Part 11 (1/2)

”Poor dear crazy. Give them here.”

”I'm not crazy.”

”Confused, then. As usual, poor Ruthie's just a bit confused.”

”No,” said Ruth, but she recognized the word confused as approaching what she was, after her sticky, bright dream.

”All right,” said Frida. ”Let's see. How old are you?”

”Seventy-five.”

”What colour are my eyes?”

”Brown.”

”And what's the capital of Fiji?”

”Suva.”

”No it isn't.”

”It is,” said Ruth. ”I lived there. I should know.”

”You don't know,” said Frida. ”You only think you do. That's what I'm talking about-confused! Now that's cleared up, maybe you can tell me what you were doing in my room.”

”It's my room. My lilies.”

”Give them to me. I'll put them in some water.”

”No.”

Frida came no closer to Ruth. She held her arm out with the box at the end of it, as if it might be the perfect receptacle for flowers; then she turned and threw it into the wastepaper basket that sat beside Ruth's chair.

Ruth winced. ”I know you were at Richard's house. Why? Why was my box under your bed?”

”What were you doing looking under my bed?”

”You locked me in.”

”I didn't lock anybody in!” Frida cried. She was in the kitchen now, tearing at the wrapping paper, which was wet from the lilies and stuck to her angry fingers. She shook it off into the wastepaper bin. ”I closed the door so you wouldn't go wandering out there with all the traps in the gra.s.s. The b.l.o.o.d.y doors weren't locked.”

But Ruth had tried the doors. She had tried them. ”What do you want?” she asked, because it occurred to her that Frida wanted something from her-was always wanting, wanting, without ever quite admitting it.

”I want you to apologize for tras.h.i.+ng my room,” said Frida. ”For wrecking my stuff and for disrespecting my privacy. I want you to give me those lilies, and I want you to admit Suva isn't the capital of Fiji.”

Ruth shook her head.

”All right then,” Frida said, and, her face expressionless, used her forearm to sweep the objects across the dining table. They clattered over the surface, catching and dragging, and the bottles tipped and rolled to the left and right, but they were all carried by Frida's arm to the table's edge, and then they fell into the wastepaper bin. None of the gla.s.s shattered; everything fell neatly and quietly, almost as if the objects were taking up their original places, snug in the bin as they had been in the box. It was like a magic trick. Then Frida lifted the bin and held it on her hip like an awkward baby; she opened the door with one quick hand and, still matronly, marched into the garden.

Ruth couldn't understand how the door had opened; but she was safe behind her lilies. She followed and watched as Frida shook the contents of the bin out over the edge of the dune. Some of the sh.e.l.ls and coral bounced a little before rolling, and all the grit and dust swarmed up in a grubby cloud before puffing away, abruptly, as if with a specific destination in mind. The box flew from the bin and caught a little in the coastal wind; it only subsided among the gra.s.ses after a short, desperate flight. Then Frida threw her arms out, so that the wastepaper basket swung high into the low sun and spun onto the beach.

Ruth stood beside Frida at the crest of the dune. The lilies were growing heavier in her arms. Down the slope, the coral and sh.e.l.ls were beginning their primordial crawl back to the sea.

”Those things belong to my family,” Ruth said.

”A little life lesson for you, Ruthie,” said Frida. ”Don't get attached to things.”

Ruth began to test out the slope of the dune with one foot. Frida was grinning into the salt of the wind. There was a tremendous well-being about her, and she lifted her face to the sky as if feeling the sun for the first time in months. Frida often gave off an impression of posthibernation. She was a great brown bear, a slumbering hazard, both dozy and vigilant. And Ruth was used to her slow surety of movement; but now she had woken up.

”You're an awful woman,” said Ruth, and Frida gave a gnomic t.i.tter. The chalky sand rubbed at Ruth's bare feet. ”A savage woman.” Frida laughed harder, with that same round gong Ruth had heard on the telephone. Ruth pointed down the dune with her lilies. ”I want everything back.”

Frida dusted her hands and emitted the sigh she often did immediately before standing up. ”Two things,” she said. ”First of all, apologize. Second, tell me Suva isn't the capital of Fiji. Then I'll pick it all up for you. Otherwise, you can do it yourself.”

Ruth began to descend. She still clung to the lilies. This was the very worst request to make of her back: to walk down a steep slope with her arms full. She bent into the dune and it fell away beneath her; she kicked up whirlwinds of sand.

Frida watched from above. ”Mind your step,” she said.

Ruth moved forward and the gra.s.s collapsed; she felt her feet slide, and then she was lying on the ground with the lilies scattered over and around her. She wriggled them off. She didn't think she was hurt; it didn't even feel like a fall. It was as if the dune had scooped her up, and she was caught in a shallow, sandy bowl.

”Oh, Ruthie,” said Frida from above.

”What is it?” asked Ruth from among the gra.s.ses, but she knew she had fallen into the tiger trap. It had filled considerably in the hours since its construction; now it cradled Ruth. It was fragrant with lilies. She closed her eyes and opened them again, and the world b.u.mped up against her and tilted away. She was lying on her side. Ants moved among the sand, over and under each grain, and all of this was too close to Ruth's nose. Above her she saw the very edge of the lawn, or what remained of it. It was a frayed rug of green. It was the only kind of civilized gra.s.s that consented to grow here-a tough, s.h.i.+ny species with strenuous roots. Harry never liked it; it wasn't soft enough, he said, and it contrasted too much with the sand. Ruth was able to roll onto her back, and then the sky appeared, a dark, blank blue. She felt a dizzy sting behind her eyes.

”Any bones broken?” called Frida.

Ruth looked to every bone for information, and each rea.s.sured her. But her back was burning. She felt around in the sand for some kind of handhold and found a small mineral lump with string still attached. A flurry of sand from above suggested Frida might be coming down the dune.

”Don't!” Ruth cried.

”Please yourself.” Frida sighed again, and the sound was both resigned and happy. The sand settled. ”You know, this is exactly what I said to Jeff. I said to him, it just isn't safe to have an old girl like your mother living in this kind of environment. She walks in the garden, and what do you know, she slips and falls. I've seen a fall do someone in-never the same again. And that's why I'm here twenty-four hours a day.” The sea sounded close, and something tickled in Ruth's ear. ”But does Jeff ever thank me? Does he ever ring me up and say, 'Frida, you're the ant's pants'?”

Some sand scattered across Ruth's forehead. She wasn't sure if the wind was at fault, or Frida. She tried to sit up and found that she couldn't. ”I can't get up,” she said, but not to Frida; to herself.

”Not with that att.i.tude, you can't.”

”I really can't,” said Ruth, still to herself. She would have liked to see one cloud in the sky. That would have been fluffy and merry and in some way comforting. If I see a cloud, she thought, it means I'll get up again. It means I haven't fallen.

”Take me, for instance,” said Frida. ”If I went around all day saying, 'I can't, I can't,' I'd get nowhere. What you need is some positive thinking. Say to yourself, 'I will get up.' Then do it.”

Ruth moved one foot experimentally.

”Too many people in this country are old before their time,” Frida sighed.

”Frida.” Ruth heard the bleat in her voice. Her body wouldn't move. ”I think I'm paralysed.”

Ruth felt something tickle at her forehead, like a handful of thrown gra.s.s; she knocked it away with her right hand.