Getting it in the Head

by Mike McCormack

  ‘A total and utter disaster,’ he had opined grimly. ‘Do they not know the damage extensive mining could do to an area like this? All that pounding and grinding down of rock, not to mention the amount of cyanide needed to wash it.’

  These words marked Dad’s entry into public life. Later, he had become something of a local hero when, as head of the anti-mining lobby, he had taken their case through the length and breadth of the legal system and finally, in the Supreme Court, wrung a concession from the government to ban all mining in the area till well into the next millennium. Till the arrival of the telescope the geological map had hung on the wall, a frayed monument to his tenacity and that glorious victory for local democracy.

  The day the telescope arrived the map was taken down without ceremony and replaced with colour plates from The Philips Book of Astronomy. The pages of the book covered the entire wall between the kitchen sink and the window facing onto the backyard. From his place at the head of the table, Dad had a full view of the entire northern sky, its planets and constellations, nebulae and meteors. The room itself seemed to open out into space now, out into those far galaxies where the stellar winds blew and the music of the spheres chimed. The visionary in Dad was well pleased with the effect.

  After the wall was papered he took the telescope onto the flat roof of the garage and bolted down the tripod against the winds that blew in from the sea. He then switched off the light in the yard and spent a long time peering through the lens, sweeping back and forth through the heavens and taking down notes with the help of a flashlight in one of my foolscaps. Mom and I just looked at each other and shrugged; Dad had another bee in his bonnet, no doubt we’d find out about it soon enough.

  One evening, after some time writing and scanning, he came into the sitting-room and called Mom out to the garage. I watched from the kitchen window and saw them talking at the foot of the ladder that led onto the roof. Evidently Dad wanted her to climb up. I saw Mom protest, a look of consternation on her face. She was pointing to her swollen tummy. She turned to come back to the house but Dad grabbed her wrist and seemed to plead some more with her, holding her face between his hands and leaning his forehead onto hers until she finally relented. She mounted the ladder cautiously, making her way heavily, rung by rung with Dad behind her, his hand on her waist. When they were together on the roof he stood close to her and swept his hand over the sky, pointing out constellations and vivid stars, then finally bringing it to rest open-palmed against one sector of the heavens. He kept it there and talked closely to her for a few minutes, his mouth almost on her ear. Then she turned and kissed him deeply, embracing him tightly for a long moment. What was going on? I was then mortified to see Dad stand behind her and lift up her sweater and T-shirt, exposing her swollen bump to the night sky. She leaned back into his arms with her eyes closed and he continued to stroke her exposed flesh. I turned from the window, deeply embarrassed.

  When Mom came in minutes later she was smiling and shaking her head, looking real pleased. She saw my agitation. ‘That man is daft,’ she said. ‘Pure daft. As daft as a ha’penny watch.’

  ‘What’s he doing?’ I could hardly contain myself.

  ‘You’d better ask him yourself. Coming from me it would sound crazy, coming from him it just sounds daft. A good daftness though,’ she said. ‘The daftness of love.’ Her smile broadened now over her entire face – she was gently enjoying my disadvantage. ‘Go out and ask him.’

  On the roof Dad was taking down more notes. I didn’t know how he stuck the cold – I cursed for not wearing a jacket. The night was clear and the sky glistened heavily; I could hear the sea booming onto the pier a quarter mile distant. To the west I could see the lights of Louisburgh, our little town.

  ‘Dad, what the hell are you looking at?’ I sounded gruffer than I felt.

  ‘What does it look like I’m looking at?’ He spoke without lifting his head from the copy.

  ‘You can’t be just looking at the stars.’

  ‘That’s true,’ he said, ‘I’m not. I’m not looking at, I’m looking for; I’m looking for your sister.’ He was looking at me now without a trace of mockery.

  ‘I didn’t know that the stork flew at night; besides, it would be four months early.’

  He ignored my witticism and left down his copy.

  ‘Have you ever thought of how much death there is in the world?’

  I swallowed hard. I hated these man-to-man talks. I remembered a similar feeling of trepidation as a ten-year-old when Dad had tried to instruct me in the facts of life. That discussion had been abandoned by mutual consent after a few minutes, when it became obvious that I, a voracious and indiscriminate reader, knew more about the ins and outs, dead ends and cul-de-sacs of twentieth-century sexuality than he did himself.

  ‘Why should I think about dying? I’m only sixteen. I don’t plan on dying for sixty years yet.’

  ‘You’re dead right,’ he said. ‘It would be a sorry theme for a young man your age. But I think a lot about it myself.’

  I was worried by the turn the conversation had taken. I could see that Dad was going to climb onto one of his soapboxes.

  ‘What is the greatest gift that one person can give to another? It says in the Bible, John’s Gospel if I’m not mistaken, that no greater gift can a man give than to lay down his life for a friend. A typically martyred view of friendship, a curious inversion, having your friend shoulder the burden of your death. I say that the greatest gift is life and that there can be no greater gift than infinite life. So that is what I am going to give your sister – immortality, a place with the gods. I’m going to have a star named after her.’

  ‘I’m lost, I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.’

  He pointed to the heavens. ‘Over twenty-five years ago the Voyager space probe set out to map the Neptune and Pluto systems. It has now gone beyond those systems, out onto the margins of new galaxies where it has discovered new stars and planetary systems, so many in fact that NASA has a problem finding names for all of them; the old mythologies have been exhausted. A new programme has been launched whereby ordinary people can nominate someone instead. The only criterion is that they have to be dead and distinguished people. So, I’m going to have one of those new stars named after her.’

  ‘But she’s not even born yet, never mind dead.’ I felt uneasy talking about my sister like this – fate was being tempted, I felt.

  ‘That’s true,’ he said. ‘But when she is born there will be a star there for her carrying her name.’

  ‘But I thought she had to be dead and distinguished. They’re not going to hold a star aside for her till she does something with her life.’

  ‘That’s true. What we’re going to do is make a few nominations and see what happens at the end of the year when the first names are published.’

  I quickly saw the flaw in that. ‘But that’s getting it back to front: you’re naming the child after the star, not the other way around.’

  He shook his head. ‘Not at all. The nominees are published at the end of this year, six months after your sister is born. They do not name the stars officially until the new year. All we have to do is pick a name from the list of nominees and we can be pretty sure that the child will have a star all to herself. Besides, it’s not a matter of chronology – the child, the living being, has priority over the star no matter what the naming sequence.’

  ‘And all this will give her more life?’

  ‘Yes indeed. Up there in the company of gods and angels, deep in the bosom of the goddess Nut, a talent for eternity is bound to rub off on her. She will live forever, I have no doubt of that.’

  I was stunned in disbelief. I no longer felt the cold. I had heard Dad come out with some prize nonsense in his time but right then he was setting a new standard.

  ‘Well, what do you think of the idea?’

  I gave it to him straight, a mixture of anger and disbelief. ‘I think it’s a load of bollocks. I’ve never heard such sh
ite in all my life. Why can’t we just name her after Mom?’

  ‘It’s no use naming her after Mom. Mom is having her life now and your sister will have hers. You have to remember that a name is more than a handle – it’s a pathway, a route. We have to be careful how we go.’

  ‘Do you have any idea then what you intend to call her?’

  ‘No, I haven’t given it much thought yet. But there are bound to be plenty of names: nineteenth-century writers, politicians, scientists and so on. The options are wide open,’ he said breezily. ‘Can you think of anything off-hand yourself?’

  ‘No, nothing comes to mind, I think I’ll leave it up to you. You seem to have it all figured out.’

  He continued taking down notes and I left him shortly after.

  So, for the next four months Dad kept an eye on the heavens. With the aid of his wall map and navigating carefully between constellations he got a fix on the general area of the star’s location. It lay directly overhead at the farthest reach of the sky, a tiny spark of light harboured within the cusp of the Corona Borealis. I could not distinguish it from any of the other stars that thronged the vicinity but, as usual, Dad knew no doubt.

  Six weeks before the birth he began his letter writing campaign, sending off hundreds of nominations covering a handful of eminent women, using names and addresses he lifted from the telephone book – he wanted no one suspecting that there was a concerted campaign. I was persuaded eventually to send off a few of my own, more to keep him happy than anything else. I still had my doubts.

  I watched Mom carefully. Now that she was carrying this celestial being I half expected her to take on a kind of starry radiance, a numinous glow. But I saw no change in her whatsoever – she maintained the lush beauty of her pregnancy and her ankles remained visibly swollen right up to the end. She did, however, develop a ferocious thirst. A continual supply of clear water from a nearby spring was always on hand, particularly at night when she sat watching telly. Glass after glass she drank until finally Dad brought the bucket in and left it between her feet. She dipped her glass into it as the night wore on, lowering its level by a truly jaw-dropping amount.

  ‘She’ll thank me for this later when she has nice clear skin,’ she said.

  My sister is now six months old and she has yet to be baptized. In the meantime we call her ‘The Child’ and we’re comfortable with it. But it’s something of a scandal in our village and people have begun to talk.

  Last week the parish priest came to our house, something I can never remember happening before. He sat for two hours in the kitchen, beating around the bush with useless gossip and drinking enough tea to drown a man of lesser perseverance. Mom put him out of his misery by assuring him finally that yes, The Child would indeed be baptized, it was just a matter of time, a few more weeks. What she did not reveal was that we were waiting for the list of published nominees from NASA. I don’t think he would have understood.

  To pass the days we spend our time speculating over The Child’s cradle, lowering names gently onto her sleeping form, seeing how they fit. I’ve always wanted to be able to sing but since I’m nearly tone deaf a singing sister would be next best thing. Therefore, I’m holding out for Maria Callas: Maria Callas Monk. I had wanted Janis Joplin but I’m smart enough to know that her death is too recent and troubled, not highbrow enough. The philanthropist in Dad has his hopes pinned on – believe it or not – Emily Pankhurst; Emily Pankhurst Monk, another piece of daftness. I don’t think he has a hope with it, however. Mom says nothing, she just lets us get on with it, but I think we both know that her choice will be decisive.

  But what’s strangest of all is that I think Dad may have started something. Last night I saw him on the roof with a couple of newly-weds. They stood close together with their arms around each other, the young woman holding her skirt down in the breeze. These December skies are huge and jewel-strewn. Dad had just finished mounting the telescope and he was starting to point out the heavens.

  I could have sworn I heard my jaw hitting the floor. I had no need to look at myself to know that my eyes were definitely out on stalks. I had heard him talk some crazed shit in his time but right then he’d said something which sailed beyond the bounds of all reason. I mean this was an idea from a different planet, a different language. He was sitting there in a three-quarter-length chiffon skirt with his hair falling over a V-neck blouse which reached to his thighs. Black tights and ten-hole Docs completed the ensemble. This was my brother Pete, newly arrived on my doorstep with a jar of synthetic oestrogen and a desire from hell: he was after telling me that he planned to grow a pair of tits.

  ‘I can grow them here in peace and quiet,’ he elaborated calmly as he sat down, turning the jar of pills over in his hands. ‘A nice 32B, taking into account my svelte figure. I don’t want udders, just a nice demure pair to finish off this Pre-Raphaelite look, nothing too concupiscent.’

  The room reeled before me and I grasped the table for support.

  ‘What the hell are you talking about, Pete, just what the hell are you talking about?’

  ‘Well, you don’t expect me to grow them at home, do you?’ he snorted derisively. ‘A nice how-de-do that’d be. I have it difficult enough there without making it any harder for myself.’

  I was making an effort to keep in control.

  ‘When did all this happen, this idea about tits – breasts – Jesus, and where did you get those clothes from?’

  ‘The clothes are yours, from your old wardrobe. There’s not much of a selection but I like these.’

  The room reeled a couple more degrees and I gripped the table tighter. Pete crossed his legs and the skirt fell away to his knee, exposing the curve of his thigh. I closed my eyes and breathed deep, trying to get a grip.

  ‘And if you grow breasts is that going to be it? I mean, how far are you going to take it? Do you know just how far you want to take it?’

  ‘I don’t know. Look, I haven’t got a lifetime supply of these tabs, only about another three months. I’ve been taking them since November so the effects are due to kick in any day now. When breasts start to grow it will take them about two months to fully form. So that’s all I want – two months here, three at the max, just time enough to get the feel of them, so to speak. Then I’ll see how it goes, if I want to hang onto them or take it further. Either way I’ll be out of your hair in a few months. Promise.’

  ‘But Pete, Galway isn’t Amsterdam or Rio. Men don’t wander about in broad daylight cultivating breasts under Aran sweaters.’

  ‘Who knows me here, Amy? No one, I’ve no friends here, I’m not likely to embarrass anyone. I don’t even know your friends, you’ve made sure of that.’

  Oh, I saw it all then, or I thought I did – the cunning of the bastard.

  ‘Oh, so that’s it, so that’s what this is all about,’ I snarled. ‘Some stupid plan to come here and make me feel guilty for getting out, for leaving the only son at home to look after his parents and some crappy little farm. Well, fuck you and your little guilt trips, fuck you.’

  I was well angered. I took a short turn around the table to calm down, I was breathing heavily. Pete was looking at me with a raised eyebrow.

  ‘No, Amy, this isn’t some guilt trip. I’m going to say it for the last time – I’m not jealous of the way you got out and left it all behind you. I could have done the same. Remember, Amy, I was the bright one. But I didn’t leave because I didn’t want to. Strange and all as it is, I love the home place. I love the fields and the animals, the cows and the sheep and the pissing rain and everything about it. And I want it; I want to see it grow, I’ve got plans for the place and I want to see it thrive. But I’m here now because I want to do this one thing also and this is the only place I can go. Where else can I go to?’

  I sat down, momentarily defeated.

  ‘I don’t understand, Pete, I just don’t understand. Growing breasts, for Christ’s sake. I’d known you were gay but …’

  It was his turn to
pounce. ‘You knew it in your head, Amy, just the way you know that liberal some-of-my-best-friends-are-gay shit, but you never knew it in your heart. When you were faced with it in your own brother you just fobbed it off like it was some sort of sexual fad. You weren’t one bit supportive, you just turned your back and walked away.’

  ‘It was a shock to me.’

  ‘It was a fucking shock to me too,’ he yelled suddenly, losing his temper. ‘There aren’t many role models for the likes of me in west Mayo, in case you haven’t noticed.’ He quieted down then and continued. ‘Amy, we’re not here to talk about me being queer, that’s all out in the open. I just got on with it and made the best of it. I took the abuse and the stupid jokes and pretended not to notice that parents walked out of shops with their kids whenever I entered. But now that you’ve brought the subject up, I’d like an explanation. You were the cosmopolitan one, Amy, the one with the university education and degrees, and what did you do? You turned your back and walked away – my twin sister. How did you think that made me feel?’

  I sighed and stroked my forehead. I could feel a momentous headache coming on.

  ‘I know I let you down, Pete. I know I did and I’m sorry for it. But even with all that, how is growing breasts going to make it any better?’

  ‘It’s not going to make anything better, Amy, it’s not about making anything better. I want to grow breasts because I want to grow breasts. That’s all there is to it.’

  ‘No,’ I said, waving my hands. ‘No, that’s not all there is to it. You don’t just up and decide one day at the drop of a hat that you want to grow tits.’ I winced immediately when I realized my awkwardness.

  ‘Thank you, Amy, that old lump-hammer sensitivity again. Amy, this isn’t some drop-of-the-hat decision as you so sensitively put it. I’ve wanted breasts since I was a teenager. It didn’t make sense to me at first, I thought I was crazy. It was only when I started coming out and seeing how different I was that it made any sense. Wanting breasts was always part of me.’