Ithaca

by Alan McMonagle

  Listen to the stuff they started gabbing about. First up was the weather. The sun had been shining for more than a week and everyone was falling over themselves to make a comment about it. Wasn’t it a lovely day, the women said to each other, and got nodding as though they had just come out with the most remarkable observation. They didn’t leave it at that, though. It had to be a lovely day for something. Wasn’t it a lovely day for the garden. Wasn’t it a lovely day for a picnic. Wasn’t it a lovely day for walking by the river. Wasn’t it a lovely day for the seaside, search me how they intended getting there.

  Once they had made their emotions known about the weather, they tried to have several conversations at the one time. Popular topics were Style magazine’s ultimate guide to looking glamorous, places to see before they died, the incredible number of morons in the country, lotto numbers, hair, toddlers not going to the toilet properly, wrinkles, lip plumping, shedding pounds, Indian food, mobile phones, Mrs Redihan’s garden, salsa dancing, the unopened shopping centre, the state of the Swamp, bad breath, coriander, rotting houses, men and life plans.

  Then they had a conversation about car accidents. And all the things that caused the accidents. Holy Nora! I thought the day would never end. Forgetting to put on the handbrake. Opening the car door when a cyclist was going by. Pressing the accelerator instead of the brake. Putting in the wrong petrol. Driving into walls after leaning across to answer a mobile phone. They listed out damage done. Broken wing mirrors. Cracked windscreens. Twisted wipers. Falling-off registration plates. Flooding engines. Smoking engines. Slipping clutches. Banjaxed starters. Worn brake-pads. Torn handbrakes. On and on it went. They must have mentioned every car part there was. They sounded like real experts. One of them – Julie Oaks I think it was – said she almost knocked down the same person three times in the one day. Was it your ex-husband? Mona Quinn asked, and they all had a good laugh.

  Then it was shoes. Smoking Gemma! I never knew there were so many kinds of shoes. Wedge heels. Gladiator sandals. Thigh boots. Flip flops. Ballet pumps. Peep-toe cut-outs. Glittery platforms. Ladybird wellingtons. And more. Then they started on about feet. And how feet contained secrets. And transmitted these secrets to other parts of the body. Did you know that no two feet are the same size? I didn’t. Julie Oaks even said her left foot was three inches longer than her right foot. Then, as I knew she would, Ma showed them one of her feet – the one with the big toe growing in a completely different direction to the others. The rest of them had never seen anything like it. You can get that fixed, said Nora McGuinness. That got them started on operations. And the miracles doctors could perform these days. And all the things wrong with them that needed miracles. And there and then they made a list of the one thing they didn’t like about themselves. The one thing they would change. Nobody mentioned the things I would have. Virgin Gemma said she wished she had Julie’s teeth. Julie said she wished she had Nora’s waistline. Nora said she wished she had Gemma’s legs. Big Beatrice said she wished she had Mona’s attitude and made a little speech about the useless cocktail of pills she was on. There was an awful lot of wishing and swapping going on. Next thing Mona said she wished she had a little boy. Then Ma started to make her wish, but stopped, and everything went quiet. I have saggy boobs, said Julie Oaks into the silence and they all started laughing again.

  That got them started on men, and they were filling their glasses with vodka and orange juice and picking bits of sausages off plates Shirley had sent out from behind the bar. But by now, I had stopped listening. As far as I was concerned, there was only one thing wrong and it was wrong with the lot of them – they were crazier than the birds.

  When I looked again, Mario was on the move through the bar. He passed by me and then the gabbing women and headed down the back towards the toilet. Aha, I thought, climbing down off my stool, this is my chance to corner him for that face-to-face talk, and I started after him.

  Look who it is, the women said as I made my way past them on my way through to the toilet. The one and only. Quickly, one or two made room for me where they were gathered. Arms were waving me over, then pawing at me. Ma put on her sly smile and I knew it was useless trying to keep away from them.

  Look at his lovely curls, said Fionnuala, whipping the hood off me. And she ran her hand through my hair, her missing-finger hand.

  I think it’s his eyes, said Julie. They are so blue.

  He is going to break many, many hearts with those eyes, said Big Beatrice.

  It’s his little cherub cheeks. They are so adorable, said Mona, and she started pulling at my jaws as though I was some sort of pet. Then Fionnuala Quirke said I looked like an angel.

  An angel!

  For crying out loud.

  He’s a sensitive boy, Ma said, putting on her best sympathy voice, I’d never heard her use words like those before and her head nodding in agreement with everything that had been said. Had a feeling she was angling for something and it was annoying me because I couldn’t figure out what it was. For now, though, one thing was certain. Every woman in this room, they all thought I was the most precious thing on two legs. Every one of them wanted to be my ma.

  Had just managed to wrangle myself away from them when Mario reappeared. He walked past the women and me, all the way to the far end of the bar and stood leaning against it, the leery head on him facing this way, as though all he had to do was click his fingers and Ma and all the rest of the women and every other woman in the town would drop everything and start a stampede in his direction.

  And still no sign of the girl. Maybe she had an aversion to dimly lit pubs. Maybe her moods were like Shirley’s and she had changed her mind a million times. Maybe she was stuck at home with her crying da and his fists banging on the table. Wait a minute! WAIT A MINUTE! Maybe he was howling like a crazy dog and busy taking everything out on the girl. Three or four hours I’d been stuck here listening to a gaggle of women talk their Happy Hour heads off while the girl’s da was laying into her like there was no tomorrow. Now a big hush was going out all around me, Shirley was reaching and turning up the TV volume, and a loud call was let out, IT’S TIME FOR TONY.

  Next thing, Shirley had turned up the TV volume even more, and Ma and the rest of her crew were bunching in around me to catch a glimpse of Tony and the rest of the Sopranos and I had to listen to nonsense talk about their all-time favourite television show even though I’d say most of them had seen every episode when it was first shown, and here we go again, I was thinking, as the familiar music came on and Ma, who else, started to sing along.

  It was time, alright. Time I was out of here. I had to get to the girl. Make sure she was still in one piece. Mario would have to wait.

  Wasn’t going anywhere fast just yet, though. Hey! Tough guy. Catch! Ma yelled at me, her voice like glue in my ears and she lobbed a shrivelled-up sausage that bounced off my shoulder and onto the grimy floor.

  That Tony Soprano! said Virgin Gemma, and the rest of them weren’t long chipping in.

  I hope he gets it this time around, said Julie Oaks. I’m fed up with him getting off scot-free all the time.

  Tony is the crime boss. He’s never going to get it.

  His mother had the right idea. She should have had him taken care of when she had the chance.

  May his testicles shrivel up like leaves, said Mona Quinn, and that got a good laugh. May his chopper cause him severe pain before falling off, said Helena Larkin, reaching out her hands and squeezing hard. May he contract a debilitating dose of syphilis, said Una Groarke. Syphilis wouldn’t be good enough for him, said Dearbhla Halpin. And what would, Dearbhla? A virulent case of the clap? The Black Death?

  I know, said Emily Casey, who had been quiet up till then. Gonorrhoea.

  Gonorrhoea! I thought only women could get that.

  Not at all, said Loretta Waldron. Men can get gonorrhoea too. And the more the merrier.

  That cracked it open. Patricia Gibbons saw Emily Casey’s gonorrhoea with an abrasive assault of
herpes. Wilma French saw the herpes and raised it with an irreversible case of genital warts. Sonia Breen saw the warts and trumped with a slow-burning attack of chlamydia. Joan Cahill must have been sitting on something very special because she saw the syphilis, the gonorrhoea, the herpes, the virulent case of the clap and raised the lot with an everlasting dose of the trembling shits. And after that they had to stop they were laughing so much.

  And still no sign of the girl. Where was she? What was happening to her? So much for all her talk up on Rich Hill. So much for being inseparable. And then I remembered something else she’d said.

  If I was going to end it all again.

  Fock me!

  And in an instant I knew where she was.

  By now, Shirley had switched off the TV and turned on the music and they were all yelling at Shirley to turn up the volume and, uh-oh, the song coming on sounded familiar and, yes, it was the song Ma had been singing into my face at the crack of dawn the morning we heard about Flukey. A choir of screeching women erupted, singing their trollied little heads off, and so bad was it I had to cradle my face in my hands as I tried to squeeze through the jungle of limbs and flesh blocking my path out of there. And they were all pointing at me and pulling and tugging and, Jesus Christ, what did I have to do to get out of there?

  Women. The lot of them out of their seats. Gyrating about the room. Howling along to the music. Falling into each other’s arms. Tumbling over chairs. Slipping on puddles of spilt drink. Harry and Fergal didn’t know which way to look. Mario was lapping up every minute of it. Then they were pointing at me again, and then reaching out and pulling me this way and that and making me dance with them, and there were so many arms tugging at me I couldn’t do a thing to stop them.

  Look at him, Ma squealed. A regular disco king. And Harry and Fergal looked, and Shirley looked, and the card players were looking at me and all that was in my ears was one long corridor of non-stop laughter. Next thing, Ma had kicked off her heels and was sliding across the room towards me. Sensing that something special was about to happen, the women made space and Ma glided up the floor, reaching out her arm and beckoning me to her with a curling finger. So take a good look at my face. You’ll see my smile looks out of place. Closer and closer to me she glided, the booming music and non-stop laughter in my head, and suddenly the walls were closing in on me and the barroom was far too small.

  Get the hell away from me, you witch! I roared into her face, and at last I was out of there. Into a mad dash down the street and panting hard.

  PEOPLE LIKE CLOUDS

  Getting late now, light fading. Clear sky and the air so calm. And I was running. Fast as I could. All the way down the street and onto Violin Bridge. Stared out over the bridge wall, down into the dark river below. Nothing. There wasn’t a sound coming out of it. No glug-glug-glug out of the water. No sounds of hungry fish chomping on the latest loon to go flinging herself.

  Then I thought: the Swamp. She’s in the Swamp.

  And I was moving again, faster and faster, trying my best not to picture her plunging off the rock and sinking deep. Past Mel Campbell’s shop and ducked into the high end of the lane, already straining for a glimpse of her anywhere through the ditch trees.

  Please let her be on the rock. Let her be gazing across the Swamp. Off on one of her adventures. The best one yet. Let this be the scene I find when I reached the Swamp.

  And still not fully dark. Moved down the lane as fast as I could. The scorched breath wheezing out of me. My useless feet refusing to go any faster. Watched for jutting-out tree-roots ready to trip me up, branches curled for grabbing loons on their crazy way. Wished I’d stepped into Mel Campbell’s shop and got her something. An ice cream. One with a flake. All that painting was thirsty work, I’d tell her, here, have an ice cream. Could almost see the sunny look in her face, the words forming in her mouth. At last. A good idea out of you. Now I am impressed.

  Brains and No-brains McManus had other ideas. There they were. The ripped denims on them. The kick-hard boots. Their grinning heads spread wide across the lane. Blocking my way. Almost wished I had their knack for appearing out of nowhere.

  And ice cream! The pair of them were sharing an ice cream.

  Look who it is, said No-brains.

  The boy from the hood, said Brains.

  The most dangerous man alive, said No-brains.

  And he’s in a hurry, said Brains.

  And they went over and back like this for a couple of minutes. Would I like some ice cream? they wondered. Maybe some for my ma? My girlfriend? Except of course they didn’t really like the sound of sharing because neither one of them had had an ice cream in ages. And the pair of them stood there grinning at me, blocking my way when I tried to get by.

  Let me past, I said, the blood gathering inside me. My breath hot in their faces.

  What’s the rush, pipsqueak? Are you late for something?

  Please, let me by, I said, the heart clapping inside me now, the blood roaring.

  Ha! Listen to the polite head on him.

  I NEED TO GET BY! I screamed. LET ME BY, MORONS!

  Didn’t need to scream for too long after that. No-brains tumbled me to the ground and pinned me down. Brains stood there taking gobfuls of ice cream while his brother’s arms flailed away at me.

  Come on, said No-brains, have a go. But his brother wasn’t in a fisticuffs mood. He dug his tongue well into the ice cream, licked for all he was worth, let the stuff smear all over his face. After another gobful or two, Brains looked gleefully at his brother, then smashed the cone to the ground. At once, No-brains threw his arms in the air, but the brother was already walking off.

  No-brains was not happy. Straddling me, he picked up the useless ice cream, held it close to my face, so close I could see the dirt and weevils and earwigs and other things it had already attracted.

  My brother isn’t the sharing kind, is he? No-brains said, raising the filthy ice cream. But lucky for you, I am. Now, come on, open wide. He had the cone in one hand and with the other was jawing my mouth open. Come on, open wide, he said, angling the cone, and then mashing it into my mouth, nose, eyes, hair, wherever he could. Then he rubbed his sticky hands on my clothes, stood off me again and headed off after his brother.

  For a few minutes I lay there in the dirt. Wiped ice cream away from my eyes, gazed up at some dark clouds. They were skidding by and the early stars were breaking through. I watched a jumbo-jet ski across the atmosphere until it disappeared, wondered where it was headed at this late hour, wished myself aboard. I felt a line of ice cream run down the side of my face and wiped it clear. Poked a finger into a white blob that had landed in the dirt, closed my eyes and sucked good. I thought of the girl, the look on her face when she saw the ice cream head on me. Reached my hand inside my pocket, wrapped my fingers around Ma’s razorblade and, keeping my eyes closed, squeezed until I was wincing with relief.

  When I opened my eyes all the clouds were gone, was looking up at an empty sky. And I thought: People. Around here some of them are like clouds. Once they clear out of sight, it’s a beautiful day.

  Fully dark now. Temperatures coming down.

  There was no sign of her at the Swamp. No sign of anyone having taken a running jump into the hidden pools. Well. That was something at least, and I breathed easy.

  I saw the scryer hovering over the ditchwater, holding herself. Made my way as far as her.

  Annie, let me have tomorrow’s lotto numbers please.

  Not a peep out of her.

  OK then, let me have five numbers please. Five is plenty, Annie, whenever you’re ready.

  Still nothing. I was starting to wonder if she could see into the future after all. At this stage I wasn’t even convinced she could speak.

  Four numbers, Annie. It’s my final offer. Otherwise, I’m going to have to force you to speak. And, believe me when I say it, it will hurt me more than it will hurt you.

  She didn’t say a thing. And she wasn’t about to fall for my ro
ugh talk.

  Don’t suppose you have an answer to my usual question either? No? I thought not. Your gift is wasted on you, Annie, I said, resting my hand on her shoulder. And I continued down the lane.

  The drunks were gathered around their cans. Cracking them open, glugging good and staring at the black sky. Booze always brought out the pop star in some of them and they were croaking out their three-word-songs.

  I loved her. I loved her. I loved her.

  So I did. So I did. So I did.

  She left me. She left me. She left me.

  So she did. So she did. So she did.

  Ah, would you look who it is, one of them said as I approached, a long stick of a thing in a raggy suit. He didn’t have a clue who I was.

  He looks as though he has the world on his shoulders, chuckled another, a gargoyle with mulch for teeth and a furry nose.

  There’s a story from the past preventing him getting on with his life.

  He’s lost all his money, declared a squint-eyed thing with hollowed-out jaws.

  Maybe he’s in love, said Raggy Suit.

  He’s in the last of the last days so, the gargoyle said, and the comment was greeted with a collective roar.

  Let me buy you a drink and you can tell us all about it, Raggy Suit said, reaching out a can to me. But I was in no mood for a can. I was eyeing up the starlit Swamp, still casting about for a glimpse of the girl, wishing I hadn’t bumped into Brains and No-brains McManus, all the time thinking to myself, next time, next time. Next time I’d have something for her.