Bird North and Other Stories Page 4

  ‘I think I saw Mum in town,’ said Peter.

  ‘Who?’ There was a bottle of tomato sauce upside down on the table. A fly was crawling over the dried sauce around its neck.

  ‘Mum. She was in the supermarket.’

  ‘Which supermarket?’ His father flicked at the fly with the pamphlet. The bottle fell on the floor.

  ‘Centre City. There was a tall man and a skinny man who walked fast.’

  ‘What were you doing there?’ The fly was belting against the window.

  ‘I was there with Simon. He bought me a milkshake. People can’t live on the moon. Mrs Thompson told us.’

  His father went to the window and held the pamphlet over the fly. The fly buzzed. ‘So you believe her and not me?’ His father put his thumb where the fly was. There was a clicking sound. The buzzing stopped. Peter shook his head. ‘Now get off to your room. You won’t need dinner if you’ve been drinking milkshakes,’ said his father, looking at where the fly had been squashed.

  That night Peter couldn’t sleep. He looked out the window at the student flat. Sometimes he saw them being sick into a bush.

  His flatmate, Kerry, is in the kitchen.

  ‘Hi Peter, good day?’ She takes a jug out of the microwave and pours the contents into a bowl.

  ‘Pretty good,’ he says, crossing the small lounge and going into the kitchen. He gets a glass and fills it with water. The smell on his hand reminds him of the pokie machines. He was one penguin away from a hundred dollars.

  ‘Up to anything in the weekend?’ Kerry asks, holding the bowl of noodles and a fork.

  Peter shakes his head. ‘Just a quiet one.’

  ‘All right then.’ Kerry smiles. ‘Have a good night.’

  He looks at the strands of noodle curling in the sink-hole and hears Kerry on the stairs. He takes a jar of peanut butter and a spoon into his room, sits on the mattress, and turns on a small television. Later in the evening he takes his shirt and trousers off then gets under the blankets. He dreams his mum lives in a hedge.

  When he wakes up he eats the rest of the peanut butter, using his finger to clean the sides of the jar. He hears seagulls on the carpark building and thinks of the spinning penguins and polar bears. Kerry comes down the stairs and the shower turns on. At the window he watches cars going into the carpark building. The seagulls and some pigeons are perched on empty concrete flower boxes. He hears high-heeled shoes cross the concrete and thinks of the girl in the shoe shop. Kerry goes back up the stairs. He takes a towel from the back of a chair and goes into the bathroom. At eight-fifty he leaves the apartment and walks to work. By nine o’clock he’s at his desk putting on his headset.

  The day passes. He is hungry. He drinks thick Milo drinks and eats someone’s cheese slices from the fridge in the lunchroom. At lunch he stays at his desk and googles ‘International Library’. Bevan comes over. He’s wearing a green and black jockey’s hat.

  ‘All right Mr Peter? Ready for a drink later?’

  Peter nods. ‘Not a problem.’

  Holding his hands like he’s riding a horse Bevan gallops off. When he gets to his desk he turns around and smiles. Beside Peter, Tracey is sipping from a Starbucks cup. She holds a ruler above her head and makes a whipping motion. Bevan bends slightly and, still looking over his shoulder, waggles his arse.

  At five-thirty Peter logs off and goes to the lifts. Bevan is looking at a cell-phone and doesn’t notice him. Peter rides the lift to the ground floor. Some of his workmates are smoking and laughing on the pavement. They will be waiting for Bevan. Peter goes back past the lifts, through a heavy green door, and into the stairwell. He sits on the bottom stair and waits. After fifteen minutes he checks the pavement. It is empty.

  In his apartment he makes a drink out of sugar and milk. He drinks it in his room and then lies down. He goes to sleep. When he wakes up it is dark and his stomach is growling. Kerry and someone else are going past his door. ‘Shhhh, be quiet,’ she says. ‘My flatmate’s in there. He’s always in there.’

  ‘Oh, okay. Shhhh then,’ says a man’s voice. There’s laughter and feet on the stairs. The door to Kerry’s room opens. Peter hears more laughter and the door closing. Outside, on the street, a noisy car changes gears. ‘Wahoo!’ someone shouts. Upstairs the man coughs. There is quiet and then the sound Kerry makes when she’s fucking. Peter gets off his mattress and goes quietly out his door and up the stairs. Her door has a window the size of his television screen. It is partially blocked by a blind. Peter puts his face on an angle and looks into the room. An arse is moving. When it goes down Kerry makes the noise. Peter’s cock is hard. The arse speeds up and Kerry makes a longer noise. Peter goes back down the stairs.

  In his room he pulls hard on himself then cleans up the spunk with a singlet he keeps under the mattress. Outside someone bellows, ‘Yehaa!’ Peter straightens the blankets and closes his eyes.

  He saw his mum on other occasions: sometimes in a wheelchair, sometimes sitting in the back seat of a van. She always had her hands near her mouth. The last time he saw her, her hair was long and blond, and he thought she must have been getting better. He wondered if she would want to see him, but when he thought about it he realised she was wearing a wig.

  In fourth form they studied snakes. There was a video of a python eating a monkey. Then it didn’t need to eat for a week. When there was food in the flat Peter thought of the python. During fifth form his father went away for April. ‘It’s an autumn project. We’re doing work on the effects of cold weather on books.’ Two years later his father shifted to Timaru.

  At the end of his first year of university Peter went to his father’s for Christmas. Halfway through the holiday his father told him, ‘I’ve got a job in America. It’s with the International Library. You’ll have to go back to Dunedin. I don’t know when I’ll be back.’

  From then on Peter stayed in Dunedin during the holidays. He used his student loan to gamble on the poker machines at the pub near his flat. He slept a lot and only just passed his papers. He stopped seeing his mum. After university he applied for the job at the call centre. There was a phone interview and then a job offer. He drew down the last of his student loan and bought bus and ferry tickets to Wellington. Just before Ashburton he saw a man leaning over a fence wearing a red and white hat. He was smoking a cigarette and watching the traffic. It was his father.

  In the morning there’s a note under his door.

  Hi Peter, just wanted to let you know your rent didn’t go into my account last night and you still owe me for last month’s power. It’s no big deal, but I’m not made of money! I’m away tonight but can we sort it out tomorrow? Have a great weekend! K.

  Peter looks out the window. The sky is grey. There’s a man on a bike going down the road. There are no seagulls, only pigeons. He goes back to his mattress and lies down. He thinks about Kerry and about what she did last night. He gets another hard-on and uses the singlet to clean up the small amount that comes out.

  Walking down the street he holds the television in two hands like he’s carrying a cake. The man at the second-hand store sniffs when he sees Peter. An unlit cigarette hangs from his mouth while he examines the television. ‘Thirty bucks,’ he says.

  Peter buys a glass of lemonade and feeds the rest of the money into a machine. It has a Wild West theme: squaws, a gold digger, a family on a wagon. He feels good seeing all the credits. The room is empty. ‘Okay,’ he says.

  He loses. There are two dollars left. Lifting himself off the stool he bumps the five credit button. The reels spin: one, two, three, four, five cowboys with golden lassos. The machine whirrs and the credit column climbs up and up. Peter lets out a breath and looks around. He presses CALL ATTENDANT. A light on top of the machine spins. One thousand dollars. Peter sits down. The man who poured his lemonade comes in. ‘Nice one,’ he says, looking at the screen.

  ‘It was my last spin,’ says Peter, watching the man open the front of the machine.

  ‘Uh huh,’ says the m
an, pressing some buttons and writing on a piece of paper. ‘I won’t be a moment.’

  Peter watches the other machines. There is one with pyramids and an Egyptian Queen. He decides to gamble no more than a hundred dollars before he goes back to the apartment.

  ‘Come through,’ says the man. Peter follows him into the bar. He has a gold band in one of his ears and he has to move a bar mat to make room for the stacks of money. ‘Don’t spend it all at once,’ he says.

  ‘Not a problem,’ says Peter, folding the notes and putting them in his pocket. The door to the pub opens. There is a large figure and rapid feet on the wooden floor. It is Melanie.

  ‘Peter?’ she says, smiling. ‘You on it already?’

  ‘I was here last night,’ he says. ‘I left my wallet.’

  ‘Out on the prowl, eh?’ There’s sweat on her forehead and around her mouth. ‘Look,’ she says, not letting him answer, ‘I’m busting, but you wait right here. Okay?’ She looks at him in a serious way and then smiles and walks down the bar. Her big bum rolls from side to side.

  The barman is drinking from a white cup. Melanie asks if she can use the toilet. He waves her on. ‘Course you can, love,’ he says. When she is gone he looks at Peter. ‘Your lucky day, pal?’ Peter smiles at the man and leans back on the bar. He turns the money over in his pocket thinking of the Egyptians. He could leave and get a plate of chips and a Coke at the pub two doors up. There would be plenty left for Kerry and a new television. But the way Melanie smiled at him and that raspberry smell on her breath? Anyway, it’s too late. She’s walking towards him. ‘So, how are you? It’s been so busy at work lately I haven’t had a chance to talk. You weren’t at Bevan’s drinks?’ There are pimples on her chin.

  ‘I was out with my brother,’ says Peter. ‘He’s over from Hawaii.’

  ‘Wow, Hawaii? I’d love to go there.’ She strokes the air with her hands and arms. ‘Hula!’ she laughs, and then sighs and touches his shoulder. ‘Sorry, I’m a bit loopy today. I think I’m still drunk from last night.’ From the back of the pub there are the sounds of a kitchen. The barman has disappeared. His white cup is on the bar. ‘I’m off to get a coffee,’ she says, pointing at the front of the pub. ‘Do you ...’

  ‘Okay,’ Peter says.

  When she smiles he can see her red tongue.

  . . .

  Eight fifty-five, Monday morning. The lift goes up. Peter has heard that if you jump at the right time you lose gravity. He can’t remember if you jump when the lift is going up or down. He jumps. The mirrors on the walls vibrate. There is a pain in his foot. He laughs.

  He and Melanie kissed. They had been in her bedroom drinking cider and playing Singstar. He’d told her he had a damaged voice box from karate and that he couldn’t sing. ‘Hai Ya!’ she’d said, laughing. ‘You tell such funny stories, Peter.’ She’d sat beside him on the edge of the bed. He could smell cider and the minty smell of her cigarettes. She told him to wait while she got something.

  ‘Not a problem,’ he said.

  She came back with a tambourine and picked up the microphone. She sang, ‘Waterloo,’ in profile, front on, and in profile again. She swayed her arms and shook the tambourine. When she finished she started laughing and had to lie on the floor. Her face was flushed and sweaty and there was a wheezing sound at the back of each breath.

  ‘Do you know about Bevan and Tracey?’ she said, puffing on an inhaler

  Peter shook his head and drank from the coffee mug. He’d bought the cider and a takeaway pizza after the cafe. When she’d asked about the roll of money he told her about all the money his father was making at the International Library.

  ‘They’re shagging.’

  Peter looked at her.

  ‘You didn’t know? Everyone knows!’

  Peter shrugged and drank more cider. He belched quietly.

  ‘Oh, beg your pardon, Mr Burpy,’ she said.

  She was lying on her side and he could see her stomach sticking below her jersey. It was like his. She pulled the jersey down, rolled onto her stomach, and cupped her face in her hands. ‘Come down here,’ she said.

  ‘Not a problem,’ he said, slipping forward off the end of the bed and sinking onto the soft carpet.

  ‘Lie here,’ she said, patting the carpet in front of her.

  He put the mug down and went forward onto his hands and then his elbows. He wriggled back so that his feet were under the bed and his face was close to hers. He was breathing hard and her fringe was moving about. She looked at him and smiled. ‘Hello,’ she said.

  ‘Hi,’ he said. He could taste the pizza and hear his heart. He felt her nose on his and there was a little cold air. Then she tipped her head to the side and he felt her lips, and between his lips came her tongue. He put his tongue against hers and moved it. She made a sound. She had her hand on his neck. He moved his tongue again. He liked it. They kissed for a long time on the floor and then got onto the bed where she touched the front of his pants. He lifted up, wanting to feel more of her hand. She laughed and pulled back from his face.

  ‘Not yet,’ she said, smiling. ‘Let’s have some more pizza.’

  Peter smiled back at her. This was good.

  He sits at his desk and puts his headset on. The clock on the wall says nine o’clock. He makes the red phone go green.

  At morning tea he goes to the lunch room. The Polynesian man is by the ping pong table bouncing a ball on a racquet. Peter buys a Coke and sits on the couch. He looks at his new shoes. ‘Get ones without laces,’ she’d said. ‘They’re easier to get on and easier to get off.’ She’d laughed her husky laugh and put her face into his neck.

  ‘You want to have a hit?’ says the Polynesian man. He holds two racquets up like a man on an airport runway.

  Peter looks at his watch. Eleven-o-six. ‘Sure,’ he says. ‘Why not?’

  Sand

  Josh went to the back of the station wagon, opened the boot, and took out his surfboard. Sarah – I’m essentially fifteen – was in the back seat. She had headphones on and was swaying so that her long hair brushed side to side over his sports bag and the box of beer. Josh put the surfboard on the lawn. His dad was at the front of the car looking at the bach. There were stairs up to a door that was ajar and, further along, a small broken window. Josh wondered if he could get everything into the bach by himself. Arab and Callum had arrived the day before. The boys’ parents had rented the bach as a Christmas present and, though Josh knew his dad wouldn’t say anything about the window, he definitely didn’t want him to come inside.

  Removing the sports bag he managed to snag a bit of Sarah’s hair.

  ‘Oww,’ she whined, spinning around.

  Josh shut the boot before she could say anything else. They had driven over from Hamilton the day before. They had been there for his aunt’s fiftieth. Josh couldn’t stand it when his dad drank so he’d gone to bed early. In the morning Sarah and his mum were arguing. Sarah had been found with a boy in the back of a Ford Escort.

  ‘A Ford bloody Escort,’ their mum shouted.

  ‘Someone must have put date-rape in my drink,’ Sarah said. Then she’d picked up her yoga roll and gone out by the hotel’s pool.

  Beside the bach there was a lawn with a view of the beach and the island. His dad was standing there with his hand shading his eyes. Josh put the bag and the beer next to the surfboard and went onto the lawn. They watched a surfer paddle through a small break. ‘It’s funny looking at the beach from here,’ said his dad, pointing across the water to their holiday home: its huge deck and windows, the trees like giant pineapples.

  ‘Dad, how much does meat cost?’

  ‘Meat?’

  ‘Yeah, to like, barbecue?’

  His dad handed him some money. ‘Your mum gets rib eye.’

  There was a tapping on the window. Sarah was pointing to something in the back of the car. Even if there were no other passengers she never travelled in the front. Their parents complained that they weren’t a taxi service, but t
he one time they tried to force her she’d screamed, ‘It’s because of what happened to Dan!’

  Josh went to the back of the car and looked. She’d removed the blanket he’d put over the bag of grapefruit. ‘Don’t forget your Vitamin C, Josh,’ she said.

  As they were leaving that morning his mum had run out to the car carrying the bag of fruit like it was a trophy. She’d stopped smiling when she saw the beer. ‘You’re encouraging him, John?’

  ‘He’d get it anyway. He’s almost eighteen.’

  ‘Seventeen, almost bloody seventeen.’

  ‘They’re five minutes away. We’ll watch them through the telescope.’

  His mum hadn’t laughed.

  Josh yanked out the bag of fruit.

  ‘Oooh, psycho,’ said Sarah, waggling her fingers.

  ‘Enjoy Mum and Dad,’ he said, slamming the boot and leaning the fruit against the beer.

  ‘You’ll be all right with that?’ his dad said, pointing at the gear. ‘I don’t want to cramp your style.’

  Josh nodded. The surfer went down the face of a wave. At a party the previous winter Josh had told a girl about Dan’s funeral: about the haka, the Pearl Jam songs, and how they’d buried him with his surfboard.

  ‘It sounds amazing,’ she said, and later, in the laundry, she’d let him suck her tits.

  ‘You enjoy this,’ his dad said suddenly. He gave Josh a sort of handshake-hug and then walked to the car.

  Josh picked up his gear. As he drove off his dad tooted and Sarah stuck her head out the window. ‘Bye Joshy.’

  He left the fruit and his board by the side of the bach and went up the stairs and inside: stale cigarette smoke. It was the right place. There was a closed door to his right and one in front of him. To his left a doorway and a room. Balled up fish and chip paper, an ashtray, and some loose matches were scattered over a table. He dropped his bag by the front door and carried the beer through. ‘Oi,’ he said.

  Beyond the table was a kitchen and against the walls of the large room there were two single beds. A head and shoulders were sticking out of a sleeping bag. Long grey curtains filled and fell like lungs. The bottles clinked when he put the box on the table. Beside the tomato sauce there was a small pipe. He sniffed its end and then dropped it on the table. He thought about opening a beer. It would look good. Where he stepped there was the gritty crunch of sand.