‘To keep,’ he says. ‘You never know when you might need a button.’ Then he rips off the shirt’s collar. ‘See, now it’s nice and soft.’ He bunches it up in his hands. And now? Now she hasn’t got any more excuses.
‘A towel. There’s no towel here.’
She wants out.
Pop’s knees look like pointy things in flour sacks.
In the light of the candle, the bone in the middle of his chest sticks out. Under his throat, and on both sides of his neck, are deep hollows where it looks like there’s not enough skin. Just a thin layer, like the wrinkled skin of boiled milk.
‘Behind the door, in our room,’ Pop says. ‘My towel’s hanging there. Go get it. No, wait. I’ll do it.’
‘No, I will!’ Now she must be quick.
Pop looks at her. He sees right through her. She doesn’t want to look him in the eye.
‘What’s wrong, Mol?’
‘Nothing.’
But Pop keeps looking at her.
Then she says: ‘You’re a bit funny tonight.’
Pop lets his head drop.
Shame. Maybe he means nothing by wanting to bath with her. Maybe he’s just tired. When he came stumbling out through the smoke this morning, still half asleep, she could see something was wrong. And then there was all that running, round and round the house. He didn’t even get a chance to pull on his pants. And all the people laughing at him over the wall, pointing to his thin little legs sticking out under his vest. Maybe he wants to touch her so she’ll touch him back. Let her just be straight with him.
‘I’d rather not play around with you, Pop,’ she says.
‘I feel …’ Pop says. He points to his whole body, with hands that open and then close again. He can’t say what it is he’s feeling. But she knows.
‘Overload?’
‘Overload.’
‘Me too.’
‘Fused,’ says Pop.
‘Tripped out.’
‘That makes two of us,’ says Pop.
‘Poor us.’
‘Never mind.’ Pop stretches out his arms towards her. She takes a step closer to him. Then he puts his arms around her. He rests his head heavily against her body. She must be smelling sour and sweaty by now. It’s from today’s things, from the deadly panic.
‘I stink.’
But Pop doesn’t mind. ‘At least we still have each other,’ he says.
‘And a roof over our heads.’
She pushes him away. ‘I’ll go fetch the towel. You get in in the meantime.’
‘But you’re coming back to bath with me, hey, Mol? Please?’
‘Okay.’
‘It’ll do us good,’ says Pop.
She goes and fetches the towel in the bedroom, feeling for it in the dark. She doesn’t want to put on the light. Why, she can’t understand. Maybe the dark’s like warm water. And maybe that’s also what Pop’s thinking. Maybe he’s thinking it’ll make them feel better after this day. Each to his own. If she could have her own Guy Fawkes, then she supposes he can play with candles. Just like the dykes. She smiles at herself in the dark. Same difference, as Treppie would say. Every family has its own secrets. And no one’s any better than the other. Her eyes are getting used to the dark now. The small light in the bathroom seems to be lighting up the whole house.
She closes the bathroom door behind her and takes off her clothes. Pop moves up so she can get in behind him. The bath’s nice and hot. And full.
‘Wash nicely now, Molletjie.’ Pop passes her the shirt-washrag over his shoulder. She rubs soap on to it. Pop’s back is right in front of her. Hard and white like the trunk of an old bluegum. There’s more strength in there than she thought. A mystery like death. She shivers.
‘This old back of yours,’ she says, just so Pop won’t start wondering why she’s so quiet.
‘Now you. Turn around!’ says Pop.
Their bums get stuck. As they turn in the bath, their bodies make noises. Water spills over the edge. Toby wants a closer look. He wants to lick their wet arms with his long, red tongue.
‘Hey, you!’ Pop splashes Toby. ‘You wanted to bath, didn’t you, so there! Old Toby-dog. What do you know about life, anyway?’ Pop rubs his wet hand between Toby’s ears.
Now it’s her turn. Pop squeezes hot water from the shirt on to her back. Ow, it burns. But she says nothing. He’ll start thinking she’s a ninny.
‘Looks like you were in the wars, old girl. Full of bruises and scratches.’
It must be from this morning. She remembers bumping and scraping against things as she ran down the passage with that car seat. It was too wide. And her back was against the wall most of the time, first this side, then that side. It was more than the wars, it was hell! ‘Hell.’ She’d rather not think about this morning.
‘Never mind,’ says Pop, ‘it’s all over now.’
She wonders if Lambert’s come to yet.
‘When we finish washing, we can go see how things are looking at the back,’ he says.
They wash in silence.
‘Ja, well,’ they say as they help each other out of the bath. Suddenly they face each other, stark naked. She gives Pop the towel. He must dry himself off, before something in his body snaps. But he takes it out of her hands. What now? Now he’s starting to dry her off! She can do that herself! But Pop doesn’t want to stop. She pushes him away, but he insists. He’s on his knees in front of her, with the towel in his hands. It’s as if he wants to give her something. She looks down, at where he’s drying her off, at her old legs, her shins that are full of dents and cuts. Between her legs he dries, her worn old skin, her folds and her belly that sticks out. And her breasts that hang down over her stomach. One by one, softly, Pop lifts them up and dries underneath them.
‘Turn around, Molletjie.’
She doesn’t want to. In front is one thing, but behind is another story.
Pop doesn’t want to listen. He wants to dry her off everywhere. He says he’s counting his blessings.
He dries her sore back, dabbing softly with the towel. She must lift up her arms, he says. He wipes the drops from under her arms, and he dries her hollow, woolly armpits. Then he wipes the big, flat moles on her upper arms, carefully, as if they’re sores. And her buttocks. She knows how they wobble when she walks. And inbetween too, in her crevice, which she feels is getting broader and flatter these days, as if her buttocks want to pull apart towards the bottom. And the back parts of her thighs, all puffy and full of blue veins — she knows, she’s looked at them in the bedroom mirror. He doesn’t miss a single spot, but he’s like someone who’s lost his way.
That’s enough now, she motions with her body. But Pop keeps looking at her. God knows what’s gotten into him.
‘You know what I see, Mol. I see time passing. It passes, together with blessings. You count them like seconds. They don’t stand still, they just pass.’
Suddenly Pop pushes his head into the hollow of her hip. A shudder passes through his body. Now Pop’s crying. From bathing with candles. Oh yes, she saw it coming. But what’s she supposed to say to him now? All’s well that ends well? That he can stop now, everything will be okay? But how can she say that to him, now? ’Cause she can see the row of knobbly bones running down the middle of his back, right here in front of her, and she knows he’s crying about everything. About everything that’s just more of the same in their lives. And in the end it’s all nothing.
She’ll put on a brave face. She’ll say the best thing she can think of, under the circumstances.
‘A person can cry, Pop, but actually you should laugh, man. It’s like Guy Fawkes. A few little crackers and a rose or two up in the sky. Poof! Poof! Then it’s over. In two ticks! Before you can say Tom Thumb!’
She takes Pop’s head in her hands. She wants to look into his face so he can see her smile. When she smiles, he always smiles back at her. But Pop’s neck is stiff. She can’t turn it. All she can see is one side of his face, from an angle above him.