Static Cling

by Gerald Hansen

  She found her just where she suspected she might: in the nook next to the fruit machine. A man had just won £3 and was roaring his surprise and delight. Dymphna was staring blankly across a pint glass that was empty except for foam. Her red curls hung limply around her face. Her eyes were goggled from too much drink and too much staring at lads' asses. Her shirt was half-unbuttoned, and her bra straps were twisted. Three wolfish men, decades older, were sitting on the opposite bench of the nook and tossing peanuts down her cleavage.

  Siofra raced over.

  “Leave me sister be!” she squealed.

  “Ye're not allowed to be in here, wee girl,” slurred one man. “Barman! Barman! Remove this...wane!”

  “Yer sister, is she?” said a second.

  Dymphna raised her head.

  “Siofra?” Dymphna looked at her as if she were an angel or Godzilla. “What are ye doing here?”

  “I'm here for to find out why ye haven't turned on our electricity! Ye promised! Ye promised, and we still kyanny cook, kyanny watch the telly, kyanny bathe...”

  “That last one anyone with eyes can see, sure,” slurred the third man.

  Siofra grabbed Dymphna's arm and tried to tug her out of her seat.

  “C'mon, Dymphna! Get yerself outta here and pay them bills for us. For me and wee Seamus and Daddy and Granny.”

  All the Floods suspected Padraig could easily fend for himself in a world without electricity.

  With Siofra looking down at her, anger on her little sister's filthy face, Dymphna seemed to jolt herself to sudden sobriety. She plucked out a few shells from her cleavage and flung them at the lechers across the table.

  “Fecking pervs! Preying on the inn—”

  “Innocent? The likes of you?!”

  They roared with laughter.

  “Fecking pervs!” Dymphna repeated, her brain unable to conjure up another insult. As she tried to wrench herself from the nook, and as she succeeded, and as she grabbed Siofra's hand and the sisters skittered off through the throngs, the men called out at her: “Orange-loving cunt!” “Brit cock slurper!” “Shameless bastard-breeding whore!” And those were the nicer things.

  Outside on the cobblestones, Dymphna leaned over, vomited into the gutter, then wiped her lips clean.

  “Ta for getting me, like. Och, don't look at me like that, Siofra! Sure, even Mammy never looked at me like that.”

  “Aye, 'cause Mammy don't give a cold shite in hell about ye. I do, but. More than that, but, I wanny finally take a bath. Aye, it's been summer weather, but ye still kyanny take a bath with cold water. I tried and near froze to an ice cube And I wanny eat some toast and all. With melted cheese.”

  “Aye. Naw, ye're spot on, so ye are.” Dymphna teetered on her heels as she rolled lipstick around her lips. “I shoulda done what I said.”

  She grabbed Siofra's shoulder, for support or for intimacy, she wasn't sure herself. Probably a bit of both. “Och, having wanes be's a terrible affliction, so it does, wee Siofra. Have ye any idea what it be's like? The stress, the nights without sleep. I just needed to get outta the house, like. And chuck a few pints down me throat.”

  “Naw, I kyanny imagine. I've not even ever had the one wane, let alone three. But it seems to me ye'd do what ye promised ye'd do. No matter what. Not when ye saw the state we're living in. Who promises to do something and then doesn't do it?”

  Dymphna recalled a time when it was her older sister, Moira, who gave her advice and dished out the common sense, but now it was her younger sister doing the same. And even Dymphna's torpid brain cells had the wherewithal to realize there was something not quite right with that, especially as Moira was only three years older, while Siofra was twelve years younger! The alcohol seemed to be swiftly leaving her brain. She could handle her drink.

  “And where are them wanes of yers, anyroad? Have ye left them in the pub?”

  Dymphna gasped, then remembered the crèche. Then she looked around her and saw it was dark and then she looked at her watch.

  “Mary Mother of God!” she exclaimed. “I dunno. I hope Rory has them.”

  Dymphna was shocked she was missing her children. How could that be? She wanted to race home to ensure someone had deposited into their clinical cribs. But before that, she had something just as important to do.

  “C'mere, Siofra, and sit you down here beside.”

  They sat down together on the curb, then got up and moved a few steps away from Dymphna's sick in the grating, and sat back down again.

  Dymphna pulled out her phone, and opened her handbag, found her wallet, and pulled out the household credit card.

  “Let's get youse all sorted, shall we?”

  As she was waiting for information to tell her the number to the electricity company, she squeezed Siofra's knee.

  “I'm terrible sorry, Siofra. But soon ye'll all have the amenities ye're used to. And maybe I'll come over tomorrow and help youse clear up a bit and all. Awful, it must be, without Mammy to do all the cleaning. Really, Siofra, I'm so sorry about—Aye, hello? I'm ringing about the account for Paddy Flood, who lives at...”

  Dymphna didn't know if Siofra believed her. But she hoped she did.

  After Dymphna's household credit card had been maxed out and Siofra had gone home—eagerly anticipating a hot bath she'd be stuck waiting until the next morning for—Dymphna sat alone on the curb for a few moments, then finally roused herself into action. It was dark, but the weather was still grand and warmish. How she loved global warming! It might be bad for Keanu's and Beeyonsay's and Greenornge's children and grandchildren, but Dymphna wouldn't be alive to see Antarctica disappear, or Derry turn into a tropical paradise. So it was fine with her. Bizarre heat was better than the usual gray rain that refused to leave their town. She remembered a few years back when it had rained ninety-two days in a row. Admittedly, some of those days it had only drizzled for a few minutes, but it had still rained. And dark clouds had pressed down upon them all for the entire ninety-two days. It had been a horrible summer.

  She had been missing her children, aye, but that had been a half hour or so ago, when her brain had been riddled with alcohol. Siofra arriving at the pub had forced her into sobriety. But now her sister was gone, the bills had been paid, her guilt was gone, the thought of the children's needy shrieks was making her skin crawl, and she was thirsty again. As the weather was nice, she'd walk home.

  In 2011, the ultra modern Peace Bridge had been built. It stretched across the River Foyle from the city center close to the Guildhall, which was around the corner from her now, over to the Waterside. From the Catholic neighborhoods to her new Protestant neighborhood. Bridging the two communities. That had been its purpose. If it had succeeded was debatable. The Peace Bridge complimented the ancient Craigavon Bride and the newer but still old Foyle Bridge. It was only for pedestrians and bicycles, and Dymphna wondered why it had been built. It had two huge, well, she didn't know what they were, two massive slabs of metal rising out from the sides, one pointing up in one direction, the other in the opposite direction. To Dymphna, it looked like two metal fingers flipping off the other side of the divided city.

  But she chose to cross the bridge that night. She had been across, of course, the day it opened. With her entire family. Dymphna had worn her best frock. Her mother, or had it been her granny?, had packed sandwiches for them all, and given them bags of potato chips also. Crisps. Hers had been tomato and sausage that day, she remembered for some reason. But after walking across in one direction, which took about fifteen minutes, and after standing nervously and a bit bitterly in the Protestant part of town and watching Padraig spit at the windshields and kick the tires of the posh cars they saw there, they had all turned around and walked back across, then just gone home and eaten the sandwiches in the sitting room before the television. They had watched a rerun of a gardening show their daddy wanted on, and that had been more exciting than the family outing across the Peace Bridge.

  Dymphna went into the Top-Yer-Trolle
y for a flagon of cider. There was a special, three for the price of two, so she bought three. She took one out, screwed off the top and guzzled down. She lit a cigarette. She puffed away. Then she took another swig. And another. And, fag in mouth, bottle in hand, the other two clanking together in the bag at her side, she dodged the traffic in the streets as she made her way in the direction of the bridge. She didn't know what she imagined the walk would be like. The romantic trickle of the River Foyle in her ears, the stars twinkling in the sky, the freakishly warm air blowing in her red curls, the feeling of harmony the builders had hoped for as she took step after step over the flowing water, the coming together of all the citizens of Derry, suddenly now color blind, no Orange, Protestant, no Green, Catholic, just people loving and tolerating one another on the footpath of the bridge of peace.

  But she got no peace. She was halfway across, and halfway through the first flagon of cider, her head nice and woozy once again, enjoying the sound of no screaming children, when three hooded teens raced towards her. They surrounded her. She squealed and shrank against the railing. Her fists tried to rain down on their chests, but they were swiftly clamped together and shoved still. She did feel the wind in her hair, but also their hands on her breasts.

  “Are ye not that Orange-loving slag?”

  “Up for it with anyone, are ye?”

  “Let's see how ye like it with us.”

  Dymphna screamed, but her screams were drowned out by the trickling of the Foyle. She'd been right after all; it sounded quite romantic.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 22

  The six-seat LearJet 40 roared away from the tiny Derry Airport runway, and it was debatable which was louder, the enhanced Honeywell TFE731-20AR engines or the children. Thankfully, it would be a short 50 minute hop to Leeds.

  The two toddlers and the infant were bawling and shrieking in the cluster of seats in the aft, and they were together with the nanny, who was trying to shush them as best she could. Zoë sat in the swiveling armchair of beige Coach leather upfront, as if she were in first class and the others in economy, though Zoë hadn't consciously thought this. She'd explained to the nanny she felt a migraine coming on and didn't want to spread it to the children, and, indeed, she sat there staring with unseeing eyes out the window with a pained expression on her face, a furrowed brow and a hand to her forehead. The nanny had taken this explanation of the seating arrangements with a raised eyebrow as she struggled with the straps and wheels of the various childcare items and straddled the children, their little hands grabbing her knees and ankles. Zoë, having seen the eyebrow, was already resolved to never hire this particular nanny again.

  Zoë cast an eye across the cabin with mild distaste at her grandchildren. Her alleged grandchildren. Was it any wonder she had a migraine?

  She thought back to the conversation with Rory in her office a few hours earlier:

  “I'm afraid I've done something unthinkable. Unforgivable, even. But it's been many, many years since your father died. A woman feels lonely sometimes. In need of the touch of a comforting hand.” Rory had squirmed uncomfortably in the chair before her. No doubt he suspected more than a hand had touched her. “And, in a fit of madness, and I must confess, after a few too many Hendricks and tonics had entered my system, I had a...a fling with someone you, or rather, your wife, knows only too well. It was at that launch for the newly-decorated Final Spinz I held a few weeks ago. As I was making up the guest list, I realized it was all the usual suspects, the movers and shakers of the Derry business world. All from our side of the town, the Waterside. So I decided to invite a few of the workers, a few representatives of the working class, yes, a few Catholics, to balance out the guest list. One, as you know, was Susan from the office. And another was...was...” She lowered her eyes, touched her forehead with her fist and shook her head in sorrow. She looked up, and her eyes were brimming with tears. Her face begged Rory to forgive her. “Paddy Flood. Your wife's father. Worse than that...oh, so much worse than that, though you might think nothing could be worse...we, we...slipped out a side door and stole into an empty office and...and...well, I think you get the picture. However desperate, however sordid it may be.”

  Rory looked set to bolt from the chair and race from the office. But his legs seemed too weak to perform these actions. His mouth was like a goldfish's, a goldfish flopping on a wet floor next to the broken glass of the bowl. Strange noises exited those goldfish lips. Panic and horror fought for control of his face.

  “N-naw, Ma! Say ye didn't!”

  “But I did.” Her voice was full of sorrow. But then she seemed to shake herself free from such a pitiful emotion. She was businesslike once again. “I want you to control yourself, Rory. This is no time for emotion. It's time for logic. Yes, I've discovered I'm pregnant. And it must be his.”

  Rory whimpered like an infant lost in a supermarket.

  “A high-risk pregnancy at my age!” She was flush, giddy even. “Perhaps more high-risk for entirely different reasons. You know his wife Fionnuala will be furious when she hears. I'm dreading the eventual showdown. But I'm resolved to keep the child. It's madness, I know. But I can't help thinking it's my last chance for another Riddell. Someone to help you take care of Riddell Enterprises. When I'm gone, it will be difficult for you to handle everything yourself. You've never been very good at numbers.”

  “B-but...me and Dymphna! We've got three grandchildren for ye! Three! And one of them has got to be good with numbers, good at business! At least one in three.”

  Zoë pursed her lips. She looked at her son with something that resembled pity. She took a deep breath and spoke in a soft, measured, kind tone. “I'm sure, my dear Rory, you've noticed over the years I've been rather ambivalent about these...grandchildren of mine. And there's a reason for that. I thought at first I could learn to love them. Though I was wrong. They barged into our lives and have become a part of it without, well, without my consent. I don't know why it doesn't trouble you. Even I have heard the rumors of your wife's...shall we say...appetite for pleasure. Especially concerning the first-born. As I gather, the two of you weren't even an item when she became pregnant. How can we be sure it's yours? I've never been. Why do you think I never let the girl wear the engagement ring? I didn't trust her. I've heard something about Henry O'Toole from the Top-Yer-Trolley...?”

  “I spoke to him a few days ago, Mammy!” Rory's voice was pinched and high-pitched. “He swears the wane isn't his! He swears Keanu be's mines! More than that, he promises never to contest paternity.”

  Zoë shook her head.

  “We can't move forward with supposition and words, the promises of a desperate man. We must continue with facts. Facts, Rory. Scientific tests give us facts. DNA gives us facts. With this new brother or sister of yours, half-brother or -sister, admittedly, we must discover, must ensure exactly how the handing down of the company, the chain of command, is to be arranged. The company must be handed down through the correct channels, that is, to those with the most Riddell blood flowing through their veins. I've got a will to rewrite. I must know all the facts. So I've decided to get paternity tests done on all three of your grandchildren. And I want to double check I really am pregnant, also. There's a lab that does all sorts of the tests we need in Leeds. Krick Labs. I'm flying over there tonight from Derry Airport.”

  “Derry Airport? I thought only RyanAir planes took off from there? Liverpool, London, Alicante, Faro...?”

  A look of discomfort had formed on Zoë's shiny face.

  “On a commercial flight of that budget airline,” and horror had creased her face at this point, “with the holiday makers and the ones going for terminations? You know that's not me. No. Heavens no. I've book a charter plane for myself. And...” she peered almost fearfully at the door, as if she could see through it and the walls and into the crèche, “those children.”

  “Can ye not just do the swabs yerself and have them sent in?”

  “Time is of the essence. And, somehow, I don't tru
st that a mistake won't be made, that they won't mix up the test tubes or what have you. I want to see it with my own eyes.”

  They had met at home as promised, and then Zoë had swirled a Q-Tip around in her son's mouth, scraping it around the flesh of the inside of his cheek next to the island in the kitchen. It seemed like something that should be done in the kitchen. It was the closest her house had to a lab. The bathroom, his old bedroom, seemed too intimate. Then, after Rory had stood up, sniveling and slightly shell-shocked, and had raced out the door down the street to his own home, Zoë had stood there in silence in the middle of the kitchen with the swab in her hand, the copper pots and pans dangling around her head, the black-and-white marble of the island sparkling at her elbow. How would she transport something so important to Leeds without contaminating it? She could hardly clutch it tightly, hold it aloft, for the remainder of the day, throughout the interview at the police station, in the car on the way to the airport, and throughout the entire flight, then in the taxi from the airport to the lab. It was a half-hour taxi ride, she had discovered.

  Then she had had an idea.

  She was happy she had done the swab in her house, where she had the correct machinery in her well-outfitted, state of the art kitchen. And that included a special deluxe FoodSaver vacuum sealer. That name conjured up images of saving food, the thought of which was slightly repugnant to Zoë. Even the leftovers from White, her cafe, were delivered to the homeless shelter next to St. Fintan's, the church where her son had married that Dymphna, and where Zoë herself would be going the next day for the support group. Zoë wasn't one for freezing food, let alone sealing it. Well, not that she cooked; but she informed the staff not to do it either. It seemed to her the oddest thing. Hermetically sealing her leftovers was something Zoë would never do. She always ate fresh. And organic. Cans were rarely tolerated in her household. Who could have the stomach to eat food that had lain cramped up for years in a tin cylinder? Not Zoë Riddell. Her truffles were always fresh. When it came to what she put into her mouth, her carbon footprint was Paul Bunyan-sized (Paddy Flood aside, of course; he had been locally-sourced).