Rotten Peaches

by Lisa de Nikolits

“I know,” he says and he pulls on his jeans and leaves.

  I get ready for the day. When I come out of the shower, I see a text from Dave. Oh shit, I forgot to Skype with the girls like I said I would. But that’s not the clincher. There are more messages from Dave and after I scroll through them, I run to the toilet and throw up, dry heaves. I kneel on the cold floor, heaving nothing but humiliation and shame.

  Dave the detective found my marriage certificate to JayRay. It was folded into a tiny square and tucked into a box of sanitary pads.

  “The marriage may not be legal,” his last message reads, “but at least I know where your heart is. Don’t come home. Ever. I’ll figure out what to tell the girls. We owe you nothing. I don’t want you to damage them any further than you already have. In the meantime, I’ll say you’re away on business for longer than usual. Don’t bother to reply to this. I’m not interested, we’re done.”

  And then my phone rings. I look at the caller ID. It is Ralph.

  I make it back to the bedroom and sink down into a chair and take the call, trying to make my voice cheerful, business as usual.

  Ralph is calm, which makes what he says even worse. “Seems you’re in some hot water, Leonie. The police called me from a hospital. They’re claiming that your face creams dehydrated a woman to the extent that she had a stroke and she’s paralyzed and there’s a good chance she’s going to die.”

  “I don’t understand,” I stammer. I thought JayRay switched the jars. “That’s ridiculous. Of course the creams are fine. But why would they even test them? It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Because this woman, even when she was taken to hospital, bleeding from every orifice of her body, was adamant that she needed her night creams. She told the nurse she just got married, to some toy boy by the sounds of it, and she was terrified of aging. Even while she was dying, she was slathering herself. And one of the nurses mentioned to the doctor that the face creams may have been the cause of her symptoms. The nurse is one of those biologically aware types who can tell you which Mac lipstick has more lead in it than Chanel, and she was suspicious of this non-branded, non-government approved line of products. They ran blood tests. And what did they find? Mercury and potassium cyanide. And they tested the cream and what did they find? Mercury and potassium cyanide.” Ralph is screaming at me and he isn’t so calm any more.

  I’m silent. What can I say? Ralph carries on.

  “You dosed this woman yourself. God knows why you did it. I don’t care, and I don’t even want to know. Because of you, a normal healthy woman is now paralyzed, she cannot talk, she cannot see, and she will never recover. Never. June told me you were weird and fucked up but I believed in you. Listen to me. Do not go near the stall. The booth staff will close it up. The credit card has been cancelled. I will be suing you and you will be liable for all legal fees. We have a contract, remember, which clearly states that you’re liable for the health effects of the product lines. You signed it. That contract is clear and therefore, the police will be pressing charges of attempted murder and intent to do grievous bodily harm, in addition to which they have a list as long as my arm of other charges. Henceforth, I will correspond with you in writing only via my lawyers.”

  He hangs up and I clutch the phone, frozen. Then I text JayRay. My fingers are shaking and I can’t get the words right. Dave knows we’re married. Ralph knows about Iris & the cream. I thought u switched it? I’m going to be charged, attempted murder.

  He replies. Couldn’t switch it. Happened 2 fast. Leave hotel NOW. Go to diff one, pay $$. Turn your fone off, throw it away. Fone me from new place, tell me where u r, then wait. Can’t talk now. C u later as per plan. Don’t panic. We’ll be ok.

  Okay, I text back. I grab my little suitcase, shove a few random things into it, and I leave the room. I take the stairs and I keep my head down, and I try not to run through the lobby. JayRay’s right, they’ll be coming for me.

  BERNICE UNRAVELS

  30.

  DIRK IS FALLING APART. In the four months since he officially split from Chrizette and his kids and the Volksraad, he slowly but surely comes loose at the seams, and there’s nothing I can do but watch.

  I try to help, of course I do, but the whole thing happens in such slow motion that it’s intangible in a way. It’s more like a feeling than a set of actual behavioural examples I can call him out on. Although he did leave his job. He said he needed a new direction in life. I couldn’t argue with that. He said selling life insurance depended on having good contacts and they’re gone. When he first started out, he had his rugby buddies and then he had the Volksraad crowd but they’re all gone, every last one of them.

  “So-called fucking friends,” he’s bitter. “When the party stops, where are people when you need them, hey?”

  Our sex life peters out. The Viagra stops working and he doesn’t even care that I know he’s been taking it.

  I am ashamed to say that I get vicious. “Ag ja, now that’s just great,” I comment, when his hammerhead cock wilts and dies yet again, “bloody great. The main reason we got together in the first place has now gone back to sleep. The trouble with you, Dirk is that you have a Madonna-whore complex. Chrizette is the Madonna and I am the whore. The fact that your Madonna was actually the real whore in all of this is an ironic joke; she was fucking Gerit while she was married. I wasn’t even really fucking you, in terms of your pathetic definition, and I wasn’t married, and yet, I was, and still am, the whore.”

  He slaps me hard across the face and my nose starts to bleed.

  I should have kicked him out right then. I know I should have, but we have, somehow, developed a passive-aggressive co-dependent relationship and I admit that I feed off the energy of being cruel to him. It’s as if I want to see how much I can poke him with needles and pins and barbed wire before he makes me stop.

  I look at him; my face is stinging and blood drips onto my silk pajamas. “Nice. Very gentlemanly of you. Something has to change, Dirk.” I throw this ultimatum at him with no solution in mind. I just want him to fix this mess, whatever it takes.

  He doesn’t reply, he pulls on his pajama bottoms and goes out onto the verandah to smoke. To think that he once made me give up smoking. He chain-smokes unfiltered cigarettes and I smoke along with him, but even during my worst days of heavy smoking, I’d never come close to this.

  I follow him out, sit next to him and light up. “Aren’t you even going to apologize? Hitting your woman is acceptable? That’s what opregte Afrikaners do?”

  “Ag woman, you don’t count,” he says and he sounds exhausted. “You are not an Afrikaner. You are not pure.”

  I know he has always thought that. And I should kick him out for saying something that insulting but I’m not ready to let him go, so I change tack. Clearly, it’s up to me to find a way out of this black hole we have fallen into.

  “Listen, let’s stop this war-mongering. What can I do to help you find your way back to yourself? I know you’ve lost so much. What about racehorses? Can’t you get involved in that again? I know you had shares in a few horses. What about getting another one?”

  He shrugs. “Chrizette owned them. And they’re too expensive. I don’t have the money that I used to. I have to watch my spending now.”

  “I could help you. We could go and look at horses together, pick a winner. It would be fun. Something to do together, get us out of the house. And we could join a gym — get fit, stop smoking. And we could get a dog, go for walks together.”

  Dirk smokes in silence and I wait for him to say something, anything, but he doesn’t. He gazes off into the distance, smoking.

  I go back to bed and lie as still as I can, my heart pounding, my eyes wide open. I’m not ready to lose this man yet.

  When the weekend comes, he’s still in his funk. I watch TV by myself on the Friday night while he drinks himself into a stupor. I make him sleep in the guest r
oom, disgusted by his behaviour. This is becoming intolerable.

  The next day I skip breakfast and sit in my study, drinking coffee and looking at the new book on my computer. My story that’s going nowhere.

  Lunchtime rolls around and I’m famished. I’m about to go and look for Betty when Dirk appears in the doorway. He’s clean shaven and his hair is slicked back. He’s decked out in one of his good suits and he’s even wearing a tie. He resembles the man I fell in love with, only this version is bloated and soft, with fleshy bags under his bloodshot eyes.

  “How about you let me take you out to lunch, hey?” he asks and his voice sounds hoarse and strained. “Somewhere special. Go get nicely dressed.”

  I want to retort with a sarcastic comment but I bite my tongue and nod. He smells fresh and spicy and despite the alkie skin-tone and recently acquired jowls, I feel a pull of the old attraction.

  He takes me to Vilamoura, our favourite restaurant, and when the waiter offers us the wine menu, Dirk waves him off and says not today.

  “So ja, I thought about what you said,” he tells me and he puts his hand on mine. I’m relieved that it still feels good when he does that. “We are going to get happy and healthy and well. I’ve been struggling with grief but it’s time to let it go. We’ll join a gym. I love your idea about a racehorse and I’ve got some ideas about yearlings we can look at. Thank you for that. I’m not sure about a dog, they’re a lot of work. But for now, let’s start at the beginning. We’ll stop smoking and drinking and get our lives on track.”

  Although I’m relieved to hear him talk this way, concern flutters in my belly. What will we have, if we don’t have wine and arguments and cigarettes? I want to ask him about the sex and how he proposes to fix that, but I don’t want to ruin his optimistic mood. He reads my mind and squeezes my hand.

  “Ja. I know. I’ll get some therapy. You’re right. I am hung up on some myth of a woman who doesn’t exist. She’s got my cock in her hand and I need to get it back. We will get that sorted out too.”

  I smile at him and let myself relax. He’s going to take care of everything. Everything is going to be fine.

  31.

  FOR A WHILE THINGS ARE BETTER between us, although we get on each other’s nerves a lot. Giving up smoking, going to the gym, and eating healthily isn’t nearly as much fun as lying around, smoking, and drinking countless bottles of wine.

  But we’re committed to the plan and I, for one, start to feel better about myself. But I give up on my writing. It’s one too many things on the list and, besides, it’s going nowhere.

  Dirk and I spend a lot of time looking at horses. He explains the various types of ownership to me: sole ownership versus co-ownership, versus us being part of a syndicate. He says we should form a company, that it’s the most financially sound way to run an enterprise. He says that for our purposes, leasing a horse is the best option. We could lease a horse for three years, which would give us a good chance of getting our money back.

  There are huge expenses involved and I grow concerned: training fees, farrier fees, vet consultations, race entries, jockey fees, transport and ownership registration fees. I stand next to Dirk, listening to him discuss the pros and cons of a particular horse and my feet grow colder by the minute.

  Dirk says it would be a good idea to line up a trainer before we select our horse. This makes sense but I have no interest in that side of the business and Dirk tells me he will take care of it. I’m happy to see him filled with enthusiasm again. It’s fantastic to see that great big smile back in play.

  “We’ll have to register with the National Horseracing Authority,” he says. “We must get our own colours, and the jockey will wear them when he races our horse. We’ll have to get our silks made up and we’ll register the horse.”

  “There’s a lot involved,” I comment, and my heart sinks while my feet grow even more cold.

  “Ja, I know it seems complicated. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of everything. All you have to do is help me choose our horse. I’ll do the rest.”

  “Dirk, I’m a bit worried about costs. A good horse can cost half a million rand, never mind the other things you mentioned. How much is this going to put me out of pocket? I need a number.”

  “Liefie,” he says and my heart skips a few beats. That was his term of endearment for Chrizette. I heard him use this when he was phoning to tell her he was working late when he was with me. He finally uses the expression for me and I melt. “I know it seems overwhelming right now. I’ll work it out and let you know. I’m confident I can bring it in under a million.”

  “A million rand! That’s a lot! Well, see what you can do.”

  As much as I love this energized, revitalized Dirk, a million rand is a lot of money to spend on a horse. But I said I would help, so I am committed. I guess I should have asked him upfront for a ballpark figure but it’s too late now.

  I just wish his happy vibrancy would extend to the full length of his dick, but unfortunately that particular area remains quiet and subdued.

  A few days later, he comes to me with his laptop. “I have done the math. Come sit with me, liefie, I will show you.”

  I have to admit, spreadsheets and the like hurt my brain like nothing else. But I nod and we sit together and I try to make sense of the columns and rows and how it adds up.

  “A million rand? No way you can do it for less?”

  “Ja, well, hopefully I can bring some change home for you,” Dirk sounds confident. “If we set this up as a company, we’ll save on taxes and it’ll be better in the long run. I’ve set up a company, VilliersVanColler Pty (Ltd).” He pulls his briefcase onto the sofa, opens it and takes out an official looking form with a South African Registrations logo at top. “Here. Sign and date it here, give me a cheque, and we’ll be off to the races!”

  It looks fine. What can I do? He’s sitting there, the document is ready, he’s holding out a pen. What can I do?

  “Coffee, Madam?” Betty asks at that moment and Dirk glares at her.

  “Ja, Betty, that would be lovely. Dirk, let me look at this for a moment, it looks very official. I’m sure it’s fine but give me a moment.”

  A look of terrible hurt crosses Dirk’s face and I grab the pen. “Betty, why don’t you bring out that lovely cake you made yesterday? Dirk and I need to celebrate this new journey together. We’re going to have a lovely horse racing adventure!”

  I sign and date the form and give it back to Dirk who beams. Betty vanishes into the kitchen.

  “Liefie,” Dirk says as he rests his hand on my knee, “I wish I could make love to you right here and now. I’m sorry the boy has not been co-operative. You do know you’re the love of my life? I’m sorry my brain and my cock are so fucked up. They’ll come right. Thank you for believing in me.”

  He gives me a deep kiss and I too wish his cock and his brain worked better. I have slight misgiving at how fast the whole horse thing has happened and how much I have invested, but it’s too late now.

  “I’m going to the bank,” Dirk says and he closes his briefcase with a satisfied little click and rushes out the door, pausing to wave on his way out. “I’m getting us a bottle of wine. We’re falling off the wagon tonight, we earned it!”

  I listen to his car leave and I wonder what I’ve done.

  32.

  DIRK IS HAPPIER than I have ever seen him. The night after he deposited the cheque, we drank wine and we even had some sex. I wasn’t even keen on trying, that’s how bad it had become, but he persisted and in the end we managed.

  I couldn’t help hearing a little voice in my head tell me I just paid a million rand for a fuck. I told myself I should be happy, but I could feel that awful depression slinking back into my life.

  In the past, baking with Betty and writing my books were a sure-fire way to keep anxiety and depression at bay, but Betty and the books have both deserted me
. All I have left is this sick feeling like everything’s going horribly wrong and I won’t be able to put the pieces back together when it falls apart. I’m waiting for the worst to happen and there’s nothing I can do to speed up the inevitable or make it go away.

  I need something to do with my time. But what? Maybe I need to take up volunteering, give back to the community. But that’s a cliché for post-menopausal matrons whose kids have fled the nest. And I don’t care about the world except for my tiny patch of lawn. I don’t follow the news, local or international; my focus has always been me.

  In the week following the cheque exchange, I spend more time in the gym we joined, swimming lengths in the pool, hoping to exhaust the anxiety in me, drive it away by doing laps up and down, up and down. When that fails, I go to the Rosebank mall and wander around the various stores. I pick up this and that, but I don’t see anything that interests me.

  I sit in my car in the parking lot, listening to Fleetwood Mac from yesteryear and staring at nothing, unwilling to go home.

  I’m stuck. And I don’t know what would have become of me if Dirk hadn’t left me. But he did leave. He took my money and he left.

  33.

  “I COULDN’T HAVE BEEN MORE STUPID, could I?” I ask Betty and Theresa.

  “Ag no, shame man, how on earth could you have known?” Theresa is supportive whereas Betty is silent, for which I cannot blame her.

  “A million rand,” I say. “To an impotent fool. This is my most stupid love faux pas ever.”

  “I want to bliksem the fool,” Theresa says. “But don’t you be so hard on yourself. We’ve all make mistakes in the name of love. You’ve called his cell again?”

  “A thousand times. It goes straight to voicemail.”

  “Let me phone Chrizette for you,” Theresa says and she takes it out of her new Kate Spade purse.

  “Nice handbag. You’ve got her number?” I think back to the first time Dirk vanished and how I wanted to call Chrizette to see if he was with her, but Theresa said she didn’t know her number. Why would she have lied?