Borderlands 3

by Thomas F. Monteleone (Ed. )

  His father was not in good shape. The old man smiled at him but couldn't speak. There was barely enough strength left in him to change his position in bed. Dermot told him all about Boston, Southie, Dolan's ("a bar, not a real pub") and the lads ("they're not bad for Kerrymen"). After a while he noticed that his father had fallen asleep, though his eyes were still partly open.

  "Why isn't he in hospital?" Dermot asked his mother over tea in the kitchen.

  "They can't do anything more for him," she replied with calm and resignation. "He wants to be here when the end comes."

  "He has pills to make it better for him," Naimh added.

  "What are they, painkillers?"

  "Yes, it's a morphine compound."

  Dermot nodded. His sister had grown up so much in the last year. She had an air of efficiency and purpose now. No sign of the immature teenager. After two years of looking, she'd finally been lucky enough to land a regular job at a stationer's shop in Tobercurry. She owned a beat-up old Mini and she changed the oil and plugs herself.

  Dermot went to bed early and slept late, recovering from the effects of jet lag. His mother cooked a grand breakfast for him: fried eggs, fried bread, rashers of real bacon (not that scrawny American rubbish), sausages, black pudding, grilled tomatoes and mushrooms, all washed down with plenty of strong tea. After that Dermot was ready for some fresh air and an eventual pint. He and Naimh went out for a walk, circling across the fields toward the village.

  "How long can you stay?" she asked.

  "Just the week." He'd told them that last night. "I had a hard time even getting that. Things are nearly as bad over there as they are here."

  He knew everyone in the village, of course. They were happy to see him back, and they told him they were praying for his dad. He also got a few nudges and sly winks, as if he had been away on a long dirty weekend in Dublin with the lady representative of the Turf Board.

  "Is that your Cadillac parked out front?" Gerry Byrne teased when they went into his pub.

  "Of course it is. I flew it over in my Lear jet."

  Last year Dermot and Naimh had gathered in Byrne's with some friends for farewell drinks. The jokes had been much the same—all about getting rich in America, fast women, buying huge houses with swimming pools, going to Disneyland. Good for a giggle, but now Dermot could see the black edge in such humor. It took three pints of catching up before he and Naimh were able to move to the corner table and talk alone.

  "How long does he have?"

  "Days," she said.

  "Could it be weeks?"

  "It's possible, but not many. And don't you worry about it if he does hang on a bit longer. You don't have to come back for the funeral. He's seen you again and that's the important thing. You were great with him yesterday."

  "What about you?"

  "What about me?"

  "How long are you going to stay on at home?"

  Naimh shrugged. "Until something better comes along."

  That could take ages, given Irish courtship rituals. If she found someone. He knew the local routine. Saturday nights. The twenty-mile drive to the Crystal Ballroom, the one alternative to drinking in a pub. And even then, she would sit around for hours or dance with other women while the lads tanked up. And who were they? The ones not bright enough to go off to technical college, much less the university. It was a desperate business, in such a desperate place. Dermot didn't want to marry Naimh off in a rush but it pained him to think of her growing older alone, working by day and taking care of their mother the rest of the time, passing the prime of her youth in a barren place.

  "You should consider Dublin, or at least Galway. And when I get established, the States. There's nothing for you here in the long term, Naimh."

  "You could be right about that."

  "I know I am."

  When they got home they learned that their father had died. Their mother had gone into the bedroom to check him a few minutes earlier, and he was gone.

  The next three days were busy with the wake and the funeral, and the other details attendant to an ordinary human death. When it was all over—the prayers said, the papers signed, the booze consumed, the old man in the ground, the last mourner departed—Dermot occupied himself with chores around the house. There were a lot of things that needed doing, things his father had not been able to do these last few months.

  Dead at sixty. His mother not even that. She would want to stay on at the house until the day she died. There was no reason why she shouldn't, as long as her health was good. With a little financial assistance from Naimh and Dermot—not much, her needs were few—she'd manage all right.

  If things went half-well for him, he'd be back in plenty of time to give her some grandchildren and look after her in her old age. And if he eventually changed his mind and decided to remain in America and raise a family there—if things went that well, then he could bring his mother across to live with them. And his sister, if she hadn't gotten married and had a bunch of babies in the meantime.

  ▼

  "Dermot."

  His eyes opened in the dark. Chill air. Silence. It was a moment before his mind began to form thoughts. I am home, County Mayo, Republic of Ireland. Mother in her room and Naimh in hers. The peaty smell of turf burning, the fire still alive downstairs. The day after tomorrow—no, it would be tomorrow, in fact—he would get on a plane at Shannon and fly back to Boston.

  "Dermmmmmot..."

  The bitch. Had her voice come from outside the window, or a window in the back of his brain? The sound of his own breathing. Nothing else. Dreaming—he must have been dreaming about that terrible woman. She was a good three thousand miles away, having all her neuroses and psychoses totted up by bored state employees who would move on to better jobs in due course.

  Amazing, the quality of her voice. Like a moan from outside his window, and at the same time like a whisper in his ear. Real enough to wake him. It must have been a bad dream—he wouldn't have any other kind about her.

  The rest of the night was ruined. Dermot drifted in and out of sleep, never enjoying more than a few uninterrupted minutes of peace. Not that he heard her again, not that he'd ever heard her in the first place. He just kept waking, dozing, and soon waking again. Useless. Untracked. He grew more tired.

  He must have slept again because at some point he opened his eyes and the room was brighter. Day outside, grey light: cloudy as usual. He felt as if he'd been in bed for a long time but the house was still quiet. Perhaps his mother had gone down to the shop for eggs or milk. Was Naimh returning to work today? Most likely. Life goes on.

  Dermot couldn't move. Or it might have been that he didn't want to move yet. Some combination of the two, no doubt, inertia and laziness. His body was like a heavy weight, a solid material that encased him. He wiggled his toes a little—that's better. He tried to turn his head a little, and was surprised at how much effort it took to budge an inch. He felt okay. But then again, he didn't feel right.

  A while later Dermot opened his eyes. Was I asleep? He had no desire to move now, no will to get out of bed and do something with the day. He had a foreign taste in his mouth, and his teeth tingled unpleasantly—as if he were biting tin. What was wrong with him, he wondered abstractly. It did seem to be a matter of interest, but not a real concern. Thoughts came and went, but he couldn't make anything of them. They were inconclusive, they had the random quality of accidents. Just thinking about what he was thinking about had the effect of exhausting him. Dermot realized his eyes were closing this time, and he felt happy about it.

  He was drowning. He gagged, his tongue working furiously to retrieve something that was already halfway down his throat—he woke up spitting. It made a sound like dice on the lino. Dermot swallowed blood as he pushed his face toward the edge of the bed. He saw it on the floor across the room—a tooth. Yes, it's one of mine. The empty socket began to hurt, a deep, throbbing pain. What is this now, a toothache after the fact? Bloody unfair. It dug into him.

  His
face was wet. That was how he discovered that he'd been asleep again. The old woman was washing blood and dribble off of his chin. She was familiar. He wanted to tell her that she was in severe danger of scrubbing his skin down to the next layer but when she finally let go he was too weak to utter a word. Then he saw the man standing nearby. He looked unfamiliar, but he had to be a doctor. Of course—Dermot was sick. That explained a lot of things. He felt better. Still sick, but better.

  Where were they? Why was he alone? They were here a minute ago, he was sure of that. He hadn't seen them leave, but now the room was empty. He was too alone. It was stifling, suffocating. He tried to sit up, but failed; the old muscle tone was somewhat deficient. He opened his mouth and tried to work up some saliva. He called out feebly.

  "Haaaaaaa..." Almost a wheeze. They shouldn't leave him on his own like this. Dermot was aware of pain. His insides etched with acid. His throat choking him. Even his arse, God help him, felt as if it had hot coals embedded in it, from not being moved. He couldn't move himself, so it was up to them—and they'd done a disappearing act. He tried to think of anything else, to dodge the pain. Had they picked up that tooth? He was curious to take a look at the rotten bugger.

  "Haaaaaaa..."

  He looked up and the girl was holding his hand. By God, she was beautiful. He knew her. Naimh. Don't leave. Stay with me. Don't even let go of my hand or I'll fall off the edge. He tried to tell her these things but the words remained stuck in his mind and all he could do was look at her.

  Then the boy. The boy? If he'd come such a distance, this must be serious. Oh yes. It had been a while, and he was happy. If only I could tell you that. The boy looked just like him. It was difficult even to understand what he was saying.

  "...not a real pub."

  Yes, yes, but it's work, it's real money, and you'll be able to build on it for the future. There's nothing for you here.

  "...for Kerrymen."

  Gone again. Everything goes so fast. You are left alone in a stark room with a view of nothing much. The pain scouring away at his insides had nearly reached the surface. Anytime now. And when it gets here, with any luck I'll dissolve completely.

  Dermot's mind was flooded with clarity. This is dying. The hour, the minute. A surge of strength in his arms. He pushed up on his elbows, and then, painfully, his hands. He had to see, to see—but what? Not this mean, damp bedroom in which so much of his life had been spent. Out the window, away. Two people were walking across the field, toward the house. A young man, a young woman. Dermot and Naimh.

  "Haaaaaaa..."

  ▼

  First their father, then their mother. It happened that way more often than you might think, when they'd been very close. Or so the doctor said. Dermot went to sleep, and she never woke up. At least with the old man it was expected. But this was a shock. He'd only had a little while to speak with each of them, and even then it was minor, trivial. Dear God. You've put us all in such a lonely, desperate country.

  But that was a while back.

  He moved. That is, he thought he moved. Dermot couldn't be sure about it. He was dreaming. The whole thing was just a long bad dream. Yes, it often seems that way, doesn't it? But Dermot knew better. He made an effort to move. He put his foot down.

  Clutch in.

  Shifted up coming out of the bend.

  He knew this road. He'd had a few drinks, but that wasn't a cause for alarm. If the Garda stopped him, it meant nothing. He was Dermot Mulreany, bound for Shannon, bound for Boston. He had somehow gotten better, overcome tragedy and loss and reached this point in his life where he—

  Clutch in.

  Shifted down going into a sharp bend.

  He knew this road. Another Saturday night at the Crystal. The band sang "Roisin Dubh," nearly as good as the Thin Lizzy original. The black rose. He would keep that in mind—it was a good name for a pub.

  You're so good-looking. So why do you live alone? Why do you sleep alone at night?

  The lads reeked of stout and Carrolls cigarettes, as usual. They couldn't dance to save their lives, and all they ever wanted to do was get a hand up your jumper, but—

  He glanced down at himself, trembling with sudden awareness. Female breasts inside that blouse. Stocking-clad legs, two knees poking out from beneath the plain skirt that had hitched up a bit in the car. He couldn't take his eyes off them, as if they were the most amazing thing he'd ever seen.

  "Dermot..."

  The car—watch out. Too late, the road was lost, the tree racing unnaturally toward him—no, her. No! his mind screamed. Not Naimh! This time O God please let me be the one who dies not Naimh not Naimh let me die!

  Even worse, he lived.

  ▼

  He saw her on Boston Common. He wanted to turn and run when he saw her coming toward him, but his legs went stiff and he felt swamped with helplessness and inevitability. He simply could not avoid her. Hatred boiled up within him, but at the same time it was crushed with fear. It had to be two years now, more or less. Somehow she had got out. Done her time, had her treatment. They couldn't hold her forever.

  He was the only one left.

  She looked pathetic, shuffling along aimlessly. Raggedy old clothes, hair a mess, face wrecked by life. Still a young woman, for all of that. Dermot stopped. Couldn't move. She glanced at him. Their eyes met. She had the same look, searching, vacant, lonely, as if she peered out at the world from some awful place. Dermot shriveled inside. Sweat misted his face, turning cold in the sharp November air.

  But she showed no sign of knowing him, not even a flicker of subconscious recognition. As if he were invisible and she didn't even see him there. Then she passed through Dermot like a sudden arrhythmia, and was gone.

  Hungry by Steve Rasnic Tem

  Steve Tem is one of those very quiet, gentle fellows who never seems to let demonstrative types like myself get him upset. I know this because I've rejected more than a few Tem offerings because I kept trying to get Steve to push his personal creative envelope, to give me something less familiar and less comfortable than he usually tried to write. A real pro, Steve always took my feverish notes to him without the hint of a whine or a fuck-you, and he reached down inside to create a family relationship that recalls the unsettling freakishness of Henry Kuttner's "Hogbens". The title, "Hungry," is fascinating in itself because it says nothing and yet it says everything.

  Mama?

  Vivian Sparks took her hands out of the soapy water and stared into the frosted kitchen window. There was a face in the ice and fog, but she wasn't sure which of her dead children it was. Amy or Henry, maybe—they'd had the smallest heads, like early potatoes, and about that same color. Those hadn't been their real names, of course. Ray always felt it was wrong to name a stillborn, so they didn't get a name writ down on paper, but still she had named every one of them in her heart: Amy, Henry, Becky, Sue Ann, and Patricia, after her mother. Patricia had been the smallest, not even full-made really, like part of her had been left behind in the dark somewhere. Ray had wanted Patricia took right away and buried on the back hill, he'd been so mad about the way she came out. But the midwife had helped Vivian bathe the poor little thing and wrap her up, and she'd looked so much like a dead kitten or a calf that it made it a whole lot worse than the others, so dark and wet and wrinkled that Vivian almost regretted not letting Ray do what he'd wanted.

  Mama...

  But it wasn't the dead ones, not this time. A mother knows the voice of her child, and Vivian Sparks felt ashamed to have denied it. It felt bad, always hearing the dead ones and never expecting the one she'd have given up anything for, no matter what Ray said. Ray wouldn't have let her adopt him, if it hadn't been for those stillborns, but she would have done it on her own if she had to, even if she'd had ten other children to care for. It was her own darling Jimmie Lee out there in the cold foggy morning. It had to be.

  Vivian opened the back door and looked out onto the bare dirt yard that led uphill to the lopsided gray barn. Ray's lantern flickered
in there where he was checking on the cows. She couldn't see much else because of the dark, and the fog. It was still trying real hard to be Spring here in late March—she'd caught a whiff of lilac breeze yesterday afternoon—but it worried her that the hard frost was going to put an end to that early flowering before she'd see any blossoms. That was always a bad sign when the lilacs came out too soon and the ice killed the hope of them.

  "Mama, it's me."

  Vivian reached up and touched her throat, trying to help a good swallow along. Suddenly her throat felt as if it were full of food, and she just couldn't get it all down. Ray said it was because of Jimmie Lee, her problem with eating, said it had been like that for her ever since Jimmie Lee came into their lives. "You don't eat right no more. I guess you can't," he said over and over, the way he repeated something to death when he had a mad feeling about it. "Can't say that I even blame you—it's understandable. Watchin' him go at it, it'd put anybody off their food. That's why I never watched."

  She guessed there was truth in what he said, but she didn't like to think about it that way. What she liked to think was that it was all her feelings for Jimmie Lee coming up into her throat when she'd looked at him, or now when she thought about him, all the sadness and the love that made it hard for her to breathe, much less eat. And the memory of him touching her on her throat, gazing at her mouth the night before he left home to join that awful show. That was another reason for her to be touching her throat now, in that same place.

  "Mama, I come back to visit."

  Vivian could hardly speak. Maybe the love in her throat was so big it was closing up her windpipe. "Come on, come... on, honey. Been a long time."

  Past the east fence she could see the darkness gray a little and move away. She started to walk over but a simple yet awful sound—a young man clearing his throat—stopped her. She clutched the huge lump in her throat. It was warm, as if it might burn her fingers.