Janita Lawrence - The Memory of Water

In the shower afterwards (Tropical Storm™) I feel great. I feel as though Denise has opened something inside me. Like the first rupture in a hatching egg.

When I was a kid my dad took Emily and I to a farm somewhere in the North West. Those were the days when you could stop off for fresh milk and eggs. I remember tasting that milk straight from the obliging cow’s udder, how warm and sweet it was. And then later, when the glass bottle had been in the fridge, how the cream formed a thick skin on the top of the milk, thicker than any cream you can buy, like soft white butter. But most of all I remember going in to the hatchery where the farmer picked up an egg that was rolling around and held it out to me in his huge calloused palm. Soon a beak was pecking its way through. I could see that the chick was struggling and I wanted the farmer to help the little bird out. I wanted to take the thing from him and break open the shell like a chocolate Easter egg. But he was patient and eventually the chick was free; a perfect little ball of lemon which, oblivious to his previous labours, hopped away to his brothers and sisters.

Maybe this painful twisting inside of me is part of some kind of genesis, and I am going to emerge as a better version of myself. It’s an optimistic thought. It helps to believe in something.

Just as I am falling asleep the night after having Denise, a hovering weight settles on my chest. If she finds out about my bizarre plan to pseudo-murder Eve, she’ll think I’m a psychopath and have me locked up before I could explain to her that I only did it to save my own life, and that I never meant to take anyone else’s. Telling Frank was a mistake. Who knows what he has told the cops about me. God, I was an idiot to tell him. The police haven’t been back to visit since Saturday but I think that they are watching me. At least I hope it’s them. Every time I look out of the window or leave the house lately, I have the feeling that someone is out there, waiting, watching.

Ibegin the annoying habit of thinking of Denise a lot of the time. It is as if I have absorbed some part of her essence. As if we are joined in some way. I try to avoid it, and the nagging non-writing feeling I have, by trying to do the things that Francina would usually do. Today I’m doing the washing as I have run out of jocks. And old Metallica and Iron Maiden shirts. It takes a while to figure out how a washing machine works but in the end it isn’t so difficult. Fill the tray with a mixture of washing powder and softener (at least I think it was softener), pat it down a bit to avoid spillage, stuff the drum full of dirty Death Metal T-shirts and jack up the heat. If I am going to do the washing then I am going to do it properly! While I’m reading the paper at the kitchen table the machine jumps around a bit. I interpret that as enthusiasm and give it the thumbs-up.

An hour later when the machine stops spinning I try to wrench open the door for three full minutes before it decides to humour me. There’s obviously a trick to how you do the wrenching. Not sure how to hang clothes up on a line, I throw the lot into the tumble dryer. When I retrieve them they are hot and full of static. My silk boxers end up two sizes smaller and muddy-grey but all in all, I’m pleased with my work. I hug the warm clothes to my chest. Oh! The fulfilment of an honest day’s work! To be a common labourer!

The phone rings, snapping me out of my Yeats-like dream of romantic toil. Before thinking I pick it up.

“Hello?” I say. Damn it! I forgot that nowadays I’m not answering the phone.

It is quiet on the other end. Someone is there but they are not speaking.

“Hello?” I say again. Something flutters and the phone line goes dead.

Bad connection.

It rings again and now I know I shouldn’t pick it up. I grab the handset.

“Hello?” I say.

Shuffling of papers. An ear-swap.

“Hello,” says the person on the other side, “I’m looking for a Mister Slade Harris.”

“That’s me,” I say, wishing I hadn’t.

The voice is composed. Too composed.

“Mister Harris, good day. I’m phoning in connection with the overdue payments on your bond at 83 16 th Avenue.”

“Uh-huh,” I say.

“Are you aware that your payments are two months behind?” he asks, quite politely. Of course he is calm and polite. He has a job. And most likely a house. And he knows where his next pay cheque is coming from.

“No,” I say, although I did have an idea. I have stopped opening the mail since Eve died, since I started feeling vulnerable. And I stopped paying bills quite a time before that. All the post goes straight from the letterbox into the rubbish bin, with minimal handling. I now know what anthrax can do to you. And letter bombs.

“Mister Harris, please be informed that we require your urgent settlement of this debt or we will be forced to begin legal proceedings.”

“Yes,” I say, “I understand.”

“Thank you for your time,” he says, and hangs up.

Yes, hang up, I think. Hang up and go home to your wife and children and domestic worker and paid-up house. So I’m a bit behind on my bond repayments. Is it really necessary to threaten legal action? I’ll make the payments, I always have. I shake my fist at the composed caller: take that! Bugger.

The doorbell rings and for a second I think it is the bank with papers that say the house is no longer mine. I tiptoe to the peephole and see that it’s Frank. I reasoned after what happened at the funeral I would never see him again. Maybe he has come to finish me off.

I open the front door, salute him, but hesitate to buzz the pedestrian gate.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey.”

“Can I come in?”

“That depends,” I say.

He looks at me.

“On whether you’re here to have a beer or break my nose again.”

He looks sheepish. He shouldn’t. Punching me was The Right Thing To Do.

“To have a beer?” he smiles. It looks like he means it but my paranoia is hovering.

“Actually, don’t come in. I don’t have any… er… beers in the fridge. Let me grab my jacket and we’ll walk to the pub.”

“I like what you’ve done with the place,” he jokes, gesturing to the broken window and faint graffiti.

There is a kind of neighbourhood pub just down the road. The Pint & Sausage. It’s the type of place you can go to alone if your friends aren’t handy. You’re bound to bump into somebody you know or meet someone interesting. They serve all manner of different beers and a mean pub lunch.

The walk over is awkward, we don’t say much; settled in a booth with a lager we seem to ease up.

“I’ve been worried about you,” Frank says.

“About my nose? It’s fine,” I say, willing to be gracious because it’s nice to sit here in this warm place with a few drops of booze in you. Besides, the swelling has gone down and the bridge isn’t too skew. I touch it for good measure.

“Not about your nose,” he says. There is clearly not going to be an apology.

“I’ve been worried because you didn’t come to soccer. And then I tried to call you a few times, to see if you were okay, and you never answered.”

He takes a long sip of his beer and I join him.

“I haven’t been going out much. And I haven’t been answering the phone.”

Frank nods his slow nod.

“The thing is, I’ve been wrecked over Eve’s death. It has completely freaked me out.”

“Yeah,” says Frank.

“And I’ve also been feeling a little… paranoid. I have this feeling that I am being monitored.”

“Cops?” he asks.

“Maybe. Or someone meaning to do me harm.”