ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Born and bred in New Zealand, DAVID BATH is a writer living in New Haven, Connecticut.
Untitled
By David Bath
The black IKEA couch is upside down on the hardwood apartment floor. A sea of scattered loose papers laps against the black fabric. He walks over the paper and sheaves stick to the soles of his bare feet; walks past the laundry pile he hasn’t given up on—still a vain desperate hope like the trash that spilled over the kitchen floor for four days before the stench became too much for her. Not that she hadn’t donned the yellow rubber gloves from the cupboard under the kitchen sink, sunk to her knees and methodically gone through every item of rubbish; shaking empty soda cans, straightening junk mail pamphlets, wriggling into the corner of empty coffee grind covered packets with an index finger.
In the kitchen he fills the red IKEA kettle to the max level and places it on the gas stove, igniting the element and leaving it on high. The tomato plant seedlings in their planter, given him by a friend, continue to flourish despite the slim amount of sunlight they receive––he is always careful in lifting the blind not to bump or bustle the precious leaves. He has no garden or hothouse to plant them in but even so he hopes to see them grow into strong plants. On the way through the living area, again stalking in and out of the tottering book piles cleared off the bookshelves, he switches the television on. Then switches it off. Then on. Early morning Breakfast show presenters banter amongst themselves. He switches it off. Traffic noise from the street reaches him, the occasional car horn of an impatient commuter anxious to get through the lights at the intersection, and the upstairs neighbor, on cue as ever, loudly crashes down the stairs, slamming the apartment building’s back door shut. He watches the neighbor’s head bob past gaps in the blinds as he runs down the driveway to the car.
It will be the same. In the early hours of the morning he heard it. Blub blub blub. Four bottles of Draino, a strengthened right arm from long repetitive sessions of plunging the tub’s drain-hole and three plumbers’ visits over the course of a fortnight and it will be the same. He turns from the television and blasts through the books, knocking them to the floor, back over the paper, sheaves again trying to stick to the soles of his feet, and throws the bathroom door open. The grey water sits in the tub, a grimy line near the topmost edge with black pubic hairs embedded in the thick soap-scum residue and strange flotsam and jetsam—small brown furry growths, some kind of amoebic biologically primitive organisms feeding off soap fat, dead skin cells, trace dirt molecules, sand, salt and shampoo/conditioner globules—flotsam and jetsam lifted off old bathroom drain pipes that are God only knows how many years old.
“Has it drained?” she shouts from the bed. With the thumb and second finger of his right hand he rubs the pale line of flesh the missing wedding band has left and looks at the squat grey water that inexplicably and eventually reappears with a will all its own even after it has been bucketed out. He answers, “No! Still the same!” She no longer bothers to answer. Amusement became exasperation.
Exasperation became anger. Anger became resignation. Resignation is silence.
He bends down to the blue mop bucket and knows he has to get on with it if he wants to make it to work on time. The ritual proceeds and soon the slops and spills from the bucket and grey water that misses the toilet bowl puddles on the white bathroom tiles. The bathroom mat he used to soak up the water became soaked and rancid. He threw it out. His feet slip when he reaches over to dump the bucket’s contents and he works feverishly, angered more than usual by the futility of the situation. He considers dragging the bright orange shower curtain over to stand on it but it already blooms with mould and spore patches and he decides it doesn’t need extra dampness. He takes up the small plastic measuring jug—the bucket is too big and unwieldy to manage the last shallow covering—but just as he scoops the jug along the tub’s surface grey water begins pulsing back up and out of the drain hole. Groaning, “No, no, no”, he empties jug after jug but the water pulses and pulses, quickly refilling even after he switches jug for bucket, fills faster than he empties and with a curse he flings the bucket against the wall where it clatters to the floor. He slips heavily to his knees beside the tub and grabs the tub rim to steady himself. The water gurgles and blubs blubs blubs as it fills and she calls from the bed, “What happened?” The kettle shrieks throughout the apartment, “ I’ll get it” he shouts. “No, don’t”, she shouts, “I’ll get it, you won’t have time”, but he is already there, shaking paper leaves off the soles of his feet, placing the kettle on another element, switching off the gas. “I got it”, he shouts on the way back to the bathroom, again shaking off paper. “The tub’s filling again”, he says loudly and he thinks he hears her swear. He glances in and she is curled up on her side, unmoving in the gloom, buried beneath the bedclothes.
His knees ache, they’re bruised, he thinks, bruised knees, and he stands next the tub and as he watches the grey water steadily rise he twists the pale band of flesh on his wedding ring finger and feels the morning slipping out of his control as he considers the prospect of not showering or doing what he knows she does after he has finished showering: stepping into the warm grey water and showering regardless. Between clenched teeth he growls, imagines the second-hand on his watch beside the bed ticking over, crawling on, imagines the time it will take to walk if he misses the shuttle on the corner and reaches out, turns the tap on, pushes in the steel shower button and listens to the cascade of clean water on grey. The water is cold as he gingerly steps in—the water is halfway up his shins and climbing, and he puts his head under the hot shower stream, his head down, eyes closed, leaning forward with his left hand pressed against the tiled wall, fingers splayed. He goes back through all the places in the apartment it could be, tries to pinpoint where he was, again remembers back four nights ago, sitting in the black IKEA couch, turning the ring over and over in his fingers, admiring, for the first time in a long time, lamplight reflected off the solid gold band they both worked and saved so hard to get. He slams the palm of his left hand into the wall, slams it again as grey water continues to climb up his shins, and again, and again, snarling with each hit, enjoying the satisfying sound his flesh makes slapping wetly against the tiles, expects any moment the sound of her voice, her presence by the tub-edge but she doesn’t appear, he doesn’t hear her voice through the bathroom door and he suddenly laughs as he hits the wall and the water rises up his legs. He laughs until a loud gurgling sound comes from the drain.
The water begins to empty.
It drains with a velocity he can’t quite believe possible—a swirling whirlpool forms over the drain hole—and as he laughs the grey water rapidly begins its descent down his shins. He shouts for joy, shouts loud enough to reach the next room, “It’s draining! Quick! You gotta come see this!” He shouts for some reason he doesn’t fully understand, a deep need released, a consuming defiance perhaps, and the grey water empties, the tub surface clears and he looks down.
A tiny baby turtle struggles across the tub bottom, stoically inching along on four tiny flippers, its dark shell glistening with water, its tiny curved head protruding out of the shell, the suggestion of a tail. “Jesus,” he shouts, “Jesus Christ! Honey you gotta come see this, it’s, it’s, there’s a turtle in the tub!”
The turtle stops. Its head disappears. He thinks he can hear water pattering off its shell: the minute sound of falling water hitting a hard surface in the vast silence of the bathroom.
Published July 2007