Liar (9 page)

As China did the breakfast dishes, she worried about the rent and felt momentarily guilty that her trip to see Jane and Tina had probably caused trouble with the budget. Then in the next moment she decided that was nonsense because her earnings from the sale of her art had paid for at least half the trip. Then she worried once again about asking Sam when the bank transfer from Larry was due. China tended to worry a lot due to Sam’s penchant for don’t worry, be happy.

“Sam,” China hollered, “where are you?”

“I’m coming my beloved.”

“Sam, what will we do if the bank transfer doesn’t come today?”

“It will. Don’t worry.”

“But what if it doesn’t?”

“We won’t be kicked out of town for being late with the rent.”

Sam came up close behind China and unerringly found her nipples.

“How do you do that?”

“Do what?” asked Sam, nuzzling her neck.

“Find my nipples so accurately.”

“I have nipple radar in my fingers. Cunt radar in my cock.”

“Don’t say that word,” said China primly.

“Which one? Cunt or cock?” asked Sam, nibbling her ear.

“Cunt. It’s obscene.”

“No, it’s not. It’s not my fault if nasty people use it in a nasty way. I feel very respectful, even worshipful, whenever I think of your cunt. Vagina is much too clinical. Would you prefer quim?” asked Sam.

Sam lifted China’s skirt, slid her panties down, spread her plump cheeks and thrust his penis into her quim. Well almost. China had to adjust, rise up on tiptoe, lean over the sink, and raise her hips to allow final entry.

“Well,” said China weakly, “quim seems a bit too prim and too Old English. My Great Aunt Martha called it a broach.”

“Really? Never heard it called that before. However, I don’t want to put my cock in your broach. Sounds too much like an insect,” said Sam, as he grabbed China’s hips and quickened his thrusts.

“How about cave, or cove?” asked China, as a wave of dizziness and desire drowned all thought of rent and washing dishes. All she could think of was the frantic feeling in her cunt, quim, broach, cove, cave, vagina.

“No, cove sounds too fishy. I prefer a cave that’s hidden, dark and cozy,” whispered Sam.

“OK, cave it is,” gasped China.

She didn’t climax completely. Sam’s cock wasn’t at the right angle, didn’t touch the right spot. Just a piece of the pie. She pushed him away and turned around. Sam unbuckled his trousers and let them drop around his ankles. China untangled her feet from her panties and Sam backed her up against the wall. The heat in his eyes caused China to close hers. She grabbed his mouth with her tongue. Grabbed his wet cock with eager hands, lifted one leg and slipped Sam’s engorged lower self into her pulsing cave. Sam rammed into her just as a shudder rippled through her.

“Sam! Oh God. Oh Sam. Saaaaaaaaam!”

China got the whole pie. Apple pie laced with cinnamon. Her knees buckled and Sam grabbed her ass and ground himself into her faster and faster. China opened her eyes and watched him come. He flung his head back and groaned. Then he stumbled and the pillar that had kept China nailed to the wall, collapsed and they both crashed to the floor, tangled in Sam’s trousers, gasping with shock and laughter.

“Whoo,” said Sam, “that was a knee trembler.”

“Jesus, Sam,” complained China, “you’re going to kill me. I’m too old for gymnastics.”

“That’s your mind talking. Your cave speaks a different language.”

“Is that so?” purred China.

“In fact,” said Sam, “I can hear an urgent request for more.” He lowered his head to the whisper. China heard it too and listened carefully as Sam’s expert tongue licked another orgasm out of China’s chatty cave. Now she had her hot apple pie, laced with cinnamon, and topped with vanilla ice cream. Haaaaaagen Daaaaaaaz!

China and Sam picked up their bruised flesh and underwear from the kitchen floor and staggered upstairs for a brief nap. As China pulled back the sheets she made a mental note not to make the bed when Sam was home. She got tired of making it three times a day.

An hour later, China awoke with the same question that Sam had answered with sex, which was lovely but didn’t pay the rent.

“Sam,” nudged China, “wake up. You have to get to the bank before it closes.”

“You go,” said Sam and rolled over.

She dragged her lethargic body out of the cozy nest and drove to the bank. The news wasn’t good. The hoped for transfer had not arrived.

China went to the mailbox and found a letter from the Canada Council. The long-awaited letter accompanied perchance by a hefty cheque. She opened it carefully, holding her breath, and read the signature of doom. “We regret to inform you,” in a form letter.

It had taken her a week to fill in the application form according to careful instructions. So many slides of her sculptures numbered just so, reference letters and artist’s profile. A carefully worded plea for money, so she could sculpt to her heart’s content, made grantworthy by the great God of the Canada Council.

Dear China Collins: So sorry, but we regret to inform you that you must now re-invent your life because life as you know it is about to change. You cannot sit comfortably picking your nose on the beach and stabbing your knife into driftwood while the rest of us toil away writing important form letters. Dear me no, you must get off your ass and get a regular mind-numbing job so that you can be miserable like the rest of us.

God, how she hated being informed. She went home with a funny feeling in her chest. Sam was nowhere to be seen. He’d left a note on the kitchen table.
Gone fishing with Bear.
Coward! He had snuck out the back door, knowing full well there would be no bank transfer. She brushed her teeth with purpose because purpose was all she had and it was quickly leaking out of her chest. She showered and saw the dreaded dancing lights, the harbinger of migraine. Obviously the need to re-invent China was taking its toll. She quickly swallowed Tylenol and strong coffee and breathed deeply. She refused to let the sudden dip in finances incapacitate her. She would not have a migraine, would not give in to the pain. She would conquer it and switch to Plan B with great fortitude, as soon as she could figure out what Plan B was.

After a few minutes the dancing lights disappeared and the pressure in her head subsided. Once more her mind had triumphed over matter. She was an artist and the Canada Council be damned!

China marched out to the carving shed, put on her goggles, picked up a chainsaw and attacked a huge cedar stump. In a few minutes she had knocked the stump down to a carvable shape. She picked up her chisel and hammer and laid them down again. Admitting defeat and allowing rejection to creep into her bones, China put her driving license in her pocket, and pulled on her hiking boots. She had long ago formed the habit of putting her license in a pocket if she was out walking without her purse, just in case something awful happened.

Now she was proud of her foresight because she made an important decision as she started the long, steep climb to the top of One Mountain. When she reached the top she was going to jump off. She patted the license nestled quietly in the pocket of her waterproof jacket, glad that the finder would know who jumped. Not fair to those left behind to wonder what happened to her. She would be orderly and considerate to the end.

She loved this climb, never did it enough because of the inclement weather. Too much rain made it muddy and with a touch of frost, much too slippery. Today was perfect, with an occasional hint of sun arrowing through the trees, and the smell of damp moss a green comfort to her nose. Here, close to the roots of the trees, the wind lost its power to ruffle her. Halfway up the hill her lungs felt minty clean, and her mind free of grubby self-doubt, purified by the damp sea air.

She soon reached the wooden platform that offered a rest area and considered her options. A jump off the platform would only land her in trees which could make for a long agonizing death. She continued her slow climb and after much searching, found a spot that was relatively treeless and steep enough if she took a big running leap. It was still not as steep a descent as she would have wished for. She wanted to soar like an eagle before crashing. What good was a leap off a cliff if she couldn't soar? A long, bruising roll into the sea was not very romantic.

The ideal death was a quick jump, a long swoop, arms outstretched, a loss of consciousness before the plunge into freezing water, and then her body never found because she didn't want to inconvenience some poor fisherman with her bloated, wrecked body. However, that part of the plan was out of her hands and something to be left in the hands of fate. Taking your own life was gall to the gods and some mollifying crumb of chance had to be left as a peace offering. If she were really lucky, they wouldn't notice her flight and she could disappear amongst the fishes while the gods were busy interfering with the fate of some other poor creature.

China sat down for a breather at the chosen spot and selected the tree around which to wrap her jacket. She checked the smile on her licence (a pretty good picture), zippered the licence back into her jacket pocket, wrapped it securely around the selected tree and sat down to wait for the right moment to leap.

She listened carefully to the quiet, the pores of her skin enlarging, muscles stretching to feel all she could feel while still in her body. She glanced at her watch and was surprised to see that a half hour had passed and she was feeling a bit too cool. The urge to jump had somehow seeped out of her, but the thought of climbing down to reality was not very comforting, so she waited for something to happen. Her will had turned to mush and inertia had become her foggy companion. More time passed and now she was so cold she could barely move and the light was disappearing. It was much too late to jump and she didn't fancy groping her way down the mountain in the dark. It was time to move or become a tree.

She decided that the next time she wanted to commit suicide by jumping off One Mountain, she’d remember to bring a flashlight. She unwrapped the arms of her jacket from around the tree and started down the hill, picking up hurry at the promise of a hot cup of Earl Grey tea.

As she neared the house she thought gratefully about the unborn child she might have had with Sam. She had never met Benjamin, his son from his first marriage, and Sam refused to talk about their estrangement the one time she had broached the subject with him. He had wanted another child and China, all of her parts then working, except for two burned fallopian tubes, had actually consulted a fertility specialist. Demented by lust, drugged by howling orgasms no one ever heard, having invented the silent scream, perfect pitch, she actually considered birthing a baby younger than her grandchild. Thank God that when very young and feeling robbed of her youth by a difficult pregnancy and a demanding baby, the weight gain pill, the disgusting diaphragm, the bleeding like a pig intrauterine device, China did herself a favour and had the tubes cauterized. Sam knew that the best way to trap a woman was to impregnate her. Oh well, shift to Plan B and just isolate her and make her into a sex slave and anyway, kids could be messy.

China suddenly remembered the one word of advice, offered by Karen Potter, the first time China had attended a meeting of the Grimshaw Literary Society. She had heard of Karen, and seen some of her glass art. Everyone spoke well of her. Besides being a talented glass artist, she was one of the best teachers on the island. She had won the respect of all Grimshaws, white and aboriginal, young and old alike, by treating everyone with a fist of steel gloved in white cotton. China wanted to get closer to Karen but she was very busy with two jobs and didn’t have much free time. China also suspected that Karen wouldn’t get closer until she decided that China was going to stay. Karen had probably seen a lot of people come and go on Grimshaw Island.

Karen had been kind enough to give China a lift home and China had casually asked for some advice.

“Karen, you must know the Grimshaw culture really well. What kind of advice can you give me on marrying a Grimshaw?”

“Don’t,” was Karen’s terse reply. A woman of few words.

“That’s it? Don’t? Too late for that advice!” laughed China.

Karen nodded but didn’t return the laughter, and her serious face didn’t invite further discussion. China was too shy to pry further. She had heard that Karen had once been married to an aboriginal, but it had been a brief and unhappy liaison and she now lived alone and seemed to like it that way.

Good advice should always be accompanied by a gun to the head,
thought China.
Mind you, bullets are often deflected by disbelief.

~ ~

China applied her makeup and watched Sam in the mirror. He had on his t-shirt and underwear and he was sitting on the edge of the bed putting on his socks. He had paused and stared off into space.

“Why do you do that?” asked China.

“What?” said Sam coming out of his stupor.

China sat next to Sam on the bed and looked at him with amusement.

“You always put on one sock, then you hold the other sock and stare off into space for sometimes as long as a minute.”

“I do?”

“Yes, you do.”

“Well, it’s an old Grimshaw tradition that if you...”

China whooped with laughter and pushed Sam down on the bed, straddled him, and kissed him.

“Bullshit! You are so full of it Sam Eagle.”

“If you don’t watch out, you’ll soon be full of it,” said Sam grabbing China’s hips.

She twisted out of his grasp, grabbed her shoes and ran out of the bedroom calling out as she ran downstairs.

“Hurry up Sam or we’ll be late.”

Sam looked at the sock in his hand feeling slightly embarrassed by China’s amusement.
If she’s so fucking observant,
he thought,
how come she didn’t comment on which sock I put on first?
Sam felt it was an important detail. Right sock first, or left sock first, and really the sock didn’t become left or right until it was on the foot.

It pissed him off that China always acted so damned superior, so full of the right words. His words always seemed to come out very much to the left and usually wrong. She often didn’t like his answers to her questions unless he cracked a good joke. He loved to hear her laugh.

She keeps talking about the truth like the truth will save her, but the truth is, she can’t handle the truth.
If I tell China I don’t know when the stupid cheque will arrive, she’ll just get mad and say “I don’t know is not an answer.” Superior bullshit crap! What am I - clairvoyant or something?

So, Sam made the answers up. He had a list of several that usually put her off for a couple of days. “The salmon are running” was the best reason. No aboriginal worth his dick was going to be in the office signing cheques when the food was waiting to be grabbed.

Sam was tired of China’s complaint that all he wanted to do was make love. Most women never got enough. He felt his dick was the most eloquent part of him. His penis was poetry in motion and she was his muse. He was afraid she’d eventually leave him, that she’d say “I’ve had enough of your lies” and leave him without her comfort, her smell, the feel of her.

Sam put on his other sock, went downstairs and started searching his pockets for his keys.

“China, have you seen my keys?” hollered Sam.

~ ~

Finally, the promised day had arrived. Bear had called Sam the night before to alert him that the tide was right for clam digging. China never thought she’d be checking the tide calendar every day. It wasn’t exactly a Toronto custom. She liked the new ritual she had added to her daily routine. When Bear rang the doorbell at 6 am, Sam refused to go, using work as an excuse, so they went without him. Bear also picked up Marisa, who loaded a picnic basket into the trunk of the car. The Easter weekend was perfect, with an occasional glimpse of sun through the thick clouds, and best of all, no wind.

Even though they arrived at Four Mile Beach early, lots of Grimshaws were already ahead of them. Marisa and Bear staked their claim to a patch of sand, stamped around with their rubber boots and watched for the small holes to bubble in the sand.

“There’s one!” cried China.

She dug with the long, narrow, shovel, reached in quickly, grabbed a clam and then lost it.

“Shit! This is harder than it looks.”

She watched Bear dig, reach, and flip the clams into a bucket.

“No point in watching, China,” said Bear. “You can only learn this by doing.”

“Okay,” said China determinedly. “You shovel and I’ll grab.”

Bear shoveled and China fell to her knees in the wet sand and grabbed.

“Come here you son of a bitch!” yelled China.

She held on with monumental determination and screamed with pleasure when the clam popped out.

“Yes!” she hollered.

“You white women sure like to do strange things,” said Marisa, laughing at China. “Clam digging is men’s work.”

“It’s fun!” protested China.

“Okay, you keep having fun and I’ll just sit here and relax,” replied Marisa, as she poured a hefty slug of vodka into her orange juice.

After two hours of digging like a dog in the freezing, wet, sand, and retrieving only six clams, China’s hands were so numb she couldn’t feel them. Those suckers were fast! She gave up when she could feel the clam but couldn’t close her fingers tight enough to hold on because they were so stiff from the cold. Bear built a fire so China could thaw out, and went back to more efficient clam digging unhampered by the enthusiastic but clumsy efforts of Sam’s bride.

“Here China,” said Marisa. “This will warm you up.” She poured a glass of orange juice and was just about to throw in the vodka when China stopped her.

“No thanks,” said China. “I can’t drink this early in the morning. I’ll get sick.”

Marisa shrugged and walked down the beach to talk to some friends. China sat by the fire and shivered until Bear decided it was time to go. She wondered how he could hang around with Marisa who obviously hadn’t taken the AA pledge.

When they arrived back at China’s house, Sam was in the kitchen cleaning a big garbage bag full of clams.

“Sam!” whined China. “What are you doing? I’ve been killing myself digging for clams and you go and buy a sack full of them? Where’s your pride in the old Indian ways?”

Sam winked at Marisa and grinned.

“I may be an Indian but I ain’t stupid. I’m a lawyer not a clam digger. I tried it once and I didn’t like it.”

“Tell her the truth Sam,” said Bear, with a teasing grin. “You just didn’t have the technique. Too much white blood running in those sissy, lawyer hands.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” asked China.

“You wanted the experience. Did she have some fun, Marisa?”

“Oh, yeah, she had a great time, and she worked like a dog, but she don’t like vodka. I told her it would warm her up some but she’s pretty stubborn.”

Sam grinned and China had the distinct feeling that they were all laughing at her.

“Well, you bastards, I’m going to have a brandy and a hot bath.”

“China, I think you’d better help Sam with cleaning those clams. They ain’t gonna keep and for sure you’ll need a bath after they’re done,” said Marisa wisely.

“Aren’t you going to help?” asked China hopefully.

“Come on Bear, it’s time to go.”

Marisa and Bear left grinning and shaking their heads, and China felt like the butt end of a good joke.

She was wet, exhausted, reeking of wood smoke, shaking sand all over her kitchen floor, desperately seeking a hot bath, and she had to get to work and clean a truckload of clams. She went for the adventure and the correct way of doing things and that lazy good-for-nothing Sam Eagle, that most un-Grimshaw of Grimshaws, went and bought a bag from one of his buddies who was probably on the beach at the same time she was. He must have seen her digging like a dog and thought, “Poor Sam, he’ll starve on his wife’s catch. I’d better bring him some so he’ll have a decent meal tonight.”

Sam and China cleaned those suckers for six hours straight. Sam then dozed on the couch while she spent another hour cleaning the counters, walls and the kitchen floor. She found out later that the deal was: if you dig for clams you don’t have to clean them. The other rule was: one bucket of clams was enough. A sack was too much of a good thing.

~ ~

As China struggled through the day she felt a black fog slowing descending over her head and spent most of the evening crying. Sam looked over at the pitiful spectacle sobbing in the rocking chair.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” said China. “It’s just PMS.”

“The next time, give me a warning,” said Sam. “I’ll go over to Cool Momma’s where everybody’s drunk and there’s a reason for weird behaviour.”

The next evening China was removing the makeup she’d used to camouflage swollen eyes, even though they just looked like swollen eyes with makeup, when Sam rushed upstairs excitedly and announced a Tsunami.

“A what?” asked China, looking like a one-eyed raccoon.

“It’s a Tsunami, a tidal wave,” said Sam. “We have to evacuate! Drive to higher ground.”

God,
thought China,
what next?

“Okay,” she said, “you get some bread, a few tins of salmon, something to drink, and I’ll gather blankets and pillows, Tampax, Over-Nights and Light Days.”

Christ in the kitchen,
she thought
, I’ve got my own bloody tidal wave to think about.
She looked in the mirror and wondered if she should remove the makeup from the left eye or reapply the makeup to the right eye? China reapplied the makeup. No way was she going to look ugly in the middle of a Tsunami.

They got in the car and China checked the supplies Sam had gathered.

“The bread is good Sam and so is the gingerale and the tin of salmon, but where’s the can opener?”

“Never mind, sweetie,” said Sam cheerfully. “We’ll live off the land.”

Oh, goody,
thought China,
now she could watch the warrior in action.

“Did you bring a knife? Where’s your fishing rod? Where’s the gun?”

Sam hesitated to reply and China hoped that, maybe, he was feeling a tad guilty about his incompetence in the face of danger, but no, he quickly asserted the lawyerly face of manipulation.

“I’m going to do what any good lawyer would do in an emergency.”

“Which is?” queried China cautiously.

“Barter legal advice for a share of my neighbour’s food.”

“My hero,” said China.

They pulled into the long lineup at the gas station. No one kept their gas tanks full because the island was so small. Someone honked the horn behind them and waved. Sam got out and returned with a small paper bag.

“This is for you. It’s from Blondie at the drug store.”

China opened the bag and saw three tubes of Revlon lipstick. Blondie had gone off-island and had agreed to purchase China’s favourite lipstick which couldn’t be bought on Grimshaw Island.

“Oh, good, if we run out of food we can always eat my lipstick. I’ll have the required colour on my lips as the wave pours over my head.”

After filling up the gas tank, Peter stuck his head in the window and said, “You can go home now. They just announced that the Tsunami warning is over. The great wave has fizzled as usual.”

They turned around and went home like everyone else, feeling slightly foolish and anti-climaxed.

“He could have told us that before he filled up the tank,” said China grumpily.

“Peter may be ugly,” said Sam, “but he ain’t stupid.”

~ ~

China awoke the next day no longer feeling like a moss-encrusted creature from the black lagoon. A bit of drama was good for the soul. They’d survived a tidal wave. Surely, in comparison, life with Sam would now be smooth sailing.

Then she remembered her promise to make cookies for the fiftieth wedding anniversary of Sam’s Uncle Wolf and his wife Josephine. China had never met them since they lived most of the time in Halifax. Anita had decided that the celebration should take place on the island and so everyone had to jump and do what they were told. The aboriginal women made fifty pies at the drop of a hat but after doing it once for that awful Thunder Ceremony, China decided it was easier to make cookies.

When Sam and China arrived at the great meeting hall the place was full of people but empty of Sam’s relatives and there was no food in sight to feed the multitude. Anita finally showed up with Uncle Wolf and Josephine and vaguely said that the sliced turkey was still in the freezer and Marisa and Bear were in charge of the gravy over at the house.

Sam and China borrowed a pickup truck and drove over to his grandparent’s house where Marisa still lived with Pop. China shuddered every time she entered the old house. It was once the grandest home in the village, at least the outside was - tall and strong with big windows. They never finished it inside and through the years it had disintegrated, reflecting their blindness, their deafness, their fall from power into misery and decrepitude.

The house was deserted but things were bubbling maniacally on the stove. Marisa and Bear had obviously started the turkey gravy but had a change of giblet. Perhaps Anita had alienated a couple of people whilst giving orders in that soothing way of hers?

The potatoes were done to a turn and feeling cozy in a huge cauldron that China and Sam couldn’t budge when they tried to lift it together.

“Jesus Sam!” exclaimed China. “Where do they get pots so huge? Sure I could fit in that one myself.”

“I don’t know. Everyone has at least one around here. I suppose they got them from a place that supplies restaurants.”

Sam picked up a huge ladle that must have come with the cauldron and starting lifting out the potatoes.

“Here,” said Sam. “Get a smaller pot and I’ll unload enough potatoes so we can lift it.”

They unloaded the potatoes to a liftable weight and maneuvered the cauldron onto the truck with the other potatoes, plus the two pots of turkey stock. Then China noticed that the oven was still on and found two big pans of dressing about to burn. They found the frozen sliced turkey in the fridge, threw that into the pickup and drove carefully to the meeting hall.

“Sam, drive more slowly,” said China in a worried voice. “The soup stock is sloshing all over the place.”

“Don’t worry,” said Sam. “The wild cats will clean that up and what they don’t lick off the rain will take care of.”

By the time they got back to the meeting hall, several hungry and willing hands unloaded the truck. Two men tried to light the gas oven to thaw the turkey. Meanwhile another couple arrived with two hot turkeys and China started making gravy for three hundred people. Her usual gravy was smooth and creamy but her recipe didn’t seem to work very well for more than ten people. When she filled the first three pitchers of gravy she carefully strained the lumps out, but then she decided that the people were so hungry they wouldn’t notice a few lumps, and besides she was rapidly losing her sense of perfection as her hair wilted in the heat and steam of the kitchen.