The Whore-Mother (33 page)

They ran barefoot on the beach, bought sandwiches at the hotel, and threw bread to the gulls that were tame people-hangers waiting to be fed; beach bums on wings. Not like the wild things in the western coves. Brendine lay on the shore, playing with the sand—young, gentle, slender, safe, without spot or blemish, without past or present. Sane. Sane. Sane. Not like Kate Burke—hard, severe, plain, full of power and lust and fear and courage and some great wild beauty. Crazy. Go away, Kate. Out of my head, you devouring old whore. . . .

Lying in the sand, on their backs, fingers woven, faces under the sun, eyes closed against the glare, “What will you do, Johnny?”

“I don't know. I can't go home. I can't stay in Ireland at all.”

“Do you care?”

“Oh yes. Oh yes.”

She looked quickly at him, at the tightness of his lips, of his eyes.

He pulled his hand free and turned on his face. “Oh yes. She's the whore we never leave,” he said, his eyes shut tight to filter tears. “No matter where we go we're always here. Somebody called her the old sow that eats her farrow. . . .”

“What does that mean?”

Christ! Kate Burke knows. “An old pig that eats her litter.”

“I see,” she said, and, in a small voice of apology. “I don't really.”

She was very young; honest; not one of us. But
we
understand. Ourselves alone. “We talk at her and about her all the time,” he said. “Did you do Austin Clarke in that Irish literature course you told me about?”

“I haven't met that name,” she said solemnly, a Litt. One student for a sterile moment. Why do I have to read that stuff at all, she wondered? I like arranging things, helping out. I'm good at helping out, I'm not good at that stuff, really.

“He's a bitter man, an anti-clerical man, a poet,” he said. “I wish I could be a poet. I'd write the poems Austin Clarke wrote, and this one most of all. . . .” He dug his fingers into the sand to grip and grind it.

Then he said, his eyes tight, his voice tight,

“Come on. Time to go,” he said, so that she might not speak, and sprang up and hauled her to her feet. “We're off to Philadelphia in the mornin.”
Get out of my guts and my groin, Kate, you old whore
.

“Ours?” he said, leaning against the berth.

“I thought it would be cheaper,” she said. “It's a nine-hour sea trip from Cork to Swansea. It's in my name. I wouldn't see you for hours if we were in separate cabins. You know? You should have company, Johnny.” Little mother.

“I'll toss you for the bottom berth.”

She won. They climbed to the top berth and sat with their backs to the bulkheads, their legs out, their hocks mingling. “We're off to Philadelphia in the
evenin,”
she said, pleased about something. “What will you do, Johnny?” Still with the same questions. Persistent.

“Find work,” he said. “In ‘the building,' likely.”

“What building?”

“The building trade. That's what Irish immigrants call laboring in the English construction industry. It'll keep me alive till I can find a decent job.”

“Johnny.”

“Yes.”

“I was thinking.”

“What about?”

“Why don't you come to the States?”

“Four reasons. The fare, a job, a sponsor, the quota. They all add up to no visa.”

“I could get Daddy to help.”

“What does . . .” he almost said Daddy “. . . he do?”

“He has companies.”

Ah. People have companies. Rich people have companies. Rich people have power. Except a grain of wheat fall and is watered in fertile ground it cannot grow?

“They have subsidiaries in Canada. Sometimes when he wants to bring people to the States, he gets them jobs in the companies in Canada and then has them transferred to the States. It's quick and easy that way, he says.”

“I'd never really thought of going anywhere till this happened. . . . Let's go up and watch her leave.”

They were through the channel, cutting the long swell. There she was, lying on her back, the cool evening air nibbling at her green paps.
Piteous Jesus, Kate, call me
. Sleight of voice. Sleight of mind. He lashed at his heart. “D'you know what Kavanagh said about us and that old whore over there?” It was almost a shout, a whip in the tongue to beat the past out of the head.

“Who is Kavanagh?”

“Another poet. They're the hardest working men in Ireland. He said, ‘It would never be spring, always autumn.' In Ireland, you know. Us, you know? The way we talk. The way we think and feel. . . .

“Who's Brendan?”

“A seafaring monk. They say he discovered America.”

Sleight of voice. Sleight of mind. There's the word. America. “Why would you want me to go to America, Brendine?”

She took his arm and leaned her head against his shoulder and said nothing. Then she said, “It's cold. Let's go down.”

Sleight of voice. Sleight of mind. He turned without looking again at her green paps, and they went below. America. Time future. No skull of Irish bard, no thigh of Irish chief there, no young sprout cursed for being in the way; time future. Tears to laughter.

“Do you think your father might?” God, that would be
something!
Leap from death to life. Leap from sorrow to joy. Leap from goal to goal. Leap from foot to foot. He closed the cabin door. “D'you think . . . ?”

“He would. His family came over on a coffin ship in the famine. I'll tell him what he has to know. They never forget. . . .” Little mother.

“I could kiss you.”

“Why don't you, Johnny?”

He took her face in his hands and put his mouth gently to hers. Her mouth was sweet and soft. Smaller than Kate's. Not consuming like Kate's.
Get out of my head, Kate
.

“Johnny?”

“What?”

“Brendine Healy of Boston, are you a virgin? Remember?”

“Yes.”

“I am.” She kissed him, her arms round his waist. “Are you?” He kept his mouth on hers, wondering. “No,” he said.

“Many girls?”

“No.” Exorcise Kate. “Mrs. Burke,” he said. “She taught me.” He nibbled her lips.

“Johnny?”

“Yes.”

“Teach me.”

“Yes.”

Naked and a little shy, they went to bed in the bottom berth. The way you taught me, Kate. Yesterday was a long day, full of consuming anger and anxiety. Last night was a long night, full of Cleery's vengeance and Kate's consuming lust. Today was a long day, full of sleight of mind, sleight of voice.

“Johnny?”

He was asleep.

Very early in the morning, while it was yet dark, off Port Eynon Point on the run home into Swansea Bay, they stirred.

“Johnny? Now?” she whispered. “Please.”

“Yes.”

He was slow and gentle and careful.

She was not Kate. These were not Kate's strong cunning thighs, Kate's hips not these little hips were for lustful, luxurious wallowing, this little belly was not Kate's warm hungry belly, these little breasts . . . this was not Kate. Get out of my head, Kate. Let me go, Kate.

“Johnny? Did I please you?”

He lay on her belly. “Yes. Oh, yes.” Make the voice right. Be kind.

“Johnny? Why don't we drive to the house today? Not stop anywhere. Tonight I'll be better. You tell me what you like. Tell me what to do. Yes?”

“Yes.”

But it was a happy drive and a happy day. Leap from past to future, from land to land, from skull of bard and thigh of chief to daughter company to mother company, leap from foot to foot, from old to young, woman to woman. Leaping transitions, instant transitions. The day's laughter grew. Kate was distance. Brendine was presence. His warmth for her grew. On the phone the estate agent said, “Yes, well, bring Mrs. Burke's letter to my house and let me see. I have a key here.”

At eleven, they turned the key in the door and filled the house with light. Yes, it would be better this time. Joy in their genitals, anticipation warm in their eyes.

“Do we eat first?”

“There's another floor up there.”

“Leave it. Pick the bed you want to sleep in.”

“You slept last night.” Laughter. Kiss me. Hold me. Touch me. “Let's not sleep much tonight.”

“Look, there's ham and milk and bananas in this fridge. . . .”

They ate in the little kitchen. Lashings of ham, sliced bread, bananas, coffee. “We'll wash up later.”

He undressed her slowly, scorched her with counseling words, flooded her with tenderness, loved her with passion, laughed with her jubilant thanks. Triumph. She held him hard for a long time. Then she said, “Let's wash the dishes and come back to bed.” Loving little mother.

In a closet she found a large fat woman's dressing gown and paraded in it like a little girl dressing up. He put on his trousers. They washed the dishes, talking, laughing, full of young joy.

She said, believing it, “I've been in love with you, Johnny, since the day I met you. Daddy'll help. . . .”

Times past are past. Times to come are on the doorstep.

The pain was back wild and gnawing.

Powers groped in the dark for the black bag on the floor by the bed. He groped in it for another needle. An attic light in this house would shine out across the town like a beacon. He cursed his shoulder and felt sick and blind with pain. The needle went in clumsily and he moaned to stifle the screaming in his head. Laughing too. He could hear laughter in his head. I'm gain out of my fuckin mind.

Kneeling, head on the bed, he moaned away agony, waiting for relief. The laughter in his head troubled him. What he imagined it could mean troubled him. When relief came he lay down again, moaning now with sweet ease that grew steadily sweeter. But the laughter stayed in his head. He listened to it.

Not in my fuckin head at all. Downstairs. He's here. And he brought a piece of cunt with him. The gun, under the pillow. The doctor was right. The widow-woman sent him here. He apologized to the doctor and walked softly to the head of the attic stairs. Holy Jasus, washin the dishes! And her
laughin
.

Her laughter started the music in his head. It sang down into his throat, high sweet music down into his chest, through his belly into his groin. The swelling started. The pleasure of it! He could wait now. He knew how to do it. Wait till they finish the dishes. He stood back from the top of the stairs looking down into the lobby below. The little kitchen was off the lobby. They'd come out, cross the lobby into them big rooms. Then he'd go down. Quiet. McManus had a gun. But he knew how to do it.

The dishes were done. There was silence. Then soft laughter. They came across the lobby, arms around waists. No shirt, by God, and her in some big blue tent. He's been up her already and me sleepin! The door across the hall from the kitchen closed. He stood a while thinking of it. The pleasure of it.

Then he went down, testing every step.

They were not in the big drawing room. There were no voices, no sounds in it. He put the gun in his sling and turned the handle with herculean patience. It struck him for the first time—there were three doors into this big room. All of them were closed. And there were voices behind the one straight ahead. Soft laughin. Getting her up for a night's good fuckin.

Wackadoo wackadoo wackadoo.

Won't fuckin McManus be surprised. The music was exquisite; higher, sweeter; his groin harder.

What's better, Pat, killin or fuckin?

They're both about the same.

He crossed the room on the thickest carpet he had ever walked on. He took the gun from his sling. He stood outside the door. They were still laughin, soft-like, cuddlin laughin.

Knock or throw it open? They were good locks. Thon one in the door from the lobby opened like it was oiled every day. The hinges had no sound in them. He put the gun back in the sling. No knock. McManus had a gun. He'd have it close. He'd reach it before a knock died. But thon cuddlin would fill his head. Open the door and watch them. Who hears any thin when a woman has her fingers on your cock?