by Tom Lennon
“Neil.”
Let me out of here. Hide the tears.
“Neil, wait.”
Bawling now. Don’t look back.
Sunday. The seagulls rise majestically from the rugby fields as you approach. Up into the air like a billowing white carpet. Over to the building. Ring the bell. The old housekeeper with thin white hairs sprouting from her chin answers the door. Remember in school, all the lads used to say that she was having an affair with Donno.
“Yes?”
Speak to her. Ask her about her lover.
“Could I speak to Father Donnelly, please?”
Your voice sounds distant. She’s looking at you oddly.
“Father Donnelly is away on a retreat for the weekend. He’ll be back tomorrow morning.”
Scratch your head. Tell her how sad you feel. Why not? Her face is kind. Who else do you have to turn to?
“Will I leave a message for him?”
Stare at your feet as you speak.
“Tell him that the flowers around the oak tree are withering.”
Now she really thinks you’re nuts.
“Are you one of the gardeners?”
Shake your head. Turn and walk away. She’s watching you leave. Past the giant oak tree. Up through the grounds. There’s the young lads playing soccer again. They’re shouting over to you. Eager voices. They want you to play. Can’t be bothered.
“Sorry, lads, in a hurry.”
“Hey, mister, did you really play for Manchester United?”
How can you resist those innocent eyes. Long time ago. The others snigger. Can you blame them.
“What’s your name?”
“Ryan Giggs.”
“It is not!” they roar in unison, except for Innocent Ryes, he believes you. There’s always one. Take him with you and protect him from the world. How can his mother even let him step outside the door?
“Bad day, lads, sorry, have to go.”
“Ah, c’mon, mister.”
“Maybe some other time.” They’ve forgotten you already.
On you plod, there’re places to visit. You’re not going to? Are you? What does it matter now? The trees are bare now, the cherry blossom petals are all gone. Smell of freshly cut grass fills your nostrils. Naughty, naughty, cutting your grass on a Sunday. Press the doorbell. Ding-dong. Sounds the same as yours. We have something in common after all, me and Ian.
“Yes?” his mother says from behind the half-open door.
Don’t just stand there, say it. I can’t. You have to.
“Could I speak to Ian, please?”
The hardness drains from her face. Her face is pleasant now. She has his eyes and mouth, and even his cute little nose. Go on, tell her. “Hey, Missus, now I know where your son got his heavenly looks from.” Or, “You don’t know how lucky you are, sharing a house with that boy of yours.”
“I don’t know if he’s in,” she says.
Of course he’s not. What did you expect, today of all days?
“Ian!” she calls up the stairs.
No reply.
“Ian!” she calls again.
Still no reply. She shrugs her slender shoulders and smiles.
“Oh … well, sorry for disturbing you.”
She knots her brow and wonders if she’s seen you before. “Who shall I say called?”
Decision time. Go on, go for it. Too late to turn back now. What does it matter? Take them out of your pocket and give them to her. You should’ve put them in an envelope.
“I just wanted to give him these.”
“Oh wait, here he is now.”
Everything goes cloudy as Ian drifts down the stairs, like an angel coming down from heaven. The frown leaves his brow when he sees you. A grin to brighten up the darkest day. Hand him the crumpled pages. That’s it, ever so polite. Blackrock taught you something after all. Questioning look as he opens out the pages. It’s the only way to lose these feelings. Watch it, Ian, your mum is looking over your shoulder.
“What are they?” she asks, frowning as she takes your scribbled poems from her boy. What now? Why doesn’t she understand? Please don’t read them. That’s my heart you’re holding in your hands. She can’t believe what she’s reading. Look at her face. Now she thinks you’re really weird. Tell her that you saved her little boy in Hollies the night of the fight. That’ll win her over; he’s bound to have told her.
“Did you write these?” she snaps, closing the door over slightly, pushing Ian back into the hallway. Would you blame her? She’s glaring at you; you better say something. There’s nothing to say, it’s all in the poems.
“Well, thanks very much anyway.”
Oh my God, is that all you could think of? She’s just staring at you. She loves her boy, can you blame her? His dreamy eyes are trying to tell me something, I know it. Turn and walk away. You don’t belong here. The door closes behind you. Dejected, turn and see her standing behind the frosted window panes, reading your poems. She’ll probably burn them and save her little boy. Oh Jesus, please let him see them. Just so he’ll know.
The late afternoon strollers leave the pier when the rain begins to fall. Stand and watch the DART train emerge from the dark tunnel. Dial the number slowly. Please let Mum answer. It’s ringing. Please let it be Mum. Please, please, please. “Mum, your little boy’s heart is broken,” that’s what I’ll say, she’ll understand. “Mum, your little boy has never felt so alone.”
Dad answers.
“Hello?” A pause.
“Hello, who’s speaking please?” Dad’s voice sounds different.
“Hello, who is this?”
Lips move, but no words come out.
Hang up. Another twenty pence, and dial the last resort. No surprise when Uncle Sugar’s answering machine comes on. “Sorry, I’m out at the moment, please wait for the tone if you want to leave a message.” Sugar’s businessman voice. Conscious of the lady waiting outside the phone booth. Want to say so much, but don’t. Just hang up instead. Wish I had Becky’s or Jackie’s number with me. Pick up your bag and over to the ticket office.
“Sorry, son, the next boat’s not till tomorrow morning,” the man behind the glass window says. Bag hoisted up onto your shoulders, you begin your long trek.
The hotel bar on the seafront is half full with Sunday afternoon drinkers. Children chase one another around the tacky bar. Sit over in the corner, away from everyone. Stick your bag under the table. The barmaid looks in surprise at the speed with which you knock the first pint back. “Got to feel something, babe,” you want to say in your American accent. Before the second pint arrives, the barman asks to see your ID. Everything’s above board, pal. Order a double whiskey for good measure. Knock it back fast so you don’t taste it. Yuck! Out with the pen and paper. Got a poem to write. A poem that will say it all. Another whiskey and a cigarette first. Jesus? Are you there? I need some inspiration. No reply. The sea is barely visible outside and it’s supposed to be summer. Must look like some poseur scribbling away like this. Oh, turn up the radio, Sinead is singing my song. Painful to listen to now. Why are you doing this to me, Jesus? Down another quick whiskey. Throat burning. Head’s going to explode. Imagine it. Bits of brains and flesh splattered all over the tacky bar. “Don’t worry, folks,” the barman would say, “he was only a queer. Sit down there and enjoy your drinks, we’ll have this mess cleared up in a minute. A bucket of water and a scrubbing brush will do the job.”
I’m pissed out of my brains, got to get out of this kip. Out onto the wet street. Hoist the bag up on your shoulder and plod along the deserted seafront .There’s a phone box. Call Uncle Sugar again. Last twenty pence. “Sorry, I’m out at the moment, please wait for the tone if you want to leave a message.” Where are you, Sugar? Hang up. Can’t be bothered saying anything. Too fucking drunk. Up onto the main road. Windshield wipers going swish-swish, swish-swish. Car tires making a squelching sound. Mist rolling in from the sea. Can’t even see Howth. Oh shit, there’s Mal and Tony on the other sid
e of the road. They’ve seen you, no escape now.
“Hi, Neilly,” Mal says in an effeminate voice.
“Hiya, darling.” Tony makes a limp-wristed gesture and blows a kiss across the busy road. People are looking.
“Backs to the wall, boys!” Their cruel roar drifts across the street. Pretend you can’t hear them.
“Faggot!”
They’re laughing at you. Hands are shaking with fury. Feel like picking up that rock there and smashing it into their faces. Blood must spill. They’re whistling after you now. Feel like crying. Why are you letting them do this to me, Jesus? Can’t take it anymore. Just ignore them and walk on.
Darkness has fallen. Gloomy clouds almost touching the rooftops of the empty road. Misty drizzle drifts past the street lamps. Haven’t eaten for ages but don’t feel hungry. Nearly home now. There’s Mr. Kelly, Gary, and Trish sitting like zombies in front of their blue flickering television light. God, look at them. And here’s good old Mrs. Kelly now with the supper tray. Would anyone like a slice of the fresh fruitcake I baked? Look at Trish, pouring the tea, trying to impress. That fucker Gary says something and they all laugh. Bet it was about me. Something like, “Would anyone like a slice of Neil-fruit-Byrne-cake?” “Gary, stop, you’re making me spill my tea.” “He’s a gas man, isn’t he?” Trish would say. Ah no, Trish is okay. Look at the state of them, sipping from their dainty little cups. Put a brick through the window and shatter their smug lives. Lights are off in our front room. Leave your bag on the porch. Take Ted out and leave him sitting on top of the bag. There you are now, Ted, you sit there and keep an eye on my stuff. You tell my mum that I left this poem for her. Tell her I’m sorry it’s a bit smudged, but it couldn’t be helped. It’s private now, so don’t you go reading it, Ted. Not even as much as a peek. Sneak in by the side entrance. Lights on in the kitchen. Look in, no one there. Move on to the TV room. Oops, stood on one of Mister Pig’s flowers. Calamity. There they are, staring at the screen .And they’re sipping their tea as well. But look at their faces, they’re not watching it at all really. Mum’s chin is sagging, and her eyes are red. Dad looks different now. Jesus, what should I do? No answer. You’re probably sipping your tea like everyone else. Only the lost souls are out on a night like tonight.
Climb up into the tree house. Safe from the world here. The tree house that Dad built. Cozy here, isn’t it, Jesus? Still not speaking to me? Join the club. Hey, Jesus, d’you remember the first time I came up here with Paul and Joe? It was fine getting up, but climbing down again was the problem. D’you remember them all saying, “It’s okay, Neil, just lower your foot down, the ladder’s there.” But I couldn’t, I was sure I was going to fall. I was crying then. And d’you remember, I sat up there for hours, I wouldn’t let anyone else lift me down, it had to be my dad. And then he came home from work, and he was laughing and calling me Mister Not-So-Happy as he carried me down on his shoulders…Only two smokes left, better smoke them, don’t want Mum to know about my naughty habits. Know what, Jesus? I feel like I’m drunk. Well, I am drunk. But no, I feel like I did in hospital that time. Sort of floating. Free and floating, in a happy place, where I don’t feel lonely. Where I don’t feel anything.
A silent scream would ring out in the night air. The old tree branch would groan and creak as the noose tightened around the boy’s neck. He’d fight to breathe, his feet dangling in midair. He’d try to reach his arms upward. His love bangle would hang limply on his wrist, covering his watch. The dizzy world goes around in circles, swirling and twirling like a merry-go-round. The happy children on the merry-go-round wave to their mums and dads. Round and round the little bobbing horses go. The happy mums and dads wave back to their passing children. The music of the fairground plays. The boy’s life flashes before him. All the faces are smiling and waving to him as he passes, and he’s crying out for help but none of them hear him. Round and round he goes, flashing pain from his eyes, but everyone keeps on smiling. Then the music fades. The boy would gasp his last breath. All the happy faces would disappear. The struggle would end.
Time would pass. The misty rain would keep on drifting down. The people in the house would switch off the television, lock the doors, and go upstairs. Out of habit, the woman would take a look into her boy’s empty bedroom. The man would mutter a comment about where the boy is sleeping. Then the curtains would be drawn and the lights switched off. They’d tuck up warm in their cozy bed. The gloomy clouds creep down lower in the sky. The teddy bear gets wet and soggy on the porch. It’s quiet now. Only the animals in the undergrowth stir. The people in the house would be immersed in their peaceful dreams.
Night would pass and the darkness would lift. Birdsong would greet the arrival of dawn. The foghorn would sound far out at sea. A dog would bark. The gloomy clouds would be gone, and the glorious crimson sun would rise majestically up over the bay, spreading its pinky glow across the sky. Alarm clocks would chime. The rumble of early traffic could be heard in the distance. The man in the house would sit on the edge of the bed rubbing his sleepy eyes. He would stand up and stretch himself wearily. Then he’d walk over to the window. The woman would stir in her sleep. Feeling a cold shiver curdling her blood, she’d awaken with a start. The man would open the bedroom curtains and blink as his eyes adjust to the brightness. The woman would sit bolt upright in the bed. The man’s pained cry would resound around the peaceful neighborhood. The woman would rush to his side. The man would clasp his arms around her. Her desolate scream would ring out. Their boy would really be talking to Jesus then and that would teach them all a lesson they wouldn’t forget in a hurry…Oh Jesus, what am I doing?
“Neil.”
A voice from down below.
“Neil, are you all right?”
Neil starts to cry. Uncontrollable salty tears stream down his cheeks, mingling with the rain. His whole body shudders as the rope is lifted from around his neck. He feels his dad’s arm around his shoulder. He feels the bristle warm against his face. He sees the wetness in his dad’s eyes as he helps him down from the tree house. His mum is standing in the light of the kitchen door, waiting for them.
“I’m sorry, Neil,” his dad whispers, and Neil clasps his arms around him, burying his face into that safe shoulder.
His canvas bag is on the table, with Ted sitting proudly on top of it, like a king upon his throne, watching the happy family reunion.
“Someone named Ian called three times for you,” his mum says. Neil’s heart stops beating, his world stops revolving.
Say that again, Mum.
“He wants you to phone him immediately.”
Jesus, you are cool, you know that.
His mum and dad wait in the kitchen while their boy makes the phone call that changes his life.
“Kate’s bringing the two children over to see you in the morning,” his dad tells him, but Neil is in another world now. He hugs his mum and dad again, and his tears are tears of joy this time. Dreamboat Ian has been mad about me for years, he wants to tell them, we’re meeting tomorrow. Never know, we might even ask Mal and Tony out on a double-date. You really do excel yourself sometimes, Jesus, you know that? You should’ve heard us on the phone, Ian and myself, stammering like two little kids. Well, one thing’s certain, neither of us is going to get a wink of sleep tonight.
“Who’s Ian?” his mum asks, her anxious voice charged with polite uncertainty.
Neil hesitates. The question hangs in the air like a grenade without a pin. Both his mum and his dad are staring at him.
“A friend from school,” Neil says, placing the pin safely back in the grenade. This is the answer they want to hear. It brings the smiles back to the happy family faces. His dad turns to face him. “Your mother tells me that you and…eh, your Northern friend…”
“Shane,” his mum prompts.
His dad nods. “Yes, Shane. She tells me that you weren’t actually, you know …”
Neil watches his dad contort his face in embarrassment, unable to bring himself to
say those words. But now Neil understands the conditions. We’ll love you, providing you hide your love away. We know you’ve been through hell, but please don’t bring us down into that hell .Just pretend. And Neil’s grin of compliance brings a warm glow of relief to their faces. He realizes that they’ll never understand him, that they don’t want to. But only one image really matters to him now. That boyish grin, the red baseball cap, and the faded jeans. And now he was going to be a part of those dreams. Maybe they realized this, maybe they didn’t, but their boy didn’t really care anymore. They always told him to tell the truth, but now it was clear to him that they didn’t want to hear the truth.
Irish Slang and Other Terms
bender
derogatory term for a gay man. Similarly, bent: to be gay
bruds
brothers
chancer
person who is sneaky, mildly unscrupulous and opportunistic
cogging
to cheat on schoolwork or an exam by copying
Cooperation North
charity and exchange program dedicated to promoting peace between the Republic of Ireland and Northern Ireland. Secondary schools in both regions participate in class trips and activities similar to community service trips in many US high schools
cuppa
cup of tea or coffee
DART
Dublin Area Rapid Transit, the public transportation railway in Dublin
debs
formal dance for graduating students in Ireland, similar to prom
First Year
the equivalent to seventh grade in the US. Secondary education in Ireland lasts up to six years
fiver
currency note for five Irish pounds. Similarly, tenner: a ten pound note. The Republic of Ireland had its own currency until 2002
gaff
house or apartment
gobshites
despicable people, jerks