The Wake (And What Jeremiah Did Next) (7 page)

I suppose I should elucidate here. The two-handed greeting is a vigorous handshake with the right hand while grasping the other person’s upper arm with the left. Support your local drunk. I was bit free with him I grant you, a bit touchy feely considering this was a man who lived by certain immutable tenets on the matter of physical contact but what can you do, it was either hold on to his arm or fall by the wayside. The cleric drew back like a scalded cat, then recovered his poise somewhat and gave me a long searching look down the length of his nose. Regular old trouper, never put out for too long. On the matter of his nose by the way. The hairs that sprout from it like curly weeds are gray as befits a man of his age but look at his hair, I mean to say the hair on his head. It’s as black as your boot. So there, what does that tell you? Vanity. That’s what I’m talking about. Vanity pure and simple.

He glanced round the rest of the company and nodded stiffly, reserving a greeting of sorts for Big Bill Braddock who, though still steaming from his recent altercation with the rebels, managed a good to see you Father in return. The priest then moved with great gravitas towards the coffin and as he did so a vicious stab at the base of the bladder told me how desperate I was to do my number one so taking advantage of the fact that Hourigan temporarily had his back to me and that I now found myself in a standing position I made my way carefully to the bathroom dislodging and miraculously catching and then replacing a flying duck in the process. Pointless things these ducks. Never liked them. You’d be better with a blank wall. Once locked in I gripped the wash-hand basin and slumped back on the toilet seat. I hadn’t done a pee sitting down since I was about three or whatever but I thought Why not? If I do it standing up half of it will probably end up on the floor so I may as well do it where I am. It stung a bit at the start but when I was partway through I was thinking, Christ, this is as good as sex nearly, this is like a bloody orgasm so it is, and when I got near the end I fixed my eyes on a particular spot on the wall hoping the focus would help me to get the best I could out of it.

And that was the moment I saw him doing the same old tricks. I don’t exactly know what class of an insect he is but he’s been there for years. If it wasn’t the same boy then it had to be one of his offspring though if that was the case it was very strange indeed because there’s never been more than a day between his death and the appearance of his fully grown replica.

But there he was anyway, swinging his way down the wall, for all the world as if he was abseiling only without the props, enjoying I would say stunning aerial views of the wash-hand basin and bath and scuffed lino and me on the toilet seat, swinging with gay abandon and what do you call it, consummate skill. The thing is, he’s always there, day in day out, no winter break, he’s not one of these lads that disappear into a hairline in the wall to hibernate, no, this boy’s at it all seasons, abseiling away there on that part to my right above the bath, always the same place too. I watch him a lot of times I’m doing my number two when I’ve forgotten to bring in the newspaper. It used to be sort of amusing watching him till he started this other trick he has sometimes of jumping about like a bed bug and then disappearing so you haven’t a clue where he’s got to, if he’s maybe in your hair or somewhere worse. Those times I felt like waiting for him to reappear so I could kill him with the toilet brush but he never did and anyway his patch is just that bit out of reach when you’re sitting down and you wouldn’t know what would happen if you came off the toilet seat in the middle of it all to clock him one. It’s as if he knows you’re at a disadvantage and he’s teasing you. And then when you’ve got your business finished and the toilet flushed and your trousers back on he’s gone of course. He just goes. It’s as if he only comes out when certain smells are there.

Anyway this particular night of the wake I was sitting on the bowl doing the last dregs watching the swinging pendulum kind of descent he does and I suddenly realized I’d been feeling hot and prickly for a while and then it came to me I still had my trousers on. Well fuck me, I thought, and then I said to hell with it, I’m nearly finished anyway. So I put my mind to enjoying the rest of it but the enjoyment was greatly diminished, nonexistent if I’m being completely truthful, because I was thinking that after I finished I should strictly speaking soak my lower half in the bath, a maneuver that has never appealed to me even sober, and then get magically dried with the wee hand towel Mammy had left in the bathroom and change from the waist down. Imagine only leaving a hand towel and all those people coming in. She’d shame you.

The logistics involved in the washing and drying and changing seemed too impractical if not impossible to consider seriously since all my clean clothes were upstairs and to get there minus trousers and underpants and with only a small hand towel held in front of me would present some difficulty. I had a fleeting image of me charging through the hall and streaking past stunned mourners up the stairs like Tarzan. And to add to the gravity of the situation the wakeroom would be on my route of course which meant I’d have to pass Hourigan whom I could hear at that very minute holding forth in his pulpit voice on what drink was doing to family life in Derry. I therefore made up my mind on no account to exit the bathroom until the priest had left the building.

The way I felt just then I wouldn’t have minded downing the rest of that Paddy and the thought of sitting on the toilet seat with the bottle for company held a certain appeal. And the thought grew until it became a preoccupation until it in turn became like an obsession and I was actively planning on making a quick sortie to the scullery when I heard women’s voices on the other side of the bathroom door which, in case I haven’t explained the geography right, is where the scullery actually is. Mammy’s was one of them and I was able to extrapolate from the mostly rubbish they were talking that they were making tea and opening packets of spring-sprongs, also known as coconut creams.

So it was a case of sitting it out. I could live with that, I thought, though the wet clothes were an irritation and some had got through to my socks and shoes. Urine I remembered from a bar quiz was ninety-five percent water, which goes to show that there’s no such thing as useless knowledge, but I couldn’t remember what the other five percent was and then it came to me. Leonora the sister-in-law, disaster if ever there was one, going on about the causes of nappy rash and though I’d made a point of not listening to a word she was saying some of it must have percolated because it was then I made up my mind to take the thing by the scruff of the neck. So with only two minor falls one of which occasioned a split lower lip I got my Y-fronts and trousers and shoes and socks off and dabbed myself dry with the hand towel which I then returned carefully to the side of the bath. Next up was what to wear. I scanned the bathroom and could see nothing but a flowered apron of Mammy’s drying on the convector heater.

“Jeremiah!”

Mammy. Say nothing. If I don’t answer she won’t know I’m here.

“Jeremiah, are you all right?”

Don’t weaken.

“Jeremiah, it’s you in there, isn’t it?”

On the other hand if I don’t answer she might think I’m lying unconscious and then she’ll get someone to force the door and then what? What will all those women think when they see the bottom half of me?

“I’ll be out in a minute,” I called as matter of factly as I could. “Tell me, is Father Hourigan still there? In the wakeroom?” I tried to make these last two questions sound airy as if I wouldn’t have minded having a chat with him though it didn’t really matter that much but I don’t think Mammy bought it.

“What do you want to know that for?” she shouted. “What does he want to know that for?” She could only have been directing the second question to the other women in the scullery. Two responses came, the first of which was: “What does he want to know what for?” and the other: “Here, I’ll go and see if I can get him.” Stupid woman whoever she was. Did she think I needed the last rites or what?

A brainscalding pause that went on for anything up to five minutes, and then: “He’s away out the door. He left there a minute ago.”

Blessed be God. Blessed be His Holy name. Blessed be Jesus Christ true God and true man.

To add to the relief I remembered that weeks ago I’d stuffed a Woolworth’s bag containing a pajama bottom with dried in dreams on it into a next to inaccessible space between the bath and the wall. I’ll really have to buy a washing machine, I thought as I reached my hand in and dragged out the dusty bag slightly skinning my knuckles in the process. Least of my worries. The pajamas were quite stiff in places but apart from that, perfect. I replaced them with my trousers, underpants and socks and returned the bag to its hiding place. My coordination wasn’t the best because when I withdrew my hand this time the knuckles were bleeding. But no pain so that was all right.

I did my best to sail breezily past the women in the scullery with a civil Hi, ladies. I’m not sure if it came off but nobody passed any remarks. This gave me the confidence I needed for my entrance into the wake room. What the hell, I reckoned, the worst that people can say is that I’m dropping a heavy hint about the late hour without actually telling them to get out.

“And where is Charles De Gaulle now?” demanded Bill.

“In the easy palace,” answered Willie Henry.

“Exactly,” nodded Bill without turning a hair. “He’s sitting pretty in the Élysée Palace. So what exactly,” he continued, “did the student revolt, th-th-th-the streetmongering achieve? Exactly what did it achieve?”

“Sweet damn all,” shouted Willie Henry.

“Exactly,” said Bill. “It achieved nothing. But mind your language sir. The deceased is lying next to you. Sorry, what’s her name?”

“Maud Abeline,” spluttered Margie. “Maud Abeline Harrigan.”

Bill nodded gratefully. “An unusual name. And by the way, don’t expect any help from Europe when it comes to achieving human rights in this part of Ireland. Europe hasn’t exactly rushed to help the people of Czechoslovakia and Yugoslavia in their hour of need.”

Margie was giving my pajama bottoms the once-over and I wasn’t happy about the expression on her face. Undisguised glee I think would cover it. I remembered then that I hadn’t any underpants on and heart in mouth I sneaked a look down to see if I was decent. Nothing in sight. I decided I’d be all right as long as I didn’t move. What the future held was something else. Truth to tell, I was in God’s hands.

“Too right,” said Seamus. “But can anybody tell me what America’s doing? Why are they sitting there doing nothing when people out in those places are getting slaughtered? The land of the free. Isn’t that what they call themselves?”

“You wouldn’t happen to have any more whiskey out there Master would you? I wouldn’t say no to a wee nip.”

Realizing that I was the master in question I gazed raptly at the part of the floor visible between my legs and was horrified to see that a space had opened up in my fly and was widening even as I gazed. For this to happen in front of human remains and in company which included one female, broadminded though she clearly was, was bad enough but I was conscious that three other women would be emerging from the scullery any minute with tea, spring-sprongs and sandwiches. Or four was it? Hard to remember. I quickly crossed my legs.

“America’s too busy killing thousands of Vietnamese just so they can save face,” explained Bill.

“Right, there’s another thing. What are they doing out there anyway?” said Jim. “Is that not the stupidest war ever was?”

“It’s about money,” said Bill. “It’s a fraud in fact. This thing stopped being about communism a long time ago. It’s about arms companies lining their pockets and then giving millions to the Democrats so they can be re-elected. Or the Republicans as you’ll see next month.”

“They’re all a crowd of bastards!” shouted Willie Henry.

Nothing daunted Bill proceeded with his analysis:

“That’s why John Kennedy was assassinated of course. And Bobby. He was planning to pull out just like his brother was.”

“That’s what I always thought,” said Seamus. “It’s a scandal when you think about it. I’ve a cousin from Ohio was killed in that Tet offensive at the start of the year and his whole family think he died for his country.”

“Well so he did,” said Bill. “He died fighting for big business. That’s what America is, big business. How would you put it? Uncle Sam plc? A lot of the boys that aren’t conscripted join up because they think they’re answering their country’s call.”

“Stars in their eyes,” said Margie. “Fifty.”

“Well, they’re fed this pup about the American dream from first grade and a fair percentage never grow out of it,” continued Bill, directing his attention to Seamus and Jim as if Margie hadn’t opened her mouth. “And do you know that many of them actually think the people who drew up their constitution were inspired by God.”

“Like the boys that writ the bible.” This interjection from Willie Henry. Bill cast a tolerant look in his general direction.

“It’s not going to last, is it?” asked Jim. What was this anyway? They’d been getting ready to drink Bill’s blood before the priest came in and now it was all sweetness and light. I wasn’t exactly in the right condition to get to the bottom of the new dispensation and of course I’d missed a few installments but it nearly seemed in my tender state of mind as if Hourigan had been maybe sent in by God Himself. For behold, every mountain and hill shall be made low and the something shall be made straight? And the something something smooth?

“What’s not going to last?” said Bill. “The war?”

“No, I mean America,” said Jim. “Sure it’s an empire isn’t it? And empires all end, right?”

Bill was in his element all right. I saw him throw one or two darting looks at my pajama bottoms but he was on a roll and not inclined to be sidetracked. “It is. It’s been an empire for well over a hundred years now and as for lasting I’d give it another couple of hundred years at most.”

The scullery door swung open and there was Mammy with a steaming teapot in one hand and a plate of Madeira in the other. I didn’t buy Madeira. Somebody must have brought it in. The rest of the caterers, four in number, stood in a row behind her carrying trays of cups and saucers, milk and sugar and platefuls of spring-sprongs and sandwiches. I actually don’t know what they’d been at out in the scullery all that time unless it takes five women to make a pot of tea. Because every single salad sandwich had been prepared by me and it was me that bought the spring-sprongs in Strains. Bonding probably, that’s what women do isn’t it? Strange mysterious people, I’ll never understand them. Hurrying me to tighten the bonds and her still wet from the shower that time and the halter neck plastered to her skin and the deep dark hollows underneath, mother of God, and the Flower Duet playing above the beating, louder than her squeals even.