Mud Girl (18 page)

So Jude. What does she know about him?

The water passes under the house. Abi hears it between her thoughts, and she hears in it a mocking tone.
Sor-ry, sor-ry
, it says. Yes, she needs to say that to Jude.
Sorry I let Amanda tell you I wouldn't meet with you for lunch. Sorry I told you to leave.

That's right, that's right,
says the river.

SHUT UP
, Abi says, but her voice doesn't carry, not like the river's,
away, away
.

She stands. Washes her face. Jams on a wide-brimmed floppy hat, sets out down the road.

A
bi knows Jude sees her as she walks into Hood's, but he half turns away and chats with the customer. Then they walk by, to the window, with hands full of paint chips. “Come to the natural light,” she hears Jude say as he pushes through the front door, and on the way back in, his hand brushes hers as he passes. He looks back over his shoulder before turning to the customer, an older woman with a Martha Stewart haircut and flappy hands. “It's like this, like this,” she says over and over. He smiles at Abi, winks.

So we're all right, then!
Abi sits on one of the chairs near the door and waits. And she thinks of his words last Friday.
I want to be just us.
What would that be like?

He's behind the counter now, putting brushes and roller sleeves into a bag, and his eyes meet hers. She can feel herself flushing.

The Flappy Hand woman dithers on, and Jude takes his time explaining. She leaves, and he stays behind the counter and Abi wishes she wasn't sitting. He stares at her, a dreamy look on his face, and she feels more and more uncomfortable. He pulls his artist's brush from his pocket and, in the air, he paints her face, taking pains to trace her brows perfectly with such concentration
on his face. He paints her lips and even though there's five metres between them, Abi feels the caress. “Am I forgiven?” he asks.

“I thought it was the other way round,” Abi says softly, but he hears – because he wants to, Abi thinks.

“No.” He shakes his head, but doesn't say anything about what it is she's supposed to forgive.

“Come back at six?” he asks.

She nods. “We'll have a fire on the beach.” He looks at her closely as if trying to read her mind. She doesn't want her mind read.

“Six,” is all she says.

I
n the back of his truck, Jude has a box, and in the box there are a few sections of newspaper, kindling, and several heavy, hewn logs.

“You carry the blankets,” he says as he hands her two thick, striped Mexican blankets. He carries the box.

“Is this always in your truck?” she asks. “Never know when I might get lost in the woods,” he says and laughs.

It's not the weekend, so of the half dozen firepits, only one is in use.

“Not quite as wild as Point Roberts, but not full of bodies like the city beaches. Just right,” says Jude.

Just right for a fire, too. It's been a rather cloudy day, though not cold. Some children are playing in the waves and quite a number are out where the water is deep, their heads bobbing about, their parents huddling by huge logs, shivering in hooded sweatshirts. It crosses Abi's mind to ask Jude if he ever brings Dyl here, but she doesn't. Seems she's asked him a few questions like that now.

“Let's get some food,” he says. The fire is leaping up, the blanket is just right. Abi can feel the sand – warm from the day in spite of the clouds – pushing between her bare toes, as Jude takes her hand.

“The food hut!” He motions to the old beach stand, painted with once-bright fish and sea stars. “Mediterranean food – they have these meatball things.” And he nears the counter and orders two dinners. “I know you're going to like it!” he says.

Is it normal, Abi wonders…to feel this rush of emotion? It's like the opening move of a football game – not that she's ever paid much attention to that sport – with two sides tackling each other. One side has only a split second to begin to say something about, “Oh that's nice of Jude, to share his favourite food with you,” when it's slammed to the turf, and the other side says, “But you can order for yourself…if he'd just give you time to look at the menu.” Then the first side picks itself up, dusts the grass clippings from its bum, and says,
“But
somebody
cares about you – that's all it is – he
cares
about you.” “
But
if he
really
cared…” the second side roars, and…back and forth.

Abi doesn't even want to hear the end of it. If she smiles right at Jude, looks right into his eyes – dark, dark, dark eyes – then the football voices go away. And besides – she bites into a spicy meatball – the food is
perfect
.

Their firepit is at the far end of the beach. By the time they get back there, they've eaten almost half the meatballs. They sit on the blankets. “The potatoes are good. What's on them?” Abi scrutinizes a chunk, edges deep golden brown with spiky pieces of darkened green on them.

“Rosemary,” says Jude, rather carelessly. Makes Abi suspect he really doesn't want to talk about the food anymore.

“Your painting,” she says. “Tell me about it.”

Jude looks surprised at her question. “I didn't notice any artwork at your mum's house. What do you paint?”

There has been a growing murmur from the football front again. Somehow her question silences it. But in the length of time it takes for Jude to respond, it starts up again.

“Oh, you know.” He looks out at the ocean as he speaks. “Abstracts, I guess you'd call them.”

Abi hates this – this feeling of struggling for things to say. She has so much to say. But it's not going to come out. She
doesn't want to talk about Dad, or Mum, or her house. Obviously, Jude doesn't want to say much about his painting.

“I still haven't found a job,” she says finally.

Jude finishes his meatballs and potatoes, and he folds the paper plate in half. “No?” he says. “Why're you wanting a job so much?”

Stopped again. “Same reason as anybody, I guess. Too bad the job was filled at your store.”

“Yeah, well.” He looks away for a moment. “That would have been hard.”

“What would have been hard?”

“Having you working right next to me all day. I wouldn't be able to concentrate.”

“Of course you would,” she says.

“No, I couldn't. I knew that just looking at you, that first time in the store.”

She feels shy, and at the same time, some flutter of anxiety; she's not sure exactly what he's saying. “Well,” she says, “doesn't matter anyway. The job's gone.”

“And now you're working for Amanda.”

“That was just one day, filling in for Brad, who usually works with her.”

“Hmm,” is all he says.

“You really don't like her, do you?”

He reaches out and takes the paper plate from her hand. “No, I don't,” he says as he folds it, places it next to his. Then
he pulls her close to him. “But I like you.” His lips are in Abi's hair. “Except sometimes you talk too much.” He laughs softly.

She feels herself warm, and her shoulders melt. True enough. Maybe she doesn't have to talk or think, think about what to say. She leans into him, and they sit like that for a long time, breaking only once for Jude to put another log on the fire.

The kids straggle up from the beach and pass by, draped in towels, a couple of them in old terry dressing gowns, with their parents behind them, hauling folding chairs and coolers and canvas bags slung over their shoulders…coming back for things dropped or missing. Then they're gone, and except for the seagulls and snipes, it is quiet. Just a few older people strolling along the edge of the water, but mostly the beach is theirs. The sun begins to dip. Jude's hands seem to awake.

“Have you been thinking about what I said in the blackberries?” he asks after a while, and Abi can feel a finger, softly inside the armhole of her summer shirt, tracing so gently the outer round of her breast.

Now there are words inside her, warring again.

You don't want him doing that.

But I do. I like how it feels. Good. Soothing. I'm the centre of the world. I am the world.

Just where do you think this is going to go?

It doesn't have to go anywhere. Just here.

You think.

Yes – that's what I think.

I thought you weren't going to think…or talk.

I have to talk – back to you. Though if you shut up…

Think harder, girl. Think about this guy. What's he after?

Isn't anybody going to come by and tackle you, take you to the ground, put you out of the play? 'Cause I'm tired of listening to you…

But look: now his other hand is moving. I tell you – I don't like this one.

Well, I do. And he's waiting for my answer.

Think harder: he doesn't care what your answer is.

Abi puts her hand to the side of Jude's face, and kisses him, hard. She surprises him. She surprises herself. But his hand, suddenly inside the front of her jeans, surprises more.

You're sixteen.

Almost seventeen.

Okay, try this one: just what do you think this is about?

I told you – I don't want to think…

Her belly is jumpy now. What has been soothing is now…well, she doesn't know.

“
OKAY KIDS
,” comes a voice. “The park
SHUTS
down at dusk. Time to put everything
BACK
where it belongs, pack up and
GO
.”

She leaves her head buried in Jude's shoulder. She doesn't want to look up. The owner of the voice sounds tall,
and he's standing right over them. Abi doesn't want to know what he looks like, and she doesn't want him to know what she looks like. More than anything, she doesn't want to feel ashamed. She shouldn't feel ashamed, shouldn't have to.

“We're not bothering anyone, sir – no one else is even around. There's got to be another good hour here in the fire – seems a shame to leave it…” Jude tries for the “sir” thing again, just as he did at the border crossing.

“Oh, there'll be another fire.” Is there a slight mocking in the tone now? “But dusk is dusk and this is it. I'll fetch a bucket of water, douse the thing myself.”

Jude stands awkwardly after the man leaves, and pulls on the corner of the blanket, pulls it out from under Abi before she's quite off.

“Sorry,” he apologizes as she stumbles.

She folds the second blanket.

“We could go in the truck, I guess.” Jude sounds grumpy. “But it's not very comfortable.” He hands the folded blanket to her, and picks up the box with what's left of the wood, and he starts off to the parking lot.

“Actually,” Abi begins, speaking to his back as she follows, “I think I'd better just go home. My dad'll be wondering.”

Walk, walk, walk. Is he ever going to say anything?

“So your dad does that sometimes, does he? Wonder?”

The meanness stings. And the knowledge that he has seen Dad, has known, has never said – until now. But Jude stops and turns to her so quickly she bumps into him.

“I'm glad he wonders about you – that makes two of us.”

How could she have thought?

It's a quiet ride home. Abi sends away thoughts, tells words goodbye. She just wants to smell the salt of sea, feel the sand that has fallen from her feet to the floor of the truck. And when Jude kisses her good night – mmm, more salt – he reaches under her shirt and she can feel his fingers through her bra. Her nipple is like a lost beach pebble inside her underwear, something foreign, something she's not familiar with. How can he do that?

“Next time Aba, next time…”

She stands on the porch and watches his truck pull out into the road. Even though she thinks it's supposed to be the other way round: maybe he should watch until she's in the house.

Rate of Effectiveness

W
hat is the chance of Amanda asking her forgiveness?

Abi thinks she can count on the fact that, whatever Jude might do, Amanda'll do the opposite. So she decides that she should phone her.

“I'm sorry,” Abi says. “I'm sorry I told you to go away.” Amanda's quiet for a minute. Then she says, “It's okay, Abi. I think you just did something you needed to do. We were both acting as if you weren't there, as if you had no thoughts about it even.”

She doesn't say what “it” is, but she has said more than Jude did. “I've been hoping you'd call,” she goes on. “Brad's gone tree planting. Would you like to work with me? It's
about six hours a day, Monday to Friday.” She stops, but Abi has the feeling she had more to say. Was Amanda going to try to convince her?