‘Here,’ I said, and poured out the wine. ‘This was your favourite.’
‘Right,’ he said awkwardly.
We watched him drink.
‘It’s nice.’ He raised the glass to the light. ‘Is it expensive?’
‘Horribly so,’ I said.
‘Can I afford it?’
‘Think so. You can check your accounts tomorrow, if you want.’
‘Am I rich?’
‘Not bad.’
‘Do I have enough to give away?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said, and shrugged. ‘Do you want to give it away?’
‘I don’t know what I want,’ he said, refilling his glass.
He listened to start with, to stories about home life or about my life in London, but would then suddenly take himself off to bed or out of a room, and that was the hardest; the sudden ennui at people he didn’t remember, didn’t know, had no curiosity in knowing. His interest was held only by stories of Grace or the films he watched in hospital, or Gerry in ICU or the porters, precious stories of his post-accident life, the five weeks of his life that reverberated with the contagion of memory. The life we were not part of.
‘What are you writing?’ he asked me one day after a hospital checkup.
‘A column for a newspaper. It’s what I do. My job.’
‘What’s it about?’
‘You, in part. I’ve called you Max. And Charlie. And Jenny Penny.’
‘Who’s she?’
‘A childhood friend. You knew her once. She’s in prison now. Murdered her husband.’
‘Nice friend,’ he said, laughing. Uncaring.
That threw me. He threw me.
‘Yeah, she is,’ I said quietly.
We got as close as we could. The smell of burning oil had given way to the stench of the unspeakable. He read the photocopied sheets of paper depicting the Missing, and somewhere I knew he still felt that way. We split up and I watched him work his way past fifty, maybe sixty, smiling faces before he suddenly stopped and touched one of the photos.
‘Elly,’ he said, and gestured for me to join him. ‘It’s me.’ And there, nestled by the grandmother, with frayed worn edges, was his smiling face; the black and white shimmer of a swimming pool behind him. He took the picture down and folded it; put it into his pocket.
‘Let’s go home,’ I said.
‘No. Let’s go on.’
I looked back at the empty space. I knew I should have felt happier.
We’d walked too far; he’d overestimated his strength and soon his faced paled beneath exhaustion. We took it slow across the bridge and I told him how he used to love the bridge, and that he’d probably taken it the night of his attack. We headed down to the promenade, to the bench we always sat on; the bench on which he was found by the young man from Illinois, the young man we would later know as Vince.
‘Did we come here a lot?’ he asked.
‘I s’pose so. When we needed to talk, if we had problems. It seemed to work down here, looking over at the city. We’d always talked about this city as kids. Actually, not kids – you know, adolescents – it was our escape; the place we were gonna go to. “New York, New York.” You know, everyone’s dream. We were going to live it all here. It’s where you ran away to, where you flourished.’
‘I ran away?’
‘Yeah. We both did, in a way. You did it physically, that’s all.’
‘What was I running from?’
I shrugged. ‘You?’
He laughed. ‘Didn’t get far, then?’
‘No, not really.’
He took out the folded sheet of paper and looked at himself.
‘Was I a nice person?’
It was strange to hear him refer to himself in the past.
‘Yes. You were funny and kind. Generous. Difficult. But so sweet.’
‘What problems did I have?’
‘Same as everyone else’s.’
‘Is that why I came here that night, do you think?’
‘Maybe.’
‘I asked Charlie if I had a boyfriend.’
‘And what did he say?’
‘He said I never had a boyfriend. I made it hard for people who loved me. Do you know why I did that?’
I shook my head. ‘Why does anyone do that?’
He didn’t answer.
‘I loved you,’ I said. ‘Still do.’
I looked at the picture still gripped in his hand. Miami. February, nearly eight months before. I’d worried that the holiday was so expensive, so extravagant. How silly, I thought.
‘You always looked out for me when we were kids,’ I said. ‘You protected me.’
He stood up, and knelt down by the bench.
‘This is where I was found, right?’
‘What are you doing?’
‘Looking for blood.’
‘I don’t think there was much.’
He crouched and leant on the slats.
‘Are you waiting for my mind to fully return?’
I took a moment to think how I should answer.
‘Yes.’
‘What if it doesn’t?’
I shrugged.
‘Why’s it so important for you?’
‘Why d’you think? You’re my brother.’
‘I can still be your brother.’
Not the same, I thought.
‘You’re the only person who really knows me,’ I said. ‘It’s how we were, how we grew up.’
‘That’s a bit fucked,’ he said. ‘No pressure, then?’
And before I could answer he said, ‘I think I’ve found some,’ and he leant closer in to the metal foot. ‘Do you want to see?’
‘No. Not really.’
He got up and came and sat next to me again.
‘I feel like sex a lot of the time,’ he said.
‘Well, I can’t help with that.’
He laughed.
‘Where did I go?’
‘I don’t know. Clubs? Saunas? What did Charlie say?’
‘Said he’d take me.’
‘You need protection these days.’
‘I lost my memory – I’m not fucking stupid.’
‘Right,’ I said.
I lay in bed, restless and overtired, and it was nearly four when I heard the front door. I could have gone out with them but I’d felt like time apart. Wanted to clear my head, rid myself of the bitter clutter piling behind my words, and I’d reached for music instead, music and wine – plenty of both. But now I lay in bed, drowsy and on edge, a vicious thirst replacing the drunkenness that had seen me to sleep.
I heard footsteps on the stairs, just one pair. I waited. There was a gentle tap on my door. I got up and opened it.
‘Hey, Ell.’
‘Charlie.’
He stumbled forwards, drunk. I guided him to the bed where he fell and rolled over. He looked miserable.
‘Where is he?’ I asked.
‘I dunno. Got picked up and I left ’em to it.’
‘You’re soaked.’
‘Couldn’t find a cab.’
No one would take you, more like.
He tried to tell me something about the evening, about a stripper, but the last of his words were barely audible as he buried them in the dent of my still-warm pillow. I took his clothes off and covered him with the duvet, and soon his breath was deep and unlaboured, even.
I pulled back the shutter and looked out. The street looked greasy and reflective; the rain had stopped and the first of the workers – the cleaners, the postal workers – were heading out. I got up and put on a sweater. It smelt of damp wool ever since I’d washed it. Joe told me I could never wear it out, only at home. That was the Joe before.
I crept downstairs to the kitchen and opened the back door to the smell of earth and rain, the smell I associated with Cornwall, and I suddenly longed to go back, longed to grieve in a landscape born of and eroded by grief, where hills fell into the sea in gestures of despair.
I heard the f
ront door just as the coffee came to the boil. He must have noticed the light because he came down the stairs and put his head round the corner and seemed surprisingly sober.
‘Hey,’ he said. ‘Up early or still up late?’
‘Not sure. Want a coffee?’
‘Coffee would be good,’ he said.
We wrapped up and sat outside on the old bistro chairs, the damp slats soon penetrating the skin, but not uncomfortably so. The sound of traffic was slowly climbing over the back wall, a creeping precursor to the hue of sunrise. He looked around at the garden, seemed soothed by it, could have been the light, though, for shadows hide shadows.
‘You were a shit gardener who created a beautiful garden,’ I said. ‘Ginger used to say that you could make a woman pregnant just by looking at her. She loved you.’
He nodded. Sighed deeply.
‘Everybody seemed to love me. What am I supposed to do with that?’
I felt the anger creep back into his voice.
‘How was your night?’ I asked.
‘Strange. I got picked up by some kid and went back to his place. And before I got naked, he told me what a cunt I was and that he wouldn’t fuck me if I was the last person on earth. Somewhere around that time his flatmate came out to witness the humiliation.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, trying to hide my laughter.
‘No, please go ahead. It’s doing wonders for me.’
‘Refill?’
‘Sure.’
I poured out some more coffee.
‘So who was he?’ I said.
‘Face from the past? Someone I treated bad? Someone who didn’t love me, I dunno. He thought I was taking the piss when I said I couldn’t remember him.’
He reached for his cup.
‘I went back to the bench,’ he said.
‘Why?’
‘I walked over the bridge because I wanted to feel what it meant to me, the way you said. Feel the person I’m supposed to be. But I couldn’t. Something is dislocated; I’m dislocated. I sat and I looked at the city and I longed for those last moments again. I thought it might prompt me to remember something, to frighten me, anything. But it was just a bench. I had no sense of peace, no sense of place. I thought it would help. I’m making everyone so miserable. I’m constantly reminded of someone I can’t live up to. No one wants the person I am today.’
‘Not true,’ I said, lacking all conviction.
‘Yes it is. I even wish I could go back into hospital; it was a home of some sorts. There’s nothing for me out here. I’m lost.’
Everything changed after that evening. He had no interest after that. I understood now why Charlie had told my parents to let me come instead of them. It was ultimately empty and it hurt. I had to be patient, that’s what the doctors said, but my patience would run out at times. He’d reach for a cheese sandwich and I’d say, ‘You don’t like cheese,’ and depending on his mood he’d look at me and quite often say, ‘Well, I do now.’
He mentioned that he wanted to live by himself, didn’t want us around, so burdened was he by our expectation, and I couldn’t tell my parents, waiting as they were for his planned arrival. He would stay out all day, scoff at photographs I tried to show him at night and tried cruelty as a means to alienate us. He said he didn’t even like us. The doctors said it was normal.
We hired a car and drove Upstate to Charlie’s. We arrived just as the sun was falling below the mountain line. It should have been beautiful; the shifting colours vying for prominence along the horizon, the fire reflected in our faces, but our faces were sad and none of us had said anything in the car. A sombre air muted our friendship; an eventual parting waiting to be heard.
Charlie showed Joe to his bedroom and we didn’t see him for the rest of the evening. We didn’t feel like eating; too often now meals were replaced by drink. We were unhappy, each daring the other to voice the unspeakable, the malcontent of our lot.
We went outside to the deck, stayed within the confines of light emanating from the large window that framed the towering Mohonk. We saw flickering eyes in the woodland beyond. Deer? A bear cub? Only last month Charlie had seen one as he was clearing the encroaching scrubland. He sat down and lit a cigarette.
‘I was sitting out here the night Bobby phoned me, after the phone call from the hospital. Seems a long time since then.’
He stubbed out his cigarette. He was a useless smoker, always had been. ‘I’m so tired, Ell.’
I leant down and held him, kissed the back of his neck; gripped hard.
‘Don’t you walk away from me now,’ I said.
I couldn’t look at him, as I went back inside. I knew I’d just condemned him.
Joe didn’t emerge for two days. Finally stepped out with the sun, as Ginger would have said, and he walked into the kitchen offering to make us toast. We’d already eaten but we said Yes, the gesture was fine and he looked like he was trying. He hadn’t shaved in days and a beard was taking hold, and I felt glad. He looked unfamiliar and that made it easier to hate him.
We ate on the deck and dressed against the chill, commented on the sun, all said it was warm. The talk was polite. He asked what I’d been doing. ‘Writing,’ I said.
‘Uh-huh,’ he said, and ate his toast.
I waited for him to add something critical, something provoking. I didn’t have to wait long.
‘I think you’re one of those people who write instead of live, aren’t you?’
‘Fuck off,’ I said, adding a smile – a composed smile – the way Nancy always did.
‘Touched a nerve.’
We stared at each other for a moment; uncomfortable and smiling.
‘I’m building shelves in the pilot’s hut,’ said Charlie. ‘I could do with the help.’
‘OK,’ said Joe.
And as soon as they’d finished their coffees, they headed to the small building on the edge of the runway, striding over clumps of coarse grass, carrying saws and tool boxes, joined in a shared task. Jealousy was what I felt.
I took the car into town and bought supplies for the evening meal, wanted to get steak but ended up with crab – didn’t know if I could be bothered with the fiddliness of it all. But he liked crab and so did I, and the fridge would be full so we could last the next few days until decisions were made. He wasn’t coming back to England, we were sure of that. Hadn’t told my parents. How could I? Nancy was with them now, and that was better. Nancy would be with them when I told them. Nancy, the holder of other people’s pain. I suddenly rammed on my brakes. Their eyes stared at me. I nearly hit them. Daydreaming. Had to stop. Just missed the woman and child. The woman was screaming at me, threatening me, the child crying. I pulled into a side street until the shaking had stopped. I was becoming a mess.
They worked not by the clock but until the light ran out, and he seemed revived by the physicalness of the work, the unconscious memory his body felt at working with wood, with the feel of wood. As they walked into the kitchen, with its smells of boiling crab and garlic mayonnaise, they were collaborators in a successful day and my exclusion felt ever more intense. They washed their hands and chatted about the new shelving, the possibility of laying a wood floor, and I listened as I dropped the crabs onto the newspaper, half hoping they would scuttle to the floor and interrupt their rigorous prattling. I placed two bottles of wine on the table and sat down exhausted.
Joe reached across to hold our hands.
‘Let us pray,’ he said, bowing his head.
I looked at Charlie. What the fuck is this now?
He shrugged.
‘For what we are about to receive,’ said Joe, and then he stopped; looked at us. We lowered our heads and repeated what he’d said.
‘I’m only joking,’ he said as he reached for a crab and broke off its large front claw. ‘Just kidding,’ he added, and Charlie laughed. I didn’t. Fucker, I thought.
I retreated, said nothing all night, simply drank – we all did; no one was counting – and I felt my rage
burn acid hot as I watched him grow in his present, seem happy in his present. I didn’t know why I felt like this. Normal, the doctor would have said, my feelings were normal. That’s what we paid him for, for the diagnosis of normal.