Under My Skin Read online

  There were suddenly so many things in the city that he wanted to show her. He wanted to re-present the city, tired and grey as it was, and smelling of warm rubber and gasoline and garbage all year long. He would take her to Angelika and they would watch documentaries about the First World War and the next night they would go to Times Square and eat popcorn and watch some silly movie with Meg Ryan.

  From now on when he woke in the mornings he wanted to turn over and always see the crease between her shoulder blades or the tiny line between her eyebrows because he already knew that she frowned in her sleep – or at least he wanted to wake and hear her rattling in the kitchen or running downstairs to collect the newspapers or cursing his shower curtain that had a tendency to fall.

  But he did not want to frighten her off and so he went to the studio and thought about Matilda a little and then to numb out the memory of her he took a hit of pot. He could wait until after six o clock to call over; he would have her for ever after that.

  And he still collected words – ones that he had learned from her.

  Rashers

  Feck

  and

  Bollux – and he wrote these with pride on his whitewashed studio wall.

  ‘See ya later, Arthur,’ Hope had said and he watched her leave his house and walk in minutes over the first sand dune. And at the highest point she turned and he was standing, waiting as she gave a big dramatic wave.

  19 Between Lightning and Thunder (December 2001)

  Missing adj. – 1. Not present in an expected place, absent, or lost. 2. Not yet traced and not known for certain to be alive, but not confirmed as dead.

  Matilda is sitting on the front porch. She is wearing a light cotton dress and rocking in the white wicker chair. The wind from the sea blasts into her face – and her hair which is very white now stands on end. Her arms and legs are turning blue from the cold and when she sees me she turns her head slowly, and her eyes are red and streaming, from crying or from the cold. There is a small yellow suitcase beside her, an old-fashioned green vanity case and a white straw hat. The sand has moved up on to the porch again. It is getting dark on the beach now and the wind is full of rain and seaweed and salt.

  ‘Matilda…’ and I say her name very quietly and in my mind the letters are blowing apart and beginning to make new three-letter words in the sand.

  She breaks into an easy smile and when she blinks slowly her face seems to transform itself. She walks across the wooden porch and hugs me. She is wearing red shoes with very high heels and peep-toes. She feels cold and thin in my arms and her skin is rippling in goose bumps.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I ask and she shrugs. I am thinking about the night she took me in, when the first snow was falling and Thanksgiving in New York began to feel like the end of the world.

  ‘Sometimes the city is too much for me,’ she says quietly. ‘This morning I woke up feeling… so alone,’ and we wrap our arms around each other again in a hug. She has been crying. I can hear the tears in her voice.

  ‘May I come in?’ she says and she is smiling again.

  The gulls are circling and crying and they swoop down low over the roof. It is as if they are expecting a picnic of breadcrumbs and sprats but there is no food here.

  Inside the stove is still alight. I put some more logs on and begin to make tea. Matilda looks around. She picks up a pink conch and then puts it back in its place.

  She walks then to the pirate chest and picks up a book Arthur gave me last night.

  ‘Walt Whitman,’ she says quietly.

  ‘Here,’ I say to her and I hand her a mug of tea.

  ‘ “I Hear America Singing”,’ she says.

  ‘Pardon?’ I reply and she looks away again.

  Upstairs I find one of Arthur’s sweaters and I bring it down to keep her warm. It is a red burgundy colour and I bring it to her and smile.

  ‘Put this on,’ I tell her. ‘People used to die of cold down here.’

  She turns and faces me, her pretty face creasing a little into a frown. She stares down at the sweater and her arms fold themselves now.

  ‘Here…’ I tell her again and my voice is gentle and low.

  She takes it, both hands held out flat for it, and then she just looks at it lying across her bare skin. Last night we ate fillet steak. We left it to thaw in the kitchen sink and it made a small thin river of blood. It was the same colour as his favourite sweater. I wore it in bed last night. She sits down on the sofa and then presses her face into it and I can hear her inhale. She just sits there really quietly, breathing deeply, with her face pressed into the wool.

  ‘Matilda, are you sure you’re OK?’

  ‘You spent the night with him,’ she says and here each word comes out with a smile and in a tiny childlike voice.

  And I can feel myself blush.

  ‘I guess I did,’ and I’m frowning and trying to look away from her and around the room.

  ‘You really like him… don’t you?’

  ‘I guess so.’

  In the background the whistling kettle is beginning to rattle and boil.

  ‘He’s coming over for dinner, so you can tell me what you think.’

  ‘Why would it matter what I think?’ and here her voice seems to change a little and she lights a cigarette and blows smoke to extinguish the match.

  There is silence now and I ask her if she would like some more tea and she shakes her head to say ‘No’. And when I try to talk to her about Truro she lights another cigarette and gets up and stands at the window looking out over the beach.

  On the Cape we are different and without New York, she seems to have run out of things to say.

  ‘What time is he coming?’ she asks and her words come out as she faces the window and they bump a little into the glass.

  ‘Around six.’ It is getting dark now, the sun is happy to slip away quickly and dip down into the icy sea.

  ‘I’m going to have a bath,’ I tell her. ‘Can I get you anything?’

  ‘You better have your bath,’ she says and still she will not turn around. Outside the gulls are bouncing in the wind and dark clouds begin to move in from the sea.

  ‘Come back to New York with me,’ Arthur said. We were curled up in his bed, under a bright patchwork quilt and a red cashmere rug. His fire flickered and crackled and when he lifted his hands from under the covers he made more long shadows on the stone wall.

  ‘I want to show you the city,’ he said and when his voice came out into the darkness it sounded young and proud and strong.

  ‘I’m feeling better,’ he said quietly but he still seemed a little frightened by these words.

  ‘The New England air,’ I told him, and he replied, ‘New England and you.’

  This morning we had breakfast on his back porch. The sun was up and we ate bagels and cream cheese wrapped in a rug. In between drinking coffee and talking about New York, he was throwing pieces of food at the gulls.

  ‘We can spend the holidays there,’ he says. ‘You’ll get to see Central Park in the snow and Macy’s tied up in a big red bow.’

  And then he just looked at me and said, ‘I would hate to lose you, Hope.’

  And I said laughing, ‘I’m not going to get lost,’ and then he laughed too and kissed my hand.

  The bathroom is at the top of the narrow wooden stairs. There is a tiny landing with a bedroom on either side. The tub is heavy and old, painted green with small pink flowers on the inside. It is like an old boat, one with a flat bottom, and if there was a sudden gust of wind or a secret current, it would give three sudden twirls and sink. There is a bar of lemon-scented soap. A white soap dish. Camomile shampoo. One rough white towel on an old mahogany towel rail.

  The taps are heavy and old. I need two hands to turn each one around. There is a slight delay and then a hiss and the hot water begins to gurgle and splash down. I sit on the side of the tub and watch as the water fills in and grows. I dip my fingers into it and the mirror becomes white with steam.

>   Lately I’ve been thinking about something Matilda said.

  ‘One big love,’ and I am wondering if there could be more than one big love in life. If there is room for several big loves inside every woman and every man.

  I take off my sweater and hang it on the doorknob. My jeans are folded over the back of the little wooden chair. My underwear falls in two white cotton crumples on the tiled floor. I turn the radio on and they’re playing REM.

  And when I look up Matilda is standing on the landing.

  She has taken her shoes off and I notice that her toenails are painted red. It is the same colour as the little line over the dado rail and the same colour as her lips. She is carrying a blue mug of tea which she holds out towards me. Some steams lifts from it and I smile and hold out my hand. She stands for a moment and I pull the towel around my waist. She does not move and I sit down a little awkwardly on the side of the tub. She just stands there watching me and I sip my tea and frown and look away.

  ‘There’s a mark on your neck,’ she says and I put one hand quickly towards it as if trying to cover up a sin.

  Last night Arthur left a bruise on my neck and another on my right breast. I found them there this morning and stood and looked at their pretty colours and touched them with my hands. Matilda stands over me and I can hear her breathing and I can smell her perfume – which stays behind her – when she turns and moves back towards the stairs.

  The water is growing cool and so I add some more hot water from the tap. And as it grows warm around me I can feel my body lift a little and float. I imagine the water is a mixture of pale pink and gold circles and that the warmer currents surround me and lift me up. I stretch out and put my head back and then right under the water again.

  Every night I do this, even though it still frightens me, just to prove I can.

  And I count to twenty and then I come back up.

  And then I begin to shampoo my hair and I run more water and I sing a little to the radio and some old Christmas song.

  And then down again. I need to go under three times before I feel that I’m brave enough.

  And the third time I am under and counting and beginning to feel thankful for one or two things and so I don’t hear the bathroom door – opening and closing again.

  And in that brief moment I see Matilda, miles of water away, with all her edges moving and flickering, and I have the saddest feeling I have ever had.

  Fingers point into the water.

  There is an emerald ring and a gold bracelet on one hand. A manicure that looks new. Her fingers are long and strong and the slim bones in her wrists twitch and move as her hands join together around my neck.

  Legs, mine – swinging up and over the edge of the tub – and arms, mine again – thrashing – thrashing – thrashing and there are bottles flying around the bath and a sponge falls from somewhere, and then a face flannel, but my head, my mouth, my lips do not come back up again.

  A second or two, that’s all it takes and – we – I – am over and there are no prayers and no hope left.

  Yesterday Arthur brought me to the Chequessett Neck Cemetery and he told me that the men who were digging out a cottage there once found some old Indian bones. ‘An adult male,’ he said and when he spoke I noticed that the wind had chapped his lips, ‘with an arrowhead in his spine, buried with his knees drawn up to his chin. And with him the skeleton of a female child.’

  We sat in the coffee shops of Wellfleet and talked about it and about life and death and how frightening real people can be. ‘What had happened to the Indian?… and the child?… who was his daughter… perhaps,’ Arthur wanted to know, and I said, ‘Everyone has a story, Arthur,’ and he smiled even though my voice was sad.

  Under the water – my life – my story – and it has been at times noisy and difficult – is beginning to get quieter and fade. I am trying to imagine Arthur putting his outdoor jacket on, and then his gloves and his scarf. And how he will bang the front door behind him and then check his pockets again for his keys. The car lights at my window. And how he is almost here. He is almost here. Please.

  Any minute now.

  But it is deep.

  Deep.

  Deeper, dark and down.

  Any minute now.

  He will come over the sand dune, carrying a bottle of wine, or a cake, his cigarette making a red dot in the dark.

  Arthur who makes everything better.

  Arthur who makes me feel safe and calm.

  Any minute now.

  Any minute now.

  He’s a little later than he said.

  But any minute now.

  Arthur is never late.

  From this warm bed it is so quiet.

  Now that the splashing has stopped it is so quiet and there is no hurt or pain. There is peace and through the water I can still see her face and she is smiling and it is a smile of real life and love. Tomorrow people will read about me. I will become a few inches tall in a newspaper space.

  ‘Girl drowns in bath tub’. And who will read about me? The people I know. The ones I hoped could save me.

  Arthur, where are you?

  And as the room begins to grow dark I call each face I know to me and try to remember their names to say goodbye.

  There are small shooting stars. How beautiful, in this room that is growing dark. And now and then they bump together and explode and fall. Outside there must be lightning and thunder, one on top of the other with no gap at all.

  Pappy. It’s me, Hope.

  Mum. Here I am again. Look, I’m all grown-up.

  Daniel. Please wait so I can catch up with you.

  Juna. How I’ve missed you.

  Larry. Where have you gone?

  Larry. Why is everything so dark?

  The face leans towards me. It is someone I know but I can’t remember how we met. He leans into my face and puts his mouth on mine and when he blows warm breath into me he looks deep into my eyes as if he is praying for me and for my life. His voice calls out to me.

  It is my name but I am not able to wake up.

  I want to but I would prefer to sleep instead.

  And then I see Daniel and he is standing near the water and smiling and – I miss him so much – and he says, like nothing is a problem, ‘Come on, Star.’ We are both ten years old again, and without any worries or pain. The man leans into my face and blows his own breath into my lungs again. And now he is crying and crying and trying to breathe slowly in case some oxygen escapes. The strange thing is that I am alive because I can see him and at exactly the same time I am somewhere else. We are all in slow motion and trying to decide if this is the beginning or the end of life.

  And I am slipping again – I want to see Daniel and just touch the warmth of his face.

  And up over us in the bathroom with the steam and the lime-green peeling paint, is a bright orange puff.

  ‘Danny,’ I whisper and then I open my eyes and he says, ‘Hope,’ and he is crying again.

  ‘Hope,’ he says and I answer, ‘Jack?’ and we are back together in the same old life.

  Matilda has left the room. She has crawled out on her hands and knees. I see that one of her shoes is here and the mug of tea has fallen and broken into pieces and there is water splashed all over the floor. In this moment we are like a ship that is trying to decide if it will float or sink. Jack reaches for a cushion to put under my head and the one he pulls from the chair is fat and full of goose and duckdown.

  ‘Don’t leave me,’ I whisper and he says, ‘I won’t.’

  The noise that comes from the landing is terrifying.

  One sudden explosion and there is smoke and bright blue and silver sparks through the glass in the door. In the same moment the mirror over us shatters and it falls into big jagged pieces near my feet. And I am pulling my feet back towards me and Matilda is gone. We can hear the sound of her crying as she runs down the white wooden stairs.

  Arthur blames himself. Not so much for Matilda but because he was fif
teen minutes late. He works in silence making bandages and gently bathing my feet. And then he lifts me up in his arms and carries me down the stairs. There is a bullet mark on the wall of the bathroom and we do not know where Matilda has gone. She has taken her car and by now she will have made it to the freeway and she is probably on her way to New York or into another state. Jack picks up the phone to call the police and then Arthur stops him. Instead we all sit on the couch drinking mugs of tea and he tells us everything he knows.

  Jack listens in silence and at the end of it all he shakes his head and says, ‘Arthur, you sure know how to pick them,’ and then he looks at me and says, ‘So do you.’

  Then I look at both of them and say, ‘How come the men I meet… are always late?’

  And who knows the meaning of anything now? We will wait until tomorrow to call the police. Right now if they asked us any questions we would not know where to start.

  20 Please Do Not Disturb

  On 22 December, Matilda walked towards the reception desk at the Waldorf Astoria. A man in a black twill jacket smiled faintly at her and waited as she moved across the white marble floor. Around her, husbands were meeting wives for coffee and drinks in the foyer and then planning out the rest of their day. Boyfriends met girlfriends and there were small blue Tiffany bags. Lovers greeted one another with a smile and a nod, and a last attempt at love before the goodwill holiday feelings sank in.

  The Christmas tree stood in the lobby. It was twenty feet high and silent and beautiful in white and gold.

  ‘Welcome to the Waldorf Astoria,’ the concierge said and she noticed how the spotlight over his desk made a golden circle on his head. There was a thin gold stripe on the cuff of his jacket and she remembered how he had managed to retrieve a pearl earring from the U-bend in her bathroom sink three years ago. She had forgotten to put the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on her door and he had disturbed her from her pills and her sleep. He had come to the door and saved her life without knowing it. But he did not remember her now – with her blonde hair, she was like any other New York woman today. And he, like everyone else, was beginning to tingle with thoughts of men in red suits and jingle bells and holidays. He smiled as she handed her credit card to him and he nodded and said, ‘Thank you, ma’am.’