Jake's Long Shadow (3 page)

Jake.

Agitated in the instant, Charlie shuffled on the pumicy ground and managed to look the man in the eye, now that he'd let the pig drop to the ground and his face became visible.

One of the other two asked if Charlie would like a leg of pork. Charlie was embarrassed but greatly distracted. He tried to shift his thoughts back to enquiring if they had a hunting permit, but just then the one who made the offer stepped forward and shook Charlie's hand — a powerful grip it was, too, but with a smile oozing amiability.

Gary Douglas, he introduced himself. And this here is my brother, Kohi. And this is Jake.

Charlie took Kohi's handshake, but looked Jake in the eye and stared. Then he turned away and headed off for his vehicle, walking faster than he'd done in years. Shaken to his very core.

The voice was saying again:
This is my land
. But this time with anger close to fury. He was in turmoil. Jake Heke, the man known as Jake the Muss. What a ridiculous, childish nickname. Muss for muscles, for God's sake. Fuming Charlie Bennett was.

Yet the concept he had of Jake clashed with the actual physical image in Charlie's head, of just another friendly, smiling face, another Maori of powerful build, out here in the wilderness. He could be any hunter, including a legitimate one, likely a fairly decent man if of a limited outlook. But hardly any kind of ogre.

Oh, Charlie Bennett was in turmoil all right, experiencing a feeling he couldn't remember ever having, of near blind hatred. He wanted to go back and confront the animal who had once beaten his wife —
my
wife. The man who'd caused such suffering, including two of his children's tragic deaths. (I blame you, Jake Heke. I lay the blame squarely on your shoulders. This is not a hunting kill you carry, Jake the bullying Muss. It's responsibility, it's culpability, it's bloody guilt on your ugly head, coward.) Yet, Jake wasn't for a moment ugly; in calmer moments Charlie would admit the man was quite strikingly handsome and had a presence, too.

Back there was the man who had traumatised his children — my beloved step-children — especially Huata, who was as angry, messed-up a child as Charlie had ever encountered. (But we got there, didn't we, son? Look at you now.) Polly, being Polly, was the least damaged of Jake's children, but a handful nonetheless for the first couple of years. And Mark, when he was released from the welfare boys' home into Beth and Charlie's custody, was on his way from being the boy to the man, and what a man. But even then in need of Charlie's support to rid him of the stain of Jake.

Charlie saw the children change and eventually blossom in their different ways. It was only Abe who Charlie didn't get to know as he was a young adult when Charlie came on the scene. The other three he loved as his own. (I took your children, Jake, and gladly made them mine. I earned the right to be called their father, you violent, drunken loser.) Charlie, taken by surprise at Jake's effect on him.

He was trembling and it was rage. He wanted to go back and confront Jake, humiliate him in front of his pals by asking what kind of man was he who could beat up a woman. So overcome with this sudden onset of anger, he had crazy thoughts of rushing back and snatching one of their rifles and
putting a bullet between Jake's eyes. (All this time and I didn't know how much I hated him.)

If truth be told he was scared of himself now, for Charlie remembered taking the opposite stance when Beth was waxing bitter about Jake. He had suggested she try and understand Jake's background, his lack of self-esteem, that there was most certainly a history to Jake that went back several
generations
. Now he wanted to kill the man. (I'm a hypocrite.)

But common sense ruled supreme in Charlie Bennett's life (as always). So he continued back to his vehicle, forcing out the anger, getting it off the stove before it boiled over.

Back in his car he revved the engine and turned the radio up loud, on a country-and-western station he preferred, drowning out the thoughts — no, these are not thoughts, they're pure and simple feelings. This is emotion. And you, Charlie, are always throwing off at others of your race for letting emotion rule their lives. Settle yourself down, man. And
be
a man. Don't become what he is, Mr Pig Hunter back there, still the macho child. Be what you are, Charlie Bennett.

That didn't stop him stuffing a cream bun in his mouth.

He drove home fighting to bring his emotions under control. For the first time in his life he was seething with desire to do violence. And outside the sky had darkened rapidly, thunder clouds coming out of nowhere, the heavens readying to roar. Jake's features seared into a man's mind, as if he knew something (of me, my weaker side?), too. Or did it go deeper than that, to mean Beth?

SO DARK. ELEVEN o'clock in the morning and it's dark; day's got this shadow over it, like a blot. A moving blot in the way of every flower, every tree and lovely living thing, which, when I do have times of seeing how lovely, I want to cry the more at the dark soon to return. At the dark laid over me like scales on my skin.

It's something got said, or decreed of me, that this life and its beauties and bounties aren't for you, kid. (Kid?) I'm an adult (and yet inside I feel like this child who is denied the right to grieve for herself, since she is not sure what ails her so).

Twenty-nine years old and I still call myself kid. And even the times when life does reveal that it could be better (it could be, couldn't it?) it's still saying: but not for long, Sharneeta, 'cos you don't deserve to see beauty, to know happiness and stuff like that.

Why, I just don't know. It just is.

And no matter how far I reach back inside me for the reasons why, the
only answer I get is the decree is true: I got no right to enjoy life covered in normal people's light, mine has to be mostly dark. And knowing that hurts. It really hurts.

Why am I like this? The air around me is throbbing, as if I've got a permanent headache, except it's all over my body, it starts at my soul. I don't hardly know where I'm driving to. I'm just driving and my thoughts won't give an answer to why or to where. Why?
Why
is it like this? To be going somewhere and yet it's nowhere.

One minute it was the same old same old suburban drabsville outside, now it's farmland out the window. I can see it's green but it's as if shadowed in blackest, biggest thunder cloud about to open up. I can see the sun, and yet I can't. Not as meaning bright and warm, and covering life in its rays, 'cos I'm a little bit shivery and out there is a little bit dark.

Sheep, lots of sheep shapes all woolly and cuddly like li'l clouds fallen on the ground all the same shape. Cows grazing, how they chew their cud and look at a world even I can see they don't really comprehend. (As if I
comprehend
it, sweet dull cows.) As if you do, slut. You're a worthless bitch, Sharneeta Hurrey.

(Why do I keep hearing that voice, my own in my head and yet I know it doesn't belong to me? And why does she say I'm worthless? Like I'm a car she hasn't even driven and she's saying it ain't worth shit. Why don't you
try
it first, whoever the hell ya are? It goes. The engine still works.) Oh God, I think the engine still works. 'Cos you stop and listen sometimes and there's nothing but stillness, like death waiting round the next corner, or down the hallway, or an alley, anywhere (and yet nowhere) out there.

Engines, how long before the metal one under me's gonna conk out? A lousy seven grand and it took me four years to pay off, with a final lump payment at the end. My life being mine, things hadn't gone regular, it's our one guarantee in life, our absolute certainty, that regularity of anything except problems and misery is our destiny.

The effin' finance company sucks off the blood of poor people and those of us who don't know how to cope in this world, that's too confusing, has too many complexities, too much paper, all them forms to fill out, another learning and language they speak. The shock of discovering I'm paying nearly thirty per cent interest when normal people pay, I later found out, eight.

I was cruising a car yard, nothing else to do, what with my two flatmates not yet outta bed at eleven, when the salesman sidles up, you know the type
even when you ain't had experience of them. They just stick out, neon sign on their faces says: I'm so cool I can sell you anything. In their eyes there ain't no soul, just facial posing. You know he can see you're on the outer, that you don't fit and never will. That smile promises maybe he can make you fit — as long as you have the price he charges.

Lady, he opens up — Me? A lady? — Lady, I can tell you're trying to figure how you can get a better car when your money situation says, not yet. Am I right? Would I be correct in my summation? (The hell's that word mean?)

Wrong. I don't have a car, I told Mr Smoothie. (And where'd you get that hair-style from, bud? Your hair ain't
that
silver.) Used to have a car but it went to sleep (and I couldn't wake it, like I can't wake part of myself, the somethin' in me that's died). One day the motor died and never started again.

He laughed. Know a few people's lives like that. (Mind-reader.) Not that any of us can talk, can we, miss? Oh, he was quick on his feet this tall charmer, thought I didn't see him glancing at my left hand for the wedding ring. (As if any decent man'd put one of those on my finger.)

Now, let me guess as to your occupation …

All of a sudden I felt embarrassed. As if being a worker in a dye house somehow made me anything but at the right place. (Before that it was a potato-chip factory, standing on the line grabbing the chips with any
blemishes
, left the job ten kilos more than when I started. Walked out. My workmates said I shoulda gone for sexual harassment, but looking at my chip-inflated body in the mirror I couldn't see how any employment disputes committee would believe anyone'd harass me. Even though my supervisor — effin' big Samoan he was — felt I was his property, grabbing handfuls of me, pushing me into the locker room, covering my face with slobber, trying to get me to jack him off. Talk the way Islanders do: You ish nysh to me, Sharneeta. I love you.

Yeah, right. What would a sex-starved coconut emotional illiterate know about loving a woman, even me?)

I felt bad 'cos I hadn't planned on getting a car, couldn't afford it. Bad 'cos I didn't know what to say to this man with a way about him that made me feel inferior, and talking about my weekly wage as if he knew every dollar I spent and swearing I could afford a car — easy. Without pain, lady. I promise you. 

Which is why I drove away with a $7000 car and more happy than I'd ever been in my life. Radio on. Trying to find a station that played my kind of music so I could maybe sing along with a number or two. Found a station, Golden Hits they called it. Yeah.

Sang my flippin' heart out — if I knew the words or even the chorus. Drove round town all day, didn't want the dream to stop. I had a whole four years to pay it off, only $59.00 a week. A $50 and $10 note, a buck change. Smoothie'd said I only had to cut my smoking down and I had half the car payments covered. Make myself available for overtime at work and that'd more than cover the other half. Didn't mention petrol, insurance,
registration
, warrant of fitness, maintenance like tyres and parts needing replacing. At first I felt my life had taken a turn for the better right out of the blue.

But at work I couldn't get overtime. And my smoking crept back to what it was before the car. I tried eating less, but the car just drank more juice and the only good thing came outta that was I lost some weight from all those chips I'd ate all day long, out of boredom more than anything.

Just managed to keep up the payments from my savings whilst taking five weeks to find another job. I shoulda gone onto the dole right away, everyone I know wouldn't've hesitated. But for some reason I didn't want to. Maybe pride. Maybe my weird nature.

Next job paid less than Jones' Crisps, and I was struggling. Yet I kept the payments up and another year passed. How, I don't know. I do know that I virtually stopped drinking in that time.

Then a couple of big bills came in, one for the phone when one of my useless cousins on my Maori side, Mum's — though the white cousins on Dad's side are just as bad — turned up. Stayed long enough to run up $700 of toll calls. Then disappeared, no thanks for the month's free board and food (felt like paying a heavie a hundred bucks to get her face messed up). She used me. Telecom let me pay it off over a year, but something had to give from my living costs. Car payments were the only slack I had left, or so I thought.

Struggled for several months, then couldn't cope any longer, went to see Smoothie to talk about changing the arrangement. Only to meet another person, a stranger. Cold-eyed, kept sighing, looking away, I knew he wasn't listening.

Finally he said, Sharneeta, I sold you the car in good faith. Didn't pull out a gun and force you to buy it. We discussed your job, your financial
circumstances, and I even went out of my way to help you on a personal basis by suggesting you cut your smoking in half. Well, did you?

For a start I did. (Effin' school teacher.)

For a start?

Yeah, well, it's hard to cut down (hard to do anything self-disciplined). Haven't you ever been a smoker?

Yes, I
was
a smoker, Sharneeta. And yes it
was
hard to quit. But I did quit. And in case you hadn't noticed, the sign says car dealer, not social counsellor.

Whoa, this dude was a changed man altogether. Out in his true colours, being green for money and g for greed. How I saw it.

Listen, he said on another of his sighs. I tell my kids, if you want
something
badly, then it comes with a responsibility, which is to pay for it. You understanding me, Sharneeta?

Arsehole knew my car meant everything. (Especially the radio. The different worlds it gives you, just a small movement of tuning dial. I even listen, once in a while, to classical stuff. Not that I get it, but have had a moment or two of getting something.) Okay, pal. Thanks for nothing. I'll keep the payments up.

My pleasure, the bastard just had to have the last, smiling word.

Well, I faced up to that one responsibility at least, own the car now and here I am listening to Radio Pacific, the talkback station. Shit, listen to 'em: endless line-up of idiots, losers and weirdoes. Or lonely old-age pensioners ringing up talking about their ailing health or singing a song in a creaky voice, or reading a terrible poem over the air, reliving their irrelevant pasts. The lonely, the strange, and bigots, rednecks, brown-necks and no-necks, all having their say on life when, really, I know they're saying it confuses them, it confounds, and most of all it hurts. I know confusion, I know hurt. Just the callers keep you from knowing why they're the way they are.

This life, their lousy, miserable place in it, hurts so bad they're angry all the time. Hurts so much it warps their thinking and they blame everyone and everything else for their failures. Least I don't do that. I'm just a failure and that's it. No one's fault, maybe not even my own. If there is a kind of blame, I figure it's to do with way back in the past that can't ever be changed; no incident, no experience can ever be undone, no matter how bad, how awful it was. It's like a game you lost; why they say: Get over it, honey. (Except I can't. I can't.) I once read this poem by accident in a newspaper, by some dude whose photograph drew me to his work. One line hit me like a train:
How could I fight a damage unknown when childhood's murderous seed was sown?

Man, all the lights went on. I was shaken to the core. But then I thought, oh well, someone else knows what true misery is like: it's not about fighting it, taking it head on.

And here she is, Ms Misery, out in farmer country. Kind of free if only the friggin' darkness would ease up. You can hardly see their houses here as they're tucked back behind trees off the main road, don't know why they wouldn't wanna show them off to the world 'cos the peeks you get say some are pretty big houses — homes, I think they call 'em. They live quietly, modestly, satisfied, un-lost here; they're free in the open air, working free, with free meat, ground to grow their own vegies, a lot of them I'd say on inherited land. All this and making money on top of it. Who wouldn't be satisfied with that? Though one of my flatmates is a farmer's son and I don't see any sign of an inheritance, no land, no class, nor satisfaction with anything, not Alistair. That silly girlfriend of his runs around after his every whining beck and call. That's one son of a farmer who fell through the cracks.

Lookee, there's one, got his young kid up front on one a them
three-wheelers
I seen on TV ads. Forget what they advertise (try three-wheelers, Sharns). The kid is proud as punch, look at the little critter (he's made a break in the storm cloud for me), has me smiling. Oh, look at his hair (why can't I be like this all the time? Half the time'd do), it's blowing in the breeze, how important the little tike feels he is. (That's one of the secrets, ain't it, Sharns? How important you feel in the world.) The kid's not old enough for school (yet he feels like he owns the universe. And so he does. He owns the universe, Sharns. Whilst you own the darkness all through it).

'Magine that, growing up on a farm, with animals, rides with your dad on the three-wheeler, the tractor, walk around (on his strong back, clasped by strong loving arms), tending to the sheep — whatever the hell they do to them other than shear — fences to fix, a mother's good cooking to come home to. (A husband — a man — whose hands are dirty with honest toil and his mouth never shaped foul words, hurtful words, words that cut a woman to the bone and take another bite out of her soul, hands that never hurt you. I'd look after someone like you, honey, give you all the loving sex you wanted and make it good. I would.

Would cook for you, too, get recipes out of a newspaper — when I can be bothered to read one. But I've seen recipes in them, tore 'em out of fish
and chip wrapping and went home to cook 'em. Once picked up a page blown in some city breeze on one of my lost walks, sat down and read it like there was a message for me saying: Go thataway, Sharneeta, follow the dots to your salvation. (Yeah, sure.) Memorised the recipe on home-made tomato sauce, went home and made it myself. Best sauce I ever tasted, yet did I make it again? Don't think so.)