Baby Page 15

  Cynthia goes inside, into the cabin. There, she unzips his bag. First there’s a pile of clothes, she shoves those aside quickly. Underneath them is a copy of A Good Keen Man by Barry Crump. Three cans of beans, and two of spaghetti. The gin trap, some keys, and a cellphone (charged). There’s a fluffy teddy bear, wrapped up in plastic similar to cellophane. It’s peachy brown, with a shiny red heart sewn on its belly. There are words stitched in silver on the heart, Forever and ever. Lower, there’s a GPS (also charged) and a handful of pens bound together by at least three rubber-bands. An A4 exercise book, with the first third of its pages torn out. Under that is a box of chocolates. They’re heart-shaped, in a red, transparent-topped box. Cynthia looks at them closely; some are dark and some white, and they’ve all got little smiley faces drawn on their tops in chocolate of their opposite shade. Some of the faces wink. Under those are chargers for the phone and GPS. She checks the phone, but it’s locked. She puts everything back in the right order. When they first met he told her his bag was full of shoes.

  42.

  The next morning they’re drinking beer outside. Anahera swallows the last of hers and stands up. They watch her. Gordon tips the rim of his bottle against his lips, slowly. Anahera’s already wearing her swimming shorts, but she turns to face the wall and removes her shirt and bra. Her breasts swing out briefly, but she puts on her bra-integrated swimming singlet easily and turns back around. This is how she changed before he came, as if her body were nothing, no secret at all.

  The air around her is plump with every feeling Cynthia has. But inside that air, Anahera’s the same woman she’s always been: fit and moving, unblemished. She doesn’t look any different for the salt air, or their separation from the supermarket. There’s nothing to take from her. She’s her own system of temperature and weather; abandoning Cynthia all the time, without any change of movement or breathing.

  Gordon doesn’t look away. He sits, dumb as a dog, while she looks back down at them. But why should he? How can he feel so safe? His brain’s as slack as his mouth. If Anahera bent down and touched his thigh, Cynthia knows, if she grabbed it, he’d maintain precisely the same expression. His brain is a drainage system, moving fluid continually through the same place. He doesn’t know where he is. Cynthia watches him watch Anahera straighten the underwire of her singlet, which is still wet from her swim yesterday.

  He’d want her if she were anything. But Anahera is something; Cynthia can’t sit there like he does. She looks at the kettle, then the ceiling, and down again at their little wobbly table. The whole room of their home is small. He sits in it with them as if everything is nothing and they’re only animals.

  Anahera sits back down. She isn’t smiling, but Cynthia thinks she would if she let herself. She’s holding it, like she holds her muscles while she exercises. She stands again and grins in a way that isn’t a smile, acknowledging there was no reason to sit, then walks to the back of the boat and dives off.

  Anahera swims powerfully away. Cynthia gets up from the table and stands in the kitchen area. She’s thinking what she might eat. She can’t think what to eat. She notices with horror the way Gordon’s muscles pull his shirt taut around his shoulders. His jaw is hard. It’s because of his body, and the way of his body. Anahera’s body is perceiving the threat of his, and it’s lubricating itself down there. She’s mistaking that for real attraction. Even his nose has menace about it.

  He sees her watching him. ‘I am not what you think I am,’ he says. ‘I am not a tourist.’ Cynthia says nothing and stands to look out the little window above the sink. His lips make a wet, vibrating, in-suck noise. ‘I am everywhere I go on business,’ he says. ‘I am a sociologist.’ Cynthia fills a glass of water, drinks some, and tips the rest down the drain. ‘What does that mean?’ he sighs, then answers, ‘It means my job is to watch people. To find a place and sit down with my eyes—’ He thinks for the word. ‘Skinned? No, peeled. With my eyes peeled and fresh like a potato. Just my sitting here will change you. Is changing you. That is the power of me and how good I am with my eyes. I am like a potato, peeled by you. Bits of me are removed by your moving, as I come to new understandings. But you, too, you will lose your skins just as I look at you. Do not appear alarmed! This is not flirtatious. But sociology will leak in here, through me, through my eyes opened into an opening. We will all be washed clean, understand? And see the water in our filth. Won’t that be healthy, Cynthia? When we, all three, are bare to each other.’

  Cynthia hardly waits for him to finish. She says, ‘You’re not what you think you are. You’re a moron, actually.’ Then, without changing, or even letting him see her remove her socks, she goes outside to wash in the sea.

  When she clambers back up the ladder, he’s standing above her. ‘I will give you the forecast,’ he says. ‘I am going to ask her the right question soon. It is not much I wait for.’

  Cynthia pushes past him for a towel. It’s her responsibility now, she understands, to save Anahera from unimaginable shame. She goes on Facebook, and Gordon fiddles with his fishing equipment. Together, they’re waiting for Anahera. ‘She doesn’t owe anyone a thing,’ he whispers loudly, out of nowhere.

  A gull shits on the window. Cynthia understands, as suddenly as a slap, that waiting isn’t enough. She crawls into the cabin and dresses herself, starting with a push-up bra and an invigorating thong. Then she pinkens and wets her lips, and puts on a short, frilly dress. Her dulled cellphone screen acts as a mirror, and she gets everything exactly right. After considering pigtails she settles on a high ponytail. Her eyes are lined.

  Sexy isn’t when you want sex, but when you offer it; sexy is what oozes from you when there’s none of you left. She lies back in the dark, and she knows. She’s going to stuff his rude, undereducated tongue back in his mouth and watch him choke on it. She’ll seal the cranny in Anahera’s mind before it cracks, before he can press anything through.

  She looks at herself more—she knows what she can trust. Yes, Cynthia has gained weight and got hairy, but she and Anahera are the same sort of woman, and those aren’t the things they care about. By her own standards, and certainly by Anahera’s, Cynthia’s still a definite nine. When she’s lounged and loved herself adequately, she emerges, tripping a bit on the second anchor, but righting herself.

  She’s surprised—she was paying deep attention in there—to find Gordon at the table, eating a four-layer club sandwich, oozing jam. ‘Ah!’ he says, with his mouth very full. ‘You have made, what is it? An effort?’

  She ignores him and sits down. ‘Knowing what I do, I advise you to leave.’

  Gordon laughs. ‘What do you know.’

  She says nothing, only stares back.

  ‘Oh, never mind!’ he says. ‘Wow, you are so little. How could you become bigger? Make a huge deep breath of your lungs, I tell you! Breathe in power! You must! Are you breathing at all?’

  ‘Turn this on,’ she tells him, standing and gesturing to the stove, which she still can’t operate herself.

  ‘Sorry, you are a weakling,’ he says as he passes her, like he’s hurt her feelings. Still, he lights the thing and turns the knob. Cynthia’s not afraid, she looks right up at the back of his head.

  Anahera’s going to be hungry when she comes back, so Cynthia makes porridge and slops it into two bowls. He clearly wants some, but says nothing. She makes custard in another pot with milk powder from the cupboard. She also finds a can of lychees, and puts them aside with a can opener. She’ll open them for Anahera later, if that’s the way they feel. She slops the custard on the porridge, and goes to wait with it on the deck.

  43.

  Anahera’s minutes away, swimming slowly. Cynthia’s been waiting a while, and her hip hurts from leaning over the edge. Anahera flicks her head to keep some loose hair from her eyes, and a moment later, flicks again. She flicks twice more before Cynthia decides she’s close enough, and tells her, ‘I need to be alone with you.’

  Gordon’s doing something inside. It does
n’t matter what—he’ll be listening. Anahera tilts her head to show she hasn’t heard, and Cynthia leans over further to repeat it, not louder, but with more obvious movements of her mouth. After a moment, Anahera nods. It’s perfect; it’s all going perfectly.

  When Anahera arrives, finally, she’s flushed and panting. ‘I didn’t know how far I went,’ she says.

  Cynthia laughs knowingly. ‘I made you breakfast, I thought we could eat alone together in the dinghy. I’ll paddle.’

  ‘Sure, sweetie.’ She looks into the bowls and raises her eyebrows. ‘Looks good.’

  Transferring everything from the boat to the dinghy was difficult, but it’s done now. Cynthia beams, sitting close. She hasn’t bothered to paddle them anywhere. He can hear them; she doesn’t care. ‘I got these things too,’ she says, nodding to the lychees and forgetting what they are.

  ‘You sure did,’ Anahera says.

  It’s hard, opening them in the dinghy—there’s a balance problem for one thing—but Anahera doesn’t watch and Cynthia gets it. Then, she realises—she didn’t think of spoons! She says nothing of it, and hands Anahera her bowl. Anahera has an odd, curious look on her face, but she holds it out, waiting. Delicately and stickily with her fingers, Cynthia slops some lychees into Anahera’s bowl, then her own. She ends up with more than she wanted—she’s not really sure what lychees are—but doesn’t worry.

  Anahera’s waiting for a spoon.

  ‘Um,’ Cynthia says. ‘Yeah.’ She nods at Anahera’s bowl, and her fingers holding it.

  ‘We could ask Gordon. We’re not far—’ Anahera starts. They haven’t drifted much, they’re only a few metres away. Cynthia shakes her head, No. Then she picks up a lychee with her fingers, squeezing it confidently. The bowl’s resting between her legs, nearly at her crotch. Anahera laughs and shakes her head a little, flicking some water from her hair. She lifts a smear of custard to her mouth and says, ‘Good, with only milk powder.’

  Cynthia nods, relieved. She’s got a whole lychee in her mouth, and it’s a lot, but she’s deciding she likes the taste. She bites and it’s hollow in the middle. When she’s swallowed she lifts the bowl to her mouth and slurps some custard-porridge. Anahera laughs so she does it again, louder and slurpier.

  Anahera doesn’t laugh the second time, but her smile stays. ‘What is it you want to say then, Cynthia?’

  Cynthia pauses a moment, then leans her head on Anahera’s shoulder, not heavily, but enough to be felt. Anahera slurps some porridge herself, and it’s a loud noise in her mouth, right near Cynthia’s ears. ‘I’ve been thinking about me and you. I mean: men, what did they ever do for us, huh?’ Cynthia murmurs.

  ‘Hey? I didn’t get a word of that,’ Anahera says.

  ‘What did men ever do for us?’ Cynthia says.

  Anahera laughs, slurping again. ‘Your dad’s—’

  ‘No,’ Cynthia says. ‘I mean really do. We find this whole place’—she gestures around them, not at the other boats, but at the sea, sky and hills—‘then he comes. They’re just lumps, I think. Men.’ Anahera’s hand pats her head, so she says, ‘That’s just my opinion.’

  ‘I’ll speak to him,’ Anahera says.

  ‘It’s important to me.’ Cynthia puts her bowl aside and nestles in closer. ‘All the male race ever does is walk into beautiful scenery and ruin it.’

  ‘Did you have a boyfriend, when I took you?’ Anahera asks.

  ‘No, because I knew I was waiting for something.’ Cynthia takes Anahera’s hand, which is now resting on the seat beside her, and moves it to her waist. Something momentous.’

  ‘Something momentous,’ Anahera repeats. Her face is still, and her hand motionless above Cynthia’s hip.

  ‘It’s just, I always felt I knew you. From the very beginning at the gym.’

  ‘You’re alright, Cynthia.’

  ‘But you noticed me, you saw me in a special way.’ Cynthia’s voice breaks and she shifts. The hand at her waist feels dead like a fish.

  ‘We had several extremely good moments, and you’re definitely attractive, but Cynthia, that’s not enough—not, you know, when there are all these other things.’ Anahera’s voice is steady, low, and she shifts her hand up and down along Cynthia’s side in time with her speaking.

  ‘What other things! What other things can matter?’ Cynthia’s sobbing now, in quick little heaves.

  Anahera doesn’t answer. Clearly, she thinks the things are too obvious: Gordon, Toby, the dishes, their respective levels of maturity, and money—of course, money. Instead she says, ‘I’ll never in my life forget the way you looked in my classes when you were proud. When you’d achieved something, even something small, and you beamed. You were an extremely satisfying student’—she pauses—‘I’d say my most satisfying, Cynthia, even though you never lost any weight, or gained even a bit of muscle.’

  Cynthia giggles, looking up at her. Her cheeks are wet, but the sun’s hot, warming them. Their faces are close, she only needs to move forward a little. They touch lips gently. Forget Gordon.

  Anahera maintains her hold on Cynthia’s head when they pull their faces apart. ‘There are things,’ she says. ‘You know there are.’

  ‘They’re nothing,’ Cynthia tells her.

  ‘It’s been something for a while,’ Anahera says.

  ‘He’s nothing.’ Cynthia leans in again, and puts her lips around Anahera’s bottom one, holding it. She shifts Anahera’s hand inside her shirt, and bites her tongue.

  ‘Will you take care of me?’ she asks.

  ‘I am,’ Anahera says, indignant. ‘I’m trying to.’

  Cynthia puts her hand at the nape of Anahera’s neck, and pulls it forward. This may not be going so badly after all. This time she bites a little harder, still only inquisitively, and Anahera’s hand tightens on her waist.

  Now’s the time—Cynthia grabs Anahera’s hair and pulls it back, hard and suddenly. Anahera begins to say something, but Cynthia says, ‘No.’ Anahera starts again, but Cynthia tells her, ‘Listen up. I know he’s a fake—he’s got no feelings.’

  Wind comes past them in a rush, then they’re sitting in simple, hot sun again. Anahera says, ‘He knows.’ The boy falling. The dinghy lifts and lowers on a wave. Anahera won’t look at her eyes.

  ‘I’m not saying you can’t have your pet,’ Cynthia says. ‘I’m saying, train him.’

  Anahera maintains the same face; Gordon knows.

  ‘What do you think I’m afraid of?’ Cynthia asks. ‘Him? The police? I’d rather be arrested ten thousand times than let him own you.’ Anahera starts to speak again, about what he knows, but Cynthia stops her. ‘He’s a dog, and I respect you.’

  ‘Cynthia, you’re not being reasonable.’

  The boy falling, and all the trees. The wind’s gone. The water holds still for a moment. ‘He watched us, do you know that? He watched you grieving, and he watched us sleep together in that tent.’ Cynthia understands now. ‘He waited.’

  Anahera holds her breath patiently.

  ‘He set the trap.’ For days Cynthia’s been having visions of Gordon tied up like a dog, eating all different colours of boiled gruel. They make sense now.

  Anahera doesn’t look so astonished, she already knew.

  Cynthia makes sure to proceed calmly. ‘Okay,’ she says. ‘He needs to give us all his money. Then we give him an allowance for shopping and if we can’t afford the good corned beef, he steals it.’ He’ll be their criminal slave, that’s the only way they can survive him.

  Anahera nods to show she’s heard.

  ‘He’s an evil degenerate,’ Cynthia says.

  ‘I don’t know abou—’ Anahera starts to say, but Cynthia stares at her hard and won’t stop.

  ‘Okay,’ Anahera says, looking down into the water. ‘I’ll talk to him.’

  Cynthia nods. It’s not enough, but it’s a start. She wants to kiss again now. Anahera feels Cynthia leaning and turns back from the water to reciprocate. Her tongue is almost utterly still, but Cyn
thia bites and sucks. Then, she slides down in Anahera’s arms, and lands softly in the cushion of her lap. There she watches the water move, and feels it under them. She looks up sometimes, at Anahera squinting, as if to interpret some code in the waves. ‘I mean it, what I said about prison,’ Cynthia says. ‘I mean it even more now.’

  Anahera doesn’t reply directly, but she does say, ‘Tell me about your dad.’

  ‘Eh.’ Cynthia makes a deliberate noise. ‘He bought me a lot of Barbie things.’

  ‘Mmm,’ Anahera says. Right in front of Cynthia’s eyes are two bare knees, brown, one with a freckle-thing. She feels just as she imagines Snot-head must have, and closes her eyes, rubbing her head gently against the bottom edge of Anahera’s shorts. Neither of them say anything else, but it doesn’t matter. It could be an hour, two, or only fifteen minutes before Anahera says, ‘Well, we’d better get back, I suppose.’

  44.

  Cynthia did gymnastics for a while as an adolescent and it’s definitely her best sport. While Anahera makes lunch, she invents an entirely new series of positions using the washing-line for support. The gymnastic feeling comes right back to her, and a blue pair of Anahera’s underpants brushes against her shoulder. She hopes Anahera’s watching. After ten lunges and ten squats, she lies down. It’s a hot day. She rests and watches the shifting patch of water where, less than an hour ago, everything changed.

  Canned tuna and tomatoes on rice. Cynthia muses quietly while she eats, and Anahera doesn’t say a thing to Gordon. When they’re nearly finished, Cynthia asks them, ‘How are we all?’