by Joy Dettman
‘Is more bigger, but not for you to have vorry, darlink. I vill get loan, ven I finish pay my daughter’s teeth. She ’ave the cross teeth.’
What was money to me? I’d inherited all my father possessed, a grand old house in Brighton, his savings, share portfolio, mother’s jewellery. I also had a healthy income of my own. I wrote a cheque that night and pressed him to take it, delighted that I could save Mama months of pain. One day soon she’d be my own mama; he’d asked me to marry him, and I’d accepted, though we had agreed to delay the announcement until after the first anniversary of his wife’s death.
For the past ten years Peggy and I had met for lunch on the third Wednesday of each month. I was tempted to cancel the meeting, but she is my only remaining family. We managed two courses that Wednesday without once mentioning our love lives, but when our coffees arrived, she looked me in the eye and said: ‘I’ve got to say it, mate. That sleaze will bleed you dry.’ She was now temping at a bank – at my bank, where her enquiring mind had led her to glance at my account details. I’d recently cashed in a forty thousand term deposit.
‘How dare you, Peggy! Is there no privacy?’
‘Computers don’t understand the concept, mate. I just hit the keys –’
‘I gave him a small loan, which he’ll repay when he can.’
‘Don’t hold your breath.’
I left my coffee on the table and picked up my handbag to leave. She followed me to the register.
‘I’ve been asking around, had a talk to my old boss. He told me the sleaze took one of the female teachers for twenty thousand. And you know Margo, who does my hair? Well he was on with her sister-in-law for three months, until she lent him her car. She had to hire a couple of her neighbour’s kids to pinch it back.’
I didn’t wait for my change. No doubt she collected it.
In October, Zolton wept in my arms, too distraught to make love. It was the anniversary of his wife’s death and he could not afford even a modest tombstone to mark her resting place.
‘Her grave is a vound in the earth where the veeds grow tall, my darlink. My children cry to me, Papa, did you not care for our mama?’
I offered to go with him to choose the stone, but he wished to do it alone. As I counted out sufficient notes to cover the bill, I asked about Mama’s operation. ‘Did it go well, dear?’
‘Operation?’
‘Mama’s hand.’
‘Ah yes. She is now move two finger – a little. They vill do other hand very soon. I hope very soon. Such pain, she suffer. Some night I do not sleep for hear her cry viss agony.’
The following Sunday, Peggy had the nerve to knock on my door.
‘I am working, Peggy. My novel is overdue, and if you’re going to start on Zolton again, then you’re not welcome here,’ I warned.
‘One coffee, mate. I’ve got something to show you.’ Her current position was in the office of a large department store chain. Once seated, coffee before her, she pushed a computer printout beneath my nose: ‘Hilda May Verona. Next of kin – Zolton Verona.’
‘She’s married to the sleaze, mate.’
‘He’s a widower.’ I pushed the page aside. ‘You’re jealous because I’ve found love, Peggy. I would never have believed my own cousin could stoop so low. Please leave.’
‘What did I tell you in high school? Never confuse love with a good roll in the hay –’
‘Out!’
‘Just one more thing. I went to see Hilda, told her I was from the census bureau. She’s been married to him for twenty years and she’s got five sons.’
‘Zolton has two daughters and his wife died a year ago.’
‘Not quite.’ Peggy was out that door and I was attempting to close it. ‘Almost though. She’d moved in with her mother, and Zolton came around and attacked her with a knife. One of their sons hit him over the head with a cricket bat and he fell on the knife – almost cut his thumb off. They ended up driving him to the hospital. Check it for a three inch diagonal scar across the palm.’ I slammed the door. ‘Right hand,’ she yelled.
I stood staring at that door but seeing my love’s scarred right palm. I’d kissed it, mourned for the music his cruel father had stolen from him. I couldn’t move. My mind was a turmoil of denial, battling logic. She’d seen his photograph, but had never met him. How could she know of his poor scarred hand? It could not be true. I would not allow it to be true.
Then it came to me. Of course. She and her hairdresser had concocted that fiction between them. But how could her hairdresser know of that scar unless the tale of her sister-in-law’s involvement with Zolton was true?
The telephone rang. It was Peggy – on her mobile.
‘Forgot to ask you – what’s happened to your new car, mate? I didn’t see it. Incidentally, Margo’s sister-in-law got hers back –’
I hung up.
Six months of Zolton’s love had cost me more than my shrinking bank balance. My new novel had lost the plot. Each time I sat at it, I added a new element. The female detective, a lesbian in the early pages, was now in love with a concert pianist – a male. I had written myself into a corner and could not find my way out, and my publisher was on the telephone weekly, asking when I’d have a final draft.
Two weeks later I was forced to sell a few thousand BHP shares, but how could I in all conscience make poor Mama wait three years for her operation when I had the money to ease her pain now? Perhaps it could wait until after the wedding. Perhaps I should be more assertive, demand to meet his family, tell him I wanted a Christmas wedding.
With no car, I walked each morning to the library determined to somehow sort out my detective’s love life. It was a long walk and my laptop computer heavy, still, Zolton’s need was greater than mine. An independent man, he was now working six nights a week, playing piano at various clubs.
‘Vorkink for our future, my darlink,’ he explained. ‘I vill not take you for vife until I ’ave somethink to offer.’
‘You are exhausting yourself, darling. This old house is too large for me. Move Mama and your daughters in here, then you can at least come home to me at night. Let me take care of you.’
‘This I vant so very much, but later, ven I show I am vorthy of your love.’
I missed Peggy, saw Zolton only on Tuesday evenings and he was rarely up to lovemaking. Loneliness is not a kind companion and a fiction writer’s imagination is apt to play cruel tricks. The following Tuesday, after a late dinner, I opened Mother’s jewellery box, slid her engagement ring – a large ruby, with three diamonds on each shoulder – onto my finger. I slipped on Mother’s wedding ring to sit comfortably beside it.
‘Forget your pride, my love. Marry me now. Let your family be my family, your concerns be my concerns.’
He took the rings from my finger, held the ruby to the light, kissed me, then sadly shook his head, closed and locked the jewellery box and handed me the key.
‘I vill buy new vedding ring for new life, darlink. This I must do, to prove my love is true.’
Christmas was almost upon us and still no date set. When he hadn’t arrived by seven that final Tuesday, I was concerned. He had driven up to a country school that morning where he hoped to gain a teaching position. If successful, he’d promised we’d wed, sell my home, and begin a new life in a new town with Mama and his girls. As the hour grew later, I began to fear for him. I saw him lying injured on the road, saw my little red car crushed. By nine I was frantic and as I reached for the phone to call the police, it rang. I picked it up, fearing the worst.
It was Peggy. ‘Don’t hang up. I’m on my mobile and my battery is flat but if you want to catch a rat, red-handed, he’s at Ricardo’s in –’
‘Playing the piano? On a Tuesday?’
‘No. Dining out with an old blonde –’
‘You’re mistaken. He’s in the country.’
‘Well your car isn’t. I was driving by with Mick and I recognised your car’s numberplate. The sleaze is sitting opposite a blonde
dame and they’re drinking champagne. Whoops. He’s kissing her hand – no, her ring. Now she’s kissing him. Get down here quick! You’ve got to see –’ The line went dead.
I called a taxi and when I got there I found Peggy standing at the restaurant window, alone. Mick, her new temporary male, had gone home. There was no need to enter the restaurant. I could see the meals on their table, see the woman, sixty if she was a day, see her hand – and Mother’s diamond and ruby ring!
I ran for my car, Peggy behind me. The spare key was in my bag, but too upset to drive, I handed it to Peggy. She drove me home and stayed on, spending the night in my spare bed.
Still awake at two-thirty, I heard my front door squeak open, heard his footsteps in the passage, heard the shower’s hiss. I rose and walked to the bathroom.
‘Forgive me, my darlink. I try not vake you. Ah much trouble I ’ave tonight. I vas in country for interviewing and vas have car stole.’
‘Did you get the position?’
‘No. My hand . . . is restrict my performing. So sorry, darlink. I vill get good job soon.’ I drew back the shower curtain and stood a moment, looking at his beloved naked form as he offered a weary smile. ‘Look as much as you like, darlink, but I am too exhaust for the lovink. Too many train. Too many bus. Much vorry for you,’ he explained, stepping back to evade my seeking hand.
I wasn’t reaching for him, but for the cold water tap. I turned it off. My laughter was a mite maniacal – as was the scream of a scalded rat.
Here the tale should end, with Zolton Verona running into the night, wet, naked as a babe, a shoe clasped to his more vulnerable protuberances, Peggy pursuing him, clad in a floral bedsheet, well matched to her colourful adjectives. But it did not end there.
A long week passed during which Peggy located mother’s engagement ring. The elderly blonde refused to return it and as the police showed little interest, Margo’s sister-in-law’s young neighbours again proved helpful – and for a mere five hundred dollars. Mother’s ring is safe again in her jewellery box.
The aging blonde, also unable to gain satisfaction from the police, went to a current affairs program, and for some weeks their cameras were focused on me. The publicity delighted my publishers, and the week of its release, my new novel hit the bestseller list.
His abusive phone calls had been ongoing for some time before I reported them, but the calls were traced to various mobile phones, none of which were registered in his name. The following month, my little Honda was stolen and torched. It was fully insured so I bought a new Merc, silver grey. In March, he broke in to and defiled my house, though took little of value. Mother’s jewellery now resided in the bank.
Again I accused him, but apart from his fingerprints, which of course could be explained, there was no evidence. While a team of cleaners cleaned and painters painted, I moved in with Peggy – a pleasant interlude; however, on my return home, the harassment continued.
It happened on a Saturday in mid July, almost a year to the day after our first meeting. When I arrived home from the library at two pm, I found my bathroom tap dry. At the same instant I became aware of a scraping coming from beneath the newly tiled floor. Rats, I thought. Some years ago I had been troubled with rats in the ceiling; rat bait had quickly fixed that problem. I found an unopened packet on my laundry shelf and walked with it to the rear of my house where I found the small access door wide open! At that moment, I identified the rat beneath my bathroom floor.
Crouched low between the branches of the daphne bush, I waited unmoving until, in the darkness, I sighted his head. I tossed the packet of rat bait at it before slamming the access door and slipping the sturdy bolt home.
Much noise followed, but my CD player was a powerful model and the overture from William Tell had always been one of Zolton’s favourites. I played it for an hour while walking the brick walls, listening at the air vents set into the lower brick work. At one of the vents his roar overrode the overture.
A novelist is a fictional problem solver. My mind working overtime, I loaded six disks into my player, turned the volume up a notch and considered the situation from a fictional viewpoint. Police? Peggy? Pepper.
Where there is a will there is a way, my father had often said to me. A liberal tablespoon of pepper, when impelled on its way through the air vent by a hair-dryer plugged into a long extension lead, took only seconds to turn his roar into frenetic sneezing.
Pepper is not sold by the kilo, which necessitated my visiting three supermarkets in order to obtain a reasonable quantity. I also bought three twenty-litre containers of spring water, having previously turned the stop tap off at the meter.
Bathing was not possible, nor could I use my sink. Given that rat’s versatility and the possible tools he’d taken with him beneath my house, I did not doubt he would gain access to my wastes. I bathed in a bucket, then recycled the water into the toilet cistern – the toilet being on an outside wall, the pipe work is all external.
Thankfully, towards the evening of the second full day, there was barely a croak out of him. My block is large and well removed from the neighbouring properties, thus I felt confident in lowering the volume of my CD player and unplugging my hair-dryer.
How often dear father had said to me when discussing his share purchases, ‘What looks too good to be true usually is.’ He had also said, and as regularly, ‘What does not kill us makes us stronger.’ I felt empowered, and each day my resolve to rid the earth of a rodent grew stronger.
There was some timid tapping at the pipes when I went about my bucket ablutions on the fourth morning, then all fell silent. Did he grow hungry, eat the rat bait? It has an odd effect on rats; their flesh is somehow absorbed from within, leaving only the skeleton and no odour at all. This might also apply to the two legged variety, it seemed, for on the seventh morning when I opened the access door, there was no odour – though it might well have been too soon. The cavity beneath my house is quite cool.
But I’ve had very little time to concern myself with that problem. My telephone has been running hot all week, then at midday yesterday, Peggy called to tell me she was again between jobs.
‘What wonderful timing,’ I said. We spoke for an hour, and during the conversation I invited her to accompany me on a world tour, coinciding with my novel’s release in several countries and culminating in London, where we will spend the English summer. We leave on Friday and will be away for six months.
Certainly when I return I will need to employ a plumber, who may well find a dead rat beneath my house, but by that time there should be insufficient left of it for the forensic detectives to determine exactly when or how it died. If I am wrong in my assumption, I may well find myself penning my next novel behind prison bars. Wonderful research of course, and as my publisher says, all publicity is good publicity.
Potato Love
Hot, steamy love. She sniffs at the heady aroma, ready. For too long she has had no love. Her thighs spread, red lips open, she trembles, gasps in ecstasy as avid eyes absorb this feast of the gods.
Then her loaded fork is lifted. Coleslaw tart, potato hot, bacon bits wrapped soft in a poultice of sour cream, her tongue makes room as her teeth close and a squish of errant cream dribbles down her chin. She reclaims it with a finger, slides it seductively into the pool of masticated flavour where red lips suck that finger clean.
A swallow. Throat wide. Eager. Piquancy passes unhindered down the gullet to the whimpering gut, while a second fork is loaded, fed into her creamy maw. Too fast, the climax. Her last swallow slow while her eyes – small, voracious insects – seek more.
The skin of memory is scraped while weasel fingers burrow to extract the last white flakes. And it is done. Her plastic plate is clean. Unwillingly she stands, walks away, memory lingering on the tongue that flicks and licks at sucking lips. A brief glance behind, a slow smile, a hand lifted to her brow in unconscious salute, a promise: I will return.
A promise made. A promise kept. Again and again to the banque
t of love she comes, her pouting lips, moist with want. Again the hot potato, the glut of cheese. Again the lush cream, the crisp bacon. She licks the fork, priming it, her tongue pink, long. And she tastes.
Perhaps it needs a sprinkle of salt? The merest touch of pepper? Tomorrow she’ll ask for pepper. Today she eats swinishly. And finishes too fast.
Each day she comes to wallow in the trough of love, but that first joyous meeting cannot be repeated. The coleslaw is a little stale, the potato far too small. Too much cream perhaps? Not enough? Next time she will ask for less . . . or more. Perhaps more. Yes. More.
Give me more. Feed me love.
She eats, and remembers the first day. Holding fast to memory, her tongue mashes the morass of flavours against the roof of her mouth, attempting to arouse that first sweet delight, but it is gone. The potato is cold, the cheese unmelted. It lies in lumps and sour clumps, and the cream, a half-serve, has been placed on top of the cheese.
She wanted it on the coleslaw. On top of the coleslaw.
I wanted it on top!
Eat and run. No time today to dwell on imperfections. She hurries away, still believing in tomorrow’s potato.
But tomorrow is a fable. It becomes today.
Not that one. No. The larger one.
A finger points. Her eyes, small cockroaches, no longer fear the light of day. They hunger. Scuttling things, darting, ranging wide.
Pepper. Yes and a little salt. Put the cheese on first, then the bacon, the coleslaw, then the cream. The pepper goes on the potato. Not on the cream! Not on the cream!
Then comes that final day of love when the fork bites deep. Potato blight? Grey-black amid the white of cream, undisguised by bacon bits, and that mound of coleslaw, fresh on some lost yesterday.
Push it away. Push it across the table, out of reach. Still that wilful fork picks and pokes, it prods in search of pleasure. It isn’t there. Was it ever there?
Savage lips suck sourly on coffee now gone cold, while she stares at that plastic plate newly set on the next table.