Thanks for the Memories (3 page)
h at i s i t a b o u t f a r t jokes, Bea?”
W “Oh, hi, Dad.”
“What kind of a greeting is that?”
“Oh, gee whiz, wow, Dad, so great to hear from you. It’s been, what, ah shucks, three hours since you last phoned?”
“Fine, you don’t have to go all Porky Pig on me. Is your darling mother home yet from a day out at her new life?”
“Yes, she’s home.”
“And has she brought the delightful Laurence back with her?”
He can’t hold back his sarcasm, which he hates himself for, but unwilling to withdraw it and incapable of apologizing, he does what he always does, which is to run with it, thereby making it worse.
“Laurence,” he drawls, “Laurence of A— inguinal hernia.”
“Oh, you’re such a geek. Will you ever give up talking about his trouser leg?” She sighs with boredom.
Justin kicks off the scratchy blanket of the cheap Dublin hotel he’s staying in. “Really, Bea, check it next time he’s around. Those trousers are far too tight for what he’s got going on down there. There should be a name for that. Something-itis.”
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Balls-a-titis.
“You know, there are only four TV channels in this dump, one in a language I don’t even understand. It sounds like they’re clearing their throats after one of your mother’s terrible coq au vins. You know, in my wonderful home back in Chicago, I had over two hundred channels.” Dick-a-titis. Dickhead-a-titis. Ha!
“Of which you watched none.”
“But one had a choice not to watch those deplorable housefixer-upper channels and music channels of naked women dancing around.”
“I appreciate one going through such an upheaval, Dad. It must be very traumatic for you, a sort-of-grown man, while I, at sixteen years old, had to take this huge life adjustment of parents getting divorced and a move from Chicago to London all in stride.”
“You got two houses and extra presents, what do you care?”
he grumbles. “And it was your idea.”
“It was my idea to go to ballet school in London, not for your marriage to end!”
“Oh, ballet school. I thought you said, ‘Break up, you fool.’
My mistake. Think we should move back to Chicago and get back together?”
“Nah.” He hears the smile in her voice and knows it’s okay.
“Hey, you think I was going to stay in Chicago while you’re all the way over on this side of the world?”
“You’re not even in the same country right now.” She laughs.
“Ireland is just a work trip. I’ll be back in London in a few days. Honestly, Bea, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be,” he assures her.
Though a Four Seasons would be nice.
“How’s Porrúa doing?” He asks after his cactus plant.
“Really, Dad, you have to get a life. Or a dog or a cat or something. You can’t have a pet cactus.”
“Well, I do, and she’s very dear to me. Tell me you’ve remem-
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bered to water her, I don’t quite trust you after your attempted assassination of her with a tennis ball.”
“It was years ago, the cactus survived, get over it. I’m thinking of moving in with Peter,” she says far too casually.
“So what is it about fart jokes?” he asks again, ignoring her, unable to believe his dear cactus and Peter, the jerk who is corrupting his daughter, have been mentioned in the same sentence.
“I mean, what is it about the sound of expelling air that can stop people from being interested in some of the most incredible masterpieces ever created?”
“I take it you don’t want to talk about my moving in with Peter?”
“You’re a child. You and Peter can move into your old dollhouse, which I still have in storage. I’ll set it up in the living room. It’ll be real nice and cozy.”
“I’m eighteen. Not a child anymore. I’ve lived alone away from home for two years now.”
“One year alone. Your mother left me alone the second year to join you, remember.”
“You and Mum met at my age.”
“And we did not live happily ever after. Stop imitating us and write your own fairy tale.”
“I would, if my overprotective father would stop butting in with his version of how the story should go.” Bea sighs and steers the conversation back to safer territory. “Why are your students laughing at fart jokes, anyway? I thought your seminar was a oneoff for postgrads who’d elected to choose your boring subject. Though why anybody would do that is beyond me. You lecturing me on Peter is boring enough, and I love him.”
Love! Ignore it, and she’ll forget what she said.
“It wouldn’t be beyond you, if you’d listen to me when I talk. Along with my postgraduate classes, I was asked to speak to firstyear students throughout the year too, an agreement I may live to t h a n k s f o r t h e m e m o r i e s
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regret, but no matter. On to my day job and far more pressing matters . . . I’m planning an exhibition at the gallery on Dutch painting in the seventeenth century. You should come see it.”
“No, thanks.”
“Well, maybe my postgrads over the next few months will be more appreciative of my expertise.”
“You know, your students may have laughed at the fart joke, but I bet at least a quarter of them donated blood.”
“They only did because they heard they’d get a free Kit Kat afterward,” Justin huffs, rooting through the insufficiently filled minibar. “You’re angry at me for not giving blood?”
“I think you’re an asshole for standing up that woman.”
“Don’t use the word ‘asshole,’ Bea. Anyway, who told you that I stood her up?”
“Uncle Al.”
“Uncle Al is an asshole; he should keep my business to himself. And you know what else, honey? You know what the good doctor said today about donating blood?” He struggles with opening the film on a Pringles box.
“What?” Bea yawns.
“That the donation is anonymous to the recipient. Hear that?
Anonymous. So what’s the point in saving someone’s life if they don’t even know you’re the one who saved it?”
“Dad!”
“What? Come on, Bea. Lie to me and tell me you wouldn’t want a bouquet of flowers for saving someone’s life?”
Bea protests, but he continues.
“Or a little basket of those, whaddaya call those muffins that you like, coconut—”
“Cinnamon,” she laughs, finally giving in.
“A little basket of cinnamon muffins outside your front door with a little note tucked into the basket saying, ‘Thanks, Bea, for saving my life. Any time you want anything done, like your dry clean-
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ing picked up, or your newspaper and a coffee delivered to your front door, a chauffeur-driven car for your own personal use, front-row tickets to the opera . . .’ Oh, the list could go on and on.”
He gives up pulling at the film and instead picks up a corkscrew and stabs the top. “It could be like one of those Chinese things; you know, the way someone saves your life and then you’re forever indebted to them. It could be nice having someone tailing you every day, catching pianos flying out of windows and stopping them from landing on your head, that kind of thing.”
Bea calms herself. “I hope you’re joking.”
“Yeah, of course I’m joking.” Justin makes a face. “The piano would surely kill them, and that would be unfair.”
He finally pulls the film open and throws the corkscrew across the room. It hits a glass on top of the minibar, and the glass smashes.
“What was that?”
“Housecleaning,” he lies. “You think I’m selfish, don’t you?”
“Dad, you uprooted your life, left a great job and a nice apartment, and flew thousands of miles to another country just to be near me. Of course I don’t think you’re selfish.”
Justin smiles and pops a Pringle into his mouth.
“But if you’re not joking about the muffin basket, then you’re definitely selfish. And if it was Blood for Life Week at my college, I would have taken part. But you have the opportunity to make it up to that woman.”
“I just feel like I’m being bullied into this entire thing. I was going to get my hair cut tomorrow, not have people stab at my veins.”
“Don’t give blood if you don’t want to, I don’t care. But remember, if you do it, a tiny little needle isn’t gonna kill you. In fact, the opposite may happen. It might save someone’s life, and you never know, that person could follow you around for the rest of your life leaving muffin baskets outside your door and catching pianos before they fall on your head. Now, wouldn’t that be nice?”
n a b l o o d d r i v e b e s i d e Trinity College’s rugby field, JusI tin tries to hide his shaking hands from Sarah while he hands over his consent form and health and lifestyle questionnaire, which frankly discloses far more about him than he’d reveal on a date. She smiles encouragingly and talks him through everything as though giving blood is the most normal thing in the world.
“Now I just need to ask you a few questions. Have you read, understood, and completed the health and lifestyle questionnaire?”
Justin nods, words failing him in his clogged throat.
“And is all the information you’ve provided true and accurate to the best of your knowledge?”
“Why?” he croaks. “Does it not look right to you? Because if it doesn’t, I can always leave and come back again another time.”
She smiles at him with the same look his mother wore before tucking him into bed and turning off the light.
“Okay, we’re all set. I’m just going to do a hemoglobin test,”
she explains.
“Does that check for diseases?” He looks around nervously at
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the equipment in the van. Please don’t let me have any diseases. That would be too embarrassing. Not likely anyway. Can you even remember the last time you had sex?
“No, this just measures the iron in your blood.” She takes a pinprick of blood from the pad of his finger. “Blood is tested later for diseases and STDs.”
“Must be handy for checking up on boyfriends,” he jokes, feeling sweat tickle his upper lip. He studies his finger. She quietens as she carries out the test before motioning for Justin to lie supine on the cushioned bench and to extend his left arm. Sarah wraps a pressure cuff around his upper arm, making the veins more prominent, and she disinfects the crook of his arm. Don’t look at the needle, don’t look at the needle. He looks at the needle, and the ground swirls beneath him. His throat tightens.
“Is this going to hurt?” Justin swallows hard as his shirt clings to his saturated back.
“Just a little sting.” She smiles, approaching him with a tube in her hand.
He smells her sweet perfume, and it distracts him momentarily. As she leans over, he sees down her V-neck sweater. A black lace bra.
“I want you to take this in your hand and squeeze it repeatedly.”
“What?” he laughs nervously.
“The ball.” she smiles.
“Oh.” He accepts the small soft ball. “What does this do?” His voice shakes.
“It’s to help speed up the process.”
He pumps at top speed.
Sarah laughs. “Not yet. And not that fast, Justin.”
Sweat rolls down his back. His hair clings to his sticky forehead. You should have gone for the haircut, Justin. What kind of a stupid idea was this— “Ouch.”
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“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” she says softly, as though talking to a child.
Justin’s heart beats loudly in his ears. He pumps the ball in his hand to the rhythm of his heartbeat. He imagines his heart pumping the blood, the blood flowing through his veins. He sees it reach the needle, go through the tube, and he waits to feel faint. But the dizziness never comes, and so he watches his blood run through the tube and down under the bed into the collection bag she has thoughtfully hidden down there.
“Do I get a Kit Kat after this?”
She laughs. “Of course.”
“And then we get to go for drinks, or are you just using me for my body?”
“Drinks are fine, but I must warn you against doing anything strenuous today. Your body needs to recover.”
He catches sight of her lace bra again. Yeah, sure. Fifteen minutes later, Justin looks at his pint of blood with pride. He doesn’t want it to go to some stranger; he almost wants to take it to the hospital himself, survey the wards, and present it to someone he really cares about, someone special, for it’s the first thing to come straight from his heart in a very long time.
P re s e n t D ay
o p e n m y e y e s s l o w ly.
I White light fills them. Objects gradually come into focus, and the white light fades. Orangey pink now. I move my eyes around. I’m in a hospital. A television high up on the wall. Green fills its screen. I focus more. Horses. Jumping and racing. Dad must be in the room. I lower my eyes, and there he is with his back to me in an armchair. He thumps his fists lightly on the chair’s arms. I see his tweed cap appearing and disappearing in front of the chair back as he bounces up and down. The springs beneath him squeak. The horse racing is silent. So is he. Like a silent movie being carried out before me, I watch him. I wonder if it’s my ears that aren’t allowing me to hear him. He springs out of his chair now, faster than I’ve seen him move in a long time, and he raises his fist at the television, quietly urging his horse on. The television goes black. His two fists open, and he raises his hands in the air, looks up to the ceiling, and beseeches God. He puts his hands in his pockets, feels around, and pulls the material out. They’re empty, and the pockets of his brown trousers hang inside out for all to see. He pats down his chest, feeling for money.
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Checks the small pocket of his brown cardigan. Grumbles. So it’s not my ears.
He turns to feel around in his overcoat beside me, and I shut my eyes quickly.
I’m not ready yet. Nothing has happened to me until they tell me. Last night will remain a nightmare in my mind until they tell me it was true. The longer I close my eyes, the longer everything remains as it was. The bliss of ignorance.
