Everything in This Country Must

  When they sat at the edge of the pier she put her arm around the boy’s shoulder and said she was glad that her husband had a partner to take to the water with.

  He’s got a new happiness, said the woman.

  The boy looked at her from under a stray lock of hair.

  We never had any children, she said.

  The old man coughed and gave her a hard look but she just smiled back.

  You look tanned, she said to the boy, and he touched his face as if it didn’t belong to him.

  He was taken to the house and was surprised by their poverty. She wore a pale housedress and her slippers were made from worn carpet. A ratty sofa had stuffing peeping out. The tasseled runner on a piano was frayed. An empty birdcage hung from the ceiling and the slatted light from the torn window blinds showed the walls in need of paint.

  The woman heated a bowl of strange-tasting soup, and when she handed him the cup, he noticed a milky foulness to her breath. She gave him a round piece of bread with a hole in the middle, like a doughnut. She called it a baronka and she said that in some places it was called a bagel. She had baked it herself and it was fresh in his mouth and he wondered what sort of chess set he could make from it. He stretched his toes out to the electric bar heater which stood in front of the fireplace. It gave out an uneven heat. Two fire irons and a poker were arranged in front of the fireplace and he wondered why they didn’t light a real fire, and when he asked, the old man said there was a family of swifts that lived in the chimney and he didn’t want to burn them out. He explained that, when he and his wife first moved in, it had seemed to him that the flue was singing.

  When the soup was finished the woman asked him if he had enjoyed the meal. The bread was nice but it was the worst soup the boy had ever tasted in his life, yet still he told her it was lovely and she smiled at him and retreated to an old oak swivel chair. She twirled in it and hummed a little tune to herself. He noticed that her housedress was thin at the elbows, but she wore a couple of thick fancy bracelets on her wrist.

  There was a long silence between the three of them until the woman stood up and took the boy’s hand and examined the beginnings of the tattoo he had put on his forefinger. She said something quick and guttural in her language to her husband and then she touched the boy’s hair.

  You shouldn’t do that, she said.

  She looked at him strangely, and the old man nodded and tore at his bread with his teeth. The boy thought there must be a secret between them. She leaned back in her chair and her mind seemed to go elsewhere. The boy examined photos on the mantelpiece and watched the sweep of the pendulum in an ancient clock.

  A high hard feeling of emptiness hit his stomach and he put his teacup down on the table and asked to be excused. The old woman rose and escorted him to the door, took his hand, ran her finger over the unfinished tattoo, and leaned toward him.

  Your uncle I heard about, she said. I hope everything will be okay.

  Thanks.

  When you get older, she said, you will learn that pain is not much of a surprise. Do you understand?

  I do, aye.

  He turned away slightly and she kissed him high on the side of his head.

  You’re a good boy, she said.

  He felt frightened as he ran down the pathway past roses in bloom, and when he was far away from the house he rubbed at the place where she had kissed him. He thought it was as if he were both inside and outside their happiness, as if he could step back and forth between them, liking and hating them in equal amounts, a paddle hitting either side of the water.

  He spent the day walking through the town, and at the newsstand he stole a paper that was full of news articles but no mention of his uncle’s name. There was an editorial that said the hunger strike was the equivalent of a freezing man lighting fire to himself for warmth, and he tried to understand this but he couldn’t, so he torched the paper by the rear wall of the handball alley and scrunched his toes into the embers.

  * * *

  THE RIOTS BACK HOME were full-scale now. Some prison guards had been shot. Two joyriders had been gunned down in Twinbrook. A young girl, bringing home milk, had been hit in the head with a rubber bullet and she was in a coma. Somebody had slit the throats of a whole herd of cattle because they belonged to a Catholic farmer and the herd had been strung together to make the word NO in the field. He tried to imagine it, the dead cattle, end to end, their tails in the blood of another one’s throat.

  He began thinking of it all as some chess game and he was at the front of it, a small piece moving, heading toward the end of the board, which could have been a pier or a cliff face or any other part of the town.

  The back seam of his left shoe was split now, and when he moved it opened and closed rhythmically. In the abandoned car above the cove he thought about kicking in the last window but lay down instead on the back seat and put his head against the door frame, woke startled to see a stray horse staring in at him. The nostrils of the horse flared and then it shook its head, neighed, and galloped away. The boy was sure he had seen his uncle’s spirit and he ran back along the headland and burst breathlessly into the caravan. The door banged loudly. The radio was on. His mother looked up from where she was writing songs in her notebook and simply shook her head, no.

  * * *

  IN THE MORNING she was at the table, her legs drawn up on the chair. She had made pancakes for him. He noticed that her eyes were puffy and she looked older than ever before. She had not dyed her hair for two months and there were a couple of stray pieces of gray at her temple. She was staring down out the caravan window.

  It’ll be okay, Mammy, he said.

  She looked up at him and smiled.

  It’ll all work out, he said.

  Pardon me?

  Don’t you worry, Mammy.

  She said he was sounding more and more like his father these days and he even had the same cheeky tone of voice.

  Oh, he used to do the silliest things, she said. He once stood on his head and drank a full bottle of Coke. And another time he made a lopsided table that he liked to read at, can you imagine that? All the legs were different lengths, and depending where you put the pressure it would move up and down like a boat on the sea.

  Why?

  For devilment, she said. He was a real joker. He used to play all sorts of tricks. He put glue on a wooden spoon one day and I couldn’t shake it off my hand; he found it hilarious.

  I’m not a joker though.

  Aye, but you’re a funny wee lad.

  You said wee!

  I did, aye.

  They sat at the table, both of them cutting up the pancakes into smaller and smaller pieces.

  Oh, your poor grandmother, she said suddenly, your poor, poor grandmother.

  The boy had no idea what he should say. To make her happy he poured some syrup on the pancakes and ate them with as much relish as he possibly could. The syrup tasted exceedingly sweet and he washed it down with quick mouthfuls of tea. For a moment he felt he might vomit.

  His mother drew her legs up into her chest so her chin rested on her kneecap.

  What’ll we do today? she asked.

  We could hitch a lift and go shopping in Galway, he said.

  We could.

  Or maybe we could go for a swim.

  That’s a great idea, she said. That’s the best idea you ever had in your life.

  She dragged him up from the chair by his hand, stuffed their swimsuits and a couple of towels in a white plastic bag. She pushed open the door of the caravan and instead of going toward the town she went east along the headland, past the abandoned Vauxhall, bounding over a series of boulders. She held his hand and laughed and when they got near the shoreline she hunkered down behind a giant rock and switched into her black swimsuit. Her skin was pale as candle wax against it.

  Last in’s a rotten egg, she shouted as she stepped gingerly over the rocks into the water.

  The waves came up to her and broke at the waist and it seemed to h
im like the opening of hands. She waded out until the water was above her breasts and she dipped beneath the surface. She came up twenty yards away and waved at him.

  He hid behind a different rock and pulled on his trunks. She was already churning a line out on the water when he followed her into the widening vee of her wake. He was a quicker swimmer than she and soon he caught up and swam past her. She treaded water and splashed him. He began splashing back, and soon they were both laughing.

  He ducked underwater and swam in the salty darkness away from her. He looked on the water for the kayak but it was nowhere in sight.

  They swam for fifteen minutes and then they walked back up the hillside together, chatting about a song she was writing about seagulls and the way they dipped for food. She hummed a little of it and asked him what he thought of the melody and he said it was wonderful. She explained she was going to dedicate the song to his uncle and the boy put his arm around his mother’s shoulders. He felt his fingers grip the top of her shoulder. She bent her head sideways and leaned on him.

  You’re getting fierce big, she said.

  He helped her up the hillside and as they walked he thought to himself that his childhood had all of a sudden fallen away, that he had dropped it like a skin in the sea.

  * * *

  HE CHALLENGED HER to a game, the rules being that they had to eat each piece when it was taken. In seven moves he deliberately lost his queen. He went to the fridge and took out the butter and a pot of strawberry jam. He pasted some onto the chess piece for her and this time, when she said it was delicious, he didn’t get angry, and they sat there until all the pieces were eaten, except for the kings and her pawn.

  Stalemate, he said.

  He didn’t flinch when she patted his hand.

  It’ll be today or tomorrow, she said.

  I know.

  That’s the worst thing, isn’t it? she said. Just knowing. How inevitable it is.

  You never know, Mammy.

  It’s hard to believe isn’t it?

  It is, aye.

  You know what? I wouldn’t mind being on my own for a minute, pet.

  Aye, surely.

  He made another chess set and went down to the town and knocked on the old man’s door. He had forgotten to ask the Lithuanian if he had ever played chess but he felt sure he would. After rapping six times on the door he kicked it once with his foot, but there was still nobody home. He thought about trying to break in to see if there were any cigarettes left lying around, but there were fishermen out on the pier and they were watching him.

  He shoved his hands into his pockets and carried the chess pieces with him through town bouncing around in a small plastic bag. An idea occurred to him and he began to leave individual pieces in various places—a castle that he dropped in the postbox, a bishop that he put in the bank vault, a series of four pawns that he ranged along the wall of the handball alley, a queen he left on the weighing scales outside the chemist’s, and two knights, which he left on the top of the pierside bollards. He scanned the water for the kayak but it was nowhere to be seen. Feeling hungry, he ate the remaining pieces.

  When the kayak broke the harbor waters he pretended not to see it, just sat with his legs dangling over the pier.

  The old man came up behind him and said: Hey there.

  The boy didn’t reply.

  Rasa felt good today and she hasn’t been out in the boat for so long, we thought it would be good for her to get out in the sun.

  Aye.

  I’m sorry we didn’t wait for you.

  No problem.

  I hope you’re not angry.

  No.

  Would you like some soup?

  No.

  It’s terrible, isn’t it? The old man laughed. She’s the world’s worst cook. You know, I married her before I knew her cooking.

  The boy turned and tried a smile.

  We’ll see you tomorrow?

  Aye.

  Your uncle?

  He’s grand.

  The Lithuanian laid a hand on his shoulder. You’re a strong boy.

  Thanks.

  Tomorrow?

  Aye, tomorrow.

  He watched the old man and his wife carry the boat up to the house and he heard their muffled voices as they bounced off the well of the boat.

  He had rescued a few cigarette butts along the pier and he took them from his pocket. There was one with lipstick, which he smoked with relish. He wondered if his uncle was still smoking even at this stage of the strike, the sixty-first day, and then the boy closed his eyes to a specific vision—his uncle under a fluorescent light, lying there supine, eyes wide and staring, prison nurses thin-lipped above him, drip bags waiting as an argument against the last rites, no feeling in his legs or arms or fingers or toes, bones jutting out horribly against his chest, his heart beating dull against his skin, his body feeding on the protein of his brain now.

  The boy wiped at his tears and shouted out at the sea, and in a long string, cursed every curse he knew. Behind him he could hear the church bells ringing and he knew his mother would be worried, but he sat on the pier and didn’t move.

  * * *

  SHE CAME JUST BEFORE SUNSET and he watched her in the phone box. She nodded at whatever news was coming over the line. He resented the tight magenta blouse that she wore. He felt certain she would be angry at him for staying out all day, but when she put down the phone she walked across and sat down beside him and said there was no change.

  Today or tomorrow, she said.

  She used the same tone of voice that she used for her prayers. The boy remembered the prayer she incanted frequently, finishing with the words: After this our exile.

  They watched the sun disappear on the horizon. It was a magnificent red and it seemed to spill itself out generously into the sky. The seagulls let out thin and labored squalls as they defiled low over the pier. The water lapped gray against the stonework. The boy thought there was a loneliness to everything in the world. His mother turned and held his hand briefly and told him to make sure he was home before night fell.

  * * *

  THE DARKNESS WAS COMPLETE and already a couple of stars had risen in the east.

  He stopped for a long time by the pierside phone. The ring came high and hard. The receiver vibrated on its hook. He opened the door of the booth and the wind moved the coiled wire. His hand hovered in midair and then he decided against answering it. It sounded as if the phone itself were mourning. Soon his mother would come down from the caravan and hear it and she would answer and then he would know for definite. He found himself shaking and he lowered his chin to his chest when the ringing stopped.

  He stole around the side of the house and peeped into the window and saw the Lithuanian couple sleeping, back to back.

  The woman’s hair was unloosed and a few strands had fallen across her husband’s face. The old man seemed gigantic beside her.

  The boy could still feel her kiss from days ago on his head like a stigmata. His chin felt cold against the pane of glass. He dipped away from the window and went around the side of the house.

  The boat was easy to handle without the paddles and he lifted it by the lip of the well with just one arm and negotiated the short driveway, snagging it once on a rosebush.

  It felt light with his new strength.

  He dragged the kayak behind him onto the beach and stood a long time looking out to sea, the phosphorescent waves rolling onto the sand like brothers. There were no boats out on the water and the sea was a deep black. His blood was racing. Dizzy, he turned and walked up the beach to the life preserver pole, propped the kayak up against it. He steadied the bow in the sand and then used the rope to tie the boat to the pole. His fingers trembled but still he made a tight knot. The kayak stood against the pole like a misshapen man and there was a dapple of birdshit where the mouth should be. He sat down and stared at it for a while, tried to calm his hands.

  The phone rang again in the distance. He rose and walked the beach
, looking over his shoulder at the kayak, until he found some large rocks at the very front of the pier.

  He carted the rocks down and made a large pile at his feet. He lifted the first one high and felt the shudder in his body as he hurled it toward the kayak. He was surprised at the arc of the rock, confused that it had come from his fingers. It hit the boat with a loud thud, bounced back, and threw up a flume of sand where it landed. He bit his lip and hurled another.

  A rim of moon hung in the sky. The wind chilled his arms. The tide moved insistently.

  He picked up a larger rock and flung it, and again it just bounced away from the kayak and he cursed the boat’s resilience. He went close to it and bashed a rock repeatedly at one point until a tiny hairline crack developed. Combing the beach again he found even larger rocks. His whole body was trembling now. He was on a street. He was at a funeral. He had a bottle of fire in his hands. He was in a prison cell. He pushed a plate away from his bedside.

  It was only with the twelfth rock and another long ringing of the phone that he saw at last the spidery splint of fiberglass.

  A jolt of adrenaline hit his stomach as he neared the boat. He began to hit it with his fists until blood appeared on his knuckles, and then he rested his head against the coolness of the kayak and he cried.

  When his sobs subsided the boy lifted his head from the boat, looked back over his shoulder, saw the light from the house of the Lithuanians, the front door open, the couple standing together, hands clasped, the old man’s eyes squinting, the woman’s large and tender.

  Also by Colum McCann

  This Side of Brightness

  Fishing the Sloe-Black River

  Songdogs

  ACCLAIM FOR Everything in This Country Must

  “[A] stunning new book … Told in McCann’s lush prose, these stories are both mesmerizing and painful.”

  —Minneapolis Star-Tribune

  “Captures that peculiar nexus of hormones, deprivation, and political imperative on a Northern Irish child coming of age.”