The Elusive Language of Ducks (39 page)

God. Yes. I forgot. Oh, poor Mum. Everything was happening so quickly. I'm sorry. I was keeping her company. Where is she now?

He took another deep puff and let the smoke flow into the night.

Maggie took her down to the shed, he said. Took her to the furthest place on the property.

Oh well, that's that then. I knew it, but I'm glad it's out in the open, so I don't have to think about them anymore. It makes it easier really.

She looked around her, searching for solace, but she had bled the colour from the room. She tried to remember why she had sterilised their room so completely. In that drawer she knew his underwear was neatly folded; and the drawer below, his socks and T-shirts. She imagined the wardrobe empty of his clothes, the drawers cleaned out.

Hannah Hannah Hannah, Toby was saying. This isn't about getting the duck back. No. Please, let's not give up. But we have to do this together. They were each sleeping with Annabel because they didn't have the duck they really love.

I'm going to be sick.

No, you're not.

No, truly, I'm going to be sick. She held her hands over her mouth and retched.

No, Hannah, you're not. But his eyes sped around the room looking for a bowl just in case. Hannah found herself holding the rich bowl of pasta under her chin. She placed it back on the bedside table.

You OK? Good. Well, listen, our whole future revolves around this decision. If you embrace Simon, then Maggie and I will have a better chance, once she sees I've cleaned up for good. Honestly. It doesn't look like it, I know, but we're a good team when we're sober. You've done well by getting rid of the duck, and now you need to offer one little friendly gesture towards Simon.

I haven't
got rid of
the duck. And how many times have you cleaned up for good?

Well, sent him down to the country. With his own kind. And as for me, this time, I'm determined. I just
know
this time. This is my second marriage and I want it to work. But Hannah. Auntie sweet darling Hannah. Just try a little harder with Simon.

I don't know that I want to. And he doesn't love me. He left me. He slept with my
sister
for heaven's sake. Honestly! And all the secrets you all share and keep from me.

No, he slept with Annabel. And I
know
he loves you. The death of your mother was hard for him, too, you know. And then the earthquake . . . if you could just touch him . . . is it so difficult? Even with one fingertip at arm's length. There's a lot hanging in the balance here. We are ping-pong balls hanging in the air, and you can affect where they land. If you don't make the effort now — and it has to be now — look, this very minute . . .

Hannah had a vision of her finger stretched through space in an Alice in Wonderland sort of way, extended like a rubbery triffid, to touch Simon's sleeve, or his new vulnerable chin. And
he
was an anemone in a rock pool, inverting himself, repelled by her touch. Or would his hand close over the vine and reel her in towards him? She didn't know. She didn't know her husband anymore.

When they arrived downstairs, Toby still carrying the pasta like an offering, Maggie and Simon were clearing the table after their meal. The empty wine bottle and glasses abandoned.

Here they are! sang Maggie. Tweedle-him and Tweedle-she.

Hannah's head was pounding. For a second she thought she could hear the duck snorting outside on the deck, but it was her own choked breath.
She felt a sharp sting in the back of her arm. She yanked her arm away. Again that sharp pinprick of pain. Toby was surreptitiously pinching her. Ow,
don't,
she hissed, throwing a daggered look over her shoulder. That
hurt.
He pinched again, really hard, twisting this time. In the soft tender part at the back of her arm.

STOP IT! she yelled, stamping her foot.

Both Maggie and Simon did just that. They were burlesque dancers. Maggie in front, Simon behind, exactly the same angle, grimy plates and cutlery at the same level, mouths open, the steps halted in synch.

STOP THIS NONSENSE! she yelled, surprising herself, surprising her heart into a racing river-dance in her chest. I'm SICK of it! What are you all PLAYING at? What's happening in this house? Is it a TAKEOVER?

It was lame, she knew, but a blurt was a blurt. And it was so uncharacteristic that both Maggie and Simon stared at her, waiting for more. She caught a peripheral glimpse of Toby grinning, holding his thumb in the air, his eyes locked onto her.

She spun around and spat out the words.
Actually,
Simon. Do you think we could have a talk? In private — if you don't mind leaving my sister's side for a moment.

Toby stepped forward and took the plate and fork from Maggie's fingers. A gracious gesture. He took her hand in his. Madame, he said. May I have the pleasure?

And then they are gone, they have disappeared.

The room is silent, unbreathing, suspended.

So! Hannah says, and sees consternation trampling across her husband's face. He has a new face and it has no blood. He has new lips that have been crouching in a beard for twenty years, concealing the despondency and loneliness that have been taking refuge there. He has become old during his absence. His father had been younger than he is now when he'd had his fatal heart attack. Her own father as well. The vulnerable hearts of men. And for how long have the years have been inveigling their way into his skin, winding into crevices and fissures, splaying from the corners of his eyes? There is an intelligent kindness there, too, that she has never recognised before.

She is suddenly terrified that he might die without her. She moves
across the moat towards him, and he waits now, for whatever it is. It's just a matter of sucking her feet from mud to move closer, and then she is there. Her face drops against his soft black shirt. Without turning he puts his plate on the bench behind them and she feels the warmth of his hands on her back. Every action is a gentle shift towards equilibrium. She is aware of his chin resting upon her head. Above them, in a clear black sky, the moon is rising above the magnolia tree, its sharp light glistening through the dewy glass.

Look at that moon, she says.

He turns, standing companionably beside her. He tells her that in three days' time there will be a super moon, a perigee moon, when it will be extremely close to the Earth on its elliptical orbit. 356,577 kilometres from the Earth. The average distance is 382,900 kilometres.

Perhaps that explains everything, she says.

He lifts his hand and squeezes her upper arm. It only explains why the moon will appear larger as it rises from the horizon, he replies.

He moves to the sink and turns on the tap. The water gushes onto the greasy plates. He picks at a sticky piece of mushroom.

It's nice to have you back, she says.

He looks at her, nodding, and smiles grimly. She doesn't know whether this is a normal smile for him or one for the occasion. He looks as though he might be trying to stop a sneeze.

Yes, is all he says.

Chapter 29

The next day Maggie and Toby flew back to Christchurch. It had been decided that Toby would drive Simon's car back to Auckland to stay for a few months, away from his old contacts and the earthquakes, in order to clean himself up. Maggie was going to fly up to see him from time to time. This was to be a healing time, and Toby was on trial. They were all on trial. They were auditioning for their old parts in a tired play that was being revamped for a fresh performance.

They left in a flurry of kisses and embraces — Toby and Hannah, Simon and Maggie — on the footpath while bored blank faces stared at them from the shuttle window. Thank you, sweet Auntie Hannah, said Toby. I'll be back soon.

I'll miss you, actually, she replied. She was aware that Maggie and Simon were silent, that their hug was intense. Simon moved quickly away from Maggie, wiping the corner of his eye, looking distraught. Bloomin' heck. Maggie turned, gave her a mechanical hug and then jumped hurriedly into the van. A nice day for flying, she announced with authority to the other passengers as she hunched along the aisle.

And then they were gone. Hannah followed Simon as he opened the gate and made his way down the path. His whole demeanour was stooped and laborious. Once they were inside, the house was cold with silence. They went to the kitchen. Cup of tea? she asked, filling the jug from the tap.

That'd be good, thanks, he said. He sat heavily on the sofa and stared through the windows onto the deck.

Is something wrong?

No. No, just tired. Unaccustomed to sharing a bed. It's chilly, isn't it?

Not exactly
sharing
a bed when both of them had been hanging over the precipice of their respective ledges, the arctic floor spread far below. But she didn't mention this, didn't mention sharing a bed with the blaring void between them. As she popped teabags into their cups and poured the boiling water, she had the inclination to ask whether he still took milk, whether he wanted sugar or honey.

Despite their efforts to be conciliatory, they felt like strangers. The
Simon she knew had climbed into the van with Toby and Maggie, while an old man with an uncertain presence had stumbled into her home from the street. She had a surge of panic. Where was the normality that had carried them forward reliably through their daily lives for so many years?

She gave him his tea and he took it politely, his eyes on the cup. He was finding it hard to look at her. She wondered whether to sit next to him or whether he wanted to be alone. Shall I put on some music? she asked, standing in front of him.

If you like.

What do you feel like?

You choose. Anything.

She searched their CD collection. Bob Dylan? All the Bob Dylan they used to play when they first met. Nah. The occasion was too fragile for Dylan. Dvořák cello concerto? No, that was Eric. Old Crow Medicine Show? No, that was Eric, too. Ah . . . Leonard Cohen. Why not? ‘Dance Me to the End of Love.' ‘I'm Your Man.' They were both aching in the places they used to play, as Cohen pointed out so aptly.

Can we have it down a bit? he said, twisting his fingers anticlockwise in the air.

She took her tea and went outside, across the deck and down to the bottom step where she sat drinking.

Ducko, she said to the long vibrant grass. What the bloomin' heck is life all about? She could hear the kids playing next door. Later, if they were still there, she'd pop over to ask how Eric was doing, but not now.

After a while, Simon joined her. She stood up and took his arm, leading him to his shed at the bottom of the garden. She could feel his reluctance as they approached. And: Where did you find the key?

They stood in the shed together. He cast his eyes around, at his notebooks bundled into bags on the shelves. He wouldn't have any idea of the dense network of spider webs she had cleaned away, the eye-itching dust she had hosed down, as well as any evidence of the duck. Although the duck hadn't been there long, there was still an achingly subtle whiff of him lingering.

She told Simon how the duck had spent his last days here, and pointed out her mother, bundled up in a pink mohair rug, shoved there by Maggie alongside the books. He looked away. With Toby's advice in mind, she
had made an effort not to make an issue of his night with Maggie. She felt cavalier and generous, with an element of guilt, considering her liaison with Eric. If there were to be confessions, the lid would have to be prised from yet another Pandora's box.

But there was one matter that she would not relinquish. She pulled down the plastic bag with the letter and photos and handed it to him.

His eyes flicked over her face but he didn't touch the bag.

Yes, he said. Well. I'm glad you know.

Along with everyone else.

I know, I know, I'm sorry. I tried to tell you. Right from the beginning. I tried but . . . I thought you'd hate me. I felt ashamed. I told Maggie after your mother's funeral. When we got drunk together. We were talking about sibling rivalry and . . . it came up.