Colum McCann - Songdogs

‘Oh Jesus, sorry,’ I said, backing towards the door, and he rose up, some pleistocene beast, grunted, lunged towards the door, stopped for a moment, perplexed by himself, one hand gripped on the frame, peering around it.

‘What do you want?’

‘Nothing, nothing.’

‘Get the hell out of here,’ he said, bringing his trousers up from around his ankles.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Go on now and get the fuck out of here.’

‘Are ya all right?’

‘I’m marvellous.’

‘I was only —’

‘There’s a door to knock on, isn’t there, man?’

‘I wanted to surprise —’

‘Well, ya did that.’ He walked back through the room — it was almost comic the way his feet moved in the dropped trousers. He cupped his hands around himself even though his back was turned. ‘Ya surprised me all right,’ he said. ‘Now leave me alone.’

‘What’s wrong with ya? Are ya sick?’

He looked at me, squinted: ‘I’ve a nose bleed in me arse, what d’ya think is wrong with me, for crissake?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Ah, go away, son, for Jaysus sake.’

I placed the tray at the bottom of the door, went downstairs, grabbed my jacket, sat on the outside stoop, stared at the agitated Mayo sky, clouds skidding along across the gibbous moon. The marmalade cat came up and crooked herself in the inside of my knee and I stroked her. The wind whipped across the yard, the wheelbarrow by the barn rocked a little from side to side, even the river might have been moving. Some ashes flew out of the firepit. I heard the old man rumbling in the kitchen, bashing around in the cupboards, and after a while the high whistle of the kettle broke through. I pushed open the bottom of the door and went inside. The button of his trousers was still open at the top. He was staring at the fire stain on the wall, some hot whiskey in his hand. But he had forgotten the metal spoon and a crack had formed down the edge of the glass, the whiskey streaming out on to his fingers. He stood there as if he didn’t feel it.

‘I thought I better tell ya,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘It’s only the grapes of wrath.’

‘What?’

‘The grapes of wrath.’

‘Steinbeck?’

‘Haemorrhoids,’ he said.

He kept staring at the fire stain on the wall and I didn’t know whether to laugh or not.

‘Must be Mrs Mc’s food,’ I said.

But he acted as if he didn’t hear me and just stood there, licking his finger for some reason and smearing it against the fire stain on the wall, turned around and put his arm on my shoulder, rubbed along it, quite tenderly.

‘I want to be on my own for a while, Conor.’

I gave him his space. Walked down the full length of the river, the banks widening, a few ox-bow lakes created by its meander, all the way along the reedy edge towards the graves of the Protestant ladies, cleared away some of the gravestone weeds, hunkered down, looked out towards the river as it emptied slowly into the sea. There were lights out on the ocean, boats bobbing away in the rough water, bits of phosphorescence on the waves. Enough nothingness, I said to myself. Enough of this half-emergence. I scrambled down to the beach, hopped around on the sand for a moment, took off my clothes, stepped to the edge of the water, waded slowly up to my thighs, dove in, came up laughing and freezing, and I swam for fifteen minutes until it felt warm, suspended myself in the float, let big waves carry me in, caught glimpses of a satellite in the tremendous shrinking of the night, felt strangely light in the holiness of silence as the water lapped over me — the light hitting my eyes might have come from a star long imploded — big salty crests of water pulling me down and shoving me upwards, throwing me about, exhilarated in the darkness. Nothing wrong with being romantic, I said to the sky. To hell with the curse on sentimentality. I felt alive at last and the long grasses were bowing on the shore and the wind brought an invigorating chill and the moon sprayed out light and I thought I heard two old women laughing along with me, raising white parasols to the sky to stop the raindrops, and saw the vision of one of the women, Loyola, appearing along through the waves saying: Don’t be so hard on him, he’s about to die, and I said, No he’s not, no he isn’t, it’s only the grapes of wrath, and laughed maniacally to myself at the ridiculousness of it all, went on swimming, saying hallelujah to the stars, rave on, rage on, flapping my arms, roaring stupidities at the night, thinking he’s a cantankerous old bastard, my father, always has been, always will be, submerged myself once more, seawater stinging my eyes, came up chuckling, swam around the shoreline, let waves carry me in. Clambering out of the sea, I ran along the beach to get warm, my hand cupped over myself until the wind picked up stronger, and it got so cold that I could hardly see and my teeth began chattering and I dressed hurriedly, hopping on the sand, and ran my way along the riverbank towards home, making paths and swaths through the rushes, knocking them backwards with my hands, and they bent for a moment, then rebounded. Back in the house, I pulled a blanket around myself, shivered in the kitchen. He had left the bottle of whiskey on the table for me, and I drank two glasses in his honour and said to myself, shivering: I might even miss the old bastard when I leave, although I doubt it.

Went to town — smell of sea salt still in my hair — and bought my train ticket to Dublin, got him some haemorrhoid cream in the chemist. He was embarrassed by it when I gave it to him, retreated his way up the stairs, humming a bit of a tune.

‘You have to sing every now and then,’ he said to me from the top of the stairs, ‘it’s the only way of pissing on doom.’

He waved the little tube of cream in the air.

I laughed and went out to the barn, started nailing down a few of the stray aluminium sheets that have popped through the rivets over the years. The barn’s in terrible shape, looks a bit like my cabin. Won’t last another winter. Used the ladder to climb up on the roof. I was there an hour or so, switching a couple of the metal sheets, turning down the jagged ends, putting in new rivets. Some of the beams were a little soft and woodwormed, the nails sank right into them. The sky was the colour of old jeans and I sat back to watch a ziggurat of geese make their way through it. They flew over the house and my eyes followed them. Leaning against the ladder, I caught sight of the postman’s van driving along the lane, Jimmy Kiernan from school at the wheel. He parked his van, rang on the doorbell. Trash metal blasted from a ghetto-blaster on the passenger seat. I could have called out to him, over the music, but Kiernan was one of the last people I’d have wanted to speak to, and I just let him ring away.

Kiernan had a bit of a paunch and his silver lightning-rod earring caught the light, his pasty-white skin like the flabby underbelly of a herring. He banged on the front door.

The curtains at the old man’s window were open and I saw him walk across in his vest and open the window latch, lean his head out.

‘Package,’ said Kiernan.

‘What’s that bloody racket down there?’ the old man shouted down.

‘Package!’

‘That’s grand, leave it there.’

‘Ya have to sign for it.’

‘Sign it yourself.’

‘Jaysus!’ said Kiernan, leaving the small brown parcel on the doorstep. He wheeled around and I’m sure he must have seen me, but I leaned further into the ladder and looked riverwise, laughing to myself at the old man’s stubbornness. Kiernan stood for a moment, clicking his fingers, climbed into his green van, and left with his arm propped up on the open window, the music fading off.