House of Sticks

by Peggy Frew

  ‘And I was thinking, it’s at Marg’s, all the way over in Hampton, and afterwards — I mean, you won’t need me anyway, because the kids’ll be in bed.’

  Bonnie looked across at her. Nothing showed of yesterday’s cracked, raw face. Suzanne’s make-up was in place again, her expression contained.

  ‘So,’ Suzanne went on, ‘I thought perhaps it would make more sense if I just went home.’

  The thin winter light in the room, the two of them there, trapped together in this, whatever it was, this unwilling union, this stasis. Neither of us wants this, thought Bonnie.

  ‘It’s fine, Mum.’ She scraped creamy dribble from Jess’s chin. ‘That sounds fine. And I think you should go back to work tomorrow. I’ll be okay.’

  Suzanne sipped her tea. She leaned forward in her chair, opened her mouth. Sat back, closed it. Came forward again. ‘But Bonnie, what —’

  ‘It’s up to me, Mum.’ Bonnie was surprised at how firm her own voice was. ‘It’s my problem.’

  That night she walked around the hushed house. Stood in the bedroom doorways, listening to the breathing of the children.

  The couch cushions smelled of Suzanne — floral perfume and expensive hand cream. Bonnie turned the television on and sat down. Then she turned it off and stood up again.

  She paced emptily. What could she do? What could she say to Pete, to convince him? How long should she leave it for, let him be like this, silent, cut-off? How long before it was up to her to force something, some confrontation? She stood in their bedroom looking at his row of shoes against the wall, a jumper hung over the back of the chair. How could she do it anyway? If he didn’t call her or answer his phone how could she find out where he was? She tried to picture herself staking out the pub across the road from the supermarket, following them back to Doug’s flat or wherever it was they were staying. Banging on the door, the demanding woman, the shrew. Their two faces, side-by-side, safe in their calm allegiance.

  She was brushing her teeth when someone knocked on the front door. A long, hard hammering, and then what sounded like a voice. She jumped. Went into the hallway. Pete? She started towards the door, but the knock came again, a shuffling and a bump.

  ‘Anybody ho-ome?’ came the voice, quiet, almost sing-song.

  She froze. It wasn’t Pete.

  Another knock, insistent at first, and then slowing, petering out. ‘Mis-sus Bon-nie,’ came the sing-song voice.

  Bonnie stood a few paces from the door, body tense with fear. She put her hands over her mouth and waited. Go away.

  ‘Hul-lo-o?’ The knocking again, another shuffle. ‘Come on, Missus Bonnie, let us in.’ A long inhalation of breath, audible through the door. ‘I need to talk to you.’ A clink, like glass against wood, and the voice lowered for a moment, guttural, slurred. ‘It’s about Pete.’

  He’s drunk, she thought. The fright swelled. What about Pete? A series of ugly scenarios flipped through her mind. Pete had left town. Pete was moving in with Doug permanently and he’d sent Doug to get more of his things. Pete wanted to see the kids, and he’d sent Doug to mediate.

  ‘Mis-sus Bon-nie!’

  She shrank at the volume of his voice. What time was it? Ten-thirty? Eleven o’clock? What was he doing, turning up like this, making such a racket?

  ‘Yoo-hoo!’ More hammering.

  She moved closer to the door, cringing. He’s going to wake the kids.

  ‘Yoo-hoo!’

  Fuck!

  ‘Mis-sus Bon-nie!’

  She took two quick steps, wrenched open the door. Doug fell in, stumbling past her. His shoulder grazed her face, and she felt the cold outside air on his jacket, breathed smoke and booze and his dank smell.

  He stayed on his feet, lurched round to face her. He was holding two stubbies of beer — Coronas — and he raised one. ‘For you.’

  She didn’t answer. She couldn’t even open her mouth. Her rage roared so strongly she couldn’t keep still. She trembled on the spot, speechless with it, opening and closing her hands.

  Doug waved the bottle at her, head back. ‘Peace offering,’ he said, but his eyes were wandering upwards, as if inspecting the ceiling for cracks. He took a couple of staggering steps backwards.

  She drew in breath, struggled for words. ‘What …?’

  But his head snapped back down into position. ‘Now when is this going to stop?’ He eyed her sternly. ‘Eh?’

  Bonnie stared.

  ‘This — this’ — Doug brandished the bottle — ‘rubbish you two’re going on with.’ His eyes had lost their focus again.

  She tried not to look at his mouth as it hung open, waiting for the words.

  The words obviously didn’t come. ‘I need a drink,’ he said at last, swinging round. ‘Where’s your bottle opener?’

  He headed off towards the kitchen, and it took a moment for Bonnie to gather herself and follow. What’s wrong with you? She felt slow and bulky, dragging her anger. Just kick him out, for fuck’s sake.

  When she came into the room he was around the other side of the bench, going through the cutlery drawer.

  Bonnie stood in the doorway. ‘What’re you …?’ She couldn’t seem to raise her voice above a weak bleat.

  ‘Ah-ha!’ Doug ignored her, came over to the table with the bottle opener held aloft. Bent and levered the top off one of the beers, then the other, sending the bottle tops flipping and bouncing across the table. Pushed one bottle towards her and seized the other. ‘That’s the way.’ He pulled out a chair and dropped into it, took a moment to balance one ankle on the other knee and raised the bottle. ‘Cheers,’ he said, and drank.

  Bonnie looked down at the floor. The rage was like a black hole in her vision, quivering, liquid. Who did he think he was, coming here like this, in the middle of the night, making so much noise? Stomping through the house as if he owned it, rummaging through the drawers? She tried to breathe evenly, to calm herself enough to think, to decide what to do.

  ‘He won’t listen to me,’ said Doug, looking at his beer. He might have been at his own table, musing to himself. ‘I’ve tried.’ He shook his head. ‘He’s wallowing — that’s what he’s doing. Starting to get a bit sick of it actually.’

  Slowly Bonnie opened her mouth, slowly she raised her head, fighting the dumb weight of the anger.

  ‘Boring,’ said Doug. ‘That’s what it is.’ He sipped meditatively, tipped his chair back on two legs. ‘Getting a bit boring now.’

  She gaped. She blinked at him. She felt her head shake, heard herself give a broken laugh. He’s sitting here, in our house, in the middle of the night, complaining that Pete’s boring, that our break-up is boring — that this thing, the worst, most terrible thing that’s ever happened to us, that’s ripped our lives apart, is boring, is a drag for him, getting in his way.

  Doug seemed to notice her then. He slid his lips back in a smile. ‘I know you don’t like me, Missus Bonnie. But the thing is —’

  The numbness went. The anger ruptured, blew open. Bonnie shot across the room, seized the back of his seat and tipped it forward. ‘Get out,’ she hissed. ‘Get up out of my fucking chair and get the fuck out of my house.’

  Doug stumbled but recovered himself, swayed upright, knees bent, arms raised, the bottle still in his hand. Beer flicked up the wall. ‘Easy,’ he said loudly.

  ‘Shut up,’ she hissed. She felt huge with rage. ‘Get out!’

  ‘Easy, easy,’ went Doug, hands still raised as if in protest. But he was moving, unsteadily, in bursts, like a dodgem car. Over the floor, through the doorway, out into the hall.

  Past the darkened rooms of the sleeping children they went, Bonnie behind him, fists at the ready.

  He wavered for a moment, and her throat stung with the force of her whisper. ‘Move.’ She had an urge to lift her foot and kick
him.

  ‘I’m going,’ said Doug. ‘All right — I’m going, settle down.’

  Teeth clenched, she followed him to the front door.

  He stopped there again, slouched against the wall, grinning at her as if it was all a joke.

  ‘You’re all right, Missus Bonnie.’ He sucked at the foam that was erupting from the shaken beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘You’re my favourite tough lady.’

  Bonnie opened the door. ‘Get out.’

  ‘All right, all right.’ He pushed himself up off the wall, groaning like someone getting up out of a comfortable chair. ‘Not the first time I’ve been kicked out of a party.’ Out on the porch at last he faced her and lifted the bottle again. ‘Well, cheers, Missus Bonnie. To you. And to Pete, the stupid cunt who doesn’t know his own luck.’ He drank, swaying as his head went back.

  Bonnie shut the door. She stood listening. She could hear him breathing, the shift of his weight as he turned towards the street. She heard him laugh softly, and then sigh. His feet across the porch to the steps, then a sudden scraping sound and a thud. The muffled scrunch of breaking glass.

  Shit. She stood with her hand on the lock.

  Silence.

  Shit. Bonnie opened the door again. She could see the shape of him at the bottom of the steps, dark against the concrete path. She saw his head come up, and his shoulders, and then he was kneeling, his back to her.

  ‘Doug?’ She stayed in the doorway. ‘You all right?’

  He didn’t answer.

  ‘Doug?’

  He mumbled something, tried to get up, but fell back into a squat. She heard the crunch and skitter of the broken beer bottle on the concrete.

  ‘Doug?’ She reached back inside the door and switched on the porch light, and he came properly into view, in colour, his hair, his jacket, worn at the elbows, the backs of his ears. ‘Doug? You okay?’ She went across the porch and started down the steps.

  ‘Uh-oh,’ he said suddenly, and gave a pale version of one of his titters.

  She came down behind him. She could see the broken glass on the concrete, and bubble-edged splashes of beer, and — rich and dark — blood. A little trickle of it moving downhill, making for the edge of the path. Her heart started to hammer. Doug’s knees sticking out sharp in front, his shoulders hunched, him swaying and bobbing like some giant injured bird. She edged round him.

  ‘Aw, me new shoes,’ croaked Doug.

  She stared at the shoes. She hadn’t noticed them before. They were awful, both cheap-looking and ostentatious, long and shiny, pale grey. There was blood on one of the toes. Funny, she thought, distantly, behind the pounding of her heart. Why would you buy only those crazy shoes, and still keep on wearing the same crap old clothes?

  Doug made a noise, a kind of half-laugh, half-whimper, and she yanked her gaze away at last from the mess and the shoes and saw the hand he was holding out between his knees, palm up. It was bright and wet with blood, covered, slick, and Bonnie could see small pieces of glass sticking out of it. But the blood was coming from further up, from the wrist, where a cut — not big, but deep, like a miniature toothless mouth — was spewing in regular pulses. She drew in breath hard between her teeth. Too much blood. She could hear the busy drip of it on the path, see the puddle spreading between his ugly shoes.

  Doug raised his face then, his skin drained and waxy under the light. ‘Shit, sorry, Missus Bonnie,’ he said, and moved his lips in an awful faint smile. ‘I’ve done meself a bit of a …’

  Oh god, the fucking idiot. Bonnie reared back, clenched her arms around her own torso, turned her face away. Oh god. She scanned the empty street. Help. Someone. But there was no one, and there was no time anyway. She straightened, dropped her arms. She was going to have to deal with this herself.

  ‘Stay there.’ She darted back past him, into the house. Ran to the kitchen and grabbed a bundle of tea towels. Ran back. Heard her own voice rapping out — ‘Sit down properly’ — and then she was behind him, touching him, pulling him to the bottom step, moving him away from the broken glass. She smelled his dirty hair, his unwashed clothes, the stale smoke of his cigarettes. She felt his ribs under his shirt. His blood ran down warm over the back of her hand. It was shocking how warm he was, how solid his body.

  He let her move him. He didn’t say anything. She could hear his breathing, jerky and fearful.

  Kneeling, she folded the first tea towel lengthwise and wrapped it around his wrist. Her hands shook.

  ‘Not tight enough.’ Unwrapping it, a fleck of blood hitting her face. Breathing, trying to steady herself. Get it right. Rewrapping, pulling the cloth as taut as she could, pressing down with her thumbs over the place where the red kept soaking through.

  The same with the second tea towel, and then a third. Keeping her hands on the place, pressing, pressing. Skidding in the blood as she changed position.

  ‘Got your mobile?’ Patting his pants, glancing at his face. He made no move to help, just looked up at her, tongue working at colourless lips.

  Pressing, pressing, fingers sticky, kneeling in blood. Feeling the oblong shape of the phone, drawing it out.

  She dialled, thumb awkward on the unfamiliar keypad, spoke to someone, answered their questions. She hung up.

  She rang Pete, without hesitation, without thinking. He answered, and she gabbled something. Put the phone down. Clamped the free hand back over the other.

  ‘They’ll be here soon,’ she said to Doug.

  There was a hush, then, the two of them waiting. The cold, clear night, the arms of the lemon tree open to the sky. Far-off car noises, and a dog barking. No siren, yet.

  ‘They’ll be here soon,’ she said again, flicking her eyes up to Doug’s face and then down again, back to her hands on the lumpy band of sodden cloth.

  His eyes were closed, his mouth too. She noticed his cheekbones, how high they were.

  ‘Doug?’ She checked his face again. ‘You okay?’

  He didn’t answer.

  ‘Doug?’

  His eyes stayed closed. When he spoke it was quietly, almost whispering. ‘Who’d fucken miss me?’

  ‘Oh, of course people would miss you.’ Her voice came out too bright, too sure. ‘Your friends, your …’ She faltered, looked back down at her hands. The blood was soaking through the outside tea towel. She could feel the weight of all the liquid in the cloth, the squish of it under her fingers. ‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘there’s no need for that kind of talk.’ She strained her ears for the ambulance. Come on. She thought she could hear it now, faintly, the rise and dip of the siren.

  Doug made a hissing sound between his teeth, and his shoulders shook, but she couldn’t tell if he was laughing or crying. He tipped back his head into the cold air and hooted. Threw out his hands, Bonnie clinging to the bandaged one like a limpet. ‘Who’d fucken miss me?’

  She sat on the top step and watched as they bent over him with their blue gloves. Filling the front yard with their uniforms, their practised, steady movements, their calm voices.

  ‘Well done. You did well,’ said one of them, reaching up, touching her on the arm.

  The smooth lowering of the stretcher on its wheels, the points of Doug’s knees through his pants as they lifted him.

  ‘One. Two. And three.’ The stretcher up and rolling towards the gate.

  Pete there, standing aside as they passed. Moving to her in a few quick steps.

  ‘You okay?’ Bending, hands on her shoulders.

  ‘Yeah.’

  His eyes, staring right into hers. ‘You sure?’ Him touching her cheek. ‘There’s blood on your face.’

  ‘I’m fine.’ Her voice distant and warped. ‘It was Doug. He — I don’t know, he’s really drunk, he just turned up here, and then he had a beer, a bottle, and he fell …’
<
br />   Pete standing again. The slamming of doors behind him, out in the street. The lights flashing red. ‘I’m going to go with him, okay? Will you be okay?’

  Bonnie looking up at him, his face full of shadows. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Is anyone here? Where’s your mum?’

  ‘I’ll be okay.’

  ‘Okay.’ Him turning, going back down the path. ‘You sure? It’s just — I’d better catch them, before they go.’

  ‘Okay.’ Trying to focus on him. ‘Pete?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Is he all right? I mean, is he awake?’

  Pete just a figure at the gate. ‘I think so. He’s breathing anyway.’ Starting towards the ambulance, but then pausing. ‘I’ll come back.’

  ‘WHAT DO YOU WANT?’ SAYS PETE. ‘I MEAN — DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOU ACTUALLY WANT?’

  ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘I want us to be together. I want everything to be how it was. Before.’

  There’s a waiting feeling in the early quiet of the house, the children still asleep.

  Pete leans his elbows on the table. He’s still in his clothes. He speaks softly — ‘Me too’ — and hope balloons in Bonnie, quick and clumsy. But then he looks at her, and in the morning light lines show on his face. ‘But you know it can’t …’ Sad creases at the corners of his eyes. ‘It can’t ever be the same.’

  And the hope sinks as fast as it rose.

  ‘Bon?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Her voice scratches out. ‘Yeah. Of course.’

  They sit there, not speaking, and down the hall Jess makes her first cry, and the day begins.

  And of course it’s not the same.

  But the way in which it’s different changes, as the days take them, lift and sweep them on like waves. Kinder, library, swimming. Supermarket, park, dinner. And it loosens, very slowly, the strangeness between them, the web of it.

  They kiss again, one night, and Pete pushes her back on the couch. His mouth, his tongue, the taste of him so familiar it’s hard to believe any of it happened. She reaches down and undoes his belt. He lifts her top, tugs her bra straps off her shoulders, puts his mouth to her breast. She kisses his hair, smells his sweet sawdust smell, hooks her fingers around the button of his jeans. Their bodies fit together. It isn’t difficult, or awkward, or strange. It’s like it has been for years — two people who know what to do to make each other come. Bonnie stops thinking, goes into that blind, beautiful place, and it could be any time, any one of the countless times they’ve done this. They could be right back in Pete’s share-house bedroom.