Anybody Out There?

by Marian Keyes

  But were they oddballs? (Apart from Undead Fred, who was as odd as they come.) Were they not just broken people? Or broke people, as Mackenzie thought herself.

  “Don’t tell the guys.” Barb winked and indicated the hem of her dress. “Drive ’em wild if they knew I was bushing.”

  As “the guys” consisted of Nicholas and Undead Fred, I wasn’t so sure but said nothing.

  Her dress was a button-down and it gaped at the hips. I didn’t want to look, I did everything I could think of to stop myself, but it was like Luke and his crotch, the draw was simply too powerful. Entirely against my will, I caught a glimpse of her pubes.

  “Barb,” I said, a little high-pitched, as I fastened my eyes firmly on her face, “what brings you here every Sunday?”

  “Because all the interesting people I know are dead. Drug overdoses, suicides, murders, awww, I tell ya!” She made it sound as if people didn’t know how to die properly nowadays. “And I can’t afford even two seconds of Neris Hemming’s time.”

  “You’d like to talk to her?”

  “Oh yeah. She’s the real deal.” My heart lifted. If Barb, with her gravelly voice and her grouchiness, said Neris Hemming was the real deal, then she really must be. “If anyone can channel your husband for you, it’s Neris Hemming.”

  “You talked to her?” Mitch had arrived.

  “To her office. They said I’d get to speak to her in eight to ten weeks.”

  “Wow. That’s great.”

  Everyone agreed it was fantastic. Their wishes were so warm and their excitement so genuine that I forgot that what we were celebrating was actually very unusual.

  We all went into the room and Leisl started. Great-aunt Morag came through for Mackenzie and reiterated that there wasn’t a will. Nicholas’s dad advised him on his job—he seemed like such a nice man, he really did. So concerned. Pomady Juan’s wife told him to eat properly. Carmela’s husband said she should think about replacing the stove, that it was dangerous.

  Then Leisl said, “Barb, someone wants to talk to you. Could it be…it sounds like…” She seemed a little confused. “Wolfman?”

  “Wolfman? Oh, Wolfgang! My husband. Well, one of them. What’s he want? On the scrounge again?”

  “He says…does this make sense? Don’t sell the painting yet. It will rocket in value.”

  “He’s been telling me that for years,” Barb groused. “I’ve gotta live, you know.”

  By the end of the hour, no one had come through for me, but still on a high from my Neris Hemming contact, I didn’t mind.

  I said good-bye to everyone and went toward the elevator, joining forces with some of the belly-dancing posse, then behind me someone called my name. I turned around: it was Mitch.

  “Hey, Anna, do you have to be someplace now?”

  I shook my head.

  “Want to do something?”

  “Like what?”

  “I dunno. Get a coffee?”

  “I don’t want to get a coffee,” I said. It had started to make me feel nauseous. I feared I was going to have to start drinking herbal teas (pronounced “horrible teas” by me and Aidan) and run the risk of turning into those aggressively calm people who drank peppermint-and-chamomile infusions.

  Mitch’s face didn’t change. At the best of times his eyes were those of a man who had lost everything. Someone refusing to go for coffee with him didn’t even touch the sides.

  “Let’s go to the zoo.” I had no idea why I’d said this.

  “The zoo?”

  “Yes.”

  “The place with animals?”

  “Yes. There’s one in Central Park.”

  “Okay.”

  The zoo was busy, with loved-up couples twined around each other and straggling family groups with strollers and toddlers and ice creams. Me and Mitch, the walking wounded, didn’t stand out; only if you got up really close to us would you see that we were different.

  We started with the Rain Forest, which was mostly monkeys, or apes or whatever their technical name is. There were quite a selection—swinging from trees and scratching themselves and staring grumpily at nothing—too many to be interesting and the only ones who caught my attention were the ones with bright red bottoms which they wiggled at the crowd. “They look like they’ve shaved their butts,” Mitch said.

  “Or,” I said, “had a back-to-front Brazilian.” I looked at him to see if I needed to explain what a Brazilian was, but he seemed to get it.

  As we watched, one of the red-bums fell off a branch and two more red-bums came along to taunt and make high-pitched laughing sounds, which pleased the crowd enormously. They surged forward with their cameras and I got separated from Mitch. It was only when I was looking around for him that I discovered I didn’t really know what he looked like.

  “I’m over here,” I heard him say, and I turned and found myself looking into those wells of bleakness. I tried to file a couple of other details about him for future reference: he had very short hair and a dark blue T-shirt—mind you, he mightn’t wear that all the time—and he was a bit older than me, late thirties probably.

  “Shall we move on?” he asked.

  Suited me. I didn’t have the concentration span to linger on anything. We found ourselves in the Polar Circle.

  “Trish loved polar bears,” he said. “Even though I kept telling her they were vicious guys.” He stared at them. “Cute-looking, though. What’s your favorite animal?”

  He caught me on the hop; I wasn’t sure I even had a favorite animal.

  “Penguins,” I said. They’d do. “I mean, they try so hard. It must be tough being a penguin; you can’t fly, you can barely walk.”

  “But you can swim.”

  “Oh yes. You know, I’d forgotten that.”

  “What was Aidan’s favorite animal?”

  “Elephants. But there are no elephants here. You have to go to the Bronx Zoo for that.”

  We arrived at the sea lions’ pool just as feeding time was about to begin. A large crowd of people, mostly family groups, were waiting, the air electric with anticipation.

  When three men in Wellingtons and red overalls appeared with buckets of fish, the atmosphere became almost hysterical. “Here they come, here they come!” Bodies pushed toward the barrier, the air filled with the clicks of a hundred cameras, and children were lifted up in the air for a better look.

  “There’s one, there’s one!” An enormous shiny gray-black force erupted out of the water, stretching up for his fish, then belly flopped back into the water, sending a huge wash across the pool. The crowd breathed “Wow” and children were shrieking and cameras were flashing and ignored ice creams were melting, and in the middle of it all, Mitch and I watched impassively, like we were cardboard cutouts of ourselves.

  “Here’s another one, here’s another one! Mommy, look, it’s another one!”

  The second sea lion was even bigger than the first and the splash he made on his return to the water resulted in half the crowd getting spattered. Not that anyone cared. It was all part of it.

  We waited until the fourth sea lion had eaten a fish, then Mitch looked at me. “Keep moving?”

  “Sure.”

  We walked away from the people who were still starry-eyed and in thrall.

  “What’s next?” he asked.

  I consulted our map. Feck. It was penguins. I’d have to pretend that I was thrilled to see them, what with them being my favorite animals and everything.

  I enthused as best I could, then Mitch suggested we walk on. We’d spoken very little. I wasn’t uncomfortable with it, but I knew next to nothing about him, except that his wife had died.

  “Do you have a job?” I asked. It came out a bit bald.

  “Yeah,” he said.

  We kept walking. He said nothing further. After a period of silence, he suddenly stopped. He even laughed. “Oh my God! I should have told you what it is. That’s why you asked. You weren’t wondering if I was on welfare.”

  “Well
, no, no,” I blustered. “Not if you don’t want—”

  “Sure, I want. It’s a regular question. It’s what people ask. Jeez, it’s no surprise I don’t get invited to dinner parties any longer. I’m a mess.”

  “Not at all,” I said. “I’m the one who forgot penguins could swim.”

  “I design and install home-entertainment systems. I can tell you more if you want to hear it, as much as you like. It’s kinda technical.”

  “No, it’s okay, thank you, but I couldn’t pay attention long enough to understand. Hey, we’ve missed the Temperate Territory—snow monkeys, red pandas, butterflies, ducks.”

  “Ducks?”

  “Yes, ducks. We can’t possibly miss them. Come on.”

  We retraced our steps, halfheartedly admired the Temperate Territory animals, and took an executive decision to skip the kiddie zoo, and suddenly things started to look familiar; we were back where we started. We had walked in one big circle.

  “Is that it?” Mitch asked. “Are we done?” Like it was a chore.

  “Looks like it.”

  “Okay, I’m going to hit the gym.” He shouldered his kit bag and made for the exit. “See you next Sunday?”

  “Okay.”

  I waited until he was good and gone. Even though I’d spent the last couple of hours with him I was suffering from fear of the “false good-bye syndrome”: when you don’t know someone that well, and you’ve just said a lovely warm farewell to them, maybe even kissed them, and then you unexpectedly bump into them a few minutes later, at the bus stop or the subway station or on the same stretch of street, trying to hail a cab. I don’t know why but it’s always mortifying and the nice, easy conversation that you’d been having only a few minutes earlier has dissipated entirely and the mood is tense and strained and you’re looking at the tracks and praying, Come on, train, for fuck’s sake, come on.

  Then when the train or taxi or bus comes, you say good-bye once more and you try to make a laugh of it by saying gaily “Good-bye, again,” but it’s nothing like as nice as the previous time and you’re wondering if you should kiss them again, and if you do, it feels fake, and if you don’t, you feel as if you’ve ended on a bad note. Like a soufflé, a successful goodbye can really only be done once. A good-bye can’t be reheated.

  While I waited until it was supersafe to leave, I watched the normal people still flooding into the zoo and I wondered about Mitch: What had he been like before? Or what would he be like in the future? I knew I wasn’t seeing the real him; at the moment all he was was his bereavement. Like me. I wasn’t the real Anna right now.

  A thought struck me: maybe I wouldn’t ever be again. Because the only thing that would snap things back to the way they were would be if Aidan hadn’t died, and that could never happen. Would I be holding my breath forever, waiting for the world to right itself?

  I looked at my watch. Mitch had been gone ten minutes. I made myself count to sixty, then felt I could chance it. On the street, I did a few furtive look-arounds and there was no sign of him anywhere. I hailed a cab, and when I reached my apartment I was feeling quite good. That was most of Sunday taken care of.

  56

  Before hitting my desk, I did a quick dash into the ladies’ room and found someone bent over one of the basins, sobbing her eyes out. Because it was Monday morning, it wasn’t unusual for someone to be crying, in fact the cubicles were probably packed to capacity with girls throwing up because they hadn’t enough coverage to bring to the Monday Morning Meeting. But I was surprised to see that the crying someone was Brooke Edison. (Wearing some elegant taupe linen getup while I was in a cerise suit from the fifties with a boatnecked jacket and a pencil skirt, worn with rose-patterned ankle socks, pink patent peep-toe sling-backs, and a handbag shaped like a two-story house.)

  “Brooke! What’s happened?”

  I couldn’t believe she was crying. I had thought it was practically illegal for WASPs to show emotion.

  “Oh, Anna…,” she wept. “I had a little spat with my dad.”

  Oh my God! Brooke Edison had spats with her father? I admit it: I found it a little thrilling. It was a comfort to know that other people had problems. And maybe Brooke was more normal than I’d realized.

  “There’s this Givenchy gown,” she said.

  “Couture or off the peg?”

  “Ohhh.” She sounded like she didn’t understand the question. “Couture, I guess. And…and…”

  “And he won’t buy it for you,” I prompted, finding a packet of tissues in my house-shaped handbag. They were patterned with shoes, which sort of shocked me. This kookiness thing really had me in its grip.

  “No,” she said, her eyes widening. “Oh no. It’s because Dad wants to give it to me as a present and I said I already have enough fabulous gowns in my closet.”

  I just looked at her, aware of a sinking feeling.

  “I said that there’s so much poverty in the world and I really didn’t need another gown. But he said he couldn’t see what was wrong with wanting his little girl to look beautiful.” A fresh crop of tears sprang from her eyes.

  “My dad is my best friend, you know?”

  Not really, but I nodded anyway.

  “So it’s horrible when we don’t get along.”

  “Well, I better get going,” I said. “Keep the tissues.”

  The rich really are different, I thought: they’re fucking freaks.

  I hurried toward the office, keen to share my insight with Teenie.

  That night I got an e-mail from Helen.

  To: Magiciansgirl1@yahoo.com

  From: Lucky_Star_PI@yahoo.ie

  Subject: Tediarseity

  Another break in routine! Detta had lunch in restaurant with

  “the girls”: three other women, all about same age as her, maybe also married to crime lords? Chanel handbags, really war-crime quilted ones with gold chain handles. Rotten. Again had to hang around in street like homeless person, watching through window, and this time someone tried to buy methadone from me. No sign of Racey O’Grady, though. Just to be sure, went in on pretense of using loo (mind you, not pretense, in this job, you make wees every chance you get) and the four of them were sitting in cloud of gagzo perfume, scuttered drunk, and cackling about husbands. On way in, one of them—sunken-eyed, dark-haired, nails like Freddie Kruger’s—screeched: He couldn’t find his arse in the dark.

  On way out, another one, face like satsuma (squat, orange, pores big as manholes) was saying: So I said to him, you’re welcome to ride me, but I’m going to sleep!

  Banshee shrieks of laughing, but not from Detta. Not smoking, but only ’cos illegal. She looked like she would if could.

  Smiling absently and sort of staring into space. Took couple of pics on mobile, in case they’re of any interest to Harry Big—but how could they be? This is so fucking boring, but I’ll tell you something, Anna, am getting paid bloody fortune.

  Then one from Mum.

  To: Magiciansgirl1@yahoo.com

  From: Thewalshes1@eircom.net

  Subject: Latest update

  There is none. No blasted update. Helen is spending all her time in Mr. Big’s hedge. We are still being scourged with the dog poo, twice this week. I am going to Knock on Saturday, it’s been a while since I did a pilgrimage, and I feel I need one because I am upset by so much “venom” being directed on me. I will dedicate the Sorrowful mystery to you, Anna, that our good Lord will bring you peace and acceptance over your circumstances.

  Your loving mother,

  Mum

  P.S. Has Jacqui said the Bon Von Jodi line yet?

  P.P.S. Will you tell Rachel that if she wants to wear cream, then she should wear cream. It’s her wedding. It’s just that I think that cream always looks a bit “dirty” on a wedding dress. But that’s just “me.”

  “Hey, Anna.” Some man had left me a message. “It’s Kevin. I’m in town on business.”

  It was Aidan’s brother. My heart sank.

  Poor Kevin, I w
as fond of him, but I just couldn’t face him. I didn’t even know him that well. What would we say to each other? “I’m sorry your brother died.” “Thanks, well, I’m sorry your husband died”?

  It was hard enough speaking to Mrs. Maddox on the phone every weekend, never mind spending an entire night in the company of Kevin.

  “I’m here until the weekend and I’m staying at the W,” he went on. “We could maybe get some dinner or something. Give me a call.”

  I looked helplessly at the answering machine. Sorry, Aidan, I know he’s your brother, but I’m just going to have to be rude and ignore him.

  To: Magiciansgirl1@yahoo.com

  From: Lucky_Star_PI@yahoo.ie

  Subject: Update

  Colin drove me in Austrian-blinds mobile for meet with Harry Big today.

  Told Harry: I’ve been trailing Detta for weeks and she hasn’t seen Racey O’Grady at all.

  Him: So?

  Me: So, I want to put a tap on her phones, I’ll need your help with her mobile, and I need copies of her mobile bills.

  Him (uncomfortable): It doesn’t seem right. It’s an invasion of her privacy.

  Me (thinking, what a gobshite): You’re paying me to trail her, day in day out and report every time she lights a cigarette—

  Him (all alert now): What? She’s smoking again?

  Me: Smoking? She never stops.

  Him: But she said she has. She has to for her blood pressure. How much is she smoking?

  Me: At least twenty a day. She buys twenty after mass every morning, but she might have more stashed in the house.

  Him (going into visible slump): You see, she’s lying to me. But leave her phones alone. Keep on watching her.