Twisted River

by Siobhan MacDonald

  What was he supposed to say? “You’re welcome”? He wasn’t sure what one said in this situation. He tried to think what Spike might say. Thinking about it, it struck him that’s exactly what Spike might say.

  “Enjoy your holiday,” he said lamely, feeling the situation had now become surreal.

  “I will. Now.”

  She smiled.

  “Good night.” She shielded him at the doorway so Grace couldn’t see him leave, and Mannix went back to his room with the unopened bottle of Jameson, wondering just exactly what he’d done.

  • • •

  Back in the office in Ireland, Mannix did his best to immerse himself in his job. He tried coming in early. He tried staying late. All to create a good impression. But he soon realized that no matter how early or late he managed, there was always some sickener there before or after him. Some younger blood with an MBA and/or a PhD under his belt.

  He tried not to be cynical. He tried not to sneer. In fact, lately he found himself worrying about the bitterness now seeping into his life. Yet there was something in the eagerness of his colleagues, their zealousness to please, that he found unseemly.

  “Hey, Mannix. How’s tricks?”

  It was his line manager. He plonked his pimply chin over the cubicle wall.

  “Yeah, good, thanks. You?”

  “You got those PowerPoints for the budget planning this afternoon?”

  “Let me see . . .” Mannix checked his out-box. “You should have them already, Brendan. In fact, I actually sent them to you at seven last night.”

  “You did? Marvelous. Marvelous stuff. Sure, you can’t keep a good man down,” he quipped.

  Praise from someone he didn’t rate did nothing but grate on his nerves.

  He smiled. “Now you said it, Brendan. Now you said it.”

  Maybe it was him. Maybe Mannix himself was the problem. Brendan was only doing his job. It was Mannix who didn’t fit. He looked around the cubicle walls. He’d found himself unable to personalize it in any way. He didn’t want to lend it any air of permanence. Thinking of himself as transient went some distance to preserving his sanity. As he sat tapping at the keyboard he wondered if this was how salmon felt in cages in a salmon farm.

  “For you, O’Brien!”

  Jim, the building maintenance intern, handed him a card.

  “Less of the O’Brien, thanks, I’m old enough to be your dad.” He stood up from his desk to take the card.

  What on earth . . . ?

  He stared at the card. His tongue went dry and his heart skipped a beat. It was Mickey and Minnie Mouse—holding hands. He turned it over. “Hello from Mickey Mouse,” it read in a neat but childish hand. It was signed, “Grace.” He looked at the date stamp. It had been posted from Orlando more than a week ago. Two days before he got back.

  Feeling a stab of guilt, Mannix scanned the open office floor. Had anyone seen the card delivered? Anyone who would know him? Get a grip, he told himself, narrowly missing the swivel chair as he sat down again. Colleagues got holiday postcards all the time.

  But how had she known where to send it? And then he remembered. Of course, she had his business card with all his details. He’d made her take one as he joked about his job. Shaken now, he looked again at the postcard, wondering exactly what to do with it. Tear it up? Put it in a drawer? He opted for the latter.

  Alarm bells were jangling in his head. Surely this contravened the rules of a one-night stand? What was in Joanne Collins’s head when she allowed or possibly even encouraged her child to send that postcard? He felt nervous.

  Mannix had been doing his best to forget that night. The guilt was compounded by the fact that Kate was making more of an effort ever since he’d arrived back from Boston. Maybe the old adage was true—absence makes the heart grow fonder. Conjugal relations were still at an impasse, however. He wasn’t sure, but he thought she’d spooned her body into his in bed last night. Half asleep, he’d turned around to face her, wondering if she was up for more. But she’d quickly turned away and shimmied over to her side of the bed.

  Mannix had gone for a pint in the Curragower Bar with Spike after the rugby match at the weekend. He had been tempted to tell Spike then, but it felt even more of a disservice to Kate to do so. He’d decided to keep his mouth shut. But now this? What on earth did this mean?

  Picking up his “teamwork” mug, he made his way to the tiny office kitchen. He needed coffee. Splashing the instant granules into the mug, it occurred to him that the mug really needed a good scrub. A caffeine scum had stained the white insides.

  Shit. He really felt unsettled now. It’s only a postcard, he said to himself. What harm can a postcard do? Making his way back to his desk, he left a trail of splash marks all over the floor. He had ten minutes before the budgets meeting. Ten minutes for something mind numbing and calming. He’d clear out his e-mail.

  Junking unopened e-mail into the trash felt great. There were lots of e-mails he should respond to but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He kept repeating the same mouse actions over and over again. And suddenly he stopped and looked again. Was he seeing things now?

  Mug in hand, he missed his mouth. Coffee splattered all over his trousers. Jesus! What was going on? There, in his junk mail, was a name that struck fear in his heart. Not in his in-box, but shunted off to his junk mail somehow. “Subject: Hi there! From: Joanne Collins.” Received three days ago. Heart pounding, he opened the e-mail. He could hear his heart thumping in his ears.

  She wanted to meet him. Christ! The woman wanted to meet him. Why? For God’s sake, why? Why would she want to meet him? She knew that he was married. Mannix tried to think it through. Fearful of what might happen if he ignored the e-mail, or just said no, he found himself nervously typing a quick response. He’d have to head her off at the pass. Before she could do any damage. There was nothing else for it.

  He was going to have to meet her.

  • • •

  Joanne Collins greeted him at the door wearing tights and leg warmers. Mannix left the car at the rowing club after training. He wasn’t taking any chances. The walk to the red-brick Georgian buildings in Pery Square took only ten minutes and it was dark. Joanne’s directions were accurate. He spotted the solicitor’s brass nameplate and took the steps to the basement flat underneath.

  “You found us, then,” she said airily. “Come in. I’m a bit behind—the class ran late. I’m just in myself.”

  “A dance class, I presume?” he asked, trying to sound casual—as if they were old friends.

  The floorboards squeaked and his voice echoed down the long hallway. A colored Chinese paper lantern lit the hall. A school bag leaned against a rubber plant.

  “That’s right. Contemporary dance out at the university. I teach there on a Wednesday night.”

  Like a slap it struck him how bizarre this situation was. This woman he’d had sex with, he’d never even asked her what she’d worked at. He felt uncomfortable.

  “I’m making a grilled cheese sandwich, if you fancy it?”

  Mannix followed her into the kitchen.

  “No, thanks, I’ve eaten.” He didn’t want to stay any longer than was necessary.

  “Sure? I can just as easily make two . . .”

  “You look after yourself,” he said.

  “You’ll have a coffee, then?”

  “Coffee’s fine.”

  He might as well be civil.

  It was an old-fashioned kitchen, with a stripped oak table and a black French stove recessed into the back wall. It was surprisingly cozy for a high-ceilinged basement flat. Underwear hung on a clotheshorse next to the stove. Mannix looked away but Joanne had already spotted him looking.

  “I’m not much of a housekeeper.”

  She set the cafetière on the table. In her dance tunic she looked shapely, curves in all the right places. Wi
th flashbacks to their brief encounter, he tried to ignore the images whizzing through his head.

  “You wanted to see me?”

  Mannix felt sick with trepidation.

  “Yeah, yeah, I did. I found your business card when I was clearing out my purse. I thought it might be nice to meet.”

  Mannix wondered where this was leading. He trod carefully.

  “You do know I’m married, Joanne?”

  “Of course I do.”

  She cut her grilled cheese sandwich into neat triangles. She offered him one. He shook his head.

  “You have two kids and a pretty blond wife. I saw the picture, remember.” She tore a triangle in two and popped it into her mouth. Her nails were still red and perfectly polished.

  “I don’t understand,” Mannix said.

  She poured herself a coffee.

  “What’s to understand? You’re married with kids. I get it. I have Grace. You get it. I just thought it might be nice to meet again . . .”

  As he struggled with her logic, a second door slowly opened into the kitchen. He held his breath.

  “Oh, hi . . .”

  It was Grace in her pajamas.

  “Hello, Grace,” he replied.

  “You got my postcard? I sent you one from Disney on the last day.”

  “I did. Thank you.”

  What else could he say to the kid?

  “You had a good time, then?”

  “Absolutely awesome. You should have seen the rides but I was too small to go on the good ones. Maybe next time.”

  “Off to bed now, Gracie, you know what the doctor said. You need your rest.”

  “Good night, Mum.” Grace hugged her mother tight.

  “’Night, ’night, Gracie,” said Joanne as Grace shut the door behind her.

  “She looks a lot brighter,” said Mannix.

  “She’s definitely on the mend,” said Joanne.

  “I think I’d better get going,” said Mannix, looking at his watch. It was getting late. He needed to get out of here and he didn’t want Kate accusing him of sloping off for a drink with Spike again.

  “Oh, if you’re sure . . .” She looked disappointed. “It’s not that late.”

  She looked around at the clock above the stove. He noticed where tendrils of hair had escaped her ponytail and curled into the nape of her neck.

  “I’m sure.”

  Mannix got up to leave. He was heading for the door.

  “Your collar, it’s crooked,” she said. “Let me . . .” As she reached up to straighten the collar of his waterproof anorak he smelled the closeness of her and his skin began to tingle. She smiled and looked at him, a question in her eyes. Without thinking, he leaned down and kissed her full on the mouth.

  This time they made it as far as a darkened bedroom. Not as furtive or as furious as before, they took their time. And this time there were no interruptions from Grace.

  “It’s okay, you know,” she said afterward, wrapped in a sheet. She was gathering together the tights and leotard and tunic scattered over the floor. She came back to the bed and ran a red fingernail down the hairline on his stomach. “Just now and again it might be nice to meet. Nothing regular. Just if we feel like it. I think we click, if you know what I mean.”

  “I do,” said Mannix, his arms behind his head. She was easy company.

  It was definitely late now. No matter what time Mannix returned, he was going to get a frosty reception. So he might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. Mannix felt relaxed for the first time in ages. He’d stay awhile longer. And half an hour later, as if to cement their arrangement, they had sex again.

  Later that night, Mannix walked back over the Condell bridge with a spring in his step. I can do this, he said to himself. As long as we’re both straight up with each other, there shouldn’t be a problem. No worries, I can definitely do this. No strings, no attachments. No one gets hurt.

  Easy.

  I’ve got it all under control.

  • • •

  It was the last day of October. Halloween. At Pier 83, Mannix, Kate, and the kids queued for their Circle Line boat trip around lower Manhattan. Conversation was strained. Fergus had borrowed Kate’s camera and was snapping photos of the Intrepid on the adjacent pier. A relic from World War II, it had been an aircraft carrier. It reminded Mannix of the Airfix models he used to paint as a kid. Fergus was the only happy camper this afternoon. He’d mentioned his visit to the Empire State at least ten times today already. Mannix envied him, having already fulfilled a life’s ambition at the tender age of eight. The child was happily oblivious to last night’s disturbing revelations about his sister and Frankie Flynn. As they shuffled in the queue, Mannix saw Kate snatching the odd glance at Izzy. She had so surprised them both, this child whom Kate later claimed in private not to recognize. This child they had somehow failed.

  “Something’s wrong,” Kate had said on waking. “And it’s not just Izzy. It’s more than that.” She was leaning on the crook of her elbow now. Staring at him. That piercing stare. She was drilling into him. “There’s something else. I feel it. Don’t ask me how. I feel it—a sense of impending doom.”

  “For God’s sake,” he groaned. “We’re on holiday! Don’t do this . . .”

  “I can’t help it, Mannix,” she said softly. “Like my mother says—when you feel it in your bones . . .”

  This time he didn’t bother replying. There was little point. Up against his mother-in-law, he didn’t stand a chance. Alice Kennedy had never liked him. And without putting it into words, when they had moved to the house at Curragower Falls, he made it plain that she wasn’t welcome in his home if she was going to look down on him. From time to time, Kate would remark how it would be nice for the kids to see more of their granny. Instead, the woman wisely chose to stay away. That suited Mannix fine.

  Once aboard the Circle Line cruise, the O’Briens opted for a bench outside in the sunshine, even though it was chilly. The boat chugged out into the Hudson and the commentary began. The voice was deep and rich and made Mannix think of an old cowboy. Moments later, their narrator came into view. Mannix smiled. He hadn’t been wide of the mark. As the boat rocked and chugged against the tide, their narrator pointed out the air-conditioning ducts for the Lincoln Tunnel between New York and New Jersey. He pointed out the bizarre driving range in lower Manhattan with its giant nets to catch the golf balls. And as they drew closer to the site of the Twin Towers, he recounted his harrowing experiences on 9/11.

  Mannix became aware of a vibration in his pocket. He waited until they came closer to Ellis Island before he pulled the phone from his pocket again. It was from the same number. This time, he didn’t even read the text. Instead, he made the decision he should have made at the start of the trip. He powered the mobile off.

  “We are now heading into the East River,” said their tour guide. “Of course, the East River is not a river at all,” he added. “It’s actually the Atlantic . . .”

  “So now you know,” Mannix said, smiling at Kate.

  She looked pretty in her burnt-orange coat, with a rosy glow in her cheeks. The sun was going down behind her. She smiled back and was about to say something but the wind took her breath. Mannix looked at Izzy and Fergus. Their cheeks were equally rosy. Life wasn’t perfect, he knew that, and they had their problems. But looking at his family, Mannix felt a deep pang of guilt at what he’d jeopardized.

  “And here we have the heliport for the United Nations.” The white-haired tour guide passed by them. “This is where the U.S. president comes in to address the UN.”

  “It looks different on the telly.” Kate laid her head on his shoulder.

  But things were rarely as you imagine them to be. Mannix thought back over the last few months. He’d been so smug. So in control. Or so he’d thought. He could have his family and a bit on the side
as well. He’d succeed where other men unraveled. On the face of it, things had been going smoothly all summer. He’d had the server problems at work as cover. There had been a few snatched hours here and there most weeks. Even when Kate had gone to Kilkee with the kids, he’d come back to Limerick to the flat in Pery Square. He and Joanne would sit out in the small cobbled garden at the rear of the Georgian basement and drink cold beers. Gracie had sat with them too, painting stones, or getting them to taste the multicolored ice pops she’d made.

  But then his birthday came. That much dreaded forty-third birthday at the end of August. A shiver ran up his spine as he remembered it.

  The day of his birthday, he’d promised to drop in to Joanne before going home after work. He’d left work early and made it to the Pery Square flat before six.

  “You came!” said Joanne, opening the basement door in a long white cotton shirt and flip-flops.

  “I said I would!” He planted a kiss on her cheek.

  Gracie was standing in the doorway to the kitchen, smiling. Looking over her shoulder, Joanne caught sight of Grace. “Come out to the garden,” Joanne said, taking Mannix by the arm. “I know you can’t stay long. But we have a surprise for you, don’t we, Gracie?” She was looking at Grace conspiratorially.

  “We sure do . . .” The child was beaming.

  He’d followed them out into the tiny garden, hidden from view of office block windows by a covered trellis. Mannix had always felt safe and unseen here. The small round table was set with a flowery cloth. A fat matching teapot sat in the middle.

  What he saw next struck fear deep in his heart. He stared hard at the table, trying to cope with the shock. He couldn’t bring himself to look at Grace but looked at her mother instead. Joanne was smiling. Seeing the look on his face, she raised an eyebrow, the smile glued into place.

  “What’s the matter, Mannix? Don’t you like it?”

  He didn’t reply. He couldn’t.

  Turning on his heel, he’d made his way through the flat, exiting the hall door and climbing the stone steps hurriedly out onto the street outside. Something had to be done, and quickly. He knew that now. Things had gone too far. Way too far.