Кен Бруен - A Fifth of Bruen - Early Fiction of Ken Bruen

“Oh yea?”

“I miss you and I miss the person you make me feel I am.”

“Schmuck,” said Grace.

Perhaps Polish in origin, mused Ford.

Neville had a flat in Kensington Church Street. Ford changed to the Circle Line, and the tube carriage was full of loud teenagers. He noticed the boys’ earrings were fancier than the girls. “Fancy that,” he thought, and suppressed a giggle. As he got off at Notting Hill, one of the girls yelled, “Hey Mister, yer pants is at half mast.”

Reams of dog abuse followed him till the door slid closed. A light perspiration popped along his forehead. A slow anxious drizzle drifted down his back. The shoes crucified him. If he walked stoop-fashion, maybe the pants would meet the shoes. Neville threw open the door.

“Ford! Bienvenue! Mi casa es su casa.”

Was it too late to run? It was. Neville pulled him inside. About twenty people were there. Like Neville, they wore jeans, T-shirts, and trainers. Not a tie in sight, windsored knots or otherwise. And, oh, never did trainers look such a height of comfort. The central heating was at full pitch and Ford felt gallons form beneath his shirt. In French, Neville asked Ford what he’d like to drink.

“For pity-sake, Neville, what are you saying?”

Neville beamed, which was not a pretty sight.

“What’s your poison, amigo?”

“Something lethal, I think.”

“Ah, that Ford humour! Your wish is my command.”

Introductions were made. A flurry of Clives, Normans, a Keith, and a stash of Cecilys, Beverleys and Sarahs. Ford slumped in an armchair. Sweat rolled down his face. A measure of his desperation was his wish for Dalton’s presence. Not his company, just his attitude. A girl sat on the chair next to him. He looked at her without interest. Small, but finely finished. Auburn hair to her shoulders, brown eyes, small button nose and a strong mouth. Jeans and a T-shirt, naturally. He’d have mugged her for the trainers.

“You’re perspiring, she said.”

What, he thought. Is there a neon sign above me that reads, “here sits he who sweats, gather all ye who wish to witness true perspiration.”

“Fuck off,” he said.

This made them both jump. The violence of the obscenity hung like a threat.

“So you’re Ford! I’m Amanda, Neville’s sister.”

“That figures,” said Ford.

“Will I get you a drink?”

“Yea, something to prolong depression.”

He watched her move. Nice ass, he thought, and stifled the Americanism. Grace ruled, but far-from-O.K. Amanda returned and gave him a long glass.

“Chin Chin,” she said.

“Christ!” said Ford.

He took a reckless swallow. Gin. Good. And then... Good grief! He spoke, “I’m sorry about the — er — the f..., you know.”

She answered in a passable Irish brogue, “Ah, there’s many would welcome a decent f...”

He nearly choked and in a rapid gin-change turn, he became philosophical.

“You hear people say, I f... her or him... rather than I made love and that’s because that’s exactly what they do. It’s aggression, not love.”

He looked closely at his glass. What on earth was in these to make him talk like that? Amand gave him a radiant smile.

“And you, Ford? What exactly is it you do?”

“Well,” he said, “mainly I do the very best I can.”

Over the next few weeks he did his best with Amanda. She was living with Neville till a flat could be found. Ford took her out almost every night to cinemas, theatres, restaurants. With her he drank little, and touched her even less. Each night he went home alone and drank with serious intent. All the music to hang yourself to was played. Linda Ronstadt’s “Heart Like a Wheel,” Willy and “Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain,” The Furey Brothers with “Leaving Nancy.”

No matter how much booze he put away, he couldn’t play Waylon. He cried and drank. Mainly, though, he nurtured his plan for Dalton. The intensity of his hate stunned him. The bile his mind produced was to rock him to his very core. He knew it was eroding a vein of goodness he’d always had. Knew and was satisfied.

One wet Friday evening, he returned her earlier than usual to Neville’s. He was anxious to get off to his booze and plans. Necessarily in that order.

“Come up for coffee,” she said.

“Not tonight, thanks.”

“Or any night,” she paused. “Ford, this is not really a request. See it more as an imperial prerogative.”

“Phew-ow!” he said.

Amanda fussed with coffee filters, and a light Mozart played. Ford fumed. The coffee aroma was wonderful though not quite as magical as escape. Ford sat in a hard-back chair. The sofa he ignored.

“Rather safe there,” she said.

“Better safe than sorry”, he answered and, oh, how he wished he hadn’t.

“You’re not gay, are you?”

“Well, I’ve been happier.”

“Then it must be me. Am I so repellent?”

Oh God, he thought, tears next. And he was right. He reviewed his options. Drink the coffee, go to her, or weep himself. The third appealed most. He went to her. A flurry of wet kisses and awkward clinches led to them making love on the floor. The act was noteworthy for its haste rather than its passion.

“That was wonderful,” she said.

“Do you have any cigarettes?” he asked.

Ford had the horrible clarity that she was the type who’d lounge round in one of his shirts. All leg and innuendo. A stale box of cigarettes were found.

“Wow!” said Ford, “that tastes good.” It did too.

“I didn’t know you smoked. But then I didn’t know you’d be such a magnificent lover either.”

Ford had to look at her. Was she winding him up? He’d avoided looking into her eyes all during the love-making. No, she seemed serious. Worse, somewhat dewy-eyed. The only eyes Ford looked into were on the wrong side of the Atlantic. Grace. A chill touched his heart as he wondered if Amanda would now love him. Love could ruin the total plan.

“I think I love you,” she said.

“Better get an ashtray,” he said.

He knew he might well have a coronary if she called him anything affectionate.

“You have a shower, darling, and I’ll brew some fresh coffee.”

Like a man condemned, he slouched to the bathroom. He was scalding beneath the spray when he heard her come in. Oh, God in Heaven, why hadn’t he locked the door as easily as he’d bolted his heart?

“There’s a dressing gown for you here, darling.”

What! Were they already fifty years together? In jig-time she’d be finishing his sentences... and his plans.

Muttering, he toweled himself dry. Through the steam, he looked in the mirror. Even less hair when wet. Such adjectives as tousled, wind swept wouldn’t be a feature anymore. The horror of receding, thinning, and let’s face it, bald ! Sign of virility eh... plu... ee... ze , as Gracie would say. The old, bald stallion perchance. That’s it, he swore, no more mirrors.

The dressing gown was of red silk. Cold, oh wow-ee. On the right hand breast was written, “Neville”. To remind himself was it? Did Neville lounge about in it and periodically glance down saying, “I know who I am, what about you, Mister?” Emerging from the bathroom, Ford felt ninety and all of them hard years.

Amanda was strewn on the couch, his Van Heusen shirt unbuttoned to reveal cleavage.

“Hey, big boy,” she said.

Ford liked her. He’d have been content to have her on the fringes of his life. Like Chinese food, you’d be glad of it periodically, but it wasn’t essential. The haunting question from one of William Trevor’s books: “Yes, but was she amazing?” No. How he wished she were. She’d all sorts of good qualities but, alas, no edge. If Ford knew anything, he knew that bad drop was a staple to his life. Now Grace, dare he say, was amazing. Amazing and in America.