Martin Sloane

by Michael Redhill

  I want to pick her up, he said. I’m going to break one of the slats and put my hand around her. You hold the crate down. Martin lay his arms across the top of the crate and Gabriel cracked open one of the thin slats on the side. The bird reacted violently to the sound, dashing herself against the other three walls. Gabriel reached in slowly, and Martin could see his open hand sweeping through the space.

  She’s in the corner now, just move your hand left …

  Gabriel’s hand flattened the woodcock against the back of the crate. He manoeuvred his fingers around her back and pressed her down, then lifted the crate up so it hung from his forearm. He transferred the bird carefully to his free hand, its legs kicking helplessly. Then he dropped the crate and held the animal, triumphant. Look at you! Just look at you!

  Don’t grip her too hard, Martin said. She was a sight, so rare and so wild. Her eyes bulged in fear, her wings flattened tight against her. He wanted to hold her as well, and feel her heart beating hollowly in the palm of his hand. Gabriel passed her carefully to him, and then he had her, her buff head lying against his thumb, the cold claws of her feet scrabbling against his wrist. Gabriel … she’s so frightened. We should let her go.

  No, said Gabriel. I have an idea — we’ll give her the mushroom. Then you’ll see it’s safe. Martin didn’t want to, but Gabriel went back for the other half of the mushroom lying in the moss and held it in front of the bird’s beak. It didn’t want to eat. Come on, Woodie. Have some of this.

  Martin pulled the bird away from him. Let’s not be cruel. Just leave her be.

  Don’t you want your question answered?

  No. I don’t. Not anymore.

  Fine scientist you’ll make.

  I never said I wanted to be a scientist. I don’t know what I’ll be. He could feel the bird relax in his hand, like it had given up fighting. Maybe I’ll be a builder.

  You mean an architect?

  No. I want to be the person who makes the building.

  Sure, said Gabriel. You with bricks on your shoulders. He craned his neck to get a look at the bird. Hey … what’s wrong with her?

  The woodcock had gone completely limp. Her feet hung loose against Martin’s arm and her eyes had stopped moving. Instinctively, he dropped it, and the bird tumbled like a shuttlecock to the ground and lay still. Oh god, he said. I’ve killed her —Were you squeezing her?

  I was holding her loosely, I was! He squatted down, the bird’s form clouded to him behind a thin mist in his eyes. Look what we’ve done, Gabriel! I wasn’t thinking about her for this What do you mean, for this?

  Martin reached down, blinking back tears, to close the bird’s wings. But as soon as he touched it, the animal leapt up and struck him the forehead, drawing blood with the tip of her beak. Then she hit the ground again, her wings fully open, and she flapped violently against the undergrowth, flipping herself twice on her back and then righting before she burst up in a flare of brown and grey and flew back into the darkness of the forest. They heard her voice as she vanished, zizzeek. Martin stood and looked where she’d gone, stunned at the pain behind his eyes. He touched his forehead, mingling with the blood whatever residue from the mushroom remained on his fingers. Gabriel turned back to him and his eyes went to the cut above Martin’s nose. Blood ran down. She got you good, he said, and he got out a kerchief from his back pocket and reached out to sop the wound, but Martin pushed his hand away.

  Leave it, he said, and he began walking back to the road.

  XI.

  THE GOOD BOOK OF MYSTERIES. 12" X 10" X 3" PAPER, BOARD, SOIL, BRASS. A BOOK, ENCRUSTED WITH EARTH, IS HELD TOGETHER BY A RUSTED LOCK BETWEEN TWO PIECES OF GLASS.

  BALLYDANGAN, BALLINASLOE, AUGHRIM, KILREEKILL.

  Molly walked across the yard, a grey fog with a shaft of pale yellow running through it from the light of the shed. She pushed the door open. He was sitting there, his back to her, his hands unseen and busy with something in front of him. He looked behind himself when he felt the air on his neck. I’m not very good at obeying other people’s rules, she said. Especially when I’ve got a bus leaving town in two hours.

  He turned fully to her. I’m sorry, he said. I didn’t mean to be rude. It’s just I need to be —

  It’s fine, she said. She walked to the desk looking around her, up at the busy walls with their shelves and cubbyholes, and then leaned her hip against his desk and looked down at a doll’s head whose eyes were staring out at one of the side walls. The fortress of solitude, she said.

  I just come here to wind down.

  Is this regular life? Parties and openings and people applauding?

  God no. Thankfully. I feel like an idiot at these things. Always tongue-tied.

  Well, there’s thank you, and you’re very kind, and it was wonderful of you to come.

  There’s also You know, I have an uncle who paints.

  She laughed and leaned down on her forearms on the desk, casting her eyes over its attractive clutter. There were orphaned objects all over it — an old Collier’s Magazine with the shape of a sparrow cut through it and a wooden toy, a sparrow, of course, embedded in the space. A nearly invisible incursion, as if indentical birds in two different flocks had just changed places with each other. Somehow, this altered the world, but in a way she could only feel rather than explain. She reached out and touched the bird. It was level with the surface of the magazine. Behind and around the magazine, cogs from a clock. Do these go together? she asked.

  I don’t know yet. He touched the magazine himself, as if to return his valence to it. She liked watching that, seeing his pale hand brush over the surface of something he’d made, long fingers, fingernails like slivers of almond.

  I guess it’s funny to meet each other after all this time, isn’t it?

  It took a while, he said.

  Although it’s almost like we’ve known each other for years. He nodded, willing to accept that view of things for the sake of being friendly. Am I the way you thought I’d be?

  I don’t know, he said. I can see why you and Jolene are friends, though.

  She laughed, tossing her hair behind her neck. That was diplomatic. Does that mean you were expecting some kind of bombshell?

  All I mean is Jolene wouldn’t be friends with someone who didn’t have wonderful qualities.

  Thank you. Her face became hot. Anyway, I actually came in here to apologize.

  For what?

  For starting that fight this afternoon.

  That wasn’t a fight, he said. He swivelled in the chair to follow her around the tiny space.

  Your fights are a little harsher than that, are they?

  When we fight.

  She went huh under her breath. I can’t imagine you two in a knock’em down, drag’em out kind of thing anyway.

  Do you fight like that?

  Naw, she said. I’m a nice girl who don’t make no trouble for no one.

  He smiled and the lines beside his eyes appeared. Sure.

  Anyway. Sorry if I kicked up any dirt. It’s just I love your stuff, and I remember it really well. It was all over our house, so it was almost like I was living with you.

  Thanks. It’s nice of you to say that.

  We had — she had — shelves of your things. Jolene always came back from your weekends together with something. And she’d say, Look what Martin made me. It’s funny, we’d both be looking at whatever it was, but I’d always be the one to say, Hey, this is like a diary made up of bus tickets — you know, that little book you made of bus tickets all in order of the times you came down that first year?

  I remember it.

  It’s just interesting that I’d get it, you know, before she did. Maybe she was just too starry-eyed to see straight!

  Maybe, he said. He was listening carefully to her now, not only because she was nervous and speaking quickly but because she was related by love, if there was such a thing. (He believed there was, in the same way he believed that every one thing in the world had its kindred in at lea
st one other thing.) He was trying not to slip into the truisms he often used with people he didn’t know. He said, I tried to make her stuff that she’d like. I kept my eye out for little knick-knacks that seemed like they were her, you know? So she’d understand I knew who she was.

  She loved them, Molly said quietly. She was proud of them. At first she kept them in her bedroom, but I suggested we make a place for them where we could both see them. Molly glanced up quickly at him.

  I’m flattered. He shifted in his seat and looked around at the objects scattered on his desk.

  It’s nice to have beautiful things.

  Well … that is nice of you to say.

  She ran a finger down one of the boxes facing side-out on the wall near the back of the shed. Her finger came away dustless. Do you know she offered me the honeycomb? she said. This afternoon, when we were swimming?

  He lifted a hand off his lap and rested it on the desk. Really. That was a nice thing to do.

  I told her no.

  You didn’t have to, he said. You should have it. You practically earned it this afternoon.

  You made it for her, though.

  Yes, he said. He looked down at his hand and swept an unseen bit of dirt off the desk. It doesn’t mean you shouldn’t have it. She didn’t look happy with that justification. Well, look, he said, I’ll make something for you, then.

  I wouldn’t ask that. A person doesn’t ask for something like that.

  You didn’t. I offered.

  She ignored him and went on. It bothered me that you’d made something for her, she said, and she’d never really looked at it. I mean, obviously, I’m not saying anything bad about her. I love Jolene. But it didn’t bother you?

  No, he said. I wish she’d seen the doll, but you can’t ask people to see the exact thing you want them to.

  But don’t you want someone to feel what it is that you put there?

  It’s not that important.

  She spread her arms open. Why make all this stuff, then?

  He shrugged and tried to make light. I’m a collector. I see something I like, I want to keep it somewhere I can enjoy it.

  That’s not true, she said, shaking her head. You’re trying to reach someone. Like you said. You wanted to show her you knew who she was.

  Yes, but —

  So who are you talking to with this? She’d come back to the desk and now she picked up the Collier’s. Are you talking to yourself?

  You really shouldn’t touch that.

  The people who want to talk to you at these openings? They’re just carrying on their half of the conversation with you.

  It’s not my intention to —

  There was a crack. To his horror, she’d pushed the sparrow out of the magazine, forcing it out with her thumbs and breaking the glue seal. She held the wooden bird up in her hand.

  Molly —

  I know what you’re saying to me with this. His face was fixed. She held the bird away from him. It’s like … here’s this thing that before you altered it was just a picture of a little bird. But now you’ve made it heavier. You’ve weighed it down, and put it back in the sky. So now, even though before it was just a picture and everyone knows a picture can’t fly, you’ve made extra sure of it. I know how that feels. She lowered the wooden bird to the table, her hand shaking, and he quietly took it. Outside, they heard Jolene open the sliding door. Martin gingerly pushed the sparrow back into the space he’d made for it. His face was flushed and his hand was unsteady.

  I’m flattered that you like my work, Molly. But it doesn’t mean you know me.

  There’s something in you that can’t get away from itself.

  That’s what you see in this. His voice was controlled, but angry. This is not about you. It doesn’t know you. It doesn’t even know me.

  Of course it does.

  No, Molly. It’s not for that.

  Well, does she know you, for Christ’s sake?

  Jolene called from the yard. Guys?

  Martin … Molly reached for him, wanting to fix what she’d just done, but then her face hardened and she withdrew her hand. How can you not expect to touch people? He’d gotten up to get to Jolene. They could both hear her approaching. Answer that, she said. Where do you think you’ll end up if you push away the ones you actually reach?

  XII.

  CARRIAGE, 1984. 17" X 13" X 3" BOX CONSTRUCTION. WOOD AND GLASS WITH PAPER ILLUSTRATION, VELVET, FOUND OBJECTS, DOLL PARTS. NATIONAL MUSEUM OF AMERICAN ART, WASHINGTON, DC. VELVET CURTAINS OBSCURE THE OCCUPANTS OF A HORSE-DRAWN CARRIAGE, THEIR HANDS RESTING, ONE ON TOP OF THE OTHER, ON THE RIM OF THE DOOR. THE CARRIAGE, A LITHOGRAPH FORTIFIED WITH IRON WHEELS AND A GLASS LAMP, RIDES OVER AN EARLY ILLUSTRATION OF THE GREAT LAKES.

  THE PROMISED CHANGE IN THE WEATHER HAD COMEand the night was cooling off. In the afternoon, it had been summer, and now it was fall. We closed the windows against the edge of cold in the air. It was hard to imagine ourselves at the quarries just hours before, under the sun, the sheer stone hot to the very surface of the water, and then cold beneath. Tomorrow the stone would still retain some of that warmth, but it wouldn’t be long until the quarries started freezing over.

  Martin ran us a bath and when he dropped the salts in, thick steam billowed out into the hall. At one point, he walked through it toward me, a naked chimera trimmed in clouds. He always liked the water scalding; I’d have to sit on the edge of the tub, trailing my fingers until it felt like I could slide in with him. I followed him back through the steam and shed my robe as he got in. I sat on the edge with my feet tucked under his thighs and his forearm draped over the tops of my legs, his skin so hot that it gave me goosebumps on my arms and chest.

  I don’t know how you’re going to get up in the morning and take a ten-hour bus, I said. It’s almost midnight.

  I’ll sleep on the way home.

  Take the next one, Martin. An extra day won’t make any difference.

  He slid down a little into the water. I pushed his arm off me and got in facing him, gasped up the pang of heat and then settled, feeling sedated. We laced our legs together and some water sloshed over the side. Over the surface, I could only see his nose and eyes. His mind was drifting.

  Don’t fall asleep.

  Mm.

  I can’t lift you out of here, hon. He pushed up a little. His face was scarlet. I wanted to keep him awake longer, just in case I lost the battle for one more day. I’d already begun to plan the morning: eggs and lattes at the Runcible Spoon, a walk through town, a visit to Loeb’s to buy next week’s groceries, meals we’d be eating together in six days, five if I got my way. The usual hope-making illusions of continuity. I excused this form of greed in myself, calling it love.

  Did you have a nice afternoon?

  I had an interesting afternoon, he said.

  I’m sure you did. It was kind of you to give Molly the grand tour. I hope you left out the lap-sitting.

  I had to push her off me a couple times, he said. She’s a lovely girl. I liked meeting her finally.

  Did she say anything interesting? Give you any girlish insights into the mystery that is Jolene? I batted my eyes at him.

  She told me she loved my work.

  That made me smile, thinking of the honeycomb in her luggage. Well, what does she know.

  He shrugged. She must know something.

  I lifted his legs up over mine and pulled myself toward him and pressed my stomach against his. I felt him brush against me under the water. Sometimes we made love like this, although the heat of the water made for logy sex. But it was comfortable to be loved this way, it felt like married sex, whatever that was, and that appealed to me. But we were both too tired. Martin lowered his head to my shoulder and turned his face away.

  Are you hungry? I asked him.

  Nuh-uh, he groaned. Just want to turn out all the lights. Go to bed.

  I lowered my lips to his ear. Will you stay tomorrow, Martin? Please? Stay with me. I want a day where I don’t have to share you with
anyone.

  Ask me in the morning.

  Stay with me.

  He turned his face and kissed my collarbone on the way to my mouth. I closed my legs around his back and pulled him harder against me. I can’t, he said. I’m practically dead.

  Okay. I felt with my foot for the chain to the stopper and pulled it up. Let’s get you out, then, before you get sucked down the drain.

  I wrapped him in a towel and brought him into bed. His breathing was deep and slow, like a child’s after a long day. He fell asleep almost right away, without another word to me, and when I drifted off, my arm lay against the length of his thigh, and his back was still hot against my skin.

  We’d driven down into the city, against a sun that lay low and bright over the Atlantic. It was four o’clock in the afternoon. We’d pulled over to the side of the road after following the direction to a street where the houses sat back on small lawns. Streams of traffic went by in both directions: people heading home to town, to the country. Galway was not even a tenth the size of Dublin. A backwater. We’d driven in from the top of the city along the N6, into the fragrance of fishrot and hops. We’d watched the houses appear, getting closer together, first the estates, then the homes, then the row houses.

  Near the end of her story, she’d pulled over onto the shoulder and told the rest of it with her hands frozen on the wheel. I’d gotten out and gone around to drive. We wentthe rest of the way not talking, her face turned to the scenery. Now she pushed herself up in the seat. “How long were they here?”

  “A while,” I said. “Too long and not long enough.”

  Our address was a white stuccoed cottage with two floors on a row of houses pushed back off the street behind short brick walls. Most had gardens still in bloom; this one didn’t. Through the iron gate, we could see a trellis with a wisp of dead black vine resting against the front of the house on one side of the door. The garden patch running along the wall beside it was empty of plants, a dried white crest of minerals washed up from rains lay on top of it all.