Coming Home to Roost

by Mary-anne Scott

  He stretched his head back and banged it on the headrest, trying to eliminate the replay of the weekend. But flashes of Dad’s speech sped by: Rick’s head, hanging in shame as Dad spoke so proudly of Elliot; Mike’s smutty innuendos and snide jokes flashed past. And there were slow, sad scenes that haunted Elliot too: Nana’s beautiful face as her spirit faded away.

  He decided he was owed a break. He would have a few months’ grace before he dealt with the big stuff. His parents could continue to think he was ‘on the right track’. It would be easy to lay low and keep away from home. He’d spend as much time as possible with Zeya because he knew she sure as hell wouldn’t want a bar of him when she heard he was going to be a father. Yeah, he decided, a few months wasn’t much to take for himself before his life was wrecked.

  It was wintry and bleak with dusk fast approaching as the bus pulled into Wellington and Elliot thought about getting a taxi. He had money in his wallet but the computer search he’d done with Deeks on maintenance payments for the baby had freaked him out and he decided to walk. According to the social welfare site, Elliot would be expected to pay a percentage of his wage until the baby was nineteen. Bearing in mind it had taken him a lifetime to reach eighteen, that seemed an enormous commitment.

  It was pitch black, and he was cold and stuffed by the time he’d walked the couple of kilometres up to Arnie’s house. Gran’s feather duvet was awkward to lug and one of the plastic handles on the bag snapped, which meant he had to carry the package under his arm. The light drizzle had soaked him as thoroughly as a heavy downpour.

  ‘Ahh, look who’s here. I’ve just been talking about you,’ Arnie said.

  Elliot dumped his gear and looked around the room. ‘Was it Flotsam or Jetsam you had the conversation with?’

  ‘Zeya, actually.’ Arnie smiled smugly. ‘She rang. Said she’ll try again another night.’

  That would be bloody right. A shit end to a shit weekend. ‘Well I hope she does, ’cause I don’t know what I’m supposed to wear to this formal dinner.’

  ‘Is that Saturday?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘I’ve got a couple of suits in a cupboard downstairs you can have a gander at.’

  ‘Have you?’ Elliot pictured disgusting old threads, years out of date, but he didn’t have any other options. ‘I’ll check them out.’ A ‘couple of suits’ turned out to be at least a dozen and they were nearly all ex-navy, in immaculate condition.

  ‘What? Look at this!’ Elliot said. He’d pulled out a suit bag and unzipped it to find a white uniform with gold stripes and buttons. He whistled in surprise. ‘Does this one have a hat?’

  ‘Cap. They’re all complete. The extras are in the suitcase underneath.’

  ‘These suits are the best, Arnie. Any medals?’

  ‘All there, but it’s a school dinner, remember.’ Arnie stepped back as if to go upstairs again. ‘Try any one you like, except the suit in the black leather bag. That’s my burial kit and the next time I wear that they’ll be sending me six feet under.’

  ‘Creepy.’

  ‘It’ll be creepy if they have to use my birthday suit, so make sure you don’t touch it.’

  Elliot tried on the white suit and two dark ones. They all fitted well in the width but were too long in the body. ‘Would you mind if I used this stuff to turn the hems up, just for the night?’ Elliot asked Arnie. He held up a roll of insulation tape.

  ‘I’d be horrified.’ Arnie walked around Elliot and checked the back. ‘Stand up straight, shoulders back.’ He adjusted the jacket. ‘There’s an Indian seamstress down by the office who could alter the hems and press it overnight. We can drop it in tomorrow.’

  ‘Cheers, Arnie.’ Elliot pulled the blind up so that he could see himself in the reflection. He tried a salute and Arnie smirked. Elliot strutted and tried for the business look. ‘I haven’t worn a suit before. I feel like a lawyer.’

  ‘Know first who you are and then adorn yourself accordingly.’

  ‘What’s that about?’

  ‘It means, be yourself; the clothes don’t make you. Now, why don’t you get that gear off and come and eat?’ Arnie went to the kitchen and brought out a covered dish. ‘I’ve thrown a meal together; you can tell me about your weekend.’

  There wasn’t much to say once he took away his afternoon searching for information and passport forms with Deeks, the birthday dinner with the speech, or the bit about running into Lena. It really only left Nana and that was covered pretty fast because Arnie interrupted him to say, ‘So did you see the pregnant girl?’

  ‘What? Oh, yeah, I ran into her in a shop.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And nothing. She was with another guy.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘Zilch.’

  ‘Did you speak to your parents?’

  ‘Not about that. There’s plenty of time.’

  Arnie shook his head. ‘For god’s sakes, where’s your balls, lad? You’re steering your boat into waters too shallow and too narrow to turn around, yet you keep going?’

  He chucked some hunks of bread onto his plate and began mopping up gravy with big swipes. ‘I’m done,’ he said. He sounded irritated. ‘I’ll leave you to clean up.’ Arnie sat in his armchair and Flotsam, who’d been eyeing his fingers, jumped in his lap to lick them clean.

  As soon as the phone rang the next evening, Elliot took it downstairs so that he could talk to Zeya in private. Arnie made ‘stay here’ gestures but Elliot pretended he didn’t understand them.

  ‘Are you still fine for Saturday night?’ Zeya asked.

  ‘Looking forward to it.’

  ‘I’d always intended going on my own and I’d be fine with that if you want to change your mind.’

  ‘No way. What’s the problem?’

  ‘There’s no problem.’ She paused and then said softly, ‘A small one, perhaps. I mentioned to my father last night that you were joining us and he was, well, upset.’

  ‘Joining us?’

  ‘It’s parents and students.’

  ‘Is he upset about me or would it be any guy that went out with you?’

  ‘I don’t know; it’s you at the moment.’

  ‘Does he do that kick-boxing stuff?’

  ‘Lethwei? You know about that?’

  ‘It’s deadly. I’ve watched it on my laptop.’

  ‘He can do it but he’s not like that. Burmese people are very friendly and we always make visitors welcome but he’s disappointed — in me.’ She paused. ‘Father didn’t know I’d spoken to you or that we’d met up again and he’s surprised.’

  Elliot was sure that surprise was a massive understatement on Zeya’s part. ‘Surprises can be good,’ he told her. ‘He’ll be more surprised when he finds I can be trusted not to spill my drink or do anything inappropriate with his daughter.’

  ‘He doesn’t have to know everything.’

  ‘No, he doesn’t.’ Elliot’s breath caught in shock. He could feel something coming through the airwaves that wasn’t to do with the phone line.

  ‘There’s something else.’

  ‘Yeah?’ This was getting as complicated as the symphony orchestra date.

  ‘These occasions are difficult for my mother because she only wears traditional Burmese clothes and her English isn’t very good. We’re very close and, well it’s hard to explain but I want to make a stand — no that’s the wrong word.’

  ‘So, not a stand?’

  ‘I want to prove to my father that I am still the same girl even though I’m taking you to the dinner and I want to support my mother too.’

  ‘You’re going to have to give me another clue.’

  ‘So I will be wearing traditional dress,’ she said in a quiet way. ‘I wonder if that will make you feel — awkward?’

  ‘I’ve done my research on kick-boxing, politics and I’ve learnt a few Burmese words but I haven’t checked out the traditional dress. Will I be able to see your face?’

  Zeya laughed. ‘It’s not a
burqa.’

  ‘I don’t mind what you wear; I’m just pleased to be going with you.’

  ‘Thanks, Elliot.’ She sighed. ‘I have to go now, but I’ve given the information and ticket to Dorice — also my address is written down so you can come to my place first at six o’clock. Is this suitable for you?’

  ‘It’s great.’

  ‘Our house is, well, you’ll see it.’

  ‘Stop worrying, okay?’

  ‘See you Saturday.’

  ‘Here,’ Arnie said when Elliot was ready to go late Saturday afternoon. ‘A little gift. Don’t get all soppy on me — it’s nothing much.’

  ‘You’d better stand back then, I may not be responsible for my actions.’ Elliot turned the package over and slid his finger under the tape. There was an old, yellowed box inside, which had a velvet lining. Two delicately carved jade Buddha heads made into cufflinks sat in the folds. ‘Wow! These are very cool, Arnie. Thanks so much.’

  ‘I got them way back when Burma was a happy place to visit. They’ve brought me good luck, I reckon, so I hope they do the same for you.’

  ‘They’re really beautiful.’ Elliot turned them over in his palm and admired the peaceful faces.

  ‘I’ll show you how to attach them.’ Arnie undid the button on one of Elliot’s sleeves. His hands were ugly and gnarly and he let out a few swear words before the job was done.

  ‘I hope you don’t have bad luck now you’ve given these to me,’ Elliot said as he twisted his wrist to admire them.

  ‘There’s a point. What say we share them till I’ve popped my clogs?’ Arnie lifted up his old flip-top brief case. ‘Off you go now. I’ve got paperwork to attend to.’ He dumped his bag on the table and started taking papers from inside. He didn’t turn around when he called out, ‘And just remember, you’re as good as anybody, so don’t let Old Man Rash make you feel otherwise.’

  ‘Cheers, Arnie.’ Elliot walked down the path feeling like a man of the world in his suit and tie. Seems a shame no one can see me now.

  The light was fading as Elliot searched the street for Zeya’s letterbox and the van kept stalling when the revs got too low. ‘Bloody thing,’ he said as it shuddered to a stop for the third time. Outside his window a manicured entranceway was just visible, and as Elliot peered harder he saw a brown letterbox with an Asian-style roof. Sure enough, the Rashims’ number was on the post beside it.

  A meandering path bordered a stream, which trickled, pooled and flowed all the way to the house. The small pools were full from the recent rain and the noise of the water had a soothing effect on Elliot’s nerves. As he crossed a softly lit wooden bridge he looked down to see bright red fish swimming underneath. It was a tranquil escape in the middle of the city. Elliot thought it reflected the peace and calm of Zeya’s personality.

  An elderly woman opened the door. She brought her hands together, bowed and said ‘Min-ga-lar-baa,’ so Elliot pressed his palms together and bowed back. Her crinkly face smiled broadly, the furrows multiplying, and she nodded and bowed again. Elliot repeated his routine. He wasn’t sure how they would move on but then a younger version of the same face arrived behind the old woman and she bowed as well.

  ‘Welcome. Please. Zeya’s mother,’ she said pointing to herself. She had the same soft lilting voice as Zeya but a much stronger accent. She took the older woman’s arm and moved her back so that Elliot could enter. He kicked his shoes off beside the pile of footwear at the door and walked inside. Both women wore clothes that were obviously Burmese: long skirts that Elliot now knew were called longyi and jackets with little stand-up collars.

  ‘Hello, Elliot. Welcome,’ Mr Rashim said in an unwelcoming voice.

  ‘Hello, Mr Rashim.’

  Elliot had thought he might be offered a first name but it obviously wasn’t happening. Mr Rashim put his hand out and Elliot shook it.

  ‘Elliot, hi.’ It was Zeya at last and all the others watched as Elliot greeted Zeya with a handshake, and then as he presented her with a corsage. He’d bought a bracelet of tiny flowers, which the florist had threaded onto a silver chain.

  ‘It’s beautiful, thank you.’ Zeya turned to her grandmother and held the bracelet close to her old eyes. ‘See, Pwa Pwa, lily of the valley. You can smell it.’

  Her grandmother nodded and smiled and patted Zeya’s hand. She said something in Burmese, which made the three women laugh. Mr Rashim didn’t find it funny, though. He turned to Elliot and said, ‘What can I offer you to drink?’

  ‘A beer would be great, thanks.’

  ‘We don’t drink alcohol. I was just going to suggest,’ he said with exaggerated patience, ‘orange juice, lemonade or sparkling water.’

  Zeya was busy fastening her bracelet but he felt her hold still as she listened. Elliot decided Mr Rashim was not going to spoil his night with Zeya. ‘Lemonade, I think. I’ve always loved lemonade. In fact I’ve been meaning to buy some to have at Arnie’s.’ He turned away and noticed a small smile flit across Zeya’s face as she fixed the clasp.

  Elliot was invited to sit down and Zeya passed around spicy snacks. It was a good chance to check out her outfit.

  She wore a modern version of the wrap-around skirt that her mother and grandmother wore but it didn’t quite fall to her ankles, and she’d teamed it with elegant shoes with spiky heels. She wore plenty of gold jewellery, including a chain around her forehead that looked like a combination of something Asian and something Maid Marion might wear. Elliot thought she rocked.

  When it was time to leave for the dinner, Mr Rashim insisted that Elliot sit in the front beside him and Zeya and her mother sit in the back seat of his car. Elliot played the game once more and talked to Mr Rashim about the array of electrical products that must be stocked in supply stores these days to keep up with new demands.

  Once they were at the venue, the press of people separated Zeya and Elliot from her parents quite easily.

  ‘You look beautiful, Zeya. It’s awesome how you’ve worn your traditional gear and made it stylie. I’m not really saying it right but you look so cool.’ He took a drink off the tray being passed around. ‘You’ve kind of got the best of two cultures going on.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I wanted, so you’re saying it perfectly.’ Zeya smiled and Elliot felt he’d won a small jackpot.

  ‘Hey, Zeya,’ two girls in very short dresses interrupted and introductions were made. ‘You look fucking hot, Zeya,’ one girl said. She moved her glass up and down in front of Zeya’s top. ‘I mean, is that your national costume?’ The girl who was speaking wore a low-cut bodice and her breasts erupted as if they were perched on a springboard. Their burst for freedom overstated the difference between her outfit and Zeya’s. ‘Is that like, from Bangkok?’

  ‘Something like that,’ Zeya said.

  ‘When I was little,’ the other girl said, ‘my uncle went to Japan and brought me back a kimono — not that I’d wear it here.’ The two girls had to hang on to each other as they laughed at the idea. ‘Imagine taking tiny steps all night,’ one of them said. Then they mimicked miniature steps and one of their partners came over to take imaginary photos.

  Elliot looked at Zeya but her face was impossible to read.

  ‘Honestly, Zeya, we’re not laughing at you, are we?’ the girl with the breasts asked the girl with the Japanese uncle.

  ‘God no. You look fucking hot.’

  ‘Can you do that dance where you bend your fingers back?’ The first girl held her hand up to Zeya’s face with her fingers splayed. ‘I can’t even get mine properly straight let alone backwards.’

  ‘That’s Indian dancing, you dick,’ the second girl said and they laughed again.

  ‘It’s actually Balinese,’ Zeya said.

  ‘Same difference.’ The girl still had her fingers up in front of Zeya’s face. ‘I bet you can do it. Come on, try.’

  Zeya smiled. ‘I like to keep a few of my talents hidden, thank you.’

  The girl with the plunging neckline looked unde
cided about Zeya’s answer. She started to say something else but Elliot stepped in front of her.

  ‘Would you like another drink, Zeya?’ Elliot took the glass from her hand. ‘I could tip the rest of this over someone if you like,’ he murmured. The girls shuffled back and moved away.

  ‘They’re just ignorant, not mean,’ Zeya said. ‘We’ve been in the same year-group for four years and they think I come from Bangkok. I suppose I should be grateful they got the letter B.’ She shook her hair back and the thin gold chain around her forehead caught the light.

  ‘Do you get that shit a lot?’

  ‘New Zealanders are racist. They pretend not to be, but,’ she shrugged, ‘deep down, most are bigoted. Those girls are usually okay but they’re drunk tonight and saying stupid things.’

  Elliot knew she was right about the racism. He would never have taken the time to get to know Zeya back at his old school. ‘I couldn’t believe those two tarts,’ he said. ‘I wanted to—’

  ‘You can change things better by keeping your dignity. One of those girls will be in a minority situation one day and she might remember tonight.’

  Elliot doubted she’d remember much of anything about tonight.

  The meal was about to be served and people were asked to take their seats. Elliot and Zeya went back to her parents. There was wine on the table but none of the Rashims were drinking so Elliot thought he’d leave it, too. It solved the problem of getting Arnie’s van home that night.

  Girls from the class a year behind Zeya’s served the meal, and one waitress stood in front of the Rashims’ table with plates of food and called back to her friend, ‘Is this the no-meat table?’

  ‘Thank you,’ Zeya said. Elliot could feel her blushing again and he hurt for her; everything was harder than it needed to be. ‘I ordered you a full meal,’ she smiled at Elliot.

  Mrs Rashim pointed to Elliot’s cufflinks and he was able to tell her about Arnie, with Zeya translating many of the words. Zeya’s mother also wanted to know about Elliot’s family and somehow from there Elliot ended up talking about Nana and his weekend at home for his birthday. The idea of a dog as big as a St Bernard didn’t thrill Mrs Rashim, but she liked the rest of the story.