Chicken Necks

CHICKEN NECKS

Boarding the bus after work to cross the lake home. Thankful for that, very, the day done. Up the aisle towards a vacant seat, flop into it. And my mind’s eye asked who it was two seats back? Yep, Christy.

Oh Jesus, Christy.

And so it became what I had to do.

I had not seen her since high school. No, wrong, there was a night at the pub. When she should not have been there. The ultimate in bad timing. Remarkable timing.

You see, Sinead had come to town to see me. I had been unwell from travel in Asia, back for four months. Sinead was staying. All pre-arranged of course. The mums had decided over the phone that Sinead and me were terrific. And trustworthy. They had never met.

But they were right. We were great. I knew that, and my heart said Sinead was, too. And staying the weekend, at my place. This kind of thing had never happened before but, being from Sydney, if she was coming down she had to stay over.

We had been flirting our way through a long-distance romance for about a year before I went overseas. We had let love swamp us with intensity and show no mercy. All so new.

But now I had no idea. I was kind of useless, too, at nineteen. Kind of . . . how do you say – “fucked.” I would start well with people, but then get uncomfortable, any intimacy would churn me up, and I had to pull away and ruin it.

Sinead had loveliness in her hand. Like if you were a competent artist and painted the perfect female . . . nup, I know someone more beautiful. I am talking the Uffizi, the Orsay. You could not capture it; delicate, with a kinder light. Ethereal rarely makes it to canvas. She had that. In me, she held a place that could never be written over. Looking at her emptied my head into my chest.

And she was coming to town.

But I was useless. And nineteen.

What to do on Saturday night? So, stupid, and useless: Hey, I know, I’ll take her to the pub. Mum was not impressed. Dad thought I was joking. But I didn’t know anything else. Mum suggested a restaurant could be . . . more acceptable. What did I know? Not a snifter when it came to restaurants.

I’ll take her to the pub. She can meet my friends.

Oh, said Mum.

At the airport, I froze. There she was, smiling and coming our way. As beautiful as I remembered, with a little backpack over her shoulder and a shy smile. We had a distance hug, just arms and shoulders met. Hi. It had been a long way through Asia to England and now I was not who I knew. The drive home was horrible. But Mum kept up an easy roll of conversation to which Sinead was the equal, and relieved. I stared out the front, tried a few agreeable noises that were followed by little silences. It was becoming more dreadful than anything.

At home it turned easy. It was like Sinead and Mum knew that I was incompetent but maybe had potential. And useless, too. We had tea and probably some shortbread and sat around and laughed as all my awful stress left. And I held her hand. It was thin and warm and flowed through into me.

After dinner we went to the pub.

My friends and their beers looked at me like they wanted to punch me. She was disgustingly beautiful. They had not met her before and found her not easy to be near and look at. What was a clown like me doing with a girl like her? And at the pub? I got it then. While I was getting it going with them, Sinead started chatting with Megan. That was alright. Although after a few minutes she was not, was looking at me, but I was talking to Baz and George. She was six feet away, but the beer made me fearful of talking to her. When she was around, I couldn’t get it. I didn’t want anything else, but just some idea as to what was going on would have been okay. There were songs about this sort of thing. What would the boys think, me as a fool trying to talk to her, not knowing what? Although I found then that I had lost what it was the boys were talking about. I should not have brought her to the pub, but that’s where we were. I had better talk to her. It was fabulous when she smiled and dropped her eyes, too shy to look away.

And in this quiet moment, it all swirled, and I saw that she could be it. There was nothing else, no way around her beauty, and . . . my . . . was it love? This could be it.

And that was when Christy turned up.

Oh Jesus, Christy. She sat opposite, facing me. Just walked up, sat down where George had been. Christy – looking at her was somewhat rewarding, too. And then my beer-addled brain flopped over to where I felt like I had found pineapple on my pizza, and though I could get it off the whole thing was ruined with sweetness.

Christy had left and gone to Adelaide with her family three years before. She had been my girlfriend at the time, a person to worship and endlessly ponder over. Dream-come-true-time with eyes that brought me up short. Besotted hardly gets there. Her eyes had carried me for months, those eyes as soft as water, and long, ripple-cut hair. Then her family had packed up and left and when the disbelief evaporated, I had puffed out my skinny chest and put on a brave face. It shattered rather quickly. A cold, lost mess. Think that rather than go out I will put my head under a pillow. Down where the cold mud squeezed up between my toes and rats nipped my thighs. I wangled a trip to Adelaide out of desperation, but then, when she seemed embarrassed at my unannounced arrival and neither of us had any words, I burst into tears in their new loungeroom while her parents and sisters and brother watched on stunned. It was all too much. That was where I had left her, where my memories of her petered out.

Now here, across the table, she was fusing us through our eyes. I did not burst back into tears as that would most likely have required me to know something or other.

And seated next to her was Sinead. Sensing a weak smile I looked to Sinead, she looked at Christy, glanced at me, went back to Megan.

Oh, what, I thought. I am being unfaithful just being here. To both at once. How could something so fine be rancid? Double-blessed, but with pineapple. No way to string this together. Double-loved, which cancelled each other out and left me only witness to some massive injustice. Floundering where I sat with a weekend of love ruined by love. It made no sense but was testament that sick evil existed.

Christy put her foot on mine under the table and caressed me with her soft big brown eyes, making me want to lick them.

Then everything fragmented and became meaningless.

That night Sinead came silently from the spare bedroom into mine, touched my arm and said to move over. I could not believe it. My senses flipped out into deep and uncharted waters. What to . . . where to . . . was I supposed . . . although lust did seem in order. This was a bed, my bed.

I kissed her and she me. We hugged and kissed again, held on tight. The warmth I found there was overpowering. I was amazed at the wonder of it, the promise, her belly on mine. Something inside wanted to shout, bellow, floating within the palest warm light. It was giddiness. We kissed. I slid my hand between us and found a bosom, a nipple, and I sneezed rather loudly, fortunately at the wall. But not worrying about that, I sniffed and kissed her and she . . . kissed me but was thinking. My hand moved on down over her ribs to her stomach and . . . she flinched and left my bed.

I stared long and hard at the ceiling after that. Idiot. Dolt.

Ask me now and I would say what I should have done was follow on into the spare bedroom and crawl in next to her and spoon very gently away into the night. Maybe a kiss to the nape of her neck, but that and no more. And shuffled out at dawn.

Ah but nineteen, yeah, where common sense could slip away. The ceiling was more my speed.

Years passed.

On the bus, I shifted two seats back, and her smile said she had known it was me. Christy had eyes that just sucked my soul. Jesus Christy. Mildly excited we made no mention of her parents’ living room or the pub, but quickly got around to what we could do. Dinner, my place, the following night.

In the supermarket the next day after work, a bit of a panic. What would she like? How to cook it? Something to easily make scrumptious. Two or three times up and down the refrigerated section, on a numb roundabout, same stuff, but nothing jumping out. Alright, what do I like that she might? Meat. Probably not a steak, that’s a bit blokey, and not easy to get excellent. An immediate no to sausages. Oh hell, must get wine, too. There’s lamb or pork. Not pork; connotations. And lamb makes for stinky wind; will we spend the night together? How about chicken? How inoffensive can it get. Pop it in the oven to roast for a bit, all juicy and rich. Who doesn’t like that? No one I know. Gravy, and wine.

Twenty-four now but maintaining a firm grip on my uselessness.

Chicken Breasts? Can get dry and tough – no. But next to it, the packet’s label said Chicken Pieces. Well now, that covers it. Picture a variety of chicken shapes on a plate, all juicy and tasty and nice. Chicken pieces, a variety.

On to the wine section.

She came in and I went out to sea as she looked stunning and was carrying a half-bottle of Vodka. As she passed, I looked at her bottom, slim to mid-sized, neat. When our eyes met, she knew where I’d looked. Me, confused. Spirits? She saw me look at her bottle. ‘It’s better than beer, or wine,’ she said putting it on the kitchen table. I mentioned the wine and she suggested I have vodka because it is better, straight. Should we share, but no, I explained that I would stay with my wine.

Put out, but cool, I maintained. I applied a Euro-double-cheek-touch-but-not-kiss. Thereby creating a level of smoothness to uphold. And a little hug, so glad to see her. I was careful with my lecher, who had a mind of its own. I asked questions, soft-eyed, to get to know better the new her, five years later. We joked around and chuckled for a while. At the fridge, I took out the chicken pieces. Got a baking tray, lightly oiled it, smoothly. Ripped the plastic off the pack and arranged them on the baking tray. Mm, lots of long bits? Not what I had imagined, though I had neglected to look closely, but I’d say delicious. Damn, forgot to turn on the oven. About 350°C, take a little while.

Ah, wine time, and I was glad for it being gentler than the burn of spirit, though she still didn’t want any. I noticed her eyeing off the baking tray, eyes a little wide. This was a distraction and I deftly moved it away to the stovetop, and with a flourish started adding the potato quarters and carrot slices I had pre-prepared – competence alert.

She though had taken an interest in her glass and pouring another. I poured a biggie for myself, eyeing the prospect of a party. For two.

And so, the night began. Christy had relaxed fast and was also exhibiting a delicious cool, confidant and in touch. And her eyes had me on a string. I think it was Carlos Santana hushed in the background. Caravanserai? We go a little back to the days, but mostly hear what each of us think about music, style, politics-light. The conversation moved and somehow she started on about how religion can mess a person up. Oddly that subject got a thorough and long going over. And then some more, with feeling, to where I wondered if she was not thinking of a recent boyfriend. But yeah, apparently it can mess you up.

Thirty minutes at 350°C, dinnertime. Bugger, forgot the gravy. Well, hopefully, won’t need it. I could have warmed the plates as well. Rapidly clatter the cutlery onto the table, another miss, due to a belly full of wine not flattened out with the pre-dinner snacks I had forgotten. No time for concern though, maintain the smooth by making light of any errors. I could be better, I should be better, goddam I will be!

‘Are you right now do you think?’ Christy says with a sly smile.

‘Oh yeah, yeah, yeah. It’s about ready. Don’t be alarmed.’

‘Don’t be alarmed?’

With a tea towel, I’m getting the tray from the oven and hard of hearing. I get the tray onto the cupboard before thinking it could burn, so I scoop it up again and shove a cutting board under it. No mark on the cupboard top, thank goodness; my landlady is a badly disguised harridan. I am breathing fast and quite excited, take a big swig. There is no pepper and salt on the table, must remember it. The chicken pieces have shrunk somewhat but not in length. Thinner than they were but plenty of length. No plates. I get out two unwarmed plates. I put three pieces on hers, three halves of potato, with some carrot bits. She can get more if she likes. The same on mine, not wanting to appear a pig.

At the table, she is chatting away, happy and pleasant as pie. I put her plate down and she revisits what she had seen in the baking tray.

‘They’re necks.’

‘What?’ I say, maintaining my partial deafness. ‘Oh yeah, sorry, forgot about the entrée.’

There was a pause. ‘Necks. Chicken necks. Oh my god,’ and she started laughing, as did I, for a few seconds, until wonder set in, then it seemed laughter was a good thing. But no, dinner was . . . well. . . she was pouring again.

I blame the labelling. To this day – it was the labelling. Why did it not just say Chicken Necks, or Necks, or Chicken Bloody Necks?

I have moved on. As has she; no, I don’t know where.

After we had picked the necks to bits for the scungy little rinds of meat around them, I suggested I do the dishes. She stood, with determination, and landed a lovely kiss on my mouth, gentle lips, and weaved off towards the bedroom. Well, I thought, vodka or not, or necks, her compass still works. The dishes took too long due to the concerted oiliness of a roast. But all cleaned up and put away, I presented to the bedroom.

She was on her back snoring, vodka bottle empty but still upright nestled in her armpit. They were all coming home to roost. I went around to my side of the bed, removed my shoes and the rest of it, eventually going off to sleep, but not before Sinead and I waltzed a few laps of the room, she holding me in close, baby.