The Slap (24 page)

‘Fuck!’

‘You have to be careful when administering the penicillin. It stings.’ Aisha had come in and walked over to the bench to get another syringe. ‘Did he get any?’

‘I don’t think so.’

Aisha handed the syringe to Connie. ‘Try it again. I’ll hold him.’ Connie felt foolish and was furious at herself. Why was she feeling so intimidated? She knew Aisha trusted her. She pulled on the dog’s skin and pushed the needle into the tent she had formed with her thumb and forefinger. The dog whimpered but Aisha’s hold was firm. Connie gave the dog the injection. It whimpered once more then curled back into the cage. Aisha shut the door and walked over to the computer.

‘What’s the owner’s surname?’

Connie cringed. She hadn’t recognised either the woman or Clancy. She hadn’t checked if they were already clients. That was the first thing she should have done. Stupid, that was stupid. She’d become flustered and panicked.

‘His name’s Clancy Rivera. I haven’t check the computer. Sorry.’

Aisha walked to the monitor and punched in the details. ‘It’s alright, I’ve got him up.’

Connie let out a long, slow breath.

 

The surgery proceeded quickly and succesfully. Connie watched Aisha perform her work with admiration. Within twenty minutes she had turned the anaesthetic off and they were waiting for the dog to wake.

‘Rosie says that Hugo adores you.’

Connie blushed and a big grin broke on her face. ‘I adore him as well.’

‘Well, I know Rosie appreciates the help you give her. It’s a tough time for her.’

Connie looked up at her employer. It was always difficult to know what Aisha was thinking. Except for when she was displeased, when her mouth tightened to a thin line. That was the look they all feared in the clinic, the look that Brendan and Trace poked fun at, mostly in affection and good humour, when Aisha was away. Connie felt her age, but she was also proud that the older woman was taking her into her confidence. She stammered out a sentence.

‘Yeah, she and Gary fight a lot, don’t they?’

Aisha’s lips immediately tightened. The off-milk look, as Brendan called it. For an instant Connie was worried that Aisha disapproved of what she had said, but then realised that Aisha did not like Gary at all.

‘They always have. Or rather,
he
always has. Gary is one of those loud-mouthed insecure men who will forever be arguing with the world because the world refuses to lift him in its arms and wipe his arse for him.’

Connie was gently patting the dog. It was waking, starting to bite on the respiratory tube.

Aish quickly pulled it out. ‘This upcoming hearing is consuming her. She can’t think of anything else. I just wish they’d confirm a date for her.’

‘That was a terrible thing that happened. He should never have slapped Hugo.’

‘Do you think?’ Aisha asked the question simply, unemotionally. Again, Connie had no idea what she was thinking. She went to the sink and started scrubbing the instruments while Aisha placed the kelpie in the cage. What did she think?

‘I don’t think an adult has any right to physically abuse a child, that’s what I think.’ She was surprised at the fierce, trembling passion in her voice. That was what she thought, exactly what she thought. Adults shouldn’t hurt kids, they shouldn’t touch them.

Aisha had come over to the sink and was wiping the instruments for her, placing them on a drape. Connie glanced over at the older woman. ‘Isn’t that what you think?’ Her rush of indignation was gone. She was ashamed of the pathetic indecision that she could hear in her own voice.

‘I think that hitting a child is a reprehensible action. I also think that Hugo needed to be disciplined that day, that he was totally out of control. I think Harry has a dangerous temper which he should learn to control. But he apologised and I think Gary and Rosie should have accepted the apology and left it at that. No one has behaved very well in any of this.’ Aisha was neatly laying the surgery equipment across the drape in order of size. ‘But in the end, Hugo is the child and Harry is the adult. Harry should have controlled himself. He’s responsible.’

Connie wanted to ask so many questions. She wanted to ask what Hector thought. Had they argued about it all night after the barbecue? What if it had been Adam or Melissa? Connie felt a warm, comfortable blush spread across her shoulders and her neck. She adored this woman, she was so kind and generous to her, so sexy and smart—God, if only she could be like Aisha. And she had done such hurtful, shameful things to her. She tried to stop herself but suddenly her eyes watered and she gasped for breath. She wiped angrily at her eyes.

‘Connie, what’s wrong?’ Aisha placed her arm around the girl. Connie hugged her back and then awkwardly tried to disentangle herself from the older woman’s grip. She felt young and stupid. She guessed that both she and Aisha were glad to draw apart.

‘Sorry, I’m an idiot.’

Aisha folded the drape. The bundle looked clumsy, misshapen.

‘Trace always makes up the surgical kits so beautifully. And I have no bloody idea how she does it.’

Connie laughed. ‘Yeah, she always says you vets are bloody hopeless. Don’t worry, I know how to make them up.’

Aisha winked. ‘Sweetheart, you’ve been wonderful today. I really appreciate it.’ She gently flicked a blonde lock away from Connie’s eye. ‘It’s not embarrassing to feel things strongly. It’s nothing to be ashamed of that you get so indignant and mad about what adults can do. That’s one of the great things about being young. It just becomes a problem if you let that indignation become self-righteousness.’

Was that her problem? Was she self-righteous? What exactly did it mean? She was unsure of its definition but it sounded like it fitted her. She didn’t like it. It sounded a heavy word, too big a weight to carry.

‘But I don’t think you need to worry about that at all.’

 

Aisha dropped her off at Rosie’s. It was just after five in the afternoon. The front door to the house was open and Connie walked through the hall, past the kitchen, through the lean-to sunroom that always seemed to smell damp—even in the height of a dry summer—and into the backyard. Richie was stretched out on the grass, and he grinned, then winked, when he saw her. Hugo was crouching in the untidy vegetable patch, half-hidden amongst the tall shoots of the broad beans. He ignored her.

‘What are you guys doing?’ She sat next to Richie on the grass. His black Eminem sweatshirt was pulled tight across his torso and she could see a glimpse of his chalk-white flat stomach. There was a thatch of sparse copper-coloured curls disappearing underneath his trousers. She was tired and felt like snapping at him, I don’t want to look at your pubes, mate. Confused, a little sickened, she turned her attention to the boy.

‘Come on, Huges, what you doing?’

‘He’s looking for money.’

‘Is there buried treasure?’ Hugo did not even bother answering her stupid question. He made his disdain obvious by a click of the tongue.

‘I threw some coins in the vegie patch. Hugo’s looking for them.’ Richie rolled over onto his stomach and looked up at her, shielding his eyes from the subdued winter sun. ‘Was it awful?’

‘Nah. It was okay.’ Connie closed her eyes, leaned back and felt the last warmth of the dying sun on her face and arms. She could still smell the clinic on her: the sharp chemical bite of the cleaning fluids, the musty carnal smell of cats and dogs. In a few hours she would have to be ready for the party. She wanted a long, long extravagant hot shower.

‘You coming to the party?’

Richie nodded, bored. He turned over again onto his back. There was an excited squeal and Hugo emerged from the vegie patch with a gold dollar coin in his hand.

‘Found it,’ he exclaimed.

‘Thanks, buddy. I’ll have it.’

Hugo ignored Richie. He pocketed the coin and ran to his yellow and green soccer ball. ‘Kick to kick,’ he announced.

The teenagers glanced quickly at one another.

‘Kick to kick,’ Hugo insisted, a little louder.

Richie yawned and shook his head. ‘I’m tired, Huges, you can play with Connie.’

She nearly hit him. She was the one who had been working. But she began to rise.

Hugo pouted. ‘No. She’s a girl. I want to play with you.’

Connie, grinning, fell back on the grass and stuck her tongue out at Richie. ‘You heard him, you’re the boy. You have to play with him.’

 

She lay in the setting sun, her eyes shut, listening to the thud-thud of the ball being kicked between the boy and the teenager. She had fallen in love with Melbourne when she experienced her first late autumn in the city, when the bitter cold was kept at bay by the determined effort of the hardy antipodean sun. The English sun was weak. She didn’t have to open her eyes, she knew Richie and Hugo were there, that they were safe in the garden. This was like they were married, she thought, like Hugo was their child, this backyard was theirs and they were a family. Maybe this would be what the future would be like. Of course, Richie couldn’t be her husband. She couldn’t imagine a husband. Not if Hector couldn’t be it. She heard Hugo laugh and then there was a sharp pain in her side as the ball slammed into her. It stung.

‘You bastards.’

The boys cracked up, laughing hysterically at her outrage. She ran to Hugo, grabbed him, all writhing arms and legs, and carried him over to the pond. A large goldfish was lazily gulping at the surface of the water. At their shadow, it flicked into the murky deep and vanished from sight.

‘I’m going to drop you in.’

‘No,’ screamed the boy, his legs thrashing furiously.

‘Say sorry.’

‘No!’

‘Say it.’

‘No!’

‘In you go.’

She then held him tight and kissed him, and he placed his arms around her neck. He put his lips to her ear and whispered, I’m sorry. His skin was warm and sweaty, the sweetness of breast-milk coupled with a faint trace of earth. She rubbed her face in his hair.

‘It looks like someone’s had a great afternoon.’

Hugo released his grip, she lowered him to the ground and he rushed over to his mother, who scooped him into her arms. Rosie sat on one of the abandoned kitchen chairs that were scattered across the backyard, their once bright red vinyl now faded to a light pink. Hugo dived for her chest, and Rosie gave him her breast.

Richie was still playing with the soccer ball, kicking it from his foot to his head, from his head to his knee and back onto his foot. Hugo dropped his mother’s nipple and watched the older boy.

‘Teach me,’ he called out to Richie, who beckoned him over. The boy dropped out of his mother’s arms and ran to the older boy.

‘I think I’ve been usurped.’ Rosie fixed her bra. ‘Probably a good thing. You want some tea, sweetheart?’

‘It’s alright, I’ll go make it.’ She called out to Richie. ‘Do you want a drink?’ The older boy shook his head. He was trying to get Hugo to kick straight. The younger boy, frustrated, couldn’t coordinate his movements. Richie was patiently allowing him to fail and try again. Fail, and try again. Connie’s friend was good with kids. They both were.

 

The blind was drawn in the kitchen and the room was dark and cool. That morning’s dishes were still piled up on the sink. Connie switched on the kitchen light and then turned on the kettle. She could hear the boys playing, heard Rosie laugh, encouraging her son. Connie slipped into the lounge room and walked over to the bookshelf. Guiltily she glanced behind her, trying to ignore the ugly clown on the wall, and she pulled out the photo album. She flicked through the photographs, the young adults at the beach. She just wanted one more look. A blank rectangle stared out at her. The photograph of Hector was gone.

She felt light-headed and suddenly cold. It was exactly like a dream. She found herself pouring the boiling water into the teapot. When had the kettle whistled? When had she walked back into the kitchen? She heard Richie’s laughter and felt rage run through her. She was silent as she handed the teacup to Rosie.

‘Are you alright, Con?’

‘Just tired. It was a long day at work.’

‘Aish loves you, you do know that? She trusts you. She’s told me she thinks you’d make a brilliant vet.’

Connie could not make sense of her emotions. The fury at her friend, the guilt. It felt toxic, like she had to try hard to get clean air into her lungs. The day that only minutes before had seemed so perfect, was spoilt, soiled. She hated herself and she hated Richie.

She gulped her tea too quickly, scalding her tongue. ‘I’ve got to go.’

Richie handballed the soccer ball to Hugo. ‘Home time for me, buddy.’

Hugo started to wail. She wanted to be out of the house, away from boys and their stupid babyish ball games. Richie had dropped to his knees and was trying to calm the crying boy.

‘We’ll play again, little man. In a few days.’ Richie smiled over to her. ‘Won’t we Connie?’

She wanted to say, Nah, I’ve got to study. I’ve got no time. If you want to play with Hugo then you fucking arrange it on your own. She remained silent.

Hugo wiped his eyes. ‘You promise.’

‘I promise.’ Hugo clasped his arms tight around the older boy, then he ran over to Connie.

‘Promise.’

She hesitated. His blue eyes were looking straight at her. She grabbed him, kissed him. ‘Promise.’

He was sweating. He smelt of boy, he smelt like Richie.