by Alan Duff
And you are, is that your next, Jake — a boast? Though she smiled up at him when she said it.
No. Got nothing to boast about, not even that. Is it just the bed thing with Charlie? Or … ?
I already told you: he’s the finest man I ever knew and I should not be doing this. But. She looked achingly at him and said, Kiss me.
What if I turn you into a frog?
Try it and see what happens. Which he did, and it was as if the years had been rolled right back. The film-reel ran backwards, to their first day. Then it started all over again, but told a different story, of different lives unfolding.
Afterwards, she told him of the baby, Rachel, they had at home; a sketch of the mother’s background, and how Beth was surprised at herself for not enjoying having a small child in the house. I guess I’m past the maternal stage.
She told of Charlie resigning from his job and the reasons. Which to her surprise Jake agreed with. If they won’t listen to him, why bother? You can’t change those who won’t be changed, or give ears to them who won’t listen.
Beth gave him a look of added respect then; sighed for what might have been between them.
Charlie, though, loves having Rachel with us. He takes her for long walks, doesn’t mind getting up to her colic outbreaks, which can go all night and day. Though of course I do my share, just that Charlie’s more emotionally involved and he’s at home weighing up his future work plans and I have my job — she halted in mid-speech — and I have (the look said in disbelief: you) I have this terrible secret called Jake Heke. Me, back with you, Jake?
Shit happens. He said that in a somewhat miffed tone.
My worst pain but at the same time it feels like my best dream come true. God, this is outrageous. It could never work, even if both of us have changed so much and for the better. What’s Charlie done to deserve this? Am I trying to prove a point, that you had the potential to be a better man and I need to experience it after what I went through? Is that it? Or is it just purely physical?
No. Or I hope not. Why don’t you ask me what I’m feeling?
Sorry. No, I’m not sorry. Now you know what it was like for me all those years, of you never asking how I felt about things … but I will ask. What do you feel?
He didn’t intend saying it — or maybe he did. (Maybe I want to save something worthwhile: her marriage to Charlie.) It’s not love.
Jake? That’s not nice. You mean you don’t feel anything?
He shook his head. Too much of my past there, Bethy. And, like you said, a fine man we’re going to hurt if he finds out.
What if I said it feels like love for me?
Don’t, Beth. Why would you take me when you’ve got a better man? I got nothing to give you except the physical stuff. And that’s on its way out.
Elderly couples still do it. Jake, don’t tell me you don’t feel anything. Please?
Sure I feel. Feel lots. But I’m saying, I don’t deserve you and never did. Which is hard for me to say, yet I feel good in saying it.
Don’t know what you’re missing out on. Anyway, let’s change the subject before we both end up in an argument. I wouldn’t want to be putting you to any test now would I? She said teasingly, but not completely so.
He looked directly into her eyes, his way of saying there was no chance of seeing the old Jake.
Do you know you’ve got a daughter who’s not only stunningly beautiful but she’s close to a millionaire?
These were words Jake could hardly comprehend; he listened as Beth told him of Polly’s recent story, of buying up Pine Block, of all places. A rich Heke? he said. That can’t be.
A rich Bennett, sorry. It’s the name she uses and is very proud of. And don’t go there, Jake. She loves Charlie. He’s her dad.
Fair enough. Though Jake couldn’t help saying, You love Charlie, too. But we won’t go there either. Gave little grins at each other. My daughter, he shook his head in utter disbelief, she’s near a millionaire property investor. Well I’ll be.
Ask her the secret and she’ll tell you in no uncertain terms how life is but an attitude. And she’s the living proof of that. A real knockout, Jake; you’d be proud of her. And you can leave her out of your will, she’ll not be needing anything to do with money. Though I’ll tell you, she’s got a problem with material things … Got some more news of your children. You ready? Abe’s been in jail.
Jake was shocked.
He wrote me a long letter about what had happened, of these four guys attacking him and his mate, who turned out spineless and yet the one who invited the trouble in the first place.
Jake couldn’t help himself: I hope he gave a good account of himself.
Jake?
Four against one, what’s he meant to do — cuddle them?
He could have run.
Never. And even you don’t believe that, Beth. Your own son running? No way. Or you run from every bully and thug.
She gave that a moment’s thought. Nodded, in a qualified kind of way. He wrote that his violent reaction was like becoming his father — you, Jake. See the legacy violence leaves?
Of course he did — now. Sometimes violence can be a good thing. (Maybe even righteous.)
Not in my household. And I’m not getting on your case, Jake. Just letting you know that your son was trying to reject violence but got claimed by your genes.
What if it was Maori warrior genes? Jake asked from his thoughts of latter years.
Probably some of that as well. And don’t get me onto the Maori warrior subject. For the last thirty years my poor husband has worried and thought himself to distraction over trying to figure out why his Maori people have such a problem with violence.
You know something? I’ve asked myself the same question the last few years. Is it in our genes, from centuries of nothing but fighting?
Charlie says a culture of war stops a people evolving, advancing. They don’t develop anything to distract them from war. No trades, no craftsmen, no intellectuals. Just endless shedding of blood.
Like how I used to be.
Yes, Jake. How you used to be. She didn’t see his eyes glaze over.
None so deaf, he said, as we who won’t listen.
Is it won’t listen, or can’t hear?
A bit of both.
She smiled. Now that’s a real man talking. The good news is Abe won his appeal, yesterday. Part of the reason I invited myself here, to tell you. Yes, yes, Jake, when you thought it was your sex appeal all along. That too. She smiled sexily at him and he responded in kind. They had something all right.
Abe’s employer’s been a great support and Abe is going straight back to his position as foreman at a sheetmetal factory. He says prison taught him to have ambition — and never to be violent again. Another Heke who’s broken the cycle, Jake.
Jake found himself telling her of returning to his home village, of finding his mother still alive and how there was no love lost between them. I went back looking for little jakey, Beth. To see if I could find what made him tick. Where it all started.
And did you find him? She asked that in the quietest way.
Not really. Found a mother who didn’t know how to love her own, and me the son who grew up doing the same. I found mostly sad memories, some worse than sad. Saw boys I grew up with grown into men who won’t — can’t — change. I found a lot of wasted years and, nearly, my own wasted life. How my life wasted others’ lives. That question of yours, Beth: won’t or can’t. I still don’t know.
A bit of both, you said. Though my thinking is we all have to take responsibility at some stage.
Jake found his head lowering, for just a moment, in muttering, maybe it’s can’t.
Jake? she said his name in a semi-whisper. If only you’d talked like this long ago, how would our lives have been, honey?
He forced the smile, to hold off the pain. How would we have been? Well, our family would have had two more and our Nig would have his own business, say a road-making business. And Grac
e would be the most beautiful graduate from university, and Abe would’ve been — we wouldn’t know ourselves, Beth.
No, she said, we wouldn’t know ourselves. They both walked easily into the following contemplative silence.
What of my other kids? Jake asked. Though it felt strange calling them his kids.
Huata’s in Sydney somewhere. Not up to much. Though I do know he’s not violent. He’s a drinker and I guess the one in our family who won’t go far in life. Boogie — or Mark as my Charlie insisted we get back to calling him — your son Mark practices law in Wellington.
I give you and Charlie all the credit there. Jake looked away, feeling ashamed.
Boogs — I still call him that — started off with a big firm, but felt they were too focused on making money, whereas he wanted intellectual challenge.
Wanted what?
Intellectual challenge. Don’t talk like that, Jake. It’s so self-disrespectful. You know damn well what an intellect is, you probably have more of one than you care to admit.
Not me. Jake made a monkey face. She tickled him in the ribs and suggested he might keep certain of his non-intellectual qualities. And he said, To think, Beth, hearing you talk like this.
To which she replied, To think, Jake the Muss, knowing you as this kind of gentle man. But back to our lawyer son. He’s with a small law firm, specialises in commercial stuff, loves it. You know I’m a legal secretary and, yes, I have wondered what if I’d been born in other circumstances. Would I have become a lawyer, or in business, a doctor, who knows? She clapped her hands together to bring the wondering to an end. Boogie’s girlfriend is half-Samoan.
Samoan! Jake with mock exaggerated outrage. No son of mine’s bringing home a bloody coconut! Beth laughed and asked where he was getting that from. Gordon Trambert, he said his parents used to say that to him about Maoris. You’ll not bring any Maori niggers to this house!
Rednecks.
Same as brown-necks. Racists the same.
She’s a doctor.
To which Jake shook his head again and mumbled how much the world had changed. Said in a mocking tone, What’s happening to the Hekes, to my proud fighting line? When he couldn’t be more pleased.
Charlie gets the credit — again.
Don’t remind me.
Polly is anti-poor, meaning she hates that me-poor attitude. But she’s so materialistic — and please don’t ask what that word means or I’ll be the one who’s violent, Mr Heke. She talks money and expensive toys the whole damn time. But she’ll get over it — I hope. And if I wasn’t here, immorally and illicitly, in bed with you, Mr Charmer, then I’d be saying our lives turned out pretty jolly good, all in all.
But seeing as you’re here … ?
A problem I’ve yet figured how to deal with. I was going to own up to Charlie. But.
But you couldn’t?
Not yet. Now, do you have real coffee? No? Or … ?
Sure I’ve got real coffee. What else would it be in a jar labelled coffee?
I meant coffee you make from freshly ground beans, not instant.
Shit, woman. What’s wrong with tea? Now get up and make the bed, he mocked of his old self.
Sure. And how’d you like your fried eggs — top of your head or hot in your face — Mister? Both of them laughing at the memories, even those ones. Now they could. Tea will be fine. No milk, no sugar. Any lemon?
He looked at her, not sure if to grin or be really serious. He said, You know what? You’ve got sorta posh.
Have I? Her eyes without apology.
Yeah. Classier — a whole lot classier. You could mix with the Isobel Tramberts of this world easily. Couldn’t you?
I mix with whoever I take a liking to, of whatever class. Talking of the Tramberts, was that their son who got beaten up? The incident that later involved a bunch of cowboy vigilantes?
He’s the son. Young hoods got what they deserved.
My husband wouldn’t agree. Says it’s the law of the jungle.
He wasn’t sure he liked hearing her call another man her husband, or that he had opposing views on vigilantes.
To think, you and Mr Trambert are friends and you rent this cottage of his. You ever talk about Grace?
No, Jake answered.
Do you know the son?
Seen him around over the years, till he disappeared off the scene. Nice kid, but bit of a skinny little wimp. The old Jake would’ve kicked the boy’s arse for being a wimp.
You wouldn’t, and you didn’t. I’ll say that for the old you, Jake. You never laid a hand on children.
Only you. His eyes shining clear with the guilt he had learned to carry. Alistair was living in a flat in Pine Block. Kid of his background. You wouldn’t believe his parents’ house they live in, their furniture and paintings and old books and stuff.
Maybe I would. Maybe I live a bit like that myself. Not that I’m boasting about it. I just live so differently.
So I can tell. Me, I live still just outside of spitting distance of how it was, though I don’t see those old friends. Still basic Jake Heke though.
Without the Muss tag, which comes off you like a glowing, in case you weren’t aware.
He smiled. Is that right?
Yes, she said. Glow of a man at peace with himself.
Which decided him he’d best not tell her of the vigilante thing, she’d not reconcile it with how she saw him (and how I truly am). I own this house now, he informed her. Or the bank does, less my deposit. Now Jake’s got a legacy to leave.
You always had a legacy, Jake Heke. Just that it was a bit on the negative side.
Well, now it’s not. And his name’s Gordon, not Mr.
Old habit. I used to sit in that state house looking out the kitchen window at his house before he sold up the land around it that added to Pine
Block. Tell me, is he like I thought he was, rich and happy? He’s not rich. Keeps doing bad business deals. Comes up here for a beer and a shoulder to cry on from time to time. The marriage’s no good, don’t know why they stick with each other. So not happy either. But I like him.
Beth got out of bed. Looked fantastic, her body, for a forty-eight year old. Jake made tea, a silence fell between them. Like saying silently it just couldn’t continue.
As if by summons, Beth’s cellphone went off — like a burglar alarm she likened it to in the instant. Took the call, with pressed fingers to her lips at Jake. He saw the distance between them widening, and they both knew it. She said goodbye to Charlie and I love you. Looked at Jake, caught in a moment of guilt and more guilt.
Charlie wants my help with Rachel. She’s in a state. He asked where I was. I said at a friend’s.
I heard you. Now Jake was making a decision. We should call it quits now, while we’re ahead.
She swallowed, took eyes away, though the room hadn’t much to look at by way of adornment. As he’d said, this was just basic Jake Heke, who wasn’t into home decoration. Though she had noticed the vase of flowers, from several visits ago, and it was always with fresh blooms and not for her sake.
I got a secret to tell you. You won’t like it. (Or will she? This would decide things, show who she really belonged with, Charlie or me.)
Maybe not. But I’ll like the trust, the sharing.
Those vigilantes?
Yes.
I was one of them.
Oh, Jake. Jesus Christ. So you’re not over your violence?
I feel I am. Except when it’s necessary. You bring it out like a weapon if you’re threatened.
But you weren’t involved. You only knew the father of the victim. How is that your fight? Since when were you and your vigilante mob appointed to be the law of this land?
So you agree with your husband?
God, Jake, I believed you. In you, of the better man you’d apparently become.
He lifted his head, not for a moment feeling ashamed. I am a better man.
What of the innocents who get dragged in? The Nigs and the Abes you might h
ave beaten — again. And the little jakeys, who knew no better, condemned by your version of justice. She took some time of staring at him — into him, it was clear — before she said softly, Sorry. I’m applying my newly acquired moral standards to you when I have no right.
They weren’t innocent. I’d do it again if it was the same kind of thugs. The man I am now would know if I was wrong. And I’m not.
I loved you once, Jakey. Then hated you. Learned to love you again and a whole lot differently. But you’re right, we must call it quits. She turned and headed for the door. In a few moments you’ll be gone.
Me, gone? He found a smile; fighting emotion himself. Not gone. Jake’s got a long shadow, and that’s a cooling one when you’re wanting, what’s the word?
Respite? She’d stopped.
Comfort, too.
And love?
His smile broke some tears loose. He wiped them. Her eyes were brimming over.
(The man throwing the shadow has learned that. Love for himself regardless of who and what he was. Love for what I am now.) You go back to a good man, Bethy. And forget I ever existed.
I could never do that, Jakey. We have children, if nothing else.
Been good knowing you, Bethy. Sorry.
You too, Jake.
She smiled and kept on walking.
About the Author
Alan Duff was born in Rotorua in 1950 and now lives in Havelock North with his wife and younger children. He has published five previous novels (Once Were Warriors, One Night Out Stealing, What Becomes of the Broken Hearted? Both Sides of the Moon and Szabad), a novella (State Ward) and three non-fiction works (Maori: The Crisis and the Challenge, Out of the Mists and Steam and Alan Duff’s Maori Heroes). Once Were Warriors won the PEN Best First Book for Fiction Award and along with What Becomes of the Broken Hearted? was made into an internationally acclaimed film for which he wrote the original screenplay. He works as a full-time writer.
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