The Crowded Empty Bar

inside Cody
small & still
sits & waits
an act of will

outwardly, she
runs the race
spins around
for each new face

mantra chants
the inside child
hums her hymn
is meek & mild

the hurricane
outside the eye
shows no sign
does not know why

Francis is a thumb
I want to suck

*

– 28 –

Cody gets home from work to find Francis and a friend drinking coffee in the living-room. The friend’s name is Marc. Marc with a c. Cody’s seen it written down by the telephone. Not for the first time, she wonders if Francis might be gay.

—How was work? asks Francis.

—Fine, says Cody. She doesn’t really hear him. She can’t take her eyes off the back of Marc’s head. Marc, Marc. There’s something disturbing about the name. Like Jon without an h. Or Shayne with a y. Marc. Spelt backwards, it makes cram. A real word. This makes it seem like code. Code for what? Cram, cram. Trying to break the Code. OK, so her own name is enough of a liability. She shouldn’t laugh at other people’s. But Marc—it’s like biting tinfoil.

—Um, I’m going to have a bath, says Cody.

—Fine, says Francis.

From the bath she can hear them talking. About what? She has no idea what guys talk about when they’re alone. Sport? Sex? Not those two. Dungeons and dragons maybe. Or the relative merits of MMP and STV. Her? Doubt it.

—Night, she calls on her way to bed.

—Night, Francis and Marc call after her.

It is three o’clock before she hears the front door close.

*

—I’m pregnant, says Gene at work on Monday night.

—Oh boy, says Cody. —Is that a good thing or a bad thing?

—Both I guess, says Gene, slapping a steak down on the grill.

Cody looks at her closely to see if she’s changed. She’s read that during pregnancy your hair is at its glossy best and your skin is glowing. But Gene’s ponytail is as limp as ever and she always glows at work anyway, from the heat in the kitchen.

—Are you throwing up yet, asks Cody.

—Nah, says Gene. —Soon maybe. Hey—she looks at Cody, worried, —does it show?

She stands side-on to Cody. She’s wearing her T-shirt that says do i look as if i care on the front, and leggings.

—No, says Cody. —Don’t worry about it.

—Good, says Gene. —That means I don’t have to tell him yet. He’ll do

– 29 –

a runner as soon as he finds out.

—So what are you going to do? asks Cody.

—Go ahead with it and pretend he might change, says Gene. —I want to have the baby. Even if I’m on my own.

—You’re brave, says Cody.

—And stupid, says Gene.

—Yeah, says Cody, —and stupid.

Cody spends the next day at the library reading international magazines. She mostly skims through the articles, but reads the short stories in Buzz magazine and The New Yorker. She is relieved to discover that many of these deal with the same sort of man trouble problems as she has got. There’s a whole bunch of American women out there writing about stuff she can relate to. The No-Good-Men Genre. Cody feels reassured, part of a global sorority of single women. Things can’t be so bad if they have the same situations in San Francisco and Chicago as they do in Wellington. At least they’re all in it together.

No. Wait a minute. Cody stops cold. It is not in fact a good thing if man trouble is an international phenomenon. It is in fact a disaster. The one thing she’s been relying on is the fantasy of a different breed of man overseas. Every Antipodean girl’s dream—Mr Europe!—Mr Africa!—Mr Mediterranean!—take your places please. Now Cody knows that this will never be a reality. Even if she could ever save enough money to go to New York, she’d still be scouring the streets for a halfway decent man. Shit. Looks like she’s going to have to ditch romance and hold out for the fast-track, power-dressing career.

She leaves the magazines on the floor and scuffs her feet all the way down the street to the cafe.

*