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

Frank was beginning to dread these summonses.

“What, now?” he said.

The woman had the obligatory white coat with stethoscopes and instruments bulging from every pocket. She had a clipped manner.

“I’ll need a blood sample from you, shall we say five minutes?”

“No... no we shan’t say... what, it’s like you need a light is it. Saw me passing and thought, Ah, I’ll have a sample of him. Don’t you people ever ASK? Or explain anything. Who the hell are you? I know you sixty seconds and you’re into my veins. I’ll tell you what you can do... you can flaming hop it... shall we say that?”

The woman backed way off. He wanted to follow her and physically shake her. He went down the corridor and found the smoking lounge. It was crammed with women.

“Mornin’ ladies.”

And tried to quiet the tremor in his hand. The one in his heart would require something more powerful than nicotine.

Returning to Cathy, they were joined by Doctor Stevens. He asked if he could hold the baby, and again, his tremendous feeling showed in his face. He said,

“Isn’t she a beauty... I don’t know how much you know about Down’s Syndrome, but I’m going to presume it’s very little and inform you accordingly.”

Frank felt a rush of chronic anxiety, and said,

“That’s a good presumption.”

The doctor continued to gaze at the little baby as he spoke.

“We’ve come a long way since the old days when these little mites were locked in the attic or abandoned in institutions. Most Down’s now live a full life, go to school, date, are a part of the community.”

Frank thought of Jim, an ordinary normal man and his abandonment of the community, or was it vice versa.

“Ordinary people have 46 chromosomes. The Down’s have 47. A feature of these children is a great love for music, and an amazing capacity for love. They are affectionate beyond belief. Your little girl... have you decided on a name?”

“Serena-May.”

“Serena... is that to do with serenity?”

“We sure hope so.”

The fear had been whispering at Frank and before he could consider, he blurted out,

“Will she know us, I mean... will she know we’re her parents?”

Cathy began to weep.

The doctor looked stricken.

“Good heavens yes... oh, yes indeed. It might help you to meet the parents of Down’s.”

“No,” said Cathy, “I’m not herding her in with others.”

“You don’t have to decide anything now. I know it’s heard to believe, but you’ll wonder later what all the grief was about. These Down’s sometimes have heart trouble, but hers is strong and sound. In fact, physically, she’s in great shape. There are all sorts of special services available, and it’s good to know what’s available. If I might add, I think this little girl is blessed to have you both. It’s an eerie thing, but these Down’s are never born to troubled families, and they certainly never cause it. On the contrary. So, I’ll leave you to enjoy the wonder of this enchanted lady.”

Cathy looked closely at her baby.

“Does she look Down’s to you, Frank, would you know by just looking at her?”

He didn’t know and said,

“I dunno. Aren’t the Japanese eyes supposed to be a sure sign?”

Cathy laughed.

“Not to the Japanese... oh, Frank, isn’t this awful, we’re examining this baby for flaws.”

As if on cue, a tiny tear slid down the baby’s cheek. With his index finger, Frank gently took it and said, “If only I can always do that. Anyway, her eyes are almond, that’s supposed to be sensual.”

“Is it? How would you know things like that, are you watching wans with cats’ eyes.”

“There’s Charlotte Rampling.”

“Yea, and what about her?”

A nurse came and Frank headed for work.

Call it “serendipity” or plain down home coincidence. Or perhaps a touch of fate deciding to perverse, not to mention outright vicious.

Susan, Frank’s secretary, was delighted about the baby. American fiction was the grand passion of her life. She and Frank competed as to who could introduce the other to a new writer. Frank had long since led the field in presenting her with the dual gifts of Raymond Carver and Jess Harper.

But now Susan felt she was about to sweep ahead. She’d been scanning her reviews studiously, and it seemed the critics on both sides of the Atlantic were falling over to heap praise on a new novelist. Plus, they all mentioned how blackly funny the novel was. Couldn’t miss, she reckoned. When Frank arrived, the staff stood and applauded, flowers and congratulations were abundant.

Mortified, he fled to his office. He couldn’t see how he deserved praise when the truth was that all this was Cathy’s due. The book was left on his desk.

    The Virgin Suicides

   By

   Jeffrey Eugenides.

“Jeez, what a title,” he said, and read the review of the book. Sounded like a contender. The humour was stressed and he could sure use a touch of that. So he flicked through the pages.

Fate launched its lash.

Frank’s eyes latched on to this passage,

“We were happy when Joe, the retard, showed up. As usual, he was grinning with the face he shared with every other mongoloid. He came murmuring with his oversize jaw and loose lips, his tiny Japanese eyes. We knew that retards didn’t live long and aged faster than other people. We had him sing the song he always sang. We clapped, he was too dense to appreciate it.”

Frank had read this standing at his desk. He slowly crumpled into his chair and shut the book. Then he picked it up and dropped it into the waste paper basket. Tears began to roll down his cheeks as he fumbled for a cigarette. His tears wet the filter and he couldn’t get it to light. He said,

“Fuckin’ thing.”

Frank rummaged in his desk and found Graham Greene’s The End of the Affair . For months he’d been bringing it to work. Someone had once described the novel as,

“Emotion recollected in hostility.”

Frank saw it as a near perfect account of unbelief. The central character Bendrix is broken by Sarah’s death, and oddly thus finds a tormented type of faith. Out loud Frank read the end lines of the book, believing that volume might ease his heart.

“I wrote at the start that this was a record of hate. I found the one prayer that seemed to suit the winter mood. ‘O God, you’ve done enough. You’ve robbed me of enough, I’m too tired and too old to learn to love, leave me alone forever.’”

His intercom began to buzz and he knew it was going to be a long busy day. Just before he lifted the receiver, he recalled Job crying out in the desert,

“Why me, Lord, oh Lord... why me.”

The Lord replied,

“Because you really piss me off.”

At lunchtime, Susan came with coffee and sandwiches.

“You seem a bit down, Frank.”

He nearly leapt at her, the word “down” was all out of proportion. She continued,

“It’s your age, you’re afraid you’re too old to be a father?”

“Actually, Susan, I wasn’t thinking that at all. But good of you to lodge the serpent in my head. The way I see it is, if I give her twenty of the very best years I can, maybe it’s time enough.”

Susan was hoping for a commendation for her book choice, but didn’t really feel she should ask outright. Pride in knowing her place was sometimes operational. Plus she felt he was more than a little testy. Her mother had been right,

“Never, ever tell a man he’s aging or balding.”

Frank’s mind was still in a literary lock. Ezra Pound who’d said,

“We’re all writing the same poem.”

and muttered,

“Not today Ezra.”

Susan said,