The Middle Place

by Kealan Ryan

‘Oh?’ Confidence back, redner fading. He notices that she is still wearing a ring but decides not to mention it. ‘Sorry to hear that.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Pam turns to him with a smile and he can see again her massive eyes.

  ‘So who’s this little fella?’ he asks. Yep, his confidence is indeed back now. Mentioning the son is a smooth move; seem interested and a nice guy at the same time. Ger: King of the Kids! The prick.

  ‘This is Robbie, say hello, Robbie.’ Robbie has zero interest. He’s too busy watching the rain hit the muddy puddles to care about some old dude talking to his mam. All he can think about is how much he wants to jump in those puddles. Stick his hand in them and feel the gooey brown stuff from the ground.

  ‘Hiya, Robbie.’

  Still no response, which suits Ger. He gives Pam an isn’t-he-cute look before saying, ‘Well, if you won’t take my number will you at least let me buy you a new hot dog to replace the drowned one?’

  She thinks on this for a moment, as she is still hungry, but decides that she doesn’t want to be scoffing her face in front of him. ‘No, no – I’m good, thanks, the rain mixed with soggy bread has turned me off the idea.’

  ‘Fair enough, it was fairly manky when you handed it to me alright.’

  ‘Oh yeah, thanks for that.’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t have taken it if I’d known how much ketchup was on it.’

  Pam laughs so he continues, ‘Fucking covered me it did.’

  ‘Sorry about that – it got me too, if that makes you feel any better.’

  ‘Not really, look at my sleeve.’ Sure enough there is a bit on it. ‘This is a new shirt!’

  ‘Oh well – small price to pay for helping out a lady.’

  ‘You’re right there.’

  The rain starts easing off and people begin to leave the confines of the canopy. Pam and Ger remain inside, though, as they continue talking. Eventually Pam says she better get Robbie back home and he asks again if he can call her.

  ‘Give me your number,’ she says, not giving much up. Cool bitch, he thinks. And she walks off with his number in her pocket and their possible future in her hands.

  Her mind is racing the entire way home; she doesn’t listen to a single word Robbie is saying (which is a lot). He keeps mentioning all the different things he did: when he kicked the ball, how he threw the wet sponge through the hole. All she thinks about is Ger’s smile, his tall frame and wide shoulders, how he made her laugh, how he looked at her. His green eyes. Would she ring him? Part of her knows she won’t – can’t. But why not? Because she’s not ready yet. It’s been over a year, is that long enough? Silent tears begin to fall as she drives; deep down, she knows that she isn’t ready. She feels bad to even think about it: poor Chris – I’m letting him down. How could I even think about stuff like this?

  But when she gets home she doesn’t throw out the number. She puts it in a drawer and, for her, in a way, that’s as good as calling. It means she’s deciding that there is a possibility she will call in the future, however remote that is. She’s giving herself permission to have a choice. It’s a first step in a long line of steps to eventually moving on.

  Sixteen Months Dead

  40

  I never saw a dead body outside of the relative comfort of a funeral home. Nicely laid out, best suit on, make-up, hair combed. All prim and proper in the coffin, all very tasteful. Mourners gathered around, candles burning. Well, I’ve seen myself dead but that doesn’t count – I was literally going insane at the time.

  This time is different. To see someone dead. Away from the controlled environment of a funeral home everything is far from tasteful. There’s a smell of shit and piss and an unflattering expression on his face. Even still, you can tell it was a kind face. A face that I had liked and I find myself feeling a bit sorry for Danny that he won’t have a dad when he gets out of prison.

  Danny Senior lay half on the couch, half on the floor, for almost a week before he was found. The neighbour from across the street noticed that his car was left out on the road and eventually got suspicious because Senior would never leave his car on the road for more than a day or two. After him not answering his phone or doorbell, fair play to the neighbour, he decided to take action. He found an open window at the back of the house, brought his ladder and climbed up and in. Even though he was upstairs he got the stench straight away. Fuck. Prepare yourself, he thought, as he walked slowly down the stairs and into the front room. There poor Senior lay, face bloated and turned dark purple. The neighbour nearly vomited. He didn’t, though; he composed himself, went into the kitchen and calmly picked up the telephone.

  Senior’s probably floating around here somewhere, wondering what’s going on. Poor bastard. Pity we haven’t met now that he’s dead. I stood over his body just as he passed away, half expecting that we would meet because of our connection or something, but no. Nothing. Another fucking disappointment in a long line of them. He hadn’t been in the best of health the past few years, anyway – always one thing or another wrong with the fucker. Typical shit from a widower with no wife to look after him and so let himself go. Never eating right, gaff not that clean. Still, he was a good man and didn’t deserve to end up like this – to die of old age at only sixty-four.

  In the moments leading up to his death, he had sat there, looking at an empty bottle of Paddy’s, wondering how he was going to get another drink. It was too late to walk down to the pub. The best bet, he thought, would be to sleep on the couch, wake up and hit the early-house with all the other alcoholic losers. He was so depressed. He felt awful, his whole body didn’t feel right but, as with a lot of men (especially of his generation), he didn’t bother his hole going to the doctor.

  Not my generation, though – the slightest little ache and I’d be on to Pam complaining and probably head down to the doctor for a prescription. I rarely heard my dad complaining about pain – and if he did you could be sure it was bad, whatever it was. There should be a happy balance, though – the last time I went to the doctor’s I truly regretted it. I had a rash on my mickey that I knew in my heart was only eczema, but because it was on my balls I was overly sensitive about it. Also on the cream for eczema they say you’re not supposed to put it on your balls so I figured he might have special stuff to prescribe.

  I didn’t go to my usual doctor as it was too embarrassing an affliction and I wanted a stranger to check me out. Terrible move on my part. The doctor was this crusty old man with yellow teeth. Maybe it’s a personal hang-up I have, but I believe the person treating your health should at the very least look healthy themselves – and that definitely was not the case with this guy. He put me up on the table and I had to pull down my pants and spread my legs, stirrup style. Very emasculating. It looked like I was about to give birth. My poor mickey didn’t know what to think and fucking shrivelled back up into my belly, terrified. It would have been humiliating enough without my dick looking like an acorn – that made it all the worse.

  I lay there with him looking down on me and as he reached out his hand I realised he wasn’t wearing any rubber gloves! His nails were mad long and the horrible bastard did a scratch-scratch between my balls and ass with his index finger, flaking off the dry skin. All I could do in response was turn my face away in shame and disgust. How many other asses had he scratched that day? He didn’t wash his hands after he was finished with me, I know that much. Turns out it was eczema and he told me to use the exact cream that I already had. When I said about the not to use on sensitive skin warning that’s on the label he told me not to mind that. Perfect. Utterly humiliated for nothing. I never showered as vigorously as I did when I got home; I practically gave myself a skin-peel I scrubbed so hard.

  Who knows, maybe after that experience I would have been like the old-timers, always making a fuss about going to the doctor’s. Maybe that kind of shit used to happen all the time back in the day an
d that’s why they hate doctors.

  Whatever the reason, it’s a pity Danny Senior didn’t go. As his time approached, he felt pain in his neck, his throat. His chest had been aching on and off for a while and he was constantly out of breath. Always having dizzy and nauseous spells. But he’d just put that down to the drink. Put it all down to the drink, really. He was so mad at himself for falling off the wagon, but he couldn’t help it. Not after what had happened. He knew deep down that it was killing him, but he always brushed that thought aside. He spent his nights thinking how he’d failed in life and how he’d let his son down. He’d cry at the thought of where his boy was stuck. Blamed himself and was so worried for him that he couldn’t eat. The drink didn’t even help him forget. It hadn’t helped after his wife died either, so what made him think it would be any different this time? Most of his time was just spent feeling mad and disappointed in himself. The only thing that kept him going was the thought of his son getting out of prison. Then he’d sober up, he’d reassured himself; then he could be happy again. Be a good supportive father. He just had to get through these next nine months and the drink would be his crutch. As bad as it was, he needed it. Who could blame him?

  That night, the empty bottle of whiskey faded as he drifted off to sleep, the weight of the world on his frail shoulders. Forty-five minutes later his broken heart stopped working altogether. There was no big sudden shock of pain that woke him up – in that respect, at least, it was a peaceful death, even if his last sight was of a symbol that he had come to associate with everything he hated about himself.

  41

  ‘Danny? Danny?’ Governor Logan looks at Danny’s blank face and tries again, ‘Danny, are you okay? Do you understand what I’ve just told you?’ Logan decides not to press it any further; of course he understands.

  They sit in silence in the governor’s office before Danny finally speaks. ‘Okay, thanks,’ he says quietly, then stands up to walk out of the office.

  ‘Wait, Danny. I know it can’t be easy this happening while you’re in here. I’m truly sorry for your loss.’

  Danny doesn’t turn around or say anything; he just stares at the door, waiting for permission to leave. Logan gets up and walks over to him, trying to think of something comforting to say. Nothing appropriate comes to mind. Instead, he places a hand on his shoulder and opens the door, giving one of the guards a nod as Danny takes determined strides back to his cell.

  He sits in his cell, staring vacantly at the wall. A half hour passes and he finally lets out a sob. Please no is all he keeps saying over and over in his head. Please no. He received none of the particulars from Logan; or maybe he did, he thinks, but he can’t remember anything past the first line: ‘I’m so sorry to have to tell you, but your father has died.’

  It’s all his fault and he knows it. Now he has two lost lives to be held accountable for and one of them is the only person in the world that he loved who loved him back. He’s now more alone than ever.

  A ball of self-hatred forms in his stomach for what he has done to his dad.

  He thinks of the last time they spoke, when his dad came to visit only two weeks ago. At the time Danny recognised that his dad looked like shit – he was clearly back on the drink full time – but he hadn’t pushed it, not wanting to hurt his old man’s feelings.

  Danny always hated the initial stages of any visit. He’d walk out and have to stand against the wall before the visitor sat down. There’d be up to six other inmates at a time talking to their own families or whatever, half of them trying to smuggle drugs in. It always took a while to adjust to the no-privacy element of the room too. Small talk at first, but by the end of the half hour he always wanted more. That day, in particular, he had wanted his dad to stay longer; he desperately wanted to stave off the loneliness for just a while longer.

  ‘I better head off, son,’ his dad had said, rising from his chair.

  ‘Hang about, sure the guard hasn’t called us yet.’

  ‘He’s about to. I always hate the rushed goodbyes.’

  ‘Just another minute,’ Danny said, smiling.

  ‘Of course.’ Senior smiled back at his son but couldn’t hide the sadness in his eyes as he lowered himself back onto the chair. He got like this every time they had to part.

  ‘I’m fine, Dad. I’m doing okay. Considering everything, I’m going to be out soon enough. Sooner than I deserve, really.’

  ‘Well, I’m living for that day.’

  ‘How are you holding up?’ Danny asked.

  ‘You know, good days and bad.’

  ‘I know; I’m sorry, Dad.’

  ‘I know you are, it’s not your fault,’ he said out of habit and politeness.

  ‘Well, it is actually. It’s all my fault.’

  ‘None of that. I’m my own man. We all have our demons. I’m going to be tip-top by the time you get out, don’t you worry about that.’ They smiled at each other and Danny believed him. He would be fine, and once free Danny could go about making amends for what he’d put him through. Be a better son.

  ‘I hope so.’

  He didn’t mean it in any negative way, but Senior took his comment to be slightly patronising. That maybe he wouldn’t be able to get off the drink. Triggered by memories of past judgemental arguments and mixed with the bit of whiskey still in his system, he snapped back at him:

  ‘If I say I’ll do something I will.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I don’t need you of all people judging me, okay?’

  ‘Jesus Christ, Dad, who’s judging who?’ Just then the guard called out that time was up and both of them were left hurt and angry.

  ‘Listen, don’t leave like this,’ Danny said. ‘I didn’t mean to judge; I’m just looking forward to getting out, that’s all.’

  ‘Fair enough, sorry,’ Senior mumbled. He still had a bit of a bold head on him but was calming quickly. ‘Sorry, son, see you soon.’

  ‘Yeah, see you.’

  Danny plays their last meeting over and over in his head. With each recollection, his dad grows more and more angry with him and their little misunderstanding escalates in Danny’s head until it is an out-and-out fight. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as all that, he finally allows himself to think. But what does it matter, anyway? What does anything matter?

  42

  Wacko sits at the edge of the pool table and focuses on the bin. He has one peanut left to throw and wants it to count. The last three he has missed. Left eye closed, he has the target in his sights, confident he’ll make the shot. Pulling back his arm he fires, missing by about four feet. Shite! As he tries to figure out how he could have missed, he notices Danny standing against the wall, watching him.

  ‘Alrigh’ Danny, don’t know how I missed that. Think it stuck to me finger last minute.’

  Danny says nothing and Wacko’s too stoned to notice the dead expression in his eyes. ‘What’s up, man?’

  ‘My dad died.’

  Wacko looks stunned – he wasn’t expecting that.

  ‘When?’

  ‘I don’t know. I just found out today.’

  ‘Ah, that’s terrible. Was he old?’

  ‘No.’

  Danny needs some sort of comfort. There is nobody else he can talk to. Ever since the game of pool they have been friendly, getting stoned a few times together. It’s bleak, he knows, but as shit as he suspects Wacko will be at this kind of thing, he’s all he’s got.

  ‘He was only sixty-four.’

  Wacko’s silent. He’s so baked that it makes the situation seem even heavier than it is and he just wants to get the fuck out of there. Danny picks up on this and realises he hasn’t a friend in the world – why should Wacko give a shit? He turns to walk away.

  Wacko looks at Danny’s hung shoulders and before he can stop himself calls after him. ‘Hang on, man; let’s take a stroll.’

/>   The two of them stand in the corner of the yard as Wacko rolls a joint very conspicuously. He dare not look up at Danny – he’s afraid he’ll be crying or something. His heart does go out to him, though. What a place to get that kind of news. He finishes skinning up, takes a few tokes, then hands it to Danny. ‘Here you go, buddy, this is good shit.’

  Danny inhales long and deep, feels his lungs fill, before letting out a giant cloud of smoke. Again. Again. He keeps smoking until he feels nothing. Wacko lets him at it; he can smoke the whole thing if he wants. Danny starts coughing and Wacko pats his back. Tears start to roll down his face – at first from the cough but slowly they turn into actual tears and in no time he’s full-on hunched over, coughing and crying at the top of his voice.

  Wacko doesn’t know where to look. He scans the yard to see who’s watching. No one he knows well. Thank fuck for that. ‘There, there, man. It’s alrigh’… just, you know …’

  Danny catches his breath. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Understandable, man,’ Wacko says, patting Danny’s back. ‘No worries.’

  ‘Fuck,’ Danny splutters, ‘what am I going to do?’ He looks at Wacko with pleading eyes, praying that somehow this man – this fucking waster of a man – could come up with something that will help. Something profound. Wacko looks like he wants to deliver as well, which gives Danny hope.

  Finally, he speaks. ‘I don’t know, man.’

  Brilliant.

  Danny gathers himself – the effects of the drugs are strong. It’s that same crazy shit that Wacko always smokes. Blows your fucking head off. He says nothing more and walks away. He drifts into the main hall, down the stained red corridors of A block and into his cell. He is alone. No point pretending any different. No one can help him. Proper order too, he thinks. What good is he to anyone? His mind flickers, the walls move on him and he thinks that I’m sitting beside him.

  I am.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says.