Page 29 of Catch a Kiwi
“Especially if she finds out you lied,” she said. “Summer hates lying.”
“I’m not going to lie. I’m going to tell her I’m selling her a ute for ten thousand dollars. Then I’m going to sell her a ute for ten thousand dollars.”
“Ha,” she said. “Without lying. Yeah, right.”
“The Dharma that is spoken,” I said, “is not the true Dharma. As soon as you try to explain things, the true meaning is lost.”
“I have no idea what that means,” she said. “But I have the feeling that you’re not a very good Buddhist, or Zen master, or whatever it is you’re supposed to be, because that sounds completely sketchy, and unless Buddhism says, ‘Lying is great! Go for it!’, you’re probably doing some kind of sin here.”
“Maybe,” I said. “I’ll risk it.”
12
THE IMPERMANENCE OF THE WORLD
Summer
I’d planned to start mopping out Roman’s house while they were gone. Every hour the water stood in there was another invitation to every mold colony in New Zealand to take up residence. It would be a whole lot easier to clean it out with a shop vac, but I could at least make a start. I was still wearing the too-long PJ pants, though, which were awkward to move in. I’d lie down and possibly take a quick nap while the dryer finished, I decided, then change my clothes and start cleaning.
I woke to the sound of voices and rolled out of bed fast, then nearly fell over as my legs tried to buckle with soreness and fatigue. Had they not gone, then? Had Roman got thirty kilometers down the road and realized how crazy this was?
Out into the kitchen, my pant legs dragging, my hair mostly out of its braid, to find Delilah dumping newsprint-wrapped packets onto the counter and Roman filling the electric jug. “What?” I asked, trying to feel less groggy and stupid. “Didn’t you go?”
“Yeah,” Delilah said, “we went. About four hours ago.”
“You can’t—four—” I reached for my phone, but I had no phone anymore. “What time is it?”
“Six-thirty,” Roman said. Now he was pulling down mugs. “On second thought … want a beer? Because I do.” He pulled a can from the fridge and waggled it at me, looking completely relaxed. But then, it was easier being the generous savior than the unwilling recipient of charity. I’d done my best my whole life not to be that, and now I knew why. Because it sucked.
“Six-thirty?” I sank onto a stool and shoved my hair back with one hand, knowing it wouldn’t stay shoved. I’d found my comb and hair elastics in the van, but somehow, I hadn’t got around to using them. “I didn’t even get started. I’m sorry. I’ll go do it now. Where’s your mop?”
Roman said, “You’re annoying me. Beer or tea?”
“If I’m annoying you,” I said, “all the more reason I should do this work and get out of here, which is the only logical solution. And the original plan. How do you know Delilah and I won’t fence all your electronics the minute you leave?”
“Believe me,” Roman said, “I’ve asked myself that. Not about you nicking my stuff—seems unlikely—but why I’m asking you to stay. It’s unlike me. I tried to get my assistant to take you in first, full disclosure, but she wouldn’t, so here we are. You’re in no shape to look after yourselves, and I’m not generous enough to shout you weeks in a hotel without getting some labor out of the deal. Whereas having you stay here costs me nothing. That’s probably it. Do you want this beer or not?” He took out a fork, jabbed it into one of the paper-wrapped bundles, ripped it farther open, removed a chip, and popped it into his mouth.
“Fish and chips,” Delilah said unnecessarily. “With tomato sauce and vinegar. Also tartar sauce. And coleslaw.” She kept pulling containers out of the plastic bag.
“I …” I wanted to say,I don’t eat fish and chips. Or drinkmuch beer. There’s gaining weight, and then there’s gainingweight,and I’m not eighteen anymore.Instead, I said, “Yes, please.” Maybe because I was starving, the salty-fried smell of the fish and chips was beckoning to me like one of those visible aroma-trails in a cartoon, and cold beer with fried fish was … “But?—”
Delilah said, “I’ll have one too.”
“Not with concussion, you won’t,” Roman said.
“Since when do you tell me what to do?” Delilah asked.
“He’s our employer,” I said. “He just said. And no, you don’t get beer when you’re concussed. Have some tea.”
“Yeah, right,” Delilah said. “Our employer.”
“Narky because I wouldn’t let her drive your new ute back,” Roman informed me, handing me two cans of beer and going for the glasses.
“You found something?” I sat down, since I was obviously losing the battle for moral supremacy, stabbed my own paper-wrapped packet, inhaled some more calorie-laden aromas, poured my beer, took my first sip of cold, yeasty carbonation, and held myself back lest I plunge my face into fried potatoes and fish and start gobbling it all down like a Golden Retriever going for the hors d’oeuvres somebody’d stupidly left on the coffee table.
“Yeah,” Delilah said. “It’s all right.” Her tone was casual. Elaborately so.
Wait, what were we talking about? I’d just taken my first bite. Tender, whisper-thin crust, flaky white fish, all of it nearly hot enough to burn. “What’s all right?”
