For Something Other Than Need

For Something Other Than Need

Monica was certain that the two men in her dream were friends of
Barbara's. Pushing her about the bed, but making love to each other,
ignoring her even though it was impossible for her to ignore them.
Their skin smooth and tight in their slimness, the deep colour looking
the same in the dark, the taller one better built. The other sporting
an impossible waist and dreadlocks piled up in a woollen hat that smelt
musty when it brushed against her face. The pair of them rolling
together like the rollers in the little cigarette machine that Jake
had. And she, innocently, squeezed between them, rolled out and round
again, brushing against their skin, tortured by them, touched
everywhere all at once and yet fleetingly, each segment in turn and
then again an instant later, as if there was to be no break, lighting
up each nerve before moving onto the next and yet also somehow staying
to brighten up the one before.

It had all started quite innocently when the two men knelt by her bed,
waking her as it were, from whatever dream had been present before
that. Kneeling and asking god to forgive their sin. The pair of them
speaking as one, as if the words were familiar, but not any prayer she
knew. Like grace before meals "for what we are about to receive," but
with forgiveness not thanks being referred to.

Of course she lied to Jake. He deserved to be lied to for not knowing
what he wanted and not being willing to even imagine that what he
wanted was her. Happy enough to fuck her when the mood took him,
standing by her bed himself, suggesting it had all been a
misunderstanding until she swept back the duvet and let him in. Knowing
even then that he would slip away when she'd fallen asleep, with his
terror of waking up beside her in the morning, thinking he knew it was
all she really wanted.

"I'm two months late," she said, being casual. Not even looking at him,
standing at the rubbish bag, scraping the black off her toast. In her
ears the word "late" was overshadowed by the rasp of the knife, so he
might not have even heard. The toast fell from her hand and she looked
at it wondering why she was relieved and put the knife in the
sink.

"It'll be OK," he said and smiled, patting her hand as she shook with
how badly he was taking it and could only show what she felt by not
lifting her head quite as much as usual when he stooped to kiss her
good bye. His bloody radio four off before the banged door had stopped
shaking the tea towel hanging from the back of it.

No one needed her. Not the men in her dream, definitely not Jake. She
was superfluous. Surplus to requirements. "Maybe even to yourself," she
whispered, while the kitchen looked for noises to replace the
radio.
She didn't want a baby. Not now anyway. Being wanted like that with all
its dependence: "ugh." Maybe later, but no one should depend on it. Any
wandering souls looking to be born should find other gullible
women.

Jake came home with flowers and a card and champagne, insisting he
wanted to celebrate, although he worried about her having a second
glass.
"The last thing he needs is an alcohol dependence," he said.
Such a stupid phrase. There were always worse last things, except maybe
death. That was the last thing she wanted. The last thing her son
needed was Jake as a father, except he wasn't anyway. No wonder Jake
believed her. She was almost doing it herself.

In bed early he cuddled her without a word, not even wanting sex, as if
it was all for him anyway. Still present in the morning, being there
for her, waiting to be told what to do, how to be perfect, her little
right hand man.
She took her tampons from the dressing table when she went for her
shower. "I'm sorry," she said when she came back, waving the box at
him, throwing the empty tube amongst the bottles: "false alarm, no mini
Jake just yet."

"What do you mean you thought they might be friends of mine," Barbara
was amused at the dream, although there was the usual "younger sister
feeling criticised" look about the way she tilted her head. She sucked
on her cigarette challenging Monica to mention it.
"You went out with a Rasta man." Monica looked round at the other
people in the cafe as if for confirmation. It was almost noon but she
was still not ready for food, even the all day breakfast.
"I spoke to a man from Jamaica at yours and Jake's so called engagement
party two years ago. And as far as I can remember you told me since
then that he got married, bringing with him a string of
children."

As usual Barbara was too self absorbed to be of any assistance.
Insisting on being literal when what she wanted was to know was what it
meant. Help with filing it somewhere. Its place in the bigger picture.
Monica was walking out when the words were frizbied after her, "you're
always like this when you're broody."

So fuckin' what that the engagement party was the last talk of
marriage? Who was the more inconvenienced? Hardly Barbara, even if
there was a teenage promise that she wouldn't marry until after Monica.
Long forgotten, surely? Certainly released from all commitment by
her.

There'd been a real scare that time. Three months without a period.
Even a little morning sickness, the practice nurse smaning when the
eventual test was clear, encouraging her to get a kit from the chemist
instead of wasting precious time in the surgery. "Fuck you too," she'd
said as she walked out and had to find a new GP.

She watched the black men she passed on her way home, wondering if they
were very slim underneath their baggy clothes. She already knew most of
them would prefer a woman in bed, but she couldn't help seeing them
with other men, two bodies of independence, rolling together for
something other than need and rolling her out from between them like
fresh pasta in strips.

She told him to fuck off when he came to her that night. "I'm
reviewing," she said. "I may have to prioritise. But you're out of the
picture," and refused to say more. She didn't know more. She slept
badly, knowing he could creep back begging, and that letting him leave
of his own accord would have been a better guarantee.

She was passing his bedroom in the morning when he said: "don't forget
this evening. We said we'd pick up Barbara at seven."
She ignored him and he'd gone by the time she left the shower. What had
she promised? And why had her sister not reminded her yesterday?
"I did," Barbara said on the phone. "I shouted after you when you were
leaving."
Horrified that the words had been: "You're always like this when we're
seeing Trudi."

No one forced to go and see Jake in his get up, lip synching to Diana
Ross and Doris Day for Barbara's spina bifida charity. But Barbara
would hate her not to turn up and Jake insisted he couldn't manage the
make up without her there to apply it.
"After all, it was the two of you that invented her."
The three of them drunk after the engagement party. Waiting until the
guests had left before telling them there was no baby. Barbara had
shared the house then. Jake asleep on the couch since refusing the
champagne that Monica had opened to accompany the news. Angry that he
wouldn't take her dancing. Putting on the make-up while he snored,
sitting on either side, then both of them kneeling on the couch to get
at him all the better. Starting with the mascara just to see what he
would be like with longer eyelashes and going on until his handsome
face was transformed into something wild, with garish lips and bullied
eyes. Finishing by whooshing him forward to slip the straps of the bra
over his arms and fit the blonde wig from some fancy dress party long
forgotten.

Even in her drunkenness Monica was nervous about waking him. "Better,"
she told Barbara, "if we to just went to bed and let him stay there
until morning. We could deny all knowledge. Insist he must have done it
himself.
Tease him until we say: "Yes we understand. It's OK. We accept you just
as you are."

But Barbara said: "suppose he wakes up and cleans it off and never
mentions it again?" Making Monica want him back to normal, but allowing
him to be woken up. He loved it immediately, wanted to whip off his
trousers and wrap something round him to resemble a skirt. Using the
brush they'd back combed the wig with as a microphone, setting the CD
player to karaoke so they could hear his voice above Milly Jackson
being rude about her lover.

Monica had left him and Barbara there in the living room and had fallen
into bed crying. She wasn't sure what it was, but something had died.
Distracted at breakfast when Barbara announced that she was getting her
own place. Volunteering that she would understand if Monica thought
something had happened with Jake after she'd gone to bed, but it
hadn't. Monica didn't care. If her and Jake wanted each other well and
good. It would change things and change was needed. But even with her
sister gone, life seemed to be very normal.

Trudi was not at all like Jake. She drove better for one thing, barely
enough room on the pedals for the fluffy slippers that he insisted on
wearing while driving to the gigs. Assuring her and Barbara that it was
important to be in character. And on stage she did no begging, her
right hand on her hip, a Bette Lynch cigarette holder in the other
insulting the audience, calling them faggots one minute and breeders
the next. The audience responding and laughing even though Monica
thought calling that audience breeders was insensitive. But whenever
she was challenged Trudi drew heavily on her cigarette and said: "I
have known pain," and shook her head. It always got a laugh.

She wanted to ask him what it was like being someone she didn't know.
How it felt to be the opposite of who he really was and if being in
character meant Trudi had a whole different set of memories which wove
themselves in and out of her thoughts as she worked the crowd. A warm
fleece of recollections which allowed her to stand up and say anything
she liked. Not caring about other memories or the shouts from the
hecklers or that in an hour frumpy old Jake would be back in charge
with the trap of his own past.

While Trudi sang: I'm Gonna Wash that Man Right Outta My Hair, Monica
stood by the side of the stage, her fingers clammy from the applied
rouge and a bundle of tissues ready to mop his brow between numbers.
What would it be like if he was Trudi on Mondays, Tuesdays and
Wednesdays and sat with her in front of the TV talking about Hello and
the stardom forced on him by popular demand? Then on Thursdays,
Fridays, and Saturdays (Mr Sloane like) he could be round at Barbara's
being Jake. Sundays he could exercise his independence and be where he
liked.

In her dream that night she was on the couch in a living room she did
not recognise. There was no sign of Trudi or Barbara but she knew she
was not alone. Over her shoulder she could see the handle of a pram,
but was unable to twist round to see more. She didn't know if it
contained her baby or was an empty prop for Trudi or if perhaps it
belonged to the person whose couch she was lying on. If only she could
open her mouth she might be able to ask. But nothing seemed to want to
work, so she stretched out as best she could, to wait until she was
told.