Oh, Play That Thing by Roddy Doyle
But I could hear Saoirse.
She wasn’t long from home. A little Roscommon girl; there wasn’t much of the Yank there yet.
—Thank you, Missis Lowe. But I don’t like that stuff at all.
—Saoirse, said her mother, giving out, warning her.
—That’s alright, Eileen, said Missis Lowe. —The child knows what she likes.
—Yes, I do, said Saoirse. —And I don’t like that stuff.
—She should be thankful for what she gets, I heard Miss O’Shea.
—Non-sense, said Missis Lowe. —This is the land of opportunity, Eileen. It’s the truth.
—Yes, Missis Lowe.
—Eggs for our angel.
—Yes, Missis Lowe.
—Over easy, a Mhamai, said Saoirse.
—That’s right, said Missis Lowe.
Two and two? said Louis.
I said nothing.
Three days later.
—I knew the answer, Pops, said Louis, —but I wasn’t hanging round to tell it. I was out of there, Pops, every way but slow.
I stayed in the cupboard an hour, listening to knives and forks, chairs shifting, silence. Fast feet, slow. Doors slamming. Water running. My heart hammering. I stayed where I was. Until the door swung open and she was looking down at me.
—You’re like a little fella in there, Henry.
—Yes, Miss.
—Got to say, O’Pops, I was kind of surprised you weren’t right behind me. Actual fact, I was more surprised I wasn’t right behind you.
—I used to know her, I told him.
—Eileen? I said, as I stood up out of the cupboard.
She helped me; I was stiff – my legs were dead, just coming back to life. She grabbed a chair for me.
—It had to be done, she said.
—Yeah, well.
—It’s only a name, she said.
(—His name’s Henry, d’you hear me?
I was named.
—His name’s Henry! Henry! So you might as well get used to it.
My father stood up, the chair fell back. He came over to the crib. I heard the charging tap tap. He looked down at me. I saw an angry blur, shimmering fury.)
—Used to know her? said Louis.
We were in the Rickenbacker, crawling up State Street. Louis was driving. We’d nothing real to do – I thought – but he wouldn’t stay still.
—Used to know? She a spook?
—No, I said. —I hadn’t seen her in years.
—Know her well?
—Yeah.
—You didn’t jump or holler, she said the two and two. Know her very well?
—Yeah.
—How well?
—I’m married to her.
—Thought so, he said. —Could tell by those big bumps on your face. Now, there’s a married man, I said. There’s a cat stayed out too late.
—Where are they? I asked her.
—Out for a walk, said Miss O’Shea. —They’re great people for walking for the sake of it, the Americans.
—She’s lovely, I said.
—Ah now, she said. —She’ll have her spoilt. Missis Lowe.
—What’s the story there?
—She’s an ol’ rip, so she is. She has me plagued.
—Why don’t you tell her to fuck off?
She smiled – for the first time. But there was no fun in it; she was talking to an eejit.
—She lets me keep the lassie with me.
—Oh.
—Oh is right. It hasn’t been easy, Henry. Following you all around the place, with herself. There’s many not ready to believe me when I tell them I’m married. Even with the ring.
I looked at her hand, the ring.
—You still have it.
—Why wouldn’t I? she said. —I’m married.
She stared at me now, stopped arranging things on the table that didn’t need arranging. She stared at me, with a hardness I hadn’t seen before, or couldn’t remember.
—Amn’t I?
—Yeah, I said. —You are.
—Well, then.
—Where are we going? I asked Louis.
—Where we not going, said Louis. —That the important place. We going everywhere else.
—Where are we not going?
—That place we just now driving past.
The Black Canary. Italian lads standing outside, one to a door. Like most of the other clubs. No different. Not from where I sat.
—Why not?
—Slavery been gone sixty years, he said.
—You’re going to have to tell me more.
—They want me to play my cornet there, said Louis.
It was quite a while since his last paying engagement, and we were between robberies. The run from Miss O’Shea had given him the jitters and I’d been too busy to go out on my own.
—What’s wrong with that? I asked.
We were past the Black Canary by now, but it had looked like every other club I’d seen him in. It looked exactly like his living.
—For the rest of my life, he said. —They want me for my whole entire life. Ain’t doing it.
He took a sudden left when the street beside us emptied. It became a U turn, and sent me against his shoulder.
—We’re going back, I said.
—See? Knew I made the right move when I em-ployed you.
—Why?
—Why we going back?
—Yeah.
We’d caught up with the flow, crawling south this time.
—Well, he said. —Like a chick.
He took his hands from the wheel and rubbed them.
—See a chick you like, can’t take your eyes off of her.
He looked for confirmation.
—Yeah.
—Same with ugly, he said. —Ever notice? I’m not talking chicks here, nay nay. Not necessarily. I mean anything ugly. A scar, a wound, missing leg. Even your bruises there, Smoked. A automobile accident. Or just plain natural born ugly. Anything you don’t want to see. You see it, and you can’t stop yourself. Telling yourself to stop and get the hell out of that face but you just keep on at that gazing, like that ugly thing was something you wanted more than anything in the world. I making sense, O’Pops?
—Yeah.
We were coming back up to the Black Canary, on its side of the street now. The Italian lads looked bigger, and they were looking at us, at me the passenger, looking back out at them. And one of them was Pink Carmine.
—Well, Smoked, said Louis. —I think this might be one of those ugly things.
She was still staring at me.
—Six years, Henry, she said.
—They flew.
She stared.
—They did not, she said.
She was scaring me. She didn’t look like the woman who’d been on top of me half the night.
—You made no effort, Henry, she said.
How could I answer? I’d looked everywhere I went, every day, every new place, all day and night. I’d never not looked. But she was right. I’d never looked back. I’d never stopped and turned.
I said nothing; there was nothing right that I could say.
—You never even wrote a blessed letter.
She was right.
—Have you never heard of the telephone, Henry?
She was right.
—A great invention altogether. Even in Ireland. Or telegrams?
I wished she’d cry now, and it would be over. We’d hug and more than likely ride again; we’d be back on our way, and happy.
But she didn’t cry and she wasn’t going to.
—I’m sorry, I said.
—Are you now?
I wished she’d hit me, take the steps across the tiles and slap me, punch me right in the head, really give it to me.
—All over England I went. The length and breadth of the blessed place. Months. I left herself with Mammy. Then I found out you were in America.
—How?
—Never you mind now, Henr
Her face was white; the cheekbones cut through her skin.
—So. What did you do?
—I went home.
She sat down. I stood up. I’d remembered my coat; I took it out, off the cupboard floor where’d she’d flung it after me. I shook it and hung it on the chair. And I sat. I left some distance between us but I kept the table out of our way.
—Yes, she said. —I went home.
—How’s your mother?
—She’s dead, Henry.
—I’m sorry.
She looked.
—I know. You liked her.
—Yeah.
—I know. Three years ago. Four. She just went in her sleep.
—Oh.
—But I wasn’t there, she said. —Saoirse was alone with her. For two days.
—Oh Jesus. She was only, what? Two?
—Two, yes. Two. It was Ivan Reynolds found her.
—Jesus.
—He’s grand.
—Grand?
—The fighting’s over, Henry; his is, anyway. He’s the big politician now, full of himself. But he’s grand. And he found her. Thank God. He was visiting Mammy. He’s a great man for visiting now that he needs the votes. But I shouldn’t be talking like that; he found her and he looked after her, himself and his wife. He’d sit in the kitchen with Mammy and chat away and forget completely that it was him set fire to the kitchen and the rest of the house only a few years before. But Mammy liked him, in spite of everything that went on between himself and myself. And any sort of company is better than no company.
—Where were you? I asked, softly, carefully.
—I was in New York, Henry.
—Oh.
—Yes.
—I was in New York four years ago.
—Yes. I know.
—How?
—You were seen, Henry. You’re not the only man on the run.
She let me look at her face. I’d have to talk.
—So, did you go back?
—I did. I went back. And I stayed there. For two years, a little less. Mammy was well buried by the time I got there and she had a fine new stone, for herself and Daddy. Ivan did that. He had a young lad keep it clean for when I came home. And Saoirse was in Ivan’s house, and getting used to the big stairs and the sweet-cake. So. I took her home and she cried and whinged until she couldn’t remember what it was she was missing. And Ivan bought the last bit of land off me and he gave me a fair price for it and I only had to tell him once to mind where he was putting his hands. He’s mellowed, has that Ivan. So, then. I came looking for you again and I brought herself with me this time.
—Jesus, Miss. All this time.
—Yes, Henry.
—I’m sorry.
—Well.
She looked at her shoes – soft, black indoor things. And I wondered where her boots were. I even thought of looking in the cupboard.
—All this time, she said. —I’ve been looking for you. And tell us.
She sat up straight.
—What have you been up to?
The photograph was in front of my eyes; I saw it burn and curl. I watched it fall apart, before the flames could properly eat the bodies and faces, suits and dresses. The smaller pieces floated there, held up in the heat. I saw her face, alone and bodiless. I didn’t watch as it left the heat and drifted to the floor.
I told her.
But not everything. I was honest, not stupid. I told her about Fast Olaf’s half-sister but I left out the bit about being in her mouth when Johnny No and Mildred came to kill us in Brotman’s studio. I left out Mildred as well, and the studio and why I was in it; I only half believed that bit myself. But I told her enough to make fair sense. She could know why I wasn’t there when she came back to New York. She could know that there’d been a half-sister. She could know that I’d had to run.
I knew: the half-sister wasn’t the problem.
—What was she like?
—Grand, I said.
I got ready for the charge, my fighting woman in my arms.
But she stayed where she was. She sighed. She stared at me.
—I knew you were in trouble, she said, and it took me a while to catch up.
She wanted no more of the half-sister.
—Then what? she said.
I told her.
It wasn’t complicated now. I told it all in two minutes. Trains, towns, states – the crops I’d picked, the cities I’d stayed out of, the habit that moving became.
—Until I came here.
She nodded, as if she’d known.
—What made you change your mind?
—What d’you mean?
She lifted her arms and flicked her hands.
—Cities, she said. —This city. Those Italian gangster fellas have the run of the place. It’s in the papers every day.
—Well, I said. —I thought if I stopped, then I could start heading back.
—Home?
—Yeah. Home.
—Where’s that, Henry?
—Ah, Miss. Eileen.
—Don’t call me that.
I was happy not to, but—
—Why not?
—It’s not my name.
—Oh.
—I had to give Missis Lowe a name and I didn’t want the bother of spelling my own and teaching her to pronounce it properly and all the palaver. And she never would have, anyway. Pronounced it. So, I just said Eileen. It’s grand, sure.
—I’m glad.
—Why?
—Eileen’s not your name.
—Well, I don’t know what that has to do with anything, Henry.
—I’ve never known your name.
—And that now, Henry, used to be exciting. And now I think, it just makes me very sad. That you never knew my name.
—I went out of my way not to know it, I said. —It wasn’t that I didn’t care. I stood out in the fuckin’ rain so I wouldn’t hear it.
—I’ll tell you now, so.
—Don’t!
She stared at me.
—That’s something, I suppose.
She looked away. Out the window I’d come through the night before. At the snow that was back, in fits, and the morning sunshine lighting it. She was beautiful, still beautiful; her profile there was what I’d always loved. The way she stared, examined what she saw. The look of a woman who believed in things. A woman who expected good to come at her. Who, for the time being, didn’t have to look at me.
I watched her. She knew it. It stopped snowing and, strangely, became darker.
—Henry.
—What?
She jumped, a tiny jump, surprised at the voice, and surprised that it was mine. She’d been speaking to herself, far away from me. And now she looked, and I knew her. My teacher, my wife, my absolute ride. She looked back at the window.
—I’m very angry, Henry.
—I know, I said. —I don’t blame you.
—I’ve been angry, oh, for years now. Years. Especially when I missed you the second time, when I went back to New York, and I knew there was a hussy in it. What’s her name, by the way?
—Annie, I said, the first woman’s name I could grab. I’d never known the half-sister’s name either, but Miss O’Shea didn’t need to know that.
—And she was nice?
I told myself not to shrug.
—Yeah.
—Where is she?
—I haven’t a clue, I told her. —I haven’t seen or heard of her since that time, and that’s years ago now.
—Were there others?
—Women?
—Henry.
—Yeah.
I looked straight at her.
—A few.
She was looking at the window.
—But, I said.
She wouldn’t look at me.
—It was always you.
—Was it now?
—Yeah.
There was nothing for a while, maybe a full minute, maybe even more.
She moved a leg; I heard a click. I looked at her not looking at me; I didn’t take my eyes from her. Except the once, to see if her boots were in the cupboard. The cupboard doors were partly open. I leaned back, looked in. They weren’t.
—What are you looking for?
—Your boots.
—My boots.
—Yeah.
—I’m very angry. And not about the others, mind. Although that too. But I know the kind you are.
She slapped her chest.
—There’s been no one here, Henry. No one at all. Not one man.
—I wouldn’t have minded.
—Fuck off, Henry! Just—
And now it happened. She got up and went for me. I’d been waiting, wanting it and nothing else, but she had me by the hair before I was ready and the chair was gone and her fingernails shot through my hair to the scalp and she was knocking seven makes of shite out of me, kicking, stamping, punching with a fist that came with her wedding ring, stolen from a big house in East Galway, down hard on my head and face; she was dragging me, pulling hair clean from my head and kicking me because the hair had given up. I resisted a bit – I had to. I grabbed an ankle, I slapped a hand aside, and I was thanking Christ her boots weren’t on as she stamped down on my bollix, and thanking him too for the quality of Mister Piper’s fabric, and I was hoping, hoping she’d soon have enough and she’d get down here on the floor and fuck me, fuck me, fuck and forgive; I felt blood on my face, smelt and tasted, hoped none of it got into the jacket; and she kept at it, at me, digging and stamping, well above, too far above to catch her; and she really was going to kill me and I’d let her do it, and I wouldn’t; it wasn’t funny any more, it was time to stop and – the room had other voices now, feet, a scream, cold outside air – and I was up – the child, the woman – and I ran at the kitchen door and it was locked and I turned and there was nowhere without pushing through those women, three of them, and I wasn’t going to do that. My daughter, my wife, the Missis Lowe one. I wasn’t going anywhere.
—Those bruises you got there, Pops, he said.