Ithaca

by Alan McMonagle

  You think too much. Have a think about that before you step inside my shop again.

  Tell you what, Mel. Make it three donuts and you can have one yourself. By the way. Did I tell you? The Ma is gone to Paris.

  He narrowed his eyes. I could see him trying to figure out my agenda, what was I going to spring next. It was bugging him that he couldn’t figure it out, could practically see the pain in his eyes as I started pulling from his shelves, and then piling onto his counter, everything I needed.

  What’s she up to in Paris? he growled.

  Well.

  Well, what?

  Well.

  Well, what!

  Well now, Mel, I don’t know if I should answer that.

  Are you trying to mess with my head, boy?

  No.

  I think you are.

  I’m just making conversation, Mel.

  He grunted at me and I gazed at the shelves, saw a couple of more things my party could do with. Paper hats. Balloons.

  Then I spotted the crowning glory.

  A bottle of Champagne.

  Mel was watching me all the way and shaking his head when I pointed to it.

  If you oblige me, Mel, I’ll see that your name goes on the VIP list. You and Mrs Campbell will get the red carpet treatment. You’ll think you are a prince.

  Oh, so now I’m a prince.

  Mel, in my pocket I have something that will put a smile on your face.

  You don’t say.

  I do say, Mel. I can safely say this is one deal where you come out on top.

  You must think I’m some kind of feckin’ eejit.

  That’s one of the last things I think, Mel. No chance of the bubbly, then?

  Ehhh . . . .No, Mel said, shaking his head, and I pulled out the bundle of money notes and dropped the lot on his counter.

  Keep the change, I said.

  He was still shaking his head as I stepped out of there with my sack of supplies, still giving me a look and twisting his brains trying to figure out what bad-mind trickery I had conjured this time.

  DINNER FOR TWO

  A couple of blues and a pair of spat-out yellows later and I was bopping wide-eyed and kite-high, ready for my dinner party. The kitchen full of food. The table set. Candles and music, and over-the-rainbow happy I was. All that was left for me to do was hold the door for my guests, greet them all personally as they arrived.

  But hang on. There was only one guest at the half-open doorway. A tall man in a high hat. Snazzy shoes. Cigarette dangling from his mouth. Now who could that mystery stranger possibly be? Wait a minute! WAIT A MINUTE! I knew who it was. I sprang for the door and pulled it fully open. Yes. I was right.

  Da.

  He looked good. Better than I expected. Relaxed. Enigmatic. Poised. Already he was stepping inside, removing his high hat, tipping ash off his cigarette.

  Hey, Da! Look at this. It’s some spread, isn’t it? Took me ages to get it ready. Well. Don’t just stand there. Take a seat. Make yourself at home. And bon appétit as they say in Paris.

  Hey, Da! How’s the soup? What’s that? It needs a little more salt? Well, why didn’t you say so? Here, try some bread with it. Yeah. It’s good bread, alright. French, don’t you know.

  Hey, Da! How do you like your steak? What’s that? All over the plate? Ha! That’s a great answer, Da. I’m going to use it next time I’m in the Hungry Worm.

  Hey, Da! Let me top up your glass, there. It’s good stuff, isn’t it? A bit fizzy, though. Gets up your nose, if you know what I mean.

  Now don’t tell me you didn’t leave room for dessert? You did? That’s what I like to hear. Well, here is a little something I prepared earlier. Got the recipe from a French cook book. What’s that, Da? You detect a running theme to this dinner party? A French theme? Well. I suppose I have to admit that I do have a soft spot for French things. The Eiffel Tower. The river bridges. The guillotine. Stuff like that. Tell me something, Da, have you ever been there?

  You know what I was thinking, Da? I was thinking – after I’ve done the dishes – we could hit the back lane. You know. Hang out for a little bit. I could introduce you to some of my friends. There’s this lad who talks to the trees. And there’s this other pair who think they have all the answers. And there’s another lad who tries to tell me jokes, only they’re not very funny. It’s the way he tells them, I suppose. And there’s this other one – what’s that, Da? You don’t have time. You have somewhere else to be. Where’s that then, Da? Can I come? Can I? What’s that, Da? Not a good idea. OK. Maybe next time, then.

  And just like that – snap – he was gone again.

  *

  I sincerely hope this is a party for just you and me, the girl said when I opened up. She was standing there in a black leather mini-skirt and matching boots. Red tights and eye-liner. A new hairdo for crying out loud. And so much make-up I could no longer see the bruise on her neck. She even had her lips painted.

  What colour is that? I asked her, looking sideways at her mouth.

  Blueberry, she said, pouting her lips and blowing a soft breeze in my face as she padded past me and on into the house.

  She must have gone to Beauty by Helen. Or Nora McGuinness. The one-man glam squad, Ma called Nora. And Nora must have wasted little time getting busy with her glamour kit, going to work on the girl’s hair. Part of it was brown and frizzled. Part of it was streaky red. Part of it was black like her skirt and boots. With all the chopping and colour-changing, it was like being with three or four versions of the one person.

  Well, what do you think? she said when she saw me looking.

  Not bad, I said, before I could stop myself.

  I’m so glad you approve. Now then, loverboy, where’s the bedroom?

  I had to pinch myself. One minute, I was downtown grabbing presents for Ma’s birthday and she goes and does a runner. Next minute, the girl had invited herself over and was wanting to jump into my bed until her da calmed down. Well. If Ma thought it was OK to swan off for a Champagne time in a riverside hotel, well hey, I could organize my own little bit of Paris.

  What the hell is all this? the girl asked when she stepped into the kitchen and saw my baking supplies spread all over the table.

  No point having a party without eating something, I said, holding up a packet of custard. Do you know how to make cake?

  Next thing, the two of us were busy in the kitchen. In no time, the girl was convinced she was a French chef and was making a list of everything she was going to whip up – sherry trifle, sponge cakes, hot-cross buns, strawberry jams, apple tarts, rhubarb crumbles – while I grabbed the French recipe book and set up the ingredients. I opened out every press and drawer in the kitchen, grabbed whatever was there and spread the lot across the table.

  OK then, the girl said, holding high a mixing bowl. Before we jump into bed we are going to create a little bit of Paris right here in this slum of a kitchen.

  What are we going to make first? I asked. Cake, she quickly decided. It’s Pastille Day, she announced, holding up the cutting knife like a sword. The anniversary of the French Revolution. Let them eat cake, Marie Antoinette said. Then they lopped off her head. Whack! Just like that. And she scalped open the carton of double cream. Next she grabbed a mixing bowl and threw in handfuls of custard, sugar, flour, currants. Dunked in several splashes of sherry, double cream, whatever she could find. On this day they burned Joan of Arc, she said, ripping the smiley woman out of the cook book and taping the page to the kitchen door. They tied her to a stake and said she was a witch. Five sizzling minutes later she was toast. This cake will be in Joan’s memory. And she raised up the bowl of slop. The next bowls were for a princess gunned down in cold blood and an innocent woman locked away in a prison cell for something she didn’t do. Then, as I knew would happen, the heroes from ancient Greece got a look in. Achilles gutted Hector with his sword. This is Hector’s cake, the girl yelled, and pulled out of the oven something that smelt like burning rubber. Helen of Troy had a fac
e that launched a thousand ships. This is Helen’s cake, she howled, holding up something a starving baba would’ve crawled quickly away from. Are you following the instructions? I said and she threw a fist of custard at me. There were so many occasions to mark she ran out of sherry. Then she used Ma’s vodka.

  Her favourite French occasion was the anniversary of Édith Piaf’s death. Édith Piaf is the most popular dead person in France, she said. Everyone visits her grave. She is called the little sparrow. I have no regrets, she announced, removing Édith’s cake from the oven. I could be descended from the French, she said, and who knows, maybe you are too. We could have very sophisticated blood. Don’t ever forget that. And she licked the fingers she had just poked into the lump of char that passed for Édith’s cake.

  The special occasions were coming faster than the last of the last days the drunks in the lane were always laughing about. And they no longer had anything to do with France or ancient Greece. I dedicate this sponge cake to the Swamp, she said, holding up her latest effort. Go forth and save lives, she said, blessing a tray of hot-cross buns with the cutting knife. It is the first Thursday of the week, she announced. This is my delicious Thursday cake.

  We need something else, she said next and she twirled around the kitchen floor, turned on the stereo. Then she started to sing. She was singing and choosing the ingredients for the next cake, spinning around while tossing them any old way into the mixing bowls. Unlike with Ma, every note didn’t sound as if it was coming from someone who had just fallen off a cliff. Pour some sugar on me, went her husky voice as she spun around with her cutting knife. Boy, you better make her raspberry swirl, she swooned when she spotted me trying to tiptoe out the door. Lick me like a lollipop, she sang, bunching her blueberry lips the way I’d seen Ma do it.

  How many cakes have we baked? I asked at some point, thinking we’d made enough and that I could do with a rest.

  Not enough, she replied, shoving her next effort into the oven. And she got straight back into her song.

  The more she baked the bigger the mess. The kitchen table was littered with spilled cartons of sugar and over-turned jars of baking powder. Blobs of custard flew onto the walls and ceiling. Gouts of jam stained her clothes. She slid around the buttery floor with her oven trays. Humming away to the next song. It was a miracle she didn’t go belly-up. I won’t fall, she said as though she was reading my mind. I know my centre of gravity. She didn’t even wear the apron I took out for her. It got so bad, I put on the apron myself and tidied up.

  Look at you, she howled, when the kitchen was as good as new again. You’re the best tidy-upper in the world. What would your mother do without you?

  But she wasn’t fooling me. Not for one minute. I knew she was going to pounce. She was going to grab me and drag me up the stairs and into Ma’s bedroom and there would be no budging until I’d done what she’d been asking me to do all summer.

  There’s some good stuff on TV tonight, I told her, thinking it would distract her for a little while.

  I know what you’re up to, she replied. Don’t worry. I’m biding my time. We can watch some TV. But you won’t be able to resist forever. You’ll see. You better just hope it’s not too late by then. And she made a swoop, plunged her knife and cut us both huge hunks of chocolate sludge.

  At long last we ran out of ingredients. She wanted to make a fast trip to the Hungry Worm to collect a new batch. Or send me. Even make another trip to the one-woman glam squad when she realized all the baking had melted the make-up she’d put on, played havoc with her hairstyle.

  Instead, she took a step back to admire everything she’d done. Wiped her hands in the apron I was still wearing. Took a rag to remove custard and streaks of cream from her leather skirt.

  And now it’s time, she said after a quiet moment or two. Boy, you may run my bath.

  A bath? You want a bath? I had to get her to repeat for me and she did. Fair enough. I could waste some time fiddling with the taps and the candles and messing with the bubbles. By the time she had managed to scrub herself clean there wouldn’t be time for anything else.

  Soon the water was steaming and I put a few lit candles about the room. I waved my hand through the water, tested the temperature, closed the taps.

  It’s ready, I hollered, looking up from where I was kneeling, but she was already there, standing right in front of me, not a stitch on her, the steam from the hot water drifting up and around her like a shroud.

  She stepped into the water and let herself stretch fully out.

  Well. What are you waiting for?

  Huh?

  Get in. The water is great.

  The bath is for you.

  Wrong. The bath is for us. Now come on. Get your kit off.

  I don’t want to, I said.

  Why not? Are you an alien underneath that useless hoodie?

  No.

  Well, then.

  She splashed some water at me. Blew suds through the steamy air. I still hadn’t budged.

  The water isn’t going to stay warm all night.

  That’s OK. You can have it all.

  What is wrong with you? Wait. Let me guess. You don’t have a belly button. Your nipples are missing. I know. You have a rare condition that has petrified your skin. Come on. Show me. I want to see.

  I stood there without doing a thing. She was staring hard at me now, with each passing second becoming more and more suspicious.

  I hope I don’t have to get out of this bath and remove that hoodie myself.

  You don’t have to do anything! I yelled, and stormed downstairs, grabbed the happy pills from the kitchen table, raced back up to my bedroom, and banged the door closed after me.

  NIGHTSOUNDS

  I was hearing things. Water dripping from the faulty tap. The useless ticking of that bockety wall clock. The ghosts of battered-into-pulp rats back from the dead for one last scurry. I drew back the curtain and peered out the window, into the darkness, into the silent night of trees and parked cars. Ma was on the prowl. Shuffling about the place. Mumbling to herself. I could hear her shivering too. Her wandering voice started to spook me. I opened the window. It was completely black outside. Somewhere out there I heard a clinking in the darkness. That’s all. I had no idea what it could be, couldn’t tell where it was coming from. Clink, clink, clink. That’s all I could hear.

  Wait a minute.

  It wasn’t Ma. Couldn’t be. She was in Paris with the bull-nut seller.

  How long had she been gone? A day? Two days? A week? Why hadn’t she been in touch? When was she coming back? Had no answers to these questions. And I stared out the window thinking about what the girl had said. About how Ma being away was a good thing. But now I wasn’t so sure.

  Gradually, other sounds came. An owl’s who who whooo. A drunk’s late-night melody. The night train pulling out of the station. Its wheels rattling slowly over the tracks, thudum-dedum thudum-dedum, fading in and out as the engine tried to pick up speed. I heard the boy-racers. A siren. Barking dogs. My friend, the rat.

  I wondered what she was up to in Paris. What was the bull-nut seller treating her to? River walks and cobble-stones. Lamp-lit squares and red wine and all the French bread she could stuff herself with. Again I wished she would get in touch. Or maybe I could get some kind of message to her. I could almost see the happy look on her face. Don’t worry about me, kid. I’m having a blast.

  Inside my room, I flicked pages of that ragged atlas in the half-light and thought: the world is huge. She could be anywhere. I grabbed myself and shivered.

  Then I was sleeping. Only something kept waking me up. A sort of whispering in my ear. Jesus! It was the rat from the yard. I could hear his nibbly voice in my ear. You little toe-rag. You scumfuck prick of a boy. You tried to kill me. Well, just you wait. Just you wait and let’s see what happens to you.

  Fock me!

  Talking rats.

  Then I was moving. Floating almost, through the night, through its silence and dark secrets. E
xcept tonight it wasn’t so silent. I heard more hooting and the night train still creaking its way through. I ducked into the ditch trees, and when I looked up again, I was staring right into a pair of witchy eyes. But it was only the owl and I batted it out of my way. Then I heard the girl’s voice. Coming from the Swamp. I moved through the reeds and then I saw her. Sitting by a gathering fire. Breathing in the flames. Gurgling mouthfuls of beer. Inviting me beside her.

  What are you going to be when you grow up? she roared across the flames.

  A parachutist, I shouted back, I want to fly through the air.

  And what else?

  A gold-digger, I whispered, staring into her mermaid eyes, I’m going to buy you a diamond ring.

  And what else?

  A knight in shining armour. I am going rescue you from the dreaded Cyclops.

  I knew you would be my hero, she said in her grown-up way, and she looked into the heavens and she glowed.

  We leaped through burning hoops and crowed and hollered. Chanted strange names and collapsed in each other’s arms. We worked ourselves into a pandemonium that scared the night itself away, and when I brought myself to look again, she had the face of the rat and I had to shield my disbelieving eyes. She reached over, took my hand, and shoved it between her legs.

  Then I was sitting up in my bed, breathless, and the sweat dripping off me, wondering how I was going to escape. I whipped the blanket and pills away, took a fast look around, and was all set to make a dash for the other room when I saw the girl lying there beside me, quietly sleeping. And something about her lying there started to relax me – something comforting and safe – and so instead of bolting, I lay back down in the bed and wrapped my arms around the sleeping form beside me.

  HAS ANYONE GOT A PHONE I COULD BORROW?

  First thing next morning I tried calling Ma’s mobile. But our phone was no longer working. Aha! At long last the phone lads had had enough and pulled the plug. I checked in on the girl. She was sleeping like someone in a morgue. I left her be.