46

Hula-Hoop

SOME DAYS ARE LIKE THAT, FULL OF HUNTING SEALS AND convivial conversations about ancient civilizations and flensing men, and other days are quiet and the wind is light, and the sun shines, and they are still stuck in the ice, and the Terra Nova is still an ocean away, and nothing happens.

Almost nothing.

The ration gets smaller: a piece of salt horse, a biscuit, some molasses. Sometimes the cook prepares a careless petrel that has landed on the deck and is instantly harpooned. They stay in one place, chafing, waiting for something to happen so they can move forward or backward, impatient for movement, for action, for time to start ticking again so they can move to their future, whatever it may be.

The days are filled with routine ship chores like coiling and disentangling ropes and cleaning and sharpening and polishing the butchering instruments. Julian takes it upon himself to take care of that task, to wear the duties of a blacksmith.

Motion. Movement. Action. The future. Sometimes the bright days on the open deck are filled not with sharpening steel but with Hula.

“Julian, I have some stories too about the old days,” Hula says, inching toward him as they languish on the port side near the mizzenmast while the afternoon wanes. She hops onto a step by the furled-down sail. Julian’s head is near her breasts. She has unbuttoned her sheepskin coat so he can fully partake of her copious cleavage inside the half-open tunic. “Do you want to hear a story?”

“From you, Hula? Always.”

She undulates. “The Maoris and Europeans bartered things, like fish and weapons, in exchange for clothes and beads.” She leans forward. “And sometimes, they bartered women.”

“You don’t say.”

“Yes. Sometimes, as a sign of hospitality, the Maori chief offered one of his girls to his important guests as a sign of welcome and good graces.”

“Hula, clearly the Maori are a very hospitable people.”

She leans forward some more. “We really are. We truly are. I am especially hospitable.”

One more inch and her bountiful breasts will be at Julian’s mouth.

“One could never accuse you of being inhospitable, Hula.”

“By the way,” Hula says, batting her eyes and shaking her body, “just so you know, the chiefs never offer skinny pale crabby white women to their guests.”

“No?” Where is the pale crabby white woman? Julian can’t take his eyes off Hula’s smiling face, and other things.

“No,” Hula confirms. “It’s supposed to be a gift, not a burden.”

Julian laughs. Hula is so vivacious, so utterly unafraid, so sexually frank, that in this dark hard life with the wind blowing sideways, Julian finds himself unsurprisingly eager for some of her hospitality. She leans into him, her breasts pressing against his bearded face, their ample softness hardening him.

The girl arouses him. Her smile arouses him. Her breasts arouse him. It’s not just Hula’s visually exciting body. It’s her openness. She is a toothy, voluptuous girl who giggles at his every word.

Recently Julian has been noticing that every time Hula is near him, he gets excited. He feels slightly guilty about it, but is no less excited. He wants his hands on her. He wants the relief that will follow. The ache for the relief heats up the blood in his veins. He wants her body to quench the abject thirst in his.

It’s a cold late sunny afternoon, and he and Hula are passing the time, playing, keeping warm, his lust running hot. The boat sways, and she sways into him. He rights her and leaves his arm on her, just in case the boat lurches again. Better safe than sorry is Julian’s motto.

I like the way you grab me, Hula purrs.

Just to make sure you don’t fall, Hula-Hoop. We don’t want you hurt.

Are you always so strong with your hands, she murmurs.

Possibly.

Would you always grab me like that … grab me to hold me steady?

If you like.

I’d like.

A beat.

I’d like that very much.

Another beat.

The girl clears her throat. Did you say there was something in your cabin you wanted to show me?

Julian doesn’t speak.

I think there is, Hula says. Didn’t you say you wanted to show it to me real bad?

Julian can’t hide what’s in his eyes, what’s inside him and outside him. He glances around to see if anyone has spotted them talking like this, so close, so throatily, so shallow of breath. He looks around because he’s praying there is no one around—not Niko, not Tia, not Tama, not Rangi—so he can take Hula to his cabin and jump through her fire hoops.

And who should Julian see glaring at him from across the deck but Shae.

She stands against the starboard bulwark, her arms crossed on her chest. And in her dark eyes, because it’s also hard to hide, is fury, and disbelief, and jealousy—and hurt. In other words, there’s a pottage of emotion burning inside Shae.

Shae.

She is the absolute last person on the ship that Julian wants to notice him and Hula, and he is bitterly disappointed. He is also enraged and deflated. Quite a trick to pull that off all at once. He backs away from Hula, lets go of the mast, gives the girl’s fur a regretful platonic pat, says maybe another time, excuses himself, and vanishes down into the hatch, to his cabin below.

A few minutes later, there’s a sharp tap on his door.

Welcome to hell, Julian mutters. “Come in, I guess.”

Shae opens the door, but doesn’t come in. “We’re preparing supper. Are you coming?”

“I’m not hungry.”

He is on his bed, pretending to read. He doesn’t look up at her. She steps in, slamming the door behind her. His cabin is tiny, and unfortunately the fight that’s looming needs space, needs geographical distance, like a continent or two with maybe a black hole in between, three oceans, and a hundred years.

Julian knows this because of the anger broiling inside him, like an opal thunderstorm. He shouldn’t be anywhere near her when he feels like this. She doesn’t want to be near him when he feels like this.

How dare she. How dare she, of all people, wantonly thwart his plans for some delicious time-wasting.

Shae speaks first. “You got nothing to say?”

“Nope.”

“Yes, you never do. Well, let’s have at it. What’s wrong with you?”

“I am literally, alone in my cabin, minding my own business.”

“Why are you sore?”

“Who’s sore.”

“Look, don’t misunderstand me,” Shae says. “I don’t give a shit what you do.”

Julian bolts into a sitting position; the book falls to the floor. “Sure didn’t look like it out there when you were stabbing me with your eyeballs.”

“You didn’t let me finish.”

“Nor you me.”

“I don’t care what you do,” Shae repeats, spitting words out, “but what does get my blood up is you pretending to Mother and Kiritopa you’re some kind of fucking saint when all you want to do is fuck the first floozy who throws herself at you. You got some gall. She throws herself at everybody, you know.”

“Lucky everybody.”

“So? Go fuck her. Who’s stopping you?”

“Somebody is stopping me—clearly.”

“Oh, please. I’m not stopping you. I’m disgusted, is what I am.”

“You’re disgusted.”

“Yes.”

“Hey, black pot,” Julian says, “why do you think I talk to her, not you, why do I want to talk to her, not you, why do I want to look at her, not you?”

“Like I care—and that’s not all you want.”

“Yes—that too!” Julian jumps up. “Because she’s nice! She doesn’t act like the creature from the fucking Black Lagoon. Or is it not an act, Shae?”

“She doesn’t know how awful you are,” Shae says. “She has no taste. Any man is good enough for her, even you.”

“If only I could be worthy of her bad taste. When was the last time you smiled at me? Oh, that’s right—never.”

“Who’d want to smile at you.”

They need more space. They are too close, yelling in a hiss through their grit teeth, flushed and fuming.

“When was the last time you talked nicely to me,” he says, “or even the first time? When did you not roll your eyes every time I spoke? When did you flirt with me? Or shove your boobs in my face? Oh, that’s right—fucking never.”

“I’d sooner hang.”

“Yes, you’ve made that clear. But when was the last time you smiled at anybody?”

“When I was with Edgar, if you really must know.”

“I don’t believe you!” Julian says, all clenched up, taking a threatening step to her. “I don’t believe that man wants anything to do with you. Or that he would leave his wife for you—unless his wife is Medusa.”

“Fuck you.”

“You know how I know he wants nothing to do with you?” Julian says. “Because what man would?” All the oxygen in the cabin is being sucked up into his anger. “Do you have any idea what men even want? Have you listened to yourself? Have you heard yourself? Everything that comes out of your mouth is dirt! I haven’t heard you speak a kind word to anybody or about anybody in all the time I’ve been with you.” Julian’s heart falls when he says those words. How long has it been? Five weeks? Six? Oh, God. But that’s on the inside. On the outside he remains verbal and livid.

“Edgar,” she says.

“Edgar what? You’re nice to a man who’s conveniently not here?” Julian sneers. “Tell me, is this charm offensive of yours the New Zealand way? Because you’re going to die out as a civilization if all the women here are like you. What do you think you’re offering this Edgar? And don’t give me that knowing look. A million women can give him that and not beat him down while they do it.”

“Why are you here with me, if that’s how you feel?”

“You think I would’ve come here if I thought for a second this is how you’d be? You think I would’ve ever fallen in love with you in the first place if this is how you were to me? Fair fucking maiden indeed.”

The pin falls. Julian loses his temper. It doesn’t happen often. But it happens now. He yanks her to him, squeezing the flesh of her arms between his furious fingers. “If you only knew what I dragged my faith through, what I dragged my life through. I can’t believe I nailed myself to your cross for this.” Convulsing, he rattles her. “You think I would’ve risked my life for you, ruined my body for you, sacrificed every fucking thing for you?” Groaning, he clamps her so hard he thinks he might break her arm. His voice sounds like it’s been run over by a cement spreader. “To think what I lost while I was trying to make myself a better man for you. What a fucking joke. You’re hateful. You’re jealous I flirt with Hula? I’d fuck Niko’s grandmother before I’d lay a hand on you. Hula doesn’t make me feel every second like I want to rip my eyes out so I wouldn’t have to look at her.”

“What a bastard you are! You think you’re getting on Godward’s boat with me now?”

“Fuck you. No one is getting on Godward’s boat. I know that better than you, hell’s princess.” Julian shoves her away, seeing red, feeling red, no longer in control of anything. “So do whatever you want. Yes, your Edgar Evans doesn’t have much time, but you know what, he still has an eternity compared to what you’ve got, which is nothing. So smile, don’t smile. By all means, spend your precious minutes like this. Soon none of it will matter. But hey, look on the bright side, at least you won’t have to be chained to your miserable fucking self forever.”

Gasping, she lunges for him. He grabs her hands. They struggle. She tries to hit him, to kick him, to head-butt him. He holds her away from him, watching her pant in breathless rage.

“You’re a fine one to speak,” Shae says, her voice breaking. “You think you’re a ball of joy?” Tears run down her red face. “I don’t think I’ve seen you smile once except when you’re talking to Hula. What have you done to make me want you? What have you done to make me love you? You’re the sourest pill on this ship, you never speak to anyone, you’re a deaf-mute, you don’t sing or dance or joke or do anything but stare at the sea and dream of fucking her!”

“Not her!”

“Let go of me!”

“Stop hitting me,” Julian says, blocking her, slapping her fists away.

“Or what?”

“Stop hitting me and get the hell out of my cabin.”

“No!”

“No?”

“You want to hit me back?” she says in a rasping voice. “Go ahead. I know you want to. You want to hurt me? So hurt me.”

“If I hurt you, you won’t get up.”

“I’d like to see you try.” Shae lunges for him again, her head like a ram, and Julian staggers back, but instead of head-butting him, she grabs him by his overshirt and kisses him. She kisses him so hard, her lips jam against his teeth. Her fists pounding his shoulders, then going around his back, still lashing at him, she kisses him in open-mouthed wrath like an untamed thing.

Julian doesn’t know whether to shove her away or embrace her. The havoc between his body and soul is surreal.

“Either hurt me or fuck me,” Shae says. “That’s your choice.”

“Why choose,” he says, ripping her shirt, tearing it open, baring her breasts. Before he can touch her, she whirls around and bends over the bed, hiking up her skirt.

“Fuck me,” she says, “until I can’t stand up.”

“This is how you want it?”

“This is how I want it.”

Here is the next stage.

It’s either love or violence.

Still trying to subdue his panting anger, Julian grips her hips. She balls up the blanket into her fists. She cries out when he enters her. He tries not to move to the rhythm of his fury. She buries her face in the blanket to muffle her moans.

Hurry, Shae says to him. Hurry.

Julian doesn’t understand this command. Does she mean quicker? Or does she mean quickly? There is a world of difference.

She keeps repeating it. Hurry, I said. Hurry.

Not until you hurry. They’re both gasping.

Hurry, Julian, hurry, God, hurry, hurry, hurry …

Oh, now she calls him by his name. He clasps her buttocks, squeezing her tighter over himself, adjusts his tempo, lowers himself a notch. He comes when she comes. But she comes in surprise, as if she wasn’t expecting it. She forgets to stifle her turmoil.

Julian doesn’t let go. Still pulsing, his hands relaxing on her, he bends forward. Shae, he whispers. She shoves him away with her hips, straightens out, pulls down her skirt, holds her torn shirt closed, and rushes out of the cabin without glancing back at him.

She doesn’t meet his eye during supper, or afterward around the fire. She behaves toward him as she has been behaving. Like they’re strangers. But when he gets up to go get himself some shine, he pours a little into a cup for her, and when he sits back down on the elk skin, he sidles up next to her.

Here, he says, handing her the drink.

She takes it from him without catching his eye. Kiritopa is coming back, she says.

He can sit on the other side of me. Shae, Julian whispers, and it sounds like shh. Knocking into her lightly, he stares into her face until she blinks and returns his gaze. Her lip quivers like she’s about to cry. Kiritopa comes back. Julian faces forward.

It’s not as if Kiritopa doesn’t notice the titanic change in Julian’s geography. He gives a measured look at Julian, staring ahead into the fire, at Shae, staring ahead into the fire, considers the situation for a moment, and then slowly lowers himself to the deck, taking his place by Julian’s right side. Here, he says, I brought her a fur. Cover her shoulders. It’s cold out.

Late that night after the lights are off, and everyone’s asleep, everyone but Julian, there’s a rapping at his cabin door.

She is outside. Wordlessly they stare at each other.

Julian pulls her in, presses her against the wood, kisses her deeply. Her arms dangle at her sides. One of her hands rises to grip his elbow. She’s got such a full beautiful mouth. God, what a waste it has been.

Outside, the Southern Cross stars shine dim cold light down on the Hinewai, but below deck there’s only the inky depths of the ocean. Julian and Shae bob and sway in the near darkness, anchored by the ice. He enfolds her in his arms, embracing her like a papa bear who’s found his mama bear.

He wishes he didn’t have to say anything, but he knows something is required of him. She is so sad and trembling. I’m sorry, Shae, Julian whispers, caressing her face, her hair. I’m so sorry. You’re right. It’s true, I haven’t been at my best. Forgive me. He looks away. My grief has broken me.

She says nothing, exhaling, holding on to his arms. He latches the door. Mutely she stands, her fire eyes lowered. In a fever he kisses her soft lips. A small blubber candle burns a flickering yellow light through his cabin. Blow it out, she says.

You don’t want me to look at you?

No!

You don’t want to look at me?

A soft inhale. Just blow it out.

He blows it out. He brings her to the bed and sits, holding her hands while she stands in front of him. He looks up into her face.

Take off your clothes and come lie with me, Mary-Margaret Patmore.

What do you mean, take off my clothes?

Take off everything. Be naked.

Completely naked? No! Who does that? You’re not naked.

I will be. In the dark Julian takes off his layers. The cabin is warm. Thank God, Niko relented and fired up the furnace a day ago, to rev the engine to help the pack ice break up.

How do I know you’re naked? Shae says.

Standing up, Julian takes her hand and places it on himself. She groans. Her hand clasps him.

He kisses her. Go on, take off your clothes, Shae.

It doesn’t seem as if she’s been naked often during intimacy, she is so slow and reluctant to get undressed. She may have given her body to men, but she has kept a layer of fabric over herself, a cloak for her protection.

He stands waiting in the darkness, listening to her rustling noises. The ship bobs silently.

Are you naked?

I suppose, she says timidly. His hands reach for her. She is barely breathing. I’m sorry, too, she mutters into his shoulder. You have no idea what it’s like to live as I’ve lived.

Julian has some idea, unfortunately. Look how beautiful you are. He cups her breasts, kisses them softly, kisses her nipples. Look what you’ve been hiding from me. He runs his hands down her back, over her buttocks, fondling her.

I tried to show you. You turned up your nose like you were too good for me.

That’s not why. I just didn’t want you to sell yourself short. Lie down.

Why?

I’ll show you. Lie down. He sets her down on his narrow cot. Open your legs.

But Shae is not used to being on her back. It must feel too vulnerable to her, like an animal in surrender. She can’t relax—and she most certainly can’t open her legs. Julian lies on his side and for a long time caresses her with the tips of his fingers, from her face to her ankles. Almost like they’re Mary and Julian in the tiny room off the chandlery. He touches her gently. She barely responds. He circles her more insistently. She responds a little more. He presses harder on her skin with his fingers. She responds some more. He balls his hand into a fist and kneads her with his prominent knuckles.

And to that Shae responds most strongly. To that, she curves and arches, she buckles and softens, she finally opens.

He kneels between her legs and kisses her stomach.

What are you doing?

What does it look like I’m doing? He caresses her hips.

I have no idea.

Instead of telling you, why don’t I show you, he says, pressing his palms against her downy triangle, opening her with his thumbs.

Motionless she lies while he gives her his mouth. She is rigid as a board, her hands not touching his head but clenching the sheet underneath her. It is only when the lunar crescent appears briefly in the sky through the cabin’s tiny window that Julian glimpses Shae’s illuminated face, her head tipped back, eyes closed, the mouth open in a breathless O.

Oh, Shae, he whispers, soothing her, kissing her, caressing her with his words and his lips and his fingers. I really am sorry. Sometimes love looks like this, too, he murmurs between her legs. Not just you bending over the bed, counting the minutes until somebody knocks. He says it to comfort her, but he knows all too well this is how they live, this is how they’ve always lived. Counting the minutes until somebody knocks. His heart is filled to the brim with sorrow even when he brings joy to the one he loves, and finally even some comfort to himself.

Only afterward, do her hands take hold of his head. Come to me, she whispers.

Her legs quiver uncontrollably as he fits between them.

Shh, shh, he murmurs, kissing her while he makes love to her. She won’t let him lift himself off her, two bears flattened against each other. When it’s over, she doesn’t shove him away. She doesn’t release him. In the dark, Julian hears her crying.

What have I done, Shae whispers wrenchingly between her sobs.

Shh. Everything’s going to be all right, Julian says. Those things I said to you, I didn’t mean them. I was very upset. He wishes he had kept his temper.

Remember I asked you to forgive me if ever we came to combat and I said cruel things to you I did not mean?

You meant them.

No. If I’m angry, it’s only because I want real life to live up to my dream of your perfection. Remember I told you that?

Not really, she says. But it’s all right. I understand. I’m not angry. Not anymore. They don’t matter, the words. They’re just words. I know you didn’t mean them. It’s this you mean. Right here, giving me your body, giving me your mouth.

You say to her be my goddess, and she agrees and opens her legs. What a burden you’ve put on her—and yourself. She must be what she is not. You must be what you are not. She is not a goddess.

Goddesses don’t die.

When night becomes day, Shae does not become a different woman to Julian. She remains quiet like him, not demonstrative or loud. But on deck, she allows him to stand by her side, and together they gaze at the ice over the sea, to the horizon where Edgar’s ship is a gray smudge. When he brings her drink, her eyes stare into his and sometimes her hand rests on his. At night her warm body lies on top of him and underneath him. At night she speaks words to him, fragile words full of wounded pride and longing and tenderness.

Words like: The things you do to me, you were going to do it to Hula, too?

Not all of it.

Were you flirting with her just to make me mad, to make me jealous?

Sure, Julian says. Let’s go with that.

Words like: Your eyes confound me. Your lips confound me. Your cock confounds me. I don’t know who you are, why you look at me the way you do. Why you fuck me the way you do, why you kiss me the way you do. Everything about you bewilders me. For years, Mother told me you’d be coming. She didn’t tell me you’d be like this.

Like what, Shae?

She moans.

And later: You were so silent, she says. You could’ve given me a sign about who you were, what I meant to you, so I would know how to act.

Sometimes, Julian says, you need to be nice to people even when you don’t know of what use they may be to you. Because most of the time, you don’t know. But you are Mirabelle, Julian wants to say. She was nothing but goodness and kindness walking on this earth. How she was all the time, to everyone, you can also be. You have it in you. I’ve seen it. I’ve known it.

Shae’s fingers caress his body exceedingly tenderly, as if he’s a newborn. As if both she and the human being she touches are touching and being touched for the first time. Julian has never been caressed more gently by anyone than he is by the calloused fingers of a roughened woman with the softest lips who herself prefers knuckles to fingertips.

“Look, I understand,” Julian says, kissing her. “All human beings need someone to contend with. The contention strengthens us. To argue, to battle strengthens us.”

“That’s true,” Shae says, not taking her hands off him. “We don’t come to our belief limply.” She squeezes him. “We come to it by combat.”

“Yes.” Julian closes his eyes. “And it’s through this combat that we even find God sometimes. We hope this wins favor with Him, because God knows that we are contentious creatures who don’t like to follow blindly, but instead wish to come to Him by the virtue of our hard-fought choice.”

“I’ve come to you.”

“And I to you.”

“I wish I could explain how much I didn’t want Mother to be right.”

“You don’t have to. I know.”

“I wish she had never told me the prophecy. I wish I never knew.”

“She should have never told you.”

“It’s blackened me.”

“It’s just crust, Shae. Wipe it away from your soul.”

“I wasn’t going to get together with Edgar, you know,” she says. “I was trying to push you away with my words.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t present enough to see it.” Julian closes his eyes.

“I was so afraid of you,” she says. “I didn’t want to believe Mother. But after your fight with the Maori, I knew she was right.”

“Hardly a fight.”

“It wasn’t what you did to him that did it. It was what you did to me.”

“Um …”

“You and I were having the ugliest words. A second earlier, you were ready to knock me down, you looked so mad. And yet, the second you thought I might be in danger, your arm flew out in front of me. It was the first thing you did before you even took a breath. You put yourself between me and the world, Julian,” says Shae. “That’s how I knew Mother was telling the truth. I was even more scared of you then. I’ve been afraid and angry for years. You don’t know how hard it is to live under the weight of your own death lurking around every corner.”

Julian knows.

“I swear, I wasn’t always like this,” Shae says, her hands on his face, stroking his stubble. “Mother has ruined me.”

“I swear, I wasn’t always like this either,” Julian says. He won’t say what ruined him.

As soon as they deliver the blubber to the Terra Nova, Shae says she wants to sail back to Bluff and leave with Julian. “I don’t care where. New York if you want. Or if you think it’s too dangerous to spend all those months at sea, we can stay in New Zealand. I’d prefer that, no matter what Mother thinks. We can go hide in the deep mountain, near Queenstown. Maybe it’ll be safer there? Or we can move with Mother and Kiritopa to Fjordland, to Lake Hauroko. We call it Mary Lake. He has been waiting for you to come so he and Mother could retire to a cabin he built there for the two of them. Mother has been working all her life in Southland, saving her money to buy the Yarrow because it was the first tavern into town. She didn’t want to miss you when you walked into Invercargill. But Kiritopa is done. He can’t wait to sell it and leave. Mary Lake is beautiful. We can get married, if you want. We can have a baby, if you want. Kiritopa and you can build us a cabin, near them. I’d be all right with that. I would prefer not to leave Mother and go to New York, but I’ll go if you want. I know she is insane. But she’s my mother. And Kiritopa has been a father to me all these years.”

“Yes, he loves you very much. And I agree,” Julian says. “Better not to leave your parents.”

“Julian,” Shae whispers, “have you found me before?”

He keeps his neutral face. He blinks away the faces of the one he loved. “Not you, no.”

“But someone like me?”

“Yes. Someone like you.”

“Tell me she is wrong. Or do you not know?”

“Wrong about what?”

“Fulani’s prophecy.”

Julian won’t look at her. “Which part?”

“All of it.”

Now he looks at her. “Don’t you want some of it to be true?” Julian smiles as he holds her in his arms. “Don’t you want a man to search behind the sun for you?” The tips of his fingers touch her face. “And when he finally found you, to say, Masha, my Mashenka, my heart, my dearest one. You are the one.” Masha is Russian for Mary.

Yes, Shae whispers, tears trickling out. But only that part. I want to be your someone, Julian.

You are my someone, Shae. You’ve always been my someone.

For as long as I live, I will beg for your forgiveness, she says. But what do I possibly have to offer the one from whom I seek mercy?

Just your heart, he whispers back.

She talks and talks, nestled in his chest, stroking his stomach, and Julian lies and listens to the murmurs of her wind-beaten voice as it carries him away.

Sometimes the beast needs to be loved before it can be lovable.

Love her in her sin, that’s what divine love means. Love her with the highest form of love on earth. Love everything. Then you will see mystery in everything.