by Judith White
Hannah wasn’t sure whether she’d ever experienced any clichéd epiphany. She said, Sounds like a fairy tale. Or, more likely, drugs?
Exactly. A week or so later, Emma dropped me home. I never saw her again. My wife and I stayed together long enough to have our two babies, but the separation, when it inevitably came, was less traumatic. We’re still reasonable friends. Well, more or less.
But what about the children?
Oh, you never leave children. They leave you in the end. Both of them are in London. Why do all the children of the world end up in London? But no. We shared them. Yes, no, that part wasn’t ideal.
But were you sure they were yours?
No, but I loved them so much I couldn’t bear to find out, just in case. It mattered but it didn’t matter.
At the picnic table, the old woman was throwing crusts to sparrows, and folding up the lunch paper over and over into diminishing squares. She tipped the last drops of liquid onto the ground, then screwed the lid on the thermos.
And the other things that aren’t good for you? When are you going to walk away from those?
Hannah, sweetie, haven’t you noticed? Not a drop or anything since the Cointreau. Bob called me a metro wimp. No beer, no whiskey, no wine thank you very much. What are we now? Day four?
Oh. I’m sorry. I hadn’t noticed. Well, I don’t know what you do under the covers. But truly, Toby. That’s great. But how long is it going to last?
As long as you keep away from the duck.
How could you compare caring for a duck with addiction, if that’s what you’re trying to say?
It depends on the intensity of the caring. Come on, Hann. Let’s make tracks. One day at a time, as they say.
Hannah started the car.
The problem is not so much leaving but wondering how he’s going to get along without me.
I know. You’ll see things more clearly in a week or so. But give Simon some thought as well.
There’s so much I still don’t know about him. Like, sometimes he taps his beak into the web of his right foot between his right and middle toes. It’s something very deliberate and it means something in muscovy parlance. But I have no idea what. And I don’t even know his real name. When we were amongst the other ducks it mattered even more. It seemed that without a name I was just throwing him into obscurity.
What about Rumpelstiltskin? Or maybe Rumpledredskin.
Of course!
They both laughed. The old people lifted their hands in a cheery wave as she swung the car onto the road.
INTRUDERS
It was just getting dark as they made their way down to the house.
There’s someone here, Hannah said, pausing on the path.
Don’t be silly, said Toby.
Yes, there is. Look — lights.
We must have left them on.
No, no, we didn’t. They wouldn’t have been on when we left, anyway.
And the door was unlocked. They walked in. Maggie was sitting at the table with an open bottle of red wine beside her. Simon was at the bench, holding a wooden spoon. Cooking! A striped tea towel tucked down his front. Stirring onions and mushrooms. A large pot of water on the stove boiling. Salad on the table.
Wahoo, said Maggie flatly. Here come the swingers.
Simon turned around and leaned against the bench, his hands behind his hips gripping the handles of the bottom cupboard.
Hey, said Toby and moved towards Maggie, bending over to kiss her head when she didn’t get up. Instead she took a swig of her wine.
Toby went to the cupboard and took a glass which he filled with water from the tap, drinking thirstily. He filled the glass again.
What have you got here? Smells good. Hmmm, pasta? Enough for four?
Hannah remained in the doorway. She and Simon looked at each other, neither moving. He was wearing a new shirt, a stylish black one, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His beard was shaven off, revealing lips parted slightly in an expression of helplessness and fear. What had happened to him? The skin around his mouth and jaw had a bluish hue. How long had he been away? And once again, how far away he was, and there in the middle, between them, was an island, a solid wooden island with a carefully crafted tabletop of totara. They had both been so proud of it once. And how was it that she had never been aware of the moat surrounding it, inhabited by starving unknown creatures that had been breeding there while she had been preoccupied with other things?
Hi, she called across the island.
Was that a screech of waterfowl that she had disturbed from the shallows? No, it was Maggie.
Oh, I’d forgotten, she was crooning. You two don’t know each other. Simon, this is my sister, Hannah.
Hannah, he said softly. Where have you been?
We took the duck back, she told him. The duck’s gone. Toby helped me. We stayed with Bob and Claire.
She bounced against the doorway, her hands clasped so tightly behind her back.
So there you are. It’s done, she said.
He shrugged, one shoulder lifting to his now-exposed chin.
No excuses now, she added.
Hey, why don’t I take over the cooking while you two have a talk? said Toby.
No no no, it’s nearly ready, said Simon, picking up the wooden spoon from where he’d propped it on a saucer. He started to stir the food around the frying pan. Opened a jar of tomatoes and threw them in. The windows behind him were blistering from the steam. He made his way across the moat to the table, took Maggie’s bottle and poured a dollop of wine into the pan. Refilled an empty glass on the bench and took the bottle back to Maggie. Hannah noticed the look that passed between them. It was too late. Her marriage was over.
So why are you here? she asked Simon.
She found herself slipping slowly down the wall to the floor, her feet dabbling in the poisonous moat. Her body was leaden. There was something from the centre of the Earth that had snared her, that was pulling her into its depths.
We thought we’d come and see how the merry couple was, interjected Maggie jauntily. We were concerned. But we realised we needn’t have been. The birds had flown, but leaving all sorts of evidence of activities in their nest.
She pushed herself up from the table, went over to where Simon was cooking, resting a hand on his back as she knelt down to take a large empty saucepan from under the sink. She left the room, stepping over Hannah’s legs as she went. When she returned a short time later, she stooped over to hold out the saucepan, like a magician revealing a trick. Despite herself, Hannah peered inside. Her hair ties, face cream. Her nightdress. Toby’s socks, underpants.
Toby doesn’t use face cream or hair ties, Maggie said. Do you, Toby? And since when have you worn blue flannelette nightdresses? She thrust the saucepan high under his nose. And I happen to know that these socks and underpants belong to my husband, don’t they, Toby? Careful, they might smell.
Toby gawked at the contents. What’s going on, Maggie? What is this crap? What are you talking about?
Simon flinched and turned his back.
It’s not what it seems, Hannah tried to say, but the words were inaccessible, locked far away. She could hear the dry clatter of pasta pouring into the pot of boiling water, the whoosh of the water as it accepted its quarry. She turned over and crawled out of the room. She dragged herself upright and made her way from the hallway to climb the steps to their bedroom. Shoes off. Bed. She pulled the feather duvet over her head, lying with her face buried in the pillow, in the feather pillow.
The door to her room was opening. The mattress sank as somebody either sat or lay on the bed.
A weight in the centre of her back. Ballast. How many fathoms to the centre of the Earth?
Hannah.
Her name. The weight of her name. A noose around her name, hauling it in. A twisting in the tourniquet to stop the flow.
Hannah.
Someone pulling the duvet from her face. She turned over, peeped out. Toby was sitting there holding
a plate of pasta on his knee.
I’m not hungry.
Of course you’re not. But I had to find some excuse. Look, sit up, Hannah, please. I need you.
She hauled herself erect, her head against the wall.
What? she said.
Please come down, he said. They’re both drinking. I won’t be able to stop myself if you’re not there. To make me. Please, Hannah.
Oh well, we’ll be able to get the duck back then. So no one will have to try anymore.
I hope you’re joking.
Yes, I am, she said, pushing back the bedclothes. Well, sort of.
He got up and opened a window, perched on the other side of the bed now as he lit a cigarette. He inhaled deeply before dangling his arm into the void outside.
Listen, he said. Can I just give you some advice from where I’m sitting? It’s pretty audacious I know, and you can tell me to shut up, but if you could just make an effort to reach out to Simon . . .
Me? But he left me!
Yes, maybe ostensibly, but he feels that you left him quite a while ago. And you’re not going to like this, but I’m going to tell you now so you don’t have to hear it from Maggie, who is crowing about it, because she’s angry with me. Last night they slept together—Ssssh, stop. Your stuff under the pillow, I didn’t even know it was there. They put two and two together and got one. Us. Anyway, I put them right about that, but at the time they thought what the fuck, so to speak. But it didn’t go very well, I gather — they discovered your mother in bed with them! I suppose she was there with me, too, was she?
God. Yes. I forgot. Oh, poor Mum. Everything was happening so quickly. I’m sorry. I was keeping her company. Where is she now?
He took another deep puff and let the smoke flow into the night.
Maggie took her down to the shed, he said. Took her to the furthest place on the property.
Oh well, that’s that then. I knew it, but I’m glad it’s out in the open, so I don’t have to think about them anymore. It makes it easier really.
She looked around her, searching for solace, but she had bled the colour from the room. She tried to remember why she had sterilised their room so completely. In that drawer she knew his underwear was neatly folded; and the drawer below, his socks and T-shirts. She imagined the wardrobe empty of his clothes, the drawers cleaned out.
Hannah Hannah Hannah, Toby was saying. This isn’t about getting the duck back. No. Please, let’s not give up. But we have to do this together. They were each sleeping with Annabel because they didn’t have the duck they really love.
I’m going to be sick.
No, you’re not.
No, truly, I’m going to be sick. She held her hands over her mouth and retched.
No, Hannah, you’re not. But his eyes sped around the room looking for a bowl just in case. Hannah found herself holding the rich bowl of pasta under her chin. She placed it back on the bedside table.
You OK? Good. Well, listen, our whole future revolves around this decision. If you embrace Simon, then Maggie and I will have a better chance, once she sees I’ve cleaned up for good. Honestly. It doesn’t look like it, I know, but we’re a good team when we’re sober. You’ve done well by getting rid of the duck, and now you need to offer one little friendly gesture towards Simon.
I haven’t got rid of the duck. And how many times have you cleaned up for good?
Well, sent him down to the country. With his own kind. And as for me, this time, I’m determined. I just know this time. This is my second marriage and I want it to work. But Hannah. Auntie sweet darling Hannah. Just try a little harder with Simon.
I don’t know that I want to. And he doesn’t love me. He left me. He slept with my sister for heaven’s sake. Honestly! And all the secrets you all share and keep from me.
No, he slept with Annabel. And I know he loves you. The death of your mother was hard for him, too, you know. And then the earthquake . . . if you could just touch him . . . is it so difficult? Even with one fingertip at arm’s length. There’s a lot hanging in the balance here. We are ping-pong balls hanging in the air, and you can affect where they land. If you don’t make the effort now — and it has to be now — look, this very minute . . .
Hannah had a vision of her finger stretched through space in an Alice in Wonderland sort of way, extended like a rubbery triffid, to touch Simon’s sleeve, or his new vulnerable chin. And he was an anemone in a rock pool, inverting himself, repelled by her touch. Or would his hand close over the vine and reel her in towards him? She didn’t know. She didn’t know her husband anymore.
When they arrived downstairs, Toby still carrying the pasta like an offering, Maggie and Simon were clearing the table after their meal. The empty wine bottle and glasses abandoned.
Here they are! sang Maggie. Tweedle-him and Tweedle-she.
Hannah’s head was pounding. For a second she thought she could hear the duck snorting outside on the deck, but it was her own choked breath. She felt a sharp sting in the back of her arm. She yanked her arm away. Again that sharp pinprick of pain. Toby was surreptitiously pinching her. Ow, don’t, she hissed, throwing a daggered look over her shoulder. That hurt. He pinched again, really hard, twisting this time. In the soft tender part at the back of her arm.
STOP IT! she yelled, stamping her foot.
Both Maggie and Simon did just that. They were burlesque dancers. Maggie in front, Simon behind, exactly the same angle, grimy plates and cutlery at the same level, mouths open, the steps halted in synch.
STOP THIS NONSENSE! she yelled, surprising herself, surprising her heart into a racing river-dance in her chest. I’m SICK of it! What are you all PLAYING at? What’s happening in this house? Is it a TAKEOVER?
It was lame, she knew, but a blurt was a blurt. And it was so uncharacteristic that both Maggie and Simon stared at her, waiting for more. She caught a peripheral glimpse of Toby grinning, holding his thumb in the air, his eyes locked onto her.
She spun around and spat out the words. Actually, Simon. Do you think we could have a talk? In private — if you don’t mind leaving my sister’s side for a moment.
Toby stepped forward and took the plate and fork from Maggie’s fingers. A gracious gesture. He took her hand in his. Madame, he said. May I have the pleasure?
And then they are gone, they have disappeared.
The room is silent, unbreathing, suspended.
So! Hannah says, and sees consternation trampling across her husband’s face. He has a new face and it has no blood. He has new lips that have been crouching in a beard for twenty years, concealing the despondency and loneliness that have been taking refuge there. He has become old during his absence. His father had been younger than he is now when he’d had his fatal heart attack. Her own father as well. The vulnerable hearts of men. And for how long have the years have been inveigling their way into his skin, winding into crevices and fissures, splaying from the corners of his eyes? There is an intelligent kindness there, too, that she has never recognised before.
She is suddenly terrified that he might die without her. She moves across the moat towards him, and he waits now, for whatever it is. It’s just a matter of sucking her feet from mud to move closer, and then she is there. Her face drops against his soft black shirt. Without turning he puts his plate on the bench behind them and she feels the warmth of his hands on her back. Every action is a gentle shift towards equilibrium. She is aware of his chin resting upon her head. Above them, in a clear black sky, the moon is rising above the magnolia tree, its sharp light glistening through the dewy glass.
Look at that moon, she says.
He turns, standing companionably beside her. He tells her that in three days’ time there will be a super moon, a perigee moon, when it will be extremely close to the Earth on its elliptical orbit. 356,577 kilometres from the Earth. The average distance is 382,900 kilometres.
Perhaps that explains everything, she says.
He lifts his hand and squeezes her upper arm. It only explains
why the moon will appear larger as it rises from the horizon, he replies.
He moves to the sink and turns on the tap. The water gushes onto the greasy plates. He picks at a sticky piece of mushroom.
It’s nice to have you back, she says.
He looks at her, nodding, and smiles grimly. She doesn’t know whether this is a normal smile for him or one for the occasion. He looks as though he might be trying to stop a sneeze.
Yes, is all he says.
Chapter 29
THE BRIDGE WITH NO EYES
The next day Maggie and Toby flew back to Christchurch. It had been decided that Toby would drive Simon’s car back to Auckland to stay for a few months, away from his old contacts and the earthquakes, in order to clean himself up. Maggie was going to fly up to see him from time to time. This was to be a healing time, and Toby was on trial. They were all on trial. They were auditioning for their old parts in a tired play that was being revamped for a fresh performance.
They left in a flurry of kisses and embraces — Toby and Hannah, Simon and Maggie — on the footpath while bored blank faces stared at them from the shuttle window. Thank you, sweet Auntie Hannah, said Toby. I’ll be back soon.
I’ll miss you, actually, she replied. She was aware that Maggie and Simon were silent, that their hug was intense. Simon moved quickly away from Maggie, wiping the corner of his eye, looking distraught. Bloomin’ heck. Maggie turned, gave her a mechanical hug and then jumped hurriedly into the van. A nice day for flying, she announced with authority to the other passengers as she hunched along the aisle.