Oh, Play That Thing by Roddy Doyle

She let go of me.

  —Disappointed?

  —A bit.

  —But even what you had there was better than eternity. Rightee?

  —Right.

  —I think so too.

  And she was gone, holding pricks or looking like she wanted to, all over the county. The Church of the Here and Now – I gave her the name. I was out there with her, the handsome priest, the living example, but I never understood. I just thought we were fleecing the place. I knew I was. I never really got it.

  —Am I temptation? she asked me once.

  I should have listened properly.

  —You fuckin’ are, I said.

  —No, she said. —Am I temptation? Am I here to tempt you and other daddios from the path of righteousness?

  —No.

  —I’m with you, daddy, she said. —I’m just a doll, right?

  —Right.

  —Who might or might not want to do some of the doll things with you, right?

  —Right.

  —But, either way, a doll.

  —Yeah.

  —Not bad, not evil, just sumptuous and voluptuous and sensational and gorgeous and other sexy doll stuff.

  —And a bit dangerous.

  —Danger’s sexy, daddio. Should I bite you?

  —Yes, please.

  —See. Danger is it.

  And she bit me. And she bit others when I wasn’t looking.

  She bit Norris. She must have. She’d liked that look she’d seen right after I’d pulled his tooth. She’d admired it, the decision knocking aside the pain. Here was a man who knew how to root out pleasure. He saw what only he saw. Then the half-sister saw it too, and she was ready.

  She already had Aaron and the farmers. So did I – I had their teeth and women – and I thought that that was that. It was the rebel in me, the world made simple; it was us against them. The farmers were Us and Norris was Them. We’d won.

  But she didn’t see it that way. She wanted all. Some time in that winter, she met her real power. Maybe as she brought excitement and joy to women just by looking at their palms. Maybe as she pointed men at their wives and made them see beauty. Some time in there, she saw it.

  I don’t think she planned what happened. She just knew it was coming; she’d seen Norris’s face. She warned me, but I was too thick to hear.

  It was the liquor that did me. Norris sold it and Norris bought. It was good, local stuff, squeezed from the produce of the valley. It went in and out the same back door, sometimes delivered by William Gantry, the sheriff. I’d heard the clink of bottle glass, and I’d kept the eyes open for the smart guys, every time I passed the Temple and Norris’s wife. I listened and looked, for out-of-town accents and city stripes, un-nailed shoe leather on the boardwalk, for new cars that weren’t black, for the low pocket that carried a gun. But I caught nothing. This was a local economy, blessed by the sheriff, controlled by Norris, totted by his missis.

  I should have known, of course. I did know. There was no such thing as a local economy. It didn’t happen in the Manhattan villages, and Sweet Afton was no different because it was far away and a real village.

  They were there.

  Months before we got there, weeks before we ran, days before we walked into town and took it over, Norris had contacted the men we were running from. The crop had been good that year; the barns were full and overflowing. Come winter, there’d be more hooch than he could move; a man with half a working nose could have walked through the county and straight up to every hidden still. It was the smell that infuriated Aaron, the stink of greed and wastefulness. It was the same smell that alerted Norris. There were farmers coming in, bringing with them the stink of their stills, picking up tools they couldn’t afford, touching bolts of cloth that weren’t for them, already spending the money they thought they’d be getting from him. And he wanted to give it to them. They’d spend it all again. Money made more; Norris knew that. But if they all arrived at once, the arse would fall out of the market; there’d be too much hooch to sell. So he told the missis to get her coat; they were going to Albany.

  They drove there in their $1,200 Studebaker. She did the driving, and he watched her, hands on the wheel, her feet on the pedals. This was one of his great pleasures, watching his wife control the car. This was what the money was for; he loved life. And he loved his wife. She was bringing him to Albany – they might have passed us on the road. Her wrists, her ankles, her nose there, slightly upturned, driving this luxurious vehicle. To the hotel they’d spend the night in. The fine meal, the wine in china teacups, the good, deep bed, the sex they both sat up and begged for. They were going there, anticipating, silently excited. Because they could afford it. Because there was cash in his wallet, a wad in her pocketbook, and plenty more, if Norris played the cards right when he got to Albany.

  And he did. He met his man while Missis Norris shopped and got her hair done up the way he liked it. He met a man who knew people who’d take the merchandise from Norris. Norris heard the price per bottle: it was fair, maybe even more than that. Payment up-front, they’d come and collect – they’d even bring back the empties. It could be a long-term thing, if Norris wanted. Norris smiled but said nothing yet to that. A late spring, a wet summer, early frost – he’d seen them all; he knew their impact. Plenty was never guaranteed.

  When Missis Norris got back from the salon, Norris was waiting in the lobby, to admire her going by. He followed her up, exactly four minutes later. They drove back the next day, in the late morning, to Sweet Afton – they might have passed us on the road; we were on it. There was still enough warmth in the air to make dust; Norris loved to see it behind him. He drove this time; she rubbed his leg. And when the farmers came to town to rehearse their spending, Norris smiled – even after I took his tooth. He smiled, stood back and let them at it. They were happy; he was happy.

  The guys came to town. They loaded up, and they went. They were Albany guys, upstate men. They left the good duds at home; they knew how shit can spoil a cuff. They came back a week later, collected, and went. Every week they came. The valley had as much as they could handle. They were taking it further than Albany; it had always been the plan. They came the day before I took Norris’s tooth, and they came six days after. And in between those two Fridays, Norris took an interest in me. He’d seen me before, looked at by his missis. And he’d seen me look at her. He liked that. A man looked at his wife; Norris was a lucky man to have her, to know that she’d be sidling over to his side of the bed in a few short hours. He wasn’t jealous or, if he was, he welcomed it. It put the iron in him. And she knew it, so she kept looking. She liked the results. They were mad about each other. I was a big guy who’d done a bit of lugging for him, and had gone off doing something else, probably something with more prospects. Good luck to me; I’d pitch up at his Temple and spend my cash money. It was good.

  But then I’d pulled his tooth and, even before I pulled, as I leaned down towards his mouth and he recognised the pliers, it had changed.

  The half-sister warned me. She’d seen the face. Calm, thinking outrage. When he’d come after me, to pay me the two bucks, it was my voice he wanted to hear, the confirmation that I came from far away. He listened, and knew: I’d be no loss.

  He put the guys on to me. She said.

  —Oh daddy.

  She held the door as she shut it, tried to stop the click in the lock.

  —What?

  —Clothes on, daddy. You’re in a hurry.

  It was Friday morning, not yet bright. I’d been asleep.

  —What?

  —They’re here, she said.

  —Who?

  —Come on. Get your duds on.

  —Lepke?

  —Come on.

  I was out of bed, into my trousers.

  —What’ll we do? I said.

  —You’ll have to get out of town. And it’ll be hard.

  I sat on the bed as I laced my boots. I was ready, but lost.

  —Are they downstairs
?

  —Not yet.

  —How did they find us? Any idea?

  —He.

  —Who?

  —You had his tooth in your pocket, daddio.

  —Oh fuck.

  —Yessee. They come every Friday, to collect their Scotch and whatnot.

  —I knew it.

  —No, daddio. You didn’t. You’ve been lazy.

  She was right.

  —Where’ll we go?

  We were dead here. A hotel room was the perfect place of execution. I’d known and done a few. One way in and out, a gunshot easily lost, someone else’s mess.

  —Not we this time, daddy.

  —What?

  —They’re not interested in me.

  I stayed sitting.

  —How come?

  —I didn’t pull his tooth. You did. Saw you myself, and so did he.

  I looked at her, hard. She looked hard back.

  —What’s going on?

  —I told you, she said.

  She opened her coat, let it fall on the chair behind her.

  —I saw his face. I told you. I knew he’d do it.

  She was making me stupid.

  —Do what?

  —Revenge, daddy. He’s got nothing against me. Just little you. ’Fact, he wants me to stick around.

  —Why?

  —Usual reason.

  She was looking out the window now.

  —There’s two of them.

  She looked the other way, followed the street east out of town.

  —Least, that’s as many as I saw.

  I was standing now, ready to go. On the run again, but it didn’t fit. I didn’t want to go. I grabbed her arm.

  —Ouchy.

  —How come you know?

  —He told me.

  —Told you what?

  —What’s going to happen.

  —You’ve been fucking him.

  —You bet.

  I’d never catch up.

  —Why?

  She smiled. There was no contempt, or sarcasm.

  —He’s a small-town wow. Which is as good as it gets in a small town.

  —Did you tell him we’re not married?

  —That would have spoiled it.

  —So he thinks you’re dumping me.

  —Drives him wild. And her.

  —For fuck sake.

  —She loves to think I rate him so high, I’m going to let my husband get himself perforated. She loves me for it.

  She smiled again, and shrugged. She held up her hand, and raised the little finger.

  —See that, daddy?

  —Yeah.

  —See the town wrapped around it?

  I smiled this time.

  —Yeah.

  —Time to go, daddy.

  —How?

  —Listen. Hear it?

  —No.

  —Listen.

  I heard it.

  —Is it coming or going?

  —Both of.

  The train. A rattler, carrying lumber to Albany, same time every morning.

  —Toodle-oo.

  —Good luck.

  —They’ll be watching the station, she said.

  —Thanks. Money.

  —Your pocket.

  —All planned, yeah?

  —You weren’t listening, daddio.

  —I know.

  I opened the door.

  —Want to stay? she said.

  I stood there.

  —This ass here. For a bullet in your head. Want to risk it?

  —Yeah.

  —Go on, she said. —They come here, I’ll have to tell them you’re hopping the train.

  I was gone. Saw no one, nothing I hadn’t been seeing for months. But the water was roaring, pulling at me, pulling me off the street. Out to the trees; I wasn’t good on names – big bastards; leafless branches swinging high over. Through them, to the tracks.

  It came around the bend from the railroad yard, smoke behind it like winter breath. It crawled, and wouldn’t go faster. I hid in the trees and scoped it. Flatbed cars, half a mile of them. Logs chained to every truck, no boxcars, and nowhere to hide. The engine passed. I waited, ran. Got down on my gut at the track, and waited. A clacking wheel went past my face. I rolled. My back hit the track; I was under, and grabbed.

  I rode the rods out of Sweet Afton. The train rattled, pulled my bones apart. I watched the steel wheels push the ties into the ground, saw the spikes lift out of the wood, and sink again as the wheel crawled over and pushed down on the next tie. I watched the tracks fall apart and come together, fall apart and come together. I held on for hours. I slept – and woke. Still there, still crawling. Blood in my mouth, my hands were gone. I held on.

  Because she’d told me to.

  And she’d kept my fuckin’ hat.

  PART TWO

  5

  At last.

  Dead eyes. Washed blue, red veins turned to grey. Old man’s bristle; crackedy dry lips – all grey. Dried skin, dirt in the corners of the mouth. I turned away.

  I got to know hard work again. I handled boxes in one of the packing houses. I came home each night with hands raw and screaming from the brine that seeped into the box wood, came home with men exactly like me, proud, silent and flaked; we tried to keep a straight path through the tiredness. These men were Polish, mostly, some Lithuanians, Slovaks, and others willing to work for less than the ones who’d been there longer. They spoke the English they were getting from their kids.

  —Son of a beech.

  —Boy, is hot.

  —I’ll say.

  And I followed them back, and they followed me, every morning, through the Halsted Street gate, past the hundreds who stood there, waiting for us to die or strike; over the crossings, miles of tracks, a crazy mess of switches, alert for rolling trucks and engines, the air around us wet with slaughter, a stink that caught the throat and tongue, rich and sometimes sickening; nearer, into the big howl, the cries, the river of that day’s pigs and cattle, the drovers among them, on horseback – there was money in this business – to the packing house, six days a week, seven o’clock till seven, and sometimes, when the trains came fast and full, it was dark at both ends of the working day.

  I was like the men I walked beside, dinner pails brushing against our overalls, like hair across a drum, the same dinner every day, a poor-boy sandwich, onions, cheese, lard, cut big by Mrs Grobnik. I was humping boxes and huge hams sewn into oiled paper across the cellar floor, through a quarter-inch of icy water; bending and pushing, grabbing and stacking, counting the minutes without thinking about them, hating it, but knowing it was work, ignoring pain, the world outside the work, the bellows and howls from the pens at the other end of the plant; smiling grimly at going-home time as the whistle rose in pitch and volume, standing straight, turning away from stacks, machinery, carcasses, as the whistle’s order began to dip and quickly fade; walking home, past men like us, and women, clocking in, swapping jokes learnt years before.

  —How those pigs today?

  —Boy, they bleed.

  —Catch the squeal?

  —Too fast to catch.

  And home, together and alone. Through the streets of quick-built frame houses, all two storeys – none of the high tenements – all colours already fading, smothered, eaten by the smoke that dropped from the packing-house chimneys. Over bridges that leaned across the gullies and stinking creeks that had cut grass prairie not so long ago. The water looked like settling lava – I’d seen mice and chickens running on it. Across dead country that was nothing yet, bare spaces that would soon be gone. Through square miles of new-built, falling houses. Home, to wives and kids, husbands and kids, mothers, fathers, aunts; along sidewalks, where there were any, rotten planks five and six feet above the unpaved road.

  I was there, in the swing, like these men and women. But I didn’t go home. I didn’t have one. I had a room. I lay and woke there, with six other men. I walked slowly through this patch of Back o’ the Yards, to Mr
s Grobnik’s house. Up two steps, through the boarded-up porch that slept five men.

  —Mees-ter Smarhht.

  I was Henry Smart. I was back again, and working hard.

  —Mees-ter Smarhht.

  —Mrs Grobnik.

  —Hard day?

  —The usual, Mrs Grobnik.

  —Yes, hard. Eat in, eat out tonight, Mees-ter Smarhht?

  —Out, Mrs Grobnik.

  —Again, out! Out! When in? Nev-errr.

  She had a niece she wanted me to look at, a girl fresh in from Akron.

  —Nice girl, big bones. For you.

  She wouldn’t believe I wasn’t Polish.

  —Smarhht-nik, yes?

  —No, I told her, again. —Just Smart.

  It was a ritual by now, daily ambush on the stairs, every time a step gave out the creak that only she could hear.

  —Smarhht-ka, yes?

  —No.

  I’d never made it past her door. I’d skipped every step, one a day, for weeks, till I’d hopped them all, but still she heard. And now she grabbed my shoulders. I’d carried her up the first flight before I felt her nails through my shirt.

  —Ah now, Missis Grobnik.

  —Poh-lish!

  —No, I said. —American.

  —And father? she screamed.

  —American.

  —But mother!

  —American.

  —So grandfather!

  —Don’t know.

  —A-hah!

  —Irish. I think.

  I’d stopped on the landing, so she could get down off my back, to the black patch on the once-green lino.

  —Irish, she laughed. —Hear him, Mees-ter Grobnik?

  He was around somewhere, the husband, although I’d never seen him. I’d hear her call him, screaming questions that he never answered. But he was there – a stiff door being shoved into place, a trunk moved in the attic, the tied dog’s excitement as he approached.

  I shut the door on her cheerful whine.

  There were men asleep and lying on mattresses. I nodded at those that looked. I took the basin, brought it to the yard, filled it, brought it back, and placed it on the room’s one chair. I dropped my face into the water and left it there, till I knew the day was gone. I got my head up, filled my lungs, felt the cold on my skin like it was new. Then I dealt with the rest of the dirt, knocked it off, went at it with a hard brush, watched by lads who didn’t really get it – it was three, four days to Saturday night. I put on the suit, polished the boots. I was the only man in the room with spare clothes, and they knew well not to touch them. No tiredness now, no lost years or fear. I was ready to ramble.