She stood between the door and the frame. She gripped the edge of the door with both hands. A look of pure dread darkened that lovely face.
—No, Jim, no, not now, she gasped.
—What is it, dear? Who’s there? he said, and turned the water off.
—It’s Jim, I said.
I pushed the door back all the way, walked in, and shoved my hands into my pockets. She had stepped away from the door. He turned from the cooker. He looked me up and down while casually drying his hands on a tea towel. She moved to my right, next to a counter. She looked at the floor, shook her head back and forth, her arms flat against her sides. She acted that way when she was nervous.
—For God’s sake, Jim, is this you? she said to the floor.
—And is this you, Una? I asked in a reasonable-enough way, though my words were shaky.
—You have not been invited. You have to leave, Spandau Ballet said.
—I need to speak to her—
—The bloke on Henry Street, your country neighbor.
He dropped the tea towel into the sink.
—I need to talk to Una, I said.
—Should I call the Bobbies?
Spandau Ballet was looking at Una. She moved. Her arms remained. He moved. Him on my left. Her on my right.
—No, Paul, please, no Guards.
—I don’t trust this bloke.
He picked up the tea towel and began to twist it into a rope.
—He’s fine, Paul. I know him, she said.
—I need to talk to you in private, I said, looking at her.
—There is a more civilized way to do this, he said.
He had untwisted the tea towel and was twisting it back up again. I looked at him.
—Twenty minutes, I said.
My words came out quite firmly.
—Give us twenty minutes, Paul.
She had turned to him.
—Are you sure you are safe with him? Look at his eyes.
—I know him. Our fathers were best friends, she said.
—Okay, Una, I’ll go for twenty minutes, but I don’t want him here when I return.
He dropped the tea towel into the sink. It took him less than a minute to adjust the knob on the oven, and then he walked in front of me and whispered into her ear. Put his left arm low around her. She hooked her thumb into a back loop in his tan pants. He picked up his leather wallet and a bunch of keys from the counter and took his overcoat from behind the door and buttoned it all the way up. Then he picked up his umbrella and shook it and faced the door then turned.
—So this is how Irish neighbors behave. Melodrama is what this is, he said.
He banged the door. On the counter, tomatoes and a head of lettuce trembled. A finely chopped purple onion pile. The sizzling lamb. The sad scent of rosemary.
And the truth is that I forget so much of what she and I said.
—He’ll be back in fifteen minutes, she said that. —He will call the Guards if you are still here, that, too.
—But I can’t stand it, Una, I’m sorry, I can’t, I said that.
—Neither can I, but we have to go in different directions, Jim. For now we have to, she said that.
—Don’t say that. Why would you say that? I can’t stand it, can’t—
—Neither can I, but we’re better off this way, she said that.
—Three years, Una. Three, I said that.
And she came and reached her arms out and laid her hands gently on my shoulders. Then she turned her back and stepped away. Like she had touched her fingers to the roasting tray in the oven.
—He did that to me. When I was young, after Daddy died, she said that.
—Who and what are you talking about? I said something like that.
—Uncle Roger. My mother sent me over there with his clothes washed and ironed. His underpants, socks—the whole lot nicely folded. Seamus saw it all. It went on for months and months, Jim. Seamus followed me. He was so young then. I don’t know if he knew what was going on, but he’d follow behind me every time but never once came into Roger’s house. He’d stand at the corner of the window and watch in at us. And we never once talked about it. Never will. We rarely talk anyway. But I’d see the shadow of his head on the windowpane. Roger never knew Seamus was there. And Roger would press me against the kitchen wall and stretch my arms along the damp wall, and there was this frightful smell of diesel when he pressed his big hard belly into me. I’d turn my face away and he’d press his lips on my cheek, press them very hard, then he’d lick my cheek, Jim, my face in a vise between his lips and that damp wall, and he’d force his right hand down my skirt and shove his filthy fingers in. Christ—but that was when I could slap him, Jim. With my left hand, I did. But he’d step back, laugh and rub his cheek, smell his finger, and say, You have a fine left hand, Miss Una. But I have great use for it. And he’d laugh and say, All the time in the world, Miss Una. All the time in the world. That’s what he’d say, Jim—
I laid my hand on her arm. She stepped away.
—Go, Jim, will you please go, go before he arrives back.
—No. Look at me, Una. Won’t you look at me?
—I won’t, Jim. I want you to go away.
—But I don’t want to go—
—Please go away, Jim—
—I won’t go away, Una. I’ll never go away, I can’t stand it—
—But I want you to go, Jim. Listen to me. Just go.
—You’re a selfish bitch, Una, I said.
And I don’t remember leaving that flat, going down the stairs, through the hall, out the hall door, standing on the icy path, opening that stiff iron gate, and I don’t remember if I went left or right.
I never walked past or looked at that house again. Nor did I take the canal path, but walked to and from work by Clonliffe Road. And when I took the 16 bus into the city center I sat on the opposite side, though when I turned from watching the street I’d think she was sitting five or six seats up. A slender pale neck between a black hairline and a collar did it. And thick black unruly hair circling out from a crown did it. That person was sometimes a man, which was immaterial, but for about a year after my mother died, when I was walking Dublin footpaths, I’d see her walking toward me. Streets she never walked on, never knew existed. Vigorously making her way through a city crowd. Wearing her black Mass shoes and the plain black Sunday coat. Her black hair in a tight bun. The saintly head held high. And when we met I’d lift my arms and she’d lift hers in the same cautious way, and I’d say to her then what I’d never said in life. I’d say I was sorry for all of it. Sorry to be a part of it. And that I never meant one word of it.
11.
The day after Zoë and I drove Walter to the country, I came back from the bakery and rang Hannah. I asked how she was. Fine. I asked about the children. Fine. Have everything they want but they want more. I asked about the husband. Fine. Not enough hours in the week for all the work the French airline wants out of him. Plenty of overtime for everyone these days if people are not too lazy to take it.
—I painted the house from top to bottom.
—What color did you paint the corridor?
—The same shade of blue that it was—
—Any news for me?
—So, Jimmy, you didn’t hear about Seamus Lyons.
—Where would I hear it, Hannah?
—Seamus passed away in London over a month ago.
—Christ, Hannah.
Seamus going downhill with years. Family tried to intervene but Seamus would listen to none of them. Got mad into the drugs. On top of that he downed a bottle of vodka a day. On a good day more than one. But it was the drugs that did him in. Lost a new condo in a posh part of London. The condo worth a fortune. Lost a new car and the high-up job in the five-star hotel. Ended up on the streets. A few days went by
before the body was identified. They cremated him in London. Then an obituary in the Limerick Leader a week ago. A few lines saying Seamus had passed.
Hannah heard all this when she ran into a neighbor of Nora’s at the new shopping center in Limerick city.
—Ring Stephen and tell him, Jimmy, will you?
—I will, Hannah.
—I should have done it myself. I meant to do it, but I’m so busy. And I can’t get the times right. You remember them cycling the road on the bicycles they made from the scraps of other bicycles?
—I don’t know if I do, Hannah—
—Sure maybe you were gone by then.
—I’ll ring him—
—The phone won’t bite you, Jimmy. You can reverse the charges with me if you like, you know that.
—I know, Hannah. Sorry I haven’t rung in a while. Busy like yourself.
—Your own business, Jimmy, I know what you’re like, but you wouldn’t believe the changes around here. Big mansions going up along the road. Mansions and no one having children anymore. And everyone driving a brand-new car. And bypasses around every town. People going abroad twice a year for holidays. People buying summer places abroad. Can you believe that, Jimmy?
—Money’s good for the nerves, Hannah—
—And strangers everywhere, Jimmy. You never know who’s driving or walking the roads anymore. The Polish behind every counter. You never know a word they’re saying. And you have to check the change after—
—They have your religion, Hannah. Immigrants looking for work—
—You could never take a joke, Jimmy, that was always your problem, but I nearly forgot to tell you this one. Guess who’s back around again.
—No idea, Hannah.
—Una Lyons. She’s back, Jimmy. That’s what they’re saying, although no one has seen her, but about two months ago the cottage and the shed were bulldozed to the ground and Una’s mansion is going up in that spot. That’s what people are saying anyway. Una’s mansion’s what they’re calling it. The biggest one around. She must have the money to heat all them rooms. Or she must have a huge wardrobe. Wouldn’t surprise me one bit with her. From what I remember and hear about her. I drove by the place a few times. The walls already up—
—The silver birches, they’re gone, Hannah—
—Everything’s flattened, Jimmy, but making the dinner is what I need to be doing. He’ll be in the door from work any minute. And have to look at the cattle. Was out in the garden all day. The children are out there now playing. A lovely day for it. Everything turned out grand this year.
—But Tess and Anthony, so how are they?
—Tess gives out that you never ring her. Still does after all these years. She still doesn’t understand that’s the way you are. And she’s still afraid of her life to get on a plane, but did I tell you she broke up with her man?
—You didn’t. Kieran’s his name—
—That’s him. She was great with him for a good few years now. A nice fella. And she left the nursing job. Good for her that she can give up a job. She’s thinking of selling the house and she is going to her art classes for herself. And your older brother is fine. Auctioneers making rakes of money nowadays, so he’s rolling in it. Bought a new house down near Dunmanway. Paid to get an old farmhouse done up in the modern way. Haven’t gone down there to visit yet. Don’t know when we’ll have the time to do that—
—Christ, I should have rung Tess ages ago—
—Jimmy, you know what I think—
—What, Hannah?
—I think she’d be better off if she was married and had a few children. She doesn’t know what to be doing with herself. Too into herself, she is, but I put flowers on the graves last week—
—You ever hear a word about Kevin Lyons, Hannah?
—I heard he got married again, but not for very long. In the front door and straight out the back door with him. Nora’s neighbor must have told me that. Who else. But they say the family is taking Seamus very hard. Nora hasn’t put her head outside the door since she came home from the cremation in London, but the neighbors are very good to her like—
—I should let you go, Hannah, I don’t want to hold you up, but I’ll ring soon again—
—But you’ll ring Stephen for me—
—I’ll ring him, Hannah. I’ll do it now.
—You promise me, Jimmy.
—I said I will, didn’t I—
—It’s always lovely to hear your Yankee accent—
—Don’t forget to tell himself and the children I asked for them.
—I’ll do that, Jimmy. They’ll be glad to hear that you’re still in the land of the living.
I sat in the chair and lit one of the two joints the mother at the bakery gave me that morning. Nora grew flowers on the two front windowsills of the cottage. A rosebush grew on the right side of the path leading to the door. Red petals scattered on the glassy uneven flagstones. The leaves of the silver birches in the sunlight shone like tinfoil. And the blue corridor was a bright blue. Your mother chose that color because of the poor light. I got up and stood at the screen door. The sun shone brightly on the grass. Squirrels playacted in the evergreen trees. The traffic rolled along Huron. Around this time yesterday he was standing at the corner, clutching the robbed flowers. He had no clue then what he was about to discover. I turned from the screen door and took another hit. Then I lowered the music and rang Stephen.
The twins were going to the kindergarten down the street. Just walk them down around the corner. They talked like fucking Aussies. Talk exactly like their mother. Bought a piano last week. Secondhand but in fine condition. Put a new roof on the house last weekend. Friends from Glasgow and Derry helped out along with friends from Auckland, Berlin, and Tel Aviv. So the roof was on in no time. Then a barbecue that night that went on into the small hours. Played and sang the old songs and smoked. Neighbors came over. Backyard barely big enough to fit everyone. Sharon’s family visited from Canberra. Sharon got a promotion in the job. Now one of the head salespersons.
—But no word from you in a very long time. So what’s new, Jimmy?
—Watching squirrels, Stephen, but I was talking to Hannah. I do have news, and it’s not good.
—I thought there must be a reason why you rang. Nothing to do with family.
—No, not them—
—That’s good to hear. I’m feeding the twins. Say hello to the girls.
He put Katelyn and Aisling on the phone.
—Say hello to your uncle Jimmy in the USA.
—Hello there. Is your dad behaving himself? Do you like the new piano?
The kids mumbled for a few seconds. Then they pleaded to watch television. He told them they were to go outside to the backyard and play on the swings. The fresh air was good for them. He spent two weekends putting up them swings, so they should make good use of them. Swings don’t grow on trees like the lemons do. He had to chat with their uncle. Their mother would be home soon. She was getting ice cream, and they could eat it if they did what they were told. Have to chat with his brother for a while. Didn’t hear from him that often.
—They do sound like Aussies, I said.
—I know. I’m opening a beer. I’ve just finished feeding them. They’re always fucking ravenous—
—But the not-good news, Stephen. Seamus Lyons died in London. He was into drugs. The hard ones. He was doing very well—
—I’m putting the phone in my pocket, Jimmy. I’ll put it on the loudspeaker. I have to keep an eye on the girls.
A glass, a cup, or a plate crashed in a sink. A few notes from the piano and feet crossing a wooden floor. A door sliding open. The girls laughing. They were on the swings. He was pushing them. Higher, Daddy! Higher! Higher! He told them to make sure they were holding on to the ropes. This went on for a few minutes before he said that was enough of the
swings for one day. Their mother would be home soon. Home with the ice cream. Did he already say that? Why don’t they kick the soccer ball around. Kick it, but not too hard. Had to talk to their uncle. Chat with his older brother.
—Sharon is working all the time, Jimmy. When she comes home she’s knackered. She eats her dinner, drinks a beer, takes a shower, says a few words to the girls, and hits the bed. I bathe the girls. I make their lunches. How’s Hannah?
—She’s fine. Her kids are fine. The husband is making good money. You know the economy there is flying—
—I need to ring her, Jimmy. Sharon sent her a card three weeks ago. Hannah posts things for the kids. Clothes and sweets. We give the clothes to the Goodwill. Sharon would like the kids not to be within five miles of sweets—
—Sorry to be the one to tell you about Seamus. I don’t know if you were ever in touch with him—
—Not since Manchester. That’s the last time. So years ago. He came up from London one weekend. He was acting wild, wild like we were when we were younger, but I knew Seamus could be wild, and he was mad wanting coke. And I kept telling him I knew nothing about coke, well, I did, but I didn’t want to be near coke myself, and so we were out in a bar, and that was where things went wrong, Jimmy. There was this good band playing. They were playing the Irish songs. The old fucking songs. And Seamus was telling me he didn’t talk to Tommy anymore. The two of them worked in different hotels and never saw each other. Tommy changed more into going to Mass than he was even into Mass at home. He found a church in Shepherd’s Bush and became a minister of the Eucharist—
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