‘Jesus, of course I’m sure,’ Tony said. ‘This is a big deal, Conor. You’re going to be a dad! Congratulations, boy. Hey, I’m going to be an uncle!’
‘I know, I know. I still can’t take it in. I don’t know where to start,’ Conor said.
‘Well, how are ye getting on? Are ye okay? How was the match?’ Tony said.
‘The match was weird; she didn’t know what to make of it. She was distracted half the time and I can see why, now.’
‘Do you mind me asking why you brought her?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Conor said, gathering his thoughts. ‘I just wanted her to see what it was like.’ He heard the repeated clicking of a lighter and pictured Tony lighting up a cigarette. The sweet hit of that first pull of smoke.
‘Well, hurling was always your thing. Uncle Billy made sure of that.’
Conor thought back to Billy’s small house in Mahon, with its green and gold front door – The Rockies’ colours. The feeling of ease there, chatting while his uncle read the Echo, fried sausages or weeded his potatoes, carrots and onions. In stark contrast to the unrelenting tension in his own home – the silences and the constant expectations, the spiteful comments and the power-base enforcing them.
He remembered his first All-Ireland final, in 1990, the year of the double, against Galway, and he only eight. Listening, rapt, to Billy’s and his friends’ stories in the car. The smell of the beer in the pubs. All the people packed so closely together in The Cusack. Billy holding his hand in the crowd. His mother fussing when he got home so late.
‘Yeah, well, it was a crap match, not that it matters,’ Conor said.
‘Fuck, no, a win’s a win. Sully did the biz, in fairness. Culloty too.’
‘Yeah, he’s some man. We were in right trouble until he turned it around. Where’d you watch it?’
‘We went over to some dive bar in Brooklyn. Total kip, but it was a good laugh. How was Dad? Did ye meet them?’
‘We did, yeah. He was fine. Lost a bit of weight, maybe.’
‘And the Parkinson’s?’
‘About the same, I’d say. Not much wrong with him, he was chatting up Sarah at one stage.’
‘You’re joking.’
‘Looked like it, anyway.’
‘How did he get on at the match? With all the walking and everything,’ Tony said.
‘Fine, I’d say.’
‘You didn’t bring him?’
‘No, no. I think he got a taxi. I wanted to walk.’
‘Jesus, Conor, he’s sick. You could have brought him,’ Tony said.
‘Why? Why the fuck should I? He never brought me, did he?’
‘Alright, alright, calm down.’
‘Yeah, sorry, but why should I? He never brought us anywhere, Tony. It was always Billy. Bringing us to matches, fishing, to the greyhounds. And Mam, bringing us down to Kerry. He was never around, and when he was–’
‘Yeah, well, he was busy. He was working. He … I don’t know. He probably did the best he could.’
‘Did the best he could? You know what he put Mam through, you know about the women, about him trying it on with Cliona!’
‘I know, I know all that but can’t we just …’ Tony’s voice tailed off with a soft exhalation.
‘Fuck’s sake, Tony. You always take his side.’
‘Jesus Christ, Conor, it’s over, it’s done with, right?’
Conor had slid down, his back against the kitchen presses, his fist pushed hard into his forehead, his elbows pressed against his thighs. He squeezed his eyes shut. He could hear his breaths come quick and harsh.
‘Let’s not do this again, Conor. Okay? Tonight, especially. Okay?’
‘Okay,’ Conor said, in a pained whisper. He stood and looked towards the bedroom. ‘Alright. Alright.’
‘Did he drive to Dublin?’ Tony said.
‘No. Carole and Jim drove them up.’
‘Right. Hey, how did Mam get on with Sarah? Did she tell her all about the “lovely summers in Derrynane”?’
‘She did, all right. Jesus, her and Derrynane,’ Conor said.
Neither of them spoke for a time. Conor could hear the ambient sounds of a Manhattan sidewalk. There was live music playing nearby. Blues.
‘Anyway, back to this baby,’ Tony said. ‘Mam is going to be delighted. She’ll be over on the next plane. “Now, Sarah, you’re to get plenty of rest and I’ll cook dinner tonight. We’ll have lasagne and some garlic bread and a glass of wine. Well, you won’t be having any wine, obviously.”’
‘You’re right. I’ll hold off a month or two before I tell her; Sarah said the first twelve weeks are tricky, anyway.’
‘Yeah, maybe just as well. How is Sarah, by the way? Is she okay about it? Is everything fine?’
‘Yeah, yeah, she seems fine, she’s only a few weeks gone. She’s not sick or anything – yet, anyway. She’s getting a scan during the week.’
His mouth was dry. He lifted the glass and drank some water.
‘I just don’t know what’s going to happen,’ he said.
‘How do you mean?’
‘I mean, I don’t know if she’s … I wasn’t planning on getting married and all that.’ He looked at the bedroom door. ‘But I want to be there for the child. I don’t want to leave my son or my daughter without a father – that’s for fucking sure.’
‘Course you don’t, Conor. Course you don’t. But that’s not enough of a reason to get married, either. No way, boy.’
‘I don’t know, I have to think about it.’
‘Yeah, but don’t rush into anything. Play it by ear for a while. See how it goes. Give yourself a break too; this is a major surprise. A lot to take in, like.’
‘Yeah. She told me at the final whistle. After we won.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Yeah, she just blurted it out, right there in the middle of the Premium section of the Hogan. But now I’m not so sure.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s like she had it planned or something.’ Conor relived the moment: Sarah clutching her bag, her eyes wild and fearful as he moved to hold her. Almost yelping out the words: ‘I’m pregnant.’
‘Yeah.’ He sighed. ‘I think she did it deliberately, too. That she got pregnant on purpose. This isn’t like her at all.’
‘Hold on, hold on. What did she say? Why do you think that?’
‘It’s just, she’s been on to me about settling down and moving in with me for a while. She’s always complaining about her job, how she’d love to quit. I don’t know.’ He pushed his fingers and thumb against his forehead.
‘Is that all? Sure women are always doing that. Jesus, I was only going out with Maria for a month and she was talking about weddings. Everybody complains about their job. Fuck’s sake, I’d quit mine in the morning if I could afford it.’
‘I know, I know, but I don’t think I’m wrong about this. I dunno. And the funny thing is: I’ve just been offered a promotion in Shanghai, a partnership, heading up Asia-Pacific.’
‘Fuck. What are you going to do?’
‘I don’t know.’
Conor walked back into the living room, poured more wine and sat on the sofa by the window. The reflection he saw in the glass was that of his father and he resented the likeness.
He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. He bowed his head and closed his eyes.
‘Conor? Are you there?’
‘Yeah, yeah, I’m here.’ He felt the teardrop on his lip before he knew he was crying. He put down the glass and wiped his cheeks. He sniffled.
‘You okay, bro? You alright, boy? Conor?’
‘Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. I was thinking of Billy,’ Conor said. ‘How much he’d have loved today.’ He wiped his nose with the back of his hand.
‘He would have,’ Tony said.
‘Anyway, the other thing is, I’m getting counselling. I think I’m suffering from depression. No, I am suffering from depression. So, I’m going to a psychotherapist,’ Conor s
aid. ‘And a lot of stuff is coming up. She’s working with me to be able to accept my past and open up.’ He turned the wine glass on the table. ‘Be present in the moment.’
‘Is it doing you good?’ Tony said. ‘Do you feel better?’
‘A bit. But I think it’ll take a while.’
‘Well, that’s good. Sure half of New York are going to therapists. Must be something in it,’ Tony said.
Conor thought about Billy again. In the Mercy Hospital, before he died. His raggedy striped pyjamas hanging off him like something out of Auschwitz. In the end, Conor had to read the match reports from the Irish Examiner to him, when the cancer took even the energy to lift the newspaper. Never a complaint or a bitter word. His only worry about his garden, his little garden.
His father hardly ever visiting his own fucking brother. All tears then at the funeral, chief mourner. In … out. In … out.
‘What can you buy, when you cash in your store of resentments?’ Julie had asked him. In that cosy little room in Chelsea where he emptied out his messed-up head in front of her. Four full days to his next appointment – that’ll be a humdinger.
He heard the honking of a downtown cab over the phone. He had stood outside Molloy’s many’s the time with Tony, having a smoke and a laugh with the transvestites. That balmy New York city night air.
‘You know what?’ he said. Tony did not reply.
‘If I had a choice between Billy getting cancer and Dad getting cancer, I’d have picked Dad.’
‘Jesus Christ, Conor. Don’t. Just don’t. Go to bed now. We’ll talk tomorrow.’
‘Yeah, but why should we have to emigrate while he gets to stay at home?’
‘We emigrated because there were no jobs.’
‘We emigrated because of him, Tony. To get away from him as quick as we fucking could. Don’t kid yourself, boy.’
‘Jesus, Conor. I don’t know.’ Tony sighed. ‘For fuck’s sake, today of all days.’
Conor cleared his throat.
‘Part of my therapy is to say to somebody that I love them,’ he said. ‘So, I love you, boy; I just wanted to say that.’
‘I love you too, bro. Of course I do. A lot of people love you, you know.’
‘I know. I often say their names out loud when I’m trying to go to sleep.’
‘Oh, Conor.’
In: A new beginning; Out: A letting go.
In: A new beginning; Out: A setting free.
‘Conor, can you ring that therapist at night? Could you ring her now?’
‘No, no, I’m fine. I’m fine. I’ll go to bed now.’
‘And will you stop drinking? You’re not on medication, are you?’
‘No. No medication, thank God. Just the wine. Been a long day.’ He sniffled. He laughed and said, ‘I’m like a fucking baby.’
‘That’s okay too. Hey, we’re not going to forget this All-Ireland, that’s for sure.’
‘Sully’s scoring goals, he’s scoring goals.’
‘Yeah, Sully did the biz. You sure you’re okay?’
‘I am. I am. Just a bit wrecked.’
‘Okay. You get some sleep, alright?’ Tony said. ‘What time do you get up? Will you text me when you get up?’
‘I get up around 6:15. I’ll text you then. I’m fine, honestly. I’m fine. Bye, Tony.’
He killed the connection. He glanced towards the bedroom door.
He picked up the passport again. He opened it – in that photo he always thought he looked more like Billy.
An image came to him. Of himself hand-in-hand with a small boy approaching the Hogan Stand. The boy has fair hair and wears a red jersey. Standing on Jones’ Road, fans streaming past them, the boy lifts his face up and says something. Conor bends down and answers. They walk towards the entrance.
He thought about weekends in Cork, bringing him home to matches to watch The Rockies and learn about his roots. Bringing him to Kerry, teaching him to swim. He’ll surely get weekend custody and holiday rights.
He rose and put the passport into the bottom drawer of a chest beside the TV. He would explain things to Sir Richard at their one-to-one on Tuesday – that now was not the time for Shanghai.
He stood to his full height and moved towards the window. Right up to the glass, just far enough away that his breath didn’t condense on it. He looked at his reflection in the window. He stood there, looking.
Ours
Sean parades the cup with his teammates around an emptying Croke Park. He looks into the thinned-out stand for a particular face. A tall man with grey hair. A narrow face. He is surprised at himself.
The relief is overwhelming – he didn’t mess it up. He can’t believe they actually won, but why is he thinking about that man now, of all times? And why was he thinking about him before the match too, in the dressing room?
He is nabbed by somebody from RTÉ to do an interview. When the interviewer mentions meeting Michael and Anne after the game he is suddenly emotional. The look in his dad’s wet eyes when he was going to collect the cup. The feel of stubble on his cheek, the smell of whiskey from his breath. He knows he’ll remember that touch, that smell, forever.
He does the sit-down press interview and answers the usual questions, saying as little as possible, as he had been trained to do by the PR people. He wants to shove it into them, to remind them that not one of them picked Cork to win today; it was going to be the Cillian McMahon show. But he holds back. They’re not worth it.
His head hurts; he must get something from Doctor Ned.
One of the Croke Park ushers reminds him of Evelyn; she is small and pale in her purple waistcoat and skirt.
On the week before going back to school, into first class, Sean’s father told him to come into the kitchen, that they wanted to have a talk with him. A talk. As he entered the kitchen, he tried to think of what he had done. He knew there was something very wrong when he saw his mother’s face. It was all blotchy and red like the time of Granny Frances’s funeral.
There was a ham sandwich and a glass of milk on the kitchen table. The crust of the bread had been cut off, the way he liked it. Normally his mother made him eat it. ‘It will put hair on your chest.’ He sat at the table but he couldn’t take a bite of the food, nor a sup of the drink. He swallowed.
His father pulled out a chair and sat opposite him. His mother stood by the cooker, her arms folded, facing them. She was gripping a tea towel in her right hand. She had been drying up when he came in.
‘Sean,’ his father said, in a low voice. There was something like sadness in his eyes, and Sean thought there was going to be very bad news. The word cancer came to the forefront of his mind. His friend Seamus’s mother died from cancer at Christmas and the idea had run wild inside his head ever since.
‘You know about the facts of life now, how a baby is made,’ Michael said. ‘And you know what the word adoption means, don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ Sean whispered.
‘Well, Sean, your mother and I adopted you when you were a small baby. You see, we wanted to have children ourselves, to have someone to love and take care of, a little boy or girl. But, well, we couldn’t, we couldn’t have children ourselves, and the doctors tried everything but it wasn’t possible. So,’ he said, sighing. ‘You know that we love you very much and we always will. But we aren’t your birth parents. We didn’t have you ourselves. We …’ Michael looked at Anne, pleading, as if for help.
Sean stared at his father and burst into tears. His mother was upon him.
‘We love you, Sean, you know that, don’t you? Just as much as if you were our own flesh and blood. You’re ours. You know that, don’t you? You’re ours,’ she said.
‘I do,’ Sean sobbed into her breast. ‘I do. I thought, I thought …’
His father put his big hand on Sean’s forearm and gave it a squeeze.
‘It’s okay, Sean. It’s okay. What did you think?’ Michael said.
‘I thought one of you had cancer. I thought that’s what you were
going to say.’
Michael and Anne laughed.
‘Cancer!’ Michael said.
‘It’s not funny! Seamus’s mam got cancer and died. It’s not funny!’
His mother sat by his side. She put her arm around him.
‘We know it isn’t, love. We don’t have cancer, we’re both fine. We just wanted you to know about the adoption. In case you heard about it from somebody else. And we wanted you to know how much we love you and that we’d do anything for you. Anything at all.’
Sean cried again.
‘I know, I know,’ he said, blubbing. He picked up one of the sandwiches.
Michael and Anne looked at each other. Michael smiled palely. Anne’s eyes filled with tears.
Sean scans the crowd in the high tunnel outside the dressing room when the team comes out to get on the bus, amid a frenzy of backslapping and hugging and selfies.
Would he really turn up, just like that? Or both of them? Now, of all times? That they would just be standing there, or walk up to him or something? And if they do, what will he say? What will he do?
The team boards the bus in the tunnel and he scrolls through the contacts on his phone. There it is, under T: Tim Collins. He had gotten it from Paul O’Neill, the physio, a few weeks before. He stares at it for a long time. It looks just like an ordinary phone number.
He ignores all the messages and WhatsApps and Tweets and texts and puts the phone back in his suit pocket when the bus leaves the tunnel under the Cusack Stand and moves through the dispersing crowd. He goes to the front of the bus, takes the cup off Jack Cashman and waves it to the fans who clap and smile.
Mick Crilly starts up ‘The Banks’ and they all join in. Sean passes the cup to Kevin Keane and sits back down.
He takes the phone out of his pocket again. He looks at the name and number. The bus picks up speed on the Ballybough Road, heading towards the river. He takes a deep breath and tries to think what he should say. Cork supporters cheer along the road, waving their red and white colours.
The lads sing ‘Amore’ now and Goggsie walks up and down the aisle, orchestrating. They’re belting it out; even Jimmy Mac and Dinny Young are singing. Sean smiles and joins in.
The First Sunday in September Page 16