Belinda McKeon - Solace

‘Charlie’s in bad form,’ his father said.

Mark was surprised to see that Charlie was gone. ‘It’s early for him to be off.’

‘Ah, he’s a bit depressed, I think,’ said his father, with a gravity that made Mark want to laugh aloud. In his father’s mouth the word ‘depressed’ sounded as though it were being tried out for the first time. His father was eyeing him now as he waited for a response.

‘I suppose he could be. Retirement’s meant to be very hard,’ Mark offered.

‘Ah,’ his father shook his head impatiently, ‘it’s not the retirement. Sure he’s still out in the car the whole day long. He’s still driving the same route, chatting to the same people, having the same crack, and then in here for his few pints in the evening. Only thing that’s missing is the letters. I’d say if the post office got wind of it they’d give him the letters to hand out too.’

‘It’d be cheaper for them,’ Mark said.

‘It’s not the retirement, you see.’

What is it, Mark knew he was meant to ask, but something about his father’s tone made him wary: it was too careful. It was the tone he used when he was trying to lead the way to a conversation that was more about himself than about anybody else.

‘It’s the son,’ his father said, and Mark could have laughed out loud. So this was where it was going. This was what the conversation was to be about. Charlie McCabe ran his farm by himself, too; he had one son, too, who was hardly ever down home, who was high up as an engineer with Google, Mark had heard. He seemed like a nice guy. Charlie talked about him all the time, about some promotion he’d been given, about a trip he was taking, about the restaurants he took his parents to when they visited him in Dublin. There was no way that Charlie’s son was ever coming down to work the farm, and there was no way, either, that Charlie expected it. For Mark, resentment began to settle in its familiar grooves. He was tired, he had worked all day; he was not in the mood for his father’s guilt trip, and even less so for one that was bowled at him sideways, pretending to be something else, pretending to be concern for poor old Charlie, who tipped around that farm fine on his own.

‘What’s the problem with the son?’

‘Ah.’ His father shrugged. He seemed to have changed his mind.

‘Go on, you’ve started now,’ Mark said forcefully, and gestured to Keogh for another two pints.

‘Jesus, don’t call Keogh over here,’ Tom said quickly.

‘He’s not coming over. He’s ignoring me like he always does, the fucker,’ Mark said. ‘And anyway, what’s so terrible that you don’t want him to hear? Brian McCabe is sick, is that it? He’s dying?’

‘No, but Charlie thinks he’s a gay.’

What washed over Mark was strange and not exactly soothing: guilt and mirth and sadness and relief. Guilt at having jumped the gun so much; relief at escaping the conversation he had thought he was in; mirth at the image of his father and Charlie mulling together over the question of what Charlie’s son was or was not. And, too, Mark couldn’t believe he hadn’t copped it before now about Brian McCabe; of course he was gay, of course he was, and happy as fuck about it too. Living the life. Always well dressed. Always well groomed. And always with that gaze, Mark thought now, with a jolt of self-satisfaction, which was a bit more interested than it ought to be. Well, fine. Mark wasn’t going to object to being eyed up, no matter who was doing it. He knew he wasn’t as safe in his own looks as he had been a couple of years ago. He told himself again that he’d have to start going to the gym — he told himself this a couple of times a month now, but never acted on it. He’d have to. He had seemed for a while to be getting away with the pints and the chips and the kebabs, but the signs were starting to show. He had the beginnings of a gut. Already, there’d been more than one grey hair. That was the road to thirty. Brian McCabe was thirty-four or thirty-five, and he looked a hell of a lot better than Mark.

‘Charlie says there’s never been a girlfriend,’ Tom broke into his thoughts, ‘and sure you’d know well just by looking at him. Sure he was done up there on Christmas morning like a man going to his wedding.’ He finished his pint. ‘And,’ he added, ‘he used to be a great lad for the choir.’

‘He had a good voice before his balls dropped,’ Mark said. ‘That doesn’t mean he has a preference for other people’s.’

‘Other people’s what?’ said Tom, as Keogh came over and asked if they were ready for two more.

‘Other people’s balls,’ said Mark, and he nodded to Keogh, whose mouth opened and closed for a second before he moved off to get the drinks.

‘Ah, Jesus,’ said Tom, but he was laughing. He waited until Keogh was out of earshot again before continuing. ‘Charlie’s awful worried about him, though. Ah, poor ould Charlie, you wouldn’t wish it on him.’

‘He’ll manage,’ Mark said. ‘He’s not going to be any less fond of him.’

‘No, but. .’ His father sighed. He was in uncertain territory now, Mark knew. ‘It’s not easy for him,’ Tom said at last, and groped around in the pocket of his trousers for his cash.

‘I’ll get this,’ Mark said. ‘Charlie’ll be grand. Sure what difference does it make to him?’

‘Jesus, it makes a lot of difference,’ his father said, almost in a whisper, and he looked around him before he went on. ‘Won’t everyone about the place be talking about him?’

‘Isn’t that what we’re doing now?’

His father paused. ‘It is, but we’re Charlie’s friends,’ he said, frowning. ‘He can’t count on everyone else around here to be his friend.’

‘He can’t control it, so he should forget about it,’ Mark said, and his father looked at him as though what he was saying was madness.

‘And of course he’ll never get married now, and there’s an awful lot to worry about, you know, when you have a son that way.’

‘Like what?’ Mark said, knowing the answer.

‘Like. .’ His father stopped.

‘Like AIDS, you mean,’ Mark said, and his father clicked his tongue.

‘Would you shut up about AIDS,’ he said, under his breath. ‘I don’t want that fucker Keogh knowing Charlie’s business.’

‘You’re the only one thinks it’s Charlie’s business,’ Mark said. ‘There’s no reason why Brian McCabe would get AIDS, any more than I’d get it or anyone else would.’ From the way his father started beside him, Mark could tell that he had provided him with cold comfort. ‘And there’s no reason why he shouldn’t have as good a life as anyone can have. He can’t get married, I’ll grant you, but not everybody wants to get married. And anyway, that might change. For Brian, I mean. In a few years, he might be able.’

His father said nothing. A conversation about gay marriage was hardly what he had had in mind when he had come into Mark’s room and invited him to Keogh’s. Then again, it was not something Mark himself had had in mind. It was time to change the subject. He lifted his pint. ‘So Charlie shouldn’t be worrying himself. Let’s leave it at that. Brian always seems happy to me.’

Tom was still quiet. ‘Do you know him well?’ he said eventually.

‘I see him around here the odd time.’

‘You never see him out and about in Dublin?’

‘No, you needn’t be worrying,’ Mark said drily. ‘I never see him out and about in Dublin.’

‘I’m only asking.’

‘Yeah,’ Mark said.

They were silent for a long moment, during which Mark wondered what, after all, it would be like to be with Brian McCabe. Because the more he thought about it, the more he reckoned McCabe probably was into him. It could be worse.