Tiger, Tiger

by Galaxy Craze

  “I’ll have to phone him collect,” I said.

  “Remember the time Mum phoned him collect from Spain and he got really cross?”

  “Yes, Eden, I remember.”

  I knew exactly the time he was talking about and wished he hadn’t reminded me. We had taken the boat to Spain to visit Mum’s friend, Suzy, who had rented a villa for the summer with her sister and her sister’s boyfriend. The house was in a small mountain village with no telephone or running water. In the mornings we walked down the mountain to a café in the village, where we ate warm fresh rolls with butter and jam. Mum had café con leche and Eden and I drank steamed milk with a drop of espresso or chocolate for flavor. One morning, at breakfast in the café, Mum said. “Simon would love it here, don’t you think? Let’s phone him and convince him to leave the shop for a few days and come and spend the rest of the holiday with us.”

  She paid the bill and asked for directions to the public telephone. Inside the red phone booth, in the village square, she pressed the receiver to her ear. “Collect, por favor,” she said, smiling at us because she knew she sounded funny. Her face lit up when he picked up the phone.

  “Simon, I’m so glad you picked up. It’s us, we’re calling from—”

  But the first thing he said was “Collect? Is this an emergency? This is costing me a bloody fortune.”

  Mum hung up the telephone without telling him why she was calling. The excitement had left her face, and she looked shaken. She stood for a while in the phone booth with her back to us while we waited outside, watching the children play football in the village square.

  I could feel my pulse beating in my fingertip as I pressed zero to phone collect.

  “Operator.”

  “Hello. I’d like to make a collect call to London, England.”

  “Hold please,” she said. The international operator had a northern accent. I imagined her sitting at a desk in a long room, wearing headphones and a pleated skirt.

  “We’re trying to reach our father,” I explained, but she was only interested in his telephone number.

  “Hold the line while I place your call.” There was an echo down the line and I heard the telephone ringing. The telephone was ringing in the kitchen of our house. I imagined our father, sitting up in bed or standing up from the table, walking slowly, casually, across the room. Porridge, asleep on the kitchen chair, would hear it too, lifting her head from her paws.

  There was a click and the operator’s voice. “The answer-phone picked up. You can try your call later.”

  When she said later, it sounded like layta.

  “Can I leave a message?”

  “Sorry, not on a collect call. If you call direct you can leave a message.”

  “Oh, I know, but we don’t have enough—” I said, but she had already disconnected us.

  “What happened?” Eden asked, touching my arm.

  “He didn’t answer. He must not be at home. She said to try later.”

  We stood by the pay phone, looking out at the parking lot. A man driving a pale silver-colored car pulled into the petrol station. He drove slowly, his head turning to look at us as he parked.

  Eden and I walked across the lot, back to the bench, waiting for later. Eden picked up a handful of gravel. He aimed the stones at a metal garbage can. He was talking excitedly about the things he was going to do when he got back to London.

  The man stepped out of the car and put his keys in the front pocket of his jeans. He was in his twenties with short brown hair and a handsome face. He saw me looking at him as he walked into the shop and smiled.

  “Who is that man?” Eden said.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why did he smile at you?”

  “I don’t know, Eden.”

  “I have to pee.”

  “Well, go behind a tree.”

  Eden walked behind the shop and into the woods. The morning had been warm, but now a cooler breeze was coming in. I had only worn an old white T-shirt, shorts, and sandals, and now, sitting in the sun, there were goose bumps on my arms.

  The man who had smiled at me walked out of the shop with a packet of cigarettes in his hand. He looked both ways as the door closed behind him. As he walked toward the bench where I was sitting, he unwrapped the cellophane from the cigarettes and let it fall to the ground.

  “Hey,” he said, cupping his hand to light his cigarette, but there was a breeze and he had to turn away. “The weather’s getting cooler,” he said, looking at me.

  I nodded. “Yeah, it is.”

  “Do you smoke?”

  “Sure.”

  In London, Greta had taught me to inhale and exhale properly. She said it was a good thing to learn, before I started going out to the clubs.

  He handed me a cigarette. The tip of his finger touched mine. I could see him looking at me and I liked his attention. I thought, as I held the cigarette to my lips, this would make me feel better, a man, a boyfriend to make me forget about Sati.

  “Need a light?” He cupped his hand over mine to light it. He had muscular arms. Beneath the cigarette smoke I could smell his cologne.

  “Thanks,” I said, inhaling.

  “Nice accent. Australian?”

  I shook my head; the smoke was caught in my throat. “No, English.”

  “Are you here for vacation?” When he squinted, the corners of his eyes creased. In the sun, he looked older. He spoke in a gentle voice, his light brown hair was thinning on top. There was a softness about him. His eyes were so pale, they looked as though they would disintegrate in the bright light.

  “Yeah, we’re just visiting,” I said.

  “Where are you staying?”

  “Rosemont.”

  “Rosemont? There’s not much going on there. Have you been to Filmore?”

  I shook my head. His eyes went from my face, to my chest, to the road. He smiled at me as he described the beaches in Filmore, long beaches with soft white sand and the waves great for surfing. I turned my body toward him on the bench, crossing one leg over the other, straightening, pulling my shoulders back. I exhaled with my mouth halfway open, the way I had seen Greta do.

  I wanted to ask him if he thought I was pretty, if that’s why he was talking to me. It was a question inside—why Sati chose Valerie and left me—and I thought he could tell me the answer. A stranger, who I would never see again.

  “My apartment looks right at the ocean,” he said. “I wake up in the morning, and the first thing I see is the Pacific. It’s amazing. You should come see it while you’re here.”

  “Yeah,” I said. I imagined myself standing on his terrace, looking out at dark-blue waves.

  “Hey, you look like you’re getting cold.” He leaned forward and put his hand on my leg, close to the edge of my shorts. I felt the heat from his palm against my thigh. I knew what this would feel like now. We sat behind the shop; there was no one else around. I opened my legs, slightly, unsure. He looked at me, surprised. His hand moved under the hem of my shorts; his fingers grazed the edge of my underwear.

  “Do you need a ride somewhere?” His voice was almost a whisper.

  I shook my head, moving my leg away from his hand. “My brother just went to get something. We’re waiting for our father to pick us up.”

  He held his hand still, his fingers pressing firmly against my underwear. The soft expression in his eyes had changed. It was as though he were looking though a telescope at me, with a hardened focus.

  “You look really cold,” he said softly.

  I tried to close my legs, but his hand pressed against my thigh. There was no one except for the old man who worked inside the shop, and I couldn’t see him from where I sat.

  I saw Eden, walking from the trees, studying the compass in his hand. The man took his hand from my thigh, slowly, as though he were wiping something from them.

  “Just trying to be helpful.” He put the packet of cigarettes in the front pocket of his shirt. “By the way, my name’s Jack.” He hel
d his hand out for me to shake. I didn’t want to, but I held my hand out to him. “What’s yours?”

  “Alice.” I crossed my arms in front of me.

  “Alice, pretty name. Well, see you around, Alice.” I sat on the bench, watching him walk to his car. He got in and closed the door. He turned the engine on but did not drive away.

  “What took you so long?” I stood up.

  Eden shrugged. “Nothing.” He sat down next to me on the bench and the man drove out of the parking lot, his car disappearing down the road.

  “Should we try phoning him again?”

  “Yeah.”

  We stood up from the bench. I thought, as we walked past the place where the man’s car had been, that I could smell his cologne in the air.

  I picked up the telephone receiver, but this time the excitement was gone, and the phone felt heavy in my hand. The operator said there was still no answer. I put the receiver down. The sun was setting below the trees and the yellow and orange light was fading.

  Eden and I walked for a while by the side of the river, in the shaded woods. I felt the wind on my arms and through my shirt. “It’s getting dark,” Eden said. “Do you have the flashlight?”

  I opened my shoulder bag and took out the flashlight. A circle of light shone against the ground, lighting up the earth and leaves. We walked on, shining the light—on the river, across the trees—but soon the beam became dim, and the circle grew smaller.

  “The light’s fading,” Eden said. He switched it off, waiting a few minutes before turning it on again.

  “But it was just working.”

  I took it from him, shaking it. When I found it, on the shelf with the riding helmets, the light had seemed so bright in the dark cupboard, lighting up the dusty shelves and the back wall where a couple had carved their names in the wood.

  “It was working before,” I said.

  I turned it off and on again, but it only flickered and dimmed. Eden and I stared silently at the ground, watching the circle of light growing smaller and smaller. As the light faded, it seemed as though the sounds of the woods became louder: the scrape of pines and twigs beneath our feet, the shallow running water of the river.

  “What are we going to do?” Eden said.

  I shook my head. It was too dark, I thought, to try to find our way back through the woods. We were not far from the road, but if we walked alongside it, we took the chance of being seen by someone from the ashram.

  The idea of being lost in the dark woods made me panic.

  “We have to walk along the road,” I said, hurrying ahead, stumbling over the low branches, moving forward out of the woods. If I had stayed, one moment longer, if the light of the torch had died and I had let my eyes adjust to the darkness, I would have seen that the moonlight shaded by the trees was bright enough for us to have made our way along the river.

  There were no streetlights on the road, only the nearly full moon, shining above. A car went by and then another, and then there were none for a long time and the road was quiet. The broken yellow line glowed under the moonlight.

  “Maybe we can try to telephone him another day,” Eden said hopefully, his voice rising like a bird.

  I stumbled on a piece of asphalt that had broken from the side of the road. What had I thought? I thought we would leave the ashram to telephone our father and he would be sitting at home by the phone, waiting for our call. “Hello?” he would say. I imagined his voice, like lightning, down the telephone line.

  We heard the sound of a car behind us and moved over to the side of the road. The car slowed as it passed us, I felt its headlights shining against my back. I thought, It’s someone from the ashram. I thought, We’ve been caught.

  “Hey, Alice,” a man’s voice said, and I turned around. “Hey, it’s me, Jack.” He leaned his head out of the window. “Your ride didn’t show up?”

  I looked behind at the road, wondering if he had followed us. “I was just on my way home,” he said. “I thought I should offer you a ride.” A song was playing on the car radio, and for a moment I found myself straining to hear the words.

  “Why didn’t your dad show up?” he asked, frowning, looking concerned.

  From the corner of my eye, I saw Eden standing near me. He stood completely still, as if he were afraid to move.

  The man let out a slight laugh. There was something different about him now, a piercing look in his eyes. “I know what you two are,” he said. “You’re runaways.”

  I shook my head. “No,” I said. “No, we’re not.”

  “Well, if you’re not running away, why don’t you get in and I’ll give you a ride home? You shouldn’t be walking alone in the dark. I’ll give you a ride, anywhere. Anywhere you want to go, just let me know.” He smiled a wide friendly smile.

  I looked ahead at the road. The night had grown cooler and the walk back to the ashram seemed long. The road was empty and quiet. It would be easy for us to get into his car, for him to drive us the few miles to the ashram gates and let us out there. We would be warm and maybe there would still be some food left over from dinner. Maybe he was just being friendly; everyone knows Americans are helpful, friendly people.

  As I looked away from the road, back to the man, a new song came on the car radio and he turned the volume up, so the music spilled out of his car windows and into the night. I remember thinking, Someone will hear us.

  “I love this song,” he said, as he reached forward, taking something from beneath the seat. The song that was playing had been the summer hit in England. One night, Mum, Eden, and I had all sung along to it in the kitchen. That’s what I thought of when I heard the song: the three of us, singing in the kitchen of our house.

  “Hey, Alice, come here. I want to show you something.” He held something I couldn’t see clearly in his hand. “Come on over here, take a look.”

  I felt myself walk toward him; the sense of being a girl, the sense of being polite. How could I refuse to look at what he wanted to show me? I just wanted to be calm and for him to drive away. But I had the feeling as I walked away from Eden that I had made a mistake, that a rope had been broken.

  When I was near the car window, he turned his headlights off and the road went dark. “Come on, Alice don’t be a tease. Get in the car, we’ll have a good time together,” he whispered. He reached across the passenger seat, pushing open the door. The car was clean inside, empty. Except for a bottle of soda and a newspaper folded next to him on the seat, there was nothing else.

  I looked back at Eden. He was standing where I had left him, his hand clenched around the hem of his shorts. From where I stood, I could see the straps of his rucksack over his shoulders. It was so familiar to me; we had walked together to school every morning in London. I wished we were there now, on our street, at the bus stop, looking in the window of Tiger, Tiger, waiting for the bus to take us to school. All the times I had seen him wearing his rucksack, I never thought we would ever be alone on a highway in California in the night. I suddenly felt sick in my stomach.

  The man twisted a piece of cloth between his hands. “It’s warm inside,” he said. “And you sure look cold.”

  He had said this before, at the petrol station. Hearing it again annoyed me.

  “I’m not cold.”

  He said, softly, “I can see your nipples through your shirt.”

  I looked down at my shirt. I hadn’t noticed how thin the cotton had become. When I looked up, he was grinning at me through the open window. “It looks sexy on a young girl. It’s a real turn-on.”

  I held the broken flashlight in my hand. He moved toward me across the car seat, pushing a soda bottle and newspaper away. “Get in, Alice,” he said. When he reached to touch me, I threw the flashlight at his face.

  “What the fuck?” He held his hand over his left eye. “What the fuck did you just do?” He picked up the flashlight from his lap. “You little bitch!” he yelled. “What did you do that for?” He touched his face again, flinching, as though he were
in pain.

  I stepped back, away from the car.

  He took his hand from the side of his face, looking at his reflection in the rearview mirror. He touched his eyebrow, lifting his chin. I saw Eden, watching with a wide frightened look in his eyes. The man pushed open his car door and I stepped back again. He stood up, leaning his forehead against the door frame for a moment, as though he were dizzy. He walked around the car, opening his trunk and taking something from it.

  I listened for the sound of other cars, but there were none. Then he walked toward me, his footsteps soft on the road.

  “May, come on!” Eden called. He had walked farther away from the car, down the slope at the side of the road to where the woods began. I ran toward him, following him into the woods. When I looked back, I saw the man running after us, down the shallow slope to the trees. Leaving his car, with the radio still playing, by the side of the road.

  As we ran through the woods, tree branches scraped our arms and legs. Eden stumbled, falling forward; he pushed himself up, running deeper into the woods. I was thinking as I ran: he’ll hear our footsteps over the dry ground; he’ll see my white T-shirt, like a light, in the dark.

  I didn’t know which way we were running, to the road or away from it. Where was the river? Insects flew in my mouth and eyes. Everything mixed together in a blur, the ground and the sky. I thought I could hear his footsteps behind me; I thought I could even hear his breath. Don’t look back, don’t look back, I told myself; it takes time away from running. But I couldn’t help it and I stopped for a moment, standing still, to listen.

  The man came from behind me. He grabbed my hair and my neck jerked back. He put one arm around my waist and his other hand covered my mouth and nose. There was a metallic taste on his fingers. I tried to push his hand away; I was trying to breathe.

  He pushed me to the ground. “Why did you do that?” he yelled. “I was just being friendly.”

  He put his hands inside my shorts, pressing roughly with his hands. He put his hand between my legs. His fingernails scraped inside me. I swung my arm around, trying to get him away. I tried to run from him but I fell forward with my face against the ground.