The Things We Know Now

by Catherine Dunne

  ‘So we’re some of the people who have too much, then,’ he shot back. ‘We have a big house and two cars and lots of money.’

  I sensed that we had reached the nub of the matter.

  ‘Yes, we’re very lucky. And in the scheme of things, you’re probably right. Dan left your mother the house, so we don’t have a mortgage like other people. And I have a pension from all the years I worked. We’ve had a lot of good fortune.’

  ‘It isn’t fair, though. Is it?’ I heard his voice catch.

  ‘No,’ I said. I paused. ‘It isn’t. Life isn’t fair. At least, not always,’ I added. I thought I should try and temper a little some of the pessimism of this conversation.

  ‘Edward has to work with his dad today. He said he needed someone to hand him the tools and to fetch and carry stuff from the van.’

  I nodded. ‘Does Edward mind?’

  Daniel shrugged again. ‘Don’t think so.’

  I continued to press a little. ‘Do you mind that he’s not here with us?’

  ‘A bit.’ He turned away.

  I suspected that that was the end of our conversation for now. He would come back to it again if he needed to. I’ve always believed that Daniel had a strong sense of social justice. I remember him stepping in to stop a child being bullied in the playground when he was about seven or eight years of age. I caught only the tail-end of the incident, and that by chance, when I arrived to pick him up after school. At that time, he favoured long, colourful T-shirts with birds and animals emblazoned across the front. They were certainly distinctive. We’d bought him several from a wildlife site on the internet that he liked to visit. As a result, he earned himself the moniker among his school mates of ‘T-shirt Boy’.

  That afternoon, just as I arrived, a small child was howling in the doorway of a classroom. His mother was crouched down in the corridor, trying to console him. ‘T-shirt Boy’, I heard among the sobs, and I froze. Had Daniel done this? Had he made this small child cry?

  Just then, my son came bounding up to me, his face flushed, his sweater tied around his waist, his schoolbag flung over one shoulder. ‘Hi, Dad!’

  At that moment, the mother stood up. I gripped Daniel’s hand firmly. But she didn’t look angry. Her approach was a friendly one. And so I waited, curious to see what would happen next. ‘Hello, there,’ she said to Daniel, smiling at both of us. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Daniel Grant.’

  ‘They call you “T-shirt Boy”, don’t they?’

  He nodded.

  ‘I love the eagle!’ She reached out one hand and touched Daniel’s chest lightly. ‘We just want to say thank you very much. I understand that you helped Anthony when some older boys picked on him.’

  Little Anthony was hiccupping, the wire rims of his glasses askew on his elfin face. His cheeks were smeared with snot and tears. I felt sorry for the poor little chap.

  Daniel shrugged. ‘I said he was my friend, that’s all.’ He tugged at my sleeve, ready to go.

  ‘Well, thank you. That was a kind thing to do.’

  Anthony’s mother and I smiled at each other and that was that.

  When we were in the car on the way home, I told Daniel I was proud of him. ‘That was a really good thing you did, son, standing up for the little guy that way.’ I could see him shrug back at me.

  ‘It wasn’t fair. Jason an’ James were pickin’ on him. Called him specky four-eyes.’

  Jesus, I thought. Does it never change? The casual playground cruelty brought back so many uncomfortable memories from my own schooldays that I was taken aback. ‘There are bullies everywhere,’ I said, catching his eye in the rear-view mirror. ‘You did the right thing.’

  And now, some years later, standing on the quay wall waiting for the fish to bite, Daniel’s personal mantra had not changed. First Anthony, now Edward – and God alone knows how many others in between – things weren’t fair.

  Right now was not the time to suggest to Daniel that he cultivate other friendships. Ella and I had already spoken of this, but only to each other. We both loved Edward – he was a very lovable child – but we worried that Daniel would isolate himself by such an exclusive relationship. He needed others – if only to play second fiddle when Edward wasn’t available.

  My own memories of school returned yet again to niggle at me. After one particular incident on the rugby pitch – of which more anon – when I broke Pete Mackey’s jaw, the other boys pretty much left me alone. For almost three years, I endured an isolation that I can still remember: an acute loneliness that accompanied me for the grim remainder of my days at school. I watched my son as he concentrated on the fishing rod in his hands, barely moving, his attention focused on the water below.

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘let’s make sure we invite Edward for next week, and maybe another boy or two, if you’d like?’

  But he never answered. At that moment, there was an almighty tug on the rod, and it bent forward in a wide, graceful arc, sweeping downwards towards the surface of the water. I leaped to my feet. ‘Hold on tight! Pull the rod upwards, Daniel, and keep pulling backwards!’ I rushed to his side. He was shrieking with excitement.

  ‘Help me, Dad! Help me!’

  I put one hand over his and together we landed the trout, gasping and wriggling, onto the flat surface of the pier. The fish flailed wildly, arching its back. ‘Watch out!’ I called, ‘Or it’ll throw itself back into the lake!’

  I got hold at last of the gleaming, silvery body. I could feel the small heart beating wildly under the shiny surface. I watched the gills expand and contract. As gently as I could, I removed the hook from the fish’s mouth.

  ‘Well done,’ I said to Daniel, and he grinned. ‘Now, it’s your call. We can throw it back, after we take a photo of course, or we can have it for supper. It’s up to you.’

  ‘Back,’ he said, without hesitation. ‘Let’s do it quick, or it mightn’t survive.’

  He pulled his mobile phone out of his pocket. I held the fish as he took the picture.

  ‘Put it back, Dad,’ he said. ‘Do it now.’

  We got down on our hands and knees and I slipped the heaving body back into the waters of the lake. Daniel and I both watched as the fish seemed stunned for an instant, testing its new environment, as though it couldn’t believe its luck. Then, with one twist, one flash of its undulating body, it was gone.

  ‘You’re a fisherman,’ I said. ‘Your granddad would be proud of you!’ I was glad to see that Daniel’s face had cleared. None of the former anguish remained. Instead, his cheeks were flushed, his eyes bright.

  ‘That was cool!’ he said. ‘Wait till I tell Edward!’

  We sat together, each of us perched precariously on a corner of the upturned beer crate. We ate our lunch and talked of fishing and sailing and spinners and feathers. When we didn’t speak, we sat in companionable silence. Afterwards, we baited the hook again and Daniel had another go, but I sensed his heart wasn’t in it. He’d been troubled by the removal of the hook from the fleshy inside of the trout’s mouth.

  ‘Does it hurt them?’ he asked.

  ‘I guess so,’ I said, ‘although some people say not as much as you would imagine. They’re supposed to have different nerve endings. But I don’t know.’

  He nodded. ‘I’m glad we put him back. I’ll be able to draw him from the photo. It’s not fair to kill him.’

  It wasn’t long before clouds began to gather in the east, just as George had said they would. ‘Let’s go,’ I said. ‘I think we should make tracks before the weather changes. You’ll have time if you want to cycle over to Edward’s and show him the photo before dinner.’

  We made it back to Casey’s yard just before the first fat drops of rain began to fall. There was an ominous rumble to the east.

  I have searched, over and over again, for some significance in all the conversations that I can recall with Daniel over the last two years of his life. I drive myself mad, looking for the answers, and all the questions that I mi
ght have missed. Once he went to secondary school, he changed. Not immediately, and not even all at once. But he changed.

  Gradually, the child I knew became transformed into someone else. And not just into an adolescent: that would have been natural. As a father of three daughters, I was already inured to the slamming door, the mutinous silence, the outburst of temper. It was something else with Daniel, something I then did not know. But that is no excuse: I should have known, should have seen what was already so familiar to me from my own boyhood. I didn’t. And now I have to live with that.

  Would I have spotted earlier that things were gravely wrong, had Daniel been a girl? This, like so many other questions, is impossible to answer. And after Daniel died, I could not ever ask them of Ella. Of the two of us, I believe her burden of perceived guilt to be the heavier. She will never forgive herself. ‘How could I not have known? How could I not have seen it? My own child.’ She said this, or something like it, over and over again.

  Nor will I forgive myself. But then, there is so much more that I have to feel guilty about, responsible for.

  Things I may never be able to tell my wife.

  Rebecca

  ‘ADAM?’

  I kicked the front door shut, not caring about the way it slammed. It sounded just about as angry as I felt.

  ‘Adam, are you home?’ A stupid question: his car was in the driveway; the front door of the house was closed but unlocked; the alarm was off. And the kids’ schoolbags and gym gear were strewn across the hall. I could feel my irritation grow. I made an effort to contain it, although I was aware even then that I was fighting a losing battle. Clear, cold rage was lurking just below the surface, and once that ice-cap began to melt – look out, world.

  Lately, Adam had been absent far too much from the bosom of his family. I’d been caught out several times, just like this. When he’d promised to do something or other with the kids, he’d turn up late or not at all. Or he’d plead busyness. It made me furious: that silent, unspoken male assertion that his time was more valuable than mine. I should have recognized the signs, should have known better. Do we learn nothing from our previous experiences?

  He’d had a vacant look about him recently, even when he was home and, in a completely uncharacteristic development, he’d suddenly begun listening to music while wearing headphones. Not the small, white dinky ones that the kids wear with their iPods – but huge, padded capsules that completely covered his ears and made him, in Ian’s words, ‘look like a dork’. I’d chided my son on a number of occasions for remarks like this. Secretly, though, I agreed with him.

  Aisling came downstairs, already dressed for ballet. ‘Where’s Dad?’ she said. ‘He’s taking me today, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, he’s taking you and Susie. Did you remind her at school today that it was our turn to collect her?’

  Aisling nodded. ‘Yeah.’

  I hoped Susie would be ready this time. I think she liked to keep us waiting. Good training for her future career as a real drama queen.

  ‘What time will Dad be home?’

  ‘Isn’t he here? Maybe he’s listening to music somewhere.’ I began to make my way towards the kitchen, to dump the three bags of groceries I was carrying.

  Aisling walked quickly beside me. She started tugging at my sleeve, her upturned face a mask of thwarted desire.

  ‘Aisling, don’t do that, please.’ I lifted my arm, shaking her off. I eventually managed to get the bags onto the counter before one of them split.

  ‘Dad was here earlier. But he said he had to go out.’

  I stopped what I was doing. ‘He what? Are you here on your own?’ I was shocked. Adam had never done that before.

  But she didn’t answer. In a way, it was just as well; at least she hadn’t been frightened to be alone. But I would certainly tackle Adam later.

  ‘Muuuum, I’m going to be late.’ Aisling fussed with the skirt of her tutu as I started putting stuff in the fridge. I deliberately turned away from her. I knew it would only be a moment before she put her hands on her hips and became disapproving. Ah. There it was now; right on time. I reached for the bags of lettuce.

  ‘It’s our rehearsal.’ I didn’t need to see the glare: I could hear it. ‘Can’t you take me? We’re supposed to be collecting Susie at five.’

  I could hear the whine I knew so well. Could hear it grow in scale and pitch. It set my teeth on edge, made my already packed evening look a whole lot bleaker. I had a conference call in half an hour here, at home. Nothing too taxing, but it would be a real nit-picking, way-too-lengthy discussion about new admission requirements for incoming students.

  It was easier, given the five-hour time difference, to do that sort of work from my own study at home. At least I could take my shoes off and put my feet up; sip on a mug of coffee. I could even, from time to time, climb into a well-chilled, long-earned glass of Sauvignon blanc. I could do all of that, since the Americans couldn’t see me. It was a relief, sometimes, to escape the disapproval – no, the tyranny – of their relentless political correctness. I’d wondered many times whether it was the nationality of the persons I was dealing with, or simply the nature of the work I did. I could never be sure. I just knew that my whole lymph system felt as though it was fuelled by irony in the blood: there had been many times when I felt like slamming the phone down on conversations to do with teaching conflict resolution.

  The one thing I was sure of that afternoon was that I couldn’t really leave the house, not at that point – I’d never be back in time. Besides, this was Adam’s job. I pulled my mobile out of my jacket pocket, not even attempting to hide my anger from my daughter. I’d already tried him, several times, but his phone went straight to message minder.

  ‘Adam? Can you please call when you pick this up? It’s almost five o’clock. We’re waiting. Aisling is going to be late.’ I snapped the phone shut, tried to smile brightly as my daughter sulked. I hate to admit it, but she looked – still looks – a lot like me whenever she does that. ‘Where’s Ian?’

  By then, Aisling had already started to hop from foot to foot. I remembered how I used to do that, too, particularly when I didn’t get my own way with Dad.

  ‘He went over to Philip’s,’ she said, her whole face creased into an expression of enraged pleading. ‘Please, Mum, why can’t we go now?’

  I had one more tack to try, one last shot in my locker. ‘How about I call Susie’s mum? She’s—’

  ‘Noooooooooooooo! We need to go now!’

  I did a quick calculation. With a bit of luck, and a little less traffic, I might just make it. It didn’t look as though I had any choice.

  ‘Right, come on.’ I hustled my daughter out the door.

  By seven, I was anxious. Still no sign of Adam, no word, no call, no message. In the past, we’d often left notes for each other behind the boxes of detergent in the utility room. We figured it was the one place the kids wouldn’t go poking around. But that was a long time ago: a different life and a different house. And although I searched with mounting unease, I didn’t really expect to find anything. As I rummaged, I had the strangest sense of something closing in around me. Anxiety began to gnaw, somewhere underneath my ribcage.

  I had made the conference call, put a hurried dinner together, collected Ian and swung by to get Aisling from Susie’s. Not for the first time, I longed for all this transitional coming and going to be over and done with. Adam and I and the kids had been living in Dad’s house – my old home – for almost six months now, waiting for our new place to be finished. My father had been generous, I admit it. Rather than sell our old family home – which he had been intending to do for several years now – he put his plans on hold. Mind you, I don’t think that his heart was ever really in it: why else would he have delayed so long? But that’s another story. Anyway, he offered Adam and me the house instead, somewhere to settle into while we were waiting for the builders to complete our dream home.

  At first, I’d hesitated. I could see all the
potential baggage that might come with such an offer. There is no such thing as a free lunch. And my father’s anxiety to please was palpable – at least to me. But then, I have always been able to read him better than anyone else.

  ‘It’s yours, Rebecca,’ he said. ‘For as long as you need it. Plenty of time to put it on the market when you guys are finished with it.’

  I thanked him, of course I did. Profusely. The house had all the blessings of familiarity at a modest rent. My sisters had no objection to this arrangement: I think they were both pleased at what they may have seen as a rapprochement between me and our father. And I could see that Dad hoped that this generosity on his part might, by some process of osmosis, ignite some more warmth into my relationship with his wife. I still thought of her as his ‘new’ wife. But of course she wasn’t. Not any more. Ian was ten, so that’s how long she and Dad had been married. It didn’t feel that long – I don’t really know what it felt.

  Anyway, as things turned out, moving into my old family home didn’t really change much: I mean between me and Ella. I just didn’t like the woman. Her calmness, her supportiveness, her bloody-well understandingness really pissed me off. Besides, my life was busy. I didn’t get to swan my way through it, working a mere twenty hours a week, surrounded by the gardens of Paradise.

  Once we moved in, I made sure to abide strictly by the terms of my agreement with my father. I paid my rent like clockwork; maintained what needed to be maintained around the house; kept the gardens in apple-pie order. I was determined not to muddy the family waters any further.

  By eight o’clock that night, when Adam still hadn’t returned, still hadn’t called, I was frightened. I couldn’t wait to put the kids to bed. Something bad had happened, and I needed to find out what it was.

  ‘Daddy’s at a meeting,’ I said, as we cleared the table after dinner. ‘Silly me, I forgot.’ At ten and eight years of age, my children weren’t really interested in the movements of their parents: as long as we were around to fetch and carry, to feed and water, to dole out comfort and ‘dosh’, as they called it, they continued to inhabit their own self-contained universes, each one circling us, and the other. I tried to remember if my sisters and I had been quite so detached. I don’t think so – but I can’t be sure, at least not about Sophie and Frances.