“You know that.”
“Do I? Come on, now you’re messing with me .” She reached for her blouse. “I mean it. I’m moving on.”
“I love you, Grace.”
The words shocked him.
They shocked her too, arresting her in the act of buttoning the blouse, and she tilted her head and stared at him with those swimming pool eyes.
“I didn’t think you knew how to string those words together, John.”
“Neither did I. But I mean it,” he said, crossing back toward the bed, the stained carpet spongy beneath his shoes. “I love you.”
He did mean it and for a moment she allowed him to draw her to him, then she freed herself from his arms and pulled on her skirt, smoothing it over her hips.
“Those are pretty words, but I need you to do something to back them up.”
“What?”
“You know what.”
“Come on, Grace.”
She saw his eyes.
“What’s her hold over you?”
“Lucy. Money.”
Grace shook her head as she slid her feet into her sandals.
“No, there’s something more.”
“There’s nothing more.”
“What aren’t you telling me, John?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re a liar.”
She grabbed her purse and her car keys from the bedside table and opened the door, letting in a blast of cauterizing sunlight and the rumble of the traffic on the I-10.
“Do it, John, or I’m gone.”
Grace slammed the door, leaving behind the reek of her cigarette.
Turner sat down on the bed, hearing the tired wheeze of the bedsprings, and stared out the window, blind to the sand and the scrub and the bone-white sky.
2
Turner, sweating in the night heat, stood silhouetted against the aquamarine swimming pool, water lapping at his shoes as the fervent PoolShark scavenged for muck.
Lights blazed inside the house and he could see his daughter watching TV in the living room, a barrage of canned laughter incoming on the still air.
Tanya was on the warpath, her manic energy driving her from room to room, and she appeared at the kitchen window, looking out at him, before the yelp of her cell phone had her hurrying off.
Turner crossed to where mesquite logs burned in the grill.
He opened a plastic container and used his fingers to lift out a coiled length of ground raw beef sausage squeezed into a casing of hog’s intestine, laying the unbroken spiral on the fire, hearing the spit and sizzle as the hot grid seared the meat.
This was boerewors , the signature dish of his homeland.
Driving through downtown Tucson a few months ago Turner had spotted a South African flag stuck to the window of a butcher shop. On impulse he’d pulled over and investigated, finding a big blond Afrikaner in a blood smeared smock sawing meat behind the counter.
When Turner discovered the man made wors he’d bought a couple of pounds and taken it home to cook on the barbecue. His wife and daughter had refused to eat the meat (Tanya was into something radically macrobiotic and Lucy, a little American now, had pronounced the sausage “gross”, preferring the familiarity of a Big Mac.)
But the wors had been superb, perfectly spiced and, though he was not a patriotic man, Turner had felt a flash of homesickness as he’d sat eating alone outside this house in his adopted country.
So, it had become a weekly ritual, the cooking of the sausage, but tonight he had no enthusiasm for the business of barbecuing. He’d come out here merely to escape his wife, sensing that she was intent on a confrontation, her agitation telegraphed by the slamming of doors and the muttered oaths that followed her through the house like a con trail.
Using tongs Turner shifted the coiled meat on the grill, flames licking at the fat that pierced the casing, fragrant smoking billowing.
Setting down the tongs Turner looked up at the stars. He still found the absence of the Southern Cross disconcerting.
The constellation had been a reassuring presence since his boyhood and it troubled him, vaguely, that he might never see it
“Do I? Come on, now you’re messing with me .” She reached for her blouse. “I mean it. I’m moving on.”
“I love you, Grace.”
The words shocked him.
They shocked her too, arresting her in the act of buttoning the blouse, and she tilted her head and stared at him with those swimming pool eyes.
“I didn’t think you knew how to string those words together, John.”
“Neither did I. But I mean it,” he said, crossing back toward the bed, the stained carpet spongy beneath his shoes. “I love you.”
He did mean it and for a moment she allowed him to draw her to him, then she freed herself from his arms and pulled on her skirt, smoothing it over her hips.
“Those are pretty words, but I need you to do something to back them up.”
“What?”
“You know what.”
“Come on, Grace.”
She saw his eyes.
“What’s her hold over you?”
“Lucy. Money.”
Grace shook her head as she slid her feet into her sandals.
“No, there’s something more.”
“There’s nothing more.”
“What aren’t you telling me, John?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re a liar.”
She grabbed her purse and her car keys from the bedside table and opened the door, letting in a blast of cauterizing sunlight and the rumble of the traffic on the I-10.
“Do it, John, or I’m gone.”
Grace slammed the door, leaving behind the reek of her cigarette.
Turner sat down on the bed, hearing the tired wheeze of the bedsprings, and stared out the window, blind to the sand and the scrub and the bone-white sky.
2
Turner, sweating in the night heat, stood silhouetted against the aquamarine swimming pool, water lapping at his shoes as the fervent PoolShark scavenged for muck.
Lights blazed inside the house and he could see his daughter watching TV in the living room, a barrage of canned laughter incoming on the still air.
Tanya was on the warpath, her manic energy driving her from room to room, and she appeared at the kitchen window, looking out at him, before the yelp of her cell phone had her hurrying off.
Turner crossed to where mesquite logs burned in the grill.
He opened a plastic container and used his fingers to lift out a coiled length of ground raw beef sausage squeezed into a casing of hog’s intestine, laying the unbroken spiral on the fire, hearing the spit and sizzle as the hot grid seared the meat.
This was boerewors , the signature dish of his homeland.
Driving through downtown Tucson a few months ago Turner had spotted a South African flag stuck to the window of a butcher shop. On impulse he’d pulled over and investigated, finding a big blond Afrikaner in a blood smeared smock sawing meat behind the counter.
When Turner discovered the man made wors he’d bought a couple of pounds and taken it home to cook on the barbecue. His wife and daughter had refused to eat the meat (Tanya was into something radically macrobiotic and Lucy, a little American now, had pronounced the sausage “gross”, preferring the familiarity of a Big Mac.)
But the wors had been superb, perfectly spiced and, though he was not a patriotic man, Turner had felt a flash of homesickness as he’d sat eating alone outside this house in his adopted country.
So, it had become a weekly ritual, the cooking of the sausage, but tonight he had no enthusiasm for the business of barbecuing. He’d come out here merely to escape his wife, sensing that she was intent on a confrontation, her agitation telegraphed by the slamming of doors and the muttered oaths that followed her through the house like a con trail.
Using tongs Turner shifted the coiled meat on the grill, flames licking at the fat that pierced the casing, fragrant smoking billowing.
Setting down the tongs Turner looked up at the stars. He still found the absence of the Southern Cross disconcerting.
The constellation had been a reassuring presence since his boyhood and it troubled him, vaguely, that he might never see it
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