Eden, page 21
“Christ.”
“Let me get you something to perk you up.”
I scoffed. Began gathering up my papers.
“Nah, come on, please. Serious. Serious. You’ve always been good to me, Sergeant Bennett. I’ve always been such a stupid boy. An idiot. Those days are gone now, all right? Maybe I learned something. Maybe I changed. I remember where I came from though. What I’ve been through.”
“Oh yes, it’s a hard life being the idle son of an absent millionaire. You should write a rap ballad about it.”
“You always softened it up for my father, even though I never asked you to. I never asked, did I?”
“I don’t remember.”
I remembered something about him being sixteen and crying in the back of a divvy van, telling me he was going to get thrown out onto the street. Something like that.
“Come on.” He swung an arm around my neck, dragged me into his Lynx cloud. “There’s a party going on and you’re missing it.”
“What party?” I was letting myself be led now. Surrendering. Answering the call into the wild. It was so easy. “Where?”
I’d never been to a Lebanese wedding. The experience was something like walking onto the stage of a great opera at the moment of a battle or dramatic death. People were shoving against me, rushing forward, dancing or embracing with cries so deep and guttural or high and piercing they could have been anywhere on the spectrum of human emotions.
The men reeked of cigar smoke and the women of expensive perfume. The food was laid out around the room like the walls of a great fortress—roasted, oiled, fried, bricks of cake, bread, meat. I must have been brushed by every texture of fabric in existence just getting into the room—scratchy gold-embroidered silks and rough leather and wool suits that cost more than my monthly rent. People were unafraid to touch each other, to touch me, dark-eyed beauties with skin drenched in glitter grabbing my fingers, wrenching me sideways, pulling my neck, insisting on a swing around.
Max put a drink into my hand. I must have been introduced to fifty people, ten of them in the dark courtyard area of the pub. A man I didn’t know, some cousin or brother or uncle, dabbed a little expensive something, a good and hard-hitting something, into the webbing of my hand. Turning away, respectful gestures for disrespectful doings. My eyes watered. Men yelled in my ears. I indulged a little in cop storytelling, once I’d deemed it safe. A few young Lebanese boys hiding from their mothers so they could stay out late perched on the bricks around the cigarette garden, trying to make like their older brothers, disguising their awe with quizzical frowns. Questions were fired at me.
A wind started in the palm trees above the courtyard, a whipping sound, and the boys looked up, howled with delight as a plastic bucket tumbled off the roof, spilling paintbrushes and rollers into the garden. A light rain. Everyone leaked back inside into the noise. I felt warm. My hair was getting wet. Max put a hand on my shoulder, tried to get me inside, but I wanted to look at the stars, watch the black clouds eat them one by one.
It was some wonky-eyed teenage bartender who finally brought me in, fed up with all the noise and mess the Lebanese function was making of the upper floor. I stood inside the door and brushed rain off the hair on my arms, felt great.
When I looked up and spotted her sitting there at the tables on the mezzanine area I felt even better. A surge of electricity between my shoulder blades like I’d been prodded forward by a cheeky angel, a cupid. She was sitting with some strange half-monkey with a heavy sloping brow that wasn’t helped by a quiff turning into a mullet behind his ears, a denim jacket lined with orange faux fur. Dr. Stone looked angry and he looked pleased with himself. Laughing at some joke he had just made. She turned her glass on the tabletop.
I strode forward and grabbed a chair from the empty set beside them, dragged it over, grinned down at her horrified face.
“Dr. Stone, if this isn’t the luckiest night of my life.”
“Oh Jesus,” she said, looked away.
“Mate, I’m Frank Bennett.” I offered my hand to the Neanderthal. He considered, pumped it halfheartedly. Wrinkled his big features.
“Curtis.”
“I’m sorry to interrupt. I just saw you from up there and I thought, No, way. It isn’t. And then it was! It was you. How hilarious. You look beautiful, Stone. My God. I mean, what are you trying to do to us, ay?” I nudged Curtis. He swayed.
She was beautiful, though. She was wearing something red. I couldn’t tell if it was a dress or a long shirt but it was the color of something freshly bleeding, full of life, and it made her freckles stand out like gold stars. The dress was textured with little upraised squares. I wanted to touch it. She was frowning at her wineglass.
“Frank, you’re drunk.”
“No, I’m not.”
“We’re sort of having a bit of a private moment here,” Curtis said. “Seems like the best time to catch up would be some other time.”
“Is this a date?”
“No. It’s not.” Stone gave me some eyes that might have killed me had I not been so drunk.
“Well, actually it is,” Curtis said.
“Is it?”
“No.”
“He says it is.” I jerked a thumb at the ape.
“It isn’t, Frank.”
“Is there some problem with him knowing that it is?” Curtis laughed once, like a cough.
“You’ll just encourage him.”
“I’m easy to encourage,” I admitted.
“Mate, you’re really playing with fire right now.”
“Hey, I’m just being friendly. Excuse me. We’re old friends, Dr. Stone and I.”
“This really . . .” Stone licked her lips, looked at me. “You need to just . . .”
“Just tell him to fuck off.” Curtis flicked his chin at her. Looked at me. “Mate, fuck off.”
“Whoa!” I faked being thrown back in my chair. “Lordy! The new beau’s got a temper.”
“Just settle down, the both of you. Frank, you’re drunk. Now’s not a good time.”
“You’re right. I’ll leave now so Captain Caveman here can apologize for using such foul language in your presence. On a first date and everything. What would your mother say, Imogen?”
“Is this guy one of your clients or something?”
“He’s . . .” Imogen’s explanation trailed off.
“All right, I’m going. I’m sorry. You look beautiful. Enjoy your date.”
“It’s not a fucking date.”
“It is a date.” Curtis puffed his chest out. “What the fuck, Imogen?”
“Maybe the problem with me knowing this is a date,” I paused on the edge of my chair, on the edge of my own hilarity, held my breath to stifle the laugh, “is that she’s dressed like a fucking fox and you’re wearing a denim jacket with a fur trim.”
Curtis stared at me.
“I mean you should have looked in the front windows at her and binned that thing before she ever saw it, mate.”
“Wow.” The ape glared at Imogen. She licked her lips. Looked at me. At the ceiling. Then laughed, just once. Then she swallowed it. Pushed at me so that I got out of the chair.
“Go away.”
“That jacket looks like someone killed a ginger cat.” I wobbled on the edge of my chair. “And then stapled it to the eighties.”
Imogen lost control of her laughter. The Neanderthal got up. I got up. Let him push me. There were ten or fifteen young Lebanese men watching from the balcony of the third floor. Ready. So ready.
“Calm down, sunshine. I’m only having a laugh.”
“Fuck. Off.”
“All right. I’m fucking off,” I saluted. “Here I go. Fucking off now. Fucking off sequence initiated.”
“He one of your psycho clients or something?”
I didn’t stick around to hear her answer. Went to the bar and ordered a scotch. Stood drinking it, laughing to myself about the cat joke. Most jokes involving cats are pretty hilarious. I felt a wave of sadness pass over me, of longing for my cat, Martina’s cat, annoying, food-obsessed, self-obsessed little jerk. The Neanderthal brushed me roughly as he passed, heading out the doors. Imogen was close behind him, draining the end of her glass of wine, pulling on her long red coat.
“Hey,” I grabbed her when she got within reach, “I’m sorry.”
“You should be.”
“What can I say?” I asked. “What can I do?”
“Nothing. It’s over. He’s gone.”
“Jesus.”
“Look, actually, without meaning to, you managed to rescue me from something really awful. I’d been trying to end it for an hour and a half but the guy likes the sound of his own voice.”
“Oh. Right.”
“Doesn’t make you any less of an annoying fuck.”
“Yes, no, you’re right, of course, annoying fuck.”
“Frank.”
“So that was a date.”
“It was.”
“Where do you even find a half-monkey, half-man? I thought they had to grow those types in laboratories.”
“It was an online thing.” She smoothed down her hair. “I’m not really in the mood for an exhaustive breakdown of it.”
“You? You date from the Internet? You?”
“Yes. I date men I find on the Internet.”
“Why?”
“It’s almost like you’re trying to make me angry.”
“All right, I’ll stop. I’m sorry, I’m drunk. Let me get you a cab.”
“I’m walking.”
“No, you’re not, it’s pissing with rain.”
“I live three blocks from here, and I have an umbrella. I won’t die.”
“I’m walking you. Just to make sure. If you died I wouldn’t have anyone to bully and judge me. Invade my life. Stalk me to my apartment.”
“You’re not walking me anywhere.”
“Yes, I am.”
“No, you’re not,” she laughed.
“I’ll put you under arrest.”
“Wouldn’t you just love that?”
I grabbed her bicep and held it, gave it a squeeze. She rolled her eyes at me.
She was like a weather system, inexplicably predictable, something that changed the air and brought electricity to the earth before she arrived, made things tremble. Eadie was starting to believe she knew that Skye was coming for her even before the girl herself had made the decision, and by the time she heard the patter of Ugg boots across the dirt she’d already be feeling that half-smile creep across her face. It was right at sunset and the girl’s silhouette cut into the orange light, her boots as pink as the horizon. Eadie said nothing, continued tightening the shoelaces of her runners.
“What are you doing?” the girl said.
“Going for a bit of a run.”
“A run? Are you nuts? Haven’t you worked all day?”
“Best time for a run.” Eadie squinted in the painted day, held a hand up against the glowing red ball caught in the girl’s dry blond hair. “Loosen me up.”
“It’s about to be dark. Neighbors is on in, like, twenty minutes.”
“It’ll keep. It’s only Thursday. The good stuff’ll be tomorrow night.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“I’m not walking. I’m running.”
“I can run.” A child’s indignation. Hands on hips.
“Better hurry up then. I’m leaving today.”
The girl sprinted off, and Eadie pulled her heels into her backside, feeling the warmth of a day’s labor pulse in her quads, groan in her back. Skye returned with nothing about her outfit changed but a pair of worn sneakers—her denim skirt stained with motor grease on the right-hand hem, the pink tank top over the ill-fitting bra. Eadie guessed the girl would learn. Eadie watched her gathering her hair into a bun, not quite able to catch it all, leaving strands at the nape of her neck that if touched would make her shiver. “Go slow,” the child frowned.
“Go quick.”
“I’ll die, Eadie. Go slow, will you?”
“All right, Nanna.”
They set off toward the stables, between them, and passed the pigs, the croaking and groaning beasts lying down to sleep. Eadie tasted them in the air. Skylar’s face was rigid, the temples pulsating, blood shocked at how fast it was moving and chemicals pouring through veins, trying to calm things down.
“Slow down.”
“We’re crawling.”
“Just. Slow. Down.”
“All right,” Eadie laughed.
They bounced through the back gates and found themselves in the bush. It was treacherous here. Recent rains had slicked the walking tracks with clay, left rocks disturbed, ready to shift under wayward feet. If the girl turned an ankle, who would care for her, Eadie wondered. Would Jackie cook dinner if she couldn’t get around their tiny kitchen? Would he change the DVD? Would he help her hop over to take a piss in the annex next to the bed? Eadie huffed, found a rhythm finally, a slow one but a good one, her fists loose in front of her, gripping air handles, pulling herself forward, dancing. Who did Skye think was going to care for her when she got old? Did the girl see herself and Jackie growing old together? Did she love the man? Did she know what love was?
“Hey! Slow down.”
Eadie laughed, slowed again. The girl came up beside her, gripping a stitch.
“I’m gonna. Die. Out here.”
“Chat to me. It’ll take your mind off it.”
“I can’t.”
“Yes you can. Open your mouth. Lift your head up. You run like an elephant.”
“I am. An elephant.”
“Do the boys come out here?”
“Yeah. Sometimes. They hunt. Roos.”
“Roo meat’s good for you.”
“It’s gross. Too tough.”
“They probably overcook it.” Eadie took a long breath, sucked in the moist air before it began to give way to the desert again. The trees thinned before them, revealing lantana, sand. “They should watch more Master Chef.”
“Mostly they don’t. Cook them. No one. Likes them much. And there’s so much. Pig. Anyway.”
“So what do they do with them then? If they don’t cook them?” Eadie frowned.
“They just.”
Eadie looked over. The girl was uncomfortable. Shrugged. Her breasts lifting, catching the red light with their film of sweat.
“They just kill them.”
“So it’s just sport?”
“I guess. I don’t know. I’m not allowed to go. Only the boys go.”
Eadie licked her lips, savored the salt she tasted. She wasn’t a betting woman, but she would wager money that Jackie and his team were doing more to the kangaroos out here than simply snuffing their lives out. A bunch of drunk men, a shed full of cutting, grinding, mashing, slicing implements, the dark barren land, and a bunch of helpless animals. It was a recipe for pain. “I’m gonna. I can’t. Let’s go back.”
“Keep going.” Eadie was shocked by the callousness in her voice. Softened it. “You can do it. Keep talking. What’s down there?”
“Cliffs.”
“Come on. Let’s look.”
“I’ve seen them. They’re boring.”
“Come on, I want to see.”
The trees thinned to brush, and then without warning a gaping crack in the earth, running in a curve out of eyesight. A dry riverbed. Eadie turned and led Skye along its edge, ducking forward now and then to look into the dark below without slowing the pace.
“Let’s stop.”
“No. Let’s keep going. It’s nice though.”
“Yeah sometimes. There’s water. Down there.”
Eadie let the girl go ahead, jogged at barely a pace above walking, more bouncing than moving forward. She spied a lump of blackness on a rock ledge and doubled back, circled before the girl could see, and squinted. Clothes. Burned and blackened. A pair of jeans maybe. Eadie felt her mouth grow dry, looked for some landmark that would remind her where she’d seen the discarded clothes. Just a line of bush. A sweep of desert. A fence etched into the mauve sky like the fine pencil lines of an artist. It was growing dark. Eadie chewed her lip, remembered the camera hanging in the pendant around her neck. So easy to forget.
“Burned clothes,” she said aloud, grabbed the pendant and held it near her lips. “I’m seeing burned clothes on the riverbed east of the property. I don’t see any landmarks to tell you where. I want these checked out.”
“I’m gonna stop if you don’t catch up.”
Eadie caught the girl in a few strides and sprinted back through the wire fence onto Jackie’s property. The kill sheds were ahead of her, absorbing the dying light in their gaping doors. She ran to the front double doors, stopped, and stretched her limbs. The girl came bobbing toward her, stopped, and hobbled when she got within speaking distance.
“Let’s never do that again.”
“Do it every day. It gets easier. I’ll go with you,” Eadie smiled.
“Maybe. I want to lose weight. Jackie says I’ve got flabby arms.”
“You don’t have flabby arms.”
“Yes, I do.”
They walked into the sheds together. Stood in the fading light. Eadie could make out a long steel trough, a conveyer belt of hooks parallel to it, within a tall man’s reach. Four large stalls, enough to hold twenty pigs each, were swept and hosed bare. These would be hard surfaces to keep clean. The first thing animals do when they see or hear their kind being slaughtered is shit themselves, attack the beasts around them. There’d be blood in the grout too deep to remove.
“They hang them here,” Skye pointed. “Upside down. Gut them. This whole thing gets filled with guts. All the way to the end there. Guys stand here with their blades out. Sharp as a razor. Slash, slash, slash. From there, the bolt in the head, to there, the tagging line, it’s about ten minutes. Jackie says sometimes they’re still twitching.”
The girl gave a little wiggle, limp hands flapping.
“Gross,” Eadie said.
“Yeah, real gross.”
“You ever been in here when it’s on?”
“Nuh.” Skye wrinkled her nose, stood with her hands on her hips. “I couldn’t do it. I like pigs. They’re cute.”
