Baby

by Annaleese Jochems

  ‘I just want to see you,’ Cynthia tells her.

  Anahera laughs again, in a lovely flattered way, and puts one in her mouth. Then, counting them, four more. Her cheeks push out huge, and her eyes seem pressed from the insides into a new, splendid brightness. She laughs more, and chokes a bit. Cynthia’s very satisfied. ‘Are you going to swallow?’ she asks, taking one herself and looking at it. They’re quite big, the size of your average marshmallow. She looks down at the little iced wink on the one she’s holding.

  Anahera’s trying to swallow, but laughs too hard. Her shoulders lift up and down, and the chocolate shows in flashes in her mouth. Some falls on the table. She moves for it, but Cynthia gets there first. She wipes most of it up with her fingers, it’s wet and spitty, and puts it in her mouth. Anahera smiles. She’s stopped laughing now, but she’s still breathing loudly through her nose.

  They might be a bit off. There’s a slightly metallic taste, but Cynthia thinks that’s Anahera’s spit. She doesn’t swallow, she just sits there and meanders her tongue around, tasting. I love you, she tells Anahera with her eyes, and she sucks each syllable.

  ‘Alright, friend!’ Gordon shouts, and Cynthia remembers him. Anahera gives her a meaningful look back.

  He re-enters, stomping loudly. Neither Anahera nor Cynthia turns to see him, but he arrives, standing right over the table. ‘Oh,’ he says. ‘You have stolen my love gift.’ He turns immediately to Cynthia, who looks back at him, empty-mouthed now, and defiant.

  ‘This boat is private property,’ she tells him, smartly. ‘It got mixed up with our stuff.’

  She hears Anahera’s effortful swallowing of the chocolate, but doesn’t look to her for support. She won’t shift her eyes from Gordon.

  ‘You bitch,’ he says, laughing. But then he yells. ‘You fucking little bitch!’ His accent is gone.

  ‘Gordon!’ Anahera says, loudly. ‘Stop that immediately!’

  He says, calmly, accent returned, ‘Hello there, Cynthia, you fucking little bitch. I am going fishing.’ Then he walks back out to the deck, presumably to set his line.

  Cynthia snorts, noisily, so he can hear. But she looks at Anahera, and says, ‘Did you know his accent was fake?’

  Anahera holds her face deliberately, and says, ‘I had some idea.’

  49.

  Cynthia finishes the chocolates and makes plans. At lunch she’ll tip the piss on him. Then, when he jumps and shouts, she’ll say in a calm, almost maternal tone, ‘Are you okay, Gordon?’ When he says no, he’s covered in two litres of his own piss, she’ll explain back to him concepts he’s spoken of earlier, of self-love, and breathing deeply. Cynthia won’t laugh at all when he jumps up screaming, but Anahera certainly will, because it’ll be very funny.

  He’ll be driven wild and reveal his true nature. She imagines his big hands squeezing their frail table-bed so hard it crunches, then smacking her across the face. If he hits her she’ll cry and Anahera will comfort her, ignoring him. He’ll shout for hours without stopping, dripping piss, then eventually collapse on the floor in a drenched puddle. He’ll cry louder and longer than Cynthia, because he’s a man and when they get started that’s how they are.

  When her eyes are dry, and they’ve let him go on for a while, she and Anahera will share a look. A look communicating Cynthia’s plan: Anahera forcibly ejects him. She biffs his wet, angry body into the bigger, wetter rage of the sea. He’ll be weakened by his own stench and shame, and the sight of seeing Cynthia hit will propel Anahera, she’ll be at her strongest. Cynthia will then zoom the boat off. That bit’s a concern, actually—Cynthia’s never operated the motor, she might have to step aside and let Anahera do it.

  Gordon’s shouting again, at his friend, but she doesn’t pay attention. His whole life is meaningless.

  She’s just eaten the last chocolate when he comes in, with his buddy. ‘Sit, please,’ he says, ignoring the empty box. ‘What can I get you?’

  The guy’s wearing the same little black shorts and orange singlet as he did when he pulled them off the beach. He sits at the table opposite Cynthia, and shrugs. ‘Coffee?’

  Gordon does the thing with the gas then the lighter, and the kettle hums.

  ‘He doesn’t own this boat,’ Cynthia tells the guy, gesturing at Gordon’s back. ‘Or a single thing on it. He’s a guest who will be uninvited soon, probably tomorrow.’

  Gordon turns and says, ‘You’ve already met Cynthia, and you know what? She’s only fourteen.’ His fake accent’s vanished again.

  The guy looks from Gordon to Cynthia, and back. If it were a room he’d leave. She gives him a smile, she understands. Then she gets up and stands behind Gordon. He’s hunched down and bent over, into the small gap between the raised kitchen cupboards and the bench. She turns briefly back to the guy, and pulls her fist back, ready to punch, then gives him a nod. She makes sure he’s watching properly, and with all the force she can muster she slugs Gordon in the back of the neck.

  ‘Ow!’ He stumbles, and bangs his head on the wall. The boat rocks at his movement, and Cynthia waits patiently for him to regain his balance. When he does, he doesn’t turn back to look at her. She punches his lower back twice, but it does nothing, he’s holding the bench to steady himself.

  ‘I know you’re not German,’ she snarls.

  Gordon turns to look at her then. ‘I’m not German,’ he repeats, as if mildly surprised. His eyes are white, and he looks dully down with them for a long moment, and blinks twice. Then, he looks over Cynthia, to the guy sitting at the table. ‘Good day fishing?’

  Cynthia returns to her seat, across from the guy. He’s scratching his chin, and looking at the door.

  ‘What are your interests?’ she asks, to make him feel better.

  ‘Aw, fishing, I guess.’ He shifts his singlet, so the areas around each of his armpits are equally uncovered. They’re very hairy, like he’s hiding mice.

  ‘Cool,’ Cynthia says. ‘Do you want coffee?’

  She can see Anahera’s ankles through the window behind Gordon’s head, coming around the side of the boat.

  ‘Yeah,’ the guy tells her.

  ‘Cool, Gordon’s making you one. Do you want sugar in it?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘Or, either or.’

  ‘Gordon, put sugar in it.’ Anahera’s off the edge, and must be on the deck.

  He turns and stares at her, then spits in the sink.

  Anahera sits down beside the guy. ‘Hey there.’ She gives him two friendly, hard pats on the shoulder.

  Cynthia notices Gordon not adding sugar, but says nothing. His friend can suffer the wrong sort of drink, she doesn’t care. ‘This guy enjoys fishing,’ she tells Anahera.

  Anahera laughs. ‘I know.’

  He makes a crackly chuckle too, and finally settles into his seat a bit.

  Gordon puts down three coffees: his own, one for Anahera and another for the guy. ‘I didn’t know if you’d want tea,’ he tells Cynthia. Then, ‘Caught much?’ he asks the guy.

  ‘Nah, but I took a nap.’ He shrugs.

  Cynthia looks straight forward at his pecs, still flabbily exhibited at the big arm holes of his singlet. Is now the time for the pee? It doesn’t feel right. She waits patiently. Anahera and orange-singlet both know a family in common: the Henares. How boring.

  Orange-singlet asks Gordon, ‘How long have you been around here?’

  ‘Only months.’ Gordon shrugs.

  ‘He got dumped,’ Cynthia says.

  ‘Should I make lunch?’ Anahera asks, smiling broadly.

  ‘Aw, nah. Don’t trouble yourself,’ the guy says, but he’s leaning forward a little. He likes her, he’s been running a hand through his hair and smiling since Cynthia mentioned Gordon’s having been dumped.

  ‘Lunch’d be pretty good right now.’ Gordon rubs his belly.

  Anahera opens a can of corned beef, then their last loaf of bread. She boils the kettle again, and they have sandwiches and tea. ‘Victoria Beckham kissed her daughter on
the lips,’ Cynthia tells them. ‘Then posted it on Instagram.’

  Anahera says, ‘That’s nice.’

  Cynthia thinks it’s gross, but she lets them do the talking, chews her sandwich, and checks Facebook instead. When he finally leaves, she looks up at the guy and says, ‘Pleasure.’ He nods and smiles, and Gordon shows him out.

  ‘Interesting man, that,’ he says when he comes back in.

  Anahera agrees, and says she’d like to have him over again. That doesn’t seem consistent with their plans of not getting arrested, but Cynthia doesn’t worry. She only needs to wait a few hours till dinner.

  50.

  Dinner is canned peas, canned corn and more corned beef. It looks nice and tidy, all scooped out in sections on their plates. Cynthia and Gordon are waiting for Anahera to finish washing her hands in the bathroom. The bottle’s behind the cabin door. She knows she can reach it from where she’s sitting, and doesn’t think they’ll see. She sections her foods off from one another with careful scraping movements of her knife. Gordon tells her to stop, and she finishes the corn, then she does. The peas roll a bit, but the water’s okay tonight, so not too much. She puts one between her lips, a pea, and holds it there a moment. She sucks it back in and says, ‘Will you wash your hands, Gordon?’

  ‘No. Will you?’

  ‘No, I never do. Before dinner.’

  Anahera joins them, and Cynthia wonders how she’s even going to manage this. The excitement and nerves are making her hungry. She eats a large mouthful of peas. They’re actually not good, very watery. She’s got the bottle behind the cabin door, and Gordon’s beside her, between her and the wall. How to unscrew the lid without them seeing? She just has to do it, she decides. She won’t put it off.

  She puts some corn in her mouth and it’s sweet. She smiles at Anahera, then turns the same face to Gordon.

  ‘Definitely an interesting guy, your friend,’ she says. ‘What with how he liked fishing and all.’

  ‘I wasn’t so sure about his politics,’ Anahera says.

  Gordon laughs, as if he understands her or New Zealand politics at all. Anahera and Cynthia let him. He’s eating quickly, he’ll be done soon. She didn’t account for his way of swallowing without chewing. She shuffles sideways and down, towards the cabin door and the bottle behind it. He’s still laughing.

  Anahera’s looking at her corn. ‘We won’t get these peas again,’ she says.

  ‘Nope,’ Cynthia agrees, and she’s got the bottle by her fingers. She lifts it a bit so it’s not dragging loudly along the floor, and gets it through the door. She can’t go back now. She’s not sure if it’s visible from where Anahera’s sitting or not. ‘Not these peas,’ she agrees a second time. It’s under the table, touching her left foot. She shifts the foot, so the bottle’s between her two feet. It’s much bigger than her feet, and she’s worried it could topple, but she uses her ankles and calves to hold and shift it. It makes a dragging noise, but she’s watching their faces, and they don’t hear it.

  Gordon extends his plate towards Anahera, and she lifts her own and shoves the peas over. Cynthia rests her head on the table, so she can get her arms low to the bottle. ‘I’m bored,’ she says. ‘I get bored with politics.’

  Anahera nods at her oddly. That’s not what they’re talking about anymore.

  ‘Also, these peas,’ Cynthia says, smiling. ‘Gordon, you can have my peas too, they’re so tiring.’ She slides the plate towards him, still concentrating on shifting the bottle.

  ‘I don’t want your peas,’ he says.

  She’s got her fingers on the lid now, and she’s turning it carefully, and holding the bottle still with her calves and feet. She shrugs her shoulders as if to say it’s fine about the peas, and she’s nearly got the lid off. Neither Anahera nor Gordon reacts to her shrugging, so she does it again. The lid’s off. A bit of pee spills. Her fingers are wet. She thinks she can smell it, but she’s careful not to sniff. The bottle cap falls to the carpet then, and makes a soft sound.

  Anahera looks at her.

  ‘Peas,’ Cynthia says. ‘Peas, peas, peas.’ She nearly sings it.

  She’s got to move quickly, they’re watching her now. Or, Anahera is. She can’t see Gordon’s face, and she’s worried if she turns she’ll tip the bottle. Anahera puts a fork of corn in her mouth. Then, quickly, Cynthia lifts the bottle and it shakes in her hands. It’s going to fall, so she half throws, half shoves it at his crotch.

  ‘What the fuck?’ He wrenches Cynthia around to face him. She pulls away. The smell is deep, musky and acidic. Anahera’s head tilts and her eyes stare hard. Cynthia’s legs are wet. She can’t remember what to do now. ‘Breathe deeply?’ she says, and she’s shocked by the height and panic in her voice. Her legs are warm and dripping.

  ‘Pardon?’ he asks her.

  Cynthia looks at Anahera. Her eyes widen, and her eyebrows lift right up. It smells citric and rotten, like an off lemon.

  ‘Cynthia,’ Gordon says, in a measured voice. ‘Did you just tip piss on me? Old piss?’

  Anahera waits, with her eyebrows.

  ‘Yep,’ Cynthia says. ‘I did.’

  Silence.

  ‘Why?’ Anahera asks.

  Cynthia says nothing.

  ‘Cynthia, do you know how disgusting it is?’ Gordon says. Cynthia doesn’t turn to look at him, but he’s swivelled right around to stare at the side of her face. All she can think is that he phrased the sentence wrong, he should have said ‘this’ and not ‘it’. He leans forward, closer. ‘I am dripping urine,’ he says.

  Anahera drops her head into her hands.

  ‘It’s your own piss,’ Cynthia tells him. ‘It’s you.’ She looks down at her corn, and wishes they were still eating.

  ‘Cynthia,’ Anahera asks through her fingers, ‘have you done this to make a point?’ Cynthia can’t look at her either. She stretches her neck right back, so quickly it hurts, and stares at the ceiling. The piss is sinking in, she can feel it tingling around the hairs on her legs. ‘You already know what my point is,’ she mumbles.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Gordon says, standing up. He shifts past her. ‘I am going to wash.’

  Cynthia puts some corn in her mouth, but Anahera looks up, and looks like she’s waiting for something, so Cynthia shrugs and gets up to wash too.

  Gordon’s already in the water. He says nothing, and turns away towards the sun. It’s setting and the water’s not warm. She gets in and out quickly, and goes back in to change. Anahera watches her dripping on the carpet, but says nothing. Cynthia finds a shirt and shorts, and changes in the bathroom, dripping more water by the toilet.

  She doesn’t say another thing to either of them, and goes to sleep alone in the cabin. If Anahera isn’t prepared to stand up for her ever, why sleep together? She can get squashed to death under Gordon for all Cynthia cares.

  Anahera knocks on the door three times, but none of them to apologise. Twice to ask if she’s alright—Cynthia doesn’t answer, and Anahera doesn’t open the door—and once to leave water outside the cabin, which Cynthia ignores.

  She lies like a corpse, caught in an understanding as simple and putrid as death: some truths are not to be accepted as facts. A fact brings with it a horde of contingent truths, more potential facts. If you don’t stop accepting them, you might never. Then you’re in an ocean. Anahera never loved Cynthia, and Cynthia stops thinking at that.

  On silent, she watches a girl shove a huge dildo in her mouth, then her vagina, then her bum. She turns it off and they’re talking about her. He says, ‘Where did you find her?’ His voice is muffled, like he’s talking right into Anahera’s chest.

  There’s shuffling, then, ‘Gordon, probably just don’t touch me. I can smell it on you.’

  He mumbles, still against her, ‘I can wash again. If you want me to, I’ll go out into the cold water and wash?’

  ‘I just want to sleep.’

  Cynthia doesn’t breathe or move in the husk of the cabin. She waits.

  Gordo
n’s voice is clearer, and sudden. ‘What the fuck is your plan now, tell me?’

  ‘Gordon,’ Anahera says, ‘no one invited you here. You got urine tipped on you, whatever. Don’t think it’s my problem.’ The boat shakes, and Cynthia hears Anahera stomp out and around to sit on the deck. Then she stomps back and says, ‘Gordon, you ruined everything for me, do you know that?’

  51.

  Cynthia lies awake, thinking of Snot-head, and her father. Randy. Ron. All of them, boys; such innocence, so loving and lovely and Cynthia’s thrown them all away, for what. She mustn’t think of Toby, and his elbows. She remembers Snot-head’s legs instead, and the bones in them. So short and knobbly; little grandad bones. His big tongue, big eyes, and the heat of his nose and panting mouth. The thought of him in someone else’s bed is all she has left to make her happy, but she keeps crying and imagining him dead, then getting sadder when she realises he probably isn’t; he most likely really did find somebody.

  Gordon’s mouth asks her through the door, ‘What will you do with your life?’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘I had a job when I was fourteen.’

  Cynthia very deliberately says nothing. Anahera must be asleep.

  When she left university, she applied for jobs at McDonald’s, Burger King, Pizza Hut and Kmart. She didn’t get work anywhere, but McDonald’s had her fill out a questionnaire online that, in response to her answers, gave her advice on becoming her best self: she needed to develop a can-do attitude, and care more about other people.

  ‘Let me guess? There was a boy and he didn’t love you, so now you mope—so now you have taken it upon yourself to destroy my relationship.’

  ‘Oh, with who?’ She looks deep into the dark.

  ‘There are a lot of boys who don’t love you, Cynthia,’ he tells her. ‘And a lot of women who aren’t your mother.’

  The survey said to Cynthia, ‘Consider how you would feel working in an environment where open and honest feedback is a regular part of your day.’ They asked how she’d respond to someone stopping her on her way out for her lunchbreak with some constructive criticism. She answered honestly: she’d rather eat. They replied in kind: they found her unreceptive to love. Food is love, and they questioned her right to handle theirs.