where he’d put it, Leaves of Grass. I was sure. I was standing at her door, I was sure, was shore, and swam. I swam towards her as soon as I knew. I thought she was OK, and it doesn’t hurt, it isn’t meant to hurt if you don’t mean it that way and who was it who said that? The first time, I mean.

  I wanted to go in, to creep in. Her door was on-the-jar. I wanted the book, I knew where it was, I knew where he’d put it, but she sleeps lightly. These days. I wanted to go in but I waited. Big Head was on the end of her bed, making rhyme. Papa would know, would say, would definitely. Couldn’t stay indefinitely and Signe, didn’t think I’d be aroused. I put the book down, the book with the flame on the cover. I put it down and I looked around but where had it come from, arousal? There were only words after words, and everyone said, everyone says it’s actions that matter. Actions count, not words, no, something to hold on to, and I had to get my Leaves of Grass, I knew where he’d put them, and it was dark, it was night, and Abbott was sleeping. I crawled into Charlie’s room on my hands and knees, my hands and needs, and I must’ve been quiet because Big Head was sat on the end of the bed still. Still. I whispered in his ear, said, ‘Don’t stir, no need.’