The Elusive Language of Ducks (34 page)

You've got a little beauty there, he said. How did the other guy come out of it?

She laughed. Actually, he's in hospital.

Eeeuw, remind me not to wind you up the wrong way then. He cracked his fist into his palm. Pow, pow. Wham! But really, what happened?

She sighed. It's complicated but, basically, it was an accident. The guy next door having a bit of an episode. My face in the way of an angry foot.

He peered at her eye, grimacing. Should be OK in a day or two, he said. I killed someone once, you know.

Um, no, I didn't know that. Perhaps I shouldn't.

An old lady. I was thirteen. Coming home from football practice after school. I was kicking the ball ahead of me. I gave it an extra hard boot and it went over a low hedge. A lady with white hair and a pink cardigan was sitting at a round plastic table on a narrow verandah, writing. She had a round back. I saw the ball go straight for the back of her neck. She was sitting on one of those plastic flimsy chairs and she fell to the garden below. Grabbed the table and it went, too. In the hedge there was a wooden gate and I couldn't get the bloody latch inside the gate to open. When I finally got inside, the lady was sprawled in marigolds, sort of groaning. She had two red curlers in the top of her hair. She was looking at me.

I took the table off her, picked up my ball and walked up the wooden steps. There was a saucer on the second step, to the side. I banged and banged at the door. It had big dried bubbles in the paint. Wooden door, a sort of rusty red. An old man eventually came. Opening the door just a bit, angry when he saw me, as if he knew. He had shorts on and a green jersey with stuff spilt down the front.
Your wife fell off her chair,
I told him.
Into the garden.
He said,
Ailsa.
He went down the steps sideways, holding onto the railing with both hands. He knelt down with extreme difficulty beside her on the lawn.
Ailsa, Ailsa,
he was saying.
Ailsa.
I didn't know what to do. I stood there and then I left. I didn't even help.

He stopped. He'd been speaking quickly, hardly looking at her, his eyes
far away, but now he searched her face. He took a deep breath and held it. Let go.

Well, there you go. See? Murderer.

Gosh. But she might not have died.

She did. When I passed the following week, people dressed in black were streaming in through the gate with plates of food. The old man came out and spotted me. Told everyone that I was the one who'd found her. Ailsa. There was a cockatiel hanging in a cage from a hook over the verandah. It gave a screech, a blood-curdling scream. It was trying to tell the world that I wasn't the one who'd found her but the one who'd killed her.

So no one knew?

No one. You're the first person I've told in decades. Not even Maggie. Don't know why. Why did I tell you? I don't know. Just thought of it and out it came. It has never left my head actually. The guilt. And whether she was alive when she was looking at me. Whether I was the last person in her head before she died. I never played football again.

He rubbed his arm, probing deeply into his flesh.

Well, I feel honoured that you did tell me. But it wasn't really your fault.

She wouldn't have died when she did if I hadn't kicked the ball. Maybe the next day or several years down the track. But I was the one who kicked the ball. It hit right at the base of her neck. So it was because of me that she died then. About a month later there was a FOR SALE sign outside the house. And the cage with the parrot had gone. The only consolation, if you think about it, is that she would definitely have been dead by now anyway. So there you go.

Well, Hannah said. She felt as though a tornado had suddenly passed through the house and left again.

I don't suppose, sweetie Hannah, that you have a bottle of brandy handy? Best thing in the world for after-confession trauma. And black eyes. And red eyes like myself.

She'd dribbled the last of the brandy into her Milo on the night of Eric's naked visit. She stood up, left the room and returned with a bottle of Cointreau.

She gave him tea and oranges that she brought all the way from her
china cabinet, and he thanked her in his wisdom for the stone, he babbled enigmatically. Sorry Lennie, he added, watching as she poured two shot glasses of the liqueur. She passed one over to him and he upended it as she held hers to her nose, inhaling the aroma rising from a bucket of citrus left in the summer sun.

It's magical, the essence captured, she said wistfully. How a smell can transport you.

So where are you now? said Toby, pouring himself another shot.

I'm . . . she hesitated. I'm with Simon, on a picnic in the bush. We have just stopped for a break on our walk. The sun is filtering through the trees onto the rotting leaves. I'm peeling an orange, and I break it into segments, offering them to him in my palm. He takes my wrist and he eats the orange pieces, and I can feel his tongue on my palm scooping up the orange. Then he pulls me over to him and kisses me—

Enough! Enough! said Toby. A kingdom for a nuff!

I'm sorry, said Hannah, suddenly embarrassed. You did ask me, though I wasn't even thinking of it. I'm a bit at sixes and sevens today.

You always are, sweetie, of late, I believe. His upright palm slunk across the table, folded around the square bottle. He poured himself another glass. These are tiny little glasses, he said with a wry smile.

So where are
you
then? she asked.

He stared into his glass as he swirled the contents within. She could see the vulnerable peach stone held tightly in his thin throat as he tossed back yet another mouthful. Finally he lifted his wired eyes to meet hers. I'm with you, Hannah. I'm right here with you. And my wife and your husband are together in rocky old Christchurch, and here we are here, rocking in our own sweet gentle way. So what do you think of that?

Are they . . . are they having an affair?

That's a very good question. May I? he said, once again creeping his hand over to the bottle, this time pouring some into his emptied mug. Well, if you'd really like to know, I can't tell you. They're in cahoots, of course. They're an intimate knot of co-dependence. Oh, didn't they ever band together when I had a bit of a tipover . . . a little too much of whatever . . . ended up in hospital myself . . . your husband looking after my distressed wife. Extraordinarily touching. And then Feb twenty-second. I lost my job, the restaurant on the verge of collapse. Anyway,
that's all beside the point, whatever the point is. What's the point?

So, they might be?

They might. My guess is no, but who knows? Simon cries a lot. Does it matter? What does it mean? A bit of earnest pacifying? They might be now. Alone and looking after each other in their respective despair. God forbid. They are so self-righteous. Sorry, sweetie, I know he's your husband, but . . .

Don't worry, just say what you think. I want to know.

Whatever for? As I say, what difference does it make? Do you love him?

Well, yes, I thought I did.

That sounds like passion
in extremis.

No, well, yes I do. Of course I do.

Of course? Should we take these things for granted just because they have been a certain way forever? Are we able to trust the earth beneath our feet anymore? The sea lapping at our toes? Things change, Hannah.

So, do you love Maggie? she asked, sipping at the Cointreau then abruptly swilling it back, her senses exploding with citrus.

Let me tell you this. Your husband is in my house with my wife. Your husband thinks you don't love him anymore. He thinks you love a duck more than you love him. So. He's confused and needy. He's out there working like a dog, scooping up liquefaction, hauling away bricks, checking on old ladies, et cetera. The earthquake has become his duck. And Maggie is tiring of me . . . perhaps he is becoming her duck.

Is she? Is it the drugs, Toby?

Don't you start. It's all under control. More or less. If you ride a rocky terrain, sometimes you fall off your bike, right? And if people happen to be at the scene, over and over, to help clean up the blood, it gets to them. Because after a while they are always waiting for the bigger one.

He fiddled with the empty glass, then took a sip from his cup. We're all the same, Hannah. Don't you see? All of us. Every single one of us. We have our props. One day it'll be walking sticks or an old fence to lean on as we contemplate the weeds growing over the headstones.

He patted his jacket, dived into the lining, took out a packet from which he tapped a cigarette.

Ciggie break, he said, running his fingers through his hair. He stood up and opened the ranch sliders. She stayed at the table. Poured herself
a second shot of Cointreau. It was already making her light-headed. She realised that she hadn't eaten at all that day. Just a gingernut, and it was way past lunchtime. She went to the fridge and opened a packet of smoked salmon not yet past its use-by date. Toasted a few slices of bread. Put the food onto a plate in the centre of the table, with a couple of small plates and a knife at each setting, sitting down just as Toby breezed smokily back inside to join her again.

Thought we'd better have a bite to eat, she said, smashing a chunk of salmon upon her toast.

Your duck, said Toby. He picked up the cigarette packet, turned it over and over on the table under his hand. He's down in the garden getting stuck into a pillow.

Oh, is that where he is? That's Annabel. Annabel has changed things between us. He used to attack me, but now he has his pillow. He'd normally be staring at me, but we had a long complex night. So he's been avoiding me.

I see, said Toby, staring piercingly at her as she slowly chewed the salmon and toast. Auntie Hannah, I do hope I've arrived in time to salvage this extremely delicate situation. You see, what I have been leading up to is this. A proposition. I could drive you and the duck down to wherever it came from. Where was it? Cambridge? Te Kuiti?

Te Awamutu.

Te Awamutu, yes. We could have a nice road trip together. So — and here I'm divulging a little secret . . . Your husband will not return home to you while that duck is still here, do you realise that? This I do know. It has been stated. So I've been thinking. Duck goes, your husband returns, and I go back to my wife. How's that? But there's no time for navel-gazing. It might even be too late. You have to choose. Duckie or hubby. It's a
Sophie's Choice
situation, I know. The excruciating dilemma. Who do you really love?

Please, Toby, don't be mean. I'm tired.

And she was. She imagined them all sitting around discussing the situation over their dratted drinks, Simon spilling out the dratted beans to whoever every-dratted-one was — Toby, Maggie and Simon, the AA meeting, the duck-widowers' anonymous therapy group. Everyone giving their two-penn'orth. And their sympathy.

Toby bit the inside of his cheek, frowning, saying nothing as he absorbed the silence. Lining up the cigarette packet with the corner of the table. He leaned down to scratch his leg.

Oh dear, he said. I didn't realise it would be such a gruelling decision. So it
is
difficult to choose between the duck and the hard place. Between your husband of twenty-something years and a duck of six months. He was right. Blimey, Hannah.

It's not so simple, said Hannah.

That's what I was saying.

There's a certain matter of my mother to consider.

I see. He leaned across the table and placed his hand over hers. Her heart swelled at the unexpected gesture of empathy, of kindness.

Hannah, my love, my dear sister-in-law. I have some terrible news for you.

She blinked. Those tears again.

What?

Your mother. Your mother . . . your mother is dead. She died nine months ago.

Hannah jumped up, scraping her chair back to hit against the wall.

For fuck's sake! Stop mocking me! Do you think I'm a simpleton? What has Simon been feeding you, for heaven's sake?

Shit, said Toby flatly. Can we start again?

You came to taunt me.

Hannah, Hannah, no. Please sit down. I thought that maybe . . . Yes you're right. I shouldn't have come. I'll find a hotel. Yep, diddlydum. Another Good Samaritan hits the dust.

He reached for the Cointreau. She grabbed it.

No. No more.

He jumped to his feet.

I beg your pardon, Auntie Hannah?

She would never ever forget that fierce blazing in his eyes as his pale spindly hand landed once again upon hers, but this time with no semblance of kindness. They ogled each other as they each grappled with the bottle across the table.

I think you've had enough.

His fingers dug into hers, his nails cutting into her skin. Her own
fingers clasped around the bottle neck.

You've no idea how those particular words rile me. Those black venomous vicious sneering self-righteous words.

Sit
down,
she commanded. To her surprise he did, feeling with his bottom for the seat of the chair behind him, refusing to let go of the bottle. She dragged her own chair closer with her foot and dropped as well, the bottle now landing in the centre of the table.

She yanked her hand from beneath his. I don't want an ambulance to have to haul out yet another man from my property within a period of twenty-four hours.

The flare of anger subsided. Blew itself out. The crisp charred remains still stinging. Her heart motoring. She rubbed her hand with her thumb. He filled his cup, drank, then added the last drops from the bottle to her half-empty glass. She dropped her eyes from his, struggling to settle her breathing as she picked at an old lump of congealed food. She couldn't remember whether the table was rimu or kauri. The grain of the wood streaking past her like a river. Each line a growth ring representing a season gone. She wondered what this tree had endured in its lifetime, how many earthquakes had rattled its roots.