When All Is Said(54)

‘I’m not doing too bad.’

‘Did that business with the piece of land over in Lissman work out OK?’

‘What was that?’

‘You remember the last time, your man was trying to push down the price.’

‘Oh, that. I sorted him.’

‘All well with the Bradys?’

‘Not a bother.’

‘I see Tommy Brady is off out in Australia?’

‘Is that right?’

‘Saw it on Facebook. There’s a load of lads from around there now. A whole gang of them. Times have changed; it was the States in my day, now it’s Down Under.’

‘Aye, that’s the way of it.’

I’d watch your fingertips bounce off each other.

‘Rosaleen and the children well?’ I’d manage.

‘Great. Adam’s gotten into the rugby big time. It’s getting popular in the States now. Plays every Wednesday and Saturday. Here, I have some pictures.’

You tap at your phone, then come hunker beside me and slide your finger so I can see him in action, mid-flight, the picture of determination. There’s other photos too like that one of Caitríona and Rosaleen, sitting on your back porch eating ice creams. Caitríona’s eyes closed and tongue extended, laughing trying to reach the ice cream on her nose.

‘That was Labor Day,’ you say.

I nod and smile. I’d like to sit over them a bit longer but I don’t like to take the phone. And when you’ve finished, you sit back down and look around again. And pull out a few more questions. When you start asking me about Lavin then I know we’ve scraped the bottom of the barrel.

‘Sure I might take a walk down the fields,’ you say, rising, no matter what time of night. When Gearstick was still around and it was bright, I’d watch you from the kitchen window. Gearstick racing along beside you, so excited at the speed and distance. You throwing a stick and him bounding off after it, happy to have time with a younger model. Poor old Gearstick, when I was out and about myself with him towards the end there, it was more him waiting for me.

For the time you’d be around we’d have the dinners out. There’d always be a row, of course, over who pays for the dinner.

‘Dad, you paid the last time.’

‘I did in my eye.’

‘You did, do you not remember? Sure it was only yesterday and it was here for Christ’s sake. Here, I’ll ask the girl.’

‘You do that now and I’ll never go for another bite to eat with you.’

‘I’d just like to pay the once.’

‘Can’t you pay tomorrow?’

‘Until tomorrow comes and you’ll swear blind it’s your turn.’

‘Can a father not buy his son a dinner?’

At teatime, though, we’d have the soup at home. I remember you bought some homemade stuff from SuperValu once. I ate it alright, but there’s nothing like the packet.

You do a round of the house. Checking the rooms for damp and leaks and locks. I dread that. God love you but you never had the DIY gift. You spend the days mending things. I can never watch. There’s more cursing and fingers injured than in a county final. I have to get out and tend to whatever I can, even if it’s only my sanity, when I see you coming with my toolbox.

‘Where are you going with that yoke?’ I said, the first day I saw you with it, traipsing through the back door.

‘There’s a shelf in the bathroom that’s a bit loose.’

‘It’s been that way all its life.’

‘But we don’t want it falling on you.’

‘Do we not, now?’

‘While I’m here I may as well be useful.’

‘Is that what you call it?’ I said to myself, as you disappeared through the kitchen doorway.

You like your lists, alright. You show me the list of all you’ve completed before you leave – so ‘my mind is at ease knowing they’re sorted,’ you say. And then there are the lists of jobs that I could ‘get one of the lads in to tackle’, like I haven’t been tackling them my whole life myself. But I bite my tongue. Later, when you’re back home, the phone calls come: have I got them done? How long did it take? Did it cost much? Sometimes things are done and sometimes I lie and let the broken whatever alone, until right before your next visit home. If I’m pressed for time then Francie is hauled in. It’s always amazing though, how, despite all of that mending, there’s another list assembled as soon as you walk through the door.

Do you think things have gotten better between us as the years have gone on? I can’t tell any more.

You never once mention your job, when you’re home. You just work away on your computer, ‘remote access’ you say. Do you remember when you got the Internet hooked up to the house?

‘What’s this?’ I kept asking.

‘Wait, Dad, wait,’ you said, stepping away from the flashing light on that box in the hall.

Amazing stuff. The world right there with one tap of a button. I’m not as fast as you now, banging away on the keys all speedy, but I get there. I usually boil up the kettle for a cuppa and set myself up, glasses and all before I finally get online. But you’re all biz. Silent, save for the tapping. Hunched over, that serious clever head on you. I could watch you for hours from the armchair in the kitchen and you at the table, staring into the laptop like it has some kind of spell on you. I swear I can see the steam rising from your head, all those brain cells you must be burning up.