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Six Weeks
Even the inanimate pulse with something. Our rock world has storm fire boiling in its belly, and the moon prettily bestows the light she receives as she dances. Gone Hal guards another Bella somewhere else, through a membrane, watches another colt-legged Suzy. I'm here now, with you, Brown. At least, I want to be.
He calls. Renee has white, white cartridge paper she bought from the art supplies store, and a selection of charcoal pencils. She and I, I and she, have pored over photos this morning on the desktop - Hal, Hal and Hal. I really didn't know of artistic aspirations or leanings in my mother prior to this day, but at one picture she leaps excitedly across the room, taking up a sketchblock, saying, "This, this, I want to draw this!"
He calls. I'd gotten up to stack our breakfast dishes and I don't know what has inspired her, but the washer under the kitchen counter-top is beeping, indicating the load of laundry I put on earlier has finished. Pippa has that most old-fashioned of domestic accoutrements - a washing line, strung up around the side of the house. Perhaps I've identified it wrongly and unadorned it's a decapitation trap for would-be burglars, who knows? But secure each corner of each article with pegs and these things will flap in the breeze like flags. Semaphore. Planes will crash into us, down the runway of my open heart.
He calls. I haven't punched a name in for this number, and I don't need to. The phone sounds, and the digits showing on the little screen are already deeply etched, indelible, hardwired, already. I can see them when I close my eyes, and I could recite them backwards in code.
"Hey, how are you?" Brown asks.
"Well. Good. Yeah." You can hear smiles, I know it. Can he hear mine? I think it must be pretty loud. Like, shouting loud.
"So, today - there's a funfair close by, at a little inland town a couple of hours away. We're thinking of going - me and Jasper and Bear and Gypsy. There'll be cotton candy and sideshows and rides - that kind of thing. Would you like to come with us?"
Would I? Wouldn't I?
"What time are you going?"
"Elevenish."
Would I, wouldn't I?
"I'd love to come."
"We'll collect you."
All the fun of the fair, yeah, yeah. Hop around, jittery, can't wait, what to wear? Jeans, jeans, fuck. Don't have much else.
"Oh, Bo-bo, you're beside yourself." Renee.
Sneakers or boots? Oh, God, toss a coin, make a choice. My whole future depends on choices, after all. A considered choice is a random choice that takes a little longer, isn't it? An educated guess is a guess that you pause about. Intuition that allows tempering with self-doubt becomes doubting in itself. Such a philosopher. I can't believe I'm this worried about whether to wear sneakers or boots.
"When will you be back? Will you be back?"
What are you suggesting, mother mine? I know what you're suggesting. Of course I'll be back! Like he's going to take me to his house! Oh, fuck, do you think he'll take me to his house?
"Bo, stop the pacing, please. You're distracting me. I can't concentrate."
So I go to my room and drum tattoos onto furniture. An hour to wait. Tap tap, knock, knock, bang bang, my heel on the floor. I'm going nuts.
Mom's at the door, sighing. "Oh, Bo-bo. Come on in and sit with me. Let's have iced tea. Okay?"
She's musing at her sketching, humming lightly, no tune, just sound.
"Pip's back in a few days." Nonchalant. She knows it's a lightning bolt though.
"You've never said much about her. I only met her when we came here. But she must be a good friend to have let us stay in her house," I say. Because I'd rather talk about Pip. I refuse to talk about leaving.
"Well..." Head to one side, head to another side, Renee evaluates her work. Chews a pencil tip.
"We were close, and then we lost contact for years, really. I was in the one place, and she was traveling. We didn't really have cellphones and email then. Pippa went to see the world, and I had you."
Wait, I don't know Pippa because of me?
"It wasn't your fault, or anything, things just happened that way. Then she tracked me down, and you know, we've had phone calls, and that's how we've caught up after all this time. I was pretty surprised she asked us here, out of the blue, but it's been lovely, hasn't it, Bo? And we saw her just briefly then, before she went, and we'll see her briefly when she gets back. She'll have lots of stories to tell - she was always good at telling things. Always good with descriptions and observations and feelings...We were going to do a comic strip together, you know, her words and my art. I used to draw a lot of pictures. Never actually got beyond the planning stage, what with senior year and being busy..."
Renee trails off. It's nearly time to go. My hair loose, hair braided somehow, hair up with a comb, hair what? Off my face with a band, and Renee applies mascara for me, paints the tiniest black line across my upper lid with liquid obsidian, adds the tiniest flick at the corner. Barely noticeable - is it a shadow, is it my eyelashes? Do I have Brigitte Bardot eyes?
I'm ready to leap out the door when I hear the car pull up.
"Bella-bo, what we talked about this morning? I won't be gone long. I'll be back around three or four, probably. If you're going to go back to Edward's this evening drop by here first. You might want to collect a toothbrush."
So fucking casual, and she doesn't mean toothbrush. She thinks I might have sex today with Edward, and she's this relaxed about it. Who knows if his parents would even let him have an overnight guest? Just because you're so liberal, Renee, it doesn't mean anyone else is.
Her arms are around me suddenly, tight and quick. "Darling," she murmurs, not casual at all, and Brown's at the door.
"Hi Renee, Hi Bella." He's so polite. Mom's waving, "Have a good time, kids," already back to staring at her masterpiece, whatever it is.
And look at the classic, shiny convertible at the kerb, top down, with a glamorous blonde behind the wheel.
That's Gypsy, driving, fifties sunglasses and a scarf around her hair. Movie star. Blond hanging about on the sidewalk, lean, long-legged. Enormous Bear squashed into one rear corner, head surely far higher than the roof would allow, and Brown holding the door for me. I clamber in with no grace, and Brown comes after me, Blond settling as front passenger.
"All aboard," he says.
Bear is effusive.
"Hey Bells on Fire, I'm so glad you're coming today, because I need you to be my singing partner." There are groans, though not from the driver. Turning, she winks at me, smiles so proudly, so fondly, not even into the mirror, not even for effect. She just loves her Bear.
"Bear sings show tunes," Blond announces. "You didn't warn Isabelle, Edward?"
Crammed next to me, our bodies in close, hard, hot contact, Brown shrugs. "She might have refused to come."
"It's an artistic compulsion," Bear tells me. "These tools have never known artistic compulsion - they're too staid."
We've barely accelerated from outside the beach house when he begins with fingersnaps, "Well the shark has pretty teeth dear and he shows them pearly white..."
I know this song. I also know I would be paid to shut up, I am so bad, but I am hysterical with giddiness at the nearness of Brown and I will never feel the same again. "Just a jack-knife has Macheath dear, and he keeps it out of sight...," I warble thinly. Bear gapes, Blond laughs out loud, and Brown's head whips around, fast.
"Well, Lordy be, I have found myself a singing angel!" Bear crows. "Bells on Fire, aren't you just one long string of surprises! Lion-tamer, anchor-weight to a restless spirit and then you sing Kurt Weill!"
"Sweet Jesus fuck, you're dead," Brown hisses at him. I'm still trying to figure out what was just said when Bear starts up again. He sings for ages, I sing no more, and when he stops it's only because we've arrived.
Demonstrating startling wheel skills, Gypsy negotiates us into a space that's a couple of feet too small, and we tumble out like the Keystone Cops. Bear's unfolding is a sight-gag - he was origami in there. Brown extends like an ibis. Clicks and creaks and gliding as the car's batwing of a roof slides over the chassis and we face the entrance, the fearless five.
Inside, differences of opinion emerge.
"Food," Bear says. "Light beverages."
"Rides," Blond demurs.
"Shooting alley," Gypsy asserts - the first thing I've ever heard her say.
"Baby," Bear groans to her, "Never mind the fucking food. You and a gun - who'd eat?"
Two and one disappear, leaving two. So we're not all in this together.
"What do you want to do, Bella? Ferris wheel?" Brown asks, but I dither. Fear of heights.
"I'm not too good with - ah - heights."
"You might find if you face your fear there are compensations."
Yes? "You consider nausea a compensation?"
"Nausea, no, but the view will be spectacular."
Still I dither. Arrhythmia, sweaty palms, and the swooping certainty of doom await five storeys up, but what other compensations might there be? He has already denounced me a wuss. What about demarcating - wuss from reckless adventurer? That's an achievement I could aspire to.
"Okay, if you have a very large and very absorbent handkerchief in case I throw up."
"As it happens I do."
He buys the tickets and we sit in the little cage and grind to a start. Jerk and grind. Up and and up. Sickening jolts as people clamber aboard, until we're all there. Universal truth - there's no view if you close your eyes, but simply from the air, I feel as though we're too close to the lower rim of the sky.
"Bella? Oh, fuck, I've done it again - haven't I? Done something that's made you nervous..."
Just like the movie night, my face is in his shoulder, and I mumble, "I'm really not this pathetic. It's all an act."
"Okay, I guess you're not appreciating the outlook right now, so you stay wherever you feel comfortable, and I'll describe it. That's what I dragged you up here for."
Both his arms hold me, so it's not all bad. Not so bad.
"This town's kinda small - we can see over rooftops and down streets. It's a fruit-growing region round here and a little further out there are lots of trees in neat, orderly rows. The farms have some livestock, too, so there are paddocks with cows - those black and white ones that people don't eat. There are rows of berry plants - strawberries and raspberries. I bet some of the produce Renee buys comes from here. It's very picturesque. I'm really sorry, Bella. It's very pretty, and - oh, hey, I can take pictures with my phone and show you when we get back down. The greens are lovely - do you like green? Are you still alive in there or have you suffocated?"
"I'm alive." Small, muffled, stupid. Why am I so stupid?
"You're really brave you know, to have come up here anyway when you knew you'd be scared. I'm going to buy you the biggest serving of fairy floss there is."
I poke him in the ribs, and get a grunt in response.
"What's your problem? Too health-conscious for fairy floss, missy?"
"I'm worried about your diabetic predisposition."
He snorts, "Oh, don't worry about me. I wasn't planning to share. I'm having one of those ice-creams with chocolate sprinkles."
Poke him again.
"Is that Bella-speak for you want a chocolate-sprinkle ice-cream too?"
"No, it's Bella-speak for when are we getting off this vertical nightmare?"
His chest heaves as he laughs at me, and I want to hold him forever. Forever. I've slid a little and I'm nestled with my nose just over his pectoral muscle. If he wasn't wearing a jacket, if he wasn't wearing a t-shirt - how would this feel to him? If he was nuzzling me in the same place I would die of pleasure and longing.
Jolt, sick, creak, terror, heave, descend, sink with visions of timbers breaking and freefall and splintering and the plummet and I palpitate to the ground which rises to meet us. I think. I have to be helped out. Then I have to orientate myself.
God, can we try something I'm good at? Something where I don't score less than zero?
There is something. I don't want to suggest it, because I don't want to so pitifully try to self-redeem. Surely we'll get there. It's already been mentioned.
And we make our way around, Brown very tall next to me, and he thinks I'm made of goosebumps now, he thinks I'm fragile and I'll fall over if someone sneezes. If I sneeze. I said I'm not pathetic, but I need to prove it.
The rifle range.
"Would you like a fluffy toy? Shall I win one?" Brown asks in such a tender, velvet, fluffy-toy voice, sure and almost smug.
Oh, yes. Show me what you're made of.
"Let's both have a go," I say.
It's pretty ridiculous really - rows of cardboard ducks a few yards away bobbing precariously along, and if you hit three of them you get some ghastly synthetic fluro-striped snake or something. So Brown really wants to do this?
He goes first. Three shots, three hits. Well done.
"Pick your prize from the bottom row," the attendant says.
"Bella?" Brown asks. The bottom row holds nothing anybody would want. None of the prizes are anything anybody would want, to be honest. It's not like they'd give away anything that's not a piece of sentimental junk. In these sorts of towns there are farmers and hunters, who know how to shoot to kill. The stall owners don't want to give away anything too valuable. However, unbeknownst to them, or to Brown, or to anyone I know including my own mother, I could shoot to kill. My father was a police cadet, although I don't know if that's got anything to do with anything.
I am given my three shots, and I pick off the hardest targets - the smallest and fastest ducks.
"Uh?" the guy says, because I look like neither a farmer or a hunter.
Brown starts to laugh as I hand over three bucks for another go. Three shots, three hits, top shelf.
"Well, aren't you just a string of surprises?" he says once he's finished laughing. The prizes are all rubbish, and I don't want any of them until I spot in the corner, on the bottom shelf after all, a hint of black and tan, hidden by a pink koala.
"What's that?" I point. It's a crappy, stupid, ill-shaped, glossy Alsation.
"I want that one."
Bottom shelf, after all. I blink tears away as I take it.
"I wonder how long that's been sitting here, waiting for you," Brown smiles. "Sharpshooter."
Hugging my toy, and his arms come around me. I turn my face up, to see what's in his.
"What are you going to name him?" he smiles quietly in a whisper, in a world that knows me and Brown and a black and tan dog, and we're enclosed, encircled, enfolded in on one another, my head tilting up.
"I think you know," I whisper back.
Shall we find the others? Our musketeers? Don't mind if we do, don't mind it we don't, happy right here.
But they find us, as it happens.
Soft, full, gentle and killing me, Brown's lips just touch my mouth, and to one side I hear, "You owe me twenty bucks, dude."
It's Bear.
"Never bet against a sure thing," he adds.
Blond's voice replies, "Get fucked."
.
.
.