Slights (27 page)

She did not speak; tears began to fall from her eyes, but she didn't cry.

  "Don't be sorry for me," I said. "I hate to be pitied." And I lay my hand across her arm. Her neck snapped about so she faced me. I closed my eyes, felt tears forming, a puddle of sting.

  "So you see why I hold the value of human life with such contempt," I said. She was a very brave woman, near the end. She had listened to me without daring to speak. I imagined her limbs were stiff and painful, her heart a hammer.

  "I think I should go home, now," she said. I had to reward such courage, and the fact she said goodbye.

  "Are you right to drive?" I said. "Haven't had too much to drink?"

  "I'm fine," she said. She climbed slowly out of the car and stood by the roll-a-door, waiting for me to release her. I consider this to be one of my greatest moments. I released her. I gave up her secrets and slights. I let her go. No car started up; she stumbled up the road, an old woman's run, because of course she didn't have a car, she caught the bus. I didn't catch the bus again.

To make up for not coming to my party, Peter invited me over. This was a rare occurrence; Maria thought I was too ugly to be in their home. It was a rich person's home; Maria had been brought up rich. The house was enormous, the lawn neat. Inside it was perfect; even the kid's rumpus room (there was no rumpus in there) was neat, with colour-coded boxes and toys so nothing ever got mixed up.

  Maria came from an intellectual family. They were allowed no modern novels, no slang. They sat at the table and had discussions during and after every meal. Both her parents were still alive; they saw a lot of Peter, Maria, Kelly and Carrie. They weren't thrilled with Peter as a son-in-law, because he couldn't hold his own at the table. I was fine; I just talked shit.

  Peter met me as I pulled in, jumped in the car and we had a good bitch about Maria's parents.

  "Then they just ignore them, sit around and crap on," Peter said. "Carrie was sitting there crying for five minutes and none of them did a thing. I'm there on the phone, waiting for one of them to pick her up. No, it's gabble gabble gabble, so I have to get off the phone and make her better. Don't worry, Peter'll do it," he said.

  "Well, he will," I said. "The fucken idiot."

  He rolled his eyes at me. "Don't say I said anything." He was already scared.

  It was a pointless deception, but I bought a cake and put it into one of Mum's old cake tins. As I unpacked, the kids hung around to see what I had. I pulled out the tin, revealed the cake, said, "Who wants a piece?"

  "Me, me, me." They both wanted cake.

  "Go get a knife, then, Kelly," I said. It was Maria who came back with the knife.

  "I'm wondering why you're sending over-excited children running around the house with knives."

  I shuddered. "Singular for both, Maria," I said. I took the knife and cut into the cake, a cheesy, chocolaty, unhealthy thing.

  "Bake it yourself?" Maria said.

"Of course," I said.

  "You must let me have the recipe," she said, and stood, arms akimbo, waiting for my answer. I assessed. Did she want me to confess the cake was shop-bought, or did she believe I made it and considered me capable of poisoning her children?

  "Actually, I didn't make it. It was the lady next door. She thinks we're such a lovely family."

  "After dinner, then," and she lifted the tin out of reach. I left without the tin, never thought of it again, although it had contained some of the tastiest treats of my childhood. I had a fantasy, sitting with the two girls. They are taken from their parents when Maria turns into an alcoholic and I am given custody. They become fat and healthy. This is probably what would happen: Maria would send her children to boarding school. Anything but me, the evil aunt. It'd do the kids good to get away from that mother. Little brats. Climb all over you in the car, though they do like my jokes.

  "Motherhood would have been good for you," Maria says to me quite often. As if it was too late. "It makes you responsible."

  Maria and Peter had a huge backyard, concrete, tiles and swimming pool, no spot to dig. The girls were hanging all over me, wanting to hear me swear again. Earlier, I'd told Maria to fuck off, and I thought the foundations were going to crash into the centre of the earth.

  "Do you know what that word means?" Carrie said. "You should only use words that you know what they mean."

  "I know what it means. Do you?"

  "It's bad," said Carrie.

  "No, it's not. It's a beautiful thing. Your parents have done it at least twice."

  They were horrified, ran to their rooms (because they had one each, of course, full of every girly delight produced in the world) to escape the horrible truth. Ten minutes later they were back again, poking their heads through the child-proof fence, watching me sun-bake topless.

  "You're not supposed to show your bosoms," Carrie said.

  "You are if you want a fuck," I said. I got up to let them into the pool area.

  "Don't listen to what your mother says about any of this. She's frigid."

  They giggled. I know Kelly called Maria
frigid
a few weeks later, because Peter told me on the phone. He could hardly stop himself from laughing, so I must have guessed right, but he tried to be stern.

  "Now, where would they learn a word like that?" he said.

  It was one of those days which is hot enough for kids to swim, far too cold for adults to do so. I watched the kids by the pool, laughing when they splashed me. Carrie scratched Kelly with a toenail, and they began to fight, vicious, adult words. I watched that, too, feeling sleepy and lazy in the autumn sun.

  "Stop that, you kids." Maria came out of the house, wringing her hands on some piteous rag. "Where's your auntie? I thought she was supposed to be keeping an eye on you."

  The kids giggled. I waggled my hand in the air. "Present, miss," I said.

  "You're supposed to be watching them."

  "I am. I'm watching them fight."

  She sighed, went inside. She didn't care that much that she would look after them herself.

  I saw Carrie stamping from one foot to the next.

  "What's the matter? Need to go wee? Just hop back in the pool."

  The kids giggled again.

  "I hate it when Mum yells," Carrie said. "I get all upset."

  I scratched my index finger on my knee, summoning them. I'd seen Peter do it, but he'd never be half the father Dad was.

  Kelly and Carrie came to sit by me.

  "I know a fantastic way to feel better. Do you want me to show you?"

  They nodded.

  "OK, but you can't get frightened. It might seem scary, but it's good fun. Ready?" They nodded. I stood up, stood with legs apart, hands cupping my face. I tickled my chin with my thumbs. Then I screamed, the most blood-curdling terrible scream I had the strength for. The girls started to cry. Peter and Maria came running out. I was pleased with my scream. Maria glanced at me, and I was smiling; I could feel it in my cheeks. Peter gave the two girls a smack.

  "Peter," Maria said. "Don't smack them."

  "They're my girls," he said. She gathered up her crying children and gave Peter a look.

  "Talk to her," she said.

  "What's wrong?" he said. Nice of him to ask.

  "Nothing. I just screamed."

  "What sort of a scream was that?" I thought it was a stupid question, and would have said so, but the scream echoed in my head and I knew where I'd heard it before.

  I said, "It's the scream of a mother dying."

  He started crying too, like his children, just tears leaking down, no sound. I wondered what it felt like, tears on your face. I wondered what tears tasted like.

  I stepped over to him, braced my hands on his shoulders and took a lick. He pushed my face away, then with both hands pushed me away.

  "You'd know about that, wouldn't you. You'd know what it sounds like."

  "Well, I was there, Peter. Unlike you."

  "Oh, no. If I'd been there, she wouldn't have died. I would have died first before I let her die. But then, I'm not you. Thank God. Sometimes I think you must have been adopted, devil's baby he shat out and didn't want. Sometimes I'm falling asleep and you die, someone kills you and you get buried next to Mum and Dad."

  I couldn't breathe or swallow. He wouldn't look at me, muttered his poison to the sky.

  "But I'm your sister. I haven't got anyone else."

  "Of course not. No one wants you. No one cares about you. Why don't you fuck off?"

  "All right," I said. I was too shocked to argue or defend myself. As I walked away he said, "I thought she died instantly. Painlessly."

  "That's just what they said," I said.

  But she screamed with such pain; like, I imagine, she screamed giving birth to me. Or, Peter, he being the first born. One long, breathless scream.

  Did she see the room? Glimpse it as the pain subsided, and death calmly took over? I couldn't see her eyes. She had them squeezed shut.

  Maria called up the stairs, "We're just off to my family's. No need for you to come if you don't want to, Steve. It'll be a bore for you. You can just hang out here, watch TV, have a swim, whatever." That was what she wanted me to do.

  Peter said, "You're not coming. Don't think you're coming. You don't deserve it." But the kids came scratching at me, begging me to come.

  "Can't let the kids down," I said. "I need to pick some things on the way."

  I felt too shaken to drive, so sat on the outside toilet, staring at walls, until my knees were still.

  Then I went up the pub. A girl with really big tits kept staring at me. I stared back. She came over. "My boyfriend says he fucked you once."

  "Is that my fault?" I said. Pathetic, these women. She pointed him out.

  "If he says that, it's because he wants to dump you. I reckon he wants to pass you on to that other guy there. He seems pretty keen."

  A fight started over all that bullshit, and she got a tooth knocked out. Hardly my fault, any of it, and I was back under control by the time I started the long drive to Maria's parents' place. I like to drive myself, so I have the option of getting away. I shot through a red light to get there, and beeped my horn to get people to move. I had to park around the corner because all the suck-arse family was there, taking up car space. It was a big family do that night, but Peter and I were the only ones from our side. Maria has five siblings, all loud, all arrogant, all parents of at least three children. Her mother huffed about the kitchen in a cloud of flour, rolling, stuffing, frying.

  Daughters helped, sons and sons-in-law discussed the way the house was looking structurally. Daughters-in-law sat in the lounge room and talked in whispers. I listened.

  "Honestly, you'd think it was Jesus and Mary, not Peter and Maria. Way they bullshit on."

  "I know, can you believe it? If I hear one more time how many devotees they've got to their fucking cause, I'll scream."

  Just a few years younger and I would have set up a video to catch them at it. It was good to hear, though. My brother wasn't adored by everyone.

  "No offence," someone said every now and then, when they were particularly cruel.

  "All just idle talk," I said.

  "You're not part of this family, you know," someone said to me, and they nodded. The bitches nodded. None of their husbands were like Peter. Their men were strong, dependable, didn't like women as friends. Their men left them to it, didn't mess about in the kitchen, whatever. Their men had big cocks and liked to use them. I realised as I heard them talk that all three were jealous. They had married brothers who had grown into triplets; Maria, having known those brothers all her life, found someone different. It made them sick.

  It made me sick, too, once I realised.

  They wanted Peter for themselves. Does that mean I have to marry the opposite of Peter? Someone like one of Maria's brothers? I went outside to play with the kids.

  I brought along a magic ball. If you dropped it it would squash flat for a moment, then bounce back into your hands. If you threw it into someone's hands, it would squish between their fingers and they would squeeze their fingers closed. It always felt cool and never looked grubby. The kids loved it. Maria's parents had a large front yard, rarely used by the adults because it was too far from the back door and the front door had been blocked by boxes many years earlier.

  Inside the boxes were some astonishing things and some very dull ones. All of them a story, a memory, an excuse or a crime. I visited once when Peter first met Maria, because he took me along on a lot of trips then. While they were in the kitchen being nice, telling lies, I discovered the boxes, and I pulled them out and emptied them.

  "You are a child," Maria's mother said. I shrugged. Sticking my tongue out is what I should have done, what I did do is ask her about the things. Or is it the other way round? I seem to remember the taste of dust on my outstretched tongue and none of the stories.

  There was a plastic mask and a penis candle, an orange bikini top, a cook book which featured "Eggs, Nature's greatest gift." There were fifteen pens which didn't work; each had a tiny blue knob of ink. There were three small plastic bowls, pink, blue and green, each stained yellow at their base. A wooden stick, the remains of a flag, a flat china plate with a cow painted on it, a green belt. Books with the titles worn off, yellowed, smelly. A pink apron. Various medals, some for school sport. A packet of tobacco papers. Each thing important to somebody; each thing somebody's life.

  There seemed to be a hundred kids playing with a ball as I watched. The garden was a wonderful place. Daphne everywhere, and early daffodils and jonquils, and the most astonishing violets. Magical flowers; you suck in their scent until you can't smell them anymore, then you rest, and the smell attacks you again. I'd love to wear a violet perfume, but all commercial scent turns to cat's piss on my skin. Some people find the smell of violets makes them sick. Weaklings.