M. Hyland - Carry Me Down

‘Why?’

‘Why?’

We are silent. The baby crying in the next-door flat seems to get louder and more panic-stricken. I look at the phone next to my mother and want it to ring. I want the woman upstairs to say she was only messing. I want this to be over. I want to be right and I want to be wrong.

‘Why?’ I ask again. ‘Why do I have to pack his suitcase?’

‘Because I’ve asked him to leave. You wanted me to believe you, and now I do. You should be happy. Now that you’re after having your way.’

I need to go to the toilet. ‘But I only meant the truth to come out.’

‘And what did you think would happen when the truth was out?’

‘I don’t know,’ I say, wishing we could sit in the kitchen and talk in a normal way, instead of doing this in the hallway.

‘You don’t know?’ she says. ‘You don’t know?’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘You’re sorry?’

We are silent again and somebody outside kicks an empty can all the way along the corridor.

‘Go pack a suitcase for your father, and a suitcase for yourself, if that’s what you feel like doing.’

She lifts herself up from the floor, walks into her bedroom, and shuts the door behind her.

I go to the toilet and then I walk around the flat for a few minutes. The wedding photograph on the dresser has been removed and in its place there is a box of tissues. I still have something like a feeling that if I wanted to I could make everything go back to how it was; I could change things back. I think about calling my grandmother and asking her whether she will come and live with us a while, patch things up with my father, or let us come back to Gorey.

On the way, we could stop at a fairground or Duffy’s circus. And there might be a miniature steam-train and pony rides and people dressed up as animals. I wouldn’t want to leave.

All four of us could stop in at a circus and eat candy floss and watch the lion tamers and tightrope walkers, and I could sit between my father and grandmother. When they put their hands on my lap, I could make it so that they held each other’s hands instead.

I go to the phone and ring Granny’s number in Gorey. There is no answer. I put my hands over my eyes and lean against the sink. When I feel calmer, I walk out to the hallway and stand outside my mother’s bedroom door and I wonder if she wants me to leave with my father. I go to my room and sit on my bed and I bash my legs with my fists so that I will have bruises there tomorrow.

The apple box for puppet shows has gone. I rush to the kitchen to see whether it’s in the rubbish bin and there it is, and on the kitchen table there’s a note from my mother to my father, written on airmail paper:

Michael

Take the things belonging to you and leave. And when you’ve a place to stay, make sure you tell your son where you are .

Helen .

I take the note with me and go back to my bedroom. The baby crying in the flat next door is louder. I put my fingers in my ears and lie face down on my bed. I want to leave, but I also want to stay. I want to be in two places; here with my mother, and away with my father, and I want to travel with him wherever he goes. Perhaps we could go back to Gorey together and I could see Mr Roche again.

I close my eyes and fantasise about living with my father in that hotel near the gates of Phoenix Park, the hotel near the zoo. Or we could stay together in a fancy hotel, like the Shelbourne; a hotel with a concierge who wears a coat and tails and I could go down to him and ask questions whenever I needed to. We could order dinner from room service and eat on our laps in the big bed in our hotel room and have breakfast brought to us on a trolley, and go downstairs at night and sit in the bar and eat crisps and I could drink red lemonade and we could watch the big television there.

But isn’t he the bad party? Isn’t he the cause of this trouble? Yes, this trouble is my father’s fault and I won’t go with him. I’ll stay right here, where I am, with my mother. It’s not her fault. He should leave us alone and cause us no more trouble.

At three o’clock, my father comes home. I hear him before he opens the front door, talking to somebody outside. I get up and go out to meet him. He’s with Uncle Jack and Uncle Tony and they’re all wearing blue overalls. I don’t like seeing my father in overalls; I prefer him in his black suit jacket and a white shirt. Without a suit jacket, some of his personality is lost, because he can’t deliberately fasten his buttons the wrong way and he can’t wear one sleeve turned up and the other down.

‘You’re here,’ he says. ‘Shouldn’t you be at school?’

‘I was sick,’ I say. ‘I came home early.’

‘He’s always sick, isn’t he?’ says Uncle Jack to Uncle Tony, as though I’m a dog that needs putting down.

‘I’m not always sick,’ I say.

My father leaves and goes into the bedroom. Uncle Jack comes to me and hugs me. I look over his shoulder at Uncle Tony, who is putting the phone back on the hall table.

‘Let’s go into the kitchen and make ourselves a nice strong brew,’ says Uncle Jack.

‘All right,’ I say.

I sit down at the kitchen table. When Uncle Jack has finished making the tea, he comes and stands over me. He puts his hands on my shoulders and stares down. I hate it when people tower over me like this. He could just as well have sat beside me.

‘Get off me!’ I say.

‘Easy does it,’ says Uncle Tony. ‘He’s only trying to help.’

‘I don’t need help. I know what’s going on. I’m the one who told Mammy the truth.’

They look at each other. They know about my role in this. They must know about my gift for lie detection.

‘Well, then,’ says Uncle Jack, making himself at home in my mother’s usual seat, ‘you’ll not be needing us to fill you in on the birds and bees.’

‘No,’ I say. ‘I know all about it.’

‘You’ll be staying here, I suppose,’ says Uncle Tony as he looks in the cupboard for something to eat.

‘Yes. But I’ll be able to change my mind and go with Da if I feel like it.’

‘Sure you will,’ says Uncle Jack.

‘Any biscuits in this establishment?’ Uncle Tony asks.

The front door slams. My mother has gone.

My father comes into the kitchen when it’s nearly dark. Nobody has turned the light on, and he looks old and sad, his mouth turned down, his eyes smaller. ‘Right, so,’ he says. ‘It’s time I was off.’

‘Better pack up this party then,’ says Uncle Tony.

My father smiles and bends down towards me. He gives me a peck on the cheek and whispers, ‘It’s all right.’

His breath is rotten. I smile back at him but I want him to stand away from me. I’ve never smelt such rotten breath. What if this is the last time I kiss him? What if this is the last I see of him, and my final memory is of his rotten breath?

‘Where are you going to live?’ I ask him.

‘With Uncle Tony, and there’ll be a spare cot for you whenever you feel like visiting. So shall we not get maudlin in saying goodbye, because we’re not really saying goodbye, and just …’

‘Just what?’ I say. ‘You mean you won’t say goodbye and just leave instead?’

My father stands back and looks me up and down. ‘You’re an odd mixture, you are, of little boy and a grown lad. Which am I speaking to now?’

I hang my head and feel embarrassed for feeling embarrassed and want him to go.

‘What will your phone number be, then?’ I ask in the toughest voice I have.

‘It’ll be the same as my number,’ says Uncle Tony.

‘Oh, yeah,’ I say.

‘Well, then …’

‘Right, so …’

‘Bye now, John.’