Between Dog and Wolf

by Sokolov, Sasha; Boguslawski, Alexander;

  You lie on your side with Oisín at your back and face the curtain. It is still wonderfully black outside, and very still. No wind. You have been crying in your sleep and your body aches. Either that or you are getting the flu.

  When Cassandra has left you get up and go into the kitchen. You haven’t the energy to make a cup of tea. You fill a glass of water and sit by the window, looking at the darkness, waiting for the day to start.

  * * *

  They made me go on anyway, they put me in different poses, moved the big white things around me to reflect the light. It was a fashion shoot intended to advertise clothing but we were half dressed, myself and this other girl, and they kept putting us in lesbian poses and asked us to part our legs a lot. Strange thing about it is that there were no straight men in the place. There was no one there who found any of it sexy. I fainted. It was the movie kind of fainting: swooning and falling down and all. When the hair guy sprayed some product all over my head I vomited again. The product smelled so bad that before it was even out of the bottle I had keeled over and then when he sprayed, it started heaving up out of my gut; that yellow stuff. When I fainted for the second time the other model stood up and shouted at the photography director.

  ‘She needs to go home, Shea. I’m not going on with this. She’s unwell. She needs to go home. Get her a taxi. Get Allanah to come out instead. She’s not working today.’

  They did what she told them. She was very nice, holding me by the elbow, stroking my hair. She behaved older than she looked. As she helped me into the taxi she whispered gently, touching my crispy hair: ‘Chicken, is your period late?’ I couldn’t answer. I couldn’t think. It seemed as though even thinking might be so much of an effort that I would vomit again.

  ‘Put that in your bag. Four doses. I always keep them with me. They won’t prescribe them. How late are you? If you’ve only missed one it should work. One should still work but if it doesn’t, if it hasn’t worked within three days take the rest of them all quickly. You’re so young, chicken. You really are. Take them soon. Don’t think about it.’ It was a little silk pouch that felt as though it had sheets of hard, bumpy plastic in it. Each sheet contained one pill.

  The taxi can’t drive into Front Arch so I tell him to let me off here. I can’t pay him, but he says he’ll get it off the company. As I get out he tells me to eat something and look after myself. He must be someone’s daddy. Usually I’d be jealous, wish he was my daddy, but I haven’t the energy this morning.

  When I get in Helen is sitting at the table. I fall down again when I see her and she makes me a cup of coffee but the smell of it makes me sick. She touches my cheek. ‘Why are you crying?’ I don’t think I am crying, not really, I feel too sick to do anything, but every time I vomit the effort pushes tears out. Helen is kneeling down by my chair, looking up into my face: ‘Cassy, what’s happening?’

  I don’t know what’s happening. I feel sick, that’s all, but the way she says it – ‘What’s happening?’ – shoots panic through my limbs. Something is happening. Everything hurts, my hands and legs and head. I need out of this body. ‘I need to lie down Helen. I’m not well.’

  She helps me into bed and it all seems unreal, this sudden infirmity. I am not used to being ill. I lie very still, because any movement sends a wave of nausea through me. Helen sits beside the bed dumbly. I want her to go away but I don’t want to be left alone either. It’s getting brighter outside. Helen is still and I can feel her wanting something from me, which seems ridiculous, the state I’m in.

  ‘Cassy?’

  I grunt but it takes huge effort and shoots another rush of sickness through me.

  ‘Cassy, I don’t know what to do. I’m – I don’t know what I’m going to do, Cassy.’

  I squeeze my eyes against the queasiness and the light from a lamp. I can feel the sickening heat off it. It’s on my face, making me sicker. ‘Can you turn off the light?’

  She switches it off and we are silent in the dark. After a while she stands up and kisses me on the forehead. She must think I’m asleep because she doesn’t say anything, just closes the door gently behind her.

  * * *

  He felt the weight of her sinking back into bed beside him. Her body was cool, as though she had been out of bed for a while. Where was she? He didn’t remember her leaving. He rolled over and curled an arm around her to warm her up.

  ‘Oisín?’ The sound dispersed into the morning darkness like breath. Her words were barely audible, the blackness already absorbing the sounds. ‘Why do you love me?’

  He stayed lying on his side and opened his eyes in the dark. He was too tired for this. Should he make a joke or massage her ego gently? His voice was croaky and slow, unwilling to wake.

  ‘Let me see. One: you’re hot, foxy. There’s foxy and there’s cutie. You’re foxy. Two: you’re kind and cool and you have a nice laugh. Three: you give great head.’

  She punched him gently, whispered, ‘Asshole,’ and they made love reluctantly. Just before he came he made a mental check: yes, they had remembered the condom. Then a moment of terror when he realized that there had been no pause in their daily lovemaking for months – how many months? Two at least. At least. She hadn’t had a period since that time she left it in the toilet.

  * * *

  He misunderstood. He thought this was some self-deprecating gesture, fishing for an ego boost. He misunderstood you completely. What you mean is, ‘Why are we together, you and I? Why do you love me instead of someone else? Why do I love you?’

  nineteen

  I have very bad cramps like period pains all day. My abdomen starts to tighten at intervals and it hurts. I run a bath, swishing fistfuls of salt into the water before I step in. It happens. It is not as painful as it should be, if this is what I think it is.

  The blood comes in black balls that disperse to impossible fragments. Red filigree spreads through the water. It is curiously beautiful, moving gently outwards and upwards in other-world slow motion. The blood-lace caresses my skin like a million tiny, loving fingers.

  I remember something I must have heard somewhere about hot water being bad for the baby. Maybe I knew that when I ran the bath, but I don’t think so. I never really believed in this pregnancy anyway. I don’t know if that model’s pills made a difference. I think this would have happened regardless. I cannot imagine myself with a pregnant belly, with something kicking inside me. I cannot imagine that I have enough life in me to sustain someone else’s. I am no mother. Then again, some non-mothers have children anyway. Some bodies are full of paradoxes.

  There is no baby, at least no baby I can discern, but I am very weak and faint and do not look very hard. It occurs to me that I am in shock. I feel very, very sad.

  I become quite ill, and bleed like this for over a week, lying in bed or sitting by the kitchen window. I do not go to lectures. Helen isn’t around much.

  So that’s that. You may as well never have been, little baby. You may as well have been a phantom. I hope your tiny life was okay while it lasted. I hope we had something. I hope it was happiness you felt, or comfort at least, in the dumb gloop before thought.

  Goodbye. I will only say it once. I have no room in me for any more ghosts, so you will have to be satisfied with this one goodbye. My scare, my slip-up, my something to love. Goodbye.

  twenty

  Oisín’s cousin was getting married on Sunday so they were going to Clonmel for the weekend. Tonight he would take Helen out in the town and introduce her to the lads he grew up with.

  She had spent seventy euro on a new outfit for the wedding last week. It was a sixties cut, zooming out at the waist instead of brushing her ass the way modern clothes do. He didn’t like it. She looked silly in it. He didn’t say that, but he let her know by his reaction. Thankfully, she had put it by her bedroom door in its bag with the receipt. Instead she packed a sexy dress that she owned already. It was brown and blue – tight, with a frill up the side. He loved that dress, she knew that. The fi
rst time Oisín had seen her in it he had closed the door, pushed her onto the bed, and made love to her. When she had lifted the dress to take it off he had said, ‘No, baby, keep it on. Tell me to stop, that I’ll crumple your dress … say, “Oh no stop – you’ll crumple my dress!” ’

  He loved the feeling of the material; cool and heavy. He had grabbed a handful of it, bunching it up over her ass, and it felt like liquid in his fist. While he was in her he thought how it must feel to have a sleek body covered in that rich fabric and decorated with frills. He imagined the significance it must give her flesh; the knowledge she must have of her own body’s loveliness, being fucked in that dress. Not for the first time, he envied women their easy beauty and all its trappings.

  They would be staying with his family in Clonmel. It was a four-hour bus journey from Dublin. They sat at the back of the bus and shared a two-litre bottle of berry-flavoured water and a packet of Fox’s Creams.

  * * *

  As soon as the bus pulls out of the station you need to go to the toilet, but you remember him complaining about an ex who kept whinging that she needed a piss for an entire bus journey, so you don’t mention it. He doesn’t like the idea of you weeing anyway. He wants to read the paper but you’re bored of your book and keep trying to distract him with anecdotes about bus rides of your past. It’s no good though. Even the story about when your school bus blew up doesn’t really get much of a reaction.

  * * *

  The bus was stuffy and the man in the seat in front of them smelled like dog. He didn’t notice until she pointed it out, and now he couldn’t keep from smelling it – that oily terrier smell. Oisín just wanted to read the paper. It was the Tipperary Star, which his dad sent every week, and always questioned him on, and which he never read. He wanted something to talk about with his dad. There was an article about a guy from Tipperary who was making it as an actor, but he couldn’t concentrate on it with Helen looking for attention all the time.

  He began to wonder whether this was such a good idea. He wanted to show her off to the lads. They’d clock her slender legs, her round breasts, her perfect, pert little bum, and they’d slag him in a West Brit accent, saying, ‘Fine little poshy you got for yourself there in Trinners.’ They’d see how she looked at him and they’d know she adored him. They’d notice how good his hair looked and how much he’d filled out and they’d know he was happy with her too. He wanted her with him this weekend and didn’t like the idea of leaving her behind in Dublin, but he saw suddenly how disastrous the evening might be. The lads wouldn’t know how to treat Helen and she wouldn’t know what to make of them.

  There used to be some girls who hung out with the group intermittently, but they had grown up now, and got jobs and husbands. The only girl who hung out with them now was Eoin’s girlfriend, who was sound-out and didn’t mind lads’ talk. She never made a nuisance of herself unless it was to drag Eoin home if she thought he was too drunk, and she was usually right. The girlfriend’s little sister came out occasionally too. All the lads fancied her. Helen might get on with the sister – maybe he’d ask Eoin to bring her along.

  It was possible that it might come off all right. Helen might drink and smile and try to fit in and not take anything too personally. He wanted her to have a good time though, and he found it hard to envisage that. He tried to imagine her chatting with the lads, laughing. Would she laugh with them? That was his favourite thing, when she threw her head back and laughed.

  There were no windows on the bus. There was only a small strip of glass where the windows should have been. Helen kissed his cheek and he felt nauseous. She held his hand, which became clammy, and flicked restlessly through a magazine. He had to resist the temptation to whip his hand back and dry it on his jumper. She offered him a biscuit every few minutes. It seemed clear to him now that there was no way she would swill beer and laugh and allow him to let off steam with the lads. There was no way she’d get the lads’ sense of humour. He should have thought this through.

  * * *

  You stare out at the smooth black road, the spindly shrubs haggard with exhaust soot, and try to feel okay. You kiss him. He kisses you back but you feel worse because he doesn’t really mean it. You try not to seem too needy. You try to remember that he loves you. You offer him another biscuit.

  His father is waiting at the station. You realize that you already had a mental picture of his dad, constructed out of Oisín’s anecdotes: a darker, hairier version of Oisín who flew into vicious rages. Something like Orson Welles, some dark soul. It is hard to marry the real man with that image. His nose and belly are very large and round. His tiny eyes squint behind glasses. He reminds you of a toy clown one of your sisters had as a baby. It was weighted at the bottom, and rocked back and forth if you pushed it. He smiles vacantly. All he says is ‘Well’, and ‘Good’. He utters these words at regular intervals without being prompted, a sort of verbal tick. You are not sure whether a response is required. All the blood in his body seems to be concentrated in his thick fingers and red nose. He blinks a lot, slowly, as though it pains him. Oisín doesn’t resemble him in the slightest.

  In the car on the way to Oisín’s house his dad asks you questions. He has a very thick accent and you find it hard to understand him so Oisín answers for you a lot. They are questions about college and about how many siblings you have, what schools they go to, and what your father does. He seems pleased with the answers. The eldest of six and a convent boarding school. It must sound very Catholic. Then he turns to Oisín, ‘Well?’

  ‘Good now,’ Oisín replies in a voice you don’t recognize, ‘Tippin’ away. College is good. Goin’ good now.’

  ‘Good,’ his dad says, and then after a pause, ‘Well.’

  You listen to the radio for the rest of the journey, though that too is indecipherable: a crackling buzz, a man’s excited voice, a Gaelic match or a horse race or something.

  Oisín’s mother doesn’t get up when you enter the house. It’s a small house, impeccably tidy, but dirty. A carpet flat and glossy with grime, and the whole house smelling of people, stale cooking, sweaty clothes, shoes. Oisín takes you into the television room to meet her. She smiles with her lips closed, and says quietly, ‘Hello, Helen.’ You are very aware that she makes no gesture to touch you – to shake your hand or kiss your cheek. Her hands don’t move. She has the same colour eyes as Oisín, a long face, and long, silver hair. There is a look of disappointment and surrender at the corners of her mouth. She looks sad even when she smiles. You want her to like you. You say hello and she nods again, smiles again, and stands up. There is no warmth in her. You cannot imagine her giving someone a hug. You imagine her hands must be cold and smooth and disinterested, the way a competent nurse’s might be.

  Despite her coldness she is kind to you and makes you smoked salmon on soda bread and tea. Oisín’s father stands by and watches you eat, beaming, proud of the offering. You get the impression that smoked salmon is what they give to important guests. Oisín is very quiet. He eats the salmon and bread with a lot of mayonnaise. His mother asks you about college and tells you about an art exhibition she saw last year in Dublin, or rather, tells you that she went to an art exhibition and that it was good. She doesn’t really describe it in very much detail.

  You brought a very sexy red top that shows your tummy, but you are not feeling brave enough to wear it tonight. You slip on a black Rolling Stones T-shirt that you brought just in case, and wear it with those jeans he likes your ass in, the ones that pinch your pouchy. ‘Pouchy’ was a word Clodagh in school used for her fanny. ‘Fanny’ was a word Lauren used. You don’t know them any more, Clodagh or Lauren. You are miles away from who you were then. The school is closing down. They have no money or nuns any more. They are selling up and the nuns are moving to the sister school in France. You received an invite to a closing ceremony. You would like to go, to show off your boyfriend and the fact that you are still here, pushing along through life, and not a virgin any more. Cassy doesn’t
want to go though.

  As you are putting on your jacket Oisín smiles: ‘The Stones? Do you even know one song by the Stones baby?’ Could he be sneering at you? But he likes that. He likes when you are a bit silly. He couldn’t be sneering.

  As soon as you walk into the pub you realize there will be no dancing tonight. His friends are a lot less attractive than you had imagined. The rough bad boys Oisín had occasionally talked about are a little geeky. There are three of them. The first one he introduces you to is older than you or Oisín, a little wrinkled, with a receding hairline, but he is dressed like a teenage rocker: studded leather wrist-bands, tight jeans. He scans your body quickly, as though appraising you. You can’t tell whether he finds you attractive. That makes you uneasy, not knowing. ‘Kev man this is my – this is Helen. Kev’s a rocker.’ So he must be the musician, the leader of the gang, the ladies’ man that Oisín told you about.

  The second one has long ginger hair sleeked to his head, and very bad acne. His girlfriend introduces him: ‘I’m the long-suffering girlfriend,’ she says proudly, raising her eyes up to heaven. ‘This is Aengus.’ She gestures towards him with a thumb, and he nods at you, rolls his eyes at the girlfriend; a dogged performance. You get the impression you and she will stick together for the night. She makes a star with her hand, ‘Five years!’ she says, as though it is a debt.

  The third of Oisín’s mates is hunched over like an old man. He has long hair too, and it dangles down to his chin in oily clumps from around a small bald patch. He looks like a flasher and doesn’t talk very much. ‘And this bugger is Denny,’ says Aengus, ‘he’s a poor old bugger, don’t mind him if he tries to cop a feel. He’s a poor old bugger, aren’tcha Denny?’