FOUR

I’m eyeing her.

3 p.m.

On the sofa, now, she’s lying, affected, damp cloth over her face, like the mourning process is a luxury spa.

You alright?

–

Nothing.

A nod.

Was that a nod?

So small I barely trust my eyes.

–

You alright Chaz?

I’ve never called her Chaz before.

Why would I call her Chaz?

And she sits up,

she removes the cloth, painfully, and lets her gaze nestle into me.

It’s part leave me alone

part why d’you call me that?

I know in an instant she hates it.

That’s obvious – there’s nothing here to like and me calling her

Chaz has tipped something in her brain and I can feel her erupting.

Her mouth twitches –

–

Still nothing.

Then: a nod.

Then: I’ll pass.

–

I’ll pass – she says.

Brilliant.

Breaking news.

Then the cloth is draped back over her eyes.

And she is serene – her towelette is baby-blue and it’s typical, by the way, I remind myself this, cos I can’t forget it, it’s typical that Charley has to be a saint,

has to mourn like a woman anointed.

And I have to be manic.

That’s our balance.

Always is.

But not this time.

Not when we’re

tilted.

–

So I’ll cheer her up, wheel out an old joke:

Bitter bitter Charley, old weary grump,

Sitting all alone, and giving me the hump.

She’s not thrilled with that, so I try –

Place is dirty, Charley – shall I give it a clean, get the vacuum

out…?

Nope, try again.

New curtains, what d’you think?

Nothing: the baby, then, Charley, let’s talk that through, yeah, shall we do that?

–

And I let it hang over her.

Maybe the gust of that word – baby – can blow the flannel off

her face.

Or maybe the clouds outside’ll do it.

–

Yeah?

Shall we do that?

Talk about the –

About it?

–

I can’t say baby again.

Once was fine – just about.

And I could say Miriam.

But then I’d have to explain Miriam.

So I let it be the word I use.

–

It.

Let it drip down onto her – rouse her.

–

The windows are shaking.

Just a bit – not lots, but enough.

It adds tension.

So as her blindfold slips off and her eyes jut up at me I almost

can’t hold myself steady.

But I do.

I make sure to.

Rock-steady.

And the windows are shaking but I’m not moving.

Storm Edgar’s outside – he is screaming and violent; we are silent and violent.

For a moment.

Rock-steady vs. rock-steady.

Swelling.

Ready to burst.

Windows shaking.

Beating.

And a word forms on Charley’s bottom lip.

Fury arriving.

I feel it.

And I’m puffed up.

And her lip moves.

Words forming.

Windows drum harder.

Mary pricks.

Charley stalks.

Mouths twitching.

Arguments we ache for.

Words to be hurled.

Beating.

Drumming.

A deluge from her mouth and curses in mine.

And we buckle in.

Her lip quaking.

We buckle in.

Brewing.

Beating.

Louder.

Rumbling.

Louder.

BURSTING.

–

Then she wobbles.

That’s all: her bottom lip wobbles.

No words, just –

Charley droops back down onto the sofa.

Her back flops.

The windows tremble and amongst the vibrations there’s a sobbing.

Takes me a moment to locate it: Charley’s crying hard.

So hard it doesn’t come out, it implodes inside her.

I need to hug her, it hurts watching her and I need to hug her.

But for the first time in fifteen years I’m not sure how.

She’s huddled over, her is voice is muffled – the sound of crying is a fox’s wail.

And I stand over her.

I hover.

I feel stupid.

I feel awkward.

So I sit because it’s less awkward.

Pause a moment.

Watch her.

Ease in next to her.

Slow,

no room for sudden movement.

I clutch her hand.

I swear I feel a flinch or a twitch, but it’s nothing, it’s nerves, because she takes my hand and places it right there in the folds of her body and squeezes.

Her body squeezes.

And we’re completely safe, so we pause time in that position, for as long as we can,

cos it’s perfect.

–

Mary starts to fidget.

She looks over to Charley, smiles.

You holding up?

Mary smiles again – lets her buck teeth show.

No response.

We should talk.

No response.

Mary wriggles out from Charley’s grip.

We should, Charley.

No response.

Mary stands.

Charley stays seated, looks up at Mary, blank.

And I glare back down at her.

Well?

I’ll pass, M.

It’s all that flicks between us.

I’ll pass.

–

It’s a stupid joke we have – cos we’re teachers.

And it’s not appropriate. Not now.

Wrong words, wrong time.

I don’t say it but I make my eyes transmit it, like she has to know I’m fuming cos she said I’ll pass when I want an honest answer.

And her look back says I don’t care and I believe her.

I do,

in that moment,

I really believe she doesn’t care.

So it’s ten seconds I give her,

in my head,

that’s my limit.

One last chance.

I’ve decided it, right now, five seconds

till I’m breathing air,

storming out.

Three

Two

_–Mary turns around, walks to the door.

From behind, Charley calls.

M?

M?!

But I’m not breaking, I’m done, I’m out.

–

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