Colum McCann - Songdogs

The three of us dragged the old furniture from the living room to the farmyard, Mrs O’Leary cursing about her eyes. The yard looking strange to me with its tables and chairs standing lopsided on the rickety stones. Inside, we put old plastic bags, newspapers, and bedsheets on the carpet, painted the living-room walls with a very light pink, like flesh. We stood the vases on the mantelpiece and the flowers were carefully moved from corner to corner. ‘I think we should put the plant on the far corner, don’t you?’ said Mam. Some music erupted from the Victrola. We stopped early in the afternoon for a tea-break and Mrs O’Leary produced a bottle of Guinness from her handbag. She asked Mam if she liked the new look, if it was Mexican enough. Mam said, ‘Yes, it is very real,’ and then she whispered as if in a trance that it was the happiest she had ever been in her life, but her fingers were still rubbing over one another, and talk was sparse at the table, the tortillas having grown cold, Mrs O’Leary wondering how her stand-in was doing at the bar.

Two days later, when the old man came back from France, he gave a generous nod to the room and said, ‘Not bad, not bad at all.’ He laid a box down in the centre of the floor, lit a cigarette. Mam’s cheeks went gaunt in the kitchen as she bit them. He took the box of books from the floor and put them out in the darkroom, padlocked the door. ‘You won’t be burning these,’ he said. He wouldn’t show them to her, but I found out, years later, that it was a different book, a completely different one, using the shots of his early life in Mayo, when he used Loyola. He must have paid a fortune to get the book done. Mam left soon after, and my father made a pariah of himself — with me, and almost everyone else — his only occupation in life being the whisk of a fishing line in the air, Mrs O’Leary avoiding him, O’Shaughnessy gone on to other things, only Mrs McCarthy’s car tires crunching on gravel as she brought the odd Christian meal down to him.

* * *

I felt tense when evening rolled around. We were still sitting in the same spot. He was dozing, hadn’t fished all day, even with the new flies. I noticed a couple of old Spar bags tangled in the gorse, got up, picked them off, and started cleaning around the river. Went down to the footbridge first, the planks loose and rickety, creaking away as I leaned over. Used a stick to drag in the piece of Styrofoam to the bank. The ripples reached out, aspiring to one another. Plucked the Styrofoam out with my fingers and put it in the bag, used the stick to lift the plastic bags from the reeds. The sun was low on the horizon, and the geese had gone from the sky, only a few swifts out. I walked down along the far side of the bank, picking up a sack, a length of rope, some paper.

A drizzle began.

‘What ya doin?’ he asked when he woke, the wind-blown droplets on his face.

‘Just picking up some litter.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Something to do.’

‘I suppose it is.’

He stood up to go to the house. I watched as he went through the bushes and over the stile. He was gone for a long time and I thought he was sheltering from the rain, but he surprised me when he came back carrying a large black plastic bag.

He walked to the edge of the water and stood, the flanges of his hair blowing out, saluting the sky. The drizzle was lighter now. He peeled open the top of the big black plastic bag, shook it up and down to belly air into it, ballooning it outwards. I came across the footbridge and we started picking up more litter from the banks, a crisp bag, a soggy newspaper decaying near the reeds, a giant meat-factory syringe, a paper sack full of nails on the bank, a few small wine bottles shoved into the ground in a circle. He flipped one of the bottles towards me to catch, laughing, shuffled around and stabbed at the litter with his stick, dragged it, leaned down slowly to pick it up, filled the bag half-full, every now and then stopping to hum himself a bit of a tune, or look at the sky, or to run his hands along the side of his face.

I was about twenty yards away from him and he was staring down into the reeds. I drifted over, curious. An unrolled condom was lying in the small brown pool beyond the reeds, and he was staring at it — ‘Fucken litterbugs, the lot of them,’ he said, pointing towards the town, ‘up there.’

He picked up a dead branch from the side of the river which curved at its bottom end in a V, like a divining stick. He stared at the branch for a moment, twirling it in his fingers. A small smile appeared as he nodded down at the condom.

He took a red knife out of his pocket, used the fingernail of the thumb to take out the blade, fumbled to whittle the branch down to a sharp point. ‘What’re ya doing?’ I asked. He shrugged again, let the smile crack some wrinkles around his eyes. I heard a car trundle by on the distant road. Bits from the branch fell down at the side of the river as he carved with slow precision.

‘Ah, Jesus, Dad,’ I said, ‘leave it there.’

He shrugged and bent down to the reeds, holding the stick, balancing himself with it. I took a grip of his arm so he wouldn’t fall in. He leaned further, caught the condom on the sharpened point, where it teetered for a moment, fell again.

‘Ah, fuck it.’

‘Leave it be,’ I said.

He moved his arm out of my grip, put his hand down on the muddy bank, shifted his way down into the water, up to the rim of his wellingtons. He lifted the condom on one of the V ends, and suddenly burst into laughter as he raised it in the air, dangling it absurdly.

‘A million fucken fishes in that thing,’ he said, ‘and I’m not even using me rod!’

He held the condom on the end of the branch, twirled it for a moment, chuckling and coughing at the same time, opened the black bag, shook the condom off inside with the rest of the litter, flung the stick away down the riverbank. I reached down and gave him a hand out. ‘We should get those trousers of yours dry,’ I said. He put his arm around me, told me he was knackered. He hung the bag over his wrist and we came back to the house, the evening sun semaphoring off puddles as he stepped right through them, chuckling to himself. In the house I put on the kettle. He took a seat in the armchair, pulled off his trousers, hung them over the fire grill, sat there in his underwear. ‘Some Goldgrain with the tea!’ he shouted as he picked up the marmalade cat and stroked her. It’s been a while since I’ve seen a flush in his cheeks like that — they were forge-red as if, at last, he had done something spectacular with his life.

‘A million fucken fishes, son,’ he kept saying, until he went upstairs, steam churning from his teacup, feet creaking lightly on the stairs, still in his underpants.

‘Dad,’ I said, at the bottom of the stairs. ‘Can I tell ya something?’

‘Course ya can.’

‘I’m a bit embarrassed.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Well, I’m heading off tomorrow afternoon.’

‘Yeah?’

‘And I think…’

‘Ya think what?’

‘I mean, the bath.’

‘What’s that?’

‘You’re a bit ripe, these days.’

‘For crissake, Conor.’

‘I was thinking that maybe I’d run the water for you.’

‘Ah, for crying out loud. Go away out of that. I don’t need a bath. The last thing I need is a fucken bath. What would I need a bath for?’

‘Okay.’

‘The bath can wait.’

‘Whatever you want. Okay. Okay.’

‘Ah, Jaysus,’ he said.

He was switching his weight from one foot to the other. He went to his room, closed the door softly behind him, but popped his head around and looked down at me, lifted his eyes and closed the door again. I felt that it was some sort of invitation. I followed him in. He had one foot in the bottom of his pyjamas.