Leather Wings (5 page)

S
PEAK OF THE
devil, they say. On Tuesday this devil puts in his appearance at the 5.15 pictures, as I quite often do, and there they are — Jania’s grandparents — I’ve never ever seen them here before and I don’t suppose they expected me to be sitting a few rows back. They must have been talking about me, summoned up the devil — or did I summon them? Anyway, here we sit under the same high ceiling watching the same big screen — not the really wide one, this is one of the smaller picture theatres in the complex. What’s the movie? I can’t concentrate, the screen is boring now, just a lot of noise and flicker. I keep thinking of the little girl at home with just that babysitter and kicking myself for not doing her street today. But how could I? It would look funny going back so soon. Six weeks is usual. I’m working right over the other side now, today and yesterday. Business isn’t so good, although it’s always up and down, no need to get worried yet. I was talking to one of the other distributors, he seems to be doing all right.

When the sun comes up on the film set I can see their heads and shoulders against the light, quite clearly. It looks as if the woman — Esther — has had a hair cut, it doesn’t bush out quite so much. His head looks long and thin beside hers, it’s shiny on the top. How idiotic people look when they’re glued to the screen, head up, feeding something into their mouths, popcorn maybe. As if they’ve got no lives of their own, nothing of their own in their heads, only the movie and the popcorn rolling round their teeth. I must look the same, minus the popcorn, of course, and I’ve eaten the last bite of Bounty Bar. I’m stuck here, trapped with my bum on the seat, even while I can’t follow what’s going on — it’s too clever, arty farty stuff, and I keep thinking of Jania and that big girl with glasses. She’ll be showing Miss Glasses the toys she was going to show me and he wouldn’t let her. Bastard. Little girls need someone they can show off to, I’m good at children’s games, he didn’t see he was being selfish saying no to her, grumpy
twit. What harm? You shouldn’t say no to children too often or they grow up feeling negative, I know what I’m talking about.

Oh, God! I keep thinking. It’s no good, I might as well get up and go. It’s a waste of money … so what, it’s my money to waste as I choose. I’ll just drive round there, it won’t matter, it’s not as if I’ve got Rawleigh’s written all over the car, no one will be noticing. I spend half my life thinking people are watching me and then you find out they didn’t even know you were there. They don’t care. I’ll just drive; I won’t go inside or anything. I might park the car and go for a little walk, I’ll take my briefcase. It’s the briefcase today, leather jacket and briefcase. I think I feel more confident with the briefcase.

When I came past the hedge — I had to go the hedge side, the house on the other side has no fence and they’d see me straight off — when I came past the hedge I nearly didn’t catch sight of her in the garden. I stopped just in time, where I could look through the little leaves, and there she was. Fate had given her to me, like a present. It must have been to make up for the money I’d wasted on the movie. Stretch pants and Disney shirt, a little sweetheart. She was sitting on the side lawn with her knees up to her chin, all by herself, shuffling some playing cards, it looked like. No babysitter in sight. No one was taking care of her. Sitting there all by herself, she looked so sad, like that last time, by the gate. She wasn’t even clean: there were marks on her T-shirt and on her face — my stomach turned right over, I wanted to go in and tidy her up, wipe the marks off her with a wet tissue — plenty of those in my briefcase. Then she turned her head slightly and I saw it was shadow on her face, not dirt, but I felt angry anyway that she looked so lost. They were off at the pictures without her, she didn’t have any popcorn did she, poor kid? I wanted to do something for her, cheer her up.

Then the big girl showed up, Miss Glasses, the babysitter. She yelled something at her. I couldn’t wait to hear properly, I thought I’d better get back to the car, just in case. Felt a bit stupid, turning tail like that, slipping my heel on the new tar — they’ve been doing the pavement this side. I hope no one
saw me, it wouldn’t look too good, but I don’t think so. Not a lot of people around.

I got back in the car and sat. I was shaking. I don’t know why I was shaking, not really. I wasn’t scared. I was full up with the sight of her little face, streaked with dirt, well no, it was only shadow — the branches of the gum tree I expect, but it looked like mud, like when a woman cries and her mascara runs. I’ve seen that once or twice, at home, when my father lost his temper. I didn’t feel the same then, didn’t want to comfort Mother, did I, not like I wanted to comfort Jania. I only felt mad at Mother for letting him, that’s all. But Jania — I keep having to remind myself she wasn’t really crying, not really dirty. But I’m sure it’s true, no one loves her, no one knows she’s special, not the way I do.

I can’t stop shaking. My knee’s going like a washing machine on spin. I have to get away from here; the pictures will be out and they might see the car parked here if they drive this way. But I can’t move. I’m paralysed. My hand won’t reach itself out for the key, my teeth feel tight, I have to get control of myself. What is this? I’m going barmy. It’s not Claude. I’ve been having trouble with Claude but it’s not that. Perhaps it would help though, some sort of release. You can ration yourself silly and who’s going to notice? It wouldn’t hurt to go to the park for a bit, just looking, or a video, that’s it, I’ll get a video, why not.

E
STHER
SITS IN
the cafeteria beside the Cafébar machine and holds on to her paper cup so tightly it is in danger of caving in. She always puts one cup inside the other for a more solid grip, but today she has had a shock and even a double cup is threatened.

“But he can’t possibly get it, can he?” she asks Joanne, who shares her office desk. They are discussing Donald, who is said to have applied for the Auckland job. At first Esther had laughed at the rumour, convinced that she has inside knowledge of Donald. But has she? As the rumour gains shape like some sort of blow-up toy, she discovers she has nothing sharp enough in her possession to puncture and deflate it. “He can’t stand a chance.”

“He might.”

“They’ll want someone younger.”

“Apparently not. In fact they need him, by the sound of it. They’ll suck him dry and spit him out but he’ll be ready to retire by then. No, Mr Finn thinks it’s going to happen.”

Esther knows she has gone pale. Her face feels porcelain cold. She puts a hand up to her cheek, hiding, and instantly feels the colour painting back on to it, a hot smear of pain. But he has said nothing to her. Why not? The omission is like a robbery.

Later, when he crosses the main office with a client, he glances in her direction and she fancies he ducks his head, a guilty cringe.

They meet in the car park, under the low sooty ceiling. Car parks are crime zones where crooked deals are transacted, where television cops invite lethal bullets. The air is poisonous with fumes. Wheels fizz and stutter, manoeuvring past them. She has the impression Donald is about to climb in his car and swoop off down the ramp without speaking. Uncharacteristically she dives across and grabs him by the arm.

“Don’t do that! Someone might be looking.”

“Sorry.” She drops her hand and tries to summon her breath back. “Are we going to rendezvous?” She doesn’t need to mention where.

“Of course.”

Relief swamps her. Nothing has changed after all — or perhaps nothing much. At the top of the hill they leave their cars and walk under macrocarpa trees. Usually the question is quite simply “your car or mine?” but this time the question is larger and more complex. They continue walking. Esther skirts a mat of damp wandering willy and stumbles in her office heels and linen suit.
“She could feel the sinewy tautness of his muscles burning through her linen suit.”
No, not linen, it has to be silk.

He says, “It’s rare to get this kind of a leg up at my age; you don’t think I should simply flag it?”

“Of course I do! How often do I get to visit Auckland? I don’t want you to go away.”

“I don’t want to go away either — not away from you. That isn’t what I’m doing.”

“Yes it is. It’s exactly what you’re doing. I’m used to having you in my life. I don’t know what I’ll…” She turns on him. “I know what you’ll do.”

“What’s that?”

“Pick up some little status fucker.”

“Do you think I could?” Rounding his eyes and laughing.

She glowers and pushes at his chest as if it is a door shut in her face. “That’s what you’re after, isn’t it? Power. Sex and power. You’re no different from any of the other creeps. Why don’t you go into politics and enjoy yourself?” Her throat dislodges a sob of rage. “I had to hear it from Joanne!”

“Yes, I’m sorry. Don’t be mad at me, we don’t have time. Anyway, I might not get it, there’s only an outside chance.”

“Not according to the rest of the office.”

“Really?” His face writhes, suppressing the pleasure she doesn’t want to witness.

“Come here. Let’s pretend this is just an ordinary Wednesday. The excitement’s made me quite randy, as a matter of fact.”

“Excitement! You see?”

“Oh, Esther, have a bit of understanding.”

“I suppose she put you up to it: Her Indoors?”

“Norma wants us to go, yes. Why not? The boys are both there now. You can’t go blaming Norma, you of all people.”

“Oh, shit!” Esther sits down on the grass bank and pulls her shoes off. It is a signal. He falls down obediently beside her. Today the sky is like junket. It quivers palely over their disordered coupling. The orthotic arch supports are fallen out of Donald’s shoes against her shiny prim courtshoes.

She is going to be late. Later than usual. Donald must have shaved very early in the day; she can feel his five o’clock shadow on one side of her cheek, like a blush. How often has she arrived home wearing such a blush and Rex not questioned her? Once she had a bit of a love bite. Sometimes she thinks he is well aware of Donald’s role in her life but chooses not to bring the subject out into the open. She doesn’t know whether to feel grateful about this, if it is so, or disappointed. Perhaps everyone in the office knows as well and smiles about them behind their backs, but it’s unlikely. Isn’t it? All the trouble they have gone to over the years, she and Donald — the machinations, the codes, the lies (yes outright lies) — to keep it from his wife and his sons and his sons’ girlfriends, as well as the office staff. To keep it from Prue (Prue had suspected years ago, but Esther managed to divert her from that suspicion). All this trouble and now he is happy to plan his permanent departure from her life. He is happy, apparently, to chuck out all the furniture of their relationship and set fire to the frame. Gone. Her only true friend. True! She looks upward, willing her eye sockets to drain tears backwards, coughs, tugs her shoulders straight and strides in. The busy career woman, come to claim her domestic responsibilities, field Jania’s demands on her privacy, re-enter the grooves of their marriage.

At first she thinks they have both gone out. The television is fluttering away but without the sound. No evidence of Jania in sight; no Sellotape or Leggo or tortured cardboard boxes on the low table. Rex is sitting at the big table with his puffer propped close at hand and his face the colour of Vimax porridge. He scarcely shifts in his chair when his eyes swivel to acknowledge her. Is this another heart attack?

“Rex? What —? Shall I ring someone?”

He comes to life with a snort that sounds like humour but looks like pain.

“Who? Who would you ring?”

“Has something happened? Where’s Jania?”

He shakes his head and goes on shaking it as if something nasty is lodged in his ear. He is talking to her as if she isn’t really here, as if she is in a mirror.

“What’s the matter? Where is she?”

“It’s all right. She’s all right. I sent her off somewhere with the girl — Sharon. She came and got her. I’m sorry, darling.” His voice changes direction at last, lowers and alights on her.

“What are you sorry for?” She can feel something slimy stirring in her gullet like a bilious attack. It’s going to happen, to sick itself up, whatever it is — something disgusting. “Tell me!”

“The letter.” He reaches for it. “Where were you? I needed to show you.”

The usual airmail envelope with a Canadian stamp. She recognises the writing. What could be so bad in a letter from their son-in-law, Martin? She has no special fondness for Martin and while he is well enough to write a letter — a longish letter — what can the dangers be? Prue can’t die more than once. The initials leap out at her, and for a moment she thinks it is Martin who is ill. HIV. But then she reads on. He isn’t ill at all, not even seropositive. It is Jania who is in danger. She reads quickly, then begins to read the same passage over again. There is something wrong with her eyes, they can’t focus on this.

“I don’t believe it! He’s lying! It’s some way of making us hold on to her for longer. Something —” But it doesn’t work. She can’t deceive herself.

Obviously Rex believes what the letter says. He hands her what looks like a newspaper clipping. “And there’s this. This came with the letter. You see?” He swallows. “She could be all right. I mean she’s well, isn’t she? She could be all right?”

“She must be all right!”

“We have to do as he says. Have the tests done.”

“It’s a scandal! Why wasn’t that hospital screening blood properly? They knew about AIDS. They have to be sued!”

“They’re already being sued — that’s how it’s come up. Read the thing! But it’s not really the point is it? Who else shall we sue? Martin’s funny friends who lent them the van? The garage who gave it a dodgy warrant? Passport control? If they’d stayed home … Let’s sue them all, she still might get sick. We’ve lost Prue and now — it’s too much!”

Esther watches Rex’s anger from the isolated crag of her own. It looks strange, this passion coming off Rex like heat. She had forgotten he could burn this way. She wants to rage and cry but feels herself in competition with him. She remembers the way he had cried for Prue, the curious gulping sounds with too much voice in them — they were nearly indecent. She gasps and snuffles, not wanting to encourage him. Men must learn to cry, it’s good for them; but does it have to be like some animal from the zoo? And yet she herself snuffles like a guinea pig.