She sent me the Shield for Sportsmen roller ball before I was ready. It spun out of the gutter. I chased it, hung off the asbestos edge, let my toes slide down the whitewashed wall. My chin was stuck above the gutter, my face all red from hanging like that. She said, ‘Your husband has to break it, otherwise he can’t get in.’
I worried, I fretted, I freaked out inside. Same day I came up with an answer. Marriage is out.
‘Lennie I’ve gotto go.’
Lennie climbs back through the poles, gives the horse a last stroke down the bone of its nose.
‘Do you want to come with me tonight to watch wrestling?’
Geez.
‘My brother’s a champion.’
‘Will you pay me for my time?’
Lennie’s eyes drop to the pounded sand. Cheapskate.
But it’s me who feels cheap. ‘Ag, okay, if it’s at night. I don’t work at night. But if you wanna try again, you pay.’
He smiles at me with the same eyes he has for that psycho horse. Fond, like a proper father’s.
Late that Saturday, I check out the Syndol. I crave it. I hate it.
I wanna smash it, flush it. Gobble it up. I dunno how to say it.
The craving, it rips me inside out.
I try think of the bird flapping frenzy.
One more day. The tadpole doesn’t deserve to be hurt. It’s swimming there thinking it’s got half a chance. But life’s too much of a bloody business, and if it’s a girl, it’s not worth it.
I find tuna in the cupboard. Eat it straight.
This kid loves fish.
The garden gate slams. Something crashing, something on wheels. The birds go berserk. Outside the front door, a woman’s voice, ‘Darryl’s in Joburg. He’s doing a TV show.’
A man’s voice answers.
Shit. I’m in a dress with tassels. My takkies too casual. What to wear? What to wear? Darryl’s got little feet. I try on a shiny black boot. A bit big, a bit blunt in the front. I lift a leg to get a squiz in the mirror. A cowgirl craving flippin painkillers. Waiting for Monday.
The man’s voice, reasoning.
The woman goes, ‘It is number eleven, but it’s locked up. Look.’
I stick my head in the passage. The front door springs open, hits the passage wall. Crispy Nora nearly falls in. A white haired kid wheelies the stairs on a black plastic bike. Lennie looks like he’s hit gold. ‘Tess!’
Lennie’s hair’s waxed back. Baggy black pants. Shirt buttoned up to the neck. Crispy tries to apologise, ‘I didn’t know …’ ‘We’re going to watch my brother. He’s a springbok wrestler.’ Helluva proud. Not one bit ashamed to pick up a prostitute.
His little Mini’s outside. A blast of aftershave makes me suspicious. I’m not in the mood for private parts.
Crispy waves us off over her wall. Two blonde heads at each shoulder, same as those round christmas flowers in her garden.
The Good Hope Centre’s the shape of a big fat worm. Inside, Lennie buys me an extra large Coke. Our seats are miles from the ring. Lennie says his brother’s a proper Springbok, but he trained for six months to do wrestling for show. ‘He had to learn how to fall.’ Lennie laughs, a big, glad laugh but then bites it in half. Shows me a man in front, ‘That ou with the red shirt. That’s my father.’ Big guy, sloping shoulders, waving at someone in the tunnel. From the side, the same face as Lennie. But this guy’s got beef. ‘You’ve got your dad’s face.’
‘Sssh.’ Like he might hear.
The guy’s beef gives him a boxer bouncer look. Maybe he shoved horses back with his shoulder, onto the starting block. He sits for one second, rises up with the crowd, lifts his fists as the fighters come in. The announcer shouts, ‘Damon the Demon! Steve the Serpent!’
‘Steve Masinga,’ Lennie shouts into my ear.
Lennie’s dad goes to meet the beast with the lighter skin. Puts a hand on his neck. Sees his kid into the ring. A hard, loving shove.
They’ve got those dumb names, but they’re not all dressed up and painted like on WWF. Damon’s got a shaved head, his mother’s face, must be. His jaw too far forward. His forehead wide. The same buttery brown as Lennie and his dad. From here he looks slick, a steam bath kind of man, you know, sparkling on fruit and chicken fillet. Muscles so tight against his skin, looks like there’s no blood in him. He’s more of a sculpture than a ripping, street fighting thing. But I flatter Lennie. ‘He’s a flippin rock.’
Steve Masinga’s just as big. They say on the speakers he’s from Pretoria. Same as the skinny policeman, can you believe. But this guy’s got the wrong name. He’s not a snake, he’s a tree, torn out the flippin earth. A whole lot of stump to his arms and legs, hands bigger than his head. Lennie ducks suddenly. His dad’s scanning the crowd. Lifts a thumb at someone. ‘Damon’s sponsor,’ Lennie says.
Shit this is not the wrestling you see on TV. Not those action men, peroxide hair, black diamonds painted on their eyes. Rubber g-strings, bouncing off each other. No way. These two collide black and blue. Their bodies crash like flippin cars. They shatter, need real fixing. They get bad rope burn from slicing into the ropes. Elbow blows make horrible swellings. Sheez, I can smell blood. My stomach’s in a ball, my heart’s gone pale. Lennie shrinks, goes still. Shoulders bent over his ribs. Arms folded across his stomach, a flippin wet rag on the plastic seat. Lennie’s dad’s head strains like it’s being held back by a strap, grinding flippin enamel. Steve does good tricks, gets Damon down for long seconds. He makes Damon suffer, sweat so much Lennie’s dad flaps his hands at the sponsor. Draws a stripe across his forehead. The sponsor fusses in a bag, pulls out a red sweat band. Next break they slip it onto Damon’s head. It’s got big letters on it.
‘Eternity,’ says Lennie.
‘Huh?’
‘Life Insurance.’
Round five, Lennie’s dad shouts through a crack in the crowd, ‘Beat him boy!’ Nicely timed during a messy shuffle. Damon the Demon gets amped, hurls himself at big Steve. Hurtles against him, again and again. They’re a creature with four limbs, falling so hard there must be blood. I suck on my Coke, push the fluids. Next to me, Lennie’s legs hang loose, his arms flop like they’re sewn on.
‘Finish him boy!’ Again, that roar fills a space. Damon gets furious, gets on top. Steve’s hands and feet are like clubs, whacking the ground. Dying for air, death drums, I swear. The crowd count out loud. ‘… eight … nine … ten!’ Damon flies up, his arms in the air. The crowd goes crazy.
Lennie waits for his dad and his brother to go down the tunnel. His dad’s hand back on Damon’s neck. Herding the fighting beast home.
It’s cold in the parking lot.
‘Your boet is mean.’ But Lennie’s suddenly lost all his pride.
I change my tune. ‘But what a stupid sport, hey?’
The insult gets a smile out of him.
I dunno why, but it pisses me off, the way he changes. The way he’s jealous and proud at the same time. I mean, what is he? We get into the Mini.
I dunno why, but I wanna needle him. Make him face things.
‘What happened to you in there, hey?’
The bottom half of people pass by. Belts, skirts, belly buttons. Tucked in shirts and silver zips. ‘You went all floppy, like a flippin stroke.’ I laugh ugly. ‘And why do you duck and dive your dad?’
I’ve got him in a knot, but his silence makes me push even harder.
‘Why don’t you go and see your brother?’ I dunno why I’m so cross. ‘Aren’t you talking to them?’
‘I stay away from them.’
‘What, except Saturday night?’
‘I don’t know why I come and watch. I hate violence.’
A cigarette end burns like a jewel on the tar. I wanna kill him with words, that’s what. ‘The same reason you carve horses. You’re like, stuck in the past. Cause why do you carve them, over and over? If you’re so scared of horses, why are you so obsessed?’
Lennie winds his arms round the steering wheel. Rests h
is chin there. He sighs like I’ve bust him, big time. Like he gives up. But he comes back with a flippin surprise. ‘Why are you so obsessed with sex?’
‘Stuff you!’
A flash of turquoise.
‘I’m not. I …’
The sun shines through my nightie.
Cars rev off the tar, hit what’s left of Saturday night.
‘I left school in standard eight.’
‘Ja, but …’ He leaves it like that.
Starts the car.
‘Why are you so obsessed with sex?’
His question in my head. Stuff him.
I battle to sleep in Darryl’s bed. It smells like oil glands. Man’s skin. I keep seeing the Syndol box, tickled by feathers. Feathers floating in the water bowl. My Disney stickers on the mirror. Donald Duck with his tipping up tail. The sticker curled it’s so old.
A little boy shit scared of horses. A grown man who can’t stop carving.
A little girl who wet her broeks. A grown up whore.
Lennie’s like me. He learned to stay on. But it’s men that I ride. I shut my eyes tight to stop the flood, but my tears are just a terrible mirror.
My dressing table mirror. Donald Duck with his tipping up tail. Graham’s big brown hands working in circles. Round and round where my little breasts grow, his curly head bent to the glass. His sandpaper face, scratching my neck, biting off my head, it looks like.
Mommy.
I stumble into the lounge, hit the light switch. The Syndol’s still there. Real. Solid. I’m sick from seeing imaginary things. My brain’s slippery without my big five, it’s sliding around, mixing real life with flippin dreams. It was better when it just got chockablock and I took the pills to empty it out. I’m sick for Syndol. Sick, sick, sick.
My blood’s screaming for what’s in the box.
But I don’t go into the cage. I stay out for the tadpole.
Watch the finches’ eyes.
Is it true? I ask.
Is it true?
Their eyes are soft, curious. That’s all. They steady my mind that’s slipping, ducking, scaring the shit out of me.
Stuff Lennie.
‘Why are you so obsessed with sex?’
I watch their eyes. And I flippin go looking. I go looking for truth.
The headmistress phoned.
You took me to Doctor Le Grange.
He had bushy eyebrows like Lady’s tail. When he opened my legs I whimpered. He warmed his tools in a bowl of hot water. Kept saying, ‘I have to have a quick look.’
I knew he’d see my black heart there, in my fanny. Don’t tell Mommy.
But he only had doctor’s words for you. ‘I can’t see anything wrong with her sphincter. But her vaginal opening is unnaturally large.’
Your red, red blouse spread up your neck, up, up from its little lace collar. You wore it that day with your nice, white slacks.
On the way home it drained back again. But your jaw was stiff like you had lockjaw. You jerked up the handbrake in the driveway. Sat staring at the garage door.
‘Mommy?’
You started laughing, a weird sound. Then you made big eyebrows with your fingers. Pulled scary eyes, ‘Doctor Deranged.’
I didn’t get it.
‘Deranged means crazy. See? Doctor Le Grange. Doctor Deranged.’
Then I laughed till I wanted to pee. And you gave me a whole box of Whispers from your old stock, from the time when you were still dying.
The school phoned again.
You said, ‘No, the doctor doesn’t know. Yes, we’ll make sure she packs a clean pair.’
Graham asked, ‘A clean pair of what?’
‘Panties. In her school bag.’
I know now.
It’s true.
It’s true and you knew.
I hang onto the mesh. Crouch in their soft eyes. The finches chirp, ‘It’s true-and you knew. It’s true-and you knew.’
I tried to tell you, Ma.
How many times did I come to you, sit on the end of your bed?
Ask you what’s naughty, what’s not.
‘Lady’s naughty, Mom, to make sex with Bruno.’
The old man down the road with the spiral toenails, his dog was called Bruno. That staffie cross thing of dumb muscle. Bruno got stuck to Lady. I cried and cried, what else can you do when your dog is stuck to another?
‘Is Lady naughty Mom?’
You stroked your precious birthmark. Got a faraway look in your eyes like you were hypnotised.
‘Mmm.’
‘It’s naughty, Mom, to touch other people. It’s naughty Mom, to touch their privates.’
You knew, Mom. Born clean, but you watched me get dirty, get stretched. Leaking, soaking up Graham’s appetite. His fumbling, his thrusting. Soaking it up for you.
When the doctor told you the truth, you made him into a stupid monster, like the ones in your horror novels.
I want to call. I want to kill.
I want to say, ‘I know, I know, I know that you knew.’
I go sit in a knot on the peach couch.
You watched me just like you’d watch me now, dying slowly.
My stomach’s heavy, like the tadpole’s been sunk. I swear my heart is bleeding.
You watched me leave home. Move in with men. I came back for visits, sat on your bed. Told you I was seeing Dave, the radio DJ. Twenty years older, staying in his flat.
Later I told you about Warren the bouncer, how he sold photos of me.
I begged for you then. Begged you to say I was bad. To say, ‘Stop this nonsense. Come home, clean yourself up’. Hit me with your slop.
But you sipped your cold tea. Looked over your cup at the painting of storming Zulus. Gazed at it like it was the sea.
I keep the light bright. When the birds go to sleep, I keep my eyes on the tiny flames on their chests. That warm spot keeps me alive, keeps me dry. Keeps my heart beating, just, just. I don’t go in the cage. I leave the pills to rot. I have nothing to hide. No reason to try.
Sunday’s a grey day. I’m surprised I’m alive.
Funny, what gets me up. It’s the tadpole, my mission to give it a painless death.
I make my legs walk, go fetch stuff from the flat. On the way past the park, I spot Muffy, the bergie, doing a public pee. A laugh comes up from deep, shocks me. Man, that Muffy’s religious. The way she faces the cars, squats like she’s gonna give birth to a flippin messiah. Pees out poes wine.
Bonita and the girls found my box of kimonos. All three of them are covered in tiny blue jets. Princess’s got a fishing sinker hanging on her finger, a hairbrush balanced on her head. Loud politics on the radio, no one listening. Going on about the three year anniversary of the start of the Iraqi war. They’ve found a memo now, they say, that proves Bush and Blair knew there were no bad nuclear weapons, but Bush said let’s just invade anyway.
My trunk is open. A pile of soggy brown cores on the counter. Bonita’s cutting ugly bits from old apples.
Bonita’s dying to ask me where I was. Tries to suss me out with her eyes. I just shrug.
Little shits have found Lennie’s wooden horse. Josie’s trotting it on the balcony floor. She’s made a saddle out of putty or something. A bridle with a string. A ring of beads around each hoof. ‘Shik, shik, shik’ go the beads with each bump. She’s found my spare soaps, still in their wrappers. Jumps the horse over them. ‘Good girl,’ strokes its nose.
Bush and Blair had a chat about how to start the war. Bush said maybe we should kill Saddam Hussein. Or maybe just shoot down a UN plane.
Geez, the truth’s coming out everywhere.
Sharonne’s up in my loft. She’s made one of those paper puzzles you put on your fingers. She leans down. ‘Choose a number, Tess. Under ten.’
Ag, whatever.
‘Nine.’
Josie looks up when she hears my voice. The guilt trickles oh so slowly. She glances at my trunk, tries some big eyes.
‘On my life I won’t touch the
other stuff. But can I play with the horse?’
A bit too late to bloody ask.
‘Tess!’
‘What?’
‘Choose a colour.’
‘Blue.’
The stuff in my trunk’s all in a jumble. I know exactly what’s in there. Rainbow socks with separate toes. From Auntie Cindy. Only seen her twice in my life.
The poster from the Scratch Patch with all the stones on it.
A poetry book I kept when I dropped out of school. Half of it I didn’t get cause I didn’t have a teacher to explain. The last bit, the modern stuff I could work out. E. E Cummings and the small hands and the rain.
Some old school reports in case I ever got a job in Cape Town.
More fluffy toys I never sent to Angie’s kids.
A helluva cheap watch I won at the Seven Eleven. You know, from the machine.
A wire crocodile I bought from a pisscat at the robots.
Some photos. I shut the trunk on Angie on the number one box for freestyle. Shoulders blocking the whole sky. Giggling at me aiming her friend’s camera. Angie begged me to go watch her that day. Swore if I went, she would win.
Sharonne’s as happy as flippin cupid, ‘You will marry your first boyfriend!’
That’s a bit difficult. My mom’s already married to him.
I start packing a bag.
Bonita watches, tries to get all detective. ‘Where’d you get that horse, Tess?’
‘Some oke, mad artist. Fighting with his wife.’
‘He’s a marvel, man. Is he famous?’
‘Uh-uh. Works at Goliath Shocks.’
‘Junne.’
I tell Josie, ‘You can play with the horse, but keep this shut, okay?’
Josie stands up, nods like a good girl. Bonita says, ‘Josie, keep your head down, man!’ Josie drops back onto her bum, safe from sniper fire. Canters the horse in impossible circles.
Madeleine spots me over the balcony wall. A few seconds later, she runs in the door. Searchlights my eyes. ‘Can you come and sew?’
I watch the velvet skin at her throat. ‘Uh-uh. I can’t. I’ve got to house sit. It’s a job.’
‘What about the bras?’
‘You know who’ll be good? Is Sharonne.’
Bonita backs me up, ‘Sharonne’s excellent.’
Whiplash Page 17