‘Hmm,’ is all she says. ‘How’s the Coke coming along?’
‘Won’t be a minute.’ But before the words are out of his mouth he realises he’s got a new problem. How’s he going to give her crushed ice without making a mess? If it was just him alone it would be a simple matter — he’d take a hammer and smash the ice-blocks to pieces on the work bench. Not that he needs crushed ice every day. Ice-blocks are good enough and even those came into his life only after the fridges were fixed. He’s seen in the movies how they put ice in a dishcloth or something, in those fancy American kitchens where everyone stands around with drinks in their hands, then they knock the ice against a wall with neat little thuds, like it’s something they do every other day. But now he hasn’t got a dishrag. And it’s not something he does every other day. When he does knock things in kitchens he makes holes in the doors of dressers. Fuck! As far as he knows, the only dishrag in the house got used up today, to clean all that drain-goo on the floor. And he’s not going to open up his steel cabinet to look for anything ’cause then all those pipes and dirty clothes and GTX tins that he stashed in there will come piling out.
Maybe he should go fetch something in the house. Look in his mother’s room. Suddenly he sees himself crushing ice on the den’s wall with his mother’s dirty housecoat. Crush, crush, crush. No!
He’ll just tell her the ice-crusher’s broken. Out of order. He’s never seen one, but he’s sure you can buy them.
‘So, have we suddenly gone as quiet as a mouse, big boy?’
Is she really smiling at him here behind his back? Yes, she is, with a pouting mouth too. Well, well, what have we here? Wait, let him first get this ice out of the tray. Fucken ice-tray. Hit the blarry thing, that’s the only way. ‘Thock! Thock!’ he slams the tray against the edge of the work bench.
‘I’ve just got a problem’ — ‘Thock!’ — ‘with my ice-crusher. Looks like it’s out of order.’
‘Well, I’m getting mighty thirsty here, ice or no ice.’ Now she doesn’t sound like she’s smiling. She switches that smile of hers on and off, on and off, faster even than Treppie. Get that smile going again, lady! If I can, you can! Keep smiling, girl!
‘Thirsty, hey, and we haven’t even started yet!’ Shit, that one just slipped out before he could stop it.
‘Well, at this rate …’ Mary says, but that’s not what he wants to hear. He pours himself a stiff brandy and Coke. One glass in each hand. Steady, now. He’s standing in front of Mary. He’s standing wrong. He can feel it. He mustn’t stand still, he must move, keep moving. Make a noise.
‘Listen. Nice song they’re playing there.’
The Highveld Stereo woman is talking. She says it’s Leo Sayer. She says he’s always so spot on about the eternal questions of love.
When I need you
I just close my eyes and I’m with you
And all that I so wanna give you
Is only a heartbeat away
Mary takes her Coke. Right. Now sit down a little. With a cigarette. It’s in his jacket pocket. But where’s his fucken matches now? He checked a hundred times to make sure they were in his pocket. You don’t want to get stuck looking for matches in the heat of the moment. Just shuddup a second, there, Leo. Fucken close my eyes and find my fucken matches, now! He can feel Mary looking at him as he digs in his pocket.
Here she comes with her lighter. Come closer, she motions. He doesn’t trust this.
‘I don’t bite, honey. Come, let me light your fire.’
There’s that half-grin again. That tongue, licking her lips.
Grin back at her, Lambert. Now you’re even her honey! But it doesn’t sound right to him, this ‘honey’. And what’s this about a fire? He still doesn’t feel warm. He feels strange and cold. The insides of his hands are sweating.
He leans over. No one has ever lit up for him like this, let alone a woman.
‘Chick!’ goes her lighter as she flicks it on. ‘Sssss!’ goes the little flame, here next to his face. Those longs nails right here next to his cheek. Christ! Now he’s gone and breathed too hard. Out goes the lighter. God in heaven!
‘Easy, boy!’ She flicks it back on again.
Now he gets it right. He leans back in his chair. Man, this cigarette’s going down well. He takes deep pulls. Nothing helps like a nice deep pull. He feels a slight shudder down his tail-end.
From where he sits he has a full-frontal view of his fridges. The cigarette’s helping, but it’s not helping enough. And his fridges can’t tell him fuck-all, either. They look fucked. Small and dirty and fucked out.
He steals a glance at Mary. She also says nothing. She’s smoking with her eyes screwed up, drinking her Coke in small sips. She doesn’t take her glass away from her mouth.
Now their conversation mustn’t go and dry up. If push comes to shove he can always go and fetch the TV from the lounge. Maybe there’s a scary movie on Bop, or fast American news, there-then-here-now. If only Treppie was at home. He would have known what to do. But maybe not. Treppie would’ve stuck around too long, until it was too late for him to make his birthday happen.
He sees her looking at her watch. She looked just a minute ago. Ten to twelve. Time to try another angle.
‘So what do you think’s going to happen on the twenty-seventh?’
‘Why?’
Why? Why? He’s not fucken asking her which side the sun rises every day.
‘Well, uh, it’s a turning-point in the history of our country!’
She gets up quickly.
‘Jesus Christ! You need to find your own bladdy turning-point. Come on, now!’
What’s that she’s taking out of her bag? She throws it down on the bed. Fucken FL’s! Right, if she can push, he can also push.
‘Are you challenging me, lady? I’ve got my own, you know. Rough Riders. Very nice. So get ready for a bumpy ride!’ He gives her a fat wink. Now he must move!
‘Shall we dance first?’ Turn up that radio. For Christ’s sake, let’s have a good song now! ‘Just right for a cheek-to-cheek, hey. Nice song. Jim Reeves. Golden Oldie. Big fan of Jim Reeves. Do you know him?’
‘Lord, have mercy!’
Just look how she flicks away that stub with her fingers! Not bad! Stamp on it, girly, stamp on it with that dainty little shoe of yours. That’s more like it. A bit of a temper is better than nothing. Here she comes, on her high horse.
‘That’s what I like in a woman! She must be game for everything!’
Now he must hold her tight. Like the heroes in the movies who dance close with their girls. Soft guava! That’s what Treppie always says when those scenes come up. Soft guava and cucumber power!
Here she is, now. Right up against him. With that shiny hair of hers right under his nose.
‘So, what are you waiting for, Prince Charming?’
She smells sweet. Too sweet.
His hands feel her hands taking hold of them. She puts his hands on to her hips.
‘Come on, Lambert, we haven’t got all night.’
Now she’s swaying her body into his, but the beat isn’t actually right for a slow dance. She pulls him so he can start moving. No one has ever pulled him like this before. His hands slide further and further down her dress. Smooth, no funny bumps. No, hell, wait. He moves his hands up again. Rather listen to Jim Reeves.
Mary marry me
Let’s not wait
The time we have
Is all there is
And then it might be too late.
‘Do you hear that?’ She’s pulling him by the jacket now. ‘The time we have is all there is.’