Bright Burning Things(63)

He sniffs the air, inhales, closes his eyes. He nods, like he’s satisfied with what he smells, then returns to the lounge humming a theme tune I’ve never heard before. I follow him, not sure how to play this. Herbie jumps off the couch and moves towards him, tail circling then curling under as Tommy studiously ignores him. Tommy settles himself back on the chair and surveys the room as if he’s never seen it before, looks at the animals in a way that makes me think of the boy in the cafe. He’s only five, Sonya, only five in a week’s time. Maybe we should have a birthday party, invite everyone we know. Who – exactly? Clare, Maureen? Probably not protocol. Father? David?

How about his little school friends? School is non-negotiable, Maureen was pretty clear about that. I wonder could I track down that fire-blowing guy I used to date – imagine Tommy’s excitement! I look at him pretending to be engrossed in the TV and resolve to give him the best party ever, with fireworks, sparklers and Catherine wheels. There’s something about those spinning circles of fire, some trace of a memory as a child, a giddiness, being held high on my father’s shoulders, a sensation of belonging to him, to the world. Fire did that for me too, burned the rest of the shit away. I guess a sort of purification. Try to remember more, but it slips away from me, leaving me wide open to the pain of this reunion that has us all acting so cold and wary of each other. Tommy’s rejection of Herbie cuts to the core of me. ‘A God-shaped hole.’ I hear the men’s voices from the meetings, and it lands.





39


I call the rehab centre’s public line, which is engaged, of course, leave the phone on redial – pick up, someone, anyone, I don’t care who, just someone who knows what this feels like. Eventually some bored receptionist answers, tells me they’re all in rosary.

‘This is an emergency,’ I say. ‘Page Jimmy Maloney, please.’

‘Call back between five thirty and six thirty tomorrow evening.’ The phone cuts out.

Perhaps we should eat? I think of one of the slogans bandied about in the meetings: ‘HALT – hungry angry lonely tired’. I literally snorted the first time I heard it; now, though, I wonder. A full belly can soothe. I make peanut-butter sandwiches but have no appetite for this kind of fuel. Tommy eats only the centre, leaving the crusts. A giddy, restless feeling rises in me, creatures stirring. ‘Walkies,’ I say, hoping to deflect. Tommy goes to the spot by the door, takes down the leads and hands them to me. The animals wail as if they’ve never seen the outside world.

I take the leads from Tommy. ‘Thanks, Mr T. Would you put your coat on?’

He does, and wraps his scarf around his neck without my asking.

Outside it’s spitting rain and vaguely windy, my least favourite combination: mild and noncommittal. Tommy attaches Marmie’s lead, looking delighted in spite of himself, while I have a hold of Herbie, who’s straining to be let loose. At the traffic lights Tommy stops, even though there’s no traffic coming in either direction. ‘Nothing coming, Tommy. Come on, race you’ – and I tear across the road, dragging Herbie with me. A hurtling lorry appears and obscures my view of Tommy. Herbie is intent on pulling me back into the road, his wild barking underscoring my panic. Tommy doesn’t move until the little green man appears, then he looks right and left before stepping out. Who has moulded this version of my boy? I suck down my curses and run to meet him in the middle of the road, offering him my hand, which he doesn’t take. ‘Good boy, Tommy,’ I say, overriding the other script. He looks like he hasn’t heard me. ‘Will we go to the playground?’ I say, an adult who puts her child’s needs before her own. I never brought him there before – allergic to the other families, the stares, the squeals of the kids, the forced fun.

‘They don’t allow aminals.’

Do I imagine it, or does Herbie look at him?

‘Ok. Duckies?’

He nods. I should have brought bread. No more ‘should’s – another nugget from the meetings. It’s the ‘should’s that set up shame, which leads to self-flagellation, which leads only one way. Sounded so reductive and simplistic in there, but out here I’m clinging to anything that might keep me on the straight and narrow. We sit on a bench, the rain soft but drenching, Tommy swinging his feet. How I’d like to whip those absurd trainers off and throw them in the pond.

Marmie is hiding under the bench, Herbie seemingly staring into space, the stench coming off him, his own special wet-dog waft.

‘Herbie? Come here, boy.’ I pat the space beside me, between Tommy and myself, inviting him to climb aboard and soak up some of the awkwardness. He doesn’t move.

‘It’s raining,’ Tommy says, pronouncing his ‘r’ as if he’s been taught perfect RP at RADA.

I check my phone for messages. Nothing.

‘Shall we move to the bandstand, Tommy? It’s not raining under there.’

He gets up, satisfied with this plan, and shuffles off on his own, leading the pack.

Will we ever be a pack again? In the bandstand, I dance an Irish jig: a haon, dó, trí, ceathair, cúig, sé, seacht, a haon, dó, trí, a haon, dó, trí. ‘Come on, Tommy,’ I whoop, grab his hands; a misstep, as he backs away from me.

He has moved to the far edges of the railings and is staring at the pond, his back tense. ‘Can we go back to the house now?’ he says. I notice that he doesn’t say ‘home’.