The Elusive Language of Ducks (20 page)

Still seated, he eased her hand from her head, holding his cigarette out to the side, the smoke hanging listlessly.

Hey, he said. Don't fret, pet. It's all right. We won't be around at the time, so don't worry. In fact, the Earth won't even exist.

Scuffing the sand with her shoe, she muttered, So. What happens when we die?

We die. Kaput. Finito. Dead. It's all over now, Baby Blue.

You think so?

I have absolutely no doubt. So make the most of it.

Plonking herself back next to him, she said, Fuck.

He plunged his hand back into his inner coat pocket and brought out a thin joint. As he lit it, he dragged the smoke in short shallow gasps before passing it to her, still sucking between his teeth.

You thought differently?

I've been thinking many things about death since my mother died.

Perhaps it's time, then, to start thinking about life, he said. The precious things you have now, rather than those you've lost.

She hesitated, taking the point, before taking the joint.

I haven't had one of these for years and years and years. But, bugger it, why not?

She inhaled and choked, composed herself then inhaled again. She sat in the silence as the night gathered itself around her, pulled itself around her and her sister's husband sitting on the stone wall at the beach.

Toby, I've actually done an appalling thing.

Have you, now?

Yes, truly. A dreadful thing.

Don't tell me anything. I don't want to know. Don't want to know anything, OK?

He scratched his arm, deeply and earnestly.

But I'd like to tell you. You don't have to do anything.

I'm impervious. I'm not the one to tell anything. Please, Hannah, no. OK? Don't.

Why not?

Stop it. No. Stop it,
right now.

She sighed. All right then. You're probably a wise man.

Thank you. I can tell
you
things, though. Birds. Let me tell you about birds in relation to the afterlife. Your duck will have told you about birds, no doubt.

What do you mean?

When they die.

He shoved his body companionably up against hers. Scratched his knee.

The sky, Auntie Hannah. Now. You know where the sky ends, don't you?

As a matter of a fact, that's always been one of the big questions for me.

Of course it is. I recognise a sky-questioner when I see one. He passed the joint back to her, saying, Where does the sky end, where do birds go when they die, and how do worms begin? Are you interested?

Is this another science lecture?

It depends on how you look at it. It's just the way things are. The sky gathers at the edge of the world. You see it sometimes, that billowing of cloud spewing up over the horizon. I know, don't tell me, the world is round, but just accept that there is an outer edge at the join in the roundness and that's where the sky gathers on a windy day. It all collects there with nowhere else to go, waiting for the wind to shift it back on its journey again.

Oh yeah? She held the soggy end of paper between her fingers. Their fingertips met as he took it and sucked, then flicked the butt at the sand, swivelling it under his foot.

Well, it's simple, that's where the birds go. To die. Well, there's a few unlucky ones that get grounded or eaten by a cat or shot by a hunter before they get there, but the others . . . that's where they gather . . . Look, if you think of it, there's all those birds in trees and in the sky all over the place and you hardly ever see dead ones apart from one or two after a storm, and yet there's birds dying all the time. Well, that's where they go, when the time comes. They fly and fly and hopefully they have the wind behind them, and eventually they're caught in that waiting place. It's a type of bird Heaven. You can imagine the noise. It's the whole bird-world in a tree just before sunset. When there's enough of them, there'll be a night storm, sucking them into the gurgler, which
is really a strainer a bit like a mincer. It's very pleasant for them. Your duck will know all about it.

It sounds horrendous, said Hannah.

Think of the rotting mess if it didn't exist. We'd be slipping and sliding over dead birds underfoot everywhere. It's like a black hole but there's an outcome. They don't just disappear. Out of the other end of the mincer: what do you think?

Worms.

Exactly. You're with me. Yes. Well done. Worms. And when it rains . . . well, you know how you see worms all over the place when it rains? I've found worms halfway up banana palms, and in guttering. How do they get there? They're brought by the wind, newly sieved, and dropped by the rain.

You're a funny man.

He put his arm around her and gave her a quick squeeze. She was aware that this outing was orchestrated to make her feel better and she appreciated it.

It's a nice story, she said.

Story? It's the truth. Why do birds like worms? They're replenishing themselves.

Oh yes. And what happens to the feathers?

Clouds, of course. Ducks like yours and geese, etc, do the white and grey clouds, birds like ravens and crows do the black clouds, and parrots and peacocks, the sunsets of course.

Of course, she said.

He lifted his legs from the sand, swivelled himself around on his bottom and swung around onto the footpath, brushing his pants fastidiously.

We'd better be getting back. Look at those water serpents, spewing out that colour.

Hannah was still picking herself off the wall. He grabbed her hand. Come on, off we go.

And as they walked, arm-in-arm now, he suddenly said, Your mother was a fine woman. I liked her a lot. We had some good conversations.

Did you? Really? What about?

Oh, this and that. Art. Music. The world. She was a good listener. And
she thought carefully about things. She had an appreciation for the finer aspects of life.

Thank you, Toby, for telling me that. It's easy to take people for granted. To dismiss older people as insignificant. You didn't know her for long.

For some years. She stayed with us from time to time, before she went downhill. She was great company.

Do you believe in reincarnation?

As I said to you before, no. I don't. But the mind plays tricks. After my father died, there was a guy who suddenly started coming to the restaurant. Always alone, two or three times a week, and always at lunchtime. I'd never seen him before. He always ordered fish — a favourite of my father's — and he looked the image of Dad. Same mannerisms. I'd watch him, mesmerised, through a one-way mirror from the kitchen into the restaurant. I'd make sure he had a particularly juicy and fresh piece of fish, or I'd slip him an extra entrée or delicate dessert. I'd find myself locked, motionless, staring at him. Then one day towards the end of lunch, when the restaurant was pretty-well empty, he brought in this blousy woman. She was much younger than he was. She had big blonde dry hair, red lipstick, painted eyebrows and a huge yellow kangaroo pendant sitting in her cleavage. I couldn't believe it. She wasn't my father's type. Except, I didn't know what my father's type was. My mother died when I was young, in a skiing accident, and, although I knew he'd had a few women friends, they had all been rather conservative and intellectual.

Anyway, I went into the dining room, wiping my hands on my apron, and stood by their table. I was shaking, heart going like the clappers. They looked up from the menu. I had no idea what I was doing there. Can I suggest you try the
coq au vin?
I found myself saying. The guy looked at me still twisting the apron in my hands, and said, What's wrong with the fish? I
always
have the fish. I said something like, Right sir, I'll look into it. I left and let the waitress take over. His voice had totally shattered the illusion. A brick smashing a mirror. Just those few words. American. Gravelly. Twangy. Snivelling. Not Dad. And up close he didn't even look like him. The rims of his eyes were red, and there was a sneer around his mouth that Dad never had. And funnily enough, he didn't return. I never saw him again.

They paused under a street light as Toby lit another cigarette. The streets were empty now, silent. All the lowly people tucked up in their beds.

Hannah said, So, for a while you
really
thought he was your father?

Logically, no. Of course. But in a deep primitive way, I guess I wanted to believe he wasn't dead. I missed him. And after that incident, I started to feel better, started accepting it. That wasn't long before I met Maggie, actually.

They were at the gate, and stopped as Hannah fiddled with the latch.

Thank you, Toby, she said. She lifted onto her toes to kiss him on the cheek. I don't feel so . . . I don't know, well, thank you, anyway.

He squeezed her shoulder, and took a deep drag of smoke before flicking the rest of the cigarette into the gutter.

They entered the house in good spirits, to the others still sitting at the table, drinking. Hannah could see them all searching her face, checking her demeanour.

There was that air of conversation abruptly ceased as they walked in; Maggie was looking sour and strained. Hannah noticed Simon moving away from her as they arrived. Dennis was broodily fiddling with his iPhone.

So, the absconders have deigned to join us. Where the fuck have you been?

Looking for worms and dead birds, said Hannah.

Toby went to the sink and poured a glass of water. Nobody else spoke, though Simon was studying her, too impassively, too coldly, to give her comfort.

Later, as Simon and Hannah undressed, they avoided looking at each other. They climbed under the sheets, two reluctant swimmers clinging to the edge of their own side of the bed, afraid of the deep, of being pulled under.

He lifted his hand and switched off the light.

She said into the empty bedroom, You and Maggie are getting along nicely together?

He said to the wall, You and Toby are getting along nicely together?

His voice was bitter.

She kicked at him, an awkward backward shove of her foot into the spongy flesh of his calf.

He said nothing. He didn't move.

And so they lay rigidly as they travelled onwards through the night. Finally she heard his gargled snoring. Downstairs there were other noises, someone moving around, bumping into furniture.

Her duck was in his cage, his head tucked into his wing, and she didn't know where her mother was anymore.

They were having a New Year's party of about fifteen close friends and relations. They'd eaten dinner and drunk bubbly, and now it was nearly midnight. Hannah hovered alone, leaning from the balcony on the deck, looking over into the black garden where the duck slept. She could just make out the dense shape of cage in the darkness. Then she became aware of an almost inaudible crunching of gravel. She peered through the night into the foliage, expecting to see a lurking cat. But she suddenly made out the form of a person sitting on the rocks by the pond. Just before she called a greeting, she stopped herself. The light from the house provided some substance to the shadows and, as her eyes become accustomed to the gloom, she realised the person was intently occupied. She saw the white stick of arm, the brief glisten of the needle, a thumb pressing into flesh. She felt as if she was watching a play on a stage from the gods. Then the black shirt-sleeve was pulled down over the arm, and only his white hand was visible now, like a mime's glove. He stood up. She clapped. He paused, and they caught each other's eye before he made his way up to the house.

And then it was midnight. They all swung hands so gaily as they sang ‘Auld Lang Syne', then crossed arms to continue —
and here's a hand my trusty friend and here's a hand in thine.
In the house next door, a window slammed as Eric shut them out. She saw the sky flicker as fireworks erupted behind the hill. There was a moment of uncertainty as the old year slipped the baton to the new. Everybody hugged everybody else, and she looked for Simon who had been next to her as they sang, but he was hugging her friends, his auntie and uncle from Te Awamutu, his brother, her sister. She watched him then, and no, he wasn't looking for her. She fronted up to him and said, Happy New Year.

He looked startled.

Haven't I done you? he said, and the lips he flitted upon hers were the lips of a stranger. There were unspoken words hiding underneath the skin of this mouth. The duck would have a field day with these writhing maggots. When did this happen?

Toby whispered into her hair that he was never going to touch it again,
this was the turning point for him, the last time ever, and he allowed himself to slump onto the deck with his head against the wall, the dark rings under his eyes like wells for his eyes to slip into when the time came. He was a rake, pale, stereotypical, and, as Hannah looked at him, she decided that the world was a sad place and that there was so much she didn't know about the people in it.

She found three cushions, put two behind his spine, and sat on the other alongside him while everyone partied around them. He forced his eyes open and smiled at her wistfully. Thanks kiddo, he whispered.

She grabbed his hand, his fridge-cold hand, and tucked it against her body under her arm. He was staring at her fixedly, his lips moving in an attempt to speak, his tongue dry and foreign in its own home. Why . . .? he was saying, why . . .? And while she searched for the answer across the whole abstract plain of possibilities — why are you sitting here? why am I here? why is the world spinning so out of control? — she realised that, in fact, he was trying to ask for water.