Colum McCann - Fishing the Sloe-Black River

He stands at the side of Carrollton Avenue, feeling the heat hammer down from the southern sky. He wipes his overcoat sleeve across his wet brow.

They had given their son thick hands, hands that won fights all over Ireland, even illegal bouts in the grassy wild meadows. That day, when he stood on the ship’s bow in Cobh, the world stretched out in front of him. In his first eight months, in dingy little New York halls, he put away three journeymen heavyweights. Always sang a song after each of the bouts. Fell in love with Juanita when she came with a movie director to one of the fights. She sat there in the third row, her hair as wild and as long as kelp. That night he took her to the fanciest restaurant in town, and she kissed the top of his eye where he’d been cut.

One victory flew into another. In the dressing room Juanita took to massaging his shoulders like some women take to kneading bread. Reporters in wide hats began to take notice. A photo appeared in the papers of him and Juanita swapping wedding bands. Him decked out in a white tuxedo jacket, her in the finest taffeta, a bouquet of white flowers in her dark hair. That was the week before the big fight. September 9, 1938. If he could beat Caffola he would go on to the big time. Mustard oil. Blinded him good-oh. Juanita in the ring, smoothing back his hair, saying it’ll be all right, Danny, it’ll be all right, there’ll be another chance. His hair falling back again, down over his eyes.

And now it has fallen away in furrows, though he has his little flat cap on to cover up the bald spots. But onward to the washing machines. Hup, two, three. Enough of years gone by. Put it behind you, make it anew, put it behind you, and things’ll come true. There was a comeback after Caffola, and he was swearing to reporters that if he got the chance, he would take on Buddy Baer and the Brown Bomber in the same ring. But he had fallen easily to a no-hoper from the bowels of Brooklyn. A Chusla Mo Chroí. Love of my heart and, sweet Jesus, would you ever get a move on? Step we gaily, on we go. The sun’ll be down before I get home to Juanita.

She brought him to Hollywood where she was making some movies. But there wasn’t enough call for a Mexican girl. Beautiful as she was, and a voice so gorgeous she sounded like she had a wren in her throat, they terminated her contract. The couple stood on the deck of another boat, combing the waves in an easterly way. They sang together in the smoky cabarets of Ireland and Britain where men in zoot suits wet the tip ends of cigars with lascivious tongues and stared. But the cabarets closed, eyelids on an era. Then it was back to America, where their bodies gave way, but the social welfare checks dropped regularly enough to keep them happy. And a million years lived in between all that. Things he’s forgotten. In the meantime, in between time, ain’t we got fun? Put it behind you. Make it anew. But how the hell can you put it behind you, how in God’s name can you make it anew? Christ but the heat is doing strange things to my head. Onward. Away.

“Something chasing you, Mr. Flaherty?” It’s Clarence LeBlanc, that sly-eyed bastard in trousers too tight even for his thin legs, thirty years old maybe, who works as the rent collector in the complex. He’s coming out of the 7-Eleven with a packet of cigarettes in his long thin black hands. LeBlanc is often seen scrubbing the graffiti from the walls. A Philistine if ever there was one. And always that nasty upturned lip when he knocks on the door to collect the rent.

“Chasing me?” said Flaherty.

“Seems like you in a hurry.”

“Off to the laundromat.”

“Doing you some washing?”

“I am.”

“Funny, I don’t see no clothes.” LeBlanc has that glint in his eye.

“I left them yonder this morning.”

“You best watch out.”

“Why’s that?”

“Somebody been stealing clothes down there. Believe it must be one of the young guys from our complex.”

“It’s a terrible thing these days, the thievery,” says Flaherty. “Are ya going to watch the fight on TV tonight?”

“Hanging them on doorknobs,” says LeBlanc.

“Young whippersnappers. Can’t trust a soul these days.” He shuffles his feet and balls up his fists. “Tyrone is fighting in the Garden.” A slow roundhouse comes from the shoulders, hitting air, and he smiles.

“I don’t follow boxing, Mr. Flaherty,” says LeBlanc, lighting up a cigarette. “You see anything strange, you let me know.”

“Indeed I will.”

He curses softly to himself as LeBlanc moves away. The cat’s out of the bag and meowing at the man in the moon. He hunkers into his coat, feeling the sweat roll down his armpits. The traffic thunders on in his ears as he negotiates a couple of potholes. He squints and feels almost dizzy. For a moment he sees his mother bent over the sink, scrubbing some blood from the collar of a white shirt. His father outside, hanging a sandbag from a chestnut tree, shouting at him to get ready for practice. Juanita leaning into the microphone, hair thrown back, eyes brown and deep. Tyrone dancing in the middle of a ring.

He skirts in past a couple of cars, negotiates the curb, tongues a bead of sweat off his lip, stands for a moment and watches the clouds scud along over the city, then opens the laundromat door. He hears the whirl of washing machines. The pink neon throws patches of light down on his brown overcoat. A plane on a video game crash lands in the corner. The Coke machine is taped with a huge OUT OF ORDER sign. He sits down on the plastic chair, wheezing softly, takes off his flat cap, places it on the seat beside him, and looks around some more.

It’s the wealthy women who come to this place. Well, not exactly wealthy, but better off than those in the complex. A dollar a load here. The machines are shiny-new and the hands that open them are mostly white. Kids from the university come here, in cherry-red convertibles. Spoiled rotten, the whole lot of them. Always throw in their laundry and come back half an hour later. At the other laundromat, east of the complex, it’s only fifty cents a load and everyone stays, watching their clothes like nervous birds over crumbs.

There are only three women in the laundromat now, two at the far end, heads deep in magazines, and one — a real fancy-pants with blond hair and pink lipstick — loading a huge blue bag of clothes into washers number three, four, and five. Each time she lifts something out of her laundry bag she holds it up to the light and examines it very carefully. A set of sheets. Towels. Socks. T-shirts. Some underwear tucked into machine number four very quickly. A nightshirt. Washcloth. Then Fancypants takes out a pair of ragged Levis, followed by a couple of skirts.

Juanita, unfortunately, wouldn’t look good in any of them. She has always been the one for great style, something a little modest but show-offy all the same. When she went to the fights it was always a magenta dress. In the cabarets it was often that glittery sequined number, grassy green. On the boats, back and forth across oceans, it was always something the color of the sea. He shuffles his feet. Juanita. My Juanita. Love of my heart and oh, would you look at that!

Fancypants is lifting up a white shirt with lacy see-through sleeves. Blue frills on the collar. A gorgeous piece of work. She frowns, perhaps considering whether she should get it dry-cleaned or not. It’s the perfect size. A fan whirls above his head. He sweats and watches Fancypants. She fidgets for a moment, then puts the white blouse in machine number five. His heart skips a tune. He watches Fancypants take out a bottle of expensive detergent. The way she pours, you can tell she’s rich. She probably won’t even notice that the damn thing’s gone. And on her way out the door she doesn’t even smile at him.