Crustaceans by Andrew Cowan

name. Ruth’s surprise became silence, a crackle on the line. You still there? I said. Yes, she replied; I’m here. I sat down at the foot of the stairs. How are you? I asked. Fine, she said; okay, I suppose. She took a long breath. What is it, Paul? she said. I stared into the living room, the glass-fronted display case. Upstairs my grandmother was snoring. Nothing really, I said; I just wanted to talk. There’s nothing much happening here. My voice was shaking. Ruth didn’t speak. I was thinking I might come down, I said; move down, I mean. I see, Ruth said. Is that alright? I asked her. Mm, she said. I pressed the receiver close to my ear. She’d be leaning into a wall, one hand would be cradling her elbow. I tried to imagine her smiling. Ruth? I asked. Sorry, she said; it’s a bit awkward right now. To come down? I said. She paused. No, she said; not that. I waited. So how’s the course going? I asked. I’ll write, Ruth replied; in the morning. Alright, I said. I was shivering. If you’re sure. I’d like that; it’d be good. And take care, I said. But the line was already dead.
    A few days later a package arrived, a set of three keys on a cord of brown leather. They’re keys, said the card. You don’t have to take them, not if you don’t want to, but I’d like you to have them … And then her name, nothing more.

SEVENTEEN
    I lost my virginity at fifteen, my window open to the swish of the trees by the river, the factory din of my father at work in his studio. I’d taken a condom from his box in the bathroom, and nervous, I’d kept on my shirt, my socks and my trainers in case I had to dress quickly. My trousers were bunched at my ankles. I felt the cool of the breeze on my legs, the rough weave of the bedspread chafing my knees. Susan lay quiet beneath me, her clothes on the floor, her hands at my shoulders. There was a tightness I hadn’t expected, sharp and uncomfortable, and though I tried to go slowly it was over in minutes, a sudden leakage, a sensation of dampness. Have you come? Susan whispered, and I nodded. She stroked the top of my arm. The studio was silent and I listened for footsteps. Perhaps there was something, a scuff on the concrete. I hurried across to the window, hastily belting my trousers, still wearing the condom, and heard a soft snap of elastic, Susan’s pants on her hips. The courtyard was empty. The shadows cast by my father’s sculptures faded and darkened as the sun passed through the clouds. There were leaf and flower scents in the air, a kite suspended far in the distance, people sitting out on the fields in the park. And smiling, vaguely elated, I fastened the latch on the window. The condom was shrivelled and I pinched it away, made a space in my litter bin. I carefully buried it. Susan buttoned her blouse, flicked her hair loose from the collar. Do you want a cup of tea? I asked then, and she gave a small nod, almost a shrug. If you like, she replied.
    I can remember these things, but never quite the sound of her voice. Susan didn’t talk much. Our time together passed quietly. Most evenings we sat in my bedroom, or hers – doing our homework, reading, or watching her television – and always when we made love there’d be silence, her hands touching my shoulders, accepting, as remote from me as I was from her. She was very pale, I remember, round-featured, her pallor emphasised by her hair and her eyebrows, which were black and grew thickly. Often she braided her hair, the heavy plait splayed out at the end, sweeping the small of her back. She said I’d once pulled it, in primary school, though I had no memory of that. Susan had always been there, a girl in my class, someone I might pass in the street, and it wasn’t until I was fourteen, thirteen perhaps, that I’d noticed her, as most of the other boys had. She’s a well-developed girl, my father had said, the first time