The Elusive Language of Ducks (32 page)

Ducko, there's nothing you've done wrong. It's just a simple matter of not being able to cope any more.

What do you mean, can't cope? Cope with what?

With you.

Hello? How do you have to
cope
with me? You don't have to
do
anything.

You're dependent on me.

Everyone is dependent on anybody who means anything to them. Don't I mean anything to you anymore?

Ducko, I'm tired. Look at my face. Look at it. This happened because I was trying to save your life.

Both of them flopped somehow as the kick, the slam of the foot into her cheek, took its effect again. All their gumph once again booted out of them, deflating their posturing. They eyed each other, that invisible umbilical connection still throbbing.

Then, abruptly, he changed his woeful stance, and stood erect again, his eye now harbouring a mischievous glint.

I'll eat the rest of your mother.

She'd mentioned it in passing, yes, but they hadn't openly discussed the mixing of the ashes with his feed before. His blatant remark shocked her. And he knew it. He cocked his head triumphantly.

Don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about.

She was flummoxed. Ashamed.

I didn't know immediately, I have to say. I detected something unusual . . . And then as each day passed I started to feel a presence within me. Her. She was furious. She felt encumbered by me. She was offended by me, by my ungainly unsightly appearance, as she worded it. Yes, that's what she said! At night she entered my dreams. The battles, the wild battles we had. She was a reluctant parasite, growing into every part of my mind. The more of her I ingested, the more fierce the battles would be as she gained strength. She wanted her freedom and I was imprisoning her.

Hannah stared at him. She realised that she herself had never dreamt directly of her mother since her death.

I'm sorry, she said. I thought you'd take her flying. And, in the end, all you could manage was a bumpy ride to the bottom of the garden. She never was one for roller coasters. But as for flying, you . . . you hardly ventured beyond the fence. You are just as confined as she was, by your own perceived limitations. There's nothing to stop you, just as there was nothing to stop her.

Boundaries are boundaries, said the duck. Where did you want me to go? I've been over the fence and through the hedge. Each time you rushed after me. Your friend Eric was far from welcoming when I wandered through the hole in the hedge one afternoon. Talk about a crazy devil. And I've looked across the terrain here from the magnolia tree. Backyards and backyards. Roads and cars. So, I ask you, where? Where did you want me to take your mother? Te Awamutu?

I imagined you were going to take off each day to a distant park . . . or over the sea . . . I thought you might fly and fly and fly over all this, like migrating geese do, until you found a shimmering lake set amongst softly rolling verdant hills, where other ducks of your kind greeted you
enthusiastically. I would have taken you somewhere myself, but I was always afraid for you. Dogs. Cars. You seemed to know instinctively so much about duck life, and I thought you'd just do whatever your wild self directed you to do. And I imagined you'd take my mother with you . . . I can see now I was stupid.

Yes, your mother said you had a tendency to be interfering.

What? She talked to you? About
me?
What else did she say?

Never you mind. Though she did say that you couldn't let things be. That you couldn't leave well alone. And that there was craziness in your family and that she feared for you.

Oh!
Did
she now! What a lot of poppycock. Honestly. She was the crazy one, actually.

Dead people aren't crazy. They know the truth of things. They're back in their essential nature. They have the benefit of hindsight. They have an overview of life without the encumbrance of responsibility or reaction or repercussion. They have insight that they would have given their last feather for in their lifetime. Insight that, but for their own blundering self-centredness, was available to them in life. As your mother pointed out, the whole picture is painted and you can stand back and look at the finished work.

Hannah laughed resignedly.

Well. What else do you have tucked away in your fat little globule of brain?

At that moment the duck stiffened and whinnied, his neck a tall pipe, his focus on the window. The cats had arrived, their tails flicking, out on the deck pawing at the glass. They hadn't been fed either. She got up and opened a tin, scraped the meat into their dishes, then let them in. She watched them as they devoured the food in whispering grumbling gulps, then nudged them outside again.

The cats. Who would feed the cats if she left now?

She leaned against the bench, her arms folded. The duck was still watching her, wary, his neck snaking tentatively.

Ducko, what I want to know is why you didn't discuss this before. The special mash. My mother's ashes?

She cringed as she spoke the words.

We can't reveal all our cards at once, he said slyly. Anyway, I didn't
know how you'd react. It was obviously a secretive thing. Until I stopped, you never mentioned it. So I could ask you the same question. Why? So . . . now it's all out in the open and I'll stay here and eat the rest of her, OK? Deal. Then everyone will be happy. Well, your mother won't, but . . . well, sometimes you've got to take a few prisoners along the way.

Put like that, it sounded so crass. And how many other shuffling cards were out there, unrevealed? How could the night be so still and silent and heavy while the earth was splitting apart so dramatically? For a moment she had forgotten. She resisted the temptation to turn the computer on again for more news. She was overwhelmed enough as it was.

OK, then, Duckie, she said. If we're talking deals, let's start from here. If you sit on my lap, without struggling, we won't leave tonight. I know this sounds pathetic, but I just . . . I would like to hold you. It's the next best thing to a reassuring hug. And then, in the morning, if we all still exist, we'll review the situation.

The duck sighed then stretched, one leg extended behind his tail, then the other. He arched his neck and flapped his wings a couple of times, lifting on tiptoe before settling again.

Well, no stroking, he said. No patting my head or the back of my neck. No scratching under my feathers. Is that clear?

Yes, yes, yes, agreed Hannah. And then she had to add, But I always thought you liked that?

Well, you're wrong. I'm a wild animal, you seem to forget.

You used to, she persisted.

Frogs and tadpoles. Caterpillars and butterflies, was all he said.

She stood up from the sofa again. His claws clattered nervously on the floor as he crab-walked away from her.

And there's one more thing, he said.

Oh yes? Go on? What?

Did she see a sidelong smirk lurking about his beak?

I'm hungry.

Right. Of course. She went to the freezer, took out a bag of frozen corn, and tipped some of it into a bowl. Sprinkled it with water and heated it in the microwave.

Actually, Ducko, while we're thinking along those lines, I have a request as well.

Here we go. What?

She placed a newspaper in front of him on the floor and, after testing the corn for temperature, she put the bowl on the paper.

When you sit on my knee, could I place a plastic bag over your tail? Er . . . just in case.

He plunged his beak into his meal, eating ravenously, corn kernels flying everywhere.

When he finally stopped, she prompted him.

Ducko?

What?

He was looking for water now. She went to the deck and brought in one of his dishes. He slurped into it, lifting his head as if for a gargle.

I was asking, if you wouldn't mind, if I could place a plastic bag over your tail?

He looked at her, feigning indignation.

Oh all right, I suppose so.

She turned the light off from the hallway, fished a towel from the box, and grabbed a supermarket bag. He allowed her to scoop him up and carry him to the sofa, where she arranged the towel over her lap before sitting down, grappling awkwardly to organise his back end into the bag. He nipped her arm, tugging at a clump of flesh when she tried to cup her hand around his body.

And so, they sat there in the dark.

Just like the old days, Ducko, she said, but he was fast asleep, the tip of his beak burrowing under the edge of his wing.

And when she closed her eyes the scenes she had viewed earlier flashed before her and it felt as though the world was going to disintegrate and they would all tumble — so slowly and free-falling in a lazy frightening way — into that abyss that had been waiting out there all along. She couldn't rid herself of the mesmerising images — the sea rearing up and stampeding, a furious animal that had finally crashed through its restraining boundary fence.

The unspoken trust holding land and sea apart, broken. The sandy ribbon of shared territory torn apart, the land ravaged. Buildings crushed into scraps, smashed into sticks.

A house floating in the sea, burning. Cars and ships and containers, and everything — devoured by the sea, until somewhere at the edge of it, the monster tired of the carnage, hung its head and sighed. The end of its breath before it had to inhale again. Then it turned back. Releasing its dead prey. And somebody, somewhere, must have cowered before its tongue and felt blessed, because there is an edge to everything, an end, and, at the brink, there is somebody standing on the other side in awe, saying look, look at this, I am blessed. I was selected to survive because I am special, because I have something to offer to the world. I was chosen for a reason.

And the Earth, squeezing open and shut. And juices seeping out of its skin. And already there was talk of possible radiation, the putrid breath from malfunctioning organs.

We are just souls that come down to Earth, and then the Earth rustles her skirts and we are flung into the heavens again.

Chapter 25

Her cell phone was ringing. She tried to extricate her head from where it was embedded in a cushion that had fallen too far behind her, over the top of the sofa. Her neck had seized. The phone. In her back pocket. And the duck, the duck. The ringing stopped, then started again. The eastern sky was streaked with blue light. She managed to lift her backside up from the couch to ease the phone from her pocket. The duck spronged from her lap onto the floor, his plastic bag billowing behind him.

Hello. Oh Simon, Simon, hi. She readjusted herself on the couch, massaging the back of her cricked neck.

Hannah, what's wrong? You sound awful. Are you ill? I've just found your text.

I've just woken up. What time is it? Her dry tongue was an interloper lurching around her mouth.

About seven. I'm sorry, normally you'd be awake.

Nothing is normal anymore.

You don't sound like you. Are you all right?

Ah . . . not really, my teeth are sore. Oh no!

The duck was dragging the bag across the floor, spilling a trail of its carefully collected contents.

What's wrong?

Oh nothing, I've just woken up, it's um, a lovely surprise to hear from you.

I received your text. Aren't you well? You sound weird.

I was sleeping in a funny position.

What's that noise? Aren't you alone?

The duck was positioning himself now, houghing with the deep guttural voice of disapproval.

Oh shucks, she said. Yes, of course I'm alone. It's just the bloomin' duck.

The duck! Oh, you're sleeping with the duck now? His voice hardened, all concern for her evaporating.

It's not like that at all.

Not like what, Hannah? You've just woken up. The duck is there. So
he's finally moved into my place in the bed. I can just imagine. You'll be happy now.