When she started walking again she looked about, glared at the pine trees. Was it a sign she was not well in the head, that she came to the trees to quarrel? To cuss and spit out the most venomous anger she could find in the pit of her gall bladder. What did the trees care? She could direct the full blast of her hate at them without having to deal with their snivelling.
She took brisk steps, pushing until her lungs insisted she pause. The tree bark had faces. She was certain the trees were looking at her, all fifty-seven of them (she’d counted). Hortensia stopped walking, leaned. Her mind was going; she was angry with trees and her mind was going. She moved on. Her walk had been the first thing to go that really hurt. A dash of grey on her head, a slight dip in breasts small enough for dipping not to matter, an extra line on her neck had never bothered her. Her eyes were good, her teeth were hers. But the loss of her walk was the first sign that time was wicked and had fingers to take things. It wasn’t just dates up on a wall, it was a war. Time took away her walk. She awoke one morning with the left leg aching, a throb that would come and go but never permanently leave. So now she lumbered, she limped; many times she sat, but since she’d reached sixty-five she hadn’t sauntered. When you’re Hortensia James and you have pride but no walk to saunter it with – well, life is difficult.
Hortensia counted the trees. She counted to feel human again, to come down from being a spitting thing to simply being her regular normal pissed-off self. She counted. The trees had been planted in a scattered fashion but since her first visit here, almost two decades ago, she had worked out a way to navigate through them, counting them, as if the numbers were the notation of an angry prayer. Ten. She’d grown accustomed to favouring the right leg, refused to go to the doctor and find out what exactly was wrong with the left. Fifteen. The ground was wet from yesterday’s rain, the leaves shiny and green. Hortensia ensured her Pumas made contact with the ants; she didn’t just trample the creatures by accident, she sought them out. Her regular normal pissed-off self. She tightened her lips. Twenty-five.
At thirty-five she stopped to catch her breath. She began again but then stopped at the next group of trees, leaned against a trunk, sighed. From where she leaned she could see the tops of most of Katterijn’s properties, including hers. Hortensia pushed off from the tree. A nip came and she pulled her zipper higher, dug her hands into the velvety pockets of her tracksuit bottoms and moved along.
She took the long way home, circling all of Katterijn, along a road her neighbours referred to as the Noodle, but she called the Noose. She looked up to try and gauge when the rain would start again. She passed a few neighbours walking their dogs or pushing the grandkids; some younger couples, new to the suburb, holding hands. When was her life ever simple enough for someone she loved to want to hold her hand? As she walked, Hortensia looked through people. If someone waved she looked away. When she turned the last corner even her sore leg appeared to perk up at the thought of the ottoman in the lounge and a hot chocolate. But there, standing outside No. 12, with arms akimbo, was Marion Agostino.
‘Hortensia.’
Because of her special hatred for Marion, Hortensia stopped to address her.
‘Marion,’ she said. Their eyes met for a few seconds and then Hortensia carried on. She limped to her gate, aware Marion was watching her, picking her apart in her mind like carrion. She searched for her key.
‘Hortensia.’ Marion approached as Hortensia stood and fumbled with the gate lock.
Hortensia closed her eyes, which was the closest she’d come, in the last decade or so, to prayer. There was a time when she actually did pray – Oh God, and so on – but these days she figured she was old. These days she dropped her eyelids for a few seconds and then lifted them, relying on God being all-powerful and getting it. Getting something to the effect of: help me be rid of this woman, make her mute, maybe paralysed from the neck down; make her forget I exist, take her away, dear God, Amen.
‘Yes, Marion.’ Hortensia gave the gate a slight push and it swung open (Hortensia James’s gate did not squeak or squawk or make any other unbecoming noises). She waited for what was coming.
‘You can’t ignore the Gierdien request.’
‘Yes, I can. Goodnight, Marion.’
‘Wait … I was also … We can discuss the matter at the next meeting, but I also …’ She made her face sweet and Hortensia felt sick. ‘I was thinking just now. How is Peter? Good?’
‘Peter is dying, Marion. Anything else?’
‘Oh dear!’
‘Yes, afraid so. Goodbye, then.’
Hortensia had already closed the gate behind her when Marion issued her next shot.
‘And how’s the leg?’