“Why did you leave Australia?” I asked. “Why even go to Britain in the first place?”
You didn’t answer. You stepped slowly up to one of the veranda posts and leaned your forehead against it. You tried shutting your eyes. But I kept pressing, wanting to find you out.
“Why?”
You shook your head, your fingers tight around your glass. Then, quickly, you turned to me.
“I got a letter,” you said. “OK?”
“What letter?” I watched your fingertips turn white from their grip. “What did it say?”
Your mouth opened as if to tell me, but you took a sharp breath instead. “I don’t know….” Your fingers were clenching so tight around the glass, I thought it would crack. You followed my gaze and looked down at them, too. “I don’t know how she found me.”
I shifted on the couch, suddenly interested. “Who found you?”
You thumped the glass down hard on the railing, and it smashed inside your hand. Your eyes opened wide as you looked at the jagged pieces in your palm.
“My mum, OK?” you whispered. “She found me.”
A trickle of blood ran down over your wrist. You watched it, and the glass fragments made a dull clink as you dropped them on the floor. I looked at the four even-sized pieces before looking back at your hand. You had curled it up, but there was still blood leaking between your fingers. Your eyes remained wide, confused. You reached down to pick up the pieces but then saw me looking and flinched away again, quickly putting your hand in front of you where I couldn’t see it. You turned your face away, too, your shoulders raised up, tense. One more word and you might explode. I waited awhile before speaking, and when I did my words were hesitant.
“I thought you said your mum disappeared, after you were born?”
“She did.” You hunched over your fist, uncurling it, checking the damage. “But she found me,” you whispered. “I don’t know how. Not long after I turned seventeen she sent me a letter.”
“Why?” The word was quieter than a breath. But it hung between us. Your back was as stiff as the post you were leaning against. Nothing about you moved.
“She said she wanted to see me. She gave me her address: 31-a Elphington Street. London.”
“That’s near me.”
“I know.”
“So you came to see her.”
“I tried. My foster parents lent me the money.”
“What happened?”
“They were glad to be rid of me.”
“I meant with your mum.”
You turned. Your face was contorted from the emotions you were wrestling with.
“You really want to know this?”
I nodded. In three strides you were across the veranda, slamming the door behind you. Then I heard you in the house, walking heavily, opening a drawer. I waited, tense. The door swung open again, bashing hard against the house wall. You pushed something into my hands: an envelope.
“Read her letter,” you barked.
I fumbled with the envelope, my hands suddenly shaky as I pulled out the thin pages inside. A photograph fell out, too, landing in my lap. I picked it up.
It was faded and old, slightly crumpled around the edges. It was of a girl, a girl about my age, holding a baby tight to her chest. She was staring boldly at the camera, as if challenging the person taking it. I gasped a little as I studied her long dark hair and green eyes. She looked a little like me. The baby she was holding was tiny, wrapped up tight in hospital blankets. But his eyes were as blue as oceans, the one curl on his head golden.
I looked back at you, my eyes lingering on the blond hair falling in your eyes.
“… You?”
You slammed your hand against the veranda post, making the whole structure shudder.
“I wanted you to read it!” You snatched the pages from my lap. “Give it back if you’re not going to.”
You took the photograph, too, though you were careful not to bend that. You placed it gently inside your shirt pocket, and put the pages in after. You talked quietly, like you were talking to yourself.
“She wrote to ask me to live with her,” you explained. “She said she’d been alone too long.”
“And what happened?” My voice was barely a whisper.
You leaned over me. Carefully, you uncurled your fingers and stretched them to my face. I saw the dark blood on your palm, hardening already. I turned my face away, but you pulled it back toward you, forcing me to look at you, your palm cupping my chin, your fingertips in my hair.
“Thirty-one-a Elphington Street was a squat,” you sighed. “Shit on the walls, and dead sparrows in the fireplace. Some dealer almost killed me when I knocked.”
“And your mum?” The words were hard to get out between the tight grip of your fingers.
“She wasn’t there. Apparently, she’d left the week before I arrived.” Your eyes darted away, remembering. “I tried to get another address for her, but no one would give it to me…. They said she was involved in too much shit, they didn’t want to know her anymore.”
I tried escaping from your grip. You wouldn’t let me. Just gripped tighter, and moved your lips closer to my face, your breath sour like your rolled cigarettes.
“Eventually I got a number I could reach her on. I held that scrap of paper in my pocket for days before I had the guts to call, until I knew the numbers off by heart. When I did, I got this old woman asking if I had any money, and when I said no, she said she didn’t know who I was talking about. But that voice of hers …” You took a breath. “… It sounded half-dead: drunk, or drugged, or something … like Dad had sounded sometimes.” You paused. “You know, I often wondered if it was really her that answered, if that was her voice.”
I held your gaze. Slowly, I tried moving my face back, away from you a little.
“I kept hunting, though,” you continued, not noticing my movement. “Kept searching in those squats and shelters, trying to find her. Fuck! I’d never seen snow before I got there, I fucking hated it after the first day. I didn’t have any money to get home, or anything else to do, or anyone, so …”
You broke off then, finally letting me go. I moved my jaw around, testing the damage. Your face was concerned when I glanced up. You stretched your fingers toward my cheek as if you wanted to touch it again.
I shook my head. No. Your face twisted up, and you slammed your hand down hard into the cushion next to me. We both watched it there. It was only a few inches away from me, and it was shaking. After a moment, you took it back and put it in your pocket. You moved away, back to your post looking out at the land.
“Is that when you found me?” I asked quietly. “Back in London, after you couldn’t find your mum?”
You didn’t answer. Instead you stomped across the veranda and jumped down into the sand. You threw a punch at your punching bag, then crouched over into yourself and threw several more. You growled as your injured hand connected. Then you slammed both arms against the bag and headed out to the Separates. I listened to the rhythm of the bag bouncing back and forth before it slowed, then stopped entirely. Sometime later, from inside the rocks, I heard an echo of a sound that could have been your scream.
It got to late afternoon, the time when you normally fed the chickens; you still weren’t back. I picked up the box of seeds and nuts from the porch area, and went to do it myself. I had to go through the camel’s pen to get into the Separates. It was the first time I’d been in there without you. The camel was resting, her legs bent underneath her. She raised her head when I entered.
“There now, easy girl,” I said, trying to sound like you.
She was so big that it was hard not to be a little nervous around her. I stepped carefully through the pathway to the rocks. I wondered if you were still in there. And, if so, where? I had the feeling you were watching me.
I got to the clearing. It was noisier there, with the wild birds beginning their late-afternoon gossiping. A lizard basking on a rock retreated quickly to the sha
de as I made my way to the cages. I went to the hens first, leaving the rooster until last. He was strutting around his cage like he was gearing up for a fight. I yanked open the lid to the hens’ cage and stuck the food in. They clustered around my hand, their warm feathery bodies soft against my skin. I liked the way they clucked and gurgled. They sounded like the two old ladies who were sometimes on my bus home from school; those ladies twittered and murmured, too, only instead it was about their favorite TV shows. I missed those old ladies. I wondered if they’d noticed I was no longer on their bus.
I decided to name the chickens. The two fat gray ones I called Ethel and Gwen, after the bus ladies. The thin red one was Mum. The fatter red one was Anna. The large orangey one I called Ben (yeah, OK, so it’s a boy’s name), and the sick, whitish one was Alison, after Granny. I called the rooster Dick, after you.
After I’d stroked the hens for a while, I shut the lid to their cage and moved across to the rooster. His beak was between the cage wires, trying to peck at me. I flicked a bit of dirt in his direction, then tried opening the latch. He was onto me immediately, drilling his beak sharply into my fingers. I stepped back, throwing him off.
I heard your laugh from over near the fruit trees. You were leaning against the rock, your legs propped up on a tree. You were as still as the sandstone behind you.
“You need to pick him up when he does that,” you said. “Carry him until he calms. Either that, or hold him upside down.”
“I’d like to see you try.”
You shrugged, came over. As you knelt in front of his cage, Dick tried to peck you, too. He leaped into the air, thrusting his sharp feet toward you.
“Ninja chicken, isn’t he?” You grinned at me, rolling your sleeves up. “We’ll see about that.”
You reached into the cage. Instantly Dick was onto your hand, clawing at you, biting chunks out with his beak.
“Goddamn rooster!”
You tried dropping him. But Dick clung on. I turned my face to the side, hiding my smirk. You flung your hand around, trying to shake him off, but that rooster dug his claws in like his life depended on it. He tore a deep gash over your knuckles. You tried to pull him off with your other hand, but Dick kept fighting. He screeched and squawked, enjoying the carnage. You yelled back. It was a full-on battle all right, like the ones on nature shows between the dominant males of two herds. I felt like I should be cheering the rooster on, enjoying each scratch he gave you.
Finally, you managed to get your other hand around his wings. You pinned him like that. I waited, wondering if you would squeeze any tighter, whether you would really get back at the mad bird. But you just dropped him into the cage, chucked the food at him, and shut the lid quickly. You kicked the wire with your boot. Dick flew at the roof, whacking himself against it and plummeting back to the ground, squawking wildly.
Your hands and arms were bleeding and swollen from the scratches, your eyes wide.
“You’re right, he’s a killer,” you said. “A rooster with some serious issues.”
You shook your head, perhaps surprised that another creature could beat you like that. You held your injured hands out in front of you like a small child might. Blood wept from the gash over your knuckles and ran over your wrist. A couple of small chest feathers were stuck in it. You tried mopping up some of the bleeding with your other hand, but that only opened up a scratch on the back of that one, too.
“Ow,” you said. Then you looked up, really turned those big blue eyes on me. “I think you’re going to have to help me clean these,” you said.
I ran the water, but I made it pretty hot. You sat on the dusty living room floor and waited for me to bring you the bowl. You winced when you dipped your hands in. I smiled. Simple pleasures, small retributions. I picked out an old, scratchy sponge from the sink, one you used for washing dishes.
“This be OK?” I asked innocently.
“You want me to have no skin left?” You rolled your eyes. “Actually, don’t answer that one.”
I brought it over anyway. I crouched on the other side of the bowl. As you swished your hands around, the water turned redder.
“Doesn’t that hurt?” I said.
“Yep.”
“How do you keep them in there?”
“I’m stubborn.” You grinned. “Stubborn as a waddywood. And anyway, pain means it’s healing.”
“Not always.”
The blood kept coming, swirling and curling around your fingers.
“Damn rooster,” you muttered.
You hadn’t started on your arms yet. There were scratches there, too, some of them going up to your elbows. You sighed, took your hands out, and rested them on the side of the bowl. They were pink, puffy as marshmallows.
“You’re going to need to help,” you said. “Please?”
I looked at you. “Why should I?”
Your forehead wrinkled. “Because if I can’t use my hands, then we’re both fucked.” You breathed out quickly, frustrated. “… And I can’t wash them properly myself.” The corner of your mouth slid into a smile as your eyes pleaded with me again. “… And it hurts, Gem.”
You held your hands stiffly out toward me, the same way you’d done earlier. They dripped pinkish water onto the floor. One drop landed on my knee, then started to slide off, leaving a dull brown trail behind it.
“What will you do for me?” I asked quietly.
You watched the drop sliding off my knee, too, keeping silent as you thought. “What do you want?”
“You know what I want.”
“You’re not going anywhere.” You turned your right hand over, and watched the watery blood run down it in streaks. “I mean, what do you want from me, right here, right now?”
You looked back at me. That small action made your hair fall over your eyes. Your sun-bleached strands had grown almost to your mouth. You blew at them and they stuck to your lips.
“Please,” you said. “Anything that’s not about leaving here. Come on, just ask me. I’m happy to oblige.” You leaned forward, curious as a cat. I pulled away. “But first,” you whispered, “before anything, can you get me a towel? They’re in the box in the bathroom.”
“I know.”
I opened the battered tin box beside the bathroom door and got you the towel. As I walked back, I thought about all the things I wanted to know about you … hundreds of things. But to ask them felt like a crime, some sort of betrayal. So I knelt with the towel on my lap, thinking. I was ready to give it to you when you asked, but instead you lay your arms straight down against it, over my knees. I felt the material go damp and warm from your watery blood. Your face was close to mine, but I looked at your arms instead. My legs were tense, tight, like an animal ready to run.
“I want to know how you built all this,” I said eventually. “Where you got the money. If that was you, like you said, in those bushes years ago … then how did you go from that to this?”
I glanced around the room, noticing the cobwebs clinging to the roof. They wound down toward the curtains in such tiny threads, such fragile pathways of life. You rolled your arms over the towel, nodding at the sponge.
“Wash my arms? Please? I’ll tell you then.”
I dipped the sponge into the water and ran it over the scratches. It opened up the gashes further, scouring your skin. You flinched as your brown skin fell away to a pinker, softer skin beneath. I rubbed a little harder. Bits of sponge were getting stuck in the wounds. You were biting on your lower lip, dealing with the pain.
“I got the money a lot of ways,” you said. “I stole at first; I was pretty good at taking handbags from pubs, that sort of thing. But then someone caught me and threatened me with prison.”
You caught my look. You knew that if I had my way you’d be going to prison someday soon anyway. You ignored it.
“I even begged for a while,” you continued. “Stuck my plastic McDonald’s cup on the floor like the rest of them and felt like shit.”
I stopped rubbing
. “But begging isn’t enough to make this.” Again, I looked around the room. It was rough and basic, but it must have cost more than some loose change to make it happen … a lot more. “What else?”
You nodded. “I sold things.”
“Sold what?”
“What I had.” You winced badly, and it wasn’t from the pain in your arms. I wasn’t even rubbing you then. “I sold myself for this place.”
“You mean … like a prostitute?”
“Like someone selling his soul.” Your face contorted at a memory. You shook your head, trying to shake it away. “I just did what everyone else did in the city,” you said, your eyes far away. “I chased money, pretended to be someone else to get it. It got easier the longer I did it … but that’s the trap, see? When the deadness gets easier, you know you’re sinking deeper, becoming dead yourself.” You started dabbing at your arms with the towel, pressing the scratches to stop the blood. “Then I hit the big time.”
“A high-class prostitute?” I smirked.
“Almost. I worked for Fantasyland.”
“What, like Disney characters?”
“I could have been one of those, if they’d wanted it.” You smiled ruefully. “I worked as a fantasy escort. I was a professional dater. I went out with whoever wanted me, and I was whoever they wanted me to be: James Bond, Brad Pitt, Superman….” You paused, checking my reaction. “See, I told you I could be Superman.”
“That’s crazy.”
“Yes, but that’s the city—everyone loves to pretend. Especially the rich. Anyway, it’s easy to be what people want: give them something to stare at, nod and smile, tell them they’re gorgeous.” You flashed me your best charming grin before you added, “The three steps to money.”