Payback (8 page)

I stand for a while, leaning on my bike, watching.

A man steps out of the night, giving me a ferocious fright. He's wearing a dark track suit. Gives me a hard look and I fall back, scared out of my socks and almost falling over my bike.

The man moves on. He is big with a thick black beard, the kind of feller you see on the telly, on the Friday night wrestling show, or in a horror flick.

That big sucker made my heart thump something fierce.

When the man has disappeared around the corner and my heart is more or less back to normal, I wheel my bike up to the Masons' broken gate and push it open. A dog starts barking inside. A wooden crosspiece of the gate has rotted and collapsed so the bottom of the gate drags on the concrete path.

I lean my bike against the inside of the broken fence and lock it.

There's no bell or knocker on the front door. I rap with my knuckles. The barking dog scares me. It sounds like it's about to have itself a heart attack.

Then I realize I haven't got a clue what I'm going to say. I've got nothing prepared. Am I dumb or what!

A flap of curtain moves in the window. Before I can turn and run away, the porch light comes on and bolts and locks snap off and the door opens.

Mrs. Mason's face looks yellow under the dim porch light. She wears a light-colored shirt and a
longish skirt — gray, I think, though it's hard to tell under the yellow light — and her dark hair is tied back in a ponytail. There's no veil now to hide her face.

She says nothing but seems to be looking at me like I'm something she discovered stuck to her shoe, like she knows I'm the one who stood by and let her son die.

The dog is growling at me and showing its teeth. The dog knows for sure.

Mrs. Mason looks past me into the street, turning her head to see both ways.

“Be quiet, Mango!” To me she says, “The dog won't bite you. Can I help you?”

“I'm Charley Callaghan.”

There's no sign on her face that she recognizes my name. So maybe Benny didn't write it on the note he left.

She closes the door a bit, seems in a hurry to be rid of me. The dog stops growling but it doesn't take its eyes off me.

I gulp for air.

“I was a friend of Benny's.”

“A friend of Benny's?”

I nod.

She stands looking at me for the longest time — for ages, it seems like. I'm just thinking I should say something quickly and go but then she steps back, holding the door open.

“Would you like to come in? I'm just putting Rico to bed.”

I step inside.

Benny's kid brother comes running to the door, clutches his ma's leg and looks shyly up at me.

Now that she's inside with the door closed and locked, she seems more relaxed.

“Rico, this is a friend of Benny's.”

“Hi, Rico. I'm Charley.”

I follow them inside. The dog crouches beside his basket next to the sofa, watching me suspiciously.

There's no one else in the house.

Mrs. Mason says, “I'm about to read Rico a story. Please sit. I'll be only a few minutes.”

“Look, Mrs. Mason, I just came by...”

Rico pulls at his ma's skirt and whispers to her.

She says to me, “Rico wants to know if you would like to see Pineapple's kittens.”

Rico leads me shyly into the kitchen. In a dark corner beside the fridge there's a cardboard box with
a cat and a bunch of kittens. The five kittens are a mixture of yellow, orange and brown.

Rico picks one up carefully in both hands, holding it up to show me. Its eyes are barely open.

Pineapple leaps out of the box and stalks around the kitchen making deep mewing sounds.

“You can pet it if you want,” Rico says. I touch the kitten with a fingertip, keeping one eye on Pineapple.

“Rico loves Pineapple's kittens, don't you, Rico?” Mrs. Mason says.

I'm thinking that her voice sounds kind of phony bright, because her eyes stay dull and sad. It's like she's making an effort to sound cheerful.

We return to the other room. Mrs. Mason nods toward the sofa.

“Sit, why don't you? Say goodnight, Rico.”

“G'night,” says Rico.

“Goodnight, Rico.”

I sit on the sofa and look about me. There isn't much to see. Easy chair, coffee table, telly, the usual stuff, except for a whole bunch of dolls. You'd never believe the dolls, dozens of them.

I get up and take one down off the shelf. It's made
out of papier mâché. They're on the mantel, on the stacks of books, on the telly — standing, sitting, lying, hanging. You name it, they're everywhere. There are gnomes with pointy hats and beards, pixies with grins as wide as their faces, elves, goblins, trolls, leprechauns and I don't know what all, painted in bright colors. Lots of them have oversized feet and hands, the big feet stuck right under a chin or chest. Cleverly made and painted they are, with sly expressions on their faces.

They're cool and funny. I can't help but grin as I look at them.

There's ugly-faced ones, too, like the ones on the outside of Dublin's St. Patrick's Cathedral — gargoyles, they're called — that stare down on you. They look like devils or evil spirits, with screaming gobs and lolling tongues; monsters with fangs or beaks, leering or howling. These little ones hang on Mrs. Mason's walls and sneer down at me and are not so funny.

I don't like them. The fact of the matter is, they're a bit scary.

I turn away and sit and wait in silence under the accusing stares of the gargoyles.

I catch the low murmur of Mrs. Mason's voice reading a story to Rico. I think about Benny and how he helped Annie pick up her stuff when she dropped her school bag, no easy thing if you ever saw all she carries in that thing — books and papers, loose coins, crayons, pens, pencils, sticky notes, paper clips, rubber bands and girl paraphernalia of all kinds, including a tiny blue wool doll Ma knitted for her when she was little. The doll's name is Prissy and goes everywhere with her.

I can picture Benny Mason crouching, picking up Annie's things for her.

Thinking of Annie reminds me that I should be getting back to Aunt Maeve's before someone misses me, but just then Mrs. Mason tiptoes out of the kid's bedroom, closing the door behind her softly.

“I'm making myself a pot of tea. Would you like some?”

“No, thanks. I should really be going.”

“Would you like something else? Pop?” “I should...”

She disappears into the kitchen.

It's weird sitting in Benny's living room looking at
all these trolls, dwarves and goblins. They don't look so funny any more. It's like they've come in from the woods and fields and mountains, out of their holes, gathering together in Benny's house to take a look at me, to see for themselves the kid who won the Nobel Prize for cowardice.

There, I've said the C word. Coward.

The gargoyles' twisted faces mock me.

We know you, Charley Callaghan and we know what you are
.

I turn my eyes to the floor so I won't have to look at them.

“You're right, Charley. Turn your eyes away from the Little People lest they steal your soul.”

I look up. Ma is standing near the door, all dressed up like she used to be in Dublin when she and Da were going out to dinner someplace: black dress, stockings, high heels, earrings, the works.

“Hi, Ma...you know I don't believe in all that Irish faeries nonsense.”

“The best protection against the Little People, Charley, is a pure heart.”

I remember the song:

The Moon hangs in the meadow
Where the Little People play.
If you happen to be passing
Then bow your head and pray.
Unless your heart be pure
They'll steal your soul away
.

“Aw, come on, Ma. You don't believe all that blarney. Anyway, I don't have a pure heart. Far from it.”

Ma says, “You're a good boy, Charley. And you take good care of Annie. Tell Annie —”

Before Ma can say any more, Mrs. Mason calls for me to come to the kitchen. Ma just smiles at me and waves and I go into the kitchen and me and Mrs. Mason sit facing each other at an old wooden table with a plate of coconut biscuits — cookies — between us.

The kitchen includes the eating area. It's big for such a small house. Next to a wall telephone there's a wooden table with a sewing machine and a chair with a cushion on it. If Mrs. Mason sits in the chair she'd be able to see out the window to the back yard, I reckon.

There are no trolls or elves in the kitchen except
for one gnome, the kind with the big hands and feet, sitting on the windowsill by the sewing machine.

On shelves near the window there's small jars of paint and varnish and glue. There's also dozens of spools of thread in every possible color.

Next to the spools of thread, in an alcove, there's a tightly crowded rack of clothing with tags attached, on hangers, and a second rack of tagged clothing behind the chair along the wall.

Mrs. Mason notices me looking.

“It's my workshop,” she says. “I do sewing. Alterations mainly: skirts, dresses, trousers, the usual stuff.”

And the dolls, I say to myself.

She lifts the lid and stirs the teapot.

“I work for several shops,” she says. “They send me work they can't handle themselves, because they're too busy or the work is too difficult for them. Sometimes I make something for a special customer.”

I need to tell her about Benny. Get it over with.

But I don't know how to start.

I sip my cola from the can, ignoring the glass.

“Look, Mrs. Mason...”

“Call me Joanna, please.”

“I'm real sorry about Benny,” I finally say.

Her eyes fill with tears. “I know. Benny is...was lucky to have you as a friend.”

Now. Tell her now. Give it to her straight.

But my tongue seems suddenly like it's made of foam rubber. I can't speak.

Her eyes glistening, she says, “How well did you know him?”

“Know Benny?” I'm thinking furiously, but my mind and tongue are disconnected. “He was in my English and Socials classes. We...”

But nothing comes. I sit in desperate silence.

Then I say, “Mrs. Mason — Joanna — I could take care of Rico for you anytime you need a babysitter. If you want. I've had lots of experience looking after my little sister.”

“Thank you, Charles —”

“It's Charley.”

“Charley. It's good of you to offer, but I don't leave the house much.” She reaches for a Kleenex. “What is your sister's name? How old is she?”

I tell her.

“You must bring her round to meet Rico.”

“I will.” I worry about someone missing me. I swig back the remains of the can. “I've got to go. Thanks for the drink.”

Joanna follows me to the door. “Be sure to come again. And bring your sister.”

“I will,” I say again.

“Goodnight, Charley. Thanks for coming.” The bolts and chains rattle loudly as the door closes behind me. You wouldn't believe how many locks and chains she's got on that door.

I head home up the hill. I didn't tell Mrs. Mason what I went to tell her.

No courage. No backbone. Coward.

“Lucky to have you as a friend.” The words play and replay in time with my furious pedaling.

While I was at the Mason house, Annie went into my room and I wasn't there. She didn't tell Aunt Maeve or Crazy Uncle Rufus, though, thank God. So I had to tell Annie where I was, which is why she wants to tag along this afternoon. Anyway, I promised Joanna I would bring her over for a visit. And this time, I vow to myself, I will tell Mrs. Mason the truth about me and Benny.

Mango starts with the barking even before I knock on the door. I can tell from the way she's taking it all in that Annie's eyes are not missing the rundown condition of the fence and front yard.

The door opens. Mango stops barking.

Mrs. Mason, smiling. “Hello, Charley. You've brought your sister. How nice. Come in, both of you.”

Once inside, she says to Annie, “I'm Joanna. And I already know your name, Annie. Charley told me
about you.” Rico appears and clutches his ma's leg, same as before. “This is Rico.”

“Hello, Rico.”

“And this is Mango.”

“Hi, Mango.” Annie pats the dog.

“Come on in. Do you like chocolate chip cookies?” Mrs. Mason asks Annie. “They're homemade.”

“Oh, yes.” Annie smiles. “Chocolate's my favorite. I'd even eat spinach if it was dipped in chocolate. Charley said you've got kittens. Could I see them?”

“Of course. They're in the kitchen. Come on in.”

“Mrs. Mason,” I say, “could I call Aunt Maeve to let her know we're here?”

“Charley, you must call me Joanna. We're friends, right? There's a phone in the kitchen on the wall.”

Aunt Maeve doesn't mind us staying. “So long as I know where you are,” she says. “Home before dinner, okay?”

Annie loves Pineapple and her kittens. Then after a while she examines the trolls and goblins.

“Can I pick them up?” she asks Joanna.

“Of course, but be gentle with them. They break easily. And don't let the kittens near them.”

“I won't,” Annie promises. “I'll be very extra careful.” She doesn't seem to mind the gargoyles.

Annie talks to Mango and plays with the dolls, having conversations with them, and lies on the floor among Rico's plastic toys and talks to the kittens. She asks Joanna if the dolls and the kittens have got names and when Joanna says no, she starts making up names for them, making Rico giggle.

Mrs. Mason and Annie like each other right away, I can tell, because Mrs. Mason talks to Annie about how she likes her hair and blah-blah-blah, typical girl stuff, back and forth. They talk together so much I don't get a chance for a private word with Mrs. Mason.