Chapter 7

Weena was on the phone when I got home.

"Michiko said she uses Nappy Express. They started with 60 nappies a week and have cut down a lot. 60 a week with a 12-week guarantee costs about $11 a week. She keeps a box of disposable for travelling and just in case."

"Sounds like fun. I guess that what we'll do. Do we do it now?"

"After Patrick's born. Otherwise it's bad luck." The phone rang. Weena got it. "Hey! ... Oh, hi mum. No. A few contractions. Not enough to count. Too infrequent. Why?"

"He did? I'll tell Gordy. He just walked in. But thanks. Yes. Love you, too."

"What was that about?"

"Jacky told mum that he had a message over the wire that Patrick would be born on Sunday the 16^th, which is just after full moon and also Easter Sunday and that she should tell me because the hospital will be understaffed."

"Well, that gives us under two weeks to get folks ready."

"Under two weeks?"

"Next Sunday is Palm Sunday and two weeks from today is Good Friday."

"But is it right?"

"He was right about the gender."

Once in the dusk Oona was in the garden collecting vegetables for supper when her digging stick turned on something solid. She felt down with her fingers and brought up a large circular dish which she held over her head. Light played on the dish. Oona sat down with her special cleaning cloth and cleaned the dish. But it was too dirty and she left it by the door until after she had prepared and eaten supper. Then she cleaned it some more. It was dark. It was black. But as Oona moved her hand from left to right it began to shine silver white.

Each evening after supper Oona cleaned the dish. She cleaned the dish for fourteen days. It got cleaner and shinier but was too big to take into the house. When the whole dish was clean, her sisters were delighted and wanted to hang it high on the wall. Oona thought so too, but there were still dark spots on the dish. It should have no blemish if it were to go on the wall.

But when she rubbed it more and more — right to left -- for another fourteen days it got darker. Not brighter. And she still works on the dish every night.

"Will you tell the stories to Patrick?"

"I'll tell him all the stories I know. About the Dreamtime and about Isis and Osiris and Horus and about Zeus and about Odin and the World Ash and about Sakyamuni and about Indra and Siva and Krishna and Vishnu. And anything else I come across."

"Wow! So many stories."

"All different and all the same. That's what the anthropologists and the semioticians say."

"Semioticians?"

"People who study meaning."

"Oh. What will I tell Patrick?"

"How to behave, how to be good, how to love, how to heal, how to take care -- all the things that Ganesh did not write down."

"I don't know what you're talking about." The phone rang again. "Hi. Oh. Yes, Gordy told me. Why don't you come visit? I haven't even begun dinner yet. Where are you? Oh. Well scoot down 71. We're in the Downs. Do you have a map? Good. See you soon. Bye." She put down the phone. "Angela. I'd guess 20 minutes."

"Do we have food?"

"I think so. I seem to recall a whole chicken in the freezer."

"Got it. I'll put it in the microwave to thaw."

"Great. I've got to pee."

I walked over towards the door. "Did I mention Angela's fiance?"

"Yes. After we eat, you go read or something. I want to talk to her."

"Right. I'll put up water for vegs."

Only a few minutes after Weena emerged and got the chicken seasoned and into the oven, I heard a car and then a knock. I let Weena get it.

"Hello."

"I am so glad to see you! You're so thin. Are you OK?" Weena was bursting maternally in more than one fashion.

"Yes. I'm OK. It's been tough."