Stay

by Aislinn Hunter

  The twelve who’d come to see Frank off went over to the church hall for the reception. The city workers looked longingly over at their cars. Abbey’d stayed to watch the backhoe push the dirt onto the grave, the driver wary of her presence. After he left she walked over to the headstone and traced the letters of her father’s name. Felt nothing. Tried to picture him in her mind in better days. But every thought led her to the last time she’d seen him, the night of the fire. Over by the church the crows swooped around the red-brick bell tower, cawed in the nearby trees. The sun was out but the air held onto the cold. It was mid-April but it didn’t feel like Spring. In three days’ time, she’d be on a plane heading back to Ireland. She’d be back with Dermot, trying again to find work on the west coast. Jane had asked her to go through Frank’s apartment, to take anything she might need before it got hauled away. But Abbey didn’t want to go back there; she didn’t want to be here now.

  Over by the church hall, a few people stood outside the main doors, smoking. They went in and came out again a half hour later. One of the men, a cousin of Frank’s, had a paper napkin in his hand. He wiped his mouth with it and let it drop onto the gravel. Abbey tried to picture her father again, from when she was young, that period of time when he could easily please her. But every thought was tinged with grief, with his failure. She could hear the start of an engine in the parking lot. Then the gate creaked as two of the city workers went through it. Tentatively, Abbey took a step forward. Put her right foot on the mound of earth over her father’s grave. Then her left. She turned around once and stamped her feet. Watched her shoes sink into the dirt, the barrow.

  Abbey steps off the bus in Dublin and Angela is there, waiting by the gate. A cup of coffee between her hands, lipstick along the rim.

  “Thank fuck you’re here. I’m freezing my tits off.”

  “Sorry, I thought I’d catch the early bus.”

  “Well, you owe me a pint.” Ange kisses Abbey’s temple and then walks over to the waste bin, tosses her coffee cup in, starts for the door.

  “When’d you get glasses?” Abbey asks. Angela is wearing a pair of thick-rimmed black frames.

  “Last week. They’re not prescription. What do you think?” She pushes them farther up her nose and juts out her chin.

  “Looks good.”

  “Slattery’s?” Ange asks. It isn’t too far from her flat. “You look like a tourist with that thing.” She nods at Abbey’s pack.

  “Yeah? Well, fuck ’em if they can’t take a tourist.”

  They go out through the doors and into the city. The streets full of people, traffic along the quays. Crowds spill out from the pubs onto the sidewalks. A man playing a saw with a fiddle bow nods at the girls as they go by. The eerie sound of the saw, the flex and warp, following them. Abbey shifts gears. The pace in Dublin altogether faster. Angela, walking a few strides ahead, turns around. “Going back to the old codger?”

  They’re heading along the quays and the wind whips up around Abbey’s ears. Her backpack is getting heavy. “Yeah.”

  Ange sticks out her tongue, rolls her eyes. “Christ, Ab, I’ll say it again: you can do better.”

  They walk past Liffey Street in silence. Over on Ha’penny Bridge a group of kids throw their take-away containers into the river. A pop can glints in the light of the street lamp as it drops. Realizing Abbey is too far into it with Dermot, Angela softens, grabs hold of her hand, squeezes. “I should never have introduced you to that useless wanker. Lesson learned.”

  At Slattery’s a doorman stands with his back to the street eying the crowd inside. Looking in through the front window, Abbey can tell the place is full. On the other side of the glass a man carrying three pints wedges his way between two women to a bench that runs along the front of the pub. The bass of the music reverberates off the glass.

  “McDaids,” Angela suggests, pushing her glasses up. And off they go, Abbey holding onto the straps of her pack and flexing her back muscles to relieve the knot that’s set in. Wondering all of a sudden why she felt the need to bring everything, empty the drawer, take both pairs of shoes. Was she trying to scare Dermot? Ange would tell her to leave him, has said so before. And it was tempting, the idea of it. As if all Abbey’s problems, all her aimlessness, would end if she walked away. The Gowans famous for finding the exit, the great revolving “out” door; Frank fond of saying, “Don’t let it hit ya as ya leave.”

  Abbey has tried to leave Dermot before—five months ago, after their first argument. She’d left Dublin to stay in Spiddal for a few days until her next week of shifts started at Connor’s. The bus had dropped her in the village; she’d had to double back to the cottage in the rain. It was seven when she got in and the house was in a state.

  “She deigns to make an appearance.” The smell of whiskey on him. Flagon at Abbey’s hand, licking her fingers.

  Abbey took off her coat and hung it up, walked over to put her bag in the bedroom. Dermot blocked the doorway.

  “You could’ve phoned.” His fingers curled around the lip of the door frame.

  “How about ‘I’m happy to see you?’ ” The words came out louder than she’d intended. There was something about the look of him, a desperation. Like her father.

  “They’ll be waiting for me.” He brushed by her, put on his coat.

  “Who?”

  He turned at the door and stared at her. “You’ll not have it both ways.”

  Abbey flipped on the light and sat down on the bed. Wiped her forehead, raindrops trickling out of her hair. He came into the room a few minutes later. A grown man, his hands twice the size of hers, he put his head on her lap and sobbed. Abbey’s skirt wet from the rain, clinging to her thighs, Dermot pressing his face against them. She’d never seen him like that, didn’t know what he wanted from her, what it was she’d done. Finally she put her hands down onto his head, the mess of greying wisps. She started to say his name, but as soon as he felt her hands on him, he stood up. Like he’d been struck. He stared at her for a minute like he was trying to place her. Then he sat down on the bed beside her, looking straight ahead. “Now we’ll see how the story goes.”

  This is what makes Abbey afraid of him; it’s also what makes her stay.

  After a while, Angela goes over to the bar for a second round of pints. Abbey rings the cottage but there’s no answer. She lets it ring eight times. Angela had suggested, “Let him sit on it for a while. Will you marry me? Fer fucksake.” She’d had a good laugh at that, her eyes widening, a pint of Guinness in her right hand, halfway to her mouth. Then she set it back down on the table without drinking. “Jesus,” she’d said, rethinking it. Abbey said nothing. “Jesus,” Angela said again.

  It was Angela who’d introduced Abbey and Dermot in the first place. They were meeting Michael for drinks and Dermot, in town for a visit, had tagged along.

  “Abbey, this is Dermot Fay,” Angela said as she sat down. Abbey was trying to find a place for her umbrella, so she gave him a sideways handshake; she had too many things—coat, hat, purse. Her fingers were wet. “Dermot used to teach with Michael at Trinity,” Ange added by way of an explanation. The three of them settled in; Michael was at the Museum in a meeting, had said he’d make it to the pub within half an hour. A woman came over to take their order. It was early and the place was only a quarter full.

  Dermot had turned to Abbey. “Are you studying or having a holiday?” He looked over her face, each feature, and it made her blush.

  “I’m working. But I’d like to see more of the country.”

  “Where’ve you been?”

  “Actually, I haven’t,” clearing her throat, “really left Dublin.” It was Dermot’s first good laugh of the evening.

  “How long have you been over?”

  “Four months.” She hated the sound of her voice, the flat accent.

  “And you haven’t left Dublin?” He looked amused. Later he said he’d admired her for that; after four months most people would be in a Guinness t-shirt, feigning
a thick brogue, postcards from every county on the fridge back home. The waitress suddenly between them, ready to drop off the first round. She passed a pint over to Angela. A few drops of stout sloshed out of the glass onto Abbey’s shirt. Dermot went over to the bar and got a cloth. Wiped the dark spots off Abbey’s sleeve.

  Michael and Angela had been going on about work—an exhibition of the Clonard hoard that Michael was involved in at the National Museum. Angela had studied under Michael at Trinity and he’d helped her find work at a local gallery.

  “Dermot’s going to see me back to the flat,” Abbey said, tapping Angela on the arm. It was late and Abbey had to work early. They walked through the crowd that had come in. He put his hand on the small of her back. A woman near the door eyed them wearily then went back to her brandy. Outside things were quiet. Dermot told Abbey he’d come to Dublin for an interview that didn’t pan out. Said he didn’t know how he’d arrived here, at this point in his life. “I’ve a thirst,” he added, then he asked her if she’d like to stop for another round.

  They went into The Old Stand and ordered drinks. He admitted he was lonely, told her about all the things he’d come through. Abbey didn’t say much of anything. Dermot watched her reactions as he went on talking, told her later that he’d said more than he thought he would. That there was something about her, an honesty that appealed to him.

  Later, they stopped between Meath hospital and Angela’s flat where Abbey was staying. She leaned up against a brick wall. Dermot came forward and kissed her. His hands found the back of her neck.

  After a minute he’d said, “Can I see you again?”

  Abbey nodded her head, surprised by his attention, the kiss. All night she’d felt wrong. Even in the loo when she’d looked in the mirror, she had noticed her eyeliner was smudged below her right eye. She’d taken a paper towel, wet it under the sink taps, rubbed away the kohl under her lower lashes, rubbed so hard it looked like she’d been crying. When she went back to the table Dermot asked her what she did in Canada.

  “I’m a waitress.”

  “Did you not go to college?”

  “Night classes.”

  “What in?”

  “English Lit, some sociology.”

  She didn’t know what to say to him, felt intimidated by his interest, by the way he had ignored Michael when Angela got up from the table and Michael tried to join their conversation.

  At Angela’s door, Dermot gauged Abbey’s expression to see if she wanted him to kiss her again. He suggested she come to Galway for a visit. Two doors down a porch light flickered then went out. “Would you come?” he asked again. Abbey agreed and even with that, he asked her again. Each time he asked, it flattered her more. She kissed him for his insecurity and tentatively he’d placed his right hand under her jacket, her shirt, against her warm skin. And then later, from behind the square of glass in Angela’s front room, Abbey had watched Dermot stand on the curb on the opposite side of the street. His eyes to the sky for what seemed like an hour.

  Tapping her beer coaster on the table, Angela suggests that Abbey move to London. There’s a Connor’s and Giumbini’s there, part of the restaurant chain Abbey works for in Dublin. They could transfer her over. “I have friends in Camden …” Angela talking louder now. McDaids packed wall-to-wall with people, conversations piled over top of each other in the din. “It’d be great. Just tell him you need time away. A break. He’ll understand.” But Abbey knows that won’t solve anything. Dermot isn’t the problem.

  Over by the doorway a group of young punks barges in through the crowd. People move closer together to accommodate them. There’s a girl with blue streaks in her hair and a guy in a leather jacket sporting a bullseye tattoo on his forehead. A few other kids who look about sixteen come in behind them. The girl makes for the back of the pub to the stairs that lead up to the loo. The group by the door spreads out again. The barman changes the music. A ballad comes out of the speaker, something from the seventies. Back at the door an older man tries to push past the same throng of people. He comes in and out of view. Abbey watches the commotion to see if the group of kids will get tossed. The older guy wedges past two men in business suits. He has short hair, a receding hairline. Looks a bit like her father, the same straight nose. And he seems out of place, is getting knocked around, trying to tap people’s shoulders to pass by.

  Abbey gets the chills. There’s something about the man that reminds Abbey of how her father looked before he got sick. The way he looked when she was ten or eleven and they would go to the Holiday Inn on Thursday nights for dinner. Kids eat free, the sign had said. She always had grilled cheese. He had roast beef with gravy and drank Labatt’s Blue, would polish off three or four bottles and line them up around his plate until the waiter cleared them; the clink of the glass necks hitting each other when they met in the waiter’s hand. All around them were families, American tourists coming over the border to shop in Windsor. That was the worst of it: at every table, two parents and two or three kids, siblings who pinched and kicked each other throughout the meal. Abbey would pretend that her mother was coming, that she was running late. Hating that her father always said “for two” when the hostess asked “how many?”

  “At the funeral—” Abbey starts, thinking she’ll tell Angela that she stood on her father’s grave, that the confession might somehow relieve the guilt, “I …” But she doesn’t finish her sentence. And Angela, looking back from the direction of the door, stares blankly at Abbey. The man at the bar is gone from sight but the idea of Frank sticks with Abbey. It’s as if he’s sitting at the table with her, eying the pints. This doesn’t make sense, and Abbey knows it. The dead aren’t supposed to stand over your shoulder and watch what you drink at the pub, they aren’t supposed to know what you say and how you feel about their going. Abbey looks into her glass and senses the weight of him, a sack of guilt strung around her neck, something portable, something she can carry with her.

  When Abbey doesn’t finish her thought, Angela goes back to the previous conversation.

  “Dermot’s not right for you.” Angela sums it up, stretches her hand across the table. “For one thing, he’s twice your age. And he’s so bloody pompous. Now, look at him—” Angela points to the bar where a young guy with short spiky hair and sideburns is paying for a round. “He’s in a band. His name’s Fenton. Brendan knows him.” The fact that he’s about twenty-five isn’t lost on Abbey.

  “Anyway, Bren and I are going out Thursday and he promised he’d bring someone along so you wouldn’t feel like the odd man out.”

  Angela lifts her coat up off her lap. “Shall we?” She takes a last mouthful of stout. Abbey grabs her backpack from under the table and swings it onto her back. Grabs her pint glass and empties it, looks through the bottom of the glass before setting it down. Warbly shapes move through the scope of the base, bits of colour, someone passing close. When she moves the pint glass away from her face, the room comes crisply into view. As it should. There’s no room for the dead in McDaids. There’s barely enough room for the living. As Abbey heads for the door, a Tom Waits song comes through the stereo speakers overhead and the barman announces last call. “Have ye no homes to go to?” he shouts. A common slag, a way to get people moving. And Abbey laughs, thinks: “No, I don’t.”

  In The Yard

  THIS boy will come toward him like an apparition, this is the way Dermot imagines it—as light glinting from the bay, luminous. Even though he knows it will be something as pedestrian as sunshine reflected off the glass casing of the boy’s wristwatch; a tiny beacon, measured pulses of light. He tries not to think about it, but there are days like this—a wet Monday, him standing in the yard, kicking a tennis ball for Flagon’s amusement, the dog fetching in all directions, taking the ball in the wet pocket of her mouth—there are days when he sees the boy as if he were here. And each time it’s nothing more than a murder of crows lifting, a thin sliver of sun skirting their glossy wings, although once it was Fitch’s sloped back a
s he walked the perimeter of his fields.

  Dermot no longer trusts his own delusions. There had been a time when every thought could be sifted into its proper place—“Real / seems real / entirely fabricated”—and Dermot would lie awake at night studying the shadows that lashed across his ceiling, mumbling, “Real, a branch, the bottom branch from the white beam, sorbus aria.” Thinking, I ought to cut that down, a strong enough gust will send it through the window. And after he met Abbey and she’d come home with him, slipping in between the flannel sheet and the ratty wool blanket, her small hands, left index finger tracing his spine, he said “delusion” to himself, because he knew she would never stay.

  And now, a figure crests the rise at the back plot of land, and even though he anticipates the visitor, an idea takes shape in the back of Dermot’s mind, and stays there. Still, there is no glinting, no light, only a dark slump-shouldered form of indistinguishable girth coming close from a distance. Maybe it’s the boy. His son. Dermot’s chest tightens even thinking it: Rory.

  Sophie had sent Dermot one letter saying she’d named the baby Rory, after her own father, saying she’d taken a job as an au-pair in London. The postmark read Cork. Her writing hadn’t changed, but this time Dermot wasn’t taking a red pen to it, marking off the weak points in her arguments. It didn’t begin Adamnan’s account of Saint Columba is said to have been found intact at the monastery … Rather it read: You have a son. She’d even slipped over into the margins—there was one thin sheaf of paper. A report of sorts. That was 1981, the year after he’d been let go for trying to arrange the abortion. He’d been excommunicated from Trinity, from the high-ceilinged Fellows Hall, from the hoard of papers that were piled on his desk. “Frolicking with a student,” is what they called it, and perhaps that was apt. He’d never loved her. If a defence were to be mounted, it could be said, perhaps proven, that she had come after him—stayed late after class to ask ridiculous questions, went right for his belt buckle the moment he bent in to kiss her. The affair had only lasted the month.