Baby

by Annaleese Jochems

  ‘I’m going that way,’ he yells, stupidly—she can’t see where he’s pointing. ‘Towards your friends, I could give you a tow.’ His nose balls at the end, she remembers. He yells again, ‘I could give you a tow.’ Tow; his nose is round at the end like a toe. It’s hard to think. Does he want his sunscreen back?

  ‘What happened?’ he shouts.

  Anahera fucked Gordon. The boy fell out of the tree. Cynthia waits minutes for him to leave, and he coughs. It’s agony, the way her sunburn’s lying against the wood, but she doesn’t want him to see her move. ‘Ah, alright then,’ he yells. But still, she doesn’t hear him go. Then, with rasping anger, ‘What do you expect to happen to you, like that?’

  His boat splutters off, finally. The sun loosens its grip, and tightens again. That’s all, the time for one cloud to pass and there’s more shouting—Anahera. ‘Cynthia, are you alright?’

  No sound of Gordon. Cynthia’s eyes must have been shut, because they open. The boat’s coming towards her. It stops and starts in gentle fits, till it’s positioned alongside the dinghy. Anahera cuts the motor, and Gordon stays unmoving where he’s stood against the door. ‘Boil the jug,’ she tells him, but she’s looking at Cynthia.

  Cynthia’s curled on the dinghy’s small floor, and Anahera doesn’t look away from her as she moves around the edge of the boat, then lowers herself down. A silky leg arrives at each side of her shoulders, and Cynthia squirms up to see Anahera’s face, hallowed by sun. ‘It’s very hot,’ Anahera says, and squelches something. The sunscreen from the floor, and she rubs it on Cynthia’s cheeks, chin and forehead. She’s looking down intently, but not at Cynthia’s eyes. Cynthia chokes a bit and swallows it.

  Anahera stops rubbing. ‘Are you hungry?’

  Cynthia swallows again. Chocolate snaps between Anahera’s fingers, and it’s in Cynthia’s mouth. Cynthia darts her tongue out of the way of it, and the fingers, and tries not to suck. Anahera makes a soft sound, and squirts more cream on her hands. ‘Sorry I let you go,’ she says. ‘I was frightened. I didn’t know what to do.’

  His eyes are peeled. Cynthia looks up, and there he is, staring down through the window. Gordon doesn’t blink.

  ‘I really did like you,’ Anahera continues, ‘when you came to my classes. I always noticed you.’ She rubs Cynthia’s shoulders, smoothing the cream in and stopping just before it hurts. She does her arms and even her fingers, although they’re not burnt at all.

  ‘You know sunscreen’s to prevent sunburn, not to—’ Cynthia starts, but Anahera shushes her, and rubs her tummy and waist. The sunscreen’s sticky and warm, dried out a little. She can feel lumps of it, congealed and rolling, between Anahera’s hands and the fat of her belly. ‘Look,’ she says, ‘why don’t you stop?’ She’s still wearing only a bra and shorts, Anahera didn’t think to bring her clothes.

  Anahera does, and wipes her hands off on her pants. ‘Sorry, I really just don’t know what to do anymore.’

  ‘Yeah, well,’ Cynthia says, and stands up. The dinghy rocks, and she grabs Anahera’s head for balance. The side of the boat’s too steep and smooth for her to climb, so she sits again.

  After waiting for her to settle, Anahera dives off after the paddle. She doesn’t come back to the dinghy; she goes to Gordon, on the boat. He looks sideways at Cynthia, only briefly, before asking Anahera, ‘Well?’

  Anahera touches his wrist and Cynthia hears her say, ‘Listen, Gordon,’ before following him through the door. Once they’re inside, there’s her voice making statements, and his moaning. Cynthia rubs a wet patch of sunscreen with her thumb, where it’s caught between her clavicles. The boat rocks beside her, he’s stood up from where he must have been sitting at the table, and he’s looking down again through the window. He marks a point where they make eye contact with a finger, and slaps it covered with his palm. He holds it there for several minutes, shifts it briefly, and winces to see Cynthia still looking back.

  When Anahera’s told her to, and Cynthia’s climbed up the ladder, she stands waiting, touching her own elbows. Anahera and Gordon are side by side with their hands hanging down, quiet and looking a bit confused.

  ‘Hello,’ Gordon says, after a moment. ‘Anahera doesn’t take a single concern of mine seriously, and so here you are!’

  ‘Leave, if you’d like to,’ Anahera says, and she hands Cynthia the hot chocolate he boiled the kettle for earlier.

  ‘Oh boy, I would like to,’ he says, shaking his head. His bottom lip wobbles at the right side, and his eye on that side is swollen shut. The hot chocolate is delicious. ‘But,’ he tells Anahera, ‘I am worried for you.’

  Cynthia shakes her head. ‘That’s not why,’ she says.

  ‘Gordon, I’m trying to do the right thing.’ Anahera rubs her own wrist, nervously or impatiently, Cynthia can’t tell.

  He’s standing with his elbows tight at his sides, staring at Cynthia’s forehead. ‘Anahera wore my backpack, swam and got us food,’ he says.

  ‘Cool.’ Cynthia’s not listening. She’s proud to see his baggy lip shake as he speaks, and the swelled mound of his eye lift into a bulge when he pretends to smile.

  ‘How’s your brain?’ she asks him, swallowing the last of her drink.

  He laughs, sudden and loud. ‘How would I know!’

  She can’t help it, she laughs too. He listens and watches her eagerly. Anahera goes in to sit at the table, and they follow her, him standing back to allow Cynthia through the door first.

  He stands, and picks up a soggy box of Baked Oaty Slices from the table, but he’s like an animal—too frightened to look down and eat. ‘She’s clever, you see,’ he says, nodding at Anahera. ‘The box is cardboard, but they’re each inside plastic packets.’

  Cynthia nods, waiting for him to open them.

  He changes tack, trying to be funny again, and says, ‘Hmm. How does it feel to have nearly killed a man?’

  ‘I can’t remember,’ Cynthia says, and it’s the truth.

  ‘Hmm,’ he says again. He’s scratching the damp corner of the box, afraid to look down and tear it.

  ‘Gordon,’ Anahera says, ‘give it to me.’

  He doesn’t look at her, throws it, and misses. Anahera gives one bar to Cynthia, and one to him. He struggles with the wrapper, and most of his crumbles to the floor, but he puts what’s left in his mouth and chews, gaining confidence.

  ‘Anahera thinks it would be good for us all to do an activity. Yoga, she thinks. Her friend who found you is coming back for yoga.’

  ‘Probably not into it,’ Cynthia says.

  He shrugs, and then, while chewing, looks at Anahera. Cynthia turns too, and Anahera’s looking back at him. His face is wiped blank—they’ve communicated something and she missed it. He steps back towards the cabin, where it’s darker.

  ‘Do you want to sleep?’ Anahera asks her.

  ‘No.’

  Anahera’s face is disappointed; wincing. Cynthia can feel his new, loose lip twitching behind her, where he’s standing in shadow. Anahera summons a smile. ‘I could make the bed up,’ she says, even though Cynthia’s already said she doesn’t want to sleep.

  A noise from his mouth. A cracking noise, maybe from his nose. Cynthia turns to look at him, and he pulls his face together again, waiting for her to speak. She takes another slice from the box.

  ‘You got burnt,’ he says. The lump of his eye pulsates.

  She chews. Eventually he goes to sit on the deck. She chews that mouthful for a long time, and Anahera goes out to join him, and murmur things. Cynthia can’t quite make out what she’s saying, but he interrupts her quick and loud: ‘You don’t take what I’m telling you seriously.’

  She keeps talking, at her same calm volume—Cynthia imagines her with a hand, placating and cool, on his thigh or shoulder—and he keeps interrupting, saying, ‘She won’t, you know that she won’t.’

  Cynthia eats two more slices.

  59.

  ‘It really isn’t difficult,’ Anahera says, and Cyn
thia can hear the instructive smile in her voice. Yoga. She’s watched their three sets of feet troop around the side of the boat, through the windows. Now she turns to see them through a different one, at the front, where they’ve all stopped to stand in a collection at the washing-line. There can’t be much space. They remove their shoes and wiggle their toes. Cynthia watches Anahera’s, then Gordon’s, then the other guy’s. The guy’s are pasty, with dark hairs, and she’d know Gordon’s anywhere; he’s the first to stop wiggling.

  She grabs an Oaty Slice and goes to sit on the top roof and look down at them, squashed on the deck. ‘I could make space?’ the guy asks her, gesturing beside him as if he could move further that way without being in the water. She shakes her head and settles in. Anahera says, ‘Downward facing, we’ll take turns.’

  ‘Dog,’ Cynthia murmurs. She knows this one. The men step back, against the bar edging the deck, while Anahera demonstrates. The downward dog is one of the most nauseating yoga positions. Cynthia eats her slice.

  ‘Good circulation,’ Anahera says, pausing before she begins. The deck is sloped, high in the middle and falling off at each side. She gets on her hands and knees with her fingers spread wide. Then, quickly—Cynthia’s never sure how this bit works—she lifts her bum right up in the air. She looks up through her legs at the men, and they’re both standing back, mindfully quiet.

  Gordon scratches his nose, and Cynthia remembers why he should be killed. Anahera looks up, specifically at him, and says, ‘If your hamstrings are tight, bend at your knees.’

  He nods. Then she says, ‘My hands are engaged,’ and he nods again.

  ‘Righto.’

  She stands back up, and waves her hand for the guy to take her place. He does, and she sits down beside Cynthia. She touches Cynthia’s ankle.

  ‘Thank you,’ Cynthia says. ‘Just watching this is making me feel better.’ It takes a while for the guy to get it right, and Cynthia can’t think what time of day it is. Gordon’s being patient, with his hands clasped behind his back. When he’s finally in position, the guy deep-breathes, goes red, and stretches his neck. Anahera lets him finish after only twelve seconds.

  ‘What?’ Gordon says. It’s his turn. He does it quickly, and wrong.

  Anahera says, ‘Your knees. I said that with hamstrings like yours, Gordon, you should bend your knees.’

  He turns his head sideways, and makes a pouty face.

  ‘What you’re doing right now is actually bad for your back,’ she tells him.

  He makes a big exhale, and adjusts his feet.

  ‘Don’t bother,’ she says.

  He bends his knees, then. ‘Feels weird.’

  ‘Looks stupid,’ Cynthia says, and gets up to go back inside. There, she takes two Oaty Slices and a packet of chips, wobble-squeezes her belly, and goes to eat in the cabin.

  Usually at the doorway she bangs her feet on the spare anchor, but it’s not there. They leave her alone, and she concentrates on chewing. The sunscreen’s dried up and turned oily, and it’s flaking off with bits of her skin into the bedding. She rolls a large conglomerate between her fingers, and it disappears. They’re talking again, behind the door, but she doesn’t bother listening.

  She’s got a notification on her phone from Panty Deal. Someone wants to buy the G-string Anahera wore. Cynthia’s remembering how pink it was when the door opens. ‘Dinner time,’ Anahera says. ‘We’re having potatoes, gravy, sausages and cauliflower.’

  ‘Cute,’ Cynthia says, and rolls onto her guts.

  Anahera doesn’t quite shut the door before saying to Gordon, ‘It doesn’t matter if that’s true, that’s what I’ve said. That’s what I’m saying.’

  Cynthia gets up, bangs her head on the ceiling, opens the door, and there they are; both of them at the table, waiting, not even touching their cutlery. She sits by Gordon, and he grasps his fork. Anahera’s watching, so they eat.

  ‘Oh, Cynthia,’ he says, pausing, ‘don’t worry about all the chocolate oat bars from the box.’

  After dinner, Cynthia goes back to the cabin and sleeps. She doesn’t know what time it is when she wakes, but they’re quiet. She’s pretty sure he won’t attack physically, not in cold blood. Perhaps it’d be easier to think outside, under the stars, but she presses her feet against the wall and stays where she is.

  There’s some noise outside, in the bed. Moving. Then the cabin door creaks and opens. Cynthia’s blood quickens. She watches the gap, waiting for a face, but sees the eyes first. Anahera’s. For a moment this is more alarming than if they’d been Gordon’s; what could Anahera want? Then the door opens wider, there’s more light, and Cynthia sees her face. The eyes twitch, and Cynthia understands—Gordon’s afraid, and Anahera’s been sent to watch her and protect him. Anahera asks, ‘Is there room?’

  Cynthia squishes tight against the wall and there almost is. Anahera says nothing of how half her body must be hanging off the side of the bed. She wriggles, trying to find balance. Eventually Cynthia hears her put a foot down on the floor, and they can both relax.

  Anahera’s fingers aren’t in Cynthia’s mouth, or on her body; they’re not in or on her at all, but somewhere in the little bunk Cynthia knows they’re there, resting. Everything’s waiting, Cynthia feels it all over again. Her mouth is full of teeth and she roves her tongue through it.

  ‘He’s going to apologise to you tomorrow,’ Anahera says.

  ‘Cool.’

  When Cynthia first thought of killing him it was a dream of gushing blood and screaming. It was like a movie with her arm, and her whole body, going stab-stab-stab like a boy’s hips fucking something. Now, she only feels quiet. He’ll wheeze soon, sleeping, and when Anahera hears him she’ll leave. They both wait. Then, there it is, guttural puffs of air blowing out his nose. Anahera says nothing, but Cynthia hears her foot adjust on the floor. ‘Maybe go back to your own bed, Anahera, so we can both sleep,’ she says, but Anahera lies silently for several minutes. It’s too hot. ‘I’ll sleep, don’t worry,’ Cynthia says. She’s tired.

  Without saying a thing, Anahera goes.

  Cynthia lies, waiting, then moves quietly outside to look at the sea. Anahera’s silent, and the sun’s just now beginning to press the horizon and the surface of the water. Cynthia’s eyes are hard, she can feel them, boiled. Anything, that water would take anything.

  She thinks she’s dangerous now, standing where he did while she floated away a night ago, but is she? She steps back, through the door, towards him, and he doesn’t wake. He stays with his blood soft and slow and his muscles relaxed in his fat. He’s got a knife there, sticking out from under his pillow. She touches the blade and it’s sharp. The blanket’s pulled up around his neck and under it, unconscious and breathing, he looks like something natural. He must be warm, beside Anahera. His eyebrows are soft, and full, and his top lip waits for the bottom one to stop sagging, and join it in smiling. He looks young again, boyish.

  She leaves him to wheeze and goes back to the cabin, but she can’t sleep. She’s thinking of Anahera’s eyelids flickering, the lashes twitching—her sleep was fake.

  60.

  She wakes late, with her leg bent weird against the wall. She opens the cabin door with her other foot, and he’s sitting at the table eating Nutri-Grain. There’s the knife again, black-handled by his plate. He nods down at it. ‘I sharpened that.’ Then he puts his spoon in his mouth and stares at her.

  ‘Okay,’ Cynthia says, and sits opposite him. ‘That’s the first helpful thing you’ve done since you arrived.’

  ‘Who ever loved you?’ he says, spooning up more.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  He refines his gaze and holds the spoon steady in front of his lips. It’s piled high, and she thinks he must be concentrating on keeping it steady and watching her simultaneously. His mouth opens much wider than necessary, and he puts it in.

  ‘I’ve been assured of an apology from you,’ she says.

  One of his bloated fingers lifts and taps the table gent
ly beside the knife. After a long, slow swallow, he says, ‘Look at Anahera,’ and gestures at the empty seat beside him. He looks from Cynthia, sideways, at the empty space, but only for a moment. She looks too, at the seat. Anahera’s face, her body, her hands. A light falls on her, a gorgeous beam of it; their attention. Gordon, seeing that Cynthia’s looking where he’s pointed, chances a second look that way too. He gestures with his hands, adoringly, at the air where he says Anahera is, indistinguishable from the space in which he plans to make his point. It’s Cynthia’s hate that she sits in. But she sits comfortably in all that empty air. It seems she’s revealed now—that this is what she always wanted; to be wanted this way, so hotly. To have everything waiting for her, because of course, Anahera’s gone swimming.

  ‘You see, Cynthia? Her parents had to go to WINZ, you know.’

  ‘Her dad was a logger,’ Cynthia says.

  ‘Doesn’t matter. I gave her her first fitness job.’

  Cynthia gasps, appalled.

  ‘That’s right,’ Gordon says. ‘I instruct too. Women have sex with me because they respect my skill set.’

  She gapes at him.

  He laughs. ‘They’re cutest when they beg. Anahera, in particular, is inclined to say a lot of special things.’

  Cynthia begins taking twenty big breaths.

  ‘Do you not eat, Cynthia?’ He’s excited. He’s using his stupid fake accent again.

  She stops at seven. ‘Gordon, I know you’re from fucking Palmerston North.’

  He ignores her. ‘It is because you were beautiful, now you don’t have an idea. Where’s Louise gone, Thelma?’

  Cynthia walks past him to stand on the deck and consider the sea. She watches the water shift and remembers how the blue nylon of his tent caught light, and how fecund and green it was with moss lower down. There wasn’t much space in there, but in all that dark moisture, under that blue, Anahera moved so Gordon could insert himself into her. He stands near Cynthia now with a hand at his chin, pretending to think. What he’s said doesn’t hurt her, not particularly. What hurts is the size of him, his slow-moving strength, and knowing that however strong she is Anahera let herself be less in comparison, under him, or maybe as a game on top.