Shadows & Tall Trees 7

by Michael Kelly

  “Oh, no, I’ve given up.”

  “So have I! Many times!” Laughter. And out from a plain wooden box on the table two cigarettes, and they are the whitest Max’s mother has ever seen. She knows as she accepts a light that it’s a mistake, she hasn’t smoked in years—how long, not since Max was born, she gave up when she was pregnant! She used to enjoy smoking, that’s something else Max has taken away from her. She prepares to cough. The cigarette is just as smooth as the wine. She recognises the smell, where does she know that from? It smells like the scent on the birthday invitation.

  And she stands there, drinking and puffing away, and on she babbles. “So, do you live here all alone, Mrs…? I mean, with Nicky, all alone. Is there a Mr…?”

  “How is Maxwell getting on at school?”

  “Oh. You know.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Good at some subjects. Bad at others! You know!”

  “Yes.”

  She’s somehow finished her glass. She’s poured another one.

  “He’s not an unkind boy,” she says. “He never was. There’s nothing wrong with him. I think. I just wish. I just wish he could be a bit more likeable.”

  “Likeable, yes.”

  “The way your son is likeable. Nicky, I mean, he’s obviously very likeable.”

  “Nicky has always had a certain charm.”

  “You see, you’re lucky! If it is luck. I don’t know, maybe likeable is something you can work at. Maybe being better is just something you can make yourself be. I don’t know. I just look at Max sometimes and think … You had such promise. Right at the beginning. Right when you were born. And then you just got worse and worse. What’s that about? Like something went wrong, and I never noticed, and I didn’t fix it in time, and now it’s too late. But maybe it’ll sort itself out! Kids. They grow up so fast, don’t they?”

  “They grow up just as quickly as it takes.”

  “Yes. Sorry. Of course. Yes. Do you think? Do you think we should check up on them?”

  “Nicky’s very responsible. But we’ll check on them. Come upstairs. We can see better from there.”

  In the bedroom there is a sliding door that leads onto a thin little balcony. There are two chairs out there, and a table. On the table there are fresh cigarettes, fresh wine. There is a basket of strawberries. “Sit down,” says Nicky’s mother. “Make yourself at home.” From the balcony they can both clearly see the pool, and hear the squeals of pleasure as the children splash about in it. Max sees his mother, waves up at her. He is smiling. It is good to see him smile.

  “I like to watch them from above,” says Nicky’s mother. She has a pair of binoculars. Surely she doesn’t need binoculars; the boys are only a few feet away? She peers at the children through them; she helps herself to strawberries as she does so.

  It suddenly occurs to Max’s mum: “Where are the other mothers?”

  “There are no other mothers.”

  “But, I thought you said…”

  “It’s just me. And you.” Nicky’s mother takes the binoculars from her face and gives such a lovely smile. “And all my lovely children.”

  Max’s mother thinks the smoke in her mouth tastes soft and warming, it tickles her nostrils as she puffs it out her nose, it tickles her tongue as she puffs through her mouth. Both ways are good, both are nice. “Try the binoculars,” she is told, and so she does—she is startled at first by how close the boys in the pool now seem to her, she can see the very pores on their skin, she can see every sweet blemish. They’re so close they’re just flesh and hair, she can’t tell them apart any more. “Try the strawberries too, they taste better with the binoculars,” and that seems silly, but somehow it’s true.

  “I’m sorry,” she finds herself saying. “For what I said. I’m sorry.”

  Maybe she was expecting some sort of reassurance. “Well,” says Nicky’s mother, “we’re all sorry, aren’t we?”

  Nicky claps his hands, and all his fellows stop what they’re doing. He’s got a new game for them to play.

  Nicky’s mother says suddenly, “I mean, what about Jesus?”

  She doesn’t know what she means by that.

  “Jesus turned out well, didn’t he?” says Nicky’s mother. “Or so some say. And he got off to a promising start. The stable was a bit uncomfortable, but the Nativity, and all the attention of the Nativity, kings coming to pay homage, angels, shepherds, stars leading the way. Well, maybe not so much the shepherds. But that’s a great start for a little boy in a desert. And then what? The Bible doesn’t tell us. It passes over his childhood in silence. Nothing for years. The next time we pick up the story, Jesus is a grown man, he’s suddenly out there preaching, telling parables and healing the sick. At last! his parents would have thought. At last, he’s finally making a name for himself. Because all that early promise seemed just squandered, you know? Get off your arse and do something with your life!”

  For some reason, Max’s mother finds all this very funny, and she laughs and laughs. Nicky’s mother smiles at her curiously. Nicky’s mother then says, “Do you think you’re the first mother who couldn’t love her child?”

  “What?” And suddenly she feels so cold. “What?”

  “The children are having such fun,” says her new friend. “Look.”

  Max’s mother watches. “But what are they doing?”

  “One of Nicky’s favourites. And he’s so good at it! They’re playing the Drowning Game.”

  The rules to the Drowning Game are very simple. A boy dives under the water. He stays there for as long as possible. Whilst he does so, the other boys stand around the poolside in a circle and clap and chant.

  “Shouldn’t we help them?” she says.

  “I think they’re playing it very well without us, don’t you think?” And so it seems. They watch in silence as one child stays beneath the water for four minutes, the next very nearly five. They pass the binoculars back and forth, they smoke and drink and eat strawberries.

  “Ah,” says Nicky’s mother. “Let’s now see whether your son is better than any of mine.”

  Max turns to look up at the balcony. He calls out to his mother, but she can’t hear what he says above the chanting. She waves at him, she tries to get him to stop. He seems to misunderstand—he waves too, he grins, he gives her a thumbs up. He gets into the pool. He looks so frail and lonely now he’s in there on his own. He takes a deep breath, then pops his head under.

  “But of course Jesus had a childhood,” says Nicky’s mother. “Whether the Bible chooses to ignore it or not. And some of the stories got out.”

  She watches the surface of the water. There is not a ripple on it. And she can’t help it, she steals a look at her watch.

  “The stories aren’t very nice ones. Maybe that’s why the Bible didn’t want them? Jesus killing children who so much as bump into him, blinding the parents who complain. I suppose you can’t blame him. Having all those great powers, must be very confusing for an infant.”

  She checks her watch. A full ninety seconds has passed.

  “This is my favourite story. Is it true or not? Who can tell? Jesus liked to play with his friends from school. One day he thought that the most fun would be to play on the moon. It was a crescent moon that evening and it was so close, he knew if he jumped high enough from the cliff he could reach it. And so he did. There he was, now he was the man in the moon, sitting back within that crescent as if it were a comfy chair. Come and join me, he called to his friends. Come and jump. Don’t be frightened. Don’t you trust me?”

  Three minutes now. She tries to get out of her chair. She has to get down to the pool. She can’t. Nicky’s mother has got her arm. Nicky’s mother has a story to tell.

  “The children all fell to their deaths. Their little bodies smashed to pieces at the bottom of the cliff. Jesus was angry about that. He wanted his friends! If he didn’t have friends, who could he play his games with? Who did he have left to impress? So he brought them all back from the
dead, every last one of them.”

  Five minutes. Max’s beaten the high score now. He’s beaten the target Nicky set. Surely they’ll let him come to the surface now? Surely they’ll stop their chanting, their cat calling, their hallelujahs and hosannas?

  “Their bodies were broken, of course. And they couldn’t speak any more. But what of that? He didn’t need friends who could speak. His parents were angry. They knew he had to be stopped. The father spoke to him. Hey, superstar. We can’t go around killing our friends and resurrecting them, can we? Then where would we all be? All right? Promise you won’t do it again. But fathers are so weak, aren’t they? They may love the child, but it’s easy to love something when it’s not been inside of you eating away for nine months. It’s down to the mother, always, to discipline it. It’s the mother who knows it, understands it, and can be disgusted by it.”

  Eight minutes. Even the children look worried now. They’ve stopped clapping. They’ve stopped their songs. All except Nicky, he sings his heart out, and how his eyes gleam.

  “It’s left to the mother. As always. She says, you let those children die right now. You put an end to this, or it’s straight to bed with a smacked bottom. How Jesus sulks! He threatens her. He’ll drown her. He’ll curse her. She’ll never die, she’ll just suffer, she’ll be made to walk the earth forever. But he does what he is told. The children collapse. Their hearts all burst at once, and their faces look so grateful, they fall to the ground and there they rot.”

  And now—yes—she sees Max’s body. And for a moment she thinks it’s just the corpse bobbing to the surface, and it’ll be full and bloated—but no, no, up he comes, and he’s laughing, he’s splashing out of the water in triumph! Nine minutes twenty! Nine minutes twenty, and all the boys by the side of the pool are clapping him on the back, and none of them with greater gusto that Nicky, and Max looks so proud.

  She wants to cry out she’s proud of him too. She wants to cry out she loves him. She wants him to know he’s her little champion.

  “The point I’m making,” says Nicky’s mother. “Is there a point? The point I’m making. If your child is a somebody, or if your child is a nobody. If they have potential, or are a waste of space. If they’re Jesus themselves. If they’re Jesus. Then there’s still only so much a mother can do with them. We’re screwed either way.”

  She gets to her feet. She claps her hands, just the once, and all her children fall silent, and look up to her. Max too, all the children wait to do whatever she says.

  “Nicky,” she says. “That’s enough now. Time we all put our playthings away.” Nicky’s face clouds over. He looks like he’ll throw a tantrum. His mouth twists, and he suddenly looks so ugly. But his mother is having none of it. She stands her ground. He gives in.

  Once again, all the boys take their places around the perimeter of the swimming pool. Max takes his place too. Maybe he thinks they’re all going to dive in like last time. Maybe he thinks it’ll all be some Busby Berkeley number, and that he’ll get it right this time. And maybe, given the chance, he would.

  The first child doesn’t dive. He merely steps into the water, and on contact he dissolves, the remains of his body look thick and granular in the water.

  Nicky’s mother watches with her binoculars as each of her children step into the pool and break apart like fine sand. She eats a strawberry. She licks her lips.

  It does not take long before it’s Max’s turn. He looks up. He is smiling. He is happy.

  “No,” says his mother.

  “No?” says the woman.

  “Yes,” she replies. It comes out in a whisper.

  Max seems to take longer to dissolve, but maybe she’s biased, maybe he’s no more special than any of the other kids.

  The swimming pool now seems thick and meaty, like gravy.

  Nicky is the last to go in. He refuses to look at his mother, and as he drops down into oblivion with a petulant splash, he’s still having his sulk.

  Max’s mother doesn’t know what to say. She puts down her wine glass, she stubs out her cigarette.

  The woman turns to her, gently taking her chin by her hand. Kisses her, just once, very softly, on the lips. And says:

  “Listen to me. You are not the only mother who cannot love her child. It is all right. It is all right. And this can be your home now, for as long as you like. This can be your home, forever.”

  And the woman goes on, “This bedroom is yours. Enjoy.” And leaves her, with a balcony to watch the setting sun from, and some wine to finish, and all of the cigarettes, and all of the delicious strawberries.

  She lies in bed. She half expects the woman will come and join her. She half hopes she will. She doesn’t. So, in the very dead of night, she gets up. She feels a little giddy. She cannot tell whether she is drunk or not, maybe she’s in shock, maybe she’s just very tired. She goes downstairs. She thinks the doors might be locked, but they aren’t, she’s free to leave at any time. She finds a discarded bottle of wine, she pours out the dregs, and rinses it clean from the tap. Then into the garden she goes. It is dark, and the swimming pool looks dark too, you’d think it was just water in there if you didn’t know better. She stops down by the poolside, right at the point where Max went in—it was here, wasn’t it, or hereabouts? She holds the wine bottle under the surface, and lets the water run in. and the water runs over her hands too, and it feels like grit. The bottle is full. She’ll take it home. It is the best she can do.

  She sees, too, the birthday card and the birthday present, both unopened, still standing on the table where she left them. On a whim she takes the inflatable Donald Duck in its Disney wrapping paper. She doesn’t bother with the birthday card.

  She drives home, holding the bottle careful between her legs, being sure not to spill a drop.

  She goes up to Max’s bedroom. The bedroom is a mess, it’s always a mess. Max hasn’t even made the bed. She makes the bed for him, she smooths down the sheets and straightens the pillows. It looks nice. Then—she takes the bottle. She doesn’t know what to do with it. In the light it looks like dirty water—mostly clear, but there are bits of grime floating about in it, you wouldn’t dare drink it. She knows it isn’t Max, but bits of it are probably Max, aren’t they, most likely? She pours it slowly over the bed—the length of it, from the pillow on which Max’s head would lie, down to where his feet would reach. The water just seems to rest on the surface, it doesn’t soak through. She bends close to it. It smells sweet.

  She doesn’t know why on earth she took the Donald Duck, and leaves it on his bedside table.

  In the morning she checks on the damp patch on Max’s bed, and she thinks that something is growing there.

  She goes to the supermarket and she buys lots of bottles of red wine, and lots of packs of cigarettes. But no matter what grape she drinks, what brand she smokes, she finds nothing as smooth or as satisfying as what she tasted at Nicky’s party.

  She calls work to tell them she’s sick. She calls school too. Tells them Max isn’t well enough to come in for a while, and no one seems to care.

  One morning she drinks too much wine and smokes too many cigarettes and pukes them all out, and, sadly, she realises enough is enough, and she’ll never find that happiness again, and puts the rest in the bin.

  Is she too old to have another child? She might be. Online it suggests she is ‘on the turn’. What does that mean? What a thing, to be on the turn. She wishes she hadn’t thrown away all the wine and fags.

  The smell from Max’s bedroom is still sweet, but there’s a meaty tang to it too.

  And once in a while a memory of Max pops into her head, and she doesn’t know what the fuck to do with it. That Christmas with his bike. And Tom took ages to wrap it up, and it did nothing to disguise what it was at all, the wheels, the handlebars, it was just so bloody obvious. She said to Tom, “I bloody told you not to leave it till last thing on Christmas Eve! Now what are we going to do?” She thinks she cried. Tom told her not to worry—it didn’
t matter—he’d wrap it up again. And it was fun, she wasn’t expecting that, to be kneeling together under the Christmas tree, and be trying to bend the wrapping out of shape, put in all these little lumps and bumps so that no one could tell what was really hiding underneath. And in the morning—in the morning, Max got up early, it was Christmas day and he came into their room and he jumped on their bed, he couldn’t wait any longer! What it was to be so excited by something, she had forgotten what it was like! She and Tom both groaned, but Tom said, let’s just hang onto this because he’ll grow up fast, it won’t last forever—and how strange it was that Tom said something wise. They went downstairs to the Christmas tree. What on earth had Santa left him? What was that strange misshapen thing? Max wanted to open it right away, but no, they said, leave that one till last. Let that be the special one. And Max liked his other presents just fine, the board game, the anorak, the book of fairy tales from his grandma—but he couldn’t wait to tear into that bicycle! Off came the wrapping paper, and he made a whooping noise as he tore into it, and Tom whooped too, and she joined in—there they were, all whooping! And there was the bike. A sudden flash like panic. What if all the build-up was for nothing? What if it was the wrong bike? What if he’d gone off bikes altogether? Kids could be so fickle. Max stared at the bike. Then he ran to it, and he hugged it, as if it were a new friend. As if it were his best friend in the world. And then he turned around, and he threw his arms around his father, thank you, thank you, he said—and he hugged his mum too. Thank you, it’s perfect. And his face. The joy. The surprise. It was exquisite. And yet. And yet, as the memory pops into her head. As it plays there, like a movie, totally unbidden, and triggered by nothing in particular. She can’t quite recall the face. She can’t recall what it really looked like.

  She has no idea what to feed the creature that is growing on Max’s bed, so leaves it odds and sods from the fridge, and it takes what it wants and leaves the rest. It isn’t really Max, she knows that—but there’s Max in it. She’s pretty sure she can identify bits of him, here and there.