What Becomes of the Broken Hearted? (19 page)

She drew in breath, annoyed at herself, her nasty slip of the tongue. Why I wannna move out to a place like this, Mull. Get away from ’em. Then she stretched a false yawn, Oh well. If only, as they say. Ran long, red-painted fingernails down his dirty jeans leg, C’mon. Le’s go home and do some more lovin’. Leas’ it don’t cost nuthin’. Givinim that smile — with interest.

All the way home he kept saying, five grand, eh. And she had a picture in her mind of that fucken big house, the Trambert place; thinking of his riches and how unfair it was the start he got, the advantage of his colour(lessness) as well whatever it is about people with dough that makes those without it see red, become blind, have thoughts of anger, and even a desire to kill. But then she was jus’ a Pine Block woman, a solo mutha goin’ out witha gang member who secretly wanted to change for the bedda, who would she kill except in her dreams? It was only loving a woman an’ her man c’d have that was dreams you c’d make happen. Jus’ good ole cock and cunt, baby. Laughing after their genital joinings ater crude comment about him leaving his deposit. Oh how they laughed at that. Or they did when he promised she’d get that deposit, too. How she laughed then.

S
HE’D PROMISED HERSELF
she’d wait till spring, but didn’t (couldn’t). It’d kept asking at her, asking at her, exactly as though a real voice: Go on, Polly. Just so you know.

So here she was, a trespasser on the Trambert property, eased along that high brick wall, having waited outside watching several cars go in, choosing the Friday because that was the night Grace had done what she did. (I want to know what she might’ve seen that last night.)

Well, what this Heke girl was seeing was a large old house well lit up inside and partly out, of a size that staggered and even
frightened
her, as if size alone put her at an impossible disadvantage; after what she’d guessed was the last car of friends since they arrived within about twenty minutes of each other then waiting an endless time of fighting with herself about whether she should go in or just forget this obsession with a sister who wasn’t coming back, who wasn’t growing into her older even more beautiful version in the grave — she was stopped. Ceased. Kaput. Polly Heke (who’s gonna change her name to Bennett soon’s he marries Mum), she’s dead and more than six years gone and you should be gone from here.

But she stood up from her crouch at the corner of the high wall and she walked for that open gateway, thinking only of the next step. So it was dogs she thought of. But then again even if, they’d not have them roaming the place, not with guests. A grim smile to herself: Unless they got dogs trained to recognise Maori girl trespassers.

Along that wall, on the inside and quite another experience altogether; sliding her back along it, left and right and ahead and above at half a sky of stars, the blank rest must be cloud; left for that big shape of tree, top part making an outline against the faint glow of sky. Sliding along with no possible explanation should she be seen or should a dog smell her presence and give the alarm. Well, she could give an explanation but it would be one bizzare explaining even being true. And the embarrassment.

As she neared the tree she fought the mental pictures of Grace, how she remembered her, how she was that frozen image in
a coffin, and — please don’t — how she would have appeared hanging from this very tree. Had to stop, cup a hand over her mouth so the distress wouldn’t get out.

Then she fought with the ridiculous notion that Grace’s ghost might be here, which made her cold all over; a thought that her dead sister might leap out shrieking for no other reason than, well, Grace’s ghost would hardly be at peace. And nor would Grace appreciate her sister going over her last night’s tracks (but why, if I love her?) Just didn’t seem that Grace would approve and yet that didn’t stop her. She was here now.

The wind was catching up there, up where the tree cleared the brick-wall height. And it sounded quite awful; she thought she’d better call this off now. But next she was feeling for a hold above her and then she was pulling herself up. (Oh, God.)

Above, it was making quite a deep roaring sound, coming in gusts. The light from the house spilled some way out onto a large lawn, the tree quite (thank God) a distance from the room where the people were standing as though in a movie. Real people. Holding drinks. Wine glasses. (Oo-hoo.) And white people at that. Not that the race were strangers to her like for some Maoris she knew; but still, this hoity-toity kind were sort of intimidating in the more confident manner they had. And were they dressed well, specially the ladies (the lucky bitches). Thinking she was going to marry someone with money and to hell with Charlie Bennett saying she should make her own. (My mother’s better life is from Charlie’s main income not Mum’s hospital laundry wages.) She started climbing.

She was too scared to be wondering if this is what Grace would have seen, could hardly glance at anything but the next branch outline to grab onto; but funny thing, she did feel safer with each higher level of ascendency. And feel the new leaf growth small and soft in her hands, funny thing reminding her of a sanitary pad the softness; buds yet to burst on her fingertips, and the varying thicknesses of branches she had to test for holding her weight. Her eyes had adjusted so she could pick out quite clearly the different thicknesses against the sky. And through the criss-crossing and blotches of leaf outline that room, with some of the people lost to the climbing angle.

Higher. Where was the sturdy bough (poor dearest) Grace must’ve chosen at the last? Why did she come here? What did she see? What last thoughts did she have? Polly knew the visit to Boogie in a boys’ home that never transpired was one thing in Grace’s mind. Of course the rapes. (I hate him.) Looked above her. Was that it? Is that the branch she tied the rope to? Felt sick. Had to hold onto the trunk, wrap arms around it, till the nausea passed. Asked herself: Am I here to practise? (No. For God’s sake, Poll. Of course you aren’t.) But then thought she might be. She might be.

Now she had the picture of Grace’s hands (they would have been cold, it was a cold night) fiddling as she tied the rope to that sturdy branch above. Polly looked down. Up again. Could hear the scritchy sounds of rope against wood. Then the wind picked up and replaced that with a disturbing roaring. Now Grace seemed to be everywhere. And Polly all out in goosebumps. The gust kept up for some time, had Polly wrapped around the trunk once more, till it eased to like scores of small creatures, mice, rustling up there. Then that too died, eventually it did (like my sis did). (And how did she know what kind of knot to tie?) And what had she thought as she was about to jump? She had to steady herself from a dizziness suddenly come over with being here, the enormity of it; of where the night’s last act had taken place.

Looking the other way and there was sight of hundreds and hundreds of house and street lights out beyond the wall. Took a bit to get her bearings — quite a shock to realise the higher placed lights was her old street, Rimu Street, Pine Block; and that that spill down of single-storey lights was the subdivision carve-offs of land ole Mr (rich) Trambert had sold. Remembering back that when Grace was here — and how unbelievable this is being here on the same tree — the higher lights would have been what she saw. Then Polly turned back to the house, closing her eyes in trepidation just until she was over the worst part (of being my sister).

They stood around drinking like that for some length of laughing, quite rigidly postured; the men in jackets, different browns and different check patterns, sort of smooth in an
old-fashioned
way, the women more elegantly modern, even trendy
several of them, with the most beautiful of hairstylings. Each and every one of them. (I could stay here all night and probably will, or till they’re gone, just watching them.)

She saw them leave one room and appear, or maybe half them did, in a room next door, sat down at what must be a very long and large dining table (oh, how very nace for you). But then grinning at recall of her mother’s telling of Charlie taking her for the first time to a restaurant — when’s my turn? — and how all her
preconceptions
were misconceptions: everyone wasn’t looking at her. No one cared a stuff about how she used her eating utensils. The night had ended up with her and Charlie on the dance floor, and at one stage the restaurant had cheered and applauded her and Charlie doing their thing on the floor. So Polly checked herself being critical or jealous, and watched.

She heard, as they sat down and ate and drank more wine, singing and laughter from her old residential side, but hard to pick out if from the new housing closer, or from her old street. Whatever, it was of the loud merriment kind, and the singing was surprisingly clear — she could hear that there were harmonies even if they were a bit fudgy. Came with it a certainty that Grace would have heard this and seen this, this contrast of worlds either side of her elevated vision.

When, eventually, the party down there moved back to the first room, presumably the sitting room, or one of them in a house that large, they were differently mannered (would Grace have seen this, too?) more relaxed, more with laughter, and stereo music started up. Not that Polly recognised the music. Just that it was white, a white voice singing.

And it was white people dancing, too — she broke out giggling — Polly’d never seen such terrible dancing, such lack of rhythm, such awkward and ugly posturing passing itself off as dancing. Then she suddenly thought it might be just a joke, that in a second the three couples she could see in and out of her vision would break off laughing at themselves and do it properly. So Polly enjoyed the joke, too, why not, as she waited for which couple would declare the joke over.

But no couple did. Because it wasn’t a joke. Well it was — to her (me! HAHAHA!) The joke was on herself. On assuming these
people to be better than they were. When this was it: they couldn’t dance. They didn’t understand the bodies they inhabited. They had no sense of rhythm or timing. No soul. No meat, therefore. And they weren’t so intimidating, such impossibly unattainable, heights of humanity after all. (Man, they’re just ordinary like some of us are. And if I danced like that, I’d be ashamed of myself.)

She knew with the same certainty of earlier that Grace would not have witnessed this dancing (surely), or she wouldn’t have killed herself. She would have taken hope from it, if she was here making miserable comparison with her own life back over her — Polly’s now — shoulder. But then again the rapes. (How could I have forgotten about that.)

Eyes over at the Rimu Street hill-line now, window slabs of light, the background glow they all gave off, no partying sounds, just dog barks, a tyre screech, and more stars revealed above it all. Back to the house and those hideous dancers, hands up to the bough Grace’s weight (she’s a Weight until the ground finally takes her) might’ve hung from, shed a few tears for her but more than enough shed now. (That’s enough now, Poll.)

And down Polly Heke climbed, with sure grabbing hands, swift, flowing descent, like her run along the lawn in the shadow of the brick wall was a flow into night with night eyes and sure feet, a flow through air, a freeing from a memory. Grace’d be alright now. And her now older sister, Polly, too (I’m alright. Now I am. Nothing to worry about. It’s done but I ain’t. Got my whole life ahead of me.) She couldn’t wait to get home, ask her mother did she know white people can’t dance, did she know that? Laughing as she ran out the gateway. Laughing she was.

T
HAT WAS IT
! Fuck Cody and fuck his useless mates — Out! He lifted a snoring head from the floor (I jus’ put the vacuum that’s not a vacuum over it this morning, while that little cunt Cody was sleeping) slapped its face — hard. You. Muthafucka. Get the hell outta my house. And he flung the man (like I used to when I was a bouncer at McClutchy’s) except this time without any punches. Not as if the fulla was fighting. And he wasn’t big enough anyrate.

Over to another unconscious form, head hung over the sofa arm-rest near to the fucken floor, empty beer bottles at his feet, Jake about to yank a handful of hair but deciding it might be a
nightmare
to wake up to (no one ever did that to me. Wouldn’t dare, either.) So he gave the fulla a slap instead — Oi! Wake up. The fulla came up like he’d been shot, mouth open, what the? Don’t gimme the what-the, boy. This is get the — Get the fuck outta my house! (Well, rented from the State, that is.) Then he clapped his big hands together — loud. Up! Up! C’mon you muthafuckas, ’fore I make you clean up first!

Over to Cody, sat slumped in the corner, a beer stubbie still inis hand though he was awake now and looking at Jake in
confusion
and near makin’ a man feel so bad he’d change his mind. (No, fuckem.) Stuck his hands on his hips. Cody. (Shit, how c’n I say this.) Took another glance around to give him reason, at the fucken mess. Pack ya bags. Though he didn’t look Cody directly in the eye. And when Cody got groggily (on the grass I bet) to his feet and tole him he didn’t have no bags ta fucken pack, in that smartarse tone (as if I been doing this, having raging parties, all the time a huge mess, as if I lost my pride in myself when, sure, a man’s had his moments. But I always came back from ’em, from being down but not stayin’ down. Whereas Cody, come to think of it and I have thought about it, a lot, he ain’t fucken changed one bit ’cept for the worse. So fuckim.)

When he said that and in the tone he did, Jake went, Tha’ right? You got no bags t’ pack? Means you only got, what, a plastic shopping bag to stick your stuff in, get you out sooner? Good. Then do it an’ get. Ya hear? I mean it. Whole fucken lot of you, get.

Stood there looking — or daring ’em to return his look — at every man as he trooped out; Cody the last. Standing at the doorway, Jake …? With that look. Start remindin’ a man of what they’d shared, from when they were both bums, a man bum and a streetkid bum, living in the park in town. Jakey, me an’ you — No ya don’t. Nemine the Jakey, Code. Tole you a hundred times, I had enough. Trying not to remember that this kid’d accompanied him to his son’s funeral — was Cody kept nagging a man, ya should go, Jake. Gwon, I’ll come with ya. Wasn’t for Cody a man wouldn’t a shown his respec’s to his shot-dead son (fucken Black Hawks). Fucken gangs whatever stupid name they went under.

Jake, I wanna, I wanna change, man, honest I do. Can’t help how I been — Uh-uh. Jake wasn’t havin’ that shit. Ya can and you ain’t. But not my lookout, not any more it ain’t. Been cleaning up your shet for (six) years now, kid. Go get your own place — But Jake, it’s three in the fucken morning, man. But Jake shook his head, looked the li’l cunt right in the eye, with warning of the old Jake. Time to go, Cody.

It occurred to him after he’d picked up most of the empty beer stubbie bottles and cans in their different shapes of crushing, dented, twisted forms, the cigarette butts — on the fucken floor if you please, even if it is hard wearin’ carpet, ya don’t do that in another man’s house — and had to pick up spew — spew! — from a corner with a shovel and pan then scrub it with soapy water, then the kitchen mess like starving dogs’d been feeding, and havin’ a scrap while they were at it, that even as he was asking himself why did they get so drunk, so out of it wasted, he’d seen — no, (c’mon, Jake) ya mean done — all this before. Seen, and yet never seen, a hundred, a thousand times before. Even as he screwed his face in disgust at cleaning up their mess, even as he asked again why did they get so drunk, it was occurring at the same time that this was a mirror of himself, or what he had been.

Another thing, awake and sober at this hour had been damn near a first, a unplanned one, mind; they were out hunting — well, illegal spotlighting for deer hahaha — with Gary and Kohi and Jason along too (fulla never stopped tellin’ jokes. Had me laughin’ all fucken night. Or in between the excitement of a deer stepping into our beam which Kohi was directing off the cab roof of Jason’s
pick-up, Gary driving, me and Jayse with the rifles) and kept coming onto them, four for the night, light-captured poses of
innocence
(poor li’l fuckers, dazzled by the light, can’t move, ya put the gun near right up to their stupid heads and fire. But it makes y’ heart go fast with excitement, and they’re worth good money, a good night is like making a week’s wages. We’re ordinary men, the fullas’t make the rules don’t unnerstan’ this, but fuckem, we’re out doin’ it anyway, hahaha!) But on the way back Gary took a corner too fast and they ended up over a bank, took several hours to get the truck out. And a man comes home to this.

He got a beer from the fridge (leas’ they left me some of my own beer I paid for with my own two hands — Well, not two hands on a shovel like I used to: the boss promoted me to a machine, a front-end loader. Handle it like I’m born to it. Could drive it with my eyes closed one hand tied behind my back — least they’d left him a beer to sit on a sofa and, you know, think about things.) Though since it was Beth’s face and accompanying voice kept coming back, as though she was here physically and he was pushing her out of the room but she kept coming back, it started to get to him.

Eventually he stood up. Yeah? Yeah, what do you fucken want, woman? Ain’t you had enough of my blood, my pride, my (innocence) right to my own life? Standing there clutching an empty beer stubbie at this ungodly hour when today, Saturday, was a rugby-playing day and he should be fresh, get plenty sleep so he played well, which he had of the coming to a close season, really well.

Standing there in the sitting room, suddenly aware he had no curtains so people — if they were up — could see him talking (yelling) to himself. Oh, fuckit. Who cares? Though he did move closer to the door to reduce possible vision of him. But first he checked the flower vase (gonna put some in it one day, yellow ones and throw some red and white ones in. Nearly did when Rita came round) to make sure it hadn’t been pissed in and if it had he’d be paying a visit to that bar they drank at in town, with their loud rap music and funny way they all dressed. That any of his kids — if he knew what they looked like now (ain’t set eyes onem in years) — if any of ’em dressed like that he’d — Well. (I’d be pissed off but then again what could I say? What rights’ve I got with ’em?)

It was like he was confronted by Beth. He didn’t unnerstan’ this, not as if he was drunk or hungover with the heebie-jeebie imaginings a man got when he was hitting the booze day after day, he was near enough clean. Hadn’t had a drink since after rugby practice Thursday. Work the Friday and a pick-up at the new
roading
site by the Douglas brothers (laughin’ at bein’ in my ma-chine br-rooom-brr-roooom! HAHAHA!), an’ out to that (glorious) bush, not too far outta town, round this lake that you could shave yaself in, skate like one a them ice-skaters on teevee across its mirror surface, and forested hills in that mirror and birds V’ed against the fading sky, an’ the ones in the trees making last call to the day; slow drive down those pine-forest roads where a man’s thoughts were at one with, well, nature. No one sayin’ anything, as if to let the day go to sleep nice ’n’ quiet by itself.

Then the spotlight beam slicing open the night, like putting a hole in it, a big yellow/white widening hole, a magic ray seeking out game for men to kill. And that was alright, too: everything’s got a fit, a place, a slot in this life. Man’d come to unnerstan’ this, out in the bush he did.

Now here he was having a ’maginary row — talk? — with Beth. And first, she told him, siddown Jake. Please. Heard it as if she was right there (Oh, Bethy, I done you wrong I know that.) Which he did. But, you know, witha scowl ’n case she thought she was the fucken boss now after all these years (of bein’ apart).

By the time this imagined (turned out to be) heart-to-heart was through, Jake was quite emotional. The things he’d done, been reminded of. The pardies he’d thrown (and ruined with my fists, my temper, my wanting to all the time be the tougharse). Feeling kind of sorry. (For what I did?) Not that he admitted that, not aloud nor in his mind. It was jus’ a feeling niggling away there. It was knowledge, it was facts that weren’t quite any of that (not if I don’t want ’em to be. So fuck you, woman.) Fuckit, have another beer, to calm this knotty ache in his stomach. These unsettled, maybe
challenged
, thoughts.

And another beer (musta worked up a thirst having my firs’ beer-free Friday in, what, years? Forever of my youth and
adulthood
?) as his thoughts churned; all the memories of himself were unpleasant, like this scene he’d walked into (stone col’ sober!) those
kind of memories, of rage-up pardies a man’d never given one thought to but of enjoyment — why ya have ’em isn’t it? — weren’t as if every one ofem ended up a fight, if ya don’t count
backhanders
and jus’ one-punch over-in-a-sec ones. So he kept downing beers to expel them (stupid fucken thoughts. You’d a thought I been the only wrong man in fucken Two Lakes, Beth. Did the same as every other man I knew. Tha’s right: same’s every other man I — knew?) Yeah, knew. Now that struck him (like I punched myself) that he
knew
. Including from his childhood.

Cos he sure’s hell didn’t know a one of ’em now. Not Dooly, not Sonnyboy Jacobs (who hit me a beaudy, firs’ one was in the guts took my fucken wind. Nex’ one was flush on the jaw, when it was always me who hit like that.) Sonnyboy who’d been in the kitchen drinking with a man, not long back in town from
wherever
the fuck else he’d been living, when Beth’d burst in, with that (fucken) letter, from Grace, (wrongly) accusing a man of doing what’d been done to her (my own kid?) and he’d got so wild (who wouldn’t?) he up and banged Beth. No he didn’t. He upended the table and he was going for Beth. Tha’s when Sonnyboy Jacobs stepped in. Who a man used to know. Like Jackie, Denny, Monty, Matiu, Bully, and ’specially Dooley (was my best mate) they were all used-to-knows.

But hadn’t a man won his own respect with a new set of friends? Hadn’t he shown the Douglas brothers he was made of the same stuff as them (and then some, once I came to unnerstan’ what was goin’ on, the rules of hunting, that it was patience and
enjoying
for itself, be it a creek to cross fifty times or jus’ the birds, carryin’ a pig, deer backquarters, even the biting mozzies, a man’d learned to become one with the experience; and once I learned how rugby worked and my part to play in it an’ unnerstood the coach, even though he w’s smaller than me, meant what he said when he told a man don’t you ever punch a man when you’re playing for me unless he punches you first or unless I give you specific instructions to take out a man with a reputation. Once I unnerstood that, and once I learnt the hard way that if a man ain’t fit then the game’s a fucken nightmare not a pleasure), and now a man was as if he was Jake The Muss all over again but yet without the Muss part cos — cos well, it didn’t really madda. Not really.

Not that Gary and Kohi were wusses. They just used violence if there wasn’t no other choice. Which’d happened only once in his witness at their pub and Kohi had put one fulla out one hit, bang, Gary took his man one-two-three and Jason’s punch was so quick — an’ hard! —Jake’d missed it. Nor had that left any of the
would-bes
for Jake to show how good he was. Nor did they speak but one word of the fight afterward. Just a shaking of their heads (like that dream humming, as one) as if they regretted having to do the bizniz but boy don’t be fucking with them Douglas Brothers. In big leddas like that, too. Well, di’n’t they not only respect a man but
like
him? Hadn’t they invited him on many occasions to their home, to their family gatherings where everyone got drunk but a nice, happy, singing, joking, laughing drunk that stayed like that and men went to sleep on it, not with grazed knuckles and tingling all over of (sweet) violence just been done (again)? Hadn’t they?

But fuckit, why should he be letting Beth’s memory tell him he was an arsehole? He cracked his sixth, or was it more’n that, bottle of beer; feeling bedder. At one stage yelling out of his thoughts, Shut the fuck up, Beth! Wondering why he’d separated her out from his angry outburst. (Why, Jake?) Who cared? He’d had enough her trying to tellim sumpthin’. (I’m alright. I done my time; it don’t have to be jail. Jail can be how you live on the outside in so-called freedom. Weren’t no fucken freedom having t’ live with that over me: even when I gave ’em my sample. Fuck Beth. How much’s she want of a man?) She, Beth’s ghostlike presence, kept trying to tellim sumpthin’ more. But he was many beers past
listening
(fucker. Done my suffering.)

C
UNTS SPOSED TO
be his team-mates were moaning at every turn at a man. Alright, he wasn’t playing so well, would they if they’d drunk till, what, ten this morning? Then hardly asleep when he got snapped awake by sumpthin’ (I think it was that fucken Beth,
harp-harp
-harping at a man even in sleep.) He didn’t know how it’d happened, hadn’t done a session like that for ages, and now he was paying — dearly — for it by not being able to get into the game.

The other team’d loaded up with young bloods from their gun Colts side, hungry fullas wanting another game having already played earlier. Young, fit, fast, mean and lean. Made a man feel his age.

He heard cheering from the sideline at someone coming on as a replacement, for a bullshit injury Jake was sure; halfa Two Lakes woulda heard the cheer, Jake told himself this was jus’ bluffing shit, to make his side think this was a real gun come on. Caught the smart cunt’s eye when he ran on and took his place at the side of the scrum, on the flank, openside. The hatred in the kid’s eyes. Quite got to Jake. But then so did it spark in him a desire to get his shit together.