Departures (14 page)

You can catch that thing again, the woman said. It's over there.

The skipper had landed on a heavy curtain which hung in front of the closet instead of a door. My father approached cautiously, assessing the distance, then removed his coat to improve his reach, but still his hand missed its target. The skipper flashed once and vanished, then flashed again higher up; the half dozen tacks which had held the curtain popped like snaps on a raincoat and I heard their soft tinkle as they hit the floor, then the room overflowed with Sulphur and Brimstone, Magnificent
Julias, True Lover's Knots. They came to rest on my sleeves like the dead skin of a bonfire, light and unsteady and easily dislodged—all the ones my father couldn't sell to collectors, all the ones whom the opposite gender ignored, all the outcasts who for some reason had hung incorrectly after eclosion and so had been able to inflate their wings fully or straighten their legs before the cuticle grew hard. Their flight made the sound of old wooden houses alone in the country, their floorboards and panelling resisting strong wind, and so many of them flew at my face on their way to the window that I had to close my eyes.

When I opened them again I looked for my father. He'd knelt down beside Michael, had the boy's hands in his, and they both were watching the steady exodus as even the most crippled among them struggled onto the sill and fell out, towards the light.

The Swing of Things

You go answer it, my father said when the doorbell rang. I was up to my elbows in lemon bubbles, a butcher's apron around my waist, but he took the pot and scrubber off me and held a clean towel while I dried my hands. Go on, luv, he said. I'll finish these.

Brian and Jack were my honorary uncles, and though I'd just seen them the previous evening they still hugged me close when I opened the door, the scent of cologne fresh on their collars, their cheeks newly shaven and smooth against mine. My father came from the kitchen and stood behind us with folded arms.

Is he ready? Brian asked me, before he saw him. I ordered a taxi.

I'm not going, my father said.

You are, Jack said.

Now look, said Brian, we've been through this already. He unbuttoned his coat with determination and aimed his voice at the other room. You don't mind, do you, Mr Scully?

Of course he doesn't, Jack said. He went over to where the old man sat in his chair by the fire and crouched down in front of him, eye-to-eye. Alright, Grandad? he said. What's the forecast?

There's too many chickens, the old man said.

So there are, Jack said, straightening up, I've always said so. See—what d'I tell you? Sharp as a tack.

For God's sake, said my father. Can't you see I can't go?

Listen, comrade, Jack said, it's not immigration; it's one night on the town. We'll have you back here within twenty-four hours.

I don't know, said my father. What about the child?

She's a good big girl, aren't you, luv? How old are you now? Seventeen? Twenty-one?

She's nine, my father said. Too young to be left in the house on her own.

But she's not on her own, Brian said, she's with her granda. You'll look after her, won't you, Mr Scully?

He's got to get out, the old man answered, but my father shook his head.

He doesn't know what he's saying. That's not about this.

He knows more than you do, Brian told him. They looked at each other in silence for a moment. C'mon, now, Brian said finally. You'll be in by midnight, earlier if you want. And you don't have to do a damn thing you don't want to, alright? Just get out of the house for once, that's all, have a few pints and watch the match.

My father sighed. Who d'you say's playing?

Liverpool, Jack said. And this time they'll win.

For the next twenty minutes they stood beside him in the downstairs toilet watching his razor move in the mirror, lifting their chins with the same squint and pout as he scraped the blade carefully across his throat. Then they followed him up to the back bedroom to help him match a clean shirt and tie, where they shook out his suit and condemned its condition, spit-polished his shoes, and vetoed his socks until my father gave up and let them choose a pair. I heard them arguing about financial matters—who'd pay for the pints and the grub if they got any, how much to save for the cab fare home—until my father came in for his jacket and cap and the spare set of keys, kissed the old man on the top of his head, and said, Alright, luv, I suppose we're away.

A man was closing our front gate behind him when we stepped outside looking up, testing the odds in the blush of clouds above us of another summer evening ending in rain.

Hiya, the man said, and shook hands with Brian because he was the closest. Gus Holden. Is one of you a John Scully? I was told I could find him at this address.

Is that right? said Jack.

What for? Brian said.

Your name's not Holden, my father said. You're a McCulla. Pascal McCulla, from the Ligoniel Road.

Not any more, the man said. I've been Gus Holden for ten years now.

Your father owned a sweetie shop when I was a boy, my father continued. Remember, Brian? Across from the post office, near Leroy Street. How's he doing, your dad? Does he still have that shop?

No, no, it burned down years ago. He and my ma live in England now.

McCulla's a good name, Brian said. Why'd you change it?

Part of the job, the man said. You do what they tell you or you don't get paid.

Listen, Pascal, my father said, John Scully's my father, but he's not very well; I don't like to disturb him. Can I help you at all?

The thing is, the man said, it's your da won the prize. I don't think it's transferrable.

Jack shook his head like a man clearing water.

He's done what did you say?

He won a prize, the man repeated uncertainly. He was in a competition. He won a day out with me.

And who are you?

I do stunts, the man answered. He seemed embarrassed. For the cinema, mostly. Sometimes just for show.

What kind of stunts?

Lots of things. Get set on fire, jump off of buildings. The usual stuff.

That's not true, Brian said. You do that thing with the catapult, don't you? Off an eighty-foot bridge with a plane going by. You catch hold of it. I saw it on TV.

Yes, that's right, the man said. But I do the other stuff, too.

You should see that one, Brian said generally. That's really something.

It's a bit late for a day out, isn't it? my father said. It's almost seven now.

Aye, I know, the man said. But youse aren't on the phone, and I have a cousin in Velsheda Park I haven't seen for a while, so I reckoned I'd stop by here first and make plans for tomorrow or whatever day suits.

Jesus, Jack said. How about that.

A competition, my father repeated. What kind of competition? What did he have to do to win?

Oh, I don't know, said the stuntman. Just be a fan, I suppose.

No offence, Jack said, but that's just not possible. You sure you have the right address?

It says John Scully here, right enough, Brian answered, examining the letter the stuntman had taken from inside his coat. And it's your street and number. He refolded the letter and returned it, shrugged and shook his head. Looks like it's him.

Have a look in his room, Jack suggested. He might have the rule sheet or something up there.

No, said my father, he's got to have privacy. This is his house, too, after all.

So what do you want to do? Brian asked quietly.

We were on our way out, see, Jack told the stuntman.

Oh sorry! he said. I can come back tomorrow.

You're here now, Jack said. Hold on—you wouldn't mind staying here for a while, would you? Just for a couple of hours, to keep an eye on things. You'd be doing us a real favour, letting this fella have a night out for a change. He grinned at the stuntman and patted his back. Don't worry; you'll understand everything when you've met the old man.

Now wait a minute, my father protested, that's not on.

What about your cousin? Jack asked, ignoring him. Is she expecting you?

No, not at all. She doesn't know I've arrived.

Well that's it, then! Jack said. We'll be down at the Joxer for a couple of pints. They're showing the match on the big screen. You can see it yourself, if you want to. He's got a TV.

I don't feel good about this, my father said.

Don't be silly, Brian said, it's a great idea. As long as you don't mind, of course.

It's alright, the stuntman said, really. I don't mind.

When they were gone I led him inside. The old man was sitting just as I'd left him, and I went over and collected his plate from the table beside him and removed the napkin from his lap. His fingers shook as I wiped them clean.

What's all this for? said the stuntman, looking round him.

For him, I explained, so he doesn't get lost.

I'd written the first set myself, one for every door in the house. But bright colours confused him so my father made new ones, simple black letters on white, unlined card—one to say TOILET, another, COAT CLOSET, the three bedrooms upstairs identified by occupant, the back of both exits reading, THIS LEADS OUTSIDE. In our
kitchen too everything was labelled. A note on the breadbasket reminded the old man where to find butter, another on the kettle told him how to make tea. TURN THIS OFF! said a sign on the cooker. My father had changed it over to electric after he found the old man still looking for matches an hour after he'd switched on the gas. The following week he'd stepped through the gate the postman had left open and struck out for Carnmoney, where he used to live. He'd gotten as far as the city centre, had even managed to find the right bus, but the coins in his pocket had made no sense to him, and though he'd lived all his life within a twelve-mile radius he was disoriented completely when the driver pulled away. He'd entered a shop but lost sight of the exit, had drawn the attention of a security guard, then stood in front of the Linen Hall Library counting the same fifty-pence piece over and over until the thought of the sum he believed he was carrying had paralysed him with dread. A whole afternoon of pedestrian traffic had moved him gradually to the opposite side of Donegall Square, where Brian walked into him on his way home from work. From then on we kept the gate bolted beyond comprehension, and he carried a card on his person printed in large letters with his name and address.

I checked the carriage clock on the mantel, stoked the fire, and switched on the pump.

It's time for his bath, I told the stuntman. Do you want to come up?

We followed the same procedure each evening. The first thing was to sit him down on the toilet, get his clothes off, and then fill the tub. I'm going to unbutton your shirt now, Da, my father would tell him while I got the old man's toothbrush ready and tested the water against my wrist—Lift your feet up now, let's pull off those socks.
After the bath there were ointments to use for poor circulation and swollen joints, plus an assortment of tablets and liquids which had to be taken before going to bed.

I took everything off him but his vest and pants, then I opened my mouth so he'd open his and pulled my lips back in the grimace necessary for the brushing of teeth. My father shaved him every morning but by teatime his chin bristled against my palm, the short white stubble on his jowls too sparkling like frost in the bright light of the bathroom.

I don't think they cleaned it, he said as I wiped his lips. It's gone now, anyway. Audrey, luv, did I give you that one? There was something else the last time, you tell him. Did he take that one away with him, too?

Okay, I said, stand up a minute. I fastened a towel around his waist, reached up underneath it and pulled down his briefs. As he stepped into the bathtub I took the towel away and helped him sit down, and when he let go of the handrails I lifted his arms up and pulled off his shirt.

Aren't you going to answer him? the stuntman asked me.

No, I said, he's not talking to me. It's your hair, I explained. Audrey's my mother. She used to wear hers that way, too.

Hers had been thicker than his, however, and even longer, and when she tied it behind her the dark strands moved in lazy unison, like the tail of a horse. Who do I look like? I'd asked her one evening when my father and I were sitting beside her, one on either edge of the bed. We were looking through a shoe box of photos he'd come upon earlier while searching the closets for something to have ready for Mrs Mercer, who collected donations on behalf of the church. Like your father, she'd answered
promptly, but he'd disagreed. He'd lifted the soft rope of hair from her pillow and tousled his own head next to mine. Look at that colour, he'd said, there's your answer. You see that, wee girl? You're a bit of us both.

The stuntman examined the ends of his own hair curiously, as if he'd only just realised how long they'd grown. I gave him the soap to hold so I wouldn't lose it, and the shampoo to pour when the time came for that.

Listen, he said, can he go outside?

I recalled the forecast, the violet horizon, the mild breath of the evening on me as I'd waved Brian and Jack and my father good-bye.

I think so, I said. But not for too long.

It's just that he did win this competition, the stuntman continued. He deserves something for it. There's got to be something outside I could do.

I dressed the old man in the clothes my father had already set out for him to wear the next day, a combination of garments he'd been fond of once. To be on the safe side I put a cardigan on him, then I led him downstairs and out into the garden where the stuntman stood, contemplating the house.

He was in his bare feet and he'd taken his shirt off. White gauze bound him from midwaist to abdomen, swift movement seemed difficult, and I don't know why but I thought of my father, whom I'd happened to see once stepping into the bath. The door to the bathroom had been slightly open and I'd caught a thick glimpse of flank and buttock before he sank in, lifted the sponge from the water beside him and squeezed its load slowly over his head; all the strength with which he'd been fooling us drained away from him then. Some time before that I'd observed the woman who lived across from us step into her garden perfectly nude. Her body was a nest of soft
folds and deflations, like those of the models who posed for night classes in Life Drawing and Sculpture in the art room at school. The first time I saw them disrobe with such confidence and then mount the platform to pass the interminable hours outstretched on cushions or straddling a chair, I'd been with friends—we'd just finished Swimmers, and waiting for someone to come fetch us home we were wandering the corridors, intrigued by all that the building was home to after school hours, independent of us. From then on I watched regularly the Adult Ed students seated at easels, the hesitant strokes of their pencils and chalk, the thoughtful perambulations of the silent instructor and the all the while oblivious expression of whatever naked man or woman was in front of them that week. The old man had recently moved in with us then, my mother had only a few months to live, and I already had doubts about my own body, already imagined I could see proof of its impermanence in my own face and limbs. The woman's husband, returning from work as she stepped from the house, had dropped the plastic box he was carrying which still held his crusts and wrappers from lunch. He'd put his arms around her and held her, and it occurred to me then that this is why we fall in love: because we need another's eyes to convince us we remain things of beauty, because without another's tongue to tell us we assume such words can not be said.