Handpicked

by Siew Siang Tay

  Music from live musicians drifts across the shore, to be swallowed by the boom of the waves. Laila rubs her hand over her arm.

  ‘Getting chilly?’

  ‘A little.’ Her teeth chatter.

  ‘Cool change, totally. The weather gets unpredictable like that.’

  ‘Yes, it was very hot this afternoon.’

  ‘Let’s head back, and weird as it sounds, I’m going to light the fire.’

  ‘The fire?’

  ‘I have a fireplace. Didn’t you see it earlier?’

  ‘No.’

  She’d imagined his house to be beautiful, but what she had found this afternoon astounded her. It was like a palace, lifted from a magazine. Two storeys, set high on the block, with unimpeded views of the ocean—nothing but waves, gulls, clouds. Exterior with intricate columns, mouldings and architectural details, a majestic porch, a predominance of cream colours inside. Expanses of glass. Windows, sliding doors, bricks. Everything sparkled.

  ‘Tell you what, before we do that, let’s go dip our feet in the water. I’ve got this thing about having to wet some part of my body each time I come down here.’

  ‘Okay.’

  He crouches and undoes the straps on her shoes. Laila stands still. The sensation of his fingers on her ankles makes her tingle. She looks down at his head, clenches her fingers to stop herself from running them through his hair.

  They wade out with each outgoing wave, running back in when the sea rolls back onto the shore. The chill of the water creeps up her calves. She holds her hem with one hand, clings to Sean with the other.

  On their way back to his house, he slides his arm around her waist. She pretends to resist him, brushing his hand away, running ahead of him. He quickens his pace and races after her. When he catches up with her, he draws her towards him forcefully. She giggles. They climb up the trail running through beach scrub, shoes in their hands, their legs and feet coated with sand, bodies soaked with the dampness of the sea.

  After lighting the fire, Sean pulls a shaggy rug towards the fireplace. He throws two large cushions down and pads to the kitchen.

  ‘Go on, warm yourself up.’

  The rug is soft under her feet. Laila stretches out, looks at the glow of the fire. The flames crackle to life, licking the wood. Sean brings two sherry glasses and a warm damp flannel. A bottle is tucked under his arm. He uncorks it, and tilts it over the glasses. Thick golden liquid flows out.

  ‘Frangelico. Hazelnut liqueur. Simply the best.’

  The liquid tastes like nectar, it coats her tongue. She has never tasted anything so delicious. The sweet nutty aroma lingers in her mouth as she feels the alcohol bursting in her stomach.

  ‘I like this,’ she says.

  ‘Good.’

  Setting his glass down, Sean straightens out her legs and sponges off the salty dampness with the flannel. His movements are slow. He starts at the knees and runs the flannel up and down in even strokes. Laila winces.

  ‘Am I hurting you?’

  She shakes her head.

  His hands move to her feet. He tucks the flannel between her toes, parts them with his fingers, then glides the flannel over the arch of her feet. Laila feels her body floating.

  Then he slides his hand to her back and unzips her dress, his eyes never leaving her face. He pulls it down to her waist. Laila is suddenly embarrassed, conscious of her white cotton underwear, the plain unsexy style of her bra. She lowers her face.

  ‘Feel that liqueur warming up your stomach?’ He takes a sip of his own drink, watching her reaction from the corner of his eyes.

  ‘Yes.’ She turns her face away.

  ‘Just what you need.’

  Sean sets his glass down. With both hands, he unhooks her bra and gently removes it. Laila closes her eyes, throws her head back. Her body quivers. She’s never felt so naked before. She hears the roar of the waves all over again, as if they are back on the beach. The pounding. The spray of the vapours. The swell of the crests. Waves sucking the sand as they recede into the sea.

  She opens her eyes. The flame flickers in Sean’s eyes. He pulls her down with him. She feels his hands running over her breasts, encircling their mounds, then going for her nipples. He strokes them, plays with them. She gasps, she is overcome. His breath is hot in her ear. She sniffs his skin, breathes in the scent of his aftershave. Her body tingles. He kisses her, slowly at first, teasing with his lips, then his mouth covers hers and he kisses her hard, his body rocking against hers.

  His hands and lips explore her all over, the tender spot on her nape, the depression of her tummy, the curve of her buttocks. They approach her legs, glide over her inner thighs. He is pulling her dress away, then sliding her underwear down.

  ‘Oh God, you’re gorgeous,’ he groans.

  She runs her fingers along the undulations of his arms and chest. His fingers are edging nearer and nearer, to that zone, that place from where she knows she won’t turn back. Then he touches her there. She whimpers, closes her eyes. There is that gushing, that pulling. His hardness against her body. Sliding into that space. She is suddenly aware of the softness of the rug on her bare skin, the smell of burning wood. The fire, crackling, hissing. She moans.

  The wind has picked up, it is whipping the windows. The frames rattle. As Sean enters her, Laila sees shadows moving on the window. Shadows of the unknown. With each thrust, she imagines the waves rolling in, striking the coastline. Again and again and again.

  24

  FRIDAY NIGHT AND JIM is leaning against the bar. He looks at his watch. Twelve-fifteen. He orders his last schooner, and his heart folds back into itself at the thought of going home. Since Laila returned from Adelaide last week, things had gotten worse—her silences extending to days, iciness permanently etched on her face, and, he admits with shame, his piss-ups at the pub becoming a nightly feature.

  After giving Jim his drink, Rodney busies himself washing glasses and putting things away. The crowd is thinning. Jim peers across at Sharon the cashier, bending over the till, her face in deep concentration. Coins clink as she tallies up the day’s takings. People say cheerio and part ways, chairs grating on the floor.

  The pub is now empty.

  ‘Getting ready to hit the sack, are we?’ he yells across the bar.

  Sharon is a largish woman with thick curly red hair pulled back into a ponytail. Her heavily made-up face gives her a harsh look. Married twice, divorced twice, one kid from each man. Like Jim, she was born and grew up in Renmark and knows the Riverland like the back of her hand. Tonight, she’s had it rough, filling in for Susan, the waitress, who rang in sick at the last moment, and doubling as cashier as well.

  Without looking up, Sharon says, ‘About time, after today.’

  ‘Want someone to walk you home?’

  ‘You referring to me?’

  ‘Sure am.’

  ‘Ha-ha-ha…’ Sharon cackles. ‘Go home, Jim.’

  Jim moves a couple of stools nearer to her. ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘One of the first things a woman like me can tell is when it’s real talk and when it’s beer talk.’

  ‘Just trying to be kind.’

  ‘Sure. You’ve been coming here for yonks, never paid me any attention so how come you suddenly want to be kind to me?’

  ‘Can’t a man be nice?’

  ‘What’s the deal? No such thing as a free lunch, eh?’ She raises an eyebrow and a smirk passes over her face.

  Something about the tone of her voice arouses a remote part of Jim. He gulps down his beer, wipes his lips with the back of his hand. Keeping his eyes on her, he edges even closer to the till. Her red ponytail flares out behind her, bouncing up and down as she busies herself counting the cash. Her bosom spills forward. Jim takes in the wideness of her hips under the Tooheys navy-blue polo top, the pronounced rise of her buttocks.

  ‘So, you want me to drive you home?’

  ‘Come off it.’

  ‘You wanna play games with me, is that it?’
/>
  ‘Jim, I’ve been walking home five nights a week for the last five years. Just up Thompson Road, not as if it were Lyrup or anything.’

  Jim purses his lips, lifts his chin as if he thinks she’s talking crap.

  ‘Go choose another damsel. I’m not exactly in distress. Besides, what will the little Asian miss think? She might get the wrong idea.’

  At the mention of Laila, Jim’s hackles are raised. ‘What’s she got to do with this?’

  ‘Whoa, trod on a sensitive spot, looks like.’

  ‘What do you know about us anyway?’

  ‘Not a lot, apart from what goes around.’

  Jim shoots an accusing look at Rodney, who’s now drying the glasses.

  ‘Don’t look at me,’ Rodney says.

  Jim turns back to Sharon.

  ‘You’ve had too much to drink. Go home and let her tuck you into bed,’ Sharon says.

  ‘Get off your high horse, woman. Who the fuck do you think you are?’

  ‘Geez, Rod, you feed this guy drinks and see what happens.’ Sharon looks at Rodney.

  ‘Shut the fuck up, Sharon,’ Rodney says.

  Sharon makes a face at him, exhales air. Then she hits her palm on her forehead and shakes her head.

  Jim gets off the stool. When he passes Rodney, he shows him his fist.

  ‘You spread the word around and you’re fucking dead,’ he growls under his breath.

  He is heading for the door when Rodney leans across the bar, gestures for Jim to come back. ‘You’re getting paranoid, trimmer,’ he whispers. ‘Didn’t I say I wasn’t going to tell anyone?’

  ‘Then what’s she on about?’ Jim angles his head towards Sharon.

  ‘Fucked if I know.’ Rodney shrugs his shoulders.

  ‘Crazy bitch.’ Jim strides off. ‘Bloody Peyton Place. Can’t sneeze without the whole fucking town knowing.’

  The sleeping bag is permanently left out now, strewn over the chair. When he opens the door, he expects to make out the heap of it in the darkness. But the chair is empty. In his intoxicated state, he looks again. Then he locates the pouch, sleeping bag neatly tucked inside it, sitting on the floor against the kitchen cupboard. Her kind act for the day.

  Jim looks over to the bed, expecting to see her form, sleeping on her side, face away from the door. The bed looks empty. He looks again, squints in the darkness. No one. He reaches for the light switch. Click. There’s no one in the bed. In fact, the bed is made, ends of the blanket folded neatly under the mattress, pillows plumped and propped up.

  A chill runs down his spine. He rubs his eyes, shakes his head to try to sober up. His head still feels heavy. He rushes to the bed, yanks off the covers as if expecting to find something underneath. Cold air rises from the sheet even though it’s a warm night. His legs start to lose balance as if they’re about to buckle. He hangs onto the edge of the bed, steadies himself and surveys the place. Everything looks normal. Sink, benchtops, cupboards. He checks the windows, the ceiling, takes in the built-in wardrobe, broom in the corner, chairs, table. In the middle of the table is an envelope.

  He walks towards it, the hammering amplifying in his head. On the envelope is his name.

  Jim, this is a very difficult letter for me to write. My life with you in Australia has given me a lot of pain. Things have not turned out as they should. We have both been unhappy for a long time and I cannot take it anymore. I appreciate all that you have done for me but it is time for me to leave. Thank you for everything. Please do not look for me. Laila. 21 Feb 1997

  Jim drops the letter on the floor. He stares at the sleeping bag. The pain begins with a popping sound. It goes off somewhere in the bridge of his nose, then spreads like an ink blot, down his neck, his shoulders, his chest, down his back along the spine, trickling down to his legs.

  When he was about ten, one of the boys at school punched him in the nose. It happened on the oval. It was recess. He’d refused to let the boy borrow the new Frisbee his mum had bought him; the boy had seen Jim and his friends playing with it the day before. Next morning he marched over to Jim, demanding the Frisbee. Jim said no, and the boy said, ‘Why not?’ Jim turned and walked away, clutching his bag. ‘Hey, you, come back here!’ the boy said. Jim quickened his pace. Tall and longlegged, the boy chased him, grabbed the bag and started rummaging through it. ‘Give that back to me,’ Jim said, pulling at the bag. ‘Nobody says no to me, you get that?’ the boy said, yanking the bag from Jim. His eyes looked mean, his mouth curled into a nasty snarl. When Jim tried again to get his bag, the boy socked him one. Straight in the nose. The blood was immediate. Jim put both hands over his nose. He could feel the sticky red fluid drip down his upper lip, his mouth, his chin, coating his palms. He crouched, saw at the corner of his vision the boy pulling the Frisbee out and sauntering away, a smug expression on his face.

  The popping in his nose. Amplified twenty times.

  Laila has left me. Laila has left me.

  He can’t remember how long he’s stayed in this spot. He must have fallen asleep. When he tries to lift his head, he finds it jammed between the legs of the chair. Slowly he drags his body backwards, eases his head out from under the chair. The caravan starts to spin. His head pounds, the throbbing escalating with every movement. The alcohol feels solidified in his veins. He swears he’ll never drink to such a stupor again. Water. He needs a drink of water.

  He crawls to the sink, grabs a tumbler and fills it with water. While drinking, he catches sight of the crumpled letter on the floor. He staggers to it, steps on it. Thump thump thump. He grinds it until it tears.

  Bitch. How can you do this to me?

  The thumping worsens his headache. He lurches around, cradling his head, stumbling against the table, bumping into the kitchen cupboards. He hobbles to the wardrobe, swings open both doors. Her clothes are gone. He crouches, pulls out the drawers, the same drawers he checked a couple of weeks ago. Empty boxes, plastic bags, hair clips, used lipsticks, an old pencil case. In the second drawer, some old towels, various disused items. Last drawer, two old tops she’d not worn in ages. He runs his fingers over the fabric, brings it to his nose. He breathes in her scent.

  ‘Oh babe.’

  He collapses on the floor. He takes the other top and locates something underneath it. A pouch. It looks familiar. He grabs it, fingers the maroon felt fabric, the gold drawstring cord. Then he remembers. The drawstring cord is tied in a knot. He struggles to undo it. Giving up, he reaches for a pair of scissors and snips the cord. He dives his fingers into the pouch and takes it out: a gold-tone bracelet he had given her for Christmas. The sight of it gashes his heart.

  He sees the smile on her face as she opens the pouch with her dainty fingers, the little Christmas tree sitting on the table beside her. Her eyes widen when she slides the bracelet out, draping it immediately over her wrist. Then, after he has fastened it for her, she runs to the mirror and poses with her hand this way and that. It’s beautiful, Jim, she squeals in delight. He remembers pulling her to him, squeezing them as close together as possible under the little Christmas tree, planting a kiss on her lips and whispering in her ear, ‘Let’s kiss under the mistletoe.’

  Jim throws the bracelet against the wall. It clinks on the floor. Shrieking uncontrollably, he balls his fist and punches the wall.

  Bitch, bitch, bitch.

  Nausea churns in his stomach. He feels bile collecting in his throat. The room is now spinning as if it’s about to take off. His head throbs. He staggers to the door, attempts to run to the toilets. But it’s too late. He crouches at the doorway, one hand swinging the door open. His stomach does a somersault, he doubles over and the vomit spews out, splattering over his chest, the steps. The smell of sick engulfs him. He curls up on the floor, clutching his stomach.

  25

  Dearest Jeannie and Krisno,

  I hope this letter finds all of you in good health. Jeannie, you must have finished high school by now. How were the exams? I meant to send you a good luck card b
ut didn’t get the time to. If my memory is right, you should have already got your results. Let me know how you went and if you are applying for a place at university (I am assuming you passed with flying colours).

  Thanks, Krisno, for your letter although it was a little short. I was expecting to hear more news about the longhouse.

  My life has improved such a lot since I last wrote. We are now living in Adelaide, by the beach!! Things are finally coming together. I knew I had to be patient and it is paying off. The house is beautiful. Two storeys—Krisno, you will love it as I know you have this thing about staircases. Well, the staircase of this house is fully carpeted, as is the rest of the top floor. I wake up to stunning views of the sea every morning. You should start saving up so you can come and visit me soon. There are three bedrooms in the house so no problem with accommodation.

  There is so much to discover about Australia. Just when you think things are out of your reach, you turn a corner and they are staring you in the face. Of course there are still so many things I have yet to find out, such as unexplored parts of Adelaide, the different cultures of all kinds of people who live here. You won’t believe it, but there are Croatians, Ukrainians, Greeks, Italians, Vietnamese and Indians. Adelaide is really colourful. There is always a surprise round the corner, and so many tall buildings, big shopping centres, restaurants and parks.

  The shops here are much, much better than those in Renmark. Imagine, I was going crazy over the shops in Renmark thinking they were fantastic. They are nothing now compared with the ones in Adelaide, especially the dress shops. Jeannie, you’ll love them. I wish I could take you shopping here.

  So you see the move to Adelaide has opened up my eyes. I am glad to be not living in the country anymore. Adelaide is so much more fun than Renmark, which thinking back now was only special because of the river. The place was filled with not much else besides orchards, orchards and more orchards.

  I forgot to ask you in my last letter but has Pak extended the cooking area yet? Remember he was talking about it months before I left? About breaking down the back wall and adding more space plus the window? I hope he has done it. I think about Mak so much squatting over the charcoal stove in that cramped area to try to cook. If he hasn’t, Jeannie, can you drop hints for him to do it?