Bird North and Other Stories Page 6

  Josh looked at his sister.

  ‘What? It’s a free world,’ she said, squeezing water out of her ponytail.

  ‘It looks like a goose,’ Si said, pointing to where the hat was getting smaller.

  But Sarah wasn’t listening. She was watching Josh. ‘What are you doing?’

  He’d made his neck long and was up on his toes. He shivered his body and glared and held his hands out to her. Sarah stopped with her hair when she realised who he was.

  ‘Freak!’ she said, wailing and turning and running towards the beach.

  Si went out of the water calling her name. He caught her quickly and they stood together for a moment. Sarah spun around. ‘I wish it had been you, Josh.’ She put her face in her hands. Si rubbed her back. They walked a little way towards the beach and then stopped and Sarah leaned into Si.

  Josh sat down. On the lawn in front of his parents’ house they were erecting a marquee. Their parents threw a party every year and called it the ‘beach hop’. He dug his fingers into the dense sand. It hurt under his fingernails. He was sitting on something. He stood up and felt in his pocket. The lubricant sachet. He ripped it open and squeezed the goo onto his fingers. It was cool and sticky. He dropped the sachet into the shallow hole he’d made and stamped his heel into the sides. Si and Sarah were still standing together. Si shouted and gestured. He ignored them and walked to the ocean side of the bar. There was the white lick of a yacht’s sail and further out, where the horizon was hazy, the shape of a ship. Josh looked at his hand. The goo had made a web of his fingers. ‘Here I am,’ he said, and walked to where the water was submerging the bar. It looked faster and deeper. On the other side Si and Sarah were doing handstands. He flapped his fingers to get the goo off and started to cross.

  Maniototo

  Mark had been on the dole for three months when he applied for work with an organisation that assisted people with disabilities. There was an interview with two female social workers and Paul. If Mark got the job, Paul was the young man he’d be working with. Paul couldn’t talk, so the slim social worker asked the questions on his behalf.

  ‘Paul would like to know what you’re doing for work at the moment.’

  Mark explained that he’d recently returned from Japan where he’d been an English language teacher. This was true. At fifty he’d been the eldest of the many teachers working for a company that had schools throughout Tokyo.

  ‘Paul, shall we ask him why he left his last job?’

  Paul made a short high sound and nodded. Then he stared at his knees for a moment before wheeling back from the desk.

  Mark said that he’d been in Japan for twelve months, that his contract had expired and that though he’d loved the country and the teaching he’d been eager to get home. This was not true. He’d been in Japan for eleven months before leaving without telling anyone.

  Paul wheeled himself to the other side of the room where there was a pink balloon. There were more questions, most of which Mark answered truthfully. Near the end of the interview Paul came up beside Mark, rested his huge head on Mark’s shoulder, and made the sort of sound a man makes at the end of a good meal.

  Mark was asked to wait outside. After a while the slim social worker invited him back into the room.

  ‘Congratulations,’ she said. ‘You’ve got the job.’

  ‘Great,’ said Mark.

  ‘That was easy wasn’t it Paul?’ said the other woman.

  Paul made a new sound. It was long and went up and down and he clapped his big hands together and ran his feet into the wheelchair’s foot plates. The two women smiled and started collecting up some papers. Paul stopped his excitement just as suddenly and went back to looking thoughtfully at something on the carpet.

  In Tokyo Mark had lived in a small apartment. He slept and ate in one room. There was a window that looked over power lines and the roofs of other apartment buildings. Crows waited on the power lines. There were strict rules on noise levels and disposing of rubbish: if you got the rubbish days mixed up the crows made enough noise and mess for the police to be called.

  Mark was terribly lonely for eight months. In the ninth month he decided to start a relationship with one of his young students. In hindsight he blamed the decision on the pressure brought about by living under such a strict bureaucracy and on some chemical in the food or water that had fooled with his brain’s architecture.

  Dunedin wasn’t much better. He hadn’t contacted the people he’d known before he left – he’d told them he’d be away for a long time, that after a few years teaching he was going to explore China. ‘Just call me Marco Polo,’ he remembered saying.

  His flatmate in Dunedin was Eric. Eric was saving money so he could mount a court case against ACC. He didn’t like to discuss the details of the court case. He spent a lot of time in his bedroom watching television. Once, when Mark heard Eric in the kitchen and went out to talk, Eric went quiet and stood very still next to the washing machine. And he’d stayed that way – like someone pretending to be a lamp post – until Mark left the room.

  But now at least, for three hours each Wednesday, Mark saw Paul. The other six days he didn’t have anywhere to be so it was a challenge to get up. Sometimes he didn’t have time to sort out his long hair or change the T-shirt he’d worn to bed. None of which mattered. Mark was right into freedom, and that definitely included the way a person chose to present themselves.

  Having got out of bed, he’d walk to the building where the interview had been held and pick up a car. It was good to be out of the flat, and while he walked he looked forward to seeing Dawn. Dawn was the receptionist. She too was in a wheelchair. When Mark walked in she would smile and, spinning her chair to get the keys off a hook, say, ‘Wednesday already? Where does the week go?’

  There was something about the way she talked. The occasional word was muffled and as if to make up for the defect she spoke in a loud voice. When she’d finished even a short sentence, her mouth gathered little corners of saliva. She wore blouses. The black one was Mark’s favourite. It was stiff looking as if fresh off the rack and she wore it unbuttoned just above her chest. Mark was tall and Dawn was low to the ground. Mark kept eye contact at all times, but it wasn’t easy. The skin below Dawn’s neck was covered in caramel-coloured freckles.

  After seeing her he would drive to Paul’s house, which was on the shady side of the city’s northern valley. There was a wide path up to a wide front door. Paul shared the house with four other people, and the walls of the hallway were scuffed and marked where wheelchairs had been. Paul’s housemates were always out by the time Mark arrived, and the doors to their rooms were closed, sometimes padlocked. One bore the sign, WARREN’S ROOM – NO PARKING, while another featured photographs cut from magazines: a dog in a handbag, Michael Jackson in action on stage.

  Going down the hallway, through the kitchen, and into the lounge that was a narrow add-on to the main body of the house, Mark usually found Paul standing in front of the television. Paul didn’t use his wheelchair around the house. His balance wasn’t great. On open ground with his straight-legged gait and raised arms he resembled a Mummy – after more than a few steps he’d gather speed and then fall. But as long as he had a bench, a wall, or in this case a television to hold onto, he was usually okay. He’d be pointing at the different characters when they appeared on the television screen, while Jax, the woman who ran the house, would be at the dining table in her blue hospital scrubs drinking tea and either disagreeing or agreeing with Paul’s taste in cast members. It was a game Paul enjoyed and with every ‘Yes’ or ‘No’ he would smack his free hand gleefully against his thigh and huff and puff as if trying to inflate a lilo.

  Jax liked dyeing her hair and talking. She cared for Paul and the other people in the house like they were her own children. One time she’d told Mark that the plump social worker had asked her not to wear the scrubs – ‘they go against the ethos of our organisation.’ Jax said she’d asked what the ethos said about changin
g a grown man’s nappies. And in relating the conversation to Mark, she repeated the words ‘grown man’ and made a shape with her hands which suggested something the size of a large mixing bowl.

  Paul and his social worker had agreed that Wednesday would be cooking day. The social worker had made him a recipe book. The easy steps of each recipe were shown pictorially: two-minute noodles with chicken, pizza, weiner schnitzel with mashed potato, nachos, and sausages. When Mark asked Paul what he wanted to cook Paul always pointed to sausages. Mark didn’t feel it was right to make Paul’s decisions for him so each week, after Jax left, they drove to the supermarket and used Paul’s money to buy sausages.

  Mark’s job was to guide Paul through the recipes, along the way teaching him knife skills and the ins and outs of the stove top and oven. But on one of their first Wednesdays Paul put his hand in a hot pan. He bellowed and sat on the floor. When Mark went to help, Paul grabbed his arm and shook him. Mark was thin and Paul was strong. Mark went from one side of the kitchen to the other. This worried Mark. What if something really bad happened? From then on, while Paul sat in the lounge watching television, Mark did the cooking. When lunch was ready they would sit together at the table. Paul ate fast. He could eat three sausages, two eggs and a plate of potatoes during an ad break. It was boring in the house after lunch. There was the television, but Mark watched a lot of television at his flat and he and Paul had different tastes. One day Mark suggested using the time after lunch to go for a drive. Paul agreed.

  Mark showed Paul where he’d gone to school and the different flats he’d lived in around the city. Sometimes he talked about women he’d known in the flats, other times he talked about what happened in Japan. ‘You’ve got your whole life in front of you,’ he’d say. ‘This is valuable information I’m giving you.’

  Paul loved music so what he enjoyed most about driving was the radio. As loud as it could go suited him best and he’d shake his legs, clap in time, and if the song was a real beauty he’d pound out the rhythm on the dashboard. Paul and Mark reached a compromise. The first part of the journey was devoted to life coaching while the return journey had more to do with musical expression.

  One Wednesday afternoon Paul’s social worker called Mark at his flat.

  ‘How was Paul’s cooking today?’ she said.

  ‘It was good,’ said Mark. ‘Today Paul cooked Hawaiian pizza.’

  ‘That’s awesome!’ said the social worker. Then after a pause she asked Mark about the petrol in the work car. She said her boss had gone to use it that afternoon and found the fuel light on.

  Mark went red and held the phone away from his ear. He started to think of an excuse.

  ‘You use the car to get from here to Paul’s, out to the supermarket and back again,’ continued the social worker. ‘Remember, Wednesday is Paul’s cooking day. That’s what he hired you for.’

  Mark didn’t take Paul driving for a few weeks. They watched television and played the ‘Yes/No,’ game, but Paul didn’t like the way Mark played and he got mad. They tried cooking again, but that first time back, while Mark was peeling a potato, Paul ate most of a raw sausage.

  Later, over lunch, Mark wondered aloud whether they should use some of the money in Paul’s wallet to buy petrol.

  Paul had a full mouth. He looked into his plate and nodded.

  Eventually cooking was cancelled. As soon as Jax left, they made for the car. There was a garage they’d stop at for fuel and pies. Then they’d drive. Having run out of life lessons Mark decided to devote the full three hours to musical expression. They passed paddocks of sheep, cows, and kale. They waved to hitchhikers and farmers on tractors. The sea made estuaries and harbours, and long roads wound round rocky coastlines. The car brimmed with positivity. It was helping Mark a great deal. He’d gained perspective on what had happened in Japan and had decided to write to the parents of the student involved. He also planned to write letters to the people who’d employed him – he accepted the need to apologise, but at the same time felt it important that his version of events was recorded.

  Other times he thought about Dawn. She’d started wearing bright jewellery and had cut her fringe so it went short to long, mysteriously veiling her left eye. Mark couldn’t help but see it as a sign. He decided on a beach ceremony – they’d put down boards to make an aisle and for the first dance he would blow everyone away by taking a turn on the dance floor in a wheelchair of his own.

  ‘You’re his new favourite,’ Jax said one morning a month after the implementation of the driving policy.

  She and Mark were standing in Paul’s room. Paul was at the foot of his bed. He’d had a disagreement with one of his housemates and had decided to take time-out in his room.

  Mark was looking at a large map that was pinned between the Highlanders’ flag and the signed rugby jersey.

  ‘It arrived yesterday –’ said Jax.

  Paul made his startled sound and the look that went with it.

  ‘You tell him then,’ said Jax.

  Paul shook his head and looked at his feet.

  ‘Suit yourself,’ said Jax. ‘It’s the –’

  Paul sat back with an aggrieved sound. He pointed at the map and then at himself.

  ‘Well then?’ said Jax. ‘Tell the man, he hasn’t got all day.’

  Paul took a breath and then, opening and closing his mouth and shifting his head side to side, he made a long, delighted mumbling sound.

  ‘The Maniototo,’ said the woman. ‘It’s where Paul grew up.’

  Paul shrieked and clapped and then crossing his arms like an imperious pre-schooler made the mumbling sound again.

  It would be their last normal Wednesday. The following week when Mark arrived to pick up the keys Dawn had a new hairstyle and a look on her face. ‘Mark,’ she said sternly.

  ‘Wow,’ smiled Mark, making a motion up from his forehead and giving her new style the thumbs-up.

  She looked past him. The slim social worker was there. ‘Would you come into my office, Mark,’ she said.

  Cooking was being phased out. Paul wanted to focus on his weight loss. A student from the Phys Ed School had been hired. Aqua aerobics started next Wednesday morning.

  Mark didn’t know what to say. ‘Next week we’re going to do meatballs,’ he said.

  ‘I didn’t photograph meatballs,’ said the social worker.

  ‘It’s free cooking,’ said Mark.

  The social worker shifted some papers on her desk. A chop-sized patch of skin had flushed on her neck. She traced its raised edge with the side of her thumb. ‘There are question marks over your suitability for this sort of work.’

  There was a sound behind Mark. Dawn was blocking the doorway. Her fringe was gelled straight up as if someone had her by the ankles. Mark shrugged and smiled as if to say, ‘What’s she talking about?’

  Dawn’s mouth was as thin and hard as a coin slot on a ticketing machine. She crossed her arms and started to speak.

  ‘Dawn,’ said the social worker, making a settle-down motion with her hands.

  That afternoon, after their last session, Mark was to return Paul’s house key.

  Mark stopped in front of Paul’s house. The midweek paper drooped wetly from the mailbox. One thrush followed another across the wide path. A balled-up nappy was lodged in the thin hedge. Mark rested his head on the steering wheel. The fluorescent shoes he’d bought on his first day in Tokyo looked as frayed and colourless as a fish run through a washing machine. He sat back and moaned. He was supposed to be in Shanghai.

  There was a clattering out on the road. It was the postie. He had a sleeveless post office-red polo shirt, tattooed thighs and a moustache. He was up on the pedals and going for it. There was a puddle on the footpath and he made a bunny-hop: the pannier bags lifted and the big wheels turned up a spray. He spotted Mark and, steering with one hand and sitting as if on a tall horse, he made a decisive salute.

  There was something over Mark’s scalp and down his spine, something deep in
his balls that made him square his shoulders and tilt his jaw, and, as he turned in his seat and watched the postie make a diagonal charge across the road, it came to him – the Maniototo: he would take Paul home.

  Inside the petrol station, the attendant – he was a small man with a horseman’s walk – took the money at the till and said, ‘Twenty? Going a bit further today?’

  ‘The Maniototo,’ said Mark.

  The attendant told Mark he knew the Maniototo like it was the back of his hand. Then he told him about the Old Dunstan Road. ‘Fastest way in is through Clarke’s Junction. It’s the trail the miners made during the gold rush. Not that you’d go in what you’re driving. You’d want something with a bit more tit.’

  But Mark had stopped listening. He was gazing out over the forecourt to the car, where Paul, his hands resting patiently on the dashboard, was waiting for the music to re-start.

  Ten kilometres out of Clarke’s Junction the radio went from Classic Hits to static and the road that becomes the Dunstan trail went from asphalt to gravel. Paul too changed. Instead of enjoying the landscape – a vast slope of tussock – he folded in at the shoulders and stared into his lap.

  Leaving Dunedin he and Mark had really turned it on. ‘I’m taking you back to your land,’ Mark had shouted over the music, and then during the next song, as Paul was working up a blistering rhythm, he’d hollered, ‘Manioooooooototoooooo,’ and Paul’s face had gone red and then crimson and he’d pummelled the dashboard, the door frame, and the ceiling.

  ‘Your land,’ said Mark, pointing out the windscreen.

  Paul shook his head.

  ‘This is where your spirit resides,’ said Mark.

  Paul pointed into his mouth and made the dry sound the plughole makes when the last of the water’s drained.

  Revelling in Paul’s mighty percussion Mark had been sure of it all. Dawn, the social workers, the aerobics instructors, they had no idea. This path, he’d thought, is the path to humanity. But now there was a gap in the fences and a cattle-stop. He piloted them across, but though he smiled at Paul, as if the shuddering were all part of the plan, Paul didn’t look up or do anything. After the cattle-stop the trail became two steep lines of dirt. Mark revved the car and changed gears and a cow that had been watching turned and went lazily into the tussock.