The Spell Book Of Listen Taylor (6 page)

The next day, Tuesday, wandering her classroom aisles like a queen, Cath remembered that she didn't actually know the Carotid Sticks. She had them mixed up with the Clotted Creams.

She felt strangely embarrassed, yet also excited, to realize this, as if she had cheated in an exam. Also, she had a heart-pumping moment of terror, remembering how close she had come to getting caught—she had almost mentioned to Warren how much she liked the goldfish in a small glass bowl that the drummer brought along to his shows. (She had seen the Clotted Creams a couple of years back.) She had almost drawn a
sketch
of the goldfish on her notes, and shown this to Warren! Showing off her knowledge. Imagine if she had! Warren would have frowned in confusion, and she would have tried to explain, and realized her mistake as she did so, and then she would have tried to cover up, and got flustered.

She must look up the Carotid Sticks at an HMV and listen to a CD, so she could prepare for the Date.
Not a Date. You don't know it's a Date. Who said it was a Date?

“Yeast infection, yeast infection, yeast infection.”

“Cassie?”

Cassie Zing colored by numbers and murmured, “
Yeast
infection.”

“Cassie? You want to keep quiet for us? Or see if you can find some new words?”

Cassie looked up and blinked once. She leaned onto her elbow and spoke into her fist.

I really should mention this habit to her parents. It's been going on for weeks now. And her mother sends so many notes! Really, an amazing number of notes from that Mrs. Zing. I wouldn't even notice that Cassie was late if she didn't bring notes from her mother. Maybe I shouldn't have written back? Now she thinks we're pen pals, and she'll never stop. She may be a loony. Of course, the compliments are nice.

I hope I'm not late on Friday. I'll have to go straight from my law class to the Borrowed Cat. I'll wait until Friday night to ask him what he meant by that comment about his weekend being “kind of a strain.” He will open up to me then, after we've had a few drinks, and I will listen sympathetically, and try to make him laugh. Perhaps he'll even cry on my shoulder!

Okay, but it's not a Date.

What color should I wear? What color is the Borrowed Cat? I should try not to clash with the walls.

It was a strange week for Cath, waiting for Friday and the Clotted Creams. Then remembering that it was not the Clotted Creams but the
Carotid Sticks.
(She found them at HMV and they were kind of bluesy. She didn't like
blues,
but whatever.) She walked around under a spotlight, but a secret, private spotlight, because she didn't mention the invitation to anybody.

Not even Lenny and Suzanne, even when Suzanne suggested the two of them see a movie on Friday night. “I'm busy Friday,” is all she said. “How about Saturday?” Because here it was: the invitation. The first fragile step in the unfurling. She would not even
whisper
his name.

But you ARE allowed! He asked you out! He asked you to see a band! And you don't do that to just anyone, and who knows what will happen AFTER—

On Wednesday afternoon, Cath and Warren were working on a class plan.

“I am,” said Warren, “
extremely
hungry,” and he looked around the room.

Cath opened the fridge and found her cheese-and-pickles sandwich.
She hadn't eaten it at lunch, on account of buying a cheeseburger instead. “You can have it,” she offered generously.

Warren was pleased with her, opening up the sandwich from its greaseproof paper, as if it were a birthday present. But then he paused and said, “Imagine if this were toasted.” He held out the sandwich toward her.

“Are you saying you want me to toast it for you?” demanded Cath. “Because I won't.”

“It's ten to five!” Warren slid back his chair and leapt to his feet. “We will
buy a sandwich maker.
Quick! Let's go!”

They ran across Castle Hill Road together, among the lanes of traffic; skidded to the department store; scanned the directory for kitchen appliances; ran down the up escalators accidentally; and got there just in time.

They went halves on a DeLonghi Sandwich Maker, and carried it back in its box. They were sweaty from the heat and the excitement, and the fading sun blinked in their eyes.

“We keep it here,” said Warren, showing Cath the second shelf of the corner cupboard. “And it's for us, and us alone. We alone get toasted sandwiches for lunch. Is it a fact? Is it a pact? Is it a
tac
-tic?”

On Thursday night, she felt jittery, and had to go to the corner store. The corner-store girl had such long plaits they drew attention to her hips. “Hello there,
you
!” she always said to Cath, who felt she could never live up to this greeting.

“You know what
I
dreamed last night?” declared the corner-store girl as she reached for Cath's 60-watt lightbulb. “I dreamed I was in a bathtub, right? With a zebra! What did you dream?”

“Hmm,” said Cath. “Can't remember.”

“Come on! You always have the
best
dreams! And it's been so hot lately!
Doesn't that make you dream? It makes me dream. Look at the time! It's so late, and it must be what? Any nightmares?”

“Well, okay, I had this great dream where Dr. Carter from
ER
wanted to cure me of this disease that made me pale and beautiful, and I was hoping I'd get to stay pale and beautiful even when I was cured. Also, I've been dreaming a lot about extra rooms for my apartment. In the dreams, I keep finding doors in my hallway that open out into things like sewing rooms or saunas. I'm so happy when that happens. Maybe I think my apartment's too small? So. Those aren't nightmares, I guess.”

“How
is
your health anyway, Cath? I notice you've picked up some lozenges there. Sore throat?”

“Just hay fever,” explained Cath. “It makes my throat itchy. How about you?”

Sometimes the corner-store girl liked to chat, but often she became vague and glassy-eyed when asked about herself.

When she got home, Cath was still jittery, so she got out the bucket, the Windex, and a roll of paper towels, and washed all the windows in the apartment.

On Friday afternoon, she was supervising children in detention, whose punishment was to hunt down apple cores, orange peels, paper bags, and Popsicle wrappers after school. She would let them stop soon, because she wanted to get home, shower, change into a summer dress, get to law class, and
then
to the Borrowed Cat to meet Warren.

Warren, striding past, his arms and legs moving like the spokes of a wheel, slowed to a helicopter hover.

“Still on for tonight?” His eyes went straight into Cath's.

There was a whisk of excitement in her stomach. “You bet,” she said.

“Breanna might be a little late,” explained Warren.

Cassie Zing, walking past at that moment, swinging her schoolbag in circles, said, “Ms. Murphy?”

“Yes, Cassie?” said Cath. Also, to Warren: “Breanna?”

“I wanted to tell you something important,” said Cassie.

“Breanna,” said Warren. “My wife?”

“Did you, Cassie?” Cath turned smoothly. “What did you want to tell me?”

“That it's my birthday tomorrow,” whispered Cassie.

“If she misses her train from the coast,” Warren explained, “and she says that she might.”

Cath had bent forward so she could hear Cassie Zing. She kept her eyes on Cassie's face and said, “Your
birthday
tomorrow! What are you going to do? Will you have a party? Happy birthday! That's
so
exciting.”

Cassie nodded. “I know. And I'm having a party at my auntie's place tomorrow.”

“Wonderful!” said Cath, still leaning forward. “We'll have to sing ‘Happy Birthday' on Monday, but you know, we could have sung it today. Why didn't you tell me sooner?”

Then there was a
honk,
and Cassie cried, “My mum!” and skidded away.

Cath straightened up and looked at Warren. “Your wife?” she said, with a friendly smile.

“She lives up the coast during the week,” he said, “so we only get the weekends? Which is a strain. Which is a drain. Which is a
brain drain.
”

Cath considered him.

“You didn't like that one?” he said. “Fair enough. But anyway, I hope
you're
not planning to be late?”

“No, Warren, that's not what I was planning.”

“Great!” he said. “See you there!

In the afternoon light of a summer day, Fancy, a teenager then, sat on her beach towel and watched Radcliffe's toe. The toe sprouted from his foot like a plump little table-tennis paddle. It also sprouted hairs, like an unkempt hedge. The toe was writing in the sand:

Radcliffe Mereweather
LOVES
Fancy Zing

The toe took a long time to write this.

Next, Fancy was distracted by Radcliffe's hands. The hands were thin and knobbly, and were clutching at her sunburnt shoulders.
I should put some sunblock on those shoulders,
Fancy thought. But now was not the time.

Radcliffe's hands clutched tightly. He had a tear on the edge of each eye. “I don't want to hurt you,” he was saying. “I never meant to hurt you.” She stared at him. He was hurting her shoulders, but apart from that, it didn't really hurt.

“I appreciate your telling me,” she said, pleased by her own maturity.

Radcliffe had kissed another girl. He had gone to the surf club party the night before, leaving Fancy at home with an asthma attack.

“Did you meet a girl?” she teased him the next day, sitting side by side in the sun.

“Well, kind of,” he replied, alarmed.

“Did you kiss her?” She did not think for one moment that he had.

“Well…” and then he was silent, and the odd feeling started, her face stretched out, and she thought:
Perhaps he did!

And he had.

Radcliffe! Her First True Love! Her long-lashed boy with the sneakers and guitar! Radcliffe, who bought her marzipan and chocolate, had kissed another girl! They had only been together for a month.

“I don't want to hurt you,” he said, fervently, and his toe had just proved it by etching in the sand:
Radcliffe Mereweather LOVES Fancy Zing.

They sat solemnly, looking at the words, their legs stretched out in the sun. A man shouted, “Turkey! Win a turkey in the raffle!” Nearby, Marbie shook her towel, and Daddy growled, “Marbie! The sand!” Mummy called, “Look, everyone! There's a skywriter!” and an announcement warned about the dangers of the riptide.

“If you will only forgive me”—Radcliffe was anxious—“I will love you forever and ever. Even, say you get old and wrinkled? I will love you. Even, say you get as fat as your mother?”

At that, Fancy pounced. “
Don't
call my mother fat!”

“Sorry.”

“I mean it. That's a stupid thing to say.”

“Sorry, I didn't know,” he explained. “I didn't know you were sensitive about your mother's weight.”

“That's
not
the point! You don't know a
thing
about my mother.”

“What do you mean? What's to know?”

Strange. How she told the whole story, in a flood, right then. Radcliffe stared, the sun burned freckles onto Fancy's shoulders, and the Zing Family Secret ran straight into the letters of
Radcliffe Mereweather LOVES Fancy Zing.

The first few weeks of the school year were hot, and as usual when the sun burned white, Fancy remembered the day at the seaside when Radcliffe revealed he had kissed another girl. Fancy had trumped him with the Zing Family Secret.

Also, during the first few weeks of the school year, Fancy wrote seventeen notes to her daughter's Grade Two teacher. She was just finishing the third of these notes—

Dear Ms. Murphy,

Thank you so much for teaching Cassie (and the rest of your class, I suppose) that lovely song about the sparrow and the ironbark tree, etc., etc. She has been entertaining her father and me with the song (on and off) all week, and it is such an unusual tune!

Just thought I should let you know.

Best regards,

Fancy Zing

—when her husband, Radcliffe, arrived home from work.

“FANCY THAT! MY FANCY IS AT HOME!”

Fancy sat up straight and waited patiently for the sound of his key in the front door, the scraping of his feet on the welcome mat, and the “Huh!” of pleasure as he put his umbrella in the stand. He had given Fancy the stand for a birthday, and he used it assiduously, taking his umbrella back and forth to work each day, even during heat waves.

The footsteps approached. Fancy scraped a wisp of hair out of her bun.

“Mwah!” said Radcliffe, at the study door.

“Hello,” she replied. “How was your day?”

Radcliffe leaned into the room and smiled around at the bookshelf, the scanner, and the corkboard. He looked at the printer next and chuckled. “What have you done with Cassie?” he said, wandering away down the hall.

“I haven't done anything with Cassie,” murmured Fancy. She opened her desk drawer and took out her
Irritating Things
notebook.

They had frozen quiche for dinner, and watched
Hot Auctions!,
and the next day, the moment she woke up, Fancy remembered this:
It is possible to change a person.

People went around warning you:
Never imagine you can change someone, for people NEVER CHANGE.
Then they talked about leopards and spots. Forgetting altogether about chameleons. Or that octopus, which lives on the ocean floor and can change its shape to become a stingray, a sea anemone, or even an eel, depending upon its fancy.

Furthermore, Fancy recalled, she herself had changed. There had been a time when, after a shower, she would leave the shower curtain where it was when she stepped onto the bath mat: crowded together, pressed against the bathroom wall.

Radcliffe explained, a month or so after they were married, that this was unhygienic. “The shower curtain should be drawn closed,” he explained, demonstrating, pulling the curtain all the way along its metal bar as if somebody were taking a shower. This would help to prevent mold.

Just like that, Fancy changed, and began to close the shower curtain tight.

Stepping out of the shower that morning, and drawing the curtain closed behind her, Fancy regarded her husband, shaving at the basin.
Tap, tap, tap,
said his razor.

“So, that's how you get the whiskers out of the razor, is it?”

He turned to her. He had a white towel around his waist, a white smear of shaving cream around his chin, and he was squinting in the steam from Fancy's shower.

“Is there another way you could get the whiskers out?” she suggested.

“We should change this routine,” he replied, turning back to the steamy mirror. “Me shaving, you showering. Same time, eh? Look at the mirror here. Can't see a thing.”

She leaned around him and flicked the switch on the overhead fan, so the room was filled with its buzz.

“What's with that rash on your arm there?” he said, raising his voice over the buzz.

“I know.” She reached for her skin cream. “I feel like a fish. It's just dry skin. I burned my skin too often as a teenager.”

“Wouldn't be that, would it? It's eczema. Or what? Psoriasis?”

“No,” said Fancy coldly. “It is not.” But Radcliffe was picking up her arm, turning it this way and that to catch the light, and whistling through his teeth.

“Here, Cassie, don't forget to take this note to your teacher, okay? Where are you going to put it so you don't forget?”

“In my pocket.”

Cassie stood on the footpath, next to the open car door, and showed her mother her open pocket.

“Good girl. Will you remember it there?”

“Yes, because I'll sneeze, and then I'll have to get out my hanky, and then I'll find it there and I'll go: I HAVE TO REMEMBER TO GIVE THIS TO MS. MURPHY.”

“That's my girl,” said Fancy.

“See over there.” Cassie pointed to a bench just inside the school gate. “That's Lucinda.”

“So it is! We'll have to invite her over again one day soon. What do you think?”

“Okay,” agreed Cassie, nodding. She walked through the school gate and, without turning back, raised one hand in farewell to her mother.

“Eczema, eczema, eczema.”

Cassie had a new word. It was a disease that made your skin fall off and then your blood went everywhere, like a laundry flood. Then you turned into a fish. Then you died.

“Eczema, eczema, eczema.” Cassie sang her word, eating her sandwich before school had even started.

“Eczema?” Lucinda put her elbow in Cassie's side. “I've got eczema.”

“No, you haven't.” Cassie rolled her eyes at an imaginary person on the bench alongside Lucinda. She looked back from her imaginary person to Lucinda and saw that Lucinda was also eating her lunch before school. Lucinda's lunch was brown bread with soggy tomato. It was disgusting.

To change the subject, Cassie pointed to the ground and said, “See that? That's a stick insect.”

“No,” said Lucinda. “It's just a stick.”

It was a stick insect though.

Lucinda pointed to her wrist: “See that? That's eczema.”

“There is no
point
in our having this discussion,” Cassie announced.

“Yes, there is.”

“Eczema's when you turn into a fish, actually,
Lucinda.
”

“Do I look like a fish? No. I don't think so.” Lucinda swung her legs and ate her tomato sandwich.

The word, Cassie realized, was spoiled now.

“Eczema, eczema, eczema,” she said listlessly. She had her eye on the stick insect, but so far it was just asleep.

When she got back from taking Cassie to school, Fancy knew that she ought to be working on her wilderness romance. She had promised thirty thousand words to her editor by tomorrow, and she had only written eleven. Specifically:

His rhinoceros smelled like a pappadam: sweaty, salty, strange, and strong.

Her editor would cut that line.

She reached for the phone and selected the button for
MARBIE AT HOME
.

“Hello,” said Marbie's voice.

“You're at home! Why aren't you at work? I was just going to leave a message. Well, if you're home, let's go out for a coffee!”

Marbie agreed, explaining that she and Listen were taking a day off because they had ticklish throats, which could be the start of colds.

“Or hay fever,” suggested Fancy. “I'll call Radcliffe and let him know, in case he was thinking of coming home for lunch. And then I'll see you in Castle Hill.”

Marbie looked fine when Fancy saw her, although Listen appeared to be weary. Also, she was behaving strangely: wearing sunglasses inside the shopping center; walking backward wherever she went.

Marbie was excited about buying a tennis racquet, and wanted to talk about something that the tennis racquet had that was called the
sweet spot.

After the coffee break, Fancy did not feel ready to go home, so she shopped for Cassie's birthday. At home again, she stood before her computer, and decided she ought to do some housework.

“Oh,
Cassie,
” she said aloud to herself when she put on the washing-up gloves. Cassie was always putting soapy wet hands into the gloves, and leaving them wet, cold, clammy, and unpleasant on the inside.

Luckily, by the time she had finished washing up, it was just about time to fetch Cassie from school.

Dear Ms. Murphy,

This is just a note to thank you for keeping an eye on my daughter (Cassie) yesterday afternoon. I noticed that you were on “bus duty,” and I also noticed that you are very good at keeping
all
the children within your “radar.” As I waited for Cassie, this is something I observed, and as a mother, I was pleased.

I do hope our Cassie is behaving herself. I know she can be a little erratic, but she has a good heart.

Kind regards,

Fancy Zing

At nights, staying up with her wilderness romance, Fancy felt afraid sometimes when she went to the bathroom. She would glance at the shower cubicle, with its curtain tightly closed, and think,
There is somebody in there!

She supposed she would see a shadow through the curtain, but it was a thick forest green material, and she was nearsighted, not wearing her glasses in the bathroom generally (preferring to see herself, in the mirror, as somebody blurry and unmarked).

Sometimes she swung the curtain open quickly, to catch the stranger out, but so far the cubicle was always empty.

“You look tired,” remarked the Canadian from his porch next door. He was eating sliced mango and kiwifruit this morning.

“It's funny you should say that,” said Fancy, “about me looking tired. Because I just saw myself in the hallway mirror without my glasses on and I thought, ‘I look awful,' and then I thought, ‘Isn't it lucky I wear glasses so that nobody can see my eyes?' I put my glasses on and felt safe. And now I come out here, and you notice right away.”

The Canadian took a pensive sip of coffee.

“Cassie, honey!” Fancy called, as usual, through the screen door.

“Mum, I can't find my shoes, where are my shoes? What did you do with my shoes?” came a panicky little call from upstairs.

“I didn't do anything with your shoes. They're right here by the front door where you left them.”

“To be honest,” said the Canadian from his porch, “I didn't notice that you look awful. If you look awful,” he continued, and peeled the foil lid from a boysenberry yogurt, “your glasses are hiding that well.”

Fancy looked at his wide white breakfast plate, with its elegant butterflies of fruit, and tried to think of something to say besides,
Isn't it hot?

“Kiwifruit is very good for you,” she declared. “Vitamin C and zinc.”

“You don't say?”

Cassie clattered down onto the front-door mat to put on her shoes.

“I'll do one lace, and you do the other,” offered Fancy.

“No, Mum. I'll do them both.”

“Bye now,” called Fancy to the neighbor as she tightened the straps on Cassie's satchel, her keys at the ready to open the car door.