Old Enough

by Charmaine Pauls

  “Are we clear?”

  “Yeah,” Clive scoffs. “I get it. No one gets to steal your idea.”

  It’s more about Ms. Logan and less about my idea, but let him think that.

  “Good.” I put the truck into gear and steer it back onto the deserted road.

  Now that we’ve conversed, I know there’s a slim chance Jane Logan will ever give me the time of day. Yeah, she noticed me, but she made it clear she wasn’t interested. Her body language said any advances would be unwelcome, maybe even considered unsavory. Inappropriate.

  Too bad, because I’m interested. Very interested.

  Jane

  Walking into Moyo in Melrose Arch, I catch my reflection in the coatroom mirror. Dark rings mar my eyes, and my cheeks are pale. Dorothy will notice.

  Not in the mood for questions and concern, however well intended, I enter the ladies’ room to apply blush and a darker lipstick. When I’m done, I study my handiwork. On the surface, it looks all right. It doesn’t reflect what’s inside. For over a decade, I’ve survived this day, waiting with each passing year for it to get better, only it never does. The ache is dormant, building to a crescendo as the months pass to blow me to pieces all over again on this date. I don’t want to forget, but I can’t bear to remember.

  Cruel images flash through my mind’s eye. The flood of pain builds like a wave. My skin goes hot even as cold sweat pearls on my forehead. Nausea makes me heave, while my throat closes up. I can’t breathe. I clutch the edge of the vanity, willing my legs not to cave.

  It takes a few deep breaths and a lot of determination to gain control over my emotions. My body remains uncooperative, shaking uncontrollably.

  “Stop it, damn you.”

  I want to be strong for Dorothy, even if this is the one day she grants me weakness. The loss cuts me open and leaves me stranded, all alone, and here I am again like last year and every year before that, because of all the millions of people on Earth the only one who understands my suffering is Dorothy.

  Closing my eyes, I shut out the hollow image of the woman in the mirror and focus on my breathing until my legs can carry my weight and my shivering turns to an occasional tremor. I take one last breath for good measure, straighten my shoulders, and don’t meet my own eyes as I turn for the door.

  Dorothy is already at our usual table, a bottle of wine open and her glass filled. My strides are brisk, like I have purpose, and my smile slips into place for the waiter who seats me.

  Dorothy looks up from the menu she’s been studying. “You look like shit.” She reaches over the table and cups my hand. “How are you holding up?”

  “Good.” I force a smile. “You?”

  She purses her lips and gives a small shake of her head. This is her non-verbal language to let me know she can’t speak for the fear of crying. The waiter appears at her side. Letting go of my hand, she squares her shoulders and pretends to look at the menu. She blinks three times before she lifts her head to the waiter, her composure back in place.

  “My friend will have what I’m drinking,” she says, “and we’ll have the Mozambican crab, please.” As an afterthought, she shoots me a glance. “Will that do?”

  We have the crab every year, not that I care what we order. I won’t be able to eat, anyway.

  When the waiter leaves after serving me water and wine, she pins me with a stare. “You can’t hide under your make-up from me. Didn’t sleep much, did you?”

  I take a sip of water. “No.”

  “Why don’t you take the sleeping pills I told you about? My doctor will happily give you a prescription.”

  “You know I don’t believe in that. Besides, it wasn’t all nightmares. Some pranksters had a late night–or rather early morning–dip in my pool.”

  Her eyes grow large. “Did you call the police?”

  “The guys left before they could come.”

  “Good lord.” She fans herself with the menu. “How did they get in?”

  “Over the gate.”

  “What about the electrified barbwire?”

  “It wasn’t on.”

  “And the alarm?”

  “I forgot to activate it.”

  I’m not going to tell her I don’t have the money to pay the security company, any longer. She’ll offer to pay for it, and I don’t want her charity. I don’t want to feel like I owe anyone. More importantly, coming from Dorothy, it’ll feel like a bribe.

  “Jane! You mustn’t be so forgetful. Although, I understand why you would’ve been distracted last night. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. When I close my eyes, I keep on seeing Evan lying there, so peaceful, like he’s sleeping in the middle of the road, and it doesn’t make sense until I see the blood, so much blood, and I keep on telling myself it’s not happening, it’s not true. It’s not true.” She grabs my hand and squeezes my fingers. “How many times didn’t I tell myself that day it wasn’t true? Now, all I keep telling myself is that it is true, but it never gets easier. My brain understands, but my heart won’t accept it.”

  “Dorothy, please,” I whisper, looking away from her feverish stare.

  This is the only day we allow ourselves to talk about what happened freely, but every year it becomes harder. Even as I want to be her shoulder and her ear, I can’t cope with the memories her words conjure. The way his knee was twisted, the way his arms were bent at the elbows, facing palms-up toward the heaven… Not knowing what the helmet concealed–

  “Hey.” She gives my arm a gentle shake. “I ordered a wreath. I’m taking it to the roadside after lunch. Want to come?”

  I’m not sure I’ll survive it.

  The waiter saves me from answering when he arrives with our food. My almost-mother-in-law raises her glass in a toast. When I clink mine to hers, she says, “To Evan.”

  “To Evan,” I echo.

  “He lives in our hearts forever.”

  He does. He took up all the space, and now there’s nothing left for anyone. Maybe that’s part of the problem of everything that’s wrong in our lives.

  We can’t let go.

  Brian

  Leaning on the truck, I scan the kids filing through the school gate. Thanks to the uniform, they all look more or less the same. It takes a while before my gaze finds Sam. Her golden-blonde braid hangs over her shoulder. The belt of the dress is stretched to the last hole, showing what I call her baby fat. I make a mental note to pay more attention to her diet. She’s no longer a baby.

  She pushes through the crowd, her head bent and her eyes downcast as she makes her way down the road to where I’m parked. Immediately, I go rigid.

  I straighten when she stops in front of me, scrutinizing her face. “Hey, piglet.”

  “Hey.”

  Grabbing her chin, I tilt her face up for a better view. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  I cross my arms and lean back on the truck. “I guess we’re hanging out here until you tell me.”

  She blows out a breath and thrusts her schoolbag at me. “Let’s just go.”

  I open the door and dump the bag on the seat, but I don’t budge.

  “Brian,” she says, dragging my name out in a way that tells me she’s irritated.

  Feigning ignorance, I say, “What?”

  Another sigh. “Fine.” She crosses her arms, mirroring my stance. “Victor threw my lunch in the dirt.”

  “He did what?”

  “He grabbed my lunchbox and threw my sandwiches on the ground, and then he grinded them into the sand with his shoe.”

  I go mad. I swear to God I see my baby sister’s face through a veil of red. “Why?”

  “He said I don’t need lunch, because I’m fat enough.”

  That’s it. I’m going to teach that little motherfucking bully a lesson. I’m already halfway to the gate when Sam catches the sleeve of my T-shirt.

  “Brian! What are you going to do?”

  I stop and turn to her. “Nothing you have to worry about. Victor and I are goi
ng to have a word, that’s all. Go back to the truck.”

  She doesn’t move, just stands there rocking on the balls of her feet. “You’re going to embarrass me.”

  “Of course not.” I give her braid a gentle pluck. “Go wait in the truck.”

  “You sure?” She narrows her eyes. “You’re not going to punch him or something?”

  Crossing my fingers, I put them over my heart. “Cross my heart. We’re just going to have a man-to-man talk.”

  “Okay,” she says, still eyeing me suspiciously. “No hitting.”

  Not for now, but I’ll tan his ass the next time he says a word or lays a finger on my sister or her property. I’ve got to get her out of this juvenile shithole and into a private school.

  Of course, she doesn’t go back to the truck, but stays next to the fence to make sure I keep my word. I spot the fucker easily enough, his spiky, bleached hair standing out like a beacon in the herd. When he sees me, he pushes through the gate and tries to split, but I’ve got him by the back of his shirt before he’s made it two steps.

  Gripping the nape of his stringy neck, I fling him around. His eyes are big, and his arms flail wildly.

  I bring my head down to his ear, speaking softly enough for only him to hear. “Listen here, you little shit. The next time you touch anything that belongs to my sister, I’ll break your spaghetti string arm. And if you ever insult her again, I’ll break your fucking neck. Got it?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, I’ve got it. Sorry.”

  The scumbag is twelve, having flunked a couple of years, but I have no problem putting the fear of God into him to teach him a lesson. I push him in Sam’s direction and let him go with a shove.

  “Apologize to her, not to me.”

  He stumbles three steps toward her. “I’m sorry.”

  “Tomorrow,” I say, “you’re bringing her lunch, and it better be something delicious, like tuna mayonnaise with gherkins.”

  He makes a face.

  “I don’t hear you.”

  “Okay, okay.”

  “Good. Now get out of here.”

  He’s a good hundred meters away before he throws back over his shoulder, “Fuck you. I’m telling my dad.”

  In a few strides I’m next to him. He scarcely has time to get a fright before I grip his arm. “Let’s do it, sucker.” I fish my phone from my pocket. “What’s his number? Let’s call him now. I’d like to know what he thinks of his son picking fights with girls.”

  The kid goes red. His dad would whip his ass. I know Daniel well enough to know he’ll lay into Victor with a belt for wasting good food, which is why I’m not going to tattletale on him, but the threat works.

  “No,” he says, hanging his head. “I don’t want to call my dad.”

  “Tomorrow.” I point my finger in his face. “Tuna and gherkins.”

  “Yeah, I got it.”

  He hurries away, his head hanging between his shoulders.

  When I get back to the truck, Sam waits inside like I’d asked.

  She flashes me a grin when I start the engine. “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Leaning my arm over the back of her seat, I turn to face her. “You’ve got to defend yourself. Always. If your opponent is bigger or stronger, you’ve got to fight with words.”

  She crinkles her nose. “Like how?”

  “The next time Victor touches something that’s yours, speaks to you, or even comes near you, you tell him to stop looking for attention just because he has a crush on you.”

  Her lips quirk, and her brow lifts. “That’ll work?”

  “Like a charm.” I start the engine. “I promise.”

  For the rest of the way, she tells me about school and her teachers, barely taking a breath between sentences, until we get home. I park in the street instead of pulling into the driveway, because I have to get back to work after lunch. I’m hoping to get in a shift before my five o’clock class. I don’t have to come all the way from town to drive Sam. Her school is only a kilometer away from the house, and she’s got a key and a mobile phone to call if there’s a problem, but you never know what lurks on the streets.

  Deactivating the alarm and unlocking the back door, I’m hit by the silence. One of those days. While Sam goes to change out of her school uniform, I go look for my mom in her bedroom. The fact that the curtains are drawn means they haven’t been opened all day. The bed is unmade.

  “Mom?”

  Going back through the kitchen, I head for the living room, which also serves as my bedroom. Still dressed in her flannel pajamas, Mom is splayed out on the sofa bed, her face in the cushions and a burnt-out cigarette in her hand. A small heap of ash lies on the carpet. Tucking my hands under her armpits, I pull her into a sitting position.

  “Brian?” she asks with a slurring tongue. “Is that you?”

  I take the bud from her fingers and leave it in the ashtray. “You mustn’t smoke in the house. One of these days, you’ll set it on fire.”

  “Sorry.” She pats my cheek. “You’re a good boy.”

  “Come on.”

  I hoist her to her feet and help her to her room before fetching a glass of water from the kitchen.

  “Drink that.”

  She sits on the edge of the bed, her shoulders stooped, looking lost, looking broken. I hate this look on her, and, yet, I understand.

  “No more drinking, okay? Sam’s home.”

  She lifts her red-rimmed eyes to me and gives me a weak smile.

  “I have to go to work. I’ll be home to cook dinner.”

  “You’re a good boy, Brian.”

  I hover another moment before I make my way to the back door, opening curtains as I go. Alcohol is her coping mechanism, and who am I to judge? I don’t want this for her, but sometimes life deals you a shit hand, and we all have a breaking point. She didn’t hold out long. I hope to God I will.

  Jane

  As if Friday morning’s pool escapade wasn’t enough, I wake early on Saturday to the sound of a lawnmower. It’s loud, like it’s coming from right outside my window. Pushing up on my elbows, I rub my eyes and check the time on my alarm clock. Six in the morning.

  Bloody hell.

  I kick the sheets aside and swing my legs from the bed. Making my way across the room, I bump my toe on the corner of the dresser and hop around for two beats before I make it to the window. No way. The guy who broke into my pool, the cocky one with the blond hair, is mowing my lawn.

  Gaping, I take in the scene. He’s shirtless, wearing torn jeans and Jesus sandals. His muscles bulge as he maneuvers a lawnmower through the overgrown grass. The electric cable is thrown over his shoulder. It leads back to the plug point on the deck. He wipes his brow even as the late October sun has barely been up for an hour. Half of the lawn, the side farthest from the house, has already been mowed. Five stuffed garden trash bags rest against the wall.

  For the love of God.

  He jumped the gate again, with his lawnmower, because I don’t own one. Francois took ours when he moved. The young man moves meticulously, cutting a straight line along the length of the pool. Whatever he thinks he’s doing, I’m not going to give him the pleasure of a reaction. Pretending a stranger in a dirty pair of jeans is not mowing my lawn, I grab my exercise gear and dress in the bathroom. After brushing my teeth and washing my face, I pull a cap over my unruly curls, strap my phone to my arm, and walk out onto the deck.

  He cuts the mower when he sees me. Leaning on the handle bar with his elbows, he looks at me. Just looks. His lips aren’t smiling, but his eyes are.

  I lock the door and cross the lawn, pressing the remote to open the pedestrian gate.

  “Good morning,” I say as impersonally as I can. He may be a nuisance, but I do have manners.

  For a minute, he looks floored, but then a smile cracks up his face, exposing that single dimple. I pretend not to notice that he ogles my ass. The only thing preventing me from not calling him out on it is that he’s staring at me
with genuine admiration, the kind a trainer would have for an athlete. It softens my heart a fraction, but I don’t stop to talk to him. My morning run is sacred. He’s already ruined my sleep, not that I can blame all of it on him. I’m not going to let him ruin my exercise.

  Slamming the gate behind me, I take to the road. A beaten-up Toyota pickup is parked on the curb, the back crammed with a rake, spade, weed eater, and several other gardening tools. Hoping to God he’d be gone when I get back, I choose the steepest road going up the hill.

  The neighborhood is quiet, and the air is still. I pop in my earphones and turn up the volume. Energy pumps through me. The road is covered in lilac confetti from the Jacarandas that are in bloom. Their massive trunks line the sidewalk, their branches embracing at the top to form a purple tunnel. Despite the freak heatwave bathing Pretoria in temperatures of thirty degrees Celsius up to midnight, the smell of spring hangs heavy in the air, and somewhere in the mix is the odor of a freshly mowed lawn.

  I take a moment to appreciate the beauty and serenity. I’m a mess after my anniversary lunch with Evan’s mom. The rest of the day will be hard, but I’ll get over it. I always do. In a way, it’s a relief to be alone and not having to face Francois’ hostile stare or forced sympathy expressed with, ‘I know it’s hard for you today, darling’. The anniversary of Evan’s death has always been uncomfortable between us. Yet, after sharing a marriage and a child, I’m surprised he hasn’t sent me a text to say he hoped I was coping. It makes the pretense of his care about my feelings in this regard stand out starkly, and although I’m glad the charade is over, it makes me feel even more betrayed.

  Not wanting to overthink it, I let the beat of my trainers on the tar set a steady rhythm that lulls me like a mantra into a deep state of meditation. Bit by bit, my disillusionment and frustrated anger dissipate until there’s only the sadness. The sadness I can handle. It’s familiar. It’s a way of living.

  By the time I’ve done the full round, I’m better. More normal. Ready to face reality. My T-shirt is wet with perspiration, and my leg muscles burn in protest. I slow as I near the house. The truck is still there. The lawnmower and garbage bags are on the back, and the weed eater is gone. The noise coming from behind my wall tells me the guy is cutting the edges around the flowerbeds.