— What’re you havin’, May? he asked.
Mahalia had come home two days before, a vegetarian.
— Leave her alone, said Aoife.
— I was only askin’, said Jimmy. — I’m curious.
— It’s okay, said Mahalia. — Chicken with lemon sauce but I’m taking the bits of chicken out.
— I’ll have them.
— Me! Brian shouted — he often had to. — She said me. Didn’t you?
— Yeah, said Mahalia.
Another problem. Brian was a bit heavy. They had a fat kid on their hands. It kept Aoife awake. But Jimmy knew she wouldn’t object tonight. Fill them all with sugar and monosodium glutamate; sedate the fuckers. That was the plan.
— I don’t know what to eat yet, said Mahalia. — So before you tell me there’s, like, bits of chicken in the sauce, I know, like.
— I wasn’t goin’ to say anythin’, said Jimmy. — I respect your decision.
— Okay.
— And so do the chickens.
— Has anyone noticed, said Mahalia, — that we’ve one of the funniest dads in, like, the whole country?
— Yep.
— Yep.
Brian looked at Jimmy and smiled, just to let him know that he wasn’t being treacherous, before he went —
— Yep.
— Poor Jimmy, said Aoife.
— Poor me.
— Can we’ve ice cream?
— There’s animal fats in ice cream, said Marvin.
— Fuck off.
— Mahalia!
— Sorry.
— Hang on, said Jimmy. — Hang on.
He waited.
— Forks down. Brian. Good lad.
He waited a bit longer. He smiled at Aoife, at young Jimmy and Marvin.
— I’ve somethin’ to tell yis.
— What?
— I’m gettin’ there.
Mahalia had bawled. She’d thrown herself at him before he’d got to cancer. But it had worked out fine. It was easier to work his way backwards, to explain why he wouldn’t be dying. She’d believed him — he thought she had. They’d have to see — because he’d been crying too as he spoke, as he’d stroked her head the way he’d always done, as she’d cried through his jumper and shirt. Aoife had cried. Young Jimmy had cried. Marvin had allowed himself to cry — he’d stood up first and walked halfway to the hall.
Brian hadn’t.
He sat watching everything. He didn’t blink. He held his fork, waiting for the okay to get on with his dinner.
— Alright, Smoke?
— Yeah.
— Good man.
Maybe he’d just believed Jimmy. He was still young enough; the older boys had been the same. They’d believed everything he’d told them. The word — cancer — meant nothing to him. Fried rice did, though.
— It’s a phase, he said later, in the bed. — He’ll be grand.
He didn’t believe it. And he didn’t believe it when Aoife seemed to be agreeing with him.
— Yeah.
— You agree.
— Yeah.
— You don’t.
— No, I do.
— Well, I fuckin’ don’t.
— Oh, fuck off, Jimmy. I’m just trying to put it off.
— Put what off?
— Everything. I’m tired.
— So am I.
— I know.
— Strange, though.
— Brian?
— No, said Jimmy. — Yeah, but no. I mean, the day.
— What about it?
— It was nice, said Jimmy. — I enjoyed it.
— Me too.
— Spent the whole day tellin’ people I love that I’ve cancer, and I enjoyed myself.
Her head was on his chest again.
— You still tired? he asked.
— Oh God.
He couldn’t get out of the car. He couldn’t move.
It wasn’t sudden — the feeling. It had been there since he’d woken up.
It was getting worse.
It wasn’t depression. Although he didn’t know.
It wasn’t black.
It didn’t have a colour — or weight.
He’d never understood static electricity, how or why it happened, why one door handle was a shock and another, the same design, wasn’t; why Mahalia’s hair had stood up straight whenever he’d pulled off that green jumper she’d had when she was a little thing. He didn’t think he’d ever been interested in why it happened. It just did.
This was the same as static. It was how he’d have started to describe it.
The car park was small. There was space for eight cars. Noeleen’s car wasn’t there yet.
He hadn’t told her. He would, today.
Tomorrow.
He was in no fit state to tell her today.
He’d touch something, the wrong thing, and he’d die. That was how he’d start, if he was trying to explain it. But, actually, he didn’t have to touch anything. That was what paralysed him. Earlier, in bed, he woke up thinking he’d died. He was waking into his last thought. If he woke up properly, he’d be gone; he’d never even have existed.
It would go away. He just had to wait.
Terror. That was it.
He’d be grand. The dread would be gone — it was going; he knew it was nothing. He’d just wait another minute.
He’d be angry then. He had the routine. He’d get rid of that too. He’d slam a door, fire off an email — reply to some fuckin’ eejit and have to apologise later.
Fuck it.
Fuck it.
He had the radio on. He could hear the news; he could separate the words. Gaddafi was dead — that was the biggie. He’d remember that. Sitting rigid in his car, in the car park behind work, and hearing that Gaddafi had been killed — how wasn’t clear; a grenade, a bullet or a bayonet — maybe all three. Where the fuck would you buy a bayonet these days?
He’d go in in a minute. Face the day. Try to sell a few records. He might even tell Noeleen. Get it over with.
He’d see.
Probably not.
He’d watch the news later, at home. He’d make Brian watch with him, and Mahalia. A big day. The death of a dictator. Maybe not, though — Brian would want another Chinese, to celebrate.
Poor oul’ Muammar. Jimmy wouldn’t be selling him any Irish punk or post-punk hits of the ’70s and ’80s. A lost opportunity. Gaddafi could have died plugged into his iPod, listening to the Halfbreds or the Irregulars.
There was a thought.
Jimmy would go in now and stick it up on the homepage: Gaddafi died listening to Irish punk. Get a few laughs, shift a few units.
In a minute.
The parcel was on the table in the kitchen.
Waiting for him.
It was propped there, against the ketchup. Facing the door, so he’d see it. Brown cardboard, from Amazon.
— Nice one.
Aoife was at the counter, chopping something. He picked up the package.
— What is it?
— A puppy, said Aoife.
He pulled back the flap.
— Gift wrapped. For fuck sake.
He read the message. I love you. XXX
— Loveyoutoo, he muttered.
She smiled. He was imitating the boys. And he was Jimmy again, not the jittery lump she’d seen leaving the house earlier. He pulled off the ribbon and tore at the blue wrapping paper.
He looked at the yellow cover, and laughed.
— Brilliant. Chemotherapy & Radiation for Dummies. Fuckin’ brilliant.
— You like it?
— Love it.
He laughed again.
— Fuckin’ great.
He was delighted.
And so was she.