‘Why not?’
‘I had to go back inside.’ He looked ashamed.
Marie retreated from his private territory.
Brian sat in the chair and frowned. ‘Fucken Brazilians, eh.’ He had lost even more weight and in places his thighs seemed to be folding in on themselves. He grabbed himself in frustration. ‘Sometimes I feel like a balloon after a party. You know, with the air come out?’
‘My work’s not finished either,’ Marie said. ‘Do you want to see it?’
‘I’d love to.’
She parted her clothes to show him the vines; she was more protective of her belly and showed only a portion of the flames. ‘They’re so bright!’ Brian exclaimed. She turned on her side to show him the moth. She felt the warmth of his gaze on her skin and drank it in like a plant. ‘She really is the best,’ Brian said after a while. He bent to her hip. ‘What’s this?’
‘Angophora costata. My favourite tree in the world.’
‘The unfinished one, eh?’
‘Yes.’
‘Frish, isn’t it?’
She quivered at his touch. ‘About four weeks old.’
‘It’s peeling a bit, y’know.’
Marie worried about her deterioration. She felt remiss, as though she had hung her most precious pictures on a soiled wall. They heard the night nurse passing and lowered their voices. ‘Do they really look alright?’
‘They’re fucken awesome.’
‘I’m itchy.’
‘Where?’
‘My back, right in the middle, where I can’t reach.’
Brian gave her a gentle scratch between the shoulder blades. ‘Your skin gets really dry in here, eh.’
‘Oh yes, that’s lovely, lower, yes, to the left to the left.’
They began to laugh. Footsteps passed again and they covered their mouths. The footsteps receded. ‘I have some cream in that drawer,’ said Marie.
Brian obliged, every movement quiet and careful like a thief. She could feel the blades of his fingertips through the cream. He went over her back with meditative strokes, then wiped his palms down his thighs. Then he began to squirm in his chair. ‘You got me goin’ now, I feel itchy everywhere.’
‘Come up here. I’ll do yours.’
‘We’re both so skinny we fit on these fucken log beds, eh,’ he whispered as he lay alongside her. He glanced at the cloth folded on the end. ‘Samoa,’ he affirmed. ‘He was your boyfriend, eh?’
‘No. We just went out a couple of times.’ Marie squeezed cream into her palm.
He tensed initially at her touch, then began to relax. ‘Oh?’
‘I mean, his name wasn’t worth tattooing on my arm.’
‘And the flowers.’ Brian gestured. ‘You’re loved, Marie.’ He turned and gave her a sharp look. ‘You put those flowers in my room?’
‘I couldn’t fit them on my table. I hope it’s alright.’
Brian said nothing. He propped his head on his hand and looked out the window as Marie continued anointing him. His skin was fever hot, rough and cracked. He said quietly, ‘I’d like to go back to Rotorua when I get out of here. See the folks.’
‘Maybe you could get your — what is it again? — tattoo finished?’
‘Pe’a. No.’
‘Why not?’
Again Marie felt a sense of trespass.
‘The tattoo master I went to died,’ said Brian after a while.
‘Couldn’t you see another one?’
‘I’m too old. I hed my chance and I blew it.’
‘Didn’t we all.’
‘What?’
‘Blow it.’
‘No, Marie,’ he said harshly. ‘We didn’t all do fifteen years in the nick.’
‘Sorry Brian.’
‘Ah, don’t worry about it.’
‘There you are.’
‘Thanks.’ Brian turned and pecked her on the cheek. She looked at him in surprise. His eyes were sunken and bloodshot. He reached over and pulled another joint from his gown, then poured them more water. They didn’t bother going to the window this time, just lay back smoking and watching TV. A meteorologist was showing maps of the receding icecaps. ‘Us island people’ll all drown with this business. My grandfather’s place won’t be there in twenny years.’
‘Neither will we, Brian.’
‘All this talk about refugees from the atolls. Like the Pacific wasn’t already fucked, like we weren’t already leaving.’
She took his hand. He looped his other arm around her shoulders. Her eyes were fiercely dry and when the news story finished she closed them for relief. She felt so lonely in her dying, she wanted to talk about it. She could hear every little sound in the room. Brian’s breathing deepened, as though he were falling asleep. She opened her eyes to find him looking at her. He stroked her cheek. His skin was developing a yellow hue, his smell a faint pungency like the beginning of rot. She wondered which one of them would die first. Again came the answer: It doesn’t matter. They began to kiss, Marie’s tongue tracing whiskey from his teeth. They moved closer, wincing at pressure on the sore spots. Her scarf fell off. Brian’s fingers electric on her scalp. She knew the last of her hair would be scattering like iron filings. He smelt of medicine and dead skin. He slipped his hand inside her gown. ‘Careful around my stomach, the tumours are just there.’ He stroked it gently, moved to her breasts. ‘These alright?’ ‘Yes.’ They were smiling through their kiss. The miraculous throbbing in her cunt grew and she reached into his shorts. He lay back and let her touch him, sighing. His penis half hardened. ‘I’m fucked.’ He laughed softly. ‘I’m too fucked to fuck.’
‘We both are. Too sick, too old.’
‘We’re not too old. Just too sick.’
‘How old are you?’
‘Fifty-two.’
Marie hid her face in his neck. She would have said sixty-two.
‘Fifty-three in four months. Gonna have a big party. You’re invited.’
She wanted to slap him and make him face it. She wondered how she looked herself. Bald, emaciated. The extra decade sickness added would make her seventy. Dying, she thought, stroking Brian’s cock, feeling it harden. He began to pant and felt for her cunt. She breathed in the smell of sweat and sickness and pulled till he cried out softly, drenching her wrist. ‘Touch me, Brian.’ She guided his hand until she came in a muted way. They fell asleep in front of the weather.
She was woken by Brian fumbling with the bedclothes. The light had been switched on and the night nurse was standing just inside the door. ‘What’s going on in here? And you’ve been smoking.’
Brian swung his legs over the side of the bed. ‘I’m going.’
‘I asked him in,’ Marie avowed. She noticed one of her breasts had fallen out of her gown and pushed it back in. She was in a great deal of pain. The cramps were moving through her body, joined like carriages in one long train.
The nurse set his mouth. ‘Just because you’re sick doesn’t mean you can get away with this.’
‘What are you going to do?’ said Marie. ‘Kill us?’
The nurse waited for Brian to leave, then shut the door. All night Marie buzzed for pethidine, but nobody came.
The next morning she went into Brian’s room to say goodbye before going down to chemotherapy. He was dozing and when woken needed a moment to focus, then he took her hand and wished her luck. He told her that in the old days when the chief underwent tattooing, his men were done alongside him to share his pain. The etiquette of the ritual forbade the tattooees to utter the smallest cry. At night there was dancing, feasting and wrestling matches, the ordeal and festivities lasting several weeks.
‘Do the women get tattooed?’
‘Yeah.’ Brian wrinkled his brow in thought. ‘There’s a Samoan song about tattooing that says women grow up and give birth, men grow up and get tattooed.’
‘Can we do both?’
‘Sure.’ Brian shrugged. ‘I tell you what, Marie. When we get outta here, let’s you and me go get
a tatt together.’
‘From Rhys.’
‘Yeah. Listen. Why don’t you look after my hooch tonight? In the drawer here. Don’t trust the buggers around here.’
She decided to go to chemotherapy in a wheelchair, and to remain inside Brian’s dream of a future for as long as possible. But the room now felt cold, each patient enclosed in a private pod of illness. The woman with ovarian cancer sat holding the hand of her Chinese girlfriend. The chatty woman in the scarf was gone. Marie never knew when somebody left whether they had gone into remission or died. The bald woman up the end was recognisable only by the husband reading aloud to her.
Marie watched the chemicals seep into her arm. She wished Brian was here. She thought of his stories of villagers dancing and feasting together. She remembered the dance floor at FAST, the centre like a molten core, the primeval soup, a blood vessel pumping with spirit and flesh. It was like another world; she could hardly believe she had been there.
Hugh was aware of Blanche uneasy beside him in the darkness.
‘Hugh. Can you feel my breast? Here. I think there’s a lump.’
‘That’s a novel excuse.’ Hugh put down his magazine and rolled towards her.
‘No, seriously, here, don’t you think? It hurts.’
Hugh kneaded her left breast obediently. ‘I can’t feel any lumps. Do you want me to check the other one?’
‘Yes.’
‘Lie on your back.’ Hugh probed.
‘Ouch.’ Blanche lay rigid.
‘Absolutely beautiful, perfectly lump-free breasts. I’d stake my life on it. The most beautiful perfect breasts on the planet. You’re pregnant, pooky, that’s why your breasts are sore. They’re supposed to be, a little bit, aren’t they? Get some sleep.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Read then.’ He passed her Harper’s Bazaar. ‘God, that’s a tome.’
‘I can’t concentrate.’
‘Oh, Blanche, I don’t know what to do with you when you’re like this. I thought you said you were feeling better. You haven’t thrown up for at least two weeks.’
‘I am feeling better.’
On clear nights, they could hear the harbour from their bedroom. There was the swish of a boat passing McMahons Point. It was an excuse, in a way. Blanche wanted Hugh’s hands back on her breasts, she wanted him to stroke her everywhere. Sex didn’t have to stop when you were pregnant, did it? But she didn’t want to stroke him in return: she didn’t desire his body at all. She pushed away her sadness and guilt.
‘Hugh?’
‘Yes?’
‘How long did your father take to die?’
‘About two years.’
‘So why did they only give Mum six months? She’s only got four left you know. The second chemo is making her even worse.’
‘My father had lung cancer and it went into remission then came back. Stomach cancer is usually aggressive. Blanche, a slow death isn’t that great, believe me.’
‘I’ve never trusted doctors. She looks terrible. You won’t believe the changes when you next see her. She’s lost so much weight.’
‘Come here, darling. It’s okay.’
Blanche moved into the crook of Hugh’s arm. ‘I think I’m going to get retrenched.’
‘Bla-anche.’
‘It’s true. I was already on probation for the Diet Coke debacle. Kate did a fantastic job on the sanitary napkins when I was in hospital. Terry wants to sleep with her. My pregnancy will start showing in a month or so. I can see where it’s all headed.’
‘One thing at a time, okay? You’ve got enough going on already. Don’t think about it.’
‘Why do they say retrenched? Whatever happened to good old fired.’
‘Blanche King,’ said Hugh, stentorian, ‘we’re giving you the sack.’
‘I never got that actually. I always saw someone with a sack over their head being marched outside.’
‘Exactly.’
‘It might be a good thing. I think I’m over it. I’m over the industry and I’m over being overworked. I’m going to make art.’
Hugh stroked her hair. ‘Great idea.’
Blanche smiled. She felt relief, excitement, and a blast of strength. ‘Yeah, that’s exactly what I’m going to do. And I’ll exit HA elegantly, not give Terry the pleasure of making me exit.’
The sound of André and his girlfriend’s lovemaking leaked up through the floor.
‘It’s genetic, you know, Hugh,’ Blanche said quietly. ‘We’re going to give our baby a double dose. Did you ever think of that?’
‘It’s midnight.’ Hugh shut his magazine. ‘I’m turning out the light.’
Neither of them could sleep. Hugh said, ‘I thought of a place for your mother to move to.’
‘Me and Clark are going to look on Saturday. I’m telling the boys about Dad and the estate then too.’
‘Why don’t we just put her in Neutral Bay?’
‘Because we’ve got tenants there?’
‘The lease expired ages ago.’
‘They’re great tenants, Hugh. They’ve been there five years, they painted it and they always pay on time.’ But Blanche’s defence sounded cursory. She turned so she was facing him. ‘Me and the boys are still arguing over where to put Mum, you know. And Mum’s no help — she’s beyond caring.’ Blanche thought to herself, not for the first time, how much more convenient it would be if her mother died sooner, but she felt too guilty to say it. The only advantage of dying later was the delay on her father getting his hands on the estate. She was surprised at how quickly she had adjusted to her mother dying, and overwhelmed by how much there was to do. Nobody warned you that death was an administrative nightmare; the stories were all about the emotional side.
‘We can give them a month’s notice,’ said Hugh. ‘That’s fair. And after your mother goes we can do a few things in the kitchen and bathroom and put the rent up. The rental market is the best place at the moment. We need to be making a profit from Neutral, now we can’t count on the estate, otherwise I’ll have to sell Ultimo.’
‘I know, and this three-month settlement stretches us too.’
‘It’s okay, I’m keeping track of the interest. But if I sell Ultimo now I’ll be selling at a loss, which I don’t want to do. Not now we’re having a baby.’ Hugh shifted so Blanche’s ear was over his sternum. She listened to his voice in stereo. What he was saying made perfect sense, and she began to feel relieved.
‘I really need some cowboy boots,’ she said when he had finished talking.
‘A propos nothing.’
‘It’s a pregnancy present!’
‘Where will you put them? You’ve already got about ten pairs of boots.’
‘Not cowboy boots, though. They’re so versatile. If I get cowboy boots I can throw out all the others. I’ve found these ones online made by this guy in Arizona. They’re amazing, they are pure art. I need them, Hugh.’
‘I fully agree you need a pregnancy present, pooky.’
She squeezed his hand and fell asleep like that, lulled by his voice and the inner workings of his body, and the knowledge that, no matter what, he was there behind her.
When Blanche told them about their father’s intentions to claim half the estate, Clark’s first reaction was laughter. They were sitting on the deck: he had gone over to the north shore to house hunt and instead found himself drinking Diet Coke, receiving the news about Neutral Bay and the estate in virtually the same sentence. The move to Neutral Bay was immediately forgotten.
‘I knew it,’ Leon declared with heavy fatalism.
‘I didn’t.’ Clark laughed. ‘I can’t believe it.’
‘He’s a prick. It’s exactly the sort of thing he’d do.’
‘But how can it be legal? They had a settlement, didn’t they?’
‘Out of court. Hugh and I have looked into it and there’s nothing we can do.’
‘What’s Hugh got to do with this?’ Leon said belligerently.
‘He has a good
lawyer. The same guy who took care of things when his father died.’
‘Oh, right,’ said Clark. ‘So how long have you known? When did you see Dad?’
Hands clasped over her abdomen, Blanche looked from one brother to the other. ‘About two weeks ago.’
‘So Hugh’s known longer than us,’ said Leon. ‘Oh-kaaay.’
‘I found out the day I went into hospital, okay? And I didn’t tell you then because I was sick and I knew you’d react like this. And of course I’d tell Hugh straightaway.’
‘Like what?’ Clark raised his arms. ‘How are we reacting?’
‘Blaming me.’
‘Who’s blaming you?’
‘Well, you’re being pretty bloody hostile, Leon.’
‘I’m just curious about Hugh looking into this situation for us.’ Leon clawed inverted commas into the air for the last noun, looking to Clark for support.
‘Well, have you got a lawyer, Leon? What are you going to do about it?’
Leon raised his arms helplessly as Clark had done, turning down the corners of his mouth. For a second, Clark thought he looked like Paulie from The Sopranos and he wanted to laugh. The relief of not having to house hunt for his mother had lifted his mood in spite of the news about the estate. He looked at the pile of mail he had collected from the kitchen table. The letter opener was a brass knife that had belonged to their mother’s mother. It was one of the things he wanted when his mother died. He considered slipping it into his pocket when the others weren’t looking. They didn’t appreciate it in the way he did. He shuffled the personal mail to the back and began opening the envelopes with plastic windows, smoothing the letters on the table in front of him as he read out. ‘$1067 from the vet. $256 Sydney Water, final notice. $153 gas. Overdue. $1534 from the vet, overdue as well.’
Ignore that. Hugh’s paid the vet.’
‘He pays Mum’s bills as well, does he?’
‘As a matter of fact, yes, Leon, Hugh pays with my and his money, since before she sold she was in debt and her cheques to Fatima were bouncing.’
‘The house is sold now. Mum can pay you back.’
‘Not till settlement.’
Clark felt light-headed. There was still a strange novelty in these meetings: he and his siblings hadn’t seen one another this often since they were children. He was pleased that the main conflict as usual was between Leon and Blanche, and annoyed that he had again driven all the way across the bridge for a meeting that could just have as easily taken place at his house, if only they would come to him for once. He was avoiding Leon’s gaze: there was a neediness and anger in it that made him want to run. He knew that losing their mother would be harder for Leon than any of them; too bad, Leon would just have to cut the umbilical cord.
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