Earthquake Weather

"I told the boss that today's real earthquake weather." she said, as she prepared the evening meal, "And you know what he said?"

Her husband stirred from behind the paper, "Really? "

"Typical," she thought, "hasn't listened. Can't disturb him from the paper." She peeled back the cucumber's skin in long strips, watching as green exposed the naked, white vegetable flesh. "He said that it was so still that he'd expect something to happen.... sometime." She answered her own question. "Don't you think that was an interesting idea? After all anything's possible. Isn't it?"

There was a grunt from behind the paper and silence.

She dropped the cucumber on the board and began slicing. The knife dropped neat rounds of flesh behind it. "Little circles, cut thin, just as he liked them. With the seeds reduced to tiny slivers. He'd always insisted her doing so ever since he'd been told that cucumber seeds could lodge in the appendix and give the unfortunate acute appendicitis. Stupid really," she muttered, "he'd lost his appendix as a child and there was nowhere for anything to lodge anyway. So why worry?"

"Reckon Clinton's goin' to get done." The paper crackled as he flicked the pages to reading attention.

"Yes, Dear. I think the Senate are after him alright. I think the States are heading for a shake up.. a sort of quake."

"Don't talk stupid. If it's earthquake weather here it can't possibly be in the States. And..." he paused, ".. I hardly think the superstition of someone down here in these godforsaken islands has any relevance to such important debates." He rattled the paper into tight columns and settled deeper into his chair.

She poured the potatoes into a serving dish. Sprinkled them with mint and parsley and placed the dish in the centre of the table.

The air settled, warm, thick and still across her shoulders. It stroked her cheek and drifted, with exploring fingers, down her back. She leaned back from her preparations and gazed across the fences towards the clump of Pohutukawa red against the sky. "I remember, as a kid, my Mum saying that a day like today was proper earthquake weather. Really still, the air thick and warm. And my Dad reckoned that she was right 'cos the next day we had a quake that knocked a few chimneys down. One of the old people up at the Home said that her mother reckoned the same."

The paper cracked on the arm of his chair, "Don't talk nonsense! This story's interesting and how can I concentrate when you're waffling on about earthquake weather of all things? Can't you hurry up with tea? You've been home an hour already and it's not on the table yet."

Silence. She pressed her fists in the small of her back then leaned forward and cut rapidly through the lettuce, the tomatoes, eggs, and onion and mixed them, along with the cucumber slices (cut just the way he liked them) into the salad bowl ( a wedding gift from his mother). She hunted through the fridge, found the correct brand of dressing and drizzled it in long white streaks across the salad. "There. It's done. Hope he likes it." she murmured as she dropped the bowl on the table beside the still warm mound of potatoes.

She rattled the cutlery into place on the table. Dropped the salt and pepper beside the butter, square on its platter, and arranged the slices of ham in neatly rolled columns along their plates. "It's ready." she said to the chair back. The paper folded itself in half and her husband came to the table.

"About time. I don't know what it is about you. You come home and it takes you over an hour to get dinner on the table. What you need is a course in organising yourself."

He speared two bits of potato and dropped them beside his roll of ham. "Then all you do do when you do come home is chatter on about earthquake weather of all things." He draped his plate with salad. The dressing dribbling over the ham, pooling around the potatoes.

She dropped her eyes. Watching, under her lashes, as he sliced the tip of the ham, scraped it in the dressing and then swirled it through the salad before shovelling the laden fork into his mouth. "Did he see what I saw?" she giggled to herself at the image she'd glimpsed on his plate. "No, I don't think so." She dismissed the thought. " He wouldn't .... after all it's only a meal. Isn't it?" She let her mind drift. "Yes it was earthquake weather. I can feel the air pressing in on me. The stillness is heavy. It's a wonder he doesn't feel it."

Her husband continued eating. She watched as he stolidly cut the roll of ham, with its two little white potato balls poking through the salad, shorter and shorter." To him a meal was simply a meal - fuel to keep him moving - like one of those bicycle couriers who claim their food in their taxes as necessary fuel... Not for him the idea that food was an experience.. a consummation of effort..." She mused, enjoying the bitterness of the lettuce and the sweet creaminess of the dressing across her tongue. "How was work today? Did anything happen?"

He glanced up, a potato laden fork ready to slip into his mouth. "No. Same as usual." His mouth closed over the fork. He chewed steadily. "Place's quiet." He bent again to his plate, continuing his slow dissection of the meal.

She tried again. "You know that Jane and Neville have split up? Apparently she said that the family Christmas was a hassle and she was fed up with the way everyone took her for granted. So she packed her bags and went."

"Oh! Really?" Her husband swirled his fork through the remains of the salad, picking up the last few drops of dressing. He made a point of leaving his plate clean. "There, no need to wash it now eh?"

"You know. " She said, "There's times when I think that Jane had the right idea." The comment had popped out. It didn't sound the way she'd meant to say it. But, there she'd said it. It would be interesting to find how he'd react. She felt the air settle warm, thick and still over the table, felt it stroke her cheek and drift down her back as she waited.

There was no reaction. He merely wiped his mouth and stood. "Could be a good night on TV. Some good programmes on." He settled himself into his chair, flicked the paper to the programme page, reached for the remote and began searching the channels. "Hey! There's golf on. Want to watch that. It's The Open?" He eased himself into the cushions.

" I think that Jane had the right idea." She tried again. "Why can't you find another joke after a meal? I'm sick of the ..'No need to wash it' .. after you've wiped your plate. One day I'll leave your plate and not wash it."

He stirred. "Great shot! Did you see that 300 yards straight down the fairway! I don't mind. If you want to save time... Marvellous, a beautiful putt." The TV showed a ball disappearing into a hole then swung around to the crowd busy clapping a young man punching the air. Her husband applauded as well.

She sighed, turned and began clattering the dishes in the sink. "Jane is dreadfully upset. She's worried about the children..." There was a deep rumble of sound from the TV. Talk of Jane and Neville couldn't compete with the remote switch. She banged and rattled through the dishes, dropping the pots against each other as she scraped and scrubbed. The TV rattled the windows as another young golfer whacked a tiny ball into the sky towards a small hole somewhere in the distance and her husband, along with pixeled hundreds along the course, cheered approval.

The air in the kitchen settled warm, thick and still around her. "You know the air's so still I reckon we'll really get an earthquake. Even the earth feels like it's waiting for a quake. That'd give those golfers something to worry about ... just think how they'd look if the hole suddenly moved away from their ball?" Her husband didn't move.

She came and stood in the doorway, looking down at the little patch of pink scalp, with its coating of freckles, that none of his careful grooming could hide. She imagined a miniature golfer, surrounded by his supporters, working his way through the rough of hair to drive a ball onto the pink fairway and into a freckled hole. She giggled.

"What's so amusing. This hole's crucial. If he doesn't get this he's out of the Open." Her husband leant forward, eyes fixed on the tiny ball, his hands clenching as he willed the golfer to greater accuracy. His bald patch pulsed with his tension. She could see her miniature golfer stagger as the fairway quivered with his pulse. She giggled. "Can't you be quiet woman? Stop giggling. You'll put him off."

On the screen the golfer swung. The ball rolled forward, twisted around the cup and rolled back toward the golfer. Her husband swore. "Now see what you've done. If you hadn't giggled he'd have got that in. " The camera cut to yet another golfer eyeing a white ball, practising swings and settling himself to thwack the ball into the distance. Her husband sighed, "Now here's a golfer. Look at that stance...."

She felt the air settle warmer, thicker, heavier around her. She reached down and seized the remote. The screen became a golf ball disappearing into the black distance.

"Christ! What'd do that for? This could've been the best shot of the day! What's got into you? First it's bloody earthquake weather, then it's bloody Neville and Jane and their break-up.. as if I bloody care.. and now you ruin a good game of golf .. Christ knows if he'll sink that ball..."

She shrugged. " All you ever do is sit with the bloody paper , then you demand a meal and then you sit and watch the god-damned TV all night. Can't you talk to me for a change? Isn't there something else we can do?"

He grabbed for the remote. She thrust it behind her back. The air was heavy in the room. He reached for her arm, pulling her forward, trying to reach the remote. She jerked away.

"No. It's about time we did something other than sit in here in front of the TV. Can't we go out - to the pictures or something? There must be something we can do?" She pointed at the TV. "Other than this.... mindless ....... drivel!"

He looked at her. His eyes narrowed. "For Christ's sake woman give me that bloody remote. . What 'd you think you're playing at? I'll never know if he's got that hole now. Anyway what's the difference between watching TV and goin' to the pictures? None.. just a bigger screen." He leaned back, satisfied with the argument. "We may as well stay home." He smiled, gritting his teeth. "So give me the remote... please!"

She smiled back. "No. Not until you promise we'll do something, go somewhere together.. soon!"

He sighed, stood, walked toward her, waited for her to speak and when she didn't put his hands on her shoulders and looking into her eyes said, "I'll take you anywhere but not until after the Open. Is that enough of a promise? So give me the remote."

She didn't move, didn't speak. She shook her head, "No, that's not enough. All you're ever worried about is the TV.... the Open... the Sevens... the Twelves... the Cup... the.. the..." She felt her lip quiver. She bit it hard. She wasn't going to cry. "Can't you see that we're a couple? That I'm here? Isn't it about time we did things together? Don't you see me?"

"I can't help but see you. You're standing in front of the TV for christ's sake!" He reached for the remote. "I've promised haven't I? Come on forget about it. I'll listen to you about Jane and Neville if it'll make you happy. Later, after the Open, promise."

She looked at him as he stared into her eyes, his hands still firmly on her shoulders, being sincere. She pulled away. She turned towards the TV. She still held the remote in her hand. She raised it. She glanced back at her husband and smiled. He smiled back and moved towards the embrace of his chair. She looked back at the TV and, still smiling, threw the remote. It hit the set, dead centre. There was a crash as the screen imploded.

"I said that Jane was right about Neville. Didn't I? " she said , " Now there's no excuse. Is there?"

He stood. "You stupid cow! What'd you do that for?" He raised his hand.

"Touch me and I'm gone. You're no man if you hit me. You're no man any way. "

"What do you mean by that!"

"I watch you every meal, slicing yourself away. Disappearing into that mouth of yours. You've got no right to be a man... You're ....."

He dropped his hand . "Right, OK, if that's the way you feel why don't you go? Leave me to myself. Keep your talk. I'll go to the pub. Watch the Open there. Don't wait up. I won't see you when I get back."

The door slammed behind him.

The air settled, warm, thick and still across her shoulders. It stroked her cheek and drifted, in warm fingers, to caress her back. She leant back, stretched. It felt good. "Yes," she smiled to herself, " it's Earthquake weather alright."

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