Ithaca

by Alan McMonagle

  Whatever you say, Ma. Whatever you say.

  A PLATE OF SPUDS SKINS AND ALL

  So there are three men waiting to be executed. A Frenchman. An Italian. And Murphy. In turn, the captain of the execution squad visits the condemned men in their cells to offer them a last meal. So what would you like? he says to the Frenchman. I would like chicken cordon bleu the Frenchman says, flicking an index finger off the tip of his proud moustache, and a few minutes later he is served his meal which he gnashes down like there is no tomorrow. Then he is taken out and shot. What would you like? the captain says to the Italian. Pasta primavera, implores the Italian, with a theatrical though fatalistic sweep of his arms, and a few minutes later he is served his meal which he forks inside him as though his life depends on it. Then he is taken out and shot. What would you like? the captain says to Murphy. I’d like a plate of spuds, skins and all, Murphy says, licking his chapped lips and rubbing together his huge, boggy hands. A few minutes later the captain returns empty-handed, and with regret informs Murphy that his request cannot be granted at this time because potatoes are out of season. Not to worry, Murphy says, making himself comfortable on his bunk, I can wait.

  Was that a joke, Slug?

  Of course it was a joke. What the hell did you think it was?

  I don’t think I get it.

  What! What do you mean you don’t get it?

  What’s Murphy waiting for? Apart from a spud and a bullet.

  Ah, for feck’s sake. Why are you even asking that? You know what your problem is, little man?

  No.

  You’re thick as well as clever. Now go away, I’m trying to catch something here and I can tell you’re bringing me bad luck.

  The Slug stopped talking, turned away from me and cast his line into the Swamp. I watched his wizened old face and brittle arms, and for a second wondered what he would’ve been up to as a boy. Then I watched four or five council men try to straighten the KEEP OUT sign. On a dock leaf below me, two ladybirds approached each other. A frog stuck its head out of the scumwater, took a look around with its beady eyes and ducked below again. Didn’t blame him. I could still hear the Slug muttering unhappily to himself as I made my way out of there. And he thought I had problems.

  I headed up the back lane, thinking about that useless joke, thinking about Ma’s reaction when I mentioned the girl’s da. Thinking about the next happy day in her life and what I could get for her birthday. Some kind of skirt. Fancy eye make-up. A bunch of flowers from the garden next door. I thought of calling over to see Gavin McGoldrick, ask him did he have a sports car going cheap. I could see the look on Gavin’s face when I showed up. Don’t worry, Gavin. The tarry urine is no more. The swelling has gone down, the smell belongs in the past. Now like never before Ma could use a fast car, Gavin, show what me you’ve got.

  I was kicking stones ahead of me when I heard the ticking spokes and ringing bell. Then the familiar voice.

  How’s Medusa? Barrabas Diffley, the cycling postman, asked me. He was lurking about the bushes stretching over the end of the back gardens. His big arms ferreting about inside his sack of letters. His bicycle now on the dirt track, the back wheel spinning.

  Who are you calling Medusa? I said.

  I’ve heard you call her worse yourself.

  Well, I’ve got to live with her. You don’t.

  You make a useful point, Jason, he said, smiling away like someone who had never broken sweat in his life.

  You know what I’m going to do, Barrabas? One of these days I’m going to chop off her head and use it as a weapon of mass destruction.

  He still had the happy face on him, but now he wasn’t sure if he should be laughing.

  One look at her is all it takes, Barrabas. You’ll turn to stone. Head to toe, arms, legs, waist and all, every inch of you rooted to the one place for all time. Eternity! Think of it, Barrabas. You’ll be about to drop one of your letters through the letterbox and bam!

  He was dying to try out a little laughter, but something made him think better of it.

  What sort of a mood is she in? he asked me.

  Right now or in general?

  Right now.

  Well, if I was to put it in weather terms, Barrabas, I would start off by calling her the liveliest cyclone this side of the Russian Steppes.

  Ah, Jaysus. Don’t say that to me.

  Like I say, Barrabas. Try living under the same roof as her for five minutes.

  I hear you, Jason, I hear you.

  What have you got for her?

  I’ll give you one guess.

  In that case I wouldn’t risk it.

  Would you mind?

  I took the letters off him. Barrabas breathed a sigh of relief. Then looked up and down as though he couldn’t remember which way he had been travelling.

  Hey, are you likely to see the Slug? he asked me, waving another letter.

  Are you afraid of him as well?

  No, but he’s after taping up his letterbox. I can’t get a thing through it.

  I nodded in the direction of the Swamp, to where the Slug was casting his line. Barrabas sighed heavily.

  Ah, maybe I’ll call it a day, he said, closing up his sack of letters. I didn’t blame him. He grabbed his bike and away with him.

  DEATH BY ICE CREAM

  Oh, look, the girl said as soon as she spotted me coming through the door of the Hungry Worm. It’s the tough guy.

  What are you doing in here? I said, leaning into the empty chair at the window-table she was sitting at.

  I could say the same thing to you.

  My ma wanted me out of her way. Whooeee. Was she mad.

  Well, then. I suppose you better take a seat.

  I pulled out the chair and sat in opposite her. We were the only customers. By the counter, the other waitress was trying to bring some dead flowers back to life. There was no sign of Mattie.

  Are you alright? I asked her, doing my best to check her face and neck for any fresh bruises without making it too obvious.

  Of course I’m alright. Why wouldn’t I be?

  You didn’t show up in McMorrow’s. And I . . .

  . . . and, let me guess, you thought something terrible had happened to me. Were you terribly worried about me? Did you come looking for me? I bet you did. My hero! Now we really are inseparable.

  I wouldn’t go that far.

  Are you having anything? she asked, reaching her hand across the table. Anything you want. It’s on me.

  What have you got?

  A smoothie.

  I might go for a rocky road. Or some ice cream.

  You can do better than that. Order something. Pretend you’re a condemned man and it’s your last meal.

  Huh?

  Did you know, before he was executed, Ted Bundy had steak, eggs, hash browns and a cup of coffee?

  Who’s Ted Bundy?

  Oh, please! He was a killer. He was loose in America twenty or thirty years ago. He did awful things.

  You know a lot about him.

  It’s amazing what you can find on the internet. Did you know a notorious baby thief had celery, olives, chicken and chips, peas, cherries and a slice of cake? For his last meal, I mean. And a bomber in America asked for two pints of chocolate-chip ice cream. A German killer didn’t want anything to eat. He just drank half a bottle of red wine.

  This is starting to sound like a joke I heard.

  Another lad who was executed with a lethal injection for stabbing his neighbour thirteen times and stealing fifteen dollars, paid for his last meal.

  What! He paid for his meal before they killed him?

  Another lad asked for a lump of dirt and was denied.

  The next time my ma asks me what I would like to eat that’s what I’m going to say. I’ll have a lump of dirt, please. Hey! I almost forgot. Cop Lawless is on to us. He knows what we did up on the hill.

  That’s no big deal.

  You should’ve seen my ma.

  Have you asked her about my fat
her yet?

  No, I lied, not wanting an earful when I told her how her suggestion had gone down.

  What’s keeping you?

  Nothing.

  Are you afraid?

  No.

  I’d say you are.

  I said I’m not.

  If I told you to jump off a high building, would you do it?

  No.

  If I told you to climb up onto the tracks and throw yourself in the front of the train, would you do it?

  No.

  What would you do?

  I’ve done some things.

  Oh really. Like what?

  I didn’t know what to say to that. Couldn’t think of anything, not with her wide eyes all over me, putting pressure on me for a sensational response. By the counter, the other waitress was drowning the dead flowers. I reached in my bag and took out the photograph of Brando.

  What have you there?

  A photograph Ma keeps in a press.

  Who is it?

  Marlon Brando. He’s a big time movie star. Have you heard of him?

  Yes, I have. Women love him. Men respect him. Oh, and he’s dead.

  First time I saw the photo I thought it was my da.

  You thought Marlon Brando was your father!

  It was ages ago. I kind of look like him.

  Don’t be daft.

  I have his teeth.

  Right.

  And his lips and eyebrows. When I frown I look just like him. Watch me.

  Now I know you’re joking.

  I mightn’t be.

  What did your mother say? Let me guess.

  She laughed.

  I wonder why. Want to know how he died?

  Please don’t say he was executed.

  He ate too much ice cream.

  Let me guess. You found that out on the internet.

  You catch on fast when you want to.

  She grabbed her smoothie and started to suck on the straw. By the counter, the waitress had given up on the flowers and was now slumped forward on a table beside the counter, her sleeping head in her spread-out arms. I looked back to the girl and the smoothie she was making fast work of.

  So, tough guy, she said, nodding in the direction of the sleepy waitress and letting go her straw. It’s just the two of us. You know what we could do?

  No.

  I think you do.

  What? Gobble down a bucket full of rocky roads?

  Ha! You’re a fruitcake, you know that. I was thinking we could slip into the toilet for a few minutes and you could put your thing in me.

  No thanks.

  Why not? she asked.

  I don’t want to.

  You know, it’s not much fun hanging out with you.

  Well, no one said you had to. Why don’t you head off to the Russian Steppes? Or hang out with some of those Ancient Greece heroes you keep banging on about?

  Who’s your favourite?

  Favourite?

  I like Perseus. And Hercules. And Achilles. I like Hector too. Even though they were enemies. Who do you like?

  I . . . I like . . .

  And I love the horse. You know it, right? The wooden horse? Of Troy? I love that story. The warriors hide inside and capture the city. They were clever and so brave. They were real heroes. They made sacrifices. Though I was sad after what happened to Hector.

  What happened Hector?

  Don’t you know anything?

  That’s what my ma says.

  Achilles gutted Hector with his sword. Of them all, I think Prometheus is my favourite. Do you know Prometheus? He stole fire from the gods and gave it to mankind. Then they punished him by chaining him to a rock forever.

  I know a few I’d like to see chained.

  The gods sent an eagle to eat the liver of Prometheus. Every day.

  How many livers did he have?

  It grew back, silly. Then the eagle ate it again. Finally he was rescued by Hercules – the greatest hero of them all.

  There’s a fair haul of heroes knocking about in this story. Did you ever find that other place you were looking for?

  Ithaca? Not yet. I’m too busy trying to avoid Cyclops and not look the Gorgons in the eye. The sea is angry too. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve almost been washed overboard. I need to find something to appease the gods. Otherwise they won’t be happy until I become part of the water.

  Sounds scary.

  Well. It’s better than listening to my father. The shouting is worse than ever. His fist is moving beyond the table. The other day he put it through the bathroom window. Yesterday, it was the mirror. This morning, I ducked out of the way in the nick of time.

  So I’m right! That’s how you get the bruises.

  I have to get him out of the house before it gets out of hand. That’s where you come in.

  You mean my ma.

  He has to see her.

  When?

  Oh, I think I’ll let you figure that one out. OK. I’m bored now. See you around. Maybe.

  Without waiting for another word out of me she slid out of her chair, stepped up to the counter, lifted the lid on a tray of rocky roads and picked one up. Here, she said, spinning around and lobbing the thing at me. I hear you like these. She flipped a coin over her shoulder and I watched it land on the table alongside the resting arms of the dozing waitress. Then she was out through the door, out of sight, and it was just me and the rocky road. I sat there by myself for a little while more, nibbling on the crispy chocolate. Then I took myself to the library.

  BRANDO

  The girl was right. Everybody loved Brando. At the library, I put his name into search and in less than half a second the internet gave me two million, nine hundred and eighty thousand websites about him.

  In the movies he was a tough-talker, a rabble-rouser, and a wild man who rode around on a motorbike asking everybody what they had. Then he was in charge of a mutiny aboard a ship in the high seas. A soldier in the war. A cowboy. A Mexican revolutionary organizing rebellions. Then he was the top man in a family of gangsters. Just like Tony Soprano. Then he was Superman’s da. In one movie he was a lad who used to be a contender for the boxing title, now working on the docks with his brother and a bunch of hoodlums. Surprise, surprise, there’s a girl he’s keen on and it’s tearing him apart because the hoodlums he’s involved with have flung the girl’s brother headfirst off a rooftop. Turns out the hoodlums have told him to lose the boxing fight and he has to settle for a one-way ticket to Palookaville.

  There was lots more. Brando’s da was a travelling salesman, always on the road, and his ma liked to act, but preferred heading to the nearest liquor bar and staying there from one end of the day to the next. Brando would go out looking for her and drag her home. Best of all, he would perform little one-man shows to keep her from heading out in the first place.

  He didn’t care that he became world famous. He drove a fast car down Sunset Boulevard with a fake arrow stuck in his head. He ducked around movie sets firing his water pistol at the other actors. He had a pet raccoon called Russell he used to bring to parties. Brando could swim, too, and when he made enough money he bought himself an island that was next to impossible to find.

  He had lots of clever things to say. If I wasn’t an actor, I would have been a conman and ended up in jail. That was something he said. And he was expelled from school for riding a motorbike through the halls. And he could speak French.

  Oh boy.

  No wonder Ma kept a photograph of him.

  He liked ice cream and cinnamon buns and could eat a breakfast of corn flakes, sausages, eggs, bananas, and a stack of pancakes drenched in syrup. For dinner he had a couple of steaks, potatoes and a few apple pies à la mode. So hungry was he, his second wife put a padlock on the fridge. So Brando would get his friends to lob bags of Whoppers from Burger King into his back garden.

  Eventually he got fed up acting. He called himself a fraud. A pretender. And a liar. He said he was a glum joke of a man and told anyone who w
ould listen that he would sweep the floor if he was paid enough. And all the time he was gnashing down bucket loads of ice cream and getting bigger and fatter until he got to the stage he couldn’t put on his trousers without tearing the arse out of them. Then his lungs decided enough was enough and the doctors told him he couldn’t go on without oxygen tubes hanging out of him, and Brando wasn’t bothered with any of that, and so off to Palookaville he went.

  Oh boy.

  Everybody loved him alright. Everybody except himself.

  WINDOW SHOPPING

  And I was walking the down-town streets. Me and my empty bag. Waiting for my next move to drop out of the sky. Passing the skimpy windows. Looking at the clothes-shop dummies. All the unsold shoes. The ticking watches and antique clocks. The buy-me dresses and the silver spoons.

  I paused at the window of Glitzybitz. Nothing but butterfly brooches, caterpillar necklaces and sets of mermaid earrings. In the window of Farrell’s shoe shop, a miserable selection of thigh boots, wedge heels, and ballet slippers. A skirt and jacket in Lally’s high-fashion shop. A blouse that old wheezebag Lily Brennan would run away from. Flimsy bits of underwear, red lacy stuff, and things that wouldn’t fit round a starving stick insect. Ma had enough of them, I knew that. As usual in Beauty by Helen, still nothing but vouchers for faces and eyebrows and back exfoliation and skin brightening; all-over massages and the thing called a Brazilian.

  In the Card Shop I stared at a Congratulations You’ve Passed! card I could give to her if she ever passed her driving test. In the window of Everything Is Two Euros, a fridge magnet that said when the going gets tough the tough eat chocolate, and an Angel Worry Box so small it made me wonder was there enough room for everything Ma would be shoving inside the thing. Was really tempted by a sign that said If you can’t say it politely say it in French and a calendar with a picture of a grumpy cat for every month, but I remembered Ma saying one time she didn’t like calendars. Then I saw a Make Up Your Mind dice. Instead of numbers it had words.

  Cook

  Have a hot bath

  Shop

  Go to Spain

  Clean

  Drink a Cup of Tea

  And for a few minutes I looked for a Make Up Your Mind dice without the Cook option and that offered vodka instead of tea. Couldn’t see one, though. Instead, came across a tray of finger rings. Tried on a skull and cross bones. Aha, I thought. I know someone who might like this. At the till I asked for a piece of string as well, in case the ring didn’t fit the girl’s finger and she preferred to wear it around her neck.