Baby

by Annaleese Jochems

  While Anahera’s cooking, Cynthia finds a small fresh circle of spew on one of the cushions in the cabin. Snot-head looks up at her, and she pats him three times slowly on his head. His eyes close and he nuzzles into her hand. Tomorrow she’ll sneak the whole cushion into the water. He only needs to adjust.

  She kisses him and leaves to ask if Anahera needs help with anything. She says no, but Cynthia sits and watches her cook. She cuts the broccoli quickly, then slides it into the pot. Everything’s simple, when she moves.

  They sit and eat. Anahera says not to worry about the dishes, and Cynthia stands back to watch her puzzle the table into a bed. There’s a steel pipe holding it up, and Anahera loosens a screw so it can contract. Then, it’s level with the seats. They lay the cushioning from inside the seats over it, and it’s a bed. Cynthia gets their sheets and pillows, and Anahera sets it all up. It isn’t till they’re settled in and warm that Cynthia remembers Snot-head. He hates sleeping without her, but she’s caught in Anahera’s warm and quiet, and she says nothing. At ten, when Anahera’s asleep and she almost is, she hears him under them, scratching. He whines. Cynthia’s on the wall-side, so she’s got to clamber over Anahera to reach him. Anahera shifts her legs, but stays mostly sleeping.

  Snot-head twitches and settles into Cynthia’s spooning, and Anahera lies close and breathes gently.

  In the morning Cynthia wakes early, excited, and it’s like she’s slipped into reality, but not out of her dream. She moves quietly, and dumps the spewed-on cushion into the water outside. Under the sunrise, she eats a packet of biscuits and watches the cushion float, sink a little, and float away.

  Anahera comes out, yawns in the sun, and gives Cynthia a good-morning smile. Her shoulders are postured soft, and her hair’s a sweet mess on her head. She ties shampoo and conditioner to the corner of the boat—they’ll be washing their hair in the sea. While she’s back inside putting her togs on, Snot-head retches twice more on Cynthia’s knee. Nothing comes out either time, which is great.

  Anahera’s togs are an old-fashioned black one-piece, which exposes the solid bones of her hips and the smooth of her back. She stretches her arms and legs, and her smile while she does so is peaceful and controlled, almost religious. Then she dives into the sea, cutting a smooth, perfect hole, precisely the size and shape of her body. She emerges metres away, and Cynthia and Snot-head watch the sun wrench the last of itself from the horizon while she swims towards it. When she’s vanished, Cynthia takes her dog in to feed him. He doesn’t chew, he just takes hunks of jellymeat between his teeth, lifts his head backwards so his neck squashes into rolls at the back, and lets them fall down his throat.

  There are ten texts on Cynthia’s phone, all from her father. They’re all one long continuous message, split by his cellphone into parts. They say, ‘Hello, Cynthia. Now, I see that you have stolen $16,400 from me, and some of my clothes. Without even mentioning the intensely hurtful nature of your behaviour, I must emphasise that I consider this a serious issue. I expect to receive contact from you in the near future, wherein you will apologise, and describe a detailed series of steps through which you plan to make this up to me. Sincerely, your loving father, Thomas.’

  She reads it twice, and composes two draft replies but doesn’t send either of them.

  8.

  Anahera’s back and she’s saying all at once, ‘Are you ready? Put a lead on your dog. We’re going to town. Pants, Cynthia!’

  Cynthia is wearing shorts, they’re just tight and small. She puts on a sweater. Snot-head sees his lead and gets so excited it takes seven minutes to catch him. Anahera changes, then stands waiting. She’s in the dinghy first, and when Cynthia passes the dog over there’s a moment before she takes him. He trembles, and his legs wriggle in the air. ‘We should definitely bring him along,’ Cynthia says. Anahera takes him then, and he shakes in her hands. When Cynthia leans forward and pats his head his eyes stay wide open. Anahera paddles, and Cynthia holds him tight, tight enough to still him. ‘I know how we’ll make money,’ she says. A gull swoops near their heads, the wharf’s getting closer.

  Anahera looks up abruptly from Snot-head. ‘Oh, how?’

  ‘Well,’ Cynthia leans forward, over her dog. ‘We’ll sell undies online.’ She pauses. ‘Used ones.’

  Anahera stops paddling.

  ‘Horny men,’ Cynthia says knowingly. ‘We just have to photograph each other’s bums in them.’

  Anahera’s paddles thoughtfully, slower. ‘You’ve done this before?’

  ‘Course I have,’ Cynthia lies. Snot-head’s a bit calmer. ‘Our bums are quite different, but I’ve looked at yours and I think we’d do well.’

  Anahera looks at Snot-head, but it’s okay, he’s not trembling so visibly now.

  There are so many children, too many children. The footpaths are laden, and not a single person is walking down them with the same verve or purpose with which Cynthia follows Anahera, pulling Snot-head behind her. They all get out of the way. First thing, Cynthia shouts ahead to Anahera, they should stop at a café.

  Some backpackers are at the table behind them. One says, ‘You’ve just gotta breathe, man. That’s all I do, breathe. And think, when has the universe not provided?’

  Anahera lifts her eyebrows, and Cynthia suppresses a giggle.

  ‘I was down to my last pair of shoes,’ he says, ‘you know, I was gonna have to cough up and buy some. But then—my buddy was like, he goes, “Hey, I found some shoes? I think you were saying you needed some shoes?” And, like, I’m not saying they fit me perfectly, but—’

  Anahera’s eyebrows are still up.

  ‘Yeah, I can see,’ the other guy pipes up. ‘They’ve got Velcro and laces.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  A lady comes with Cynthia’s coffee—Anahera isn’t having one—and a bowl of water for the dog. ‘So,’ Cynthia says. ‘We get G-strings, and cotton ones. Cotton ones are less sexy, but more absorbent. We make a $200 investment, and we start photographing tomorrow.’

  A man comes out of a pub across the street while Cynthia’s talking, and nods at Anahera, but together they ignore him.

  ‘$200?’ Anahera says.

  The backpacker’s pulling off the Velcro on his shoes, and putting it back down again.

  ‘Yup,’ Cynthia says. ‘Gotta do it properly. Spend to make.’

  ‘$200?’

  ‘Alright,’ Cynthia sighs. ‘$80.’

  Anahera looks uncomfortable even with that.

  It’s a very small town, Paihia. Everything’s either on one street, or in the little mall tucked in behind it. There’s a shop with jeans, togs and two bras in the window. Cynthia walks straight in, with Anahera following. Then she has to go back out to tie Snot-head to a rubbish bin. ‘Retirement knickers,’ she says under her breath to Anahera when they meet again in the lingerie section. The bras are mostly huge, and the undies too. A lady comes up to them so quickly Cynthia worries maybe she heard her joke.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘G-strings,’ Cynthia says, but she can’t see any.

  ‘Hmm,’ the lady replies. She gestures to the rack they’re standing beside, then wanders off a bit. They’re all enormous. Cynthia wants to say big old curtains, but the lady doesn’t quite leave. She nods at them, and adjusts some shapewear on the hangers. Because Cynthia’s concentrating hard on not glaring at the woman, she’s surprised when Anahera says, ‘You’ll look good in this,’ and holds up a little red lace thing. Cynthia’s head gets suddenly hot, and her shorts feel too tight. Still, she moves closer to Anahera, being careful not to look sideways at the woman who must still be there. ‘So would you,’ she says. Anahera holds up some blue cotton ones, jiggles them, and puts them back.

  ‘Should we try them on?’ Cynthia asks, but panics at the rasp in her voice.

  ‘Go,’ Anahera says, and hands her the red ones. Then, after thinking, the blue ones too. ‘I’ll find more.’

  A sign says you’re supposed to leave on your undies while you try
on the shop’s, but that’s ridiculous if you’re buying a G-string. Those rules are for people who aren’t serious about making a purchase, not for Cynthia. They look good, both of them. Cynthia turns to see the red one from the back, and catches her own eyes in the mirror. The blue of them looks dark, she blinks. Should she call Anahera to come see? She’s probably been in there a while.

  There’s a knock at the door. ‘Are they good?’ Anahera.

  ‘Yup.’ A pause. ‘Do you want to—’

  ‘Yeah, there’s only one changing room.’

  ‘So I’ll get out?’

  ‘Okay. Yeah, cool.’

  Cynthia rushes with the undies, and they make a stretching noise like ripping. ‘I’ve got the same ones,’ Anahera’s saying from outside. ‘Just bigger and different colours.’

  ‘Alright,’ Cynthia says, sorting out her little shorts. They make brief eye contact on her exit, and she passes the undies under the door, then goes out to see Snot-head sleeping happily by the bin he’s tied to outside. She’s pleased to see where he’s peed on it. He looks like he’s melted into the concrete, he’s so soft and wrinkly. His ribs are warm and she gets on her knees to pat him, and nudge his stomach with her head. Anahera laughs from above her, and touches Cynthia’s bum with her shoe.

  They cross the street, and Cynthia and Snot-head wait at a picnic table while Anahera’s in the supermarket. She puts him on the table so she can look at him. He’s shy of the height and lowers himself to a grovel against the wood. As a youth he was very energetic, then he started humping Cynthia’s legs while she slept and, although she told him a thousand times not to worry, her dad got the dog’s testicles removed. Now he’s very submissive and lethargic. His eyes are brown, and choc-chip flecked. She puts his head through the leg hole of the pink knickers, then the big one for hips, then the other leg hole. Anahera’s taking a while.

  The guy from before, who passed them while they had coffee, comes out from Countdown. Cynthia can’t properly see his face, but from the way he holds his limbs he looks like all he does is walk around hoping someone will try and thump him; he’s a smug, huge body with a big head settled on top. Snot-head feels the lack of her attention and panics at the tightness of the underwear. The man’s pretending to watch a tree behind their table, but he’s looking at Cynthia.

  Anahera helps pull the last of the dog hair from the lace, then they have a biscuit each, with Snot-head looking from one mouth chewing to the other.

  Either Snot-head trembles less on the way back or Cynthia’s got used to it. Anahera watches, frowning and thoughtful. When they’re back on the boat he won’t sit down. He runs from one end to the other, snuffling and sometimes making little barks. Anahera leans back, closes her eyes, and scratches her neck. Then she opens them back up, black and bright, smiles at Cynthia, frowns, and shuts them again. ‘Want to play cards?’ she asks a little later.

  Sure Cynthia does. ‘Snap?’

  ‘Nah,’ Anahera says. ‘It’s always the same.’

  ‘Aw, then nah.’ Cynthia goes to the toilet, and when she comes out Snot-head’s sitting on Anahera’s knee, retching.

  Anahera looks up. ‘This doesn’t seem normal.’

  ‘Oh, it is,’ Cynthia says. ‘It’s absolutely normal for a French bulldog to do that. They started with a very small gene pool you know, so there are those things.’

  He quiets, and Anahera holds his head in the soft of her hands. ‘I’m not entirely sure,’ she starts saying.

  ‘Well I am, and he’s my dog,’ Cynthia tells her. Anahera keeps patting him like he’s nearly died, and Cynthia looks out the window, at its small cut of sky.

  9.

  Cynthia thought they’d get right into the underwear and photographing, but they don’t. Anahera joins her outside and says, ‘You can have that boy Ron over, if you want?’

  ‘Why would I?’

  ‘I’ll sleep in there,’ Anahera gestures through the window, to the cabin. ‘I don’t mind.’

  ‘But why would I?’

  Anahera shrugs. Cynthia thinks she looks guilty, almost, but whatever she’s feeling she doesn’t hold it like guilt. Anahera has excellent posture, and a chin almost like a man’s.

  They read their books for a while under the washing-line, but Cynthia feels bad about leaving Snot-head alone and goes in to see him. She tells him to sit and he doesn’t, so she squashes his bum down while telling him again. Dogs are like children’s toys were in the nineties. They can only do about five things, but they still make you immensely happy. When he’s stayed this way for one hundred seconds she kisses and lifts him above her head. He’s got a pasty, pink bald belly and quite short legs. She loves him, and she says so a lot of times. His head crooks down and thrusts towards her face, trying to lick. He’s heavy, and eventually she lowers him. He lands with his uncut nails digging into her chest, and tongues her face fast and wetly. Cynthia tries not to shut her eyes—this is intimacy—and to look steadily back at him. When he’s done she wipes his spit off on her shirt.

  She goes out to rejoin Anahera, but Anahera’s coming back in.

  ‘Business,’ Cynthia says, sitting down at the table.

  Anahera nods with a flirty smirk, and moves to sit, but Cynthia asks if she’d like coffee. So Anahera stays up and turns the kettle on, and Cynthia says she’ll make them drinks when it boils. The slice of Anahera’s mouth deepens, but her eyes don’t lose their kindness.

  ‘Alright,’ Cynthia says. ‘How many pairs of undies do you have, and do any of them look a bit new?’

  ‘Five.’

  ‘New-looking ones?’

  ‘All together.’

  That doesn’t sound plausible, but Cynthia stays neutral. ‘You should keep those for your own domestic use,’ she says. ‘I brought about, twenty?’

  ‘Cynthia, if you brought twenty pairs, why did we spend $87 today?’

  The jug boils. ‘Okay. Okay, listen.’ She’d thought it would be cool if they had matching ones.

  Anahera does a listening face.

  ‘Oh my god, I don’t even know if I want tea now.’

  Anahera switches the lean of her head from one shoulder to the other, and says, ‘No, I’m sure you know what you’re doing. You’ve done this before.’

  ‘Well, yeah, I have,’ Cynthia says, forgetting that she hasn’t. She gets up to make the tea.

  They sit, and Cynthia talks, making big gestures. ‘Just think about it, I mean. It’s money—what I’m seeing. Wads. I’m seeing our bums pressed together, you know, in one photograph. Two-packs could be a big seller. I don’t think anyone’s doing that. My undies and your undies. Two scents in one envelope. You know men. They’re just’—Cynthia laughs—‘men are just, really.’

  ‘How many of your own do you think we could sell?’ Anahera asks.

  Cynthia counts on her hands. ‘Nine pairs, that’s my surplus.’

  Anahera spends minutes texting someone on her phone, then swims, and Cynthia sits down at the table with Snot-head to write ideas and do research. She looks at pictures on different sites: Perfect Panty Premium, Panty Deal and Stumptown Sniffs. She notes the names down to consult Anahera on later. In an article she reads, ‘The inclination to smell is as natural as the urge to urinate. When you take raw meat from the refrigerator, you may smell it to determine if it’s still fresh. Men approach woman in much the same way, and it’s natural for them to find the scent of a woman arousing.’ Snot-head’s retching in the cabin, so she doesn’t bother with the rest, which is about how to post things and use PayPal.

  He spews only a little bit, and it’s on an old blanket they got with the boat. She uses a jagged knife from the kitchen to cut the section off, and throws it into the sea.

  He trembles and licks her hand while she holds him. ‘Thank you’—she leans down—‘for everything you’re sacrificing.’

  When Anahera comes back she sits immediately, muttering, and writes down some numbers. ‘Do you understand, Cynthia, that we’re totally broke?’ Two of her fi
ngers rub into the fat of her cheek, but otherwise she holds her face still. She slides the paper over so Cynthia can see the figures, but Cynthia won’t look away from her face. Her eyes are pierced, like a rabbit’s. She’s waiting for an answer.

  Cynthia sighs gently and leans in. ‘Don’t worry, we can just float away. We’ll end up somewhere.’ They’re not totally broke, she knows.

  Anahera shakes her head, wriggling her hands inside each other.

  ‘No. Hey,’ Cynthia says, seriously. She needs to remember that Anahera was an adult, with a job and a husband, so she says the next part gently. ‘I’ve been researching. We can make it extra big in the panty trade if we pee in them a bit.’

  ‘A bit.’

  ‘Yeah, you know, just a bit.’

  ‘We own our own home,’ Cynthia whispers to herself, twice, while Anahera sleeps. Soon, she knows, they’ll talk about her father and about Anahera’s divorce. She’ll know who Anahera’s been texting, and she’ll know Anahera knows her. She’s waiting patiently. Snot-head snuffles against her belly, and Cynthia’s sure he’s learning to hold his guts still.

  There are little hills and islands all around them, and the water underneath lolls and loves them. In the bed, under all the blankets, in the warm with Anahera and Snot-head, it’s like being in a tummy, under soft, mute fat and skin. During the day the sun comes through the windows and the way it yellows the old paint seems hygienic and purifying; simply healthy. Their togetherness is love or indistinguishable from love, and it’s getting warmer, expanding like porridge and filling their little home.

  10.

  Anahera goes swimming every morning and night, but that’s fine. The waiting is exquisite. Cynthia’s still not quite sure how to work the gas, but Anahera boils the kettle each time before she goes, and Cynthia drinks tea and watches The Bachelor on her phone. Snot-head spews daily, but Anahera stays out of the cabin, so it’s easily handled. Her absences are also good times for Cynthia to use her face washes and pluck her eyebrows. Anahera’s never gone longer than an hour, and they smell of the same soap and shampoo, so for a whiff of Anahera Cynthia only needs to sniff herself. Twice daily Anahera washes their dishes in sea water, so they dry salty, and while she’s gone Cynthia licks the sides of cups like Snot-head, who, after she bathes, likes to drag his tongue down her now-spiky legs.