Page 62 of Kiwi Sin
They were capable hands, big and broad, the knuckles scarred. His face was as beautiful as the archangel he was named for, and so was his body, so tall and strong. His hands weren’t. They were battered and calloused and imperfect, like they were the real parts of him.
I said, “It feels small, maybe. The flat.” Like most places in Dunedin, the flat wasn’t far away, but you measured not by distance here, but by elevation. The church was on a bit of a hill. Poppy’s beautiful house was at thetopof a hill. And Gabriel’s flat was on no hill at all.
I wondered if he liked living there. I wondered if his new life was worth what he’d given up for it. His place in the world. His friends. The life he’d always thought he’d have.
I wondered how I’d ever ask.
“I don’t mind small,” he said. “I mind dirty, but I don’t get much choice about that. Flatmates, eh.”
“Oh,” I said. “Is it lonely, too? It’s lonely sometimes for me,” I somehow went on, “even just being with my sisters. If I had to live with other people, and not people who … who understood what it’s like, being the way we are, I don’t think I could bear it.”
He cleared his throat and didn’t answer for a long moment, and I said, “But you’re not me, of course.”
“No,” he said. “I am.” Then hurried on, “Why areyouhere, though? Alone at night, at a church. In front of a church. Is something wrong?”
I was still struggling to pick up my stitch, and I’d known how to do that since I wassix.I got it at last and explained, “It’s not really a church. It’s Laila’s flat. My employer, who was at the barbecue. Poppy’s friend. And Lachlan’s house, too, the man who came with her that day. They’re out on a date tonight, and I’m babysitting Laila’s girls.”
“Oh,” he said, and was silent.
“Oh!” I said, and jumped. “Not that he … not that it’s thesameflat. I mean, his flat is in here, too. In the building. Separately.”
“Oh,” he said, and I wondered a little wildly how much both of us had said, “Oh.”
I sneaked a peek at him. He was grinning, and suddenly, so was I. Grinning, and then laughing. “You have toexplainso much,” I finally managed to say. “That people are …”
“Having relations,” he said, “or not.”
“Yes.And half the time, you don’t evenknow.”
You’d think it would be odd, talking about this, but it wasn’t. Every kid at Mount Zion knew about having relations. Sex within marriage wasn’t a shameful thing, it was the most important thing, what men needed from their wives and the way women served both their husbands and God. It was holy, at least that was what we were told. What I’d seen had never looked all that special, and from the snatches of conversation I’d sometimes overheard, it didn’t always seem to feel lovely, either, even though the Prophet said it was, and Daisy had said it could be wonderful. Gabriel would have grown up hearing and seeing his parents having relations in the dark the same way I had, but maybe he knew more about it. Well, he probably did. He’d have been outside all day, and, well—animals.
The thought was making me hot again, even though I’d just been thinking that it couldn’t really be that nice. Looking at Gabriel, though, and thinking about his hands … the night was cooling, but still, it was as if I were wearing too many clothes. Which I definitely wasn’t.
I was wearing another dress I’d made myself, in fact. It had a print of glorious yellow and purple flowers, and the flowing fabric nipped in through the bust, down to the waist, and below, then flared gently from my hips to below my knees. It had oversized, round purple buttons that I adored, plus little sleeves. Cap sleeves, they were called, which meant that my arms and legs were bare again. I could sense Gabriel looking at them, and at my hair, which had grown past my shoulders since I’d first had it cut, and tended to wave even more now that it didn’t hang to below my knees. I’d taken it down after the workday, which he might think was sinful. And it wasn’t anything like Patience’s pale-blond glory. My hair was brown, not even near-black like Daisy’s and Frankie’s. It was ordinary, like me.
My skin got hotter. He didn’t look much different than before, and I did. What if he didn’t approve of that? What would that mean to me?
I didn’t know the answer, but a rebellious part of me was saying,I like my dress, though.Even though I still wore an apron when I worked in the kitchen, I was making them now in different colors and patterns. My aprons had ruffled trim, contrasting waistbands, and wide strings that tied in a bow. I loved them, even if that was vanity, and I didn’t want to go back to the white ones I’d worn all my life over long-sleeved, ankle-length, shapeless sacks of dresses.
With all the beautiful colors in the world, the orange and blue butterflies, the pink and red and purple flowers, the rainbow hues inside a shell at the beach, the shining blue-black of a tui and the emerald and russet of a kereru, flashing overhead with that distinctive rustle and whirr of wings as you walked through the bush, why would God only want people to wear brown?
Gabriel asked, “What are you making?” and I jumped, because I’d thought at first that he’d said, “What are you thinking?”
I concentrated on the chunky yarn beneath my fingers, the heathered indigo of it contrasting with the paler colors of my dress. Bulky, hand-dyed alpaca was much too dear to use for something I wouldn’t sell, but I’d wanted the best for this project.
“It’s a hat,” I said.
“I see that,” he said, with a smile in his voice. “Not for you, though, surely. You’d do something prettier. White, maybe, and with flowers on. You always have flowers on your clothes now, every time I see you. It would be made of something fluffier, too. Angora, maybe. That’s not for summer, either, though. A winter hat for Gray? A bit early to be knitting it, surely, in January.”
I couldn’t lie. I couldn’t tell the truth either, though. “No,” I said. “And I started early because I’m doing a jumper to match next, and I want to be sure I have enough time.” And prayed,Please don’t ask me.Except that I should want him to. How else would I get his measurements? Because, yes, it was for him. I was doing exactly what Daisy had said. Making a fool of myself.
I could assume he and Gray were about the same size, but I wanted it to fit perfectly. If he was feeling alone, there in his flat, shouldn’t he know that somebody was thinking about him, wanting to do something for him? It could just be admiration, couldn’t it? Respect? He didn’t have to know how I felt.
I could bring the jumper up casually, maybe.I thought you might like a hat,I’d say.The wind’s so cold in winter. And I’d like to try knitting a lovely top-down raglan jumper anyway, the kind you can wear every day. Maybe with leather patches on the shoulders and elbows, so it wouldn’t wear out even if you were working in it. Carrying things, boards and so forth, over your shoulder. If you think you’d like it, if you’d wear it …
I thought about the way he’d looked carrying those boards, always with a heavier load than the others, his big hand steadying the load and his biceps straining, showing under his shirt, and got a bit breathless. A bitmorebreathless.
“Oh,” he said, sounding completely different than before. “You’re making it for somebody else.” Worried, maybe, that itwasfor him. How could I ask now?
