by Lorcan Roche
Then, as I walk out, there’s the sound of Death breaking his shite laughing in the corner. The surprising thing is, he has this really thick Dublin accent.
Nice one, pal. Took a while, but it was well worth the bleedin’ wait.
When the little phone rings, I pick it up.
‘Put Ed on. Now.’ I hand it to him. He listens to her screeching and says absolutely nothing; but in the weak, watery eyes something is changing.
He puts the phone down.
‘Sorry, Ed. I don’t know what came over me.’
‘She takes. Ad. Vantage. This changes. Nothing. Between you and. Me.’ We sit in silence, then he says, ‘Can you. Get me. Some. More. Juice. Please?’
‘With ice?’
‘Yes.’
‘No problemo.’
I am his iron-shod creature, his to command, his only.
3
The house has borders now. Separate countries exist under one roof; it’s like one of those old black and white films where uniformed civil servants shove little markers around a war-time map of Europe.
When Dana sits in the kitchen, I leave her to her own devices; when I wheel him to the door of his mother’s rancid room she turns away in disgust, her piggy-nose all scrunched up as I bring him closer to the piled-up bed her silence is a protracted scream I can feel between my shoulder blades.
It reminds me of when I started going into pubs in Dublin: I could see things raftered in smoke-light and laughter, seriously, I could feel their thoughts falling on my shoulders and ears. And I’d often end up walking in and out of public houses for hours until I found the right place which was usually full of pensioners with Curly Wee hairs in their ears. But once you got used to the idea that there was no set routine for Saturday night, that there was no rule stating you absolutely had to be swilling warm cider in wet fields waiting for locked, fat girls leaning against trees to decide would they or wouldn’t they, then there was a kind of peace descending. In this one place I found, the barman would carve a little shamrock on the head of your pint – I thought that was really nice…
His breath is impossible to withstand; his hair gets greasy in a day; he eats like a bird that flew in, but will never fly out. Red, watery spots have appeared on his chest, his elbows and in between his fingers and toes.
When I insist he get up out of bed, he just sits wordlessly in his chair. He hasn’t got the energy to lift his dark, defeated head. When he tries to talk, he needs his inhaler right away. His finger points like a spectre, over, there, the deflated lungs gasping for air, over, there.
With the grey plastic tube in his mouth it looks like he’s giving Death a blowjob.
I call the doctor. Ed is given laxatives for his bowels and dime-sized tablets for the thrush in his mouth and all the way down his throat. The spots on his chest are thrush-related too: candida vulgaris. The doctor says it’s because his immune system is breaking down right outside his door she uses the word irretrievably.
When I tell her to lower her voice please, she looks at me as if to say And who the hell are you?
In my whirling mind I answer, I am his friend, I am his companion, I am the only one who cares.
I time the doctor when she goes in to visit with the Judge; it lasts exactly one minute, twenty-seven seconds, a little longer than it takes to slide open a well-oiled drawer and slowly write a cheque, fake concern etched upon your tortoise fuckin’ head.
We are not supposed to live like this.
We are not supposed to sit in sealed-off rooms, waiting. We are not supposed to surf from one channel to the next in subdued silence. We are supposed to say something, anything, as images of distraught fathers lifting children from debris flicker in front of our eyes we shift uncomfortably as we realize: We are the ones who are remote-controlled. We are the ones who have been switched off, years and years ago.
4
A Russian with assassin eyes came for an interview today. She sat with me in the kitchen, silently smoking. When the little phone rang I picked it up, turned to her and nodded. As we walked down the corridor I was thinking, I don’t know why, but I feel very comfortable with this one.
When I knocked, Ed’s mother said, ‘Come’ in her fake voice, then before she stepped through the Russian touched the back of my neck, lightly. Her hand was startlingly cold, but it still felt really, really nice.
The Russian remained with Ed’s mother all of four minutes.
When she came back for her handbag and coat, she was shaking her head. She said, ‘You seem to me like nice young man. I like to work with you, I think. But that fat woman is fuckink crazy, and this whole place, it stink of shit. And human fuckink misery.’
She muttered something under her breath. I was going to quote old Fyodor, was going to tell her all about how man can get used to everything, but she already had her coat on, and was marching out the door.
By the way, Dostoevsky was wrong: Man gets used to everything, except being lied to. And being all alone.
5
I open my mouth to speak, but he lifts his wrist on the handle of the chair. He swallows, then looks down at the pedals. He chooses his words very carefully. He says I’m a good guy mostly I make him laugh, but he doesn’t want me to say anything now; I speak too fast sometimes his head spins, plus, he doesn’t really understand a lot of the ‘Euro-pean, ref-rences.’
Then there’s a pause. When he looks up he is crying and my heart is starting to break into at least four separate sections.
‘What are. You going. To. Do. After?’
‘After work?’
‘After. I. Die.’
‘Ah, Jesus, Ed.’
‘Tell. Me.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Have. You saved. Any. Money?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did. He give you. The last. Raise?’
‘Yes.’
‘And. All the. Over. Time?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Will. You. Travel?’ Crooked, coursing tears leave streak marks down his face, white- and pink-striped candy.
‘Maybe.’
‘Will you. Go. Home?’
‘I don’t imagine so.’
‘You. Should. Think. About it.’
‘We’ll see.’
‘Do you. Never call. Them?’
‘No. Well, once. Just after I started working here.’
‘And?’
‘My sister picked up and asked me how I was.’
‘And?’
‘She didn’t wait for an answer. She said my dog had died, probably from being too fat because no one had the time to walk it.’
‘What. Did. You say?’
‘I said it wasn’t an “it”, it was a he.’
‘And. Then?’
‘I hung up.’
‘Shit.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Life. Sucks. Trevor.’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Mine. Sucks. All. The time.’
This is the moment we’ve been moving towards forever, this is when it will all come tumbling out. I need to be strong now.
‘I’m. Tired.’
‘I know.’
‘Tired of. Being. Fuck-ing tired.’
‘I know.’
‘Tired of. Being. A-lone.’
‘I’m here.’
‘Yes. You. Are.’ He smiles. It rips a cord in my chest, like a parachute attempting to open.
‘I’m tired of. Fighting. I mean. What. For?’
‘Life. That’s what you fight for every day Ed and I respect you greatly for it.’
‘Do you?’
‘Yes I do. I love fighters.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah. Jack Dempsey, Jack Doyle, Rocky Marciano, Rocky Balboa, Apollo Creed, Cassius Clay, Sugar Ray, Iron Mike, Prince Nassem. And you, Ed.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You know. One time. I had a. Temperature. Every Day. For. Seven months. She’d come.’
‘Who?
/>
‘That. Bitch. That. So-called. Fucking. Doctor.’
‘If she was a he, I’d take his head clean off. One blow.’
‘I’d pay. Per. View.’ He smiles again and so do I.
‘She used. To. Leave all sorts. Of. New tablets. Clinical trials.
At the. Start. She. Seemed. To. Think I was a. Chal. Lenge. Now she doesn’t even. Bother. Writing. New. Pre. Scriptions.’
‘Get rid of her.’
‘Can’t.’
‘Why?’
‘Jewish. Mafia.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I know. You’re one. Of. The. Good ones.’ He is looking straight at me now, the yellow of his bloodstained eyes watering.
‘Trevor. Can I tell. You. Something?’
‘That depends. If you’re going to tell me you’re gay and you want to tongue-sandwich me, or have me slide in behind you in the bath …’
Tears of relief and release begin to flow. Slowly he wipes the streaks away with one fist, then – when it eventually obeys the brain – the other.
‘It’s hard. For. Me. To look at. You.’
‘I know.’
‘You remind. Me of. The horses in. The Bud. Weiser. Ad.’
‘Clydesdales.’
‘Do you. Never. Get. Sick?’
‘No.’
‘Why?’
‘Good genes.’
‘No. They’re. Mother. Fucker. Jeans.’
‘Yeah, well, fashion wouldn’t be my strongest card.’
‘You. Should get. Clothes. Made for. You. Silk suits. In Hong. Kong.’
‘Maybe I will.’
‘Do me a. Favour.’
‘Name it.’
‘Think of. Me. From. Time to. Time.’
‘You’re not gone yet.’
‘And. If you. Find. What’s. Her. Name?’
‘Movita.’
‘Yeah.’
‘I’ll kiss her for you.’
‘Don’t. Be such a. Sap. Get a. BJ.’
‘OK.’
‘Hey. Trevor?’
‘What?’
‘Thanks.’
‘For what?’
‘Putting. Up. With. Me. My moods.’
I hold his bony face in my hands his cold white mask of death. He relaxes his neck muscles and lets go the featherweight of his head.
‘It’s been my privilege, Ed.’
‘You. Always know what to. Say.’
I‘m thinking, I always know what to say, but I don’t always know what to think, and I may formulate the right sentence in my head, but do I have the right thoughts to begin with in my heart do I have the right feelings, fuck it, do I have the right?
‘I’ll be back in a minute Ed, don’t go anywhere, OK?’
‘OK.’
This is how I felt watching my mother disappear in the mirror I tell myself, I won’t drink tonight, not a drop, I won’t smoke any of Ellie’s leftover weed, I’ll go down the Y, I’ll sweat it out, I’ll make sure I’m strong in my body and clear in my head I’ll make sure I’m ready.
Out in the corridor, the intercom buzzes briefly.
He needs me.
I walk towards his door, I need him to need me.
6
Since we spoke about it – since he said straight out he was dying – he has changed: he is like a white flower placed in a vase by a closed window he has opened up, and maybe you’re right, maybe it is for the last time, but he has stretched inside now there is space for other people’s music. And the long day doesn’t begin with a shopping list of high, whining demands. It begins instead with a gentle, yawning question:
‘What. Do. You. Want to. Watch. Today?’
And he’s learning too late in his life about sacrifice, about putting someone else first; he doesn’t use the panic button unless it really is urgent, unless he needs the dropped inhaler right away, unless he can’t find the strength to elbow-prop himself on his side to breathe a little easier, unless he thinks it really is true, there really is someone standing over him, unless he feels his tiny bird heart genuinely has stopped, that he needs his oxygen, his mask, his Companion.
He has learned too late not to be seized by panic, he has learned to breathe and think through it, he has learned that the oozed, stale aftermath of his body sweats doesn’t need to be sponged away at half-past four in the morning he has learned to let me go.
A little.
And some days you can see in his terrified eyes that his dream of being pulled under by the shadow that stands over him at night is back. And God love him, he tries to keep it to himself, he tries to be heroic and stoic and silent, but it’s there in the shaking badly hand, the trembling voice, the childish choice of DVD.
‘No. Not Sunset. Boule-vard, OK?’
‘OK.’
‘How. About. Star Wars?’
‘Again?’
‘E.T.?’
‘I dunno Ed, I think I nearly know it off by heart. How about Terminator 2: The Director’s Cut?’
‘Cool. Set it. Up. With the new. Surround. Sound.’
‘No problemo.’
‘Thanks. Man.’
And none of this will last, all of it will pass, but that doesn’t mean it shouldn’t be acknowledged, if only because you get an inkling of what Ed might have been, what he maybe briefly was before the universe began plotting in dimly lit corridors, before paediatric nurses began to scurry past with charts and useless pills, before a sense of foreboding began to grow like a black narcissus in his father’s stopped, forever-startled heart.
Ed doesn’t get up much anymore so I just sit beside him, listening.
He says his childhood was a series of sharp needles and cold people prodding, black orderlies lifting him and patting his ass to see if he had soiled himself, Jesus, how he used to wish he were much heavier, how he used to want it to be a fucking chore for them to heft his arms and legs.
But they hoisted him as if he wasn’t really there.
Then a chorus of young Jewish doctors would come to stand around his bed at night he often thought, Maybe I’m not here, maybe this is all a fucking dream.
When he was five, silent men in white coats filmed him over the course of an endless indoor day. They woke him and massaged him, they stretched him out until it hurt, they placed him upright in a straight-backed chair with straps around his sunken chest and crooked waist – then they walked away and left a camera on him.
They wanted to understand precisely how it happened, how the blood began to coalesce and slow, how his head became so heavy and low, how it looked as if he were dying, over and over again.
In the end, he decided to stay alive, just to fuckin’ spite them.
‘Jesus Ed, I’m so sorry.’
‘Don’t get. All fuckin’. Weepy. On me.’
We laugh. He bows his head. I kiss it softly.
If someone opens up to you, Nature dictates that you must open up to them, forget about the dam bursting, so I tell him a bit about my family, but not about the door being hammered shut, then a little bit about my mother, how light she used to make me feel inside, how easily she could forgive, how readily she could make me laugh even on a dark day, how, if my old fella corrected her grammar or her syntax, she’d smile coldly at him and say, ‘Why don’t you take a long walk off a short fucking pier, professor?’
How sometimes she’d wait until one of my ugly sisters was finished banging on about her latest thesis, her latest dialectic, her polemic, then she’d wink at me and say to whichever one had just been droning on, ‘I never hear you talk about your feelings, darling. It might be nice if once in a blue moon you let your mother know you actually had some.’
Ed looks at me the whole time I’m talking, which is hard for him because I’m standing and walking and he is lying flat on the bed and has to follow me and his neck hurts, and in the end he interrupts me with a fake coughing fit, his way of saying he is too tired to concentrate anymore.
Finally he smiles and says, ‘I’d like. To have. Met
her, she sounds. Like. Ex-cellent crack.’
I’m thinking, But I’m not finished, Ed, there are other things I want to tell you, when a low voice says, Careful now, you cannot open up completely, you cannot overwhelm.
It’s true, there are things I can’t tell Ed. Things I want to tell you, things you need to know:
In the Cathedral, no Jesuit sat listening. There was no confessing, no blessing, no fire fighter’s hand pressing. Down.
In The Subway Inn no Mayo man, advising.
And in the piss-stained lane as polished black boots and white fists came raining in, the truth is I lay there making no effort to protect myself. Truth is, I laughed out loud because at last, at last I was feeling something again.
And there was a court case, but it was them who brought it against me because they became afraid as I lay there, spitting teeth, grinning up and saying shit like, ‘That all you got, huh, that your best shot?’
And yes, you’re right, in my swirling world every teeming thing gets repeated, over and over again. And when they walked off shaking their shaven skulls searching for words to fit the sudden confusion in their coward hearts, I rose up.
I rose up and stumbled, I tumbled headlong into them, bleeding and breathing through black, blood-blocked nostrils. And I knocked all three over like skittles. Then I kicked, I stamped, I jumped, I broke pencil bones I snapped inside I dislocated.
I saw gaps in time. Saw where their skinned red hands were going, got there first. Predicted how they would scuttle sideways like crabs. Saw how they would move again to protect their faces, balls and bald heads, covered now like old people in an underground bomb shelter.
Saw myself being recorded by a CCTV camera in another lane, in another time, in another minute now I’ll stop disappearing into the folded moment where there exists no camera, no committee, no rules, no explanations, no verdict.
