Oh, Play That Thing by Roddy Doyle
—One of these days, O’Pops, we going to get us a car that ain’t black.
—That’s a thought.
—The fine day coming.
* * *
He couldn’t get a gig. There was a cold spell in 1928 when the world’s greatest musician had no place to play. He could front a band, like no else one could, but he couldn’t lead. They wouldn’t let him, and he didn’t know how. He could give the band his name, make it great and famous, but he’d never be the boss. He commanded the stage, but he couldn’t make his own way up there. He needed a manager, but he didn’t want one. He didn’t want Glaser; he didn’t want the dangerous connections. He wanted to cross the line and he wanted to do it himself.
But it was fuckin’ chaotic. Even when he was flush, he was two or three days from broke. He was a young horn player, worried about the damage he was doing to his lips, a singer who didn’t yet hear what the rest of us did, who didn’t trust what it was doing, pushing him further to the front, the only man on stage. He wanted it, and it terrified him. He craved and cringed. There was no such thing as rest. He was trying to ignore the collapse of one marriage, bracing himself for another that he knew was going to be a disaster; he was already running from it. He had an adopted kid I never saw, a line of hangers-on I saw too often. He was running, to get away, to catch up, to grab control of himself and his life and his genius.
But it wasn’t happening. He could be who he was, he could play as much and as well as he liked, as long as he was an eejit. Little Louis, Laughing Louie. (He wasn’t Satchmo yet; that one was a few years away.)
But he wasn’t an eejit.
—Eeee-jit!
And he wasn’t going to be one. He was trying to find his own way.
He guested. He was always welcome. He’d turn up – the Metropolitan, the Savoy Ballroom – and exercise the chops. But there wasn’t money in it. He sat in with other men’s bands, Clarence Jones, Carroll Dickerson, with men who were happy to be managed. He sat among equals, but knew he was better. I could see him shrinking. His one big push so far, his own dance club – just before I properly met him – had been a disaster. The Warwick, just off Forrestville Avenue. He went in deep and expensive, opened with his own band, Earl Hines, Zutty Singleton, on the same night as the Savoy opened for the first time, electric billboard, real peacocks, just two short blocks away.
—Don’t know what happened, O’Pops. Made a dollar, dollar and a half apiece. On the good nights.
He ran, defaulted on the lease, and the owners of the Warwick were suing him. He had a bad case of the shorts and the burglary bought him time. And Alpha. And he enjoyed it, the kick – he was a very happy man – the terror, the big silent fuck-you that only we could hear in those libraries and halls.
We’d done three houses on Prairie Avenue. Three Mondays on the trot. Stupid really, but his life needed routine and he insisted on this one.
—They’ll be waiting, I told him, on the third Monday.
—Nay, nay. They be waiting next Monday.
He was probably right – it was his city – because we got away with it. We even parked the Rickenbacker right outside. And the next week, the next Monday, we drove – I drove, over ice that had thawed too late in the day, and had refrozen; we hopped and skidded – to Oak Park and I parked under a big tree, in a street where no house lights shone.
—We get ourselves caught, I be swinging from this nice tree.
—Not here, I said. —They’re too civilised.
—They get someone else do it.
—Probably. I’ll swing with you.
—Shucks.
—Lose the scarf, I told him. —Just in case.
It was silk and very white.
—Prefer to call it a muffler, but you right. Don’t make sense, supplying the evidence and the noose.
He folded the scarf and put it on the seat behind him.
—Ready when you is, Smoked.
Smaller houses here, but big. Small, easy money. Sleeping and respectable. We stayed there a while, car doors slightly open, letting the cold in, listened for cats and flatfoot leather, looked for house lights, light sleepers and lads like ourselves.
I’d watched these houses. I knew which had kids and dogs. I’d walked right up to them, pretended delivery – an empty box, a good excuse. There were bigger houses, some of your man, Frank Lloyd Wright’s; quiet money and a lot more of it. But these were just right. The servants went home every night. And this one was perfect. A little old lady, not that old and not so little, but alone, asleep. In and out, we wouldn’t disturb her. We wouldn’t be too greedy.
—We’ll do the block and then come back, I said. —In case there’s someone watching. And we’ll keep going and park on the next corner, not here.
—Going to snow again, said Louis. —I feel it.
I did too; I’d been feeling it all day. I drove. Around an American block. We saw no one and nothing, except a guy in a dressing gown watching his dog shit on the street parallel to the one we drove back to. I brought the car past our house and parked short of the next corner.
—Let’s go.
—With you, Pops.
He went at everything with everything he had; it was all, or nothing at all. He’d become a housebreaker. Mask, gloves – he’d even got himself a gunny sack. The man had style. He was up ahead of me and the sack was under his elbow. He went in the gate, to the side of the house. I was right behind him, keen to catch up. He was onstage now, and it wasn’t the right way for work like this. It wasn’t the time for a solo.
He was trying to get up on a windowsill.
—Hang on, Zorro.
I grabbed the arse of his trousers. He’d lifted himself to the sill, and now he landed on my shoulder. There was a lot of him but I held on and lowered him quietly to gravel. He grunted mild annoyance but there was nothing real in it.
The Prairie Avenue mansions we’d done before were too big for backyards; all sides shoved their tits at the world. This place had a yard, and good walls hiding it from the neighbours. Bushes, trees, lots of snow-capped foliage. Away from yellow streetlight, and the snow clouds were big and low.
It was cold, freezing. The kitchen window wanted to give but was frozen to its frame. It was my turn to climb onto the sill. I opened my coat, and got up there without slipping; it was covered in ice, lines of the stuff – there must have been a bad gutter right above me. I held the window frame with my left hand, felt the ice grab my fingers, and got into my trousers with my right. I pissed the window loose; I’d enough heat in me to get right around the frame. Louis stood well back. Bottom, top, sides, I melted all ice without wetting my boots or the hand that held me safe. My razor found the catch inside; it hadn’t been tightened. I could feel its small weight on the tip of the razor, then gone; the window was open. I lifted, and stepped in, onto the inside sill. I stayed behind the curtain.
I waited; I listened. I held the sill and let myself slip out from under the curtain, to the floor. I could tell by my feet on the tiles – a big kitchen. Dark – no light from the hall, no landing light. I listened. I pulled the curtain back for Louis. I wanted the window shut before the cold ran deeper into the house. He slid in beside me. I got the window shut, the curtain back in place.
And now we could smell it.
—Ummm, said Louis, beside me.
I knew what it was before I could remember.
—Who been eating my porridge? said Louis.
—It’s not porridge, I said.
—Follow me, Goldilocks, he said.
I knew it now.
Then the voice hit us.
—Two and two?
Louis was past me. The curtain rushed across my face as he went under; I heard the window, felt the cold.
—Don’t know. Two and two what?
—Griddle cakes.
The smell.
—Four.
—Correct.
—You were waiting for me.
—I was.
??
—Near enough.
I heard Louis’s feet break the crusts of drifted snow and, sooner than I’d have expected it, the Rickenbacker coughed, shrieked, and Louis Armstrong was gone.
—Shut the window if you’re going to be staying.
I could move; it surprised me.
I clung to the window and let it slide down. I slipped the lock into place.
—You left it loose, I said.
—I did.
The curtains were back in place; I couldn’t see anything. I turned. I still couldn’t see her. She wasn’t moving. I could make out walls and corners but nothing that wasn’t lines and shadow.
She spoke.
—Will we have a drop of tea?
—I never touch the fuckin’ stuff.
I heard her crying.
—I’ve been waiting for that, Henry.
And I saw her. She was sitting at the table. Facing the window. An audience, waiting.
She rubbed her face, with the outside of her hand.
—Will I turn the light on?
—No, she said.
Both hands were at her face now.
—Are you glad to see me, Henry?
Jesus.
—Yeah.
—Good.
My gut turned.
—What about the griddle cakes?
—I ate them, said Miss O’Shea. —Waiting.
—Sorry I kept you.
—You weren’t to know.
She stayed there. I wanted to move. I wanted her to move. She didn’t. I didn’t.
—How did you know?
—The window.
—What?
—I was looking out the window. And who walked by? And looked in?
—Why didn’t you come out?
—I don’t know. Coffee?
—Fair enough.
—The tea here is shocking. They’ve no idea what to do with it.
—I’ll take your word for that.
She stood up. She turned away from me. I heard her messing with the percolator.
—Light?
—No. No. I’m grand here. These things are great, altogether.
Water running.
The percolator hit the stove.
—I love watching them bubbling up, she said. —And the smell. I couldn’t.
—What?
—Follow you, when I saw you. I went to the door.
—I came back.
—I know, she said. —I didn’t really believe it was you, when you went by. It happened before. A lot. I’d see you and it wasn’t you at all. In London. And New York.
I still couldn’t see her properly.
—Me too.
—So. I hummed and hawed at the door. Then I gave up and went back to the window.
—And I came back.
—You did.
—And it was me.
—It was. With a big box.
—It was empty.
—I knew you were up to something.
The percolator rushed to the finish.
—That was quick.
—It’s great, altogether. The electricity.
—They take it for granted over here.
—Indeed, and they take a lot for granted over here.
She was working away; I could smell the coffee now.
—Are you hungry, Henry?
—No, I lied.
—I could do you a bit of a sandwich.
—Thanks.
—Thanks yes or no?
—Yes.
—See, now. I knew you were hungry. The griddle cakes weren’t the best.
—Great smell, but.
—Ah, sure.
—Why didn’t you open the door?
—Ah, well. I knew you were up to something. And you went around the back. I heard you at the door, and the window. I was in the hall, just out there. Then you came around again. And you tried to look busy. You rang again. You put the box down. You rubbed your hands. You looked in the window. You were up to something alright.
—That was two weeks ago.
—And more.
—I missed you.
—I missed you too.
(—Look for me!
—I will!)
—You found me.
—I did.
—Will I turn on the light?
—No. Here.
I thought she was handing me the coffee; I saw the cup. I held out my hand, and she grabbed my sleeve, my collar. Her pull became a push; the shock left me light. I fell back easily; the table was right under me.
—No, she said.
She grabbed my hair and pulled me to the floor.
—I’m not up to the climb, she said.
She still had my hair.
—Where were you, Henry Smart?
—When?
She slapped me. Hard.
—Where were you?
—All over the fuckin’ place.
She was on me. I felt hair on my face.
(—What’s your name, so? she asked.
I saw brown eyes and some slivers of hair that had escaped from a bun that shone like a lamp behind her head. There were little brown buttons, in pairs, running the length of her brown dress, like the heads of little brown animals climbing quietly to her neck.
—Henry Smart, I said.
—And the little lad?
—Victor Smart, I said.)
—Where were you?
The answer could wait, the real one. I could see her now, over – on me. The weight the same, her eyes, angry, gorgeous.
—Where were you?
I held her waist. She slapped.
—Answer me!
—Yes, Miss.
—Answer me!
She dropped her weight down on me, pushed. Her hair washed over me, out of the bun; her teeth and tongue.
—Piddling on my clean windows, yeh pup.
—Sorry, Miss.
I tried to grab but she slapped my hands away. She was right over my face now. She filled her mouth with my hair and pulled. She let go and lifted herself. She was gone. I heard cloth pulled and ripped, felt nothing; then there was warm skin on my face.
—Where were you?
Gone again. Hands on my trousers. I tried to help, got slapped for my troubles. She found me, stiff and pinging; she held me there, and left me.
Her voice.
—What if she comes in now?
—Who? Your boss?
—Oh God.
There was daylight waiting behind the curtain by the time we stopped and heard steps on the stairs. And I was squatting in a cupboard by the time the kitchen door was pushed open, the light went on, and I heard the voice.
—I’ve been waiting, Eileen.
Suddenly – fuck – I knew my wife’s name.
It was a cranky voice, cracked by age.
—I’m sorry. Missis Lowe, said Miss O’Shea. —I forgot to set the clock last night.
—Yes, well.
I was in among the brushes, coats. I could smell polish, mouse-shit, bleach. There was a crack between the cupboard doors. I could see a slipper, on the floor outside, a few feet from my toes. And an ankle, white, papery.
—I’ll bring it up to you now, said Miss O’Shea. Eileen.
—Well, what’s the point? said Missis Lowe. —I’m here now.
—I’m sorry.
—Yes. Well.
—It won’t happen again.
—Well.
—I don’t know what got into me.
All the years I’d avoided it, kept it well away; all the wandering years I’d missed her, I’d never wanted to know. Not fuckin’ once.
—Well, Eileen.
And now, I fuckin’ knew.
—It does seem a tad unsatisfactory. I do employ you to bring me my morning cup of coffee. My one little indulgence.
—I’m sorry, Missis Lowe.
—My one little indulgence. Lord knows, I could spoil myself and nobody would object. I’ve worked hard al
—Yes, Missis Lowe.
The noise and smells of coffee-making did nothing to stay the whingeing. The oul’ bitch kept at it.
—Put your feet up, they say. But I don’t. There’s too much suffering in this world. There’s too much to do, even for a feeble old woman. But I do allow myself my one little indulgence. One morning cup.
—Go on back up, Missis Lowe. It’s early yet.
—Don’t be ridiculous, Eileen.
Eileen, It was the old wagon’s fault.
—I took you into my house. I was quite happy to do it. Although I’ve never had the home help live with me before—
The whingeing stopped. Missis Lowe had stopped. She was talking again, almost immediately, but the voice was very different. It was younger, light. She was talking to someone else.
I tried to see. I pushed the door. The crack got bigger; I stopped breathing. Bigger. The slipper, an old ankle, a dressing gown. The foot in the slipper turned, and faced the door. I pushed again. I shifted, an inch, an inch, another.
And I saw her.
My daughter.
Standing at the kitchen door. In cotton pyjamas. My six-year-old daughter. Saoirse. Ten feet from my face. Her toes curled on the black and white tiles. I’d seen her only once before, when she was five months old. (Every movement of her tiny fists and face seemed a new miracle. I looked for me in her, and for other people too. For Victor and Miss O’Shea, for my mother and father. Excitement rippled along her body. She arched her back and I had to open my arms further, to trap her gently.
—Dying to walk, I said.
—Mischief on her mind.)
A serious little face. Annoyed, still half-asleep. Black eyes, little nose and ears. Mad brown hair, like her mother’s, the same brown. It had been in the ruined kitchen of Old Missis O’Shea’s house, the last and only time I’d known her, just before I did my last killing and left Ireland. There she was. Staring up at Missis Lowe. Concentrating. Half hearing, half asleep.
I heard nothing. Saoirse’s mouth opened; she spoke, briefly, but I didn’t hear. I saw Missis Lowe now, properly. She was bending down, stroking Saoirse’s hair. She wasn’t as old as she’d sounded; she hadn’t been broken by the yearly child and the hard work in between. She was smiling; I could feel the hair that she was stroking. She held Saoirse’s shoulders now, and she brought her past me. I heard a scrape, chair legs on tiles. I saw Miss O’Shea now – Eileen – she closed the kitchen door. Her hair was back up in its bun. She looked at my cupboard; she looked above my head. She pushed the door as she passed. I could see nothing.