Fishing the Sloe-Black River

  And a big journey it is too. The foundation now, Moira, is on like a dream. Trust me. And, as you say, you want to be traveling like a princess. And that you will be. We got so handy with the makeup, didn’t we? Even when the kids were born, and the beauty parlor was shut down, we’d always find some time for it. Trying out the lemon to get rid of the freckles. And those oatmeal face packs, Lord, they were great!

  But, and let me say it, here and now, I’ll never ever ever forget the time you messed up my hair. I was a crotchety old bear for months afterward, and I’m sorry for it. But you have to think about it in the light of the time. Not two months after Matthew was born. You saying I’d look great if I got a bit of the stray gray out of the hair. Pushing the auburn look. Auburn this. Auburn that. Auburn the other thing. My head was down there in the sink in your bungalow saying, “Moira, are you sure about this?” “Sure, I’m sure,” you said. Not a bother on you. And for five weeks afterward my head was a fluorescent orange. Like a nuclear carrot, I was! Luminous! A tourist attraction! Everyone thought it very funny when July twelfth rolled around. All of them saying: “Oh, we can send Eileen up to Belfast for Orangeman’s Day.”

  I was fuming, and I’m really sorry about what I did with your sunflowers. I know I never told you. But it was me. I’m very sorry. Lopped their heads off with a scissors, I was so mad. But the hair was really awful, you must admit. Come off it now! It was! Don’t be fooling me. Eoin wouldn’t touch me for weeks. Not that he was a mad passionate man anyway. He kept calling me a left footer. The kids all thought I’d gone barmy. Me, having to wear that awful scarf, the one with the pictures of the pound notes on it, all around town for God knows how long. Rinsing my hair every day, trying to get the dye out. But, that’s said and done, and we can laugh about it now.

  But we were pretty handy all the same, weren’t we? Even when it was rationed, we could always find some. Sure, remember when we got those red stones that when you licked them, they’d give off a bit of paint? Down by the river when we were kids. And using the sugar water to keep the hair up. And the berry juice we’d smear on our cheeks when we had nothing else. The fun we had with those. Speaking of, Moira, here we go with the rouge now. Yardley. That rose perle tint you’ve always been fond of.

  Strange that. Never really thought of it that way. Those stones we’d find, down by the river, us little girls, in exactly the same place where your Sean and young Liam wanted to build your bungalow. Moira, those lettuce-and-tomato sandwiches! Those flasks of tea! Weren’t those the times? Your Liam there working on the house. Up we’d go with his lunch and he’d say, him hanging out of the rafters: “Mam, Auntie Eileen, are you sure yez put enough salad cream on these things today?” Always mad keen on the lettuce and tomato. And then us down to the town with another flask and a few brown bags for the men. Us meeting in the park and spreading out the big white tablecloth. Your Sean forever leaving all those dirty thumbprints on the tablecloth. Terrible. And don’t you remember the day I took the driving test! Sean leaving that dirty great spanner in the middle of the passenger seat by mistake. Me so nervous that I forgot about it and along comes the driving inspector and sits on the damn thing. Moira, it must be said that he was a bit of a poofter, wearing those cream pants, don’t you think? Him so snotty and dignified and stupid that he didn’t say a thing. Him failing me and all. And me not even hitting the curb on the three-point turn. Livid, I was. But it was worth the price of admission, that was. That big slobber of oil on his arse pants. Him waddling off. A teapot, as your Kieran would say.

  This rouge is fabulous stuff. Blending in wonderfully. Amazing what they can do nowadays. Listen to me ramble and me making a mess with the makeup! God! Your sunflowers. I’m still thinking about your sunflowers. And the way you were going to enter them in the flower competition. Sorry now. I really am. Along I came and snippety-snip, they were gone.

  Well, it’ll be family now, the next few days, us all back together again. The children never understand at times like these, and it’s just as well that they have a bit of fun. We’ll get little Orla and Fiona and Michelle and we’ll teach them how to put on some makeup. Maybe even see if some of the young girls at the beauty parlor will allow me to take up a chair and teach the kids some tricks of the trade. Oh me, oh my, wouldn’t that be a racket! We’ll take the boys and bring them down to the bridge, lash together some fishing poles and maybe even go for a plunge, what with the hot weather we’ve been having. Give the rest of us time. All of us adults together. I know I said some bad things about my Eoin, but I really wish he was here. But. Well! I’m happy enough. I really am. The letters from the kids and all, keeping up the house, and baking the odd bit of bread. Up to Dublin occasionally to baby-sit. And just walking about the town. The river’s bad, though, as you know. That chemical factory has been sending men down here with all their Geiger counters or whatever it is they call them. Soon we’ll all be walking around glowing. Another go-around with the orange hair for me, I suppose. Just a little extra rouge here. Don’t be worrying. Moira, you have the most gorgeous cheekbones! I’ve always envied those cheekbones.

  Now let me just have a minute here now and we’ll start on the eyes. A dab with the pencil first, I think. The moss-colored one. Up above the lashes here. Ah-ha. Anyway. Umm. Just a touch here. Isn’t it terrible, though? There they were, promising a hundred jobs and all we get is a river we can hardly swim in anymore. But, my God, I was down there the other day and you should see some of the bathing suits the young girls are wearing! Little thongs thin as twigs. Pieces of cloth no thicker than thread. Down there flossing, Moira! I ask you. Leaving not a thing to the imagination. But why not? When you have it, flaunt it, I suppose. To hell with God and country. Now, I don’t really mean that, Moira, but you know what I mean. It’s not as if we were the purest things since snow or sliced bread. I mean, we were given to a bit of wiggling too, weren’t we, when we had it? Not that we ever wore swimsuits like that. Let me stand back a minute and size you up.

  A sight for sore eyes, you are. What do you think? Some more? All right so. Here we go. Marvelous. Jiminy cricket, but you’re looking great. Then we’ll see what we can do with the eye shadow and the mascara. We’ll give you that green, a bit of light color under the eyebrows. Those eyes of yours always so green. Ah, Moira. You made me happy with that note of yours, strange as it may seem. Your Sean woke up this morning and the first thing he did was he phoned me, told me the news, saying that he had this envelope that he had tucked away for years in the bottom drawer of his dresser. Drove over to the house and handed it to me. Both of us crying. No airs about you. There’s never been an air about you. That’s how I’d like to do it myself. No fuss or bother.

  It was a lovely note all the same. Such a lovely idea. When in the world did you write it? Sean said he had it for years and that many’s the time he wanted to open it. Anyway, we went down to McCartan’s in the rain to arrange the arrangements, and old man McCartan saying: “That’s a very strange request, I’m not sure if we can do it.” And your Sean—he loves you so much, he really does—taking him aside and saying that he’d give McCartan a few extra bob if he’d let me do your face. McCartan’s a bit of a rat for the money sometimes. Hemmed and hawed for a moment. Sean slipped him another fiver and McCartan got everything ready for me—fixed you up in a way of peace and all. But him still trying to tell me that it might overwhelm me. Overwhelm me! I ask you! After all the times I’ve done this self-same thing. Go away out of that, Mister McCartan, I said to him. There’s nobody better for the job. I’ll do her up right. Sure we’ll have a little natter and we’ll talk about old times.

  Liam’s huge bicycle with the purple mudguards! Orla winning the footrace at the County Fair! You burning the pot roast the day Haughey resigned! The holiday in Bray, and Eoin walking the promenade and his hat blowing off and the seagull leaving a dollop on his head! Me oh my. Haven’t we had the life of it? And the things we remember! Him ranting and raving and effing and blinding all over the place, what
with that seagull stuff all over his handkerchief! Moira, I could talk all night, but look at me here, and I still haven’t finished your eyes, not to mention the lipstick and everyone due to see you shortly. I better get cracking.

  Seems like half the town went to the airport today to pick up people flying in. Shannon and Dublin. They’ll be in later today to say hello. Even young Fiachra. Him and his tulips from Amsterdam. What a scoundrel he is. Okay, now, this color is just perfect. Coal green fading out gently. Perfect. It really is. Makes you look like a million dollars. You recall Fiachra, and him hardly having a hair on his head until he was three years old? Just never grew, did it? You taking him down to the supermarket on Main Street when Ciara was down sick with the flu in seventy-six. And that old bat, Mrs. Roche, coming up to you and asking why in the world you’d allow your grandson to have all his hair shaved off. And then her whispering in your ear: “Was it your sister Eileen who gave him that awful haircut?” And you smacking her in the jaw with a cauliflower for the implication! Ah Lord, how I would have loved to have been a fly on the wall. Serves her right. Anyway, I know it’s rude to whisper, but did you know that her youngest is up the pole, as they say? True as God, Moira. Six months gone. What do you make of that?

  Here we go, and we’ll get the extra smudge off the eyelashes. We’ll be done awful soon. Just let me get the lipstick absolutely right. That’s the most important thing, I always say. Get the lips right and you’ve the battle won. Launch a thousand ships, you will. Here we go. Yes. Ah-ha. Pencil first, of course. You and Sean at your wedding, that’s the funniest photograph. Him standing outside the church, all that confetti over his shoulders, a smile on him to beat the band, the lily in his breast pocket, all the people milling around and right there—smack dab in the middle of his cheek—that huge lipstick mark. Spent half the morning getting the lipstick just right and then you went and smeared it all over his cheek. Lord, woman! Those were the days! Listen to me ramble, and a hundred people waiting to see you. Mrs. Burden made the sandwiches and Tommy Farrell got a ton of whiskey for the evening, Father Colligan’s the one to say mass, and Miss Bennet, from the school, is putting together some lovely flowers. This lipstick is really something special, let me tell you, makes your lips full and really compliments you. Estée Lauder, if you don’t mind! Pale rose.

  Talking like a runaway train, I am. Ah, but you were never able to get a word in edgewise, were you, Moira? Always me rattling away, no matter what. From day one on. And, sure, I’ll visit you every week. Sean has got a lovely quiet spot, not too far from where your young Liam is. The only thing is that the old factory’s going to belch up the odd bit of smoke in your way, otherwise you’d probably have a clear vision almost all the way to Dublin. A few yards away from that huge old chestnut tree you’ll be. And never lonely, what with the boys out gathering conkers and me, myself, I’ll come out there and run my mouth off as usual. Yes indeed. Now, I better get a grip of myself, because I promised myself I wasn’t going to cry. And you know when I make a promise to myself. But I’ll tell you, and here’s another promise now.

  You know what I’m going to do next week? Here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to buy a packet of sunflower seeds. That’s what I’m going to do. To hell with everything else. Down in McKenna’s. Going to go to McKenna’s, buy myself a little trowel and some fertilizer. That’s what I’m going to do. Wear my old clogs and my big hat. Walk out to the chestnut tree. Plant the seeds, away from the shade. Then sit back and watch them grow. Every day. And if anybody comes along with a snippety-snip, I’ll knock them arse-over-backwards into the middle of next week. And that’s a promise. From me to you. Water them every day. Now let me just take a step back here and have a look at you. Just going to step back. Water them every day. Ah-ha. Just going to stand here. Just a moment now. That’s what I’m going to do.

  Moira, let me tell you something. Let me tell you. You look smashing. You really do. You really, really do. Absolutely smashing. A lovely peaceful smile on you. My God, you look smashing. Really, really smashing.

  FROM MANY, ONE

  I used to love the way she painted quarters. There were many fabulous colors that she could concoct on them. Don’t ask me how she got them to stick, because she had big stubby fingers for a little woman, and she must have used a very small paintbrush. But I’d come home from work in the evenings around five or six and she’d be in the back greenhouse, which we had turned into a little studio, and she’d be bent over the table, just all caught up in making these coins look colorful. She never really let me come into the studio. That was her space. There were times that I’d watch her from the kitchen and she would just billow around in her big white apron, past all the flowerpots, like she was being blown around by that big fan. Dallas is hot anyway in the summer, but this was so hot you could fry eggs in there.

  I never saw the quarters until one Saturday afternoon when she was out canoeing the Brazos with Jeanie. I was trying to fix her old Karmen Ghia, looking for a screwdriver so I could take the clips off the distributor cap. They were rusted on. So I went into the greenhouse, where I reckoned there were some extra tools, and all these coins were out lying on the table. There were rows and rows of them, all painted.

  The eagle sometimes had these weird multi-colored wings. Sometimes there was a small picture—a television, a radio tower, a car—on the eagle’s chest. The olive branch was always yellow for some reason. The strangest ones were when you could see into George Washington’s cranium. I mean, here’s this guy that everyone goes nuts about, father of the country and all that, then all of a sudden he’s got a tiny picture of an apple in his brainbox, or weird animals on that big curl of hair at the back, or he’s wearing lipstick, or that little tail down the back of his wig looks like a map of Central America. Then there was always these little dots along the year. 1974 had yellow dots, 1989 had green ones, that sort of weird stuff. Then, in all the spaces, there were these psychedelic colours. She colored in the writing, and one of them said, in bright pink, IN O WE TRUST, where she didn’t color in the G or the D.

  I’ve never been much into modern art or anything. I mean, I like Remington and stuff, but not that other crap. But this wasn’t crap, see. This was kind of funny, really. I liked them.

  Laura wasn’t pleased when she found out that I’d been in there. “That’s my studio, for crissake.” She said the my real loud.

  “It’s my house,” I said.

  “It’s my work.”

  “You’re my wife.”

  “And you’re my goddamn husband.”

  We’d been married for three years, and it was around Valentine’s Day, but we’d both forgotten. Maybe it was all the work I was doing in the labs—I was a lab assistant to a professor who was building phylogenetic trees of sparrows, breaking down their DNA and grouping them—sometimes ten, twelve hours a day. She liked to draw all the time. She was from a good family, her father was an investment banker in Houston, and I guess she spent a lot of her teenage years doing paintings.

  Once I woke up and caught her sitting beside the bed, drawing my face on one of these quarters. She was hunched over the bed with these tiny paintbrushes and a palette, her hair tied back, a real serious look on her face. Boy, did I ever want to see that one. But I looked and looked in the greenhouse, and I never found it. I knew it was around somewhere, because she told me she never spent them. I searched for hours, under the table, in all the plant pots, down under the wrought-iron stand, on the ledges, but it never showed up. I expect maybe she painted me with big black eyes, my hair receding, big jowls and all that sort of thing, even though that’s not true.

  But I did find some other coins. They were self-portraits, her face painted on top of Washington’s, big long mane of red hair running down her back, that one eye all painted with mascara, her lips flaring out. She was pretty, all right. I could see why she did it. She’d always been pretty, right from the day I met her. So, I took one of those quarters and put it in my wallet. I kind of liked
to look at it when I was at work. Most of my job was extracting the blood samples.

  I came home from work one night and she wasn’t there, so I went on down to the bar. We live in a fairly good neighborhood and the nearest bar is down by the highway. It’s a dark bar, lots of people hanging out in the corners. You see some strange ones there. But the thing about it is, it’s amazing the things you don’t know about people. I was sitting there at the bar, talking with the bartender, Paul, and it turns out this guy does computers on the side. There’s nobody there hardly, so we talk for a long time, about computer sequencing, research, and things about sparrows and stuff, when all of a sudden he points down at my hand and laughs, then sort of grabs my cheek.

  “Doing a little on the side?” he says to me. I look down and realize that I’ve been fingering this quarter in my hands for the last half hour. It’s the portrait of Laura. That face is full of yellows and reds.