I Have a Bed Made of Buttermilk Pancakes

by Jaclyn Moriarty

  Inside the envelope, just as she suspected, there was another of the A.E.’s visions.

  ‘Well,’ said Marbie aloud, ‘so much for his broken heart.’

  Then she found a small typed note glued to the back of the vision.

  ‘Uh!’ said Marbie, and sneezed hayfeverishly. She had suspected it was too much to hope, that she could simply walk away from the A.E. and all his little brush fires.

  She stood in her doorway now, re-reading the letter. Certainly, she would not allow him to blackmail her like this. That much was clear. She supposed she would have to resume her evening visits to his house. She would have to watch TV with him, and eat his crunchy lasagne, and argue with him about the Secret. ‘But I don’t want to sleep with him again,’ she pointed out, firmly.

  Then she realised with a slow shock that she would have to sleep with him again. If she resumed her visits, eventually he would greet her in his boxers and bow tie again, and say, ‘Marbie, this can not go on.’

  ‘No,’ said Marbie, raising her eyebrows, ‘it cannot.’ He had been blackmailing her. She just had not seen it.

  She walked back into the house, clapping her hands together softly, which was her way of thinking. Then she sat at her computer and began to type.

  Sir:

  I write with respect to a patient of mine (Marbleweed Zing). Ms Zing informed me recently that she had commenced a ‘relationship’ with you. I was delighted to hear it – her condition generally frightens the fellows away.

  As she will have informed you, Ms Zing suffers from severe paranoid delusions, generally revolving around her parents’ garden shed. When suffering from these delusions, she believes such things as: the shed appears only when it rains; the shed is used as a base for spying on a 2nd-grade school teacher; aliens have eaten the shed (catalogued delusions: #32, #49 and #102) – and so on.

  I hope that Ms Zing has not succumbed to any of these delusions in your presence; however, she can be absent-minded and occasionally forgets to take her medication.

  It has occurred to me that you might like to assist her in this manner. Occasional, gentle reminders can do a world of good – as you no doubt know, she is somewhat embarrassed by her pills (they are inconspicuous, small and red) and conceals them with her hayfever medication. Take them out of the plastic! Dangle them good-naturedly before her nose! Tap her on the head with the box! Little things like this can only help.

  Finally, Ms Zing mentioned that you write ‘visions’ because you have a sort of artistic ‘beast’ tearing away at your insides. My professional view is that you give up the poetry and try a sport instead. Have you considered hunting?

  Please do contact me if you have any queries regarding Ms Zing. Together we can work to crack this nut!

  Yours sincerely,

  Doctor Arthur G. Gravestein MD, PhD, FRACS, FACS,

  FHKAM (Psych.)

  Fortunately, Marbie had sufficient software, precedent letterheads, thick white stationery, and authoritative stamps to make the letter look genuine. The Zings had stockpiles of such equipment.

  Also, fortunately, she was accustomed to breaking in to other people’s homes. In fact, Intrusion and Maintenance used to be her field of expertise, until Cath got the cat, which made Marbie sneeze and affected her work.

  Although the A.E. was a nuisance, she was pleased about doing another break-in, for old time’s sake. She drove to his neighbourhood at 2 am, parked a block away, broke in through the bathroom window and planted, in the back of his top bathroom drawer, a box of her hayfever tablets. Inside the box she had hidden two small red pills.

  Down the hallway, she could hear the A.E. mutter and grumble in his sleep. ‘Tch,’ she said to herself, and climbed back out into the street.

  She was home again by 2.15 am.

  Afterwards, when the adrenaline had faded, Marbie lay in bed alone, wondering at herself. It had been foolish enough to get involved with the

  A.E. in the first place, but why had she entangled herself further by telling him the Secret? She had never told anyone before Vernon, and requesting permission to tell him had seemed such a turning point. Her mother and Fancy had formed a sub-committee which decided, rapidly, that she was sufficiently committed to Vernon, that he was sufficiently in love with her, that he was an all-round wonderful guy, and that therefore she could tell him.

  It was as if she had announced her engagement. Everyone congratulated her, and Radcliffe said, mysteriously, ‘You’ll keep him forever now, you know – the Secret’s got a lot of pull with your average bloke.’

  Her memory of telling the A.E. was less clear. She recalled a sensation of urgency; a compulsion to tell him. Yet she must have known the risk. He could have used it to ruin her family. Had she wanted to ruin her family?

  Her drowsy mind began to toss images about: her mother pulling the shed door closed; her father, squinting at surveillance equipment; Fancy leaping smartly from a window to a tree. She was confused. There was something, she thought, so exquisitely fragile about these images. Her family, it seemed to her now, were always on the verge of catastrophe.

  Of course they were. Their entire life was built on the foundation of a Secret. All it would take was one small slip of the tongue, and the foundation would collapse. The suspense, said Marbie’s mind now, was killing you.

  This was a familiar idea. Pre-empting disaster by welcoming it. Perhaps, she reflected, a lifetime of suspense about the Secret had found its way into every corner of her life.

  Marbie’s ideas began to fragment again: she saw sea urchins sink beneath sand on the ocean floor; she saw Fancy, a teenager, standing in the beach house, declaring she had done something incredible. A chalkboard stood outside a beachside takeaway: rain fell against it languidly, washing away the specials.

  Dearest Vernon,

  I’ll tell you one of the many things that I love about you.

  The way you can take two cans of Coke from the fridge in a shop, and carry them to the counter in one hand. You can hold two cans of Coke, one for me and one for you, in a single, outstretched hand.

  Love,

  Marbie

  Early on Friday morning, Listen remembered she was allowed to do the next spell. Vernon was already in the Banana Bar, so she had the caravan to herself. There were only a few pages left in the book, she realised, and the spell began by declaring itself to be the third from last.

  Yep, only two more Spells after this one! And then? All will be well! Why, you may ask? Ask no questions and I’ll tell you no lies. Curiosity and the cat, eh? No use crying over spilt milk? No use at all! Go ahead and mop it up! By the way, after this Spell, you can do the next Spell on Thursday week!!

  What had happened to the Spell Book? It was getting manic.

  Anyway, here is A Spell To Make A Person Get Stung By A Bee.

  Listen paused. She had been determined not to do any more spells that could hurt people, and bee stings stung.

  Still, there were only two more spells, and all would be well. And people were always getting stung by bees – it was no big deal.

  Ingredients

  • You

  • A Complete Stranger

  Method

  Introduce yourself to the Complete Stranger by shaking the Stranger’s hand, saying ‘Hi!’ and giving your name. Now, say the following things to the Complete Stranger (in the following order):

  • Are you the sorcerer?

  • Do you, possibly, have the flying carpet?

  • Do you happen to have the ingredients for carrot pie handy?

  • Consider this, Stranger: I have hardly even caught your name, and yet I feel I know your every thought. What can it mean?

  ‘Oh, come on,’ said Listen, and she threw the book onto the caravan floor.

  Later that day, the final bell was ringing when the counsellor put her head in the door of Listen’s classroom and called, ‘May I borrow Listen Taylor again?’

  Listen followed her across the school playground but this time they
did not go to her office. Instead, they stopped outside the library door. The Redwood School Library was one small room with plate glass windows, through which you could see pictures of cartoon hippopotamuses glued to the wall. A large stuffed-toy zebra ate leaves from a crepe paper tree, and picture books were opened on display.

  A girl stood just outside the library door. Her fringe was so long it almost covered her eyes and she was wearing torn jeans and a small gold stud in her chin.

  ‘Here you are again,’ said Mrs Woodford, smiling at the girl as though she did not have a gold stud in her chin.

  ‘Listen Taylor, I’d like you to meet a new Year 7 student – this is Annie Webb. She’s just moved to the area and will be joining your school next week! I’ve given Annie a quick tour, but I thought I might let you tell her all about life here at Redwood, not to mention life at St Carmel’s. Okay?’

  ‘Okay,’ agreed Listen, politely.

  Mrs Woodford smiled at them both and hurried away toward the staffroom.

  Annie Webb stepped away from the library door, so now they were standing in the middle of the path, staring at one another.

  ‘So,’ said the new girl, and scratched the skin around her chin-stud. They both turned and watched Mrs Woodford crossing the playground.

  ‘Mmm,’ agreed Listen.

  ‘Whatever,’ said the new girl.

  They both laughed.

  ‘What was your last school like?’ Listen tried.

  ‘A shit-hole,’ said Annie.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Listen. ‘Well, this one is too. It’s only temporary, because of the flood, not that St Carmel’s is any better.’

  The new girl nodded slowly, and swivelled on the heel of her shoe. ‘I might not be coming to your school anyway,’ she said. ‘I didn’t tell that teacher, but my mum and me are checking out a couple in the area today. So we can make a proper decision. Anyway, what did she say your name was again?’

  Well, thought Listen, I have nothing to lose.

  ‘Hi,’ she said, holding out her hand to shake the new girl’s hand. ‘I’m Listen Taylor. Are you the sorcerer? Do you, possibly, have the flying carpet? Do you happen to have the ingredients for carrot pie handy? Consider this, Stranger: I have hardly even caught your name, and yet I feel I know your every thought. What can it mean?’

  Annie Webb was staring. Eventually, she whispered, ‘Did you just ask for the ingredients of carrot pie?’

  Listen bit her lower lip.

  ‘Wow,’ said Annie, shaking her head slowly: ‘You really think you know my every thought?’

  Listen was not sure how to answer or explain without breaking the spell. She tried to put a mysterious expression on her face.

  ‘I have to go now.’ Annie walked backwards away from her. She didn’t seem to need to see where she was going; she continued to watch Listen carefully as she walked. ‘My mum’s waiting, so I have to go. Maybe I’ll see you next week if I choose this school? Though I’ve got to say, I probably won’t choose it. The uniform sucks.’

  Listen nodded.

  Anaphylactic shock, said Marbie to herself. It was late Friday night, and Fancy had phoned her from a hospital pay phone to let her know that Cassie had been stung by a bee.

  ‘But she knows she’s allergic,’ Marbie said. ‘What was she doing outside in bare feet?’

  Fancy explained that she had actually been wearing sandals, but, according to Cassie, the bee had wanted to sting her.

  ‘What I don’t understand,’ said Marbie, ‘is why a bee would want to sting someone. Don’t they die as soon as they use their sting?’

  Fancy agreed that it was odd, but suggested that the bee did not know.

  Now Marbie sat in the beanbag and thought about bees, wasps, peanut dust, and funnel web spiders hidden in sneakers. She thought about how you could run over the cord of an electric lawnmower, or slip on an ice-cube and knock yourself out, or accidentally leave the gas on and fall into a coma. A beach umbrella could stab you between the eyes. You could suffocate in this very beanbag.

  THURSDAY NIGHT

  Two weeks later, almost midnight on a Thursday night, Cath Murphy lay beneath her featherdown quilt and waited.

  ‘We just need to wait,’ Warren had promised, again, that morning. ‘It’s seriously coming to a head – Breanna and I don’t love each other anymore. It’s gone. The love is gone.’

  Cath sat up now on the side of her bed and stamped in sudden fury on the floor. Then she calmed herself and climbed back underneath the covers. She lay still, patiently.

  A steamroller started at her toes and clanked against the bolts in her knees. Her thighs and her stomach were flattened now, and her neck and her face quite crushed.

  Almost midnight on the same Thursday night, Fancy Zing sat on the living room floor and studiously turned the pages of a prize-winning novel.

  Radcliffe wandered into the room, in boxer shorts and sports socks, nodded at her on the floor, and picked up the crocheted blanket from the couch.

  ‘That’s the ticket!’ He lay down on the couch, carefully positioning the blanket over his body, and closed his eyes.

  ‘Haven’t heard from Cath yet, have you?’ he said, after a while.

  ‘No,’ she said, and turned another page. ‘I’m still waiting.’

  ‘Well, she promised she’d call. I’m sure she will. Good night then.’ He snuggled into the couch.

  Fancy read on for a moment. Then she looked up at Radcliffe: at his socks with their ribbed ankles, and the hole where his big toe poked out. His elbows seemed to stretch at the blanket. His eyes seemed self-consciously closed.

  ‘I love you, Fancy,’ said Radcliffe, unexpectedly, in a sleepy drawl, without opening his eyes.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, politely, and then she took a breath and added, ‘Me too.’

  Radcliffe chuckled and turned to face the wall. The blanket slipped slightly to the floor.

  Meanwhile, Cassie lay in bed and reflected on the crankiness. There was so much around that she could hear it.

  First, it had happened at school: Ms Murphy had talked in a loud smile like an ad for Kmart. ‘Well now!’ she had said. ‘Let’s say we talk about dinosaurs!’

  ‘Let’s say we bring in some dinosaurs for show and tell!’ said Mark Baxter.

  Ms Murphy screamed as if Mark had shown her a tarantula. But the scream turned out to be a laugh.

  At home, her father had talked all night about pedestrian crossings. Her mother lined up all the mugs on one side of the dishwasher, threw the dishcloth onto the floor, and moved all the mugs to the other side.

  Now Cassie could hear the scritchy, angry noise of crankiness. It was a sound that scrabbled around the edges of all other sounds. When she turned over in bed, for example, the rustle of her sheets and the elastic bounce of the mattress were exaggerated. Even the sounds she made herself – she made a ‘hmm’ sound to test it, and clapped her hands together – even these sounds were louder than usual, collecting the crankiness around them. It was like those days when she had asthma and didn’t notice at first – she’d be walking around happily, and then would realise that an extra sound, the sound of her own wheezing, was scrabbling around the edges of her breath.

  Almost midnight on the same Thursday night, Marbie twitched and clicked in her sleep. She was dreaming of a letter she was writing at work: the penultimate paragraph, in this dream, had dislodged itself from the rest of the letter, and its words were clattering like marbles to the floor.

  Marbie woke with a gasp at the sound of the marbles, and peered into the deep spring darkness of the room. She waited for the shadows to take shape.

  In the caravan behind the Banana Bar, Listen lay awake and thought of: recess, lunchtime, after school, before school, choose-a-partner, form-a-team, and worst of all, she thought: school camp.

  The school camp would begin tomorrow morning. It would span the weekend and half of Monday. She had tried to persuade Vernon to send an excuse letter, but he took her education too s
eriously.

  ‘I could stay and help in the café,’ she had offered, ‘and catch up on my homework. In the long run, it would be better for both of us.’

  ‘I’m not letting you miss out on a camp to help in the café,’ Vernon had replied calmly. ‘What kind of a brother would I be? Don’t worry, you’ll have a great time. Donna and the others will be there, won’t they?’

  Now Listen’s head was so heavy she was surprised that the pillow could hold it. She thought she might go outside, climb a telegraph pole and get electrocuted. Or else climb under the caravan bunk-bed where a snake might poison her. Anything was better than a weekend full of bus seats, cabins, free time, night time:

  • Bus seats – she would walk down the aisle of the school-camp bus past girls with their bags and their legs curled beside them, meaning: this seat is saved for a friend.

  • Cabins – girls would crowd around bulletin boards filling in ten names, ten friends for a cabin.

  • Free time – ‘Okay,’ the teachers would say, ‘everybody off now, out of our hair, for the entire day!’ and girls would rush to the bush, to the bathroom, to the lake.

  • Night time – ‘Okay,’ the teachers would say, ‘lights off, everybody quiet!’ and girls would cluster together for séances or smoking or climbing out through windows.

  The clock-radio, which they kept on the caravan sink, said 11.56 pm. She had gone to bed at 10 pm, and she was still not asleep. Only four more minutes until Friday, she thought sadly.

  Then she realised that meant four minutes left of Thursday, and she had not yet done the next spell. The second-last spell in the book. She had been so distracted by the school camp she had completely forgotten it. Now it would be too late. She could never do a whole spell in four minutes.