Almost Japanese. Sarah Sheard
was time to plug in the pump. A big kid picked up the extension cord to the buried pump, ran up the hill to the garage, through the window, and plugged it into the outlet behind the car.
The lawn gargled.
A rude string of farts broke out of the top of the pipe, then a rusty ball of water wobbled and rose into a dramatic plume. My father undid the baggie of goldfish, ornamental fantails, and we all leaned over to watch him pour them in. They looked fantastic, their fins undulating like pony-tails underwater – except they were swimming a little jerkily, all in the same direction, tumbling head over heels in the undertow towards the yawning intake pipe and then suddenly we only counted five instead of six and then three and then –
My father dashed up the lawn to cut the motor but it was too late. A kid yelled and pointed. There on the wobbling ball of water danced little glinty bits of fish. Pink and gold. A fin, a head, part of a tail. The pieces floated into a quiet corner of the pool and we all watched silently as my father fetched the kitchen sieve and scooped the bits out onto a sheet of newspaper.
After dinner, I looked out my bedroom window onto the fountain and saw there was hardly any water left. The fountain was giving off a dry, rasping sound as it sucked on air. But the Bennetts’ garden, below ours, looked like a rice paddy.
My father worked on that pool all summer long. He tore out the bricks and laid in more plastic, re-bricked it and caulked the whole thing over with flexible rubber. Then concrete, fibreglass and turquoise pool-paint. It still leaked like crazy. The fountain drew in on itself. When it ran now, it gave off a dull, flat sound and the hose was kept running continuously to top it up. Compensating for evaporation, Dad said. That fall, when the ground froze, the whole rim of bricks heaved itself up on end, a jawful oflaughing teeth.
The following spring, my father filled the pool in with dirt, leaving the rim of bricks as they were. The grass seeded itself over the dirt and clay and my mother planted bleeding-heart bushes in the middle. The fountain is still visible, years later, imbedded in the lawn like the miniature remains of a Scottish castle.
That water wanted out. And it got out. Water was a natural teacher.
My name is Emma. A simple one. Two syllables. Non-ethnic.
*
One night, my parents had a dinner party, and before the guests arrived my father decided to paint the front door. While my mother and I glided about the kitchen, polishing glasses, sorting out the cutlery, turned bread out of pans, brushed butter onto food, my father began methodically spreading newspapers over the front porch. He unscrewed the Medusa’s-head door-knocker, dropped her in Brasso, and began to paint. The dog discovered the opened can of black enamel and nosed the lid off the edge of the porch into the garbage pail, by which time the light was starting to fail, so my father rigged a bulb on a long extension cord from the living-room, down the front hall, through the porch and out the door. Just a little too late to catch the panpipe rill of black enamel hardening along the bottom of the door.
I lit the candles. My mother retreated upstairs to dress. The dog, intoxicated by the fumes, began dancing and growling at the umbrella-stand. Dad printed a caution sign and strung it up across the porch, but it was unreadable in the gloom and the first guest ducked the string, pushed open the door and discovered the paint on his palm just after he’d embraced my mother.
After the clean-up, I stowed solvent and rag in a can at the top of the cellar stairs where an inebriated guest, searching for the bathroom, inadvertently opened the door and drop-kicked the can downstairs into the loaded laundry basket.
*
The empty Chrysler, family car, coasts past us down the driveway like a dream. My father lopes after it, his arms like a sleepwalker’s, reaching for the wheel through the open window, but the car glides out of reach and he stops in the forsythia shadow to watch the double doors of the garage crumple inward like wet biscuit.
When I open my eyes again, my mother and father are disappearing through the perfectly-shaped hole in the wood.
This was the third, and last, time the car ran away.
*
My father wasn’t sure about a private school. He didn’t want his daughter turning into a conformist. But it was the uniform that made me want to go. Kilt, blazer, tie-pin, knee-socks, black oxfords. Like a business suit. That, and the fact that it was so close by. I could come home every day for lunch.
And no boys.
Thirteen. No blood yet.
The approach (kyohan) to a bridge.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
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