Bullfighting: Stories Page 11

  The night before, the Thursday, they’d had a fight. Another one. A fight they drank into. It was fuelled by the red wine they knocked back before they ate and as they ate. The third glass brought Jim up to date; he caught up with the state he’d been in the night before. The edges he’d carried all day were gone and he was back where he’d left off, where he’d lost interest or consciousness – he couldn’t remember. One minute they were chatting away carefully – his day, her day – and then, like that, he knew it was all shite. They sat with the plates on their laps – they didn’t have a table. He listened to something about her mother’s aunt, a fall in the shower; some old woman he’d met once, two years before at the wedding. He listened for a while – because that was what he did, that was what you did. The aunt’s broken leg equalled two of his funny incidents at work.

  —You’re not listening.

  —I am.

  —You’re not.

  —I am. Your auntie broke her leg. Go on.

  —No.

  —Go on. She slid on the soap.

  —You’re a callous bastard.

  —I didn’t put the soap there.

  —Everything’s a laugh, she said.

  She put her plate on the floor so she could get to her glass.

  He said nothing.

  —Everything has to be a laugh.

  —She slid on the soap, he said.—Go on. I’m all ears. Was it Palmolive or Lifebuoy?

  She stared at him.

  —You’re such a prick, she said.

  —Will she be okay? he asked.

  The question surprised her – he could tell. She bent down for her plate. He was winning.

  —You don’t care, she said.

  —I do.

  —You don’t.

  —I can’t fuckin’ win, can I?

  She sighed. She put a fork-load into her mouth. He watched her eating. Chicken curry.

  She sighed again.

  —Okay, she said.—You win.

  —Win what?

  —Whatever you want.

  —This is ridiculous.

  —Everything’s ridiculous, she said.

  —You said it.

  —Yeah.

  It was the same row, and the same conclusion. He cornered her. She cried; sometimes he cried. He believed everything he said, although he’d no idea now what they’d been arguing about, or if it had been a proper argument; it was gone. But this was it, every night – most nights.

  But the plate was new. It landed at his feet, and then he saw her throw it, after it hit the floor – her movement made sense, and her face. She held the plate like a Frisbee, then sent it his way and regretted it. Her other hand tried to catch it. It landed flat and it didn’t break.

  He leaned out of his chair and banged his heel down on it.

  —There, he said.—That’s how you break a plate.

  But it wasn’t broken. And he didn’t try again. The back of his shoe and his trouser cuff were covered in the curry.

  She laughed.

  Friday night, in the back garden, he was walking again. He had to keep moving, outrun the pain.

  —It depends which of the hospitals is on call, he said, as he went back down the garden.—If it’s Beaumont, okay. But Blanchardstown. Too far. I’ll never make it.

  This was in 1990, at the tail end of the last recession. There wasn’t enough money to keep all the hospitals open.

  —I’ll check, she said.

  She went back in and got the phone book out from under all the other crap. She found the number for Beaumont, the nearest hospital to them. She could even hear a siren outside as she dialled, an ambulance on its way there, or coming from there. Someone else dying.

  He heard it too. Was it coming for him?

  He could think. He wasn’t dying. There was something seriously wrong but it wasn’t getting worse. As long as he kept moving.

  She was back out. He watched her lock the back door.

  —The Mater, she said.

  —On call?

  —Yeah.

  —Where’s the ambulance gone?

  —What ambulance?

  —I heard one.

  She was holding his arm, moving him off the grass.

  —That was for someone else, she said.—I’m driving you in. It’ll be quicker.

  She’d had nothing to drink. Nothing all day.

  —I don’t know, he said.

  They were off the grass, at the side of the house. Behind the car.

  —What?

  —If I can sit in the car, he said.

  —We have to get you there, she said.

  She’d unlocked the passenger door, still holding his arm.

  She helped him in; he felt her fingers on his neck.

  —Thanks.

  —It’s okay, you’re fine.

  He couldn’t sit properly. He couldn’t sit back, or put on his belt. She got the car started, reversed slowly out, then straightened the car and headed for the main road.

  —How’s it going?

  —Okay.

  —Won’t be long.

  There was no traffic; they met nothing on the roundabout.

  —I don’t know if I can do this, he said.—Sorry. His hand was on the handle of the door.

  —Don’t!

  —What?

  —Open the door!

  —I wasn’t going to.

  She drove off the roundabout and looked in the rear-view mirror.

  —Oh Christ!

  —What?

  —The baby!

  —Oh Jesus, oh sweet Jesus.

  —The baby.

  —It’ll be grand. Turn back.

  He couldn’t believe it. They’d forgotten the baby. It was horrible. But the shock wasn’t that they’d forgotten. The real shock was that they’d never thought.

  The baby. It – she didn’t even have a name. That wasn’t true, of course. The baby did have a name. Holly was the baby’s name and pretending she didn’t have a name was just some sort of weird sentimentality. As the car went over a pothole and the jolt shifted whatever was inside killing him – the blade out and straight back in – he knew it was just self-pity. He loved the baby. They loved the baby. He was dying, and they’d forgotten to bring her with them. That was all.

  —She’ll be grand, he said.—We only left her a few minutes.

  —Yeah, she said.

  They were back on the roundabout, and off the roundabout, a minute from home; the road was clear. And he knew something, in the minute it took to get to the house: they were happy.

  The Dog

  She’d been gone for a couple of hours, most of the afternoon – he wasn’t sure – but she looked like she’d been in Spain. Or the Sahara. She’d been tied down and tortured, under a big round sun. She was suddenly tanned.

  He watched her taking off her coat. He didn’t know what colour her hair was, the name for it. He sat still and said nothing.

  It went back.

  They hadn’t coped well. He knew that.

  His ear had been the start of it. Or a start. Years ago now. Mary had been kissing him. But she’d stopped and he’d heard something, trapped in her throat.

  —What’s wrong? he’d said.

  —Nothing, she’d said.—Your ear.

  She’d stiffened beside him, but then he felt her kind of unfold, relax again.

  —My ear?

  —There’s a hair on it.

  —Hair? he said.—There’s hair in everyone’s ear.

  —On, she said.

  —What?

  —It’s on your ear.

  —On?

  He saw her nod.

  —I’ll have to see this, he said, and got up.

  But he couldn’t see it. He put his face right up to the bathroom mirror. He turned his head, so his ear was nearly the only thing he could see. But he couldn’t see a hair. He took off his glasses. And he saw it. All on its own. At the bottom, the lobe. Like a moustache hair. He put the glasses back on. The hair was gone. He
took them off. And there it was.

  He went back to the bedroom. He got into the bed. She was pretending to be asleep, breathing like a baby in an ad.

  He dated it back to then. Five years, four years – he wasn’t sure. When they stopped growing old together.

  He’d shaved it off. He’d never had a moustache and he didn’t want one now, growing on his ear. He’d taken his glasses off to do it – he’d had to. He needed the glasses but sometimes he could see better without them. He took them off to read the paper. He had to put them on to find the fuckin’ paper.

  She was still taking her coat off. It looked new. He didn’t think he’d seen it on her before. It was nice, soft-looking. He didn’t know what to call the colour of that, either. She was being careful. It must have been new. He said nothing.

  Her knickers came after his ear. His revenge, he supposed, but he hadn’t meant it that way. It had just happened. He’d been sitting up in the bed, reading. Berlin: The Downfall 1945, or Stalingrad – one of those big books he always liked, about a city getting hammered in the Second World War. He loved history. He could hear her locking the doors downstairs, and coming up the stairs, shoving the bedroom door open, coming in. It must have been the Stalingrad book, because he’d got to the bit about people eating the rats, and he’d looked away from the page. She was taking her jeans off, her back to him. She was kind of vague there, so he put his glasses back on, and saw them. Her knickers – her thong. New, and black. She was bending, to get her feet out of the jeans. Four decades of arse parked inside a piece of string.

  He pretended he was going to vomit. He still regretted it. He made the gagging sound, and leaned over the side of the bed and let on he was emptying himself. He’d done it before, and she’d always laughed. Not this time.

  He hadn’t meant to hurt her. He’d thought he was just being funny. She’d said nothing about it.

  He googled menopause, but he soon gave up. Age of onset, cessation of menses; it was boring. Hot flushes – he had one of them every time he went up the stairs. But he kept an eye on her. He clucked sympathetically when he saw her sweating. He brought her a glass of water and put it beside the bed. She stared at him before she thanked him.

  The chest hair was next. His. He woke up sweating one morning. The room was bright. The sun was already pushing through the curtains. She was leaning right over him, looking straight down at his chest.

  —Grey, she said.

  —What?

  There was something there, a pain – the memory. She’d done something to him while he was asleep.

  —There’s grey in your hair.

  He was sure of it. She’d pulled the hair on his chest. She looked now like she was going to peck him, the way she was hanging there. It felt like she already had.

  —Did you pull my hair? he said.

  He could hear himself ask the question, almost like he wasn’t the one talking. He wasn’t sure he was awake.

  She didn’t answer.

  —And white, she said.

  —Did you?

  —What?

  —Pull my hair.

  —What? Why would I do that?

  She said it like she was miles away, or on the phone to someone else. Someone she didn’t think much of.

  He got up on one of his elbows. He looked down at his chest; he tried to see it properly. His eyes swam a bit. Her back was to him; she was getting up. She held her nightdress down as she stood out of the bed.

  —It’s not really something you think about, is it? she said.—What happens you when you get older.

  She was standing now, looking behind the curtain, out the window.

  —It’s a bit horrible, she said.

  —It’s only hair.

  He’d had grey hair for a good while. It had started in his early thirties, on his head. A few at the side, just above his ears. She’d liked it; so she’d said. She’d said it made him look distinguished. A bit like Bill Clinton. You expected the hair on your head to change; you knew it was coming. But not the chest hair, or the pubic stuff. So she was right; it was a bit horrible.

  He’d examined himself that morning. He’d looked no different. He took his glasses off so he could look at his face properly. He was still there, the same man. It was frightening, though, how little time you got. You only became yourself when you were twenty-three or twenty-four. A few years later, you had an old man’s chest hair. It wasn’t worth it. He put his glasses back on.

  He didn’t decide to throw out the statue. One of the saints – he couldn’t remember which one, a woman. A present from one of her aunts. He’d just picked it up, walking past it in the hall. Kept walking, into the kitchen, threw it in the bin. Tied the bag, brought it out to the wheelie, dropped it in. Went back to the kitchen and put a new biodegradable bag into the bin. The mark was there on the table, where the statue had been; the varnish was much darker, like a badge – ‘Something Used To Be Here’. She’d never asked about it; she’d never said anything. He’d never felt guilty. She’d never tried to cover the mark; she’d never rearranged the crap on the table, and neither had he.

  But she’d thrown out his medal. Not that he gave a fuck. But she had.

  The statue first. They’d both laughed at it, when the aunt was in the taxi, going home, the night she’d given it to them. The saint’s big blue eyes, the snakes at her plaster feet. He’d put it on the table in the hall; he’d made room for it. It was him who’d done it. He’d made a ceremony of it. This was the first Christmas they’d been in the house, two years after the wedding. They’d laughed, and she’d kissed him.

  He just picked it up and threw it in the bin. He didn’t know he was going to do it. He just did. He’d often hoped she’d ask him about it, because he could have told her. It could have been the beginning of something; they’d have talked. But she didn’t, and he didn’t.

  The medal. It was the only one he’d ever won. The Community Games, football. Under-10s. North Dublin. Runners-up. He remembered the final, losing three – nil, and not caring once he had the medal. And not caring much about the medal either. His mother had put it away, in the glass cabinet in the front room. She’d given it to him when he’d moved into his own house, along with all his old school reports and his Inter and Leaving Certs, and a few photographs: the team in their stripy jerseys, him at the front, smiling and freezing; him and his big sister on the back of a donkey-and-cart, both of them squinting; him in his first suit, the flared trousers, grinning and squinting, the day before his first real job. He could remember his father with the camera. ‘Smile, smile. Stop bloody squinting.’ He’d told his father to fuck off and walked straight out to the street. He could remember the noise of the trouser legs rubbing against each other.

  She hadn’t taken anything else. Just the medal. He hadn’t been looking for it. He’d just noticed it, gone. He’d kept the stuff his mother gave him in the big envelope she’d put it into, with ‘Joe’ in her shaky writing on it. He’d kept it in a drawer in the bedroom, under socks and T-shirts. Over the years, the shape of the medal had been pressed into the paper of the envelope. Not the little footballer, or the ‘1969’, or any of the other details. Just the circular shape. He’d been looking for a sock to match another one, and – he didn’t know why

  – he’d put his finger on the circle and realised there was nothing under it. He took out the envelope and opened it. The medal was gone.

  He searched the drawer. More than once. He took everything out. He shook all the socks. He slid the whole lot out of the envelope, and put it all back, one thing at a time. He tried the other drawers. He pulled the chest of drawers away from the wall and looked behind it. He took all the drawers out to see if the medal had slipped to the side, if it was standing on its edge on one of the plywood slats that held the drawers in place.

  He put everything back.

  He had no doubt at all: she’d done it.

  But then the dog came into the house. They got a dog. She got the dog. A Jack Russell, a thoro
ughbred, papers and all. A mad little thing. It was there yapping at his heels when he got home from work.

  —What’s this? he said.

  —What’s it look like?

  —A dog.

  —There you go.

  —Whose is it?

  —Ours, she said.—Mine.

  —Serious?

  —Yeah.

  He looked down at it.

  —Let go of me fuckin’ trousers, he said.

  But he’d liked it, immediately. He’d had dogs when he was a kid. There’d always been a dog. Dogs were alright.

  She gave it the name. Emma. From a book she liked, and the film, by Jane Austen. But it still ran around the kitchen in circles and knocked its head against the rungs beneath the chairs. It never stopped. It was always charging around the gaff, or asleep, beside its mat at the back door. Never on the mat, always right beside it. It was a great dog. Didn’t shed too much hair, was too small to jump onto the good furniture, learnt to scratch at the door and yap when it wanted to get outside. Only shat in the kitchen now and again, and always looked apologetic. So, it was grand. But he soon began to realise that they weren’t living with the same animal. She talked to it; she had a special voice she used. She’d buy a bag of jelly babies and share them, one for her, one for the dog. There was a child in the house, before he really understood.

  He got up one morning and she was down there before him, filling the kettle. The dog had taken a dump beside the mat.

  —Emma had an accident, she said.

  —As long as it wasn’t you, he said.

  She laughed and he bent down, got the dog by the scruff, and pushed its snout into the shite. He unlocked the back door with his free hand and threw the dog outside, lobbed it gently, so it would land on its feet.

  And she exploded. She actually hit him. She smacked him on the back, a loud whack that didn’t hurt but shocked him. She hit him again. More of a thump this time – his shoulder.

  —What was that for?