Winman, Sarah - When God Was a Rabbit

‘Couldn’t find a cab.’

No one would take you, more like.

He tried to tell me something about the evening, about a stripper, but the last of his words were barely audible as he buried them in the dent of my still-warm pillow. I took his clothes off and covered him with the duvet, and soon his breath was deep and unlaboured, even.

I pulled back the shutter and looked out. The street looked greasy and reflective; the rain had stopped and the first of the workers – the cleaners, the postal workers – were heading out. I got up and put on a sweater. It smelt of damp wool ever since I’d washed it. Joe told me I could never wear it out, only at home. That was the Joe before.

I crept downstairs to the kitchen and opened the back door to the smell of earth and rain, the smell I associated with Cornwall, and I suddenly longed to go back, longed to grieve in a landscape born of and eroded by grief, where hills fell into the sea in gestures of despair.

I heard the front door just as the coffee came to the boil. He must have noticed the light because he came down the stairs and put his head round the corner and seemed surprisingly sober.

‘Hey,’ he said. ‘Up early or still up late?’

‘Not sure. Want a coffee?’

‘Coffee would be good,’ he said.

We wrapped up and sat outside on the old bistro chairs, the damp slats soon penetrating the skin, but not uncomfortably so. The sound of traffic was slowly climbing over the back wall, a creeping precursor to the hue of sunrise. He looked around at the garden, seemed soothed by it, could have been the light, though, for shadows hide shadows.

‘You were a shit gardener who created a beautiful garden,’ I said. ‘Ginger used to say that you could make a woman pregnant just by looking at her. She loved you.’

He nodded. Sighed deeply.

‘Everybody seemed to love me. What am I supposed to do with that?’

I felt the anger creep back into his voice.

‘How was your night?’ I asked.

‘Strange. I got picked up by some kid and went back to his place. And before I got naked, he told me what a cunt I was and that he wouldn’t fuck me if I was the last person on earth. Somewhere around that time his flatmate came out to witness the humiliation.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, trying to hide my laughter.

‘No, please go ahead. It’s doing wonders for me.’

‘Refill?’

‘Sure.’

I poured out some more coffee.

‘So who was he?’ I said.

‘Face from the past? Someone I treated bad? Someone who didn’t love me, I dunno. He thought I was taking the piss when I said I couldn’t remember him.’

He reached for his cup.

‘I went back to the bench,’ he said.

‘Why?’

‘I walked over the bridge because I wanted to feel what it meant to me, the way you said. Feel the person I’m supposed to be. But I couldn’t. Something is dislocated; I’m dislocated. I sat and I looked at the city and I longed for those last moments again. I thought it might prompt me to remember something, to frighten me, anything. But it was just a bench. I had no sense of peace, no sense of place. I thought it would help. I’m making everyone so miserable. I’m constantly reminded of someone I can’t live up to. No one wants the person I am today.’

‘Not true,’ I said, lacking all conviction.

‘Yes it is. I even wish I could go back into hospital; it was a home of some sorts. There’s nothing for me out here. I’m lost.’

Everything changed after that evening. He had no interest after that. I understood now why Charlie had told my parents to let me come instead of them. It was ultimately empty and it hurt. I had to be patient, that’s what the doctors said, but my patience would run out at times. He’d reach for a cheese sandwich and I’d say, ‘You don’t like cheese,’ and depending on his mood he’d look at me and quite often say, ‘Well, I do now.’

He mentioned that he wanted to live by himself, didn’t want us around, so burdened was he by our expectation, and I couldn’t tell my parents, waiting as they were for his planned arrival. He would stay out all day, scoff at photographs I tried to show him at night and tried cruelty as a means to alienate us. He said he didn’t even like us. The doctors said it was normal.

We hired a car and drove Upstate to Charlie’s. We arrived just as the sun was falling below the mountain line. It should have been beautiful; the shifting colours vying for prominence along the horizon, the fire reflected in our faces, but our faces were sad and none of us had said anything in the car. A sombre air muted our friendship; an eventual parting waiting to be heard.

Charlie showed Joe to his bedroom and we didn’t see him for the rest of the evening. We didn’t feel like eating; too often now meals were replaced by drink. We were unhappy, each daring the other to voice the unspeakable, the malcontent of our lot.

We went outside to the deck, stayed within the confines of light emanating from the large window that framed the towering Mohonk. We saw flickering eyes in the woodland beyond. Deer? A bear cub? Only last month Charlie had seen one as he was clearing the encroaching scrubland. He sat down and lit a cigarette.

‘I was sitting out here the night Bobby phoned me, after the phone call from the hospital. Seems a long time since then.’

He stubbed out his cigarette. He was a useless smoker, always had been. ‘I’m so tired, Ell.’

I leant down and held him, kissed the back of his neck; gripped hard.

‘Don’t you walk away from me now,’ I said.

I couldn’t look at him, as I went back inside. I knew I’d just condemned him.

Joe didn’t emerge for two days. Finally stepped out with the sun, as Ginger would have said, and he walked into the kitchen offering to make us toast. We’d already eaten but we said Yes, the gesture was fine and he looked like he was trying. He hadn’t shaved in days and a beard was taking hold, and I felt glad. He looked unfamiliar and that made it easier to hate him.

We ate on the deck and dressed against the chill, commented on the sun, all said it was warm . The talk was polite. He asked what I’d been doing. ‘Writing,’ I said.

‘Uh-huh,’ he said, and ate his toast.

I waited for him to add something critical, something provoking. I didn’t have to wait long.

‘I think you’re one of those people who write instead of live, aren’t you?’

‘Fuck off,’ I said, adding a smile – a composed smile – the way Nancy always did.

‘Touched a nerve.’

We stared at each other for a moment; uncomfortable and smiling.

‘I’m building shelves in the pilot’s hut,’ said Charlie. ‘I could do with the help.’

‘OK,’ said Joe.

And as soon as they’d finished their coffees, they headed to the small building on the edge of the runway, striding over clumps of coarse grass, carrying saws and tool boxes, joined in a shared task. Jealousy was what I felt.

I took the car into town and bought supplies for the evening meal, wanted to get steak but ended up with crab – didn’t know if I could be bothered with the fiddliness of it all. But he liked crab and so did I, and the fridge would be full so we could last the next few days until decisions were made. He wasn’t coming back to England, we were sure of that. Hadn’t told my parents. How could I? Nancy was with them now, and that was better. Nancy would be with them when I told them. Nancy, the holder of other people’s pain. I suddenly rammed on my brakes. Their eyes stared at me. I nearly hit them. Daydreaming. Had to stop. Just missed the woman and child. The woman was screaming at me, threatening me, the child crying. I pulled into a side street until the shaking had stopped. I was becoming a mess.