The Guts

by Roddy Doyle

  —I don’t know, he said.—I haven’t really thought about it. And that probably proves I’m right. I don’t really have any.

  —You do.

  —Okay.

  Maybe he was imagining it. But maybe there was some sort of a scent off him; the cancer was doing it. His wife wanted to ride him. He was sure of it. It was a biological thing, his body sending out the message; he had to reproduce before he died. There was sex in the air, in the car – definitely. He’d start the car, before anyone in the house noticed. He’d drive them up to Howth summit, or down to Dollymount. It was a miserable day; there’d be no one there. They’d do it like two kids half their age. Or to a hotel, one of the ones called the Airport this or Airport that. The one beside Darndale was nearest. A room for the afternoon. And he wouldn’t remind her about his vasectomy.

  —We’d better go in and tell my mother I’m dyin’, he said.

  —How did she take it? Darren asked him.

  —Not too bad, said Jimmy.

  It was true. His mother – their mother – hadn’t torn her hair out. She’d cried. They’d all cried. He’d told her he’d be fine. The success rate – he was beginning to like the language – the success rate was encouraging. She already knew her chemo and her radiation. Her brother, Jimmy’s Uncle Paddy, had been through it and survived.

  The surgery, though, was news. He realised it as he told his mother: he hadn’t told Aoife. He’d told his father but he’d forgotten Aoife. She went pale as he spoke. He thought she was going to faint. He really had forgotten. He couldn’t believe it, but it was true.

  —They’ll take out 80 per cent of your fuckin’ bowels? said his da.

  —Just stop it, said his mother.

  —Wha’?

  —The language, she said.—For once. Just stop it.

  —Righ’, said his da.—Sorry.

  —They said it won’t make any difference, Jimmy told them.—I’ll be able to eat everythin’ as normal.

  —With what’s left.

  —Yeah.

  Aoife still looked wrong.

  —The 20 per cent, said Jimmy’s da.

  —Fair play, said Jimmy.—You were always good at the subtraction.

  It wasn’t working. His laughter in the face of bad luck. There was no one smiling.

  —Look, he said.—It’s not life and death. That particular part. The operation’s nearly just routine. It’s part of the journey through my treatment.

  He picked one of the buns on the table, to prove he was still able to eat. It was a low point – the low point. He’d fucked up. He hadn’t told Aoife.

  —I forgot, he said, to only her.

  She nodded, once.

  —Weird, he said.

  She nodded.

  —It was grand, he said now to his brother, Darren.

  He was sitting on the stairs in Aoife’s parents’ house. He didn’t know where Darren was. He could hear voices in the background.

  —Where are yeh?

  —Liffey Valley.

  —Hate tha’.

  —Give me cancer any day, said Darren.

  —I’m a lucky man.

  It was Jimmy who’d phoned Darren. He’d forgotten to tell Aoife – he really had; he kept testing himself – and now he felt the urge to tell everyone, to get it out there as quickly as possible, so everyone who needed to know would hear about it properly.

  —Yeh shoppin’?

  —Kind of, said Darren.

  —With Melanie.

  —Yeah.

  —How’s she doin’?

  —Grand. Great.

  —Congratulations there, by the way.

  —Thanks, yeah. I was goin’ to phone you.

  —I know. You’re grand. Da told me.

  Darren and himself weren’t close, but that meant nothing. They were brothers. Jimmy decided: he was going to find Leslie.

  —So yeah, said Darren.—Everything’s grand. She’s had to give up the kick-boxin’ and the crack cocaine. Other than that, it’s business as usual.

  —Great, said Jimmy.—We should meet up for a pint.

  They wouldn’t.

  —Yeah, said Darren.—When?

  The air was full of the unexpected. Jimmy reminded himself: he had cancer. He was telling the people who mattered and they were responding.

  —Don’t know, said Jimmy.

  —When suits you?

  —Wednesday? said Jimmy.

  —Okay, said Darren.—After work?

  —No, said Jimmy.—Before.

  —That’d be good, said Darren.

  Jimmy didn’t actually know if Darren drank, if he was a drinker the way their father was a drinker. He doubted it. Or if he was a wine drinker, a bottle or two at home with Melanie – although she wouldn’t be drinking now. She’d be guzzling the infusions, some blend of rhubarb and nettle that guaranteed the kid would be a fuckin’ genius.

  —What’s that? he said.—I lost yeh there.

  —About six, said Darren.—I’ll come in straight after.

  —Straight after what?

  —Work.

  —Oh grand, said Jimmy.—You still have a job so.

  —I have, yeah, said Darren.—I’ve hidden it.

  —Good man.

  Darren was a lecturer, out in Maynooth.

  —You? said Darren.

  —I’m grand, I think, said Jimmy.

  —Nostalgia’s always big in a recession.

  —Fuck off, said Jimmy.

  —Am I right, though?

  —You might be, yeah. I’ll tell you all about it when we meet. And you can stick it in one of your fuckin’ lectures.

  —Where?

  —In the middle. I don’t care.

  —Where’ll we meet?

  —I don’t mind.

  —Where’s good near you?

  —Don’t know really, said Jimmy.—I’ll ask some of the younger ones in work. Then we can go somewhere different.

  —That makes sense, said Darren.—And look.

  —What? said Jimmy.

  —I’m sorry – yeh know?

  —You’re grand, said Jimmy.—Thanks. I’ll let you get back to your shoppin’.

  —Duvet covers, said Darren.

  —Brilliant.

  —I’ll photograph them for yeh, send you the jpeg.

  —Lovely, said Jimmy.

  —Wednesday so.

  —Yeah, great, said Jimmy.—I’ll text you the pub.

  He stayed on the stairs for a while. He could hear the rest of them in the front room. Talking low, just a bit above whispering. He thought he heard a sniffle. Aoife, maybe, or maybe her mother.

  He’d stay put for another minute.

  He followed the boys into the bedroom and closed the door.

  —Listen, lads, he said.—I’ve a bit of news.

  Jesus.

  The three of them stood in a huddle between the radiator and the bed. The boys were taller than Jimmy now. He felt like the kid.

  —Don’t worry about this, he said.—It’ll be fine.

  He looked from face to face.

  —I’ve got bowel cancer.

  They stared at him. They were waiting for the punchline but they knew there wouldn’t be one. Jimmy was the world’s biggest bollocks. What he’d just done was illegal – or it fuckin’ should have been.

  The boys were still waiting to be rescued.

  —So, said Jimmy.—So. I wanted to tell yis—. Jesus, lads, I’m sorry about this.

  —It’s cool, said young Jimmy.

  And that saved Jimmy; he could go on.

  —It’ll be grand, he told them.—It’ll be a bit – I don’t know – inconvenient. For a while just.

  —It’s cancer, said Marvin.

  —Yeah.

  —That’s not inconvenient, Dad.

  —Yeah, said Jimmy.—Yeah. Come here.

  He put an arm around each boy’s shoulders. He had to reach up to do it. He felt himself going, falling over, but they held him.

  �
��I’ll be grand, he said.

  They were stiff there, angry, frightened. Jimmy was talking right into the side of Marvin’s head.

  —It’s not the worst of them, he said.—The cancers, like. And we’ve found it early enough.

  —What’s that mean?

  —It’s confined, said Jimmy.—It hasn’t spread, you know.

  He could feel the boys trying to control their breath, trying not to push away.

  —It can be beaten, he said.

  —How? said Marvin.

  He was the stiffest, the angrier one.

  —Well, said Jimmy.—Chemo and surgery.

  —What’s chemo? young Jimmy asked.

  —Chemotherapy.

  —I know. What is it?

  —Chemicals, said Jimmy.—I suppose that’s the simplest way to – I don’t know.

  They were still clinging to one another. He wanted to sit down.

  —They nuke the bad cells – the chemicals, you know. Basically.

  —Sounds good, said young Jimmy.

  —I’m lookin’ forward to it, said Jimmy.—It’ll be like goin’ mad in a head shop.

  The boys tried to laugh.

  —I’m really sorry about this, said Jimmy.

  He let go of them. They seemed to expand, to rise above him. He wanted them back. But he sat on the bed. They stood there in front of him. They were awkward, polite, lovely. And separate – they stood like young men who didn’t really know each other. They waited for permission to go.

  —I’ll be grand, said Jimmy.

  Marvin nodded. Young Jimmy was going to cry.

  —It’ll just be.

  — Keep an eye out for your mam.

  —For fuck sake, said Marvin.

  Jimmy laughed, delighted. He held his hands up.

  —Sorry, he said.—Yis hungry?

  They were starving. They were always fuckin’ starving.

  —Sort of, said young Jimmy.

  —Me too, said Jimmy.—But I’ll be tellin’ May and Brian about it – the news, yeh know. Downstairs. But I wanted to tell you first. I thought you could handle it.

  —Man to man, said Marvin.

  He was an angry kid.

  —There’s no good way, Marv.

  —S’pose.

  —Boys, said Jimmy.—I love you.

  —Love you too, young Jimmy whispered.

  —Yeah, Marvin whispered.

  Jimmy got up off the bed and hugged them again. They let go a bit, properly. They cried a bit. The snot flowed.

  —Check your shoulders, lads.

  They were back down and dry-eyed in time for the arrival of the Chinese. They all sat around the table. It was a bit of a squash – it had been since the older pair had taken off and become the world’s tallest Rabbittes, or Egan-Rabbittes. Aoife glanced at Jimmy. He shook his head; he’d wait till they’d finished eating. Young Jimmy looked pale, although he was still ploughing into the Chicken Cantonese Style.

  —What’re you havin’, May? he asked.

  Mahalia had come home two days before, a vegetarian.

  —Leave her alone, said Aoife.

  —I was only askin’, said Jimmy.—I’m curious.

  —It’s okay, said Mahalia.—Chicken with lemon sauce but I’m taking the bits of chicken out.

  —I’ll have them.

  —Me! Brian shouted – he often had to.—She said me. Didn’t you?

  —Yeah, said Mahalia.

  Another problem. Brian was a bit heavy. They had a fat kid on their hands. It kept Aoife awake. But Jimmy knew she wouldn’t object tonight. Fill them all with sugar and monosodium glutamate; sedate the fuckers. That was the plan.

  —I don’t know what to eat yet, said Mahalia.—So before you tell me there’s, like, bits of chicken in the sauce, I know, like.

  —I wasn’t goin’ to say anythin’, said Jimmy.—I respect your decision.

  —Okay.

  —And so do the chickens.

  —Has anyone noticed, said Mahalia,—that we’ve one of the funniest dads in, like, the whole country?

  —Yep.

  —Yep.

  Brian looked at Jimmy and smiled, just to let him know that he wasn’t being treacherous, before he went —

  —Yep.

  —Poor Jimmy, said Aoife.

  —Poor me.

  —Can we’ve ice cream?

  —There’s animal fats in ice cream, said Marvin.

  —Fuck off.

  —Mahalia!

  —Sorry.

  —Hang on, said Jimmy.—Hang on.

  He waited.

  —Forks down. Brian. Good lad.

  He waited a bit longer. He smiled at Aoife, at young Jimmy and Marvin.

  —I’ve somethin’ to tell yis.

  —What?

  —I’m gettin’ there.

  Mahalia had bawled. She’d thrown herself at him before he’d got to cancer. But it had worked out fine. It was easier to work his way backwards, to explain why he wouldn’t be dying. She’d believed him – he thought she had. They’d have to see – because he’d been crying too as he spoke, as he’d stroked her head the way he’d always done, as she’d cried through his jumper and shirt. Aoife had cried. Young Jimmy had cried. Marvin had allowed himself to cry – he’d stood up first and walked halfway to the hall.

  Brian hadn’t.

  He sat watching everything. He didn’t blink. He held his fork, waiting for the okay to get on with his dinner.

  —Alright, Smoke?

  —Yeah.

  —Good man.

  Maybe he’d just believed Jimmy. He was still young enough; the older boys had been the same. They’d believed everything he’d told them. The word – cancer – meant nothing to him. Fried rice did, though.

  —It’s a phase, he said later, in the bed.—He’ll be grand.

  He didn’t believe it. And he didn’t believe it when Aoife seemed to be agreeing with him.

  —Yeah.

  —You agree.

  —Yeah.

  —You don’t.

  —No, I do.

  —Well, I fuckin’ don’t.

  —Oh, fuck off, Jimmy. I’m just trying to put it off.

  —Put what off?

  —Everything. I’m tired.

  —So am I.

  —I know.

  —Strange, though.

  —Brian?

  —No, said Jimmy.—Yeah, but no. I mean, the day.

  —What about it?

  —It was nice, said Jimmy.—I enjoyed it.

  —Me too.

  —Spent the whole day tellin’ people I love that I’ve cancer, and I enjoyed myself.

  Her head was on his chest again.

  —You still tired? he asked.

  —Oh God.

  He couldn’t get out of the car. He couldn’t move.

  It wasn’t sudden – the feeling. It had been there since he’d woken up.

  It was getting worse.

  It wasn’t depression. Although he didn’t know.

  It wasn’t black.

  It didn’t have a colour – or weight.

  He’d never understood static electricity, how or why it happened, why one door handle was a shock and another, the same design, wasn’t; why Mahalia’s hair had stood up straight whenever he’d pulled off that green jumper she’d had when she was a little thing. He didn’t think he’d ever been interested in why it happened. It just did.

  This was the same as static. It was how he’d have started to describe it.

  The car park was small. There was space for eight cars. Noeleen’s car wasn’t there yet.

  He hadn’t told her. He would, today.

  Tomorrow.

  He was in no fit state to tell her today.

  He’d touch something, the wrong thing, and he’d die. That was how he’d start, if he was trying to explain it. But, actually, he didn’t have to touch anything. That was what paralysed him. Earlier, in bed, he woke up thinking he’d died. He was waking into his last thought
. If he woke up properly, he’d be gone; he’d never even have existed.

  It would go away. He just had to wait.

  Terror. That was it.

  He’d be grand. The dread would be gone – it was going; he knew it was nothing. He’d just wait another minute.

  He’d be angry then. He had the routine. He’d get rid of that too. He’d slam a door, fire off an email – reply to some fuckin’ eejit and have to apologise later.

  Fuck it.

  Fuck it.

  He had the radio on. He could hear the news; he could separate the words. Gaddafi was dead – that was the biggie. He’d remember that. Sitting rigid in his car, in the car park behind work, and hearing that Gaddafi had been killed – how wasn’t clear; a grenade, a bullet or a bayonet – maybe all three. Where the fuck would you buy a bayonet these days?

  He’d go in in a minute. Face the day. Try to sell a few records. He might even tell Noeleen. Get it over with.

  He’d see.

  Probably not.

  He’d watch the news later, at home. He’d make Brian watch with him, and Mahalia. A big day. The death of a dictator. Maybe not, though – Brian would want another Chinese, to celebrate.

  Poor oul’ Muammar. Jimmy wouldn’t be selling him any Irish punk or post-punk hits of the ’70s and ’80s. A lost opportunity. Gaddafi could have died plugged into his iPod, listening to the Halfbreds or the Irregulars.

  There was a thought.

  Jimmy would go in now and stick it up on the homepage: Gaddafi died listening to Irish punk. Get a few laughs, shift a few units.

  In a minute.

  The parcel was on the table in the kitchen.

  Waiting for him.

  It was propped there, against the ketchup. Facing the door, so he’d see it. Brown cardboard, from Amazon.

  —Nice one.

  Aoife was at the counter, chopping something. He picked up the package.

  —What is it?

  —A puppy, said Aoife.

  He pulled back the flap.

  —Gift wrapped. For fuck sake.

  He read the message. I love you. XXX

  —Loveyoutoo, he muttered.

  She smiled. He was imitating the boys. And he was Jimmy again, not the jittery lump she’d seen leaving the house earlier. He pulled off the ribbon and tore at the blue wrapping paper.

  He looked at the yellow cover, and laughed.

  —Brilliant. Chemotherapy & Radiation for Dummies. Fuckin’ brilliant.

  —You like it?

  —Love it.

  He laughed again.

  —Fuckin’ great.

  He was delighted.