Anybody Out There? by Marian Keyes
They’ve tops and bags and jewel-ler-ee
And lots of other good stuff.
I’m told they’re very reasonably priced
and I’m sorry this doesn’t rhyme.’”
“Bravo!” I called. “As Irish people don’t say! More!”
“Okay. Final verse. The sad one.” He hung his head and sang almost in a whisper.
“‘The police sir-ens in the morn-ing,
They blew both loud and shrill.
And I awoke in New York City,
Happy I wasn’t in Spancil Hill.’”
He bowed low to the floor, then raced toward our bedroom.
“Come back!” I called. “I’m enjoying this.”
“You can’t sing this stuff without wearing a bad sweater.”
He reemerged in the most terrible Aran jumper you’ve ever seen. It was a wedding present from Auntie Imelda, Mum’s most competitive sister. (Mum insisted, “She knew it was horrible.”) It made him look like he had a potbelly.
“Will you wear this?” He brandished a tweed cap at me. (Also courtesy of Auntie Imelda.)
“Indeed I will. Now my turn.” To the same tune, I sang:
“‘Back in the county of Claa-are,
My one true love waits for me.
But I met a far nicer one true love
When I came to New York cit-ee.
My one true love in County Clare
Was actually my first cousin.
And if we’d haa-ad a child,
His fingers might have numbered a dozen.’”
“Jesus! You’re good,” Aidan said. “You rock! You rhyme! Freestyle!” Trying to do the funny hand gestures and knee-bendy stuff that rappers do, he said, “I’m a Mick, far from my crib, hanging with my homies, who is wishing they at homie. So you see, I agree, that I’m far across the sea, but I got an U-zi, an SUV, blacked-out windows through which you can’t see. I ain’t bitchin’ that I got no kitchen. Got some dough, got some blow, got my ho, got food from Balthazar ready to go.”
We passed the entire evening making up songs about how New York was a much nicer place than Ireland and how we weren’t at all sad to be across the foamy sea from it. Usually they didn’t rhyme but they were so so funny. At least to us.
35
Outside Diego’s, Leon and Dana were emerging from one cab while I was paying off another. Perfect timing. That used to happen a lot when I was with Aidan and the four of us were meeting up.
There seemed to be some argument with their cabdriver. There usually was.
“Nice driving, buddy,” Dana said, very loudly, bending down to the driver’s window. “Not!”
Dana was loud and opinionated—she attracted a lot of attention wherever she went—and her favorite phrase was “It’s hideous.” Said like this: “At’s had-i-aaaasss.” She said this a lot, because she thought a lot of things were hideous. Especially in her job; she worked in interiors and thought all of her clients had despicable taste.
“Hey, hey, I’ll handle this,” Leon insisted, not very convincingly.
Standing in the shadows of Dana’s height, Leon looked short and plump and anxious. Or maybe he was just short and plump and anxious.
“Don’t tip him, Leon,” Dana ordered. “Leon. Do. Not. Tip. Him. He went totally the wrong way!”
Leon, ignoring her, was fussily counting out notes.
“That’s bullshit,” Dana exclaimed. “He doesn’t deserve that much!” But it was too late, the driver’s hand had closed over the money.
“Oh what-ever!” Dana spun on her four-inch heel and swished her thick curtain of glossy hair.
Then Leon saw me and his face lit up. “Hey, Anna!”
Leon and Aidan had been friends since childhood, but with Dana and me in the mix, we’d been a perfect fit; the four of us had really clicked. When Dana wasn’t shouting about things being hideous and bullshit, she was immensely warm and funny. The four of us used to go away on weekends together and spent a week in the Hamptons last summer and had gone skiing in Utah in January.
We used to see one another for dinner about once a week—Leon was a man who was fond of his food and he got all excited about new restaurants. Our “thing” was to construct elaborate alternative identities for one another—zookeeper, American Idol winner, magician’s assistant, etc. Then used to come our favorite bit—our fantasies for ourselves. Leon wished he was six-foot-three and in the Special Forces and a Krav Maga master (or whatever the word was). Dana wanted to be a surrendered wife, married to a rich man who was never there, running his home like a CEO. I wanted to be Ariella. But nice. And Aidan’s dream life was to be a baseball player, one who hit enough home runs in the World Series to win it for the Boston Red Sox.
For some reason, after I’d come back from Dublin, it had taken me longer to face Leon than anyone else. I was afraid of seeing the full extent of his grief because then I would see my own.
The problem was that Leon had been as desperate to see me as I was desperate not to see him—he was probably thinking of me as an Aidan replacement.
I’d kept ducking him, but I’d caved in a few weeks back and agreed to a meet. “We’ll get a table at Clinton’s Fresh Foods,” he’d declared.
I’d been horrified. Not just at the thought of going out out, but at the idea of trying to re-create one of our foursome nights.
“Why don’t I just call over to your apartment,” I’d said.
“But we always go out for dinner,” he’d replied.
And I’d thought I’d been in denial.
He’d managed to badger me into going over to their apartment a few more times to hold his hand while he cried and reminisced. Tonight, however, in an attempt to move on, we were going out. Only to Diego’s, though. It was a small neighborhood place, our default restaurant, the place we used to go on the (rare) weeks when a new restaurant hadn’t opened in Manhattan.
“Whatcha bring me?” Dana looked at the Candy Grrrl bag in my hand.
“Latest stuff.” I handed it over.
Dana fingered through the cosmetics and halfheartedly thanked me. The problem with Candy Grrrl was that it wasn’t expensive enough for her. “Ya ever get any Visage stuff?” she asked. “I like that.”
“Can we go in?” Leon asked. “I’m starved.”
“You’re always starved.”
Diego himself was at the front desk and delighted to see us. “Hey, you guys! Been a while.” He made his eyes supersparkly to pretend he hadn’t noticed my scar. “Table for four?”
“Four,” Leon said, pointing at our usual table. “We always sit there.”
Diego started picking up menus.
“Three,” Dana and I said together.
“Four,” Leon repeated. There was this dreadful pause, then his face buckled. “I guess it’s only three.”
“Three?” Diego confirmed.
“Three.”
At the table all Leon could do was cry. “Sorry, Anna,” he kept saying, looking up through hands wet with tears. “I’m so sorry.”
Diego approached quietly and respectfully. In subdued tones he asked, “Can I get you guys a drink?”
“A Pepsi.” Leon sniffed. “With a twist of lime, not lemon. If there’s no lime, don’t bring me lemon.”
“Glass of Chardonnay,” Dana said.
“Me, too.”
When Diego came back with the drinks, he murmured, “Would you like me to take the menus away?”
Leon’s hand shot out to flatten the menus against the table. “I guess we have to eat.”
“Nothing stops him,” Dana said.
“Okay.” Diego retreated. “Just holler when you’re ready.”
Leon peered into his drink, took a sip, and said tearfully, “I knew it. This isn’t Pepsi. This is Coke.”
“Aw, shaddup and drink it,” Dana said.
Without replying, Leon picked up his menu and studied it. We could hear him crying behind it.
He managed to pull himself together long enough
“They give him gas,” Dana said.
“Why don’cha tell everyone.”
Once the food was ordered, Leon was able to relax and really get into the crying.
“He was my best friend, the best buddy a guy could have,” he wept.
“She knows,” Dana said. “She was married to him, remember?”
“I’m sorry, Anna, I know it’s bad for you, too…”
“It’s okay.” I didn’t want to get into it with him, the two of us competing to see who could cry the most. I don’t know how I managed it, but I didn’t let myself think that it was Aidan he was crying about. He was just crying and it was nothing to do with me.
“I’d give everything I have to wind the clock back. Just to see him again, you know?” Leon looked at us questioningly, his face wet with tears. “Just to talk to him?”
That reminded me that I needed a medium. Dana might know of one. In her line of work, she met all kinds of people.
“Hey,” I said. “Do either of you know any good mediums? Like, reputable ones?”
Momentarily, the tears paused in their journey down Leon’s cheeks.
“A medium? To talk to Aidan? Oh my God, you must miss him so baaad.” And he was off again.
“Anna, mediums are bullshit!” Dana exclaimed. “Bullshit! They take your money and take advantage. You need to see a grief counselor.”
“I see mine three times a week,” Leon stopped crying long enough to tell me. “He says I’m doing good.”
Then he sobbed for the rest of the meal, pausing only to order bitter-chocolate pie with vanilla ice cream instead of the advertised caramel. “Too many flavors going on,” he told Diego with a watery smile.
36
…she channeled my mom, who told me where she’d hidden her wedding ring…
…I got to say a proper good-bye to my brother and finally got closure…
…I was so happy to talk to my husband again, I missed him so bad…
There were pages and pages of these sorts of testimonials on the Internet.
But, I asked Aidan, how can I trust any of them? The mediums might have written them themselves. They might all be as bad as swizzy Morna. Can’t you give me some sort of sign? Can’t you get a butterfly to land on the right one, or something?
Frustratingly, no butterfly appeared to help me out. What I needed was a personal recommendation. But who could I ask? I mean, I didn’t want people to think I was bonkers. And they would. Rachel would. She’d be like Dana and go on about therapy. And Jacqui would say I simply needed to get out more and I’d be grand in a little while. Ornesto, on the other hand, was always seeing psychics, but they kept telling him the man of his dreams was just around the corner. They never mentioned that the man of his dreams was already married or had a penchant for hitting him or stealing his good saucepans.
Maybe someone at work might know…? But Teenie wouldn’t—instinctively I knew she’d subscribe to the “bullshit” school. And Brooke would be horrified—her WASPy lot don’t believe in anything. Anything other than themselves.
The only work people I could think of were the girls at EarthSource—Koo or Aroon or whatever their names were—but I couldn’t risk getting too pally with them in case I ended up being swept along to Alcoholics Anonymous on a wave of misplaced support.
Dispirited, I checked my e-mails. Only one, from Helen.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Job!
Anna, I’ve got a job! Proper job. In crime. Ding-dong! All kicked off yesterday.
In office, nothing to do, feet up on desk, thinking if looked like real PI, something might happen, instead of “case of mystery dog poo.” Next thing—as if by magic, like I willed it to happen, maybe have special powers—car pulled up outside, parked on double yellows. Traffic wardens around here ferocious, so looking forward to good fight. Then noticed it looked like crime car, don’t know how I knew, but knew. Instinct.
No tinted windows, but backseats had pink ruched curtains, like Austrian blinds but smaller. War crime. I’m thinking Christ when two bozos got out. Ding-dong!
Big, burly, leather jackets, bulges in chest pockets, meant to say guns! but bet were just cheese baguettes. All same, makes difference from upset women arriving in yummy mummy people carriers, saying husbands won’t ride them anymore.
In the pair of bozos comes and one says: Are you Helen Walsh?
Me: Too right I am!
Admit I should have said: Who wants to know?
But wasn’t going to miss this for anything.
Haven’t time at moment to tell you everything—but it’s all going on. Criminals, guns, extortion, “muscle,” tons of money—and they want ME on board! Am going to write down everything that happened and send it to you. Miles better than poxy screenplay, much more exciting. Stand by for long, thrilling e-mail.
It all sounded more than just a little far-fetched; I went back to Googling random stuff like Talking to the dead and Nonswizzy mediums, which was when I finally hit gold.
The Church of Spiritualist Communication
I clicked on the site—it seemed to be an actual, legitimate church, which believed you could channel the dead!
I couldn’t believe it!
They had a few branches in the New York area. Most were upstate or in the outer boroughs but there was one in Manhattan, on Tenth and Forty-fifth. According to the Web site, there was a service on Sunday at two o’clock.
I looked at my watch: quarter to three; I’d just missed this week’s. No, no, no! I would have howled with frustration except that that would have alerted Ornesto that I was in and he’d be down to badger me. Anyway, I told myself, breathing deeply and talking myself down, I’d go there next week.
At the thought of actually speaking to Aidan, I felt giddy with hope. So much so that I thought I could face the world. For the first time since he had died, I actually wanted to see people.
Rachel was away at some Feathery Strokery retreat, so I rang Jacqui. I tried her cell phone because she was always out and about, but it went to voice mail. On the off chance, I tried her apartment and she answered.
“I can’t believe you’re at home,” I said.
“I’m in bed.” Her voice sounded choked.
“Are you sick?”
“No. I’m crying.”
“Why?”
“I ran into Buzz last night in Bungalow 8. He was with some girl who looked like a model. He tried to introduce me to her but he couldn’t remember my name.”
“Of course he could,” I said. “That’s typical Buzz game playing. He was just trying to undermine you.”
“Was he?”
“Yes! By pretending that even though he’d been your boyfriend for a year, you’re so insignificant he can’t even remember your name.”
“Whatever. Anyway, it made me feel like shit, so I’m having a duvet day, with my blinds down.”
“But it’s a beautiful sunny afternoon. You shouldn’t be hiding at home.”
She laughed. “That’s my line.”
“Come on, let’s go to the park,” I said.
“No.”
“Please.”
“Okay.”
“God, you’re fabulous. You’re so…resilient.”
“I’m not really. I’ve just smoked my last cig and I needed to go out anyway. See you in half an hour.”
I picked up my keys, and the phone rang. I stood by the door to see who it was.
“Hi, sweetie,” a woman’s voice said. “It’s Dianne.”
It was Mrs. Maddox, Aidan’s mother. Immediately I felt guilty: I hadn’t called her since the funeral. She hadn’t called me either. Probably for the same reason: neither of us could face it. While I’d been in Ireland, Mum had rung her a couple of times to keep her up-to-date on my medical progress
“I called Ireland, they said you were back in the city. Can you call me. We should talk about the…ash…ash-es.” Her voice broke on the word. I heard her try to get herself under control, but squeaking noises kept escaping her. Abruptly she hung up.
Feck, I thought. I’ll have to ring her. I’d rather have gnawed my own ear off.
The park was jammers with people. I found a spot on the grass and a few minutes later Jacqui came gangling along. She was in a really short denim dress, her blond hair was in a ponytail, and her red-rimmed eyes were hidden behind massive Gucci shades. She looked great.
“He’s a horrible, horrible man,” I said by way of hello. “He’s got a stupid car and I’m sure he wears mascara.”
“But it’s more than six months since we broke up. How come I’m so upset? I hadn’t even thought about him for ages.”
Wearily, she stretched out on the grass, her face toward the sun.
“For your next boyfriend you wouldn’t consider a Feathery Stroker, would you?” I asked. “At least they’d never try to make you have a three-some with a prostitute.”
“Couldn’t. I’d puke.”
“But all these non–Feathery Strokers…,” I said helplessly. “They’re terrible.”
Buzz was non–Feathery Strokeryism personified and he was vile.
She shrugged. “I like what I like. Can’t help that. D’you think I could risk having a fag without getting stoned by fresh-air fascists? Sure, I’ll chance it.” She lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, exhaled even more deeply, then said dreamily, “Anyway, I’ll never have another boyfriend.”