Adrian McKinty - Dead I Well May Be

I tilt my stool back against the work surface and look around the room. The Millers have wallpaper which says “Du Pont” all over it. Mr. Miller had worked at the Du Pont plant up in Derry before he had gone to jail for whatever he had gone to jail for. All the parents in the street know his criminal past but no one will tell the kids, which only makes it seem much worse. Of course, there are rumors-the one that I believed had Miller as a getaway driver for the paramilitaries in a robbery that had gone wrong. Because (another rumor said) Mr. Miller had been too drunk to drive…

The rest of the kitchen is uninteresting, except for the two calendars on opposite sides of the wall. One is from a Chinese takeaway and has a picture of Hong Kong on it. The other is a calendar from the Sun newspaper and has a woman holding a football with her breasts out over the top of it. It’s always a new woman each month, unlike the picture of Hong Kong, which stays the same. I look at the Sun calendar and instantly color and feel sure that Mrs. Miller knows that I’ve been looking at the woman’s chest.

I stare at the floor and watch PJ’s brown snips of hair start to gather there on the tiles.

Mrs. Miller’s toenails are painted pink and you can see them through the holes in her slippers. You can see her leg, too, when she moves. I wonder how old she is and steal a look at her.

Around thirty is my guess. She has no lines on her face and the bags under her eyes are probably from tiredness more than anything else. She’s certainly an attractive woman-at least to me; and it makes no sense that she’s married to an eejit like Mr. Miller.

I look up at the calendar again and see that the girl’s name is Stacy. Her breasts are like enormous honeydew melons, shiny and plastic-looking. They’re amazing and repulsive at the same time, like a particularly gruesome monster from Doctor Who that you both want and don’t want to look at simultaneously. To end the confusion they’re causing, I look at the floor again.

I find that I’m sweating. I gaze over at PJ and see that he’s only half done. I’m breathing rapidly and my hands are all clammy. I try looking out of the window, but the Millers’ backyard is just as grown over as their front and you can see nothing.

Suddenly the door opens and Mr. Miller comes in.

PJ says Ow as Mrs. Miller nicks him on the ear with the scissors.

Look at what you made me do, Mrs. Miller says to her husband, ash pouring out of her cigarette all over PJ’s head.

I made you do? Jesus. Can’t even get a drink of water in me own house, Mr. Miller says, angrily.

Jesus Christ, can you just wait five minutes, for God’s sake, Mrs. Miller says, spitting the words out.

Aye. Fucking shite, Mr. Miller says and stomps out, banging the door behind him. We hear him storm up the stairs, cursing all the way.

PJ and I are both bright red by this stage.

Mrs. Miller looks at me and smiles a sort of half smile.

Hold on, she says to PJ, and slides out the kitchen door after her husband. We hear her go up the stairs too. PJ turns round and looks at me. His face is a study in anguish.

I wish I was already bloody bald, he says quietly.

Aye, like Simon Baskin.

Who?

Yon boy from P4, cancer boy.

Oh, aye, PJ says, but I can see he’s too afeared for conversation.

We sit for a minute, PJ picking the bits of ash out of his hair and me biting my nails. The door opens and Mrs. Miller comes back in.

Ok, she says cheerfully and lights herself another cigarette. In two more minutes she declares that PJ is done. He takes the tea towel from round his neck and thanks her.

And, uh, now I have to go home to go to do some homework, PJ says.

Oh, you do? Mrs. Miller says.

Yes, PJ says, ignoring my telepathic protests and a desperate grab at his sleeve.

I’ll see you out, she says, and leads him to the front door. I can hardly believe it. He is supposed to wait for me. I don’t want to be alone in this house. I watch him go down the hall and Mrs. Miller open the front door. Light comes pouring in and PJ runs into it and then he’s suddenly gone. Spirited away, like the wee fella from Close Encounters .

Your turn, Mrs. Miller says.

I sit on the stool while she ties the tea towel round my neck to collect the hair.

Same as usual, Mikey boy? she asks.

Uh, yeah.

It’s hard to breathe over the cigarette smoke and the odor of her perfume. I struggle not to cough.

Mrs. Miller starts cutting my hair. Her hands combing a bit and then cutting it. Her fingers are cold and smooth. She works a little at the side and then comes forward to do my fringe.

As she leans in I can see through the fold in her dressing gown, right through to her nightie. I blink for a second and look away. She tilts my head until I’m looking into her hands. Keep still now, she says.

The scissors make their way across my forehead, snipping little cusps of black hair onto the tea towel and down onto the floor.

There, she says, blowing smoke towards the window. That’s better, isn’t it?

Uh, I think so, I say, barely able to get the words out.

She takes another puff on the cigarette. Her fingers are almost as white as the paper around the tobacco.

I’ll touch up the back, she says.

She slips behind me and begins trimming the hair round the back of my ears. I can feel her breath on my neck as she struggles with the difficult bits. She had been a hairdresser for five years before she got the job at the mill. She was quick and she was half the price of the hairdresser down at the shopping center, or the barber in town. She was a friend of Ma’s, anyway, and Da let Mr. Miller in to use the phone all the time. Ma says she could cut our hair herself, but with him unemployed, it was all she could do to help.

There’s a noise from the living room like something falling. Mrs. Miller stops cutting. I turn round to look at her.

Just then Mr. Miller shouts, Mary (so loud you could probably hear it at our house).

Oh, I forgot completely, Mrs. Miller says in a panic. She puts down the scissors, dashes to a cupboard, and grabs a glass. She goes to the sink, runs the tap for a second, and fills it with water before practically sprinting out into the hall.

There’s more swearing from the living room. The only words I can make out-from Mr. Miller, of course-are: On bloody Christmas bloody Eve.

There’s the sound of something that might be a slap.

Mrs. Miller comes into the hall, staggering. Mr. Miller is right behind her. His fist clenched, he pulls it back and turns and stops. He stares at me sitting there under the kitchen light with the tea towel around my neck.

What the fuck are you looking at? he says.

Nothing, I’m going to say, should have said. Definitely should have said. But instead, these words come out:

A real hard man.

Mr. Miller is flabbergasted. He knows I’m being sarcastic. A ten-year-old taking the bloody piss. His face goes white, and then red. He storms into the kitchen and stands beside me.

What did you say? he whispers, leaning close.

N-nothing, I stammer.

He hesitates, unsure of whether to brain me then and there or tell my da, or get me in some more devious way.

Damn fucking right, you wee fucking bastard, he yells and brings his fist right up to my face and shakes it. He turns to his wife.

Gimme your money. I’m going to the fucking Rangers Club. Fucking bitch. Fucking weans.

He grabs the pound note and storms out, slamming the door. She picks up the scissors and starts cutting my hair again. She does a few combs and then cuts the back line and then that appears to be it.

Well, she says. That’s all, folks.

Thanks, I say.