The Guts (20 page)

—Spot of damp there, Norman, he shouted.—Look it.

—Where?

—There.

—That’s been there for years, said Norman.—That one up there?

—Yeah.

—It looks like Perry Como.

—Does it?

—Oh, it does.

—You’ve a fair few records here, all the same, Norman.

—Hold on a minute, said Norman.—I have to adjust me yoke here. When I move from a low ceilin’ to the high one.

—Will I say it again or wha’? said Jimmy’s da.

—Say what?

—You’ve a great collection o’ records.

—I know.

—That’s why I brought young Jimmy with me.

—I know.

—And – what’s your name again, love?

—Ocean.

—An’ Ocean, Jimmy’s da told Norman.—She’s here as well.

—I can see that.

If the room had a middle, Norman was in it. He was moving no closer to the shelves; he was telling them nothing, and showing them nothing.

—Norman, said Jimmy’s da.—The Eucharistic Congress.

—What about it?

—You heard me?

—Every word.

—Grand. Sorry if I seem—. Annyway, Jimmy’s lookin’ for music from 1932.

Norman looked at Jimmy.

—1932?

—That’s right, said Jimmy.

—Is it in here, Norman? asked Jimmy’s da.—Or in one o’ the other rooms?

—Is what in here?

—1932.

—Why would there be a year in my kitchen?

—Your 1932 records, said Jimmy’s da.—Are they in here?

—Hold on here, said Norman.—Do you think I catalogue the records by the year?

—Well —

—Are yeh mad? said Norman.

—I’m open to persuasion.

Norman pointed at a wall.

—So that’s supposed to be 1947, is it? Or 1583?

—I think I left somethin’ in the van, said Jimmy’s da.

He walked past Jimmy.

—I’ll be back with a spanner, he said.—We can beat the information out o’ the fucker.

He hitched up his jeans and kept going. Jimmy looked around. He did the full turn.

—This is amazin’, Norman, he said.

Norman nodded.

—I’ve never seen anythin’ like it, said Jimmy.—Have you, Ocean?

—No, said Ocean.—It’s like the Smithsonian.

—Exactly, said Jimmy.

—It’s
such
a thrill, said Ocean.

Norman was listening.

Jimmy met his da at the hall door.

—I had to get out before I smacked him, said his da.—I’ll go back in now an’ get him movin’.

—Stay here a bit, said Jimmy.—Ocean’s chattin’ to him. He’s givin’ her the tour. I thought I’d leave them to it.

—Usin’ her feminine charms, yeah?

—Yeah. Spot on.

—She’s wastin’ her time, said Jimmy’s da.

—Wha’?

—Norman, said Jimmy’s da.—Did yeh not notice?

—Notice wha’?

—He’s gay, for fuck sake.

—Norman?

—The Norman in there, yeah.

—He’s gay?

—Yeah.

—Since when?

—Wha’?

—Like, he’s old, said Jimmy.

—It’s not a recent thing, if that’s what yeh mean, said his da.—I don’t think it works tha’ way. Yeh don’t wake up thinkin’ you’re gay at the age of seventy-eight or nine.

—But –, said Jimmy.

—I fuckin’ hope not, an’anyway.

—But—. I mean – how long have yeh known?

—Always.

—All your life, like?

—Yeah, said Jimmy’s da.—Norman was always Norman.

—Even way back?

—All I can tell yeh is tha’ he was always Norman. In the family, like. An’ no one gave much of a shite.

—He was openly gay, like?

—Jesus, man. Go back sixty years. D’you think those words meant annythin’? 1952. Here’s Norman Rabbitte. He’s openly gay. For fuck sake.

—Okay.

—No one was openly annythin’ in 1952, Jimmy’s da told Jimmy.—But as near to fuckin’ open as he could be, Norman was open. An’ it was all grand, in the family. As far as I ever knew. But relax, don’t worry. He was probably miserable.

Jesus Christ, my da’s becoming me
.

—There now, said Jimmy.—Listen.

They heard music coming from the back of the house.

—Ocean’s worked her magic.

They went after the noise, and found it.

—Jesus.

It was ceili music, but wilder and rougher than Jimmy thought was normal. And there was something else in it, something that made him want to laugh.

—Is tha’ feet?!

Norman turned to look at him. He was holding the cover of an old Parlophone 78.

—Dancing, he shouted.—They’re all dancing!

The room was full of the sound of dancing feet, dozens, maybe hundreds, of pairs of shoes landing on a wooden floor.

—What year is that from, Norman?!

—Wha’?

—Wha’ year – ?

—1932!

—Brilliant!

Jimmy could feel the feet beneath him, coming up from the floor. The dancers on the record were all long dead – they had to be – but he could feel them in the room. There were moments when they were all in the air, then – bang – down, they hit the floor together.

The nausea could fuck off, and the diarrhoea.

—What’s it called, Norman?!

—’Kiss the Bride in the Bed!’

Jimmy looked at his da, and at Ocean.

—Track One! he shouted.

—What’s this?

—That’s the second time in the last few months you’ve looked at a dog and asked, What’s this?

—It’s a dog.

—Yes, said Aoife.

—Is it ours?

—Yes.

—I don’t want a dog.

—Yes, you do.

—Okay.

Shepherd’s pie – Jimmy’s choice. He could only manage baby food and he didn’t want the kids to see that even the thought of most food made him want to be sick.

But the nausea – he hated the fuckin’ word – seemed to be gone. That feeling that made him snap his eyes and even his head – his mind – shut.

—Any gigs comin’ up, Marv?

—No.

—How come?

—Dunno.

—Grand, said Jimmy.

He could eat. He could look properly at the kids, even the ones who wouldn’t look at him. It didn’t upset him. It was temporary.

—So, he said.—The dog.

He put some mince in his mouth.

—Delicious, he said, to Aoife – to all of them.

Young Jimmy thought of something; his head was up from his plate.

—Hey, Dad, he said.—That sounded like you said the dog is delicious.

The laughter filled the place.

—All these years, said Jimmy.—And you never knew what went into shepherd’s pie.

—That’s, like, gross, said Mahalia.

She was eating beans and mashed potato.

—Anyway, said Jimmy.—We’ve a dog. That right, Smoke?

Brian nodded so much his face had problems keeping up.

—Well, said Jimmy.—I want the right to name him.

There was silence, except for the cutlery.

—What’s wrong?

—Nothing.

—Does he have a name already?

—No, said Mahalia.

—Then wha’ then? said Jimmy.—There’s somethin’ wrong. What?

—There’s nothing wrong, said Aoife.

—It’s the way you said it, said Mahalia.

—Said what?

—I want the right to name it.

—How did I say it?

—Like it was your last wish, like, said Mahalia.

—Did I?

Aoife was looking at Mahalia.

—You’re amazing, she said.

—I’m just saying the truth, said Mahalia.

—Yes.

—Did I though? said Jimmy.

A chair scraped, not very dramatically. But Brian was standing, wet-faced, heading for the door to the hall.

—I’ll go after him, said Jimmy.—God, Jesus – I’m sorry.

—Leave him a minute, said Aoife.

—I was jokin’, said Jimmy.

—We know.

—I’m sorry.

The self-pity felt a bit like the nausea – but only a bit.

He whispered, to all of them.

—I wanted to call him Chemo.

—Cool.

—Savage.

Jimmy kept whispering.

—But I don’t suppose I can call him that now.

—No, said Aoife.—Anyway, look at him. He’s gorgeous.

The new dog – he was only a pup – was asleep, beside his basket.

—What is he? Jimmy asked.

—He’s a bit of an omelette, said Mahalia.

—Wha’?

—Cocker spaniel, like, poodle and greyhound.

—Jesus, said Jimmy.—How did the greyhound get down – ?

—Don’t.

—I’ll tell yeh but, said Jimmy.

He looked across at the pup.

—It’ll be like bringin’ a wheelbarrow for a walk.

He stood up.

Don’t hitch your jeans
.

—I’ll go up to Brian.

—Bring up the rest of his dinner, said Marvin.

—Don’t start. Leave Brian alone.

The radio, the Roberts – great fuckin’ invention. It was on, low. Jimmy could tell – there was something about the voice, the news being delivered.

—Hang on.

He turned it up.

—What’s happened?

—Shush – listen. Ah, no.

—What’s wrong?

—Whitney Houston’s after dyin’.

He sat beside Brian on the bottom bunk.

—Alrigh’?

Brian nodded.

—I’m sorry, said Jimmy.

He put his arm around Brian’s shoulders.

—I just –, he said.—I joke about these days. It’s my way.

—It’s funny.

—But I go too far.

Brian was crying now. Jimmy loved it and hated it. Loved it, because one of his children needed him; hated it, for the same reason – and the fear that he wouldn’t be able to help.

—Are –, Brian started.—Are—.

Jimmy let him try again.

—Are you – ?

It was too much for the kid; it would take forever.

—Am I goin’ to die? said Jimmy.

Brian nodded. He was humming now. That was how his crying sounded. A steady hum, like the washing machine going through its last spin.

—No, said Jimmy.—At least – . We could both be hit by a bus the next time we go out. Even with our sat navs.

—No – no mocking.

—Sorry. You’re right. But you know what I mean. I could trip on the dog. Or – a dog could fall out of the sky and land on our heads.

A laugh got out.

—Good man, said Jimmy.—But this chemo thing. It’s short for —

—Chemotherapy.

—Exactly – great. It’s a precaution. The cancer’s gone. The operation before Christmas. You remember —

Brian nodded. His face, the left side, was up against Jimmy’s chest, and Jimmy’s shirt was soaking. It felt like wet paint was being lightly smeared across his skin.

—Well, he said.—It was a complete success. You know that.

Another paintbrush up and down his chest.

—The cancer, the tumour, like – it’s gone.

—Forever?

—That’s the plan, said Jimmy.

He was crying now too. He didn’t want to – but he did. He was still able to talk.

—The chemotherapy will kill any little cancerous cells that might be still in there. Chemo – chemicals. It’s really strong medicine.

—I read about it, said Brian.

—Did yeh?

—Yeah.

—Where?

—Downstairs.

—I mean, what did you read?

—Wikipedia, said Brian.

—And you understood it?

Brian’s hair painted a shrug onto Jimmy’s chest.

—It’s easy.

—Good man.

—But it makes you sick.

—For a while, just. Till it’s over.

—I know.

They weren’t crying now.

—I don’t like the jokes, said Smokey.

—Okay, said Jimmy.—No more jokes.

—Only sometimes.

—Thanks, said Jimmy.—How’s school?

—Okay. It’s a bit boring.

—It hasn’t changed, so.

—That’s a joke.

—No, it isn’t.

—Why are we laughing then?

—Cos it’s nice and we love each other and we like bein’ together. I’d say that covers it.

Brian nodded again.

—I like laughing, he said.—Just not jokes about you.

—I hear you, said Jimmy.—So has anyone been sayin’ things in school?

—What things?

—About chemotherapy – .

—No.

—Or cancer.

—No.

—Grand, said Jimmy.—What’ll we call the dog?

They had two tracks now, two days before Jimmy’s next session of chemo. ‘Kiss the Bride in the Bed’, and a real showstopper, ‘The House On My Back’, sung by a wild woman called Dolores McKenna.

—Can we do something with the name? he asked.

—The name? said Ocean.

—Can we call her Weepin’ Dolores or somethin’ like that?

—I guess.

—Make her more interestin’.

—Interesting?

—Yeah, said Jimmy.—It’s a bit dull – just plain Dolores. If we – wha’? – embellish the name a bit, people will hear more in the song.

Ocean didn’t get it. She even looked a bit hurt.

—But don’t get me wrong, said Jimmy.—It’s brilliant. An’ well done, by the way.

He was talking too much. He could hear himself but he couldn’t do anything about it.

—Let’s hear it again.

He watched Ocean, Norman-trained, bring the stylus to the edge of the record. He could tell she loved what she was doing. She brought the stylus down like she was being talked through it by air traffic control.

They’d keep the crackles. It was like the sound was battling its way through the eighty years since Weepin’ Dolores and the piano player had been in the studio.