Water

Lucy wakes dry-mouthed to the sound of water. A patter on tin, echoing: the season’s first rain has come. Her bladder throbs¹ as she climbs down. The wet thickens to a suck and slap, as if the shack² has flooded. The moon is thin and the end of the month nigh and the tin warps³ the light, so that shifting silver waves lap the walls. The house is an ocean. And the ship? She freezes on the bottom rung. The ship is a mattress⁴ and on it a sea creature, many-armed and terrible, with skin slick and wet. Her throat is too parched⁵ to scream. And then she sees: not one creature but two. Ma sits astride Ba, her belly⁶ crushing him. Her nightgown falls over them both, and her legs hook his, pressing him into the mattress. She’s hurting him. His breaths come quick and shuddering⁷. —ets, Ma says. She rises up, bears down. Her weight makes him groan⁸. Tickets.Ba puts a hand to her chest to stop her. Beauty is a weapon, Ma said, and Lucy thinks she may begin to understand. Ma’s power a nighttime power. Sweat gathers on Lucy, in those places where skin rubs skin: the crook⁹ of her elbows, the space between her thighs¹⁰. A wet heat in the room; the rainy season is coming. Ba’s eyes roll back. And still Ma hurts him, till his head goes loose and a single word escapes him: Yes.Only then does Ma lift off. Lucy is aware of the sting of her own urine down her leg. Shamefaced she climbs upstairs. No need for the outhouse tonight.
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