Fauna

by Donna Mazza

  ‘We’ve come about the puppies.’ He squinted in the white afternoon sun, reflected off a silver shed, and lumbered to the steps telling me to come in and bring my little one, the dogs were inside with his missus. A trellis weighted with shrunken passionfruit, old roses pushing out orange bells from the dead bloom. A disused harvester.

  ‘Julia!’ he yelled, but she was already standing at the flyscreen door, surrounded by white fur leaping up at the shredded wire, which obviously was not going to screen out anything.

  I held Asta’s hand—not used to strangers, she tucked in tight to me—and we went inside. The air was sticky-sharp with urine and cigarette smoke and four little dogs skittered and slipped amid sodden newspaper.

  ‘’Scuse the mess,’ she said, but I could see this was a lifestyle—two reclining chairs and a huge screen filled the front room and coffee tables were layered with cups, wrappers, dog treats and a smeary phone. ‘You want to cuddle a puppy?’ she asked Asta, leaning down to her eye level and scooping up the nearest, smallest one. She placed it in her arms, frowning a little and glancing at me, obviously not sharing the question she wanted to ask.

  Asta held the puppy carefully, cradling it as if it were a chicken, and Julia scooped up a second, larger puppy—‘One for Mum.’ She smiled and dumped the little dog in my hands. It crawled up my chest, laying itself out flat against me, its little head up near my ear and straight away I felt that little gut pull, the knowing feeling that told me it was right. I have not felt that warm happiness that spreads through in a long time so I kept the little dog right where it was, transferred the money on my phone right then, assured by Julia that he was fully immunised.

  Despite myself, I could not stop smiling and chatted more to Julia than I had to anyone, except Isak and the kids, in a long time. She told me stories of the mother dog sleeping on her bed and how she eats too much cheese and steals the eggs if she gets into the chookhouse. All the while, Asta got more at ease and sat low on her haunches, puppies hopping up at her, dancing on their hind legs as she ruffled their heads, smiling wide. I could see Julia stealing glances at Asta, eyes lingering, and she passed comment on her good set of choppers and her very special sunnies. As we were leaving she said she had something to give my little girl and disappeared into the back of the house for a few minutes. I took a quick pic of the puppy and sent it to Isak at work—a little proud that I had broken out, done this and hoping for his approval. She returned with a doll and handed it straight to Asta. I recognised the troll doll from some old kid’s movie—its faded pink hair and brown body—and I thanked her and went back to the car, the puppy in half a cardboard banana box, lined with a threadbare towel.

  The puppy yapped a little on the drive home but fell asleep eventually in the footwell under Asta, curled in the towel. The doll lay on her lap, her wide little hand on its bare belly. A little anger brewed in me about the doll and as I took in its features I saw the reason, driving back through Collie and down the hills of the scarp towards the coast and home. I could see the wide nose and the arched ridges above the eyes—the stocky stature.

  ‘Give me that,’ I said to Asta and snatched it, quickly lowering the window and tossing it with all my might into the wide, black road. Impulsive, angry tears rose up and I drove too fast while Asta’s face fell and she called out in her rare, wild sadness. Moaning high and loud and slapping her thighs where the doll had lain, slapping and slapping until I pulled over in a truck bay. The puppy cowered at the corner of the box, a wet patch on the towel. Staring out at the horizon, the ocean in the distance, I wept. Spilling out the swallowed frustration and loneliness, my loss and fear and all those life unlived things that driving lets loose. Her wailing fuelled me and I sobbed until my throat was raw. But she did not stop. Her face red and twisted, calling in her high, husky voice—‘Babee, babee, babee’.

  Her wailing escorted me to my darkness and I realised the depth of my cruelty—the selfishness that drove me to take away her baby, how I have calcified my heart and allowed what I imagine others will think to seep in and break away the love I have told myself I give to my children, especially Asta. My own lost baby, not beating. And I turned the car sharply, spraying stones in my wake which clattered on the metal, wild and reckless up the hill until I spotted the little doll, skewed across a double white line on a wide, hillside curve. I flung the car into the gravel gutter of the road and opened the door into the wind of a passing log-truck, spraying a curse of splinters in its wake, slammed and locked it so she and the puppy couldn’t get out. Heat and wind, roaring traffic both ways, the doll shifted in their wake, almost crushed by a dozen hurtling tyres but my raw throat spurred my courage and I ran, inflamed, retrieving the troll. Asta took the doll back quickly into her tight grip, kissed my shaking hand. The puppy climbed up her leg, sniffed the doll and trotted over the transmission stick onto me, climbed up and licked at my face, mopping up the salty tears.

  I know this dog is for me and the doll is for Asta.

  We drove into the yard a few minutes after the kids had arrived home from school and they were sitting on the back patio, sagging and hot—Emmy on her phone, which she dropped on the table immediately when she saw the puppy. Her face alight with joy, commending me on what a great thing I have done, getting us a dog. Then she stopped.

  ‘Is he Asta’s dog?’ She contained her emotion, still and controlled.

  ‘No, sweetheart. He’s our dog.’ And I told her to choose a name, something that Asta could manage. I had not seen this energy in my children for months, except for soccer and netball. Guilt and happiness blended like a murky river. She named him Tayto, after the Irish chips we get sometimes and because his belly is round and white like a potato, and she and Jake set up a playpen for him on the patio, donating some stuffed toys, including an oversized unicorn, which has become his bed. He lays cradled in its rainbow legs now, having chewed its hoof until the fluff came out, tearing chunks off it and making a huge mess. To look at him gives me hope that I might do better in life.

  Isak smiled about the dog and said he’d have preferred something bigger but Tayto trails around his feet as he cooks at the barbecue and he is soon won over. He tells me I’ve done well and draws me into his arms in the smoke of the barbecue. In his smile are newly etched lines. It is so long since he has shown me any affection that I study his face.

  ‘What?’ He looks down at me, holding me closer.

  ‘Nothing.’ I sigh, the little dog clambering over our feet. Lured by the smell of fresh meat.

  ‘I’m glad you’re getting out, Stace. Where did you get him?’

  I don’t tell him quite how far I have driven out into the landscape. Don’t want to tell him what I think of, how I dream up places to hide and ways I might run with her.

  I never mention the doll either, but after dinner, when the kids are in bed he asks, ‘Where did the troll doll come from?’

  ‘The dog lady,’ I tell him, avoiding elaborating. I know he thinks it—that it looks a bit like Asta. We sit together in silence for a few minutes then he pulls out his phone, taps away with his head bowed. I go inside to sort out the dishes, put them on to wash and when I go back out he has uncovered histories of Scandinavian trolls, images of squat figures with wide noses and brow ridges, broad mouths and shaggy hair, dressed in fur.

  He cocks his head. ‘Looks a bit like her, you know. Don’t get upset but I can see similarities.’ He flicks to other images and shows me. ‘Maybe …’

  ‘Maybe what? It’s just a stupid legend like fairies and leprechauns, Isak.’ I grab his empty beer bottle, clean the table vigorously.

  ‘I’m not saying she’s a troll, just that maybe there were some of her folk that survived whatever wiped them out. You don’t have to get so fucking defensive.’ He combs at his hair with his fingers, it is visibly thinning, and takes a deep breath. ‘I’m interested, Stacey, that’s all. Asta is not only your business, she’s mine too.’

  ‘I don’t hear you say that very often.’
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  ‘What do you expect from me really? I’ve given up so much for her, what else do I have to prove?’ He pauses but I can’t think of what to say. I stand in front of him, sponge in my hand. I blink back tears—the wound still seeping from the drive home.

  He waits, his eyes shiny. Mosquitos buzz around the light, swirling like a coming storm.

  ‘I’m trying to do better,’ I tell him. I know I’ve let him down, let the kids down. ‘That’s why I got the puppy.’ I try to sell him on my efforts, explain how I broke out of my comfort zone, took Asta inside their house. He nods and smiles at my description of the house.

  He takes my wet hand and we go inside to bed but the puppy cries too much and I let him in, put the unicorn on the floor for him to sleep on. In the night he leaps up on our bed and sleeps by our feet.

  Whether I like it or not, Emmy is having Milly for a sleepover and her Nanny Ray is dropping them off after netball. I try to overcome my anxiety about it by cleaning and take Asta for a long ride on her bike to, hopefully, tire her out so she sleeps this afternoon. Naps are really not common for her now but she often rests inside in the heat of the day, watching the television. Emmy dressed the troll in some of her doll’s clothes and has given Asta a stroller for it and a few other bits and pieces. Asta has taken to dragging it out into the chicken pen and under the trees to the ramshackle of treetop platforms and shelters where the kids play. Isak has hung a swing and rope from the trees for Jake to climb up to a high platform but getting there involves too much agility for Asta, for now at least. She prefers the hollow tree and stays out there with the doll for company. Tayto follows me or sleeps beside Asta if she is inside.

  When Nanny Ray comes with Milly and Emmy after school, he yaps incessantly until they are in sight. Emmy leads the way with Milly, dragging an extra bag and pillow for a sleepover. I greet them on the patio, holding the dog to calm him down. The girls both pat him and coo over his cuteness then disappear inside to snack and settle in.

  ‘I made muffins,’ I call. Conscious of being judged on my parenting. I feel Nanny Ray’s suspicion on me but her gaze is not searching, just besotted with Tayto. I push myself, thinking of Isak telling me not to avoid her; that she’s a nice woman who has Emmy to stay with Milly so I shouldn’t offend her too much. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

  She smiles. ‘I’d love one, Stacey.’ And I hand her the dog, who wiggles as she fusses over him, telling him what a cute little potato he is, in low infantile tones. I leave her outside and wait for the kettle, warm a couple of muffins. As it boils, she appears in the kitchen, still with Tayto, who has settled into a cuddle. I had meant for her to stay outside but she is obviously the kind of person to make herself at home. ‘Milly loves coming here. Tells us all the time about your beautiful property. It’s good for the kids to have that space.’

  My mother always said that when we moved. ‘That’s nice to hear,’ I tell her. ‘I grew up in the country and so did Isak.’

  ‘You’re lucky,’ she says. Her eagle eyes—I wonder what she thinks. Clicking over property values and Isak’s ordinary income. She might assume inheritance.

  ‘Shall we go outside?’ I take a tray with the tea and muffins and lead the way. ‘Asta is resting and I don’t want to wake her.’

  ‘She still has a nap?’

  ‘We had a big walk,’ I tell her, putting the tray out on the patio. She keeps hold of my dog and starts telling me the girls’ excited conversation in the car about the puppy. ‘It’s good for Emmy, you know. At her age, dogs are the best thing.’ I have no idea what she means but her eyes are full of knowing. She continues with a tale of her own daughter, who was obsessed with her little sister and fussed over her to the point of oppression until she, Nanny Ray, got her a dog, and from then on the obsession was transferred off the sister.

  ‘Do you think Emmy is obsessed with her sister?’

  She shakes her head. No, no, no, she says.

  ‘Some girls have a natural maternal instinct and I think Em needs to nurture something.’

  I can’t help but feel a little annoyed at her authoritative knowledge of my daughter. Maybe it’s an age thing, or my unfamiliarity with socialising. I try to dismiss the feeling and distract her with the muffin. She comments on how quiet it is here and I tell her there are a lot of birds.

  ‘And chickens,’ she says. Asking how many and what kind.

  I explain about the Dorkings being an old Roman breed and unwittingly offer her a visit with them. She puts Tayto in his playpen, brings her tea and we wander up the yard to the chooks.

  ‘Do you have a dog?’ I ask and relax a little, realising she is just an ordinary woman, sprawled around the middle like most women her age, hair pruned short and close. Practical.

  ‘I have two spaniels—Billy and Bobby.’ She smiles and pulls her phone from her pocket, calling up a photo of them at the beach, one wet and the other sitting proud and safe on the sand. ‘I walk them every day. Keeps us all fit.’

  ‘You seem pretty fit to me,’ I offer, knowing that compliments are often good for relationships.

  ‘Well I should be too; between them and running around after the grandkids.’ She laughs. ‘Parents these days all work and I don’t know how they’d manage without me doing this kind of thing for them. You do a great thing staying home with your children.’

  I open the gate and lead her into the pen, roosters and hens rushing to greet us, hugging our ankles like a ruffle. I go straight to the food bin and they flurry at the tossed grains, tapping at the ground like various metronomes. One hen comes close and I pick her up, handing her some extra grains. She pecks from my hand.

  Nanny Ray rubs the hen’s head but she keeps eating. ‘This is Asta’s favourite chicken,’ I tell her. ‘I call her Edna.’

  ‘Sweet,’ I hand her the hen and some grain. ‘Gee, she’s very tame.’ Edna empties the hand and stays looking at the other chickens with disdain. ‘I bet she gets dragged about all over the garden, does she?’

  ‘Yes, out in the pram and up in the treehouses but she comes home every night.’

  Nanny Ray leads us out of the pen and we walk to the trees where the kids play. Toys, cups, bits of rope and rocks, things from the beach are all littered on the ground. Old saucepans and kitchen things, filled with sand and dead flowers, leaves and feathers. I apologise for the mess, but she is dismissive.

  ‘It’s good for them,’ she tells me. The freedom. ‘You’ll miss your little one when she goes to school. Such a precious time.’ She nods and I feel that little sick that rises when I worry about being discovered. Think of Isak, what he would say—better to say something about her than leave it.

  ‘She won’t be at school,’ I tell her, tipping the cold bit of tea into the dirt, where it sits like a grey pond. ‘She’s not up to it. I don’t know if Emmy’s told you about her sister.’ I leave it there, hoping that politeness will allow that space to remain unfilled.

  ‘No, she hasn’t.’

  I feel her eagle eyes and we turn to the house.

  ‘I did suspect something though, what is it,’ she offers, ‘some kind of autism spectrum?’ She is not too polite.

  I am armed and prepared. ‘It’s a genetic disorder, very rare.’ I lie—teetering like first steps. ‘You might like to think of it a bit like Down’s syndrome but there is no prenatal screening for it, and we don’t know yet how much she can and can’t do. It’s a wait and see kind of thing.’ I know it sounds rehearsed.

  ‘She could still go to school,’ and she rattles off some examples of local opportunities and institutions. I pretend to listen and lead her to the house.

  The girls have woken Asta and they are all sitting in a huddle with dolls and a pile of baby stuff, even though they have long outgrown this kind of play. Asta’s doll is centre stage, dressed in a crazy array of accessories, and they are prattling in American accents about fashion. Asta is enchanted, glasses off and watching every move they make when we walk in, Nanny Ray behind me. I feel that
sharp fright like a bolt through me and turn quickly, ushering her outside. I feel myself flush, concocting a quick excuse about not wanting to disturb their game.

  ‘Milly! I’ll just say goodbye then.’ She looks suspicious and a little offended, takes the girl out onto the patio and hugs her close, obviously speaking low and soft to make sure it’s all okay. ‘I’ll pick her up Sunday,’ she tells me, sending her back into the house and I walk her to the car. She closes the door, winds down the window and tells me it was lovely to chat with me, then pauses, clears her throat and looks at my house. ‘I can see that you’re ashamed of your little Asta,’ she says, avoiding my eyes. ‘I can assure you I am not judgemental and if you need to talk to someone about it you are welcome to give me a call.’ She looks up to me, the setting sun shining right in her eyes. I could stand to shield her eyes but I don’t. Something in that cruelty makes me feel free.

  ‘Thanks.’ I am not ashamed of Asta. I could say it but I don’t—I am ashamed, but of myself, not Asta.

  FIVE

  Early in the morning, Isak starts his chainsaw. It whines for hours, creating a constant sonorous anxiety for Asta, which I try to break for a while by taking him a cold drink. She will not come outside because of the noise and she has hidden herself in a play tent in her room, fussing over her doll, Tayto asleep on her bed.

  Isak puts the savage thing down on the ground, its teeth spattered with the red core of the tree, and drinks, face murky with sweat and sawdust but delighted at the massive task. He has felled a dead tree, slicing through the pale grey skeleton into the dark rosy interior to create large discs and a pile of skewed branches which he heaps up to burn. He and Jake roll the discs into the play area and make a circle of picnic seats then return to cutting up the tree.

  Some of the trees just die—leaves losing their colour quickly until they drop, textured bark giving way to a pale, smooth core of bare branches, twisting into desperate shapes beckoning the sky for rain. And when it comes, the long-awaited downpour of large drops arrives like inkblots. The weight of them marks the ground and pools on the surface, slowly soaking into it. Within days, the dormant earth is green and seeking more. Sometimes it comes and the grass grows tall, requires slashing. We talk of getting a few sheep, then don’t bother because it’s too much work. Sometimes the sky returns to a blinding blue and the first sprouts of grass wither back into the sand without dropping seed. I wonder, when this happens, how many false starts it will take before no seed remains and the greening doesn’t begin. How many of our trees will die and how many will sprout? It’s a fine balance and it seems to be leaning askew. Death triumphant.