Good Eggs

by Rebecca Hardiman

  “Put it on speaker,” says Grace.

  His mum’s voice streams into the dark bedroom: “You told me the police had insisted I have a caretaker, but that wasn’t true. That was you. You made it all up. The whole thing.”

  “The American woman?” Grace whispers.

  He nods.

  “And I don’t think you know that Sylvia Phenning, the woman you hired, was actually a con artist. Did you know that, Kevin?”

  He did not.

  “She’s after stealing Dad’s ring—the whole safe, in fact—she took the whole safe. And the telly and everything else as well.”

  Kevin’s fury abates, at least temporarily, as his mind slows to digest this strange new information.

  “What do you mean, everything else?” he says.

  “So my feeling is there’s culpability enough to go round and I think in some ways we’re even. And there’s no need to worry, anyway, we’re grand, we’re safe, but we’ve got a very important project going and one more day’s not going to make a bit of difference, so you’re not to waste your money coming over.”

  “Mum.”

  “We’re absolutely fine, Kev. Do give my love to Grace and the children, won’t you? Pip pip!”

  60

  Sylvia Phenning, legs crossed demurely at the ankle, is prettily perched on a sofa in a furnished but unoccupied fourth-floor one-bedroom corporate unit of Gus’s building. Gus and Sylvia have already covered the coincidence of Sylvia having once resided in Victory Towers. Now she’s telling him about her favorite local spot for barbecue. As Sylvia hands over her IDs and signs his phony papers (a legal will kit they’d picked up at Staples), she recommends the sweet and spicy wings at Hot Jazzy Joe’s. From the shadows of the back bedroom, Millie and Aideen watch as Sylvia slides the pages with a flourish across the coffee table, as if she’s blessing a fan with her autograph. Then she seems to check herself and looks down into her lap, shaking her head wistfully, as if burdened by a sudden and terrific sorrow.

  “It’s so sad. Such an amazing woman.”

  The duplicitous cow.

  Sylvia pops the Biro—Gus’s Biro, mind you—into her oversized slouchy leather tote and straightens a slight crease on her frock.

  “So that’s it?” she says.

  “That’s it.”

  “Well that was easy.” She laughs. “And how do I get the check?” Millie can’t see Gus’s face, but she imagines he’s masking strong distaste. “Is it mailed to me?”

  “Oh. I have an envelope here for you.”

  This is Millie’s cue, and though her moment is at hand, still she waits and watches. It’s terribly compelling to see someone breezily accept your death and wangle yet more cash while small-talking about chicken parts.

  “Oh, even better,” says Sylvia. “Perfect.”

  Gus, quite dashing in a dark suit and tie, is marvelously steady. He hands her the envelope. Once it’s in her possession, she relaxes back into her seat with a sigh and says, “Please give the family my condolences.”

  “Of course.”

  “I miss this neighborhood,” she says. “I’ve had my eye on that new development, Paradise Found, just down the street on Broadway, you know it?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Oh they’re all new condos, really high-end. Steam shower, fitness room, Olympic pool. Like amazing.” She clutches the envelope to her cleavage and looks up to the ceiling. “Thank you Millie Gogarty!”

  “Well,” says Gus dryly, though Sylvia is oblivious, “I’m glad it worked out.”

  She gets up and thanks Gus, shaking his hand. Still Millie doesn’t move.

  “I’m not sure I’m even allowed to ask this,” Sylvia says haltingly, “but, I mean, can I ask about other people, like, other beneficiaries, in the will?” She sits down again. “Was there any mention of a Sean Gilmore? He’s my nephew. Not that I’m expecting—just—well, figured I might as well ask because you might not know that I’m his guardian, so any paperwork or whatever would go through me.”

  This extra dollop of greed propels Millie into action. Honestly, can she stomach another second? She exchanges a nervous smile with Aideen, her face a bit peaked, beside her.

  “Showtime, Duckie,” she whispers.

  The Gogartys step boldly into the artic chill of the living room, the AC fully blasting. It’s a small room for four, probably too small for such a large moment. But it’ll do.

  Millie’s eyes meet Sylvia’s and hold. Are there any words in all of the English language to express the glee of witnessing—at long last—the exquisite bafflement that crosses her foe’s normally sunny features? There aren’t, of course, not a single one. Sylvia is also speechless. Millie sees quite plainly the gears of the woman’s loathsome mind churning through the impossible logic that’s been presented: Millie’s not dead, she’s standing in this Clearwater condominium, Gus Sparks is not a wills and estates attorney hired by an Irish bank, there is no money in the envelope, Paradise Found is lost.

  “What the hell?” Sylvia starts up from her seat on her wedge sandals, upending her tote onto the floor. Her phone, a packet of baby-sized pills in a pink plastic horseshoe, and a set of keys on a glitzy Coach ring spill forth. Millie scans the lot for something incriminating—bogus credit cards, passports, another bit of proof they can nail her with.

  “What is this?” Sylvia shrieks.

  “This is the ghost of Millie Gogarty,” says Millie with a diabolical smirk that Aideen will later replicate every time she tells this tale.

  “What are you doing here?” Sylvia is either incredulous or stalling.

  “I would think it’s fairly obvious. I came to watch you collect my inheritance.” Millie air quotes. “Though you’ve already stolen most of it.”

  Sylvia looks from Millie to Aideen to the envelope, which contains, in fact, one folded sheet of blank paper.

  “This is ridiculous.”

  She begins raking her hands across the carpet, scrambling to collect her scattered items but, slightly frantic, she’s making a general hash of it. Now she’s on her knees, arse in the air, stretching her greedy fingers beneath the sofa to recover a rogue twenty-dollar bill. Millie glimpses a narrow swatch of turquoise knickers—thongs, she believes they’re called, a strip of cloth wedged straight up Sylvia’s bum—and feels a flash of pity for her.

  But only a flash.

  “You stole quite a bit from me,” Millie says.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” says Sylvia, getting up from the floor, the bill safely in her grip. “And I don’t have to sit here and listen to this.”

  Now her clever granddaughter—perpetually underestimated—snatches up the Coach key ring from the floor.

  “Give me that!” Sylvia screeches.

  Aideen shoves the keychain down the front of her new cutoffs, which she’d cleverly fashioned the night before from a pair of denims.

  “What are you doing?”

  “You do have to sit here and listen to this because my gran’s not finished.”

  “Give me those keys back right now, you crazy little bitch, or I’m calling the police.”

  Gus takes a protective step in Aideen’s direction. Though Millie should have expected it, Sylvia’s transformation—her sweet, helpful Dublin demeanor peeling back to this hideous, vile, lying creature—still shocks.

  “That’s a grand idea,” says Millie. “Let’s call the police.” She’s already on her way to the beige push-button phone mounted on the kitchen wall, where she presses 0.

  “You need to dial 9-1-1,” Gus says.

  “Oh, do I?”

  Sylvia snorts. “And you’re gonna tell them what exactly?”

  “I’m going to tell them that you’re not who you say you are.”

  “Oh they’ll be over here double-quick. Officer, this lady is not who she says she is!”

  “Then I’m going to tell them that you’re a thief. That you siphoned thousands of euros from my bank account. That you swindl
ed a check out of me with your horrible lie.”

  “You really are batshit crazy, you know that?” says Sylvia and shakes her head at Gus as if they’re in agreement.

  “The charges would be… let’s see… forgery, fraud, embezzlement,” says Millie. “Am I leaving any out, Aideen?”

  “Just, like, theft.”

  “Grand theft auto,” says Gus. “Didn’t she steal your car?”

  “I did not!” Sylvia says. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Now give me my keys right now. I’m not kidding.”

  “What I really want is my ring.”

  “Totally demented.”

  “You know what it means to me. I deserve that at least, Sylvia. I was good to you.”

  “You were good to me?” Sylvia scoffs. “Get over yourself! I listened to you yammer on and on and on. Oh my house is drafty! Have you seen my glasses? I’ve run out of toilet paper. No one visits me! Waaah! Never mind your son was over every other day. You have no idea how lucky you are that your family puts up with your shit. That they don’t shove you down in the basement and lock you away forever. Are you kidding me?” She’s spitting in exasperation. “I earned it.”

  “Well,” says Millie, “let’s see if the police agree.”

  “I hate to break it to you, but the Clearwater Police Department doesn’t exactly give a shit about some alleged crime in another country.”

  “Maybe not, maybe you’re right,” says Millie and she lets the room grow still. “But I wonder what they’ll think about Mr. Pale.”

  Sylvia’s eyes register not mild surprise.

  “I wonder what the police might find if they did a little check on Mr. Pale’s recent bank statements.” Millie allows the moment to stretch, for the panic to wash over Sylvia’s wild-eyed face, and then adds, as an afterthought, “Or his art collection?”

  Without warning, Sylvia lunges at Aideen, who screams so loudly that Millie can hardly believe the neighbors aren’t galloping in (then again, a fair few are likely hearing-impaired). Sylvia grabs hold of Aideen’s arms roughly and, though Aideen struggles to block her, Sylvia is far stronger. Both grunt with effort. Gus pushes his way between the two women, tries to pry Sylvia from Aideen, but they all tussle and Sylvia shoves Gus hard. He falls back and the crack of his skull as it meets the wall behind him is chilling. Millie runs to him.

  “Gus? Gus? Gus?”

  “Give me those fucking keys!” Sylvia screams.

  “I’m okay,” he squawks.

  But he’s not. He’s slumped over, his breathing ragged, eyes shut. He looks positively ancient. Millie puts her hands to his face.

  “Where are you hurt, Gus? Will I ring an ambulance?”

  Sylvia, ignoring this, has Aideen’s narrow wrists clamped tightly in both of her own fists. She releases one to slap Aideen hard across the face. Aideen howls in pain. It’s all going to pot, and so fast.

  “I’m okay,” Gus repeats and reaches to the back of his head to feel the wound. His fingers come away bloody. When Millie gasps, Sylvia and Aideen pause to glance at the drama and Aideen seizes her only shot: she elbows Sylvia sharply in the gut, momentarily incapacitating her. Aideen takes off, bounding to the bathroom, practically dives into it, and then slams the door and Millie hears the click of its lock. Sylvia tears after Aideen, banging away and screaming for her keys. She hits the door again and again until Aideen says, very calmly, “If you don’t leave this minute, I’m phoning the police.”

  The apartment goes very quiet and then Millie hears a long ringtone. Aideen must be making a call on the speaker function.

  “9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”

  “Motherfucking lunatics!” Sylvia says and she’s charging through the living room violently blurring past Millie and Gus, both still on the floor. She snatches up her tote and in three giant steps is at the front door.

  Millie wants to pursue Sylvia, who by now must be racing down the corridor and getting into the lift. Surely they will never find her again. Even as Millie’s poised to follow her, paralyzed by indecision, she finds that she can’t. Gus is bleeding.

  “Aideen!”

  “Is she gone?”

  “Get a towel quick,” she says.

  “Is she gone?”

  “Yes! And phone an ambulance.”

  Aideen unlocks the bathroom door.

  “Oh my God,” she whispers when she sees Gus.

  “Hurry up!” Millie shouts.

  Aideen’s left cheek is stamped with Sylvia’s handprint and her face is a sloppy wet mess.

  “Sorry, love, I don’t mean to snap, but do please hurry.”

  61

  Aideen studies the families all around her, trying to conjure up clinical words that might establish a medical setting for a possible poem. There is quite a lot of material, it turns out, to inspire Aideen Gogarty in Clearwater Urgent Care. Gus’s injury, while not rising to slasher-level gore, is still bloody and therefore terrifying, not to mention the astonishing ascent of a colorful, cartoonish lump rising up like lava from the seascape of his head, as if he’s just been smashed by a naughty mouse with a cast-iron skillet.

  Together, Gus and Gran had disappeared through the green door, a magical portal that very rarely opens—say, twice an hour—though when it does, every last head in the silent, packed waiting room swivels eagerly toward it. They wait. Some play on their phones; one lady fans herself absentmindedly with a pamphlet titled “Rectal Itch: Causes and Treatments.”

  Back at the apartment, Gus had brushed off the need for an ambulance and Millie had briefly considered driving Sylvia’s Mercedes, but in the end, they’d rung a taxi. Aideen sat up front listening to Gran say over and over, “You’re going to be grand, Gus. You’re going to be just grand.” By the third round of this mantra, Aideen realized her grandmother was talking shite; she was actually very worried. Lies can be necessary—noble, even.

  Though the wait is tedious and the smell clinical and the room overly chilled and the chairs institutional, there is something oddly intimate about the place. It’s certainly the most personal setting she’s yet to share with the citizens of this country, nothing akin to her solo trek down the highway or the pharmacy or the diner or her hanging about at the pool wondering about Sean. (Aideen never got a chance to ask Sylvia about him—that ship had sailed the moment things had turned ugly.)

  The people all around Aideen are in some pain or, at least, discomfort, and in need, and this seems to strip them of airs and armor. Which fascinates Aideen, she who can never strip her armor in front of anyone beyond her family. Opposite her, in a vinyl seat the color of watery urine, a tired-looking, top-heavy mother in denim leggings with a thin gold belt at the waist holds a baby. The little girl—tiny specks of lavender diamonds stud each earlobe—stares at Aideen with wide, wet eyes so somberly that Aideen feels rude not responding. She mimes a shy peekaboo with her fingers three times, but the baby doesn’t crack a smile, just continues to gaze professorially at her, cool and detached. Which makes Aideen want to laugh. Maybe her next poem will be written from a baby’s point of view.

  Now and then, the entrance door from the car park swings open, a gush of warm Florida evening washes in, and Aideen watches the injured and sick enter, usually flanked by family members, and be promptly told by a humorless woman at the admissions desk to check in at one of the self-check computer kiosks on the far wall. The elderly seem befuddled by this, but they’re redirected to the terminals nonetheless. This begins to irk Aideen—to be in obvious need of basic human help and get none. A pale, wrinkly midget of a woman in a purple windbreaker stands confused before one of these screens, talking softly at it. It might as well be a cockpit or a time machine.

  No longer able to bear it, Aideen, in a very un-Aideen moment, walks over and says, “Can I help?”

  Aideen finds herself fishing through an ancient wallet and plucking the woman’s driver’s license from beneath its plastic sheath. Aideen guides her through each bureaucratic step: the license blips
under a red light; first one side, then the other. Next up is a request for a health insurance card.

  “You mean Medicare?” asks the woman.

  “I’m not sure…” says Aideen and takes the woman’s little bit of unlaminated cardboard—so flimsy for such an important thing—and runs it under the sensor. Now a series of questions and confirmations and verifications until a screen asks if she has fasted.

  “Huh?” says the woman.

  “It’s asking whether you’ve, like, eaten or had a drink in the past twelve hours?”

  “I had a bran muffin,” says the woman.

  Aideen presses no and carries on until they arrive at the final screen. The woman thanks her and offers Aideen a dollar; Aideen politely refuses it. Then she hovers near the machine in case she might be needed (which she is, twice more) until, finally, the green door swings open and Gran’s bustling through it.

  “He’s okay. He needs a few staples,” she says, “so I’m just going to pop over to the office store now and pick up a box.” Gran’s deadpan is so bang on that Aideen stares at her blankly until she spots the cheeky smile.

  “Jesus!” Aideen says, and laughs though she’s not sure if this is the worst or best time for a joke.

  Gran ushers her over to a less-populated corner of the grim room and tells Aideen to sit down.

  “He’s going to be grand, Duckie, thank God. Well, no thanks to God. He’s lucid, anyway. He’s chatty. But they’ll need to transfer him to a hospital because they don’t do the staples here.” She looks at Aideen. “I’m going to go with him.”

  “Then I will as well.”

  “No,” says Gran. “That’s silly because—”

  “I want to go with you.” There’s a tiny smear of Gus’s blood on Gran’s blouse.

  “I’ve decided to stay on for a few more days, maybe a week or two. With Gus. He has a concussion and he needs someone to stand guard and make sure he doesn’t nod off forever.”