‘Ah, fuck it.’
‘Leave it be,’ I said.
He moved his arm out of my grip, put his hand down on the muddy bank, shifted his way down into the water, up to the rim of his wellingtons. He lifted the condom on one of the V ends, and suddenly burst into laughter as he raised it in the air, dangling it absurdly.
‘A million fucken fishes in that thing,’ he said, ‘and I’m not even using me rod!’
He held the condom on the end of the branch, twirled it for a moment, chuckling and coughing at the same time, opened the black bag, shook the condom off inside with the rest of the litter, flung the stick away down the riverbank. I reached down and gave him a hand out. ‘We should get those trousers of yours dry,’ I said. He put his arm around me, told me he was knackered. He hung the bag over his wrist and we came back to the house, the evening sun semaphoring off puddles as he stepped right through them, chuckling to himself. In the house I put on the kettle. He took a seat in the armchair, pulled off his trousers, hung them over the fire grill, sat there in his underwear. ‘Some Goldgrain with the tea!’ he shouted as he picked up the marmalade cat and stroked her. It’s been a while since I’ve seen a flush in his cheeks like that — they were forge-red as if, at last, he had done something spectacular with his life.
‘A million fucken fishes, son,’ he kept saying, until he went upstairs, steam churning from his teacup, feet creaking lightly on the stairs, still in his underpants.
‘Dad,’ I said, at the bottom of the stairs. ‘Can I tell ya something?’
‘Course ya can.’
‘I’m a bit embarrassed.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Well, I’m heading off tomorrow afternoon.’
‘Yeah?’
‘And I think…’
‘Ya think what?’
‘I mean, the bath.’
‘What’s that?’
‘You’re a bit ripe, these days.’
‘For crissake, Conor.’
‘I was thinking that maybe I’d run the water for you.’
‘Ah, for crying out loud. Go away out of that. I don’t need a bath. The last thing I need is a fucken bath. What would I need a bath for?’
‘Okay.’
‘The bath can wait.’
‘Whatever you want. Okay. Okay.’
‘Ah, Jaysus,’ he said.
He was switching his weight from one foot to the other. He went to his room, closed the door softly behind him, but popped his head around and looked down at me, lifted his eyes and closed the door again. I felt that it was some sort of invitation. I followed him in. He had one foot in the bottom of his pyjamas.
‘You’re an awful man for barging in.’
‘Yeah, well.’
‘What’s going on?’
‘Was only kidding about the bath,’ I said.
‘Fair enough.’
He climbed in under the sheets. He didn’t even reach for his cigarettes, just pulled the sheet up as far as his waist. The tea was growing cold on the bedside table.
‘D’ya remember?’ he said, and then he stopped.
‘Remember what?’
‘Ah, Jaysus,’ he said, ‘I remember nothing at all these days.’
‘Why’s that?’ I asked.
‘You’re better off that way. Remembering nothing.’
He reached over to get the cup of tea.
‘You know what someone once said to me, Dad?’
‘What’s that?’
‘They said memory is three-quarters imagination and all the rest is lies.’
‘That’s a load of codswallop, that is. That’s horseshit taught by flies. Who said that?’
‘Just a friend.’
‘Talking through his arse.’
I sat on the edge of the bed. I surprised myself when I just summoned it up. ‘Listen, Dad, why did ya do that to Mam?’
‘What?’
‘You know.’
‘What?’ he said. He moved a little.
‘Why did ya let that happen?’ I said. ‘With the photos.’
‘Ah, Jaysus, is that what this is all about?’
‘I’m just asking. Why did ya…?’
‘Can’t a man forget?’
‘Don’t think so.’
He was quiet for a moment, looking at his teacup. ‘And ya know what someone once said to me?’ he said, pointing his forefinger at me. ‘Don’t know who the fuck it was, but he had it right — he said that, when you come into a rich man’s house, the only place to spit is in his face.’
He ran his hands over his face, waiting for a reply, then said: ‘So what the fuck happens when ya come into an old man’s house, huh?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Ah, bollocks,’ he said. ‘All I’m looking for is a bit of peace and quiet. Go away. Let me sleep.’
He turned his head towards his pillow.
‘You know where I was, Dad? Those first few years when I was away? You know where I was?’
‘Where?’
‘I was looking for Mam.’
He sat up and stared at me with one eye closed, and the life drained away from his face, came down to whiteness. ‘What were you doing a stupid thing like that for?’ he asked.
‘Just because.’
‘Just because what?’
‘Because.’
‘Ah, Jaysus.’
‘Couldn’t find a trace.’
Silence slinked its way around the room. The tea was almost finished but he was draining the last drops of it, holding it up in the air and waiting for something to come out, watching the brown runnel form along the side, licking the drop from the rim of the cup. He held it out in front of him, ran his fingers in amongst the leaves. He started flicking the tea leaves off the end of his forefinger.
‘For Jaysus sake, Conor.’
‘I’m in Wyoming now,’ I said.
‘What the hell are ya doing in Wyoming? Nothing but trees there.’
‘That’s not what you used to say.’
‘Ah, to hell what I used to say.’
I told him about cleaning the swimming pools, the ski lifts, Kutch and Eliza, the fist on the tower, about how, every now and then, I take off on foot, go wandering. ‘I like it there,’ I told him. He gave me a nod and started humming ‘Hit the Road, Jack’ — I couldn’t tell if he was asking me to leave the room, or if he was just lost in his own little world. He said nothing more about Mam, just kept on humming and I was left there on the side of his bed, thinking of those words, hit the road Jack don’t you come back no more no more no more no more. I wanted him to say something more, anything, anything at all, and I stared at his face as if I could carve an answer out of that, but I suppose what he was suggesting to me is that you don’t spit any differently in an old man’s house than you do in a rich man’s house, that it all comes down to the very same thing.
MONDAY, leave a man in peace
When he woke me it was still dark outside. I was curled up at the bottom end of his bed. During the night he must have put a blanket over me. It was folded all the way in under my feet, and a hot-water bottle had grown cold by my toes. He had taken a pillow and propped it in under my head. The marmalade cat was curled in with me, the saucer-ashtray full on the bedside table. He told me that he’d make breakfast for me, that I’d need something for the trip to Dublin. Rubbed his chest and went out the door. I took the saucer full of cigarette butts and went to the bathroom, flushed the fag-ends down the bowl, had a shave — my first shave all week — washed out the sink, had a quick scrub, went downstairs.
I had to laugh when I saw the sunnyside eggs he had ready for me.
He sat opposite me at the table, wearing a white shirt dotted with bits of egg. He was still rubbing his fingers over his chestbone, deliberating the rising of the sun out the kitchen window. And then he opened a button on his shirt and his fingers moved in further around his body. For a moment he shoved them in under his armpit, closed his arm down on them, kept them there for a moment, took them out, almost Napoleonic in the gesture. He held the fingers up to his nose and sniffed them, scrunched up his nose and chuckled.