The Enumerations

by Máire Fisher

  Sadie touches Noah lightly on the arm. ‘Sorry, hey. It was just for fun.’

  Fun? Are you prepared to put up with this?

  Morné is still staring at Noah, unblinking.

  Noah looks away, and back at Sadie. Ms Turner’s right there, her arm around Sadie’s shoulder, but Sadie’s waiting.

  He takes a deep breath, and allows himself a silent out, 2 3 4 5. ‘Don’t worry, Sadie. Morné’s right. They’re only mugs.’

  Sadie smiles sadly and walks away, leaning into Ms Turner.

  184.

  ‘… what evil lurks in the hearts of men.’

  The Shadow knows the answer to this, and so does Juliet. She can’t forget the sound of Sadie’s voice, or the sight of her face.

  Ellen’s just been here, to her room, and that’s a first. Normally Mr Bill’s the one who does the rounds, but Ellen also wants to check in. ‘You know you can always schedule another meeting with me if you need to talk.’

  She does. Need to talk, that is. But even as she thinks it, her mouth opens and she says an automatic, ‘No thanks. I’m fine,’ when clearly she’s not. Ellen knows it, but she nods and tells Juliet she’s always there, she only has to say the word. She moves away and Juliet hears her at Vuyo’s door. ‘Everything all right, Vuyokazi?’ and then again at Morné’s, her voice firm, ‘I’d like to see you later, Morné.’

  She’s glad Ellen’s looking in on them, glad when Mr Bill does the same later.

  Sadie’s secret. Shit. What a thing to carry around with you, day after day. All the things she couldn’t say, all the things she did to try to make people notice there was something seriously wrong. Did her mom know? How could she not know something like that? Then again, when Juliet thinks of her mother, and how out of it she is most of the time …

  Juliet hopes that her mom’s drinking is something she can put into the past tense. How out of it she used to be.

  She hopes that her mother and Lily will visit soon. The three of them, her mother and Lily, sitting on a bench, under a tree. That’s all she needs for now. If only she could hope the same for Sadie. But she can’t. Her wish for Sadie is that her father never comes to see her here, or anywhere, ever again.

  185.

  Day 66 / 09:28

  Noah has 2½ weeks left at Greenhills; 18 days to tame the Dark, make it vanish for good.

  That’s never going to happen. Not even worth considering.

  He’s sitting in Ms Turner’s room and she’s saying, ‘I know you read it to me, from your journal, after your mug was moved, Noah. That was so brave. Can you do it again today? Say its name out loud?’

  He knows what she’s talking about. He also knows he has to face into her questions, no matter how badly he wants to block her, not say anything that might disturb the silence.

  They’ve been talking about facing fear, how naming it detracts from the power it holds. When Sadie and Morné moved his mug, they forced him into a corner; he had no option but to tell Ms Turner. But this is the first time she has asked him to name it voluntarily.

  ‘When you’re ready, Noah. But I think it’s time, don’t you?’

  Time to name the biggest fear of all.

  Noah’s in the Here and Now. Naming will take away from its strength. Noah is the one with the power. He tells himself all of this, willing himself to speak. Ms Turner’s beside him on the couch, offering her hand.

  ‘No,’ he says. ‘I can do this.’ He places his hands flat on his thighs, pushes down to keep his legs and feet from moving. Fear is nothing but a 4-letter word. So is—

  ‘Dark,’ he says in a whisper. ‘I call it the Dark.’ His lips hardly move, but he might as well have yelled so loudly everyone in Greenhills could hear him. He sandwiches his lips together, waiting for the sky to fall on his head, but there’s nothing, only a shocked, echoing silence.

  Then Ms Turner asks something more. ‘Noah,’ she says carefully, ‘what else can you tell me about it?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he says. ‘That’s all.’

  ‘Not even a tiny detail?’ she asks.

  She’s concerned, and Noah wishes he could say something, but the heavy mass is starting to move.

  ‘Well,’ says Ms Turner. ‘It’s good that you’ve said its name, Noah.’

  No it’s not. How could that possibly be a good thing?

  The Dark has regained its voice, but Noah manages to talk over it. ‘Yes, that’s something.’

  ‘Here’s an idea, Noah. Where does it come from? Maybe it would help if we could figure that out?’

  ‘I can’t,’ he says, ‘I just can’t.’

  ‘Well, how old is it?’

  ‘Old,’ he says. His fingers fly to his mouth but there’s more pushing its way out. ‘As old as forever, but sometimes it feels young.’ The words are falling out of him.

  Careful.

  The Dark is steaming in, alert to the sounds of danger.

  Ms Turner’s gaze is fixed on Noah, and this time he doesn’t look away.

  ‘And before that?’ she asks. ‘Was there something before that, Noah? Before the Dark.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he says, even though he does. He knows.

  He sees shapes, moving, dissolving, misting, merging into a larger whole.

  Stop!

  The word snaps out and the parts shift back into place.

  But the idea has arrived. Noah prods at it with a thought and the Dark reacts immediately.

  Stop. Do not even think about going there.

  But he finds himself wanting to. Suddenly he knows, more clearly than ever, that he has to explore the idea that this thing that has taken up residence wasn’t always complete and fully formed.

  A huff and a puff.

  Any minute now, Noah, and your house will be blown to smithereens.

  ‘Some of it comes from my childhood,’ Noah says, ‘from when I was little. But the rest arrived much later.’

  ‘Arrived? Baggage and all?’

  She has no idea.

  Ms Turner smiles. ‘You do know that most guests only stay a while before moving on?’

  Guests? What exactly is she getting at?

  Noah has a guest who’s become a sitting tenant, paying no rent and occupying his mind without permission.

  Occupying, that’s the word. Let me remind you of a small detail. Possession is nine-tenths of one of your precious laws.

  It’s true. Just as Noah thinks he’s scored a point, it’s lobbed straight back, like a grenade with the pin pulled out, about to explode at his feet.

  Noah is breathing in, and blowing out, fighting for every breath. His body has turned to jelly. His feet tap and his fingers splay on his left thigh, and then on his right. His ritual goes full circle and starts all over again. Noah is doing whatever he can to keep his words where they belong.

  His mind and body are all but consumed by the Dark and what’s left of Noah has no idea what to do.

  186.

  Gabriel remembers lying in hospital, the right side of his abdomen sore, the stitches pulling when he moved too quickly. He remembers the word spoken in a hushed voice from the bedside near him. Pyromaniac. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard the word, and it wouldn’t be the last. For as long as people remember the fire where an old man burnt alive, the word will follow him. Gabriel has been branded, and when people learn his name and ask him about his family, someone will remember that night and that there was a boy and petrol and matches. It wasn’t me, Gabriel remembers saying, over and over. And then he gave up. Because no matter how hard he tries to explain, he’ll always be able to read their thoughts: No smoke without a fire.

  187.

  It’s group time, and everyone is waiting for Ms Turner, wondering what she’s got up her sleeve for today.

  ‘Who was that I saw you talking to during visiting?’ Juliet asks Morné.

  ‘My brother,’ he says abruptly.

  ‘Nice,’ Juliet says, ‘very nice.’

  She’d seen the two of them standing d
eep in the shade and wished she could snap a quick shot of them, Morné’s hands waving in the air, his brother listening, nodding, reaching out. She’d watched Morné jerking away and stomping back inside.

  Morné’s brother is as tall and broad as Morné. Same colouring, same sandy hair, same pale skin.

  But that’s where the resemblance ends. Morné is round-shouldered, lumpen and morose. His brother’s good-looking, open-faced. Juliet can imagine him in a sports blazer, striding onto a stage, accepting a trophy for the best sportsman – rowing, tennis, rugby, cricket, you name it, it looks like he could easily sweep the boards.

  After Morné had stormed off, he’d stood there for a while. When he walked back to the car park, Juliet got a better look at him. His face was deeply troubled, and she wondered what he’d said that made Morné so angry.

  ‘So, is he older than you,’ she asks, ‘or are you the big brother?’

  She doesn’t mean to sound cruel, bites her lip, says a hurried ‘Sorry, man’.

  ‘No,’ says Morné. ‘He’s the oldest. And then there’s my little boet.’

  ‘Three boys,’ Juliet says. ‘What’s your little brother like?’

  Just then Ms Turner walks in and takes her seat. She waits till they’re quiet, then says, ‘Sadie’s not coming to group today.’

  ‘Is she okay?’ Morné’s voice is urgent and he half rises from his chair.

  ‘She’s managing,’ Ms Turner says.

  Morné’s standing now. ‘I have to go see her,’ he says. ‘She shouldn’t be alone. How could you leave her—’

  His voice is rising.

  ‘Mr Bill is with her,’ Ms Turner says. ‘She’s not in group because her mother’s visiting this afternoon.’

  ‘It’ll all work out, Morné.’ Juliet’s voice is kind and he looks at her in surprise.

  Si shifts in his seat, Vuyo’s hunched forward, her shoulder blades sharp wings beneath her cotton sweater. Everyone’s restless today; Sadie’s story has untethered them.

  ‘She never told me,’ Morné’s saying now. ‘Her father … She never told me. I thought I was her friend. I told her everything, but she kept that all to herself.’

  ‘Just as well,’ Juliet says. ‘I reckon you would have klapped him one if you’d known.’

  ‘Taken his head off his fokken shoulders.’ Morné’s hands curl into fists.

  ‘So anyway, Ellen,’ Juliet looks at Ms Turner. ‘Morné was telling us about his brother. The good-looking older one who was here on Saturday. He has a younger brother, too.’

  ‘That’s wonderful.’ Ms Turner is trying not to sound surprised.

  Willa chips in. ‘Stuck in the middle, hey Morné?’

  ‘Piggy in the middle,’ Morné mutters. He sits back in his chair and stares at the mound of his stomach. ‘Varkie in die fokken middel.’

  188.

  The first thing Gabriel does, when he leaves the home, is to go to Home Affairs. He’s written his Matric, he’s left school. He’s an adult now, old enough to be in control and do what he wants with his life. He can recreate himself, become the man he has imagined all these years. He will be rich, he will be successful. He will drive a good car, wear the right clothes, speak correctly, behave correctly, live well inside the lines. He will not be like his father, his feckless father, who ran out the back door and left Gabriel and his mother and Harry all on their own. Nor will he be like his mother, who turned to a cruel old man for support because she couldn’t think of what else to do. No, Gabriel resolves, as he walks through the doors of the children’s home, he is going to be his own man. He is going to reinvent himself. Become someone perfect, someone to whom only good things happen.

  189.

  Day 67 / 20:22

  ‘I dream in words,’ says Juliet.

  ‘Words?’

  She’s caught Noah’s attention immediately. Juliet, who can never stop talking, who has to fill every gap in every conversation, every gap in her day (and quite a few in Noah’s) with words, dreams in them as well.

  ‘No images? No colours?’

  He’s using up words. He can’t afford to waste them, but he wants to know more.

  ‘That’s right,’ says Juliet. ‘No pictures. I have dreams, and they feel really vivid, but I can never see anything, so the words, say for instance, “green eyes” and “dark hair” are meaningless …’ She flicks her gaze up to meet his and grins. ‘Just joking, Noah, don’t have a heart attack. Yes, so if, say, it’s green eyes and dark hair, I know what’s there, but it’s not like a green-eyed, dark-haired person appears on some sort of screen.’

  ‘What about clothes?’

  ‘No,’ says Juliet, then blushes. ‘I mean, yes, he’s wearing clothes, I know that, but I don’t see them. I have to wait for the words to describe them.’

  ‘And the words themselves?’ He can’t help asking, he has to know how Juliet’s dreamwords work. ‘Do you see the words, as you dream?’

  ‘You mean like subtitles? On a big screen?’

  He nods, imagining Juliet’s words floating. If he dreamt like she does, he’d watch words clump, catch them in batches, swallow them and send them down deep.

  She stops to think. ‘Not really. It’s more like someone’s reading me a story, you know? Like the ones my Mom never read me when I was little. But then, when I was old enough, I’d sit on Lily’s bed and read her all her favourites. So it’s like that. Words from stories in my head.’

  She sighs. ‘Sometimes it’s one I’ve heard over and over and I know it’s going to end badly, but I can’t ever rush to the end, even when the words are really terrible.’

  And then she stops. There’s a gap in her never-ending tide of words and that’s all that’s needed.

  How much longer are we going to have to listen to this? Get her out.

  Out?

  Of your room.

  No.

  Noah wants Juliet to keep talking, but she’s still quiet.

  ‘It figures,’ he says.

  ‘What? What figures?’

  ‘You use so many words every day, every minute even. It makes sense that it doesn’t stop when you dream.’

  It’s only much later, when he’s reviewing his day, that he realises something profound.

  The Dark had complained about Juliet – ‘Get her out’ – and for the first time ever, he’d challenged it. And then, even more amazing, he’d been able to shut it out completely so that he could find out more about the words in Juliet’s dream world.

  Not a wise move. Not wise at all.

  190.

  Who’s afraid of the big bad wolf, the big bad wolf, the big bad wolf? Who’s afraid of the big bad wolf, nananananaah.

  It’s Saturday. Juliet is singing to Lily and her little sister is staring up at her from the crib. Lily laughs when Juliet moves her head close to her sister’s face. Her tiny fingers grab at Juliet’s hair and Juliet laughs too.

  Juliet, Mom calls from downstairs, and Juliet says, Lunchtime Lily.

  She wants more than anything to pick Lily up and take her downstairs but she’s too little, she might drop her. Only Mom and Florence, the lady who cleans the house, and sometimes Daddy, are allowed to pick Lily up. Juliet thinks this is wrong, because Mom doesn’t always walk straight and when that happens Florence says, Here, Monica, let me take her. Lily is safe on Florence’s back, but when Dad carries her, he says, For Chrissakes, Monica, this baby stinks. Juliet doesn’t think he should talk about Lily like that, even if she is too little to understand. Juliet understands, but she will never ever tell Lily that Daddy says she’s a smelly little girl.

  Sometimes Mom’s dress smells of vomit from Lily and the perfume she keeps spraying on, even when Dad says, I don’t know why you bother, Monica, I can smell the booze a mile away, everyone can.

  Then Juliet and Daddy and Mom are sitting around the dining-room table. Lily is in her pushchair and Mom rocks it now and then and Lily falls asleep. Cold meats and fucking salad again, says Dad and Mom says, Sorry, Bart.
It’s so hot I thought— and Dad says, Don’t. Don’t think, Monica, thinking isn’t your strong suit.

  Daddy goes into the kitchen and comes back with a long green bottle. He pours some of it into his glass and drinks.

  Mom watches him while he drinks and he smiles at her. Have some water, Monica, he says, and Mom reaches over and picks up the jug and pours the water into a glass, only her hands are a little shaky, so she spills some on the tablecloth. Dad smiles again and sips some more. His drink is the same colour as Juliet’s wee when she sits on the toilet. If Juliet was Mom, she wouldn’t drink that yellowy stuff, but Dad likes it because he sips and smiles and sips and smiles.

  Please may I leave the table, Juliet asks, because Dad has told Mom the child needs to learn some manners, but Dad says, No, not yet. Wait here. He goes out of the dining room and then comes back holding a little square box with a shiny black eye. He points it at a corner in the room and says, This will do fine.

  What, Bart? says Mom, and Dad says, What do you fucking think, Monica? I promised your parents a family photograph.

  Family. Juliet knows that word. Photograph is a new one.

  This is one of Juliet’s earliest memories. She remembers it often, examines each detail. She asks herself if it really happened that way. She thinks it did. She remembers looking at the photograph of the family on the piano and seeing a father, a mother, two children.

  The father has gathered the small girl, the mother, and the baby for a family photograph. The mother is holding the baby in her arms. The father wants the mother to show the baby’s face, the mother says the baby is asleep. The father shouts. The baby begins to cry. The baby is now awake. The father says, Ready, smile! He puts the camera on the table and runs to the empty seat next to the mother. The little girl stands between the two chairs, one for the mother, one for the father.

  The father says, Smile. The mother is smiling. The little girl is looking at the camera, the camera is blinking. It makes a beep-beep-beep noise. The father says, Smile, again.