Sunny’s body as she danced, and Exley sits entranced, watching the pure, unmediated essence of his child. The way she moves from a clumsy pirouette to stamping her feet like a squaw—copied from a Pocahontas DVD—her pigeon-toed, slightly knock-kneed stance, the Bollywoodesque arm and hand movements, how her chin thrusts forward and her backside juts out to balance her.
He is so transported that he doesn’t hear the door slide open, only realizes that his wife is in the room when her fist strikes him behind his right ear. She says nothing, her breath coming in rasps, her eyes wild and unfocused.
“Jesus, Caroline, stop!” he says, lifting his arms to protect himself from her flailing limbs.
But his words are useless in the face of her violence. She grabs the computer monitor, trying to hurl it at him, sending a glass flying to the ground where it smashes. Exley stands and gets his arms around her waist, pulling her away from his workstation, dragging her from the room.
Caroline shakes loose from his grip, raking his jaw and neck with her fingernails. She slaps him. He takes her by the shoulders and pushes her backward. Their limbs tangle and they fall to the tiles outside the studio, Caroline thrashing beneath him.
Her knee catches him in the balls and his arms fall open and she is on him, swinging her fists, a blow to his nose bringing tears to his eyes.
He grabs her wrists and feels her manic strength as she rips an arm free and punches him in the chest. He gets to his knees and envelops her again, falling on her, somehow pinning her to the tiles.
It is a silent brawl, she’s biting and kicking and scratching, but neither of them says a word, the only sound their broken breath. An eavesdropper would swear they were fucking.
Caroline arches her spine and drives her legs upward and it is all Exley can do to stop himself being thrown off her. Then suddenly it is as if a plug has been pulled and all the manic energy drains from her and she lies still, her breath coming in rasps.
“Let go of me,” she says, her voice flat with exhaustion.
He waits a moment to check that this isn’t a ruse, but Caroline is spent and he rolls off her, sitting with his hands wrapped around his legs, staring at her as she lifts herself to her knees, brushing her hair away from her face.
“Are you taking your medication?” he asks, breathless, his heart hammering.
“What do you think?”
“I think you’re not,” he says. “And you know you should. Especially now. You’re under a lot of strain.”
She stands. “Oh, drop the euphemisms, Nicholas. Go ahead and say it. Say the word you’ve so carefully avoided all these bloody years.”
He gets to his feet, still wary. “Caroline…”
“Fine, then I’ll say it: mad. I’m totally out of my fucking mind, aren’t I, Nick?”
“Please, go upstairs and take you medication.”
She ignores him. “Okay, maybe I am mad. But, by God, who is sitting in a darkened room trying to breathe life into our dead daughter?”
Chapter 14
Dawn sees a cop van and an unmarked white Toyota reflecting the titty bar neon in their windshields as she crosses Voortrekker, the wind like a hot hand pushing against her. She stands on the center line waiting for a gap in the traffic, hair blowing into her eyes, still half upstairs with Brittany in the old Portuguese lady’s apartment (ugly wooden furniture and stained doilies and dusty crucifixes and the stink of soup brewed from offal), Mrs. de Pontes bitching that she wants more money to babysit and Dawn peeling notes she can’t afford from the skinny roll in her purse.
But Brittany, God alone knows why, likes the Porra woman and the old bitch keeps her place locked up tight against the tide of brown and black people who’ve muddied up this once white area. She and the other whities scuttling like roaches once a day for supplies, muttering their way along in little groups, clutching their purses, lost in a sea of
He is so transported that he doesn’t hear the door slide open, only realizes that his wife is in the room when her fist strikes him behind his right ear. She says nothing, her breath coming in rasps, her eyes wild and unfocused.
“Jesus, Caroline, stop!” he says, lifting his arms to protect himself from her flailing limbs.
But his words are useless in the face of her violence. She grabs the computer monitor, trying to hurl it at him, sending a glass flying to the ground where it smashes. Exley stands and gets his arms around her waist, pulling her away from his workstation, dragging her from the room.
Caroline shakes loose from his grip, raking his jaw and neck with her fingernails. She slaps him. He takes her by the shoulders and pushes her backward. Their limbs tangle and they fall to the tiles outside the studio, Caroline thrashing beneath him.
Her knee catches him in the balls and his arms fall open and she is on him, swinging her fists, a blow to his nose bringing tears to his eyes.
He grabs her wrists and feels her manic strength as she rips an arm free and punches him in the chest. He gets to his knees and envelops her again, falling on her, somehow pinning her to the tiles.
It is a silent brawl, she’s biting and kicking and scratching, but neither of them says a word, the only sound their broken breath. An eavesdropper would swear they were fucking.
Caroline arches her spine and drives her legs upward and it is all Exley can do to stop himself being thrown off her. Then suddenly it is as if a plug has been pulled and all the manic energy drains from her and she lies still, her breath coming in rasps.
“Let go of me,” she says, her voice flat with exhaustion.
He waits a moment to check that this isn’t a ruse, but Caroline is spent and he rolls off her, sitting with his hands wrapped around his legs, staring at her as she lifts herself to her knees, brushing her hair away from her face.
“Are you taking your medication?” he asks, breathless, his heart hammering.
“What do you think?”
“I think you’re not,” he says. “And you know you should. Especially now. You’re under a lot of strain.”
She stands. “Oh, drop the euphemisms, Nicholas. Go ahead and say it. Say the word you’ve so carefully avoided all these bloody years.”
He gets to his feet, still wary. “Caroline…”
“Fine, then I’ll say it: mad. I’m totally out of my fucking mind, aren’t I, Nick?”
“Please, go upstairs and take you medication.”
She ignores him. “Okay, maybe I am mad. But, by God, who is sitting in a darkened room trying to breathe life into our dead daughter?”
Chapter 14
Dawn sees a cop van and an unmarked white Toyota reflecting the titty bar neon in their windshields as she crosses Voortrekker, the wind like a hot hand pushing against her. She stands on the center line waiting for a gap in the traffic, hair blowing into her eyes, still half upstairs with Brittany in the old Portuguese lady’s apartment (ugly wooden furniture and stained doilies and dusty crucifixes and the stink of soup brewed from offal), Mrs. de Pontes bitching that she wants more money to babysit and Dawn peeling notes she can’t afford from the skinny roll in her purse.
But Brittany, God alone knows why, likes the Porra woman and the old bitch keeps her place locked up tight against the tide of brown and black people who’ve muddied up this once white area. She and the other whities scuttling like roaches once a day for supplies, muttering their way along in little groups, clutching their purses, lost in a sea of
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