Malarky (13 page)

Jimmy came home to us on a Sunday at 7pm. Out of nowhere he appeared at the gate in an estate car, with two, short haired young fellas, the boot filled to the hilt with boxes and belongings. The three carried Jimmy's life back into my kitchen in twenty plus boxes as I stared on astonished, fussed and urged them to take tea and cake and dinner with us. They would hear nothing of it insisting they must return this night to Dublin. Jimmy entered his room and did not come out. He did not eat and gave us no explanation. I knocked and he allowed me leave him in a cup of tea, but nothing else.

When my husband came in from the fields, I indicated Jimmy's bedroom door.

—He's home, I said. But I don't think he fathomed the information. He won't eat, I said. Again I can't say for certain that Himself heard me. Thus, the next morning, a tense breakfast awaited the three of us.

Stundered was my husband as the bedroom door drew in, and his adult son emerged in pajamas to demand breakfast.

—Is there tea in the pot mam? Jimmy airily.

I've never seen anything like the face on my husband, an awful sight, it was pain, that deep shock on his face like the years had wound irrevocably back on us.

Jimmy provocative: boldly announced his intention to unpack all his belongings and settle back in. Would I make porridge? A cheeky smile glinted from him in my direction. I looked at my plate mortified. What was Jimmy up to? He never ate porridge! He was dancing all over his father. God save me from the pair of them!

My husband took off to the fields, did not request his son join him, and left with a few options, I chose, in my foolproof predictability, to go in and help Jimmy unpack. He'd never find anything again if I didn't. I attacked his clothes, folded his underpants, socks and vests, neatly stowing them, and commenting on the matter of some being worn out. I was shocked by the variety of knickers he'd acquired while away at college. Some looked pricey. Why would he need such pricy knicks? I imagined my husband's face as he realizes he's toiling away with the herd in the field, so his son could waste money on expensive, unnecessary underwear.

Alone with me, Jimmy was normal and cheery: I was delighted to have him home and snuck a few hugs from him. We exchanged a bit of gossip and speculated on the things he unpacked. He reflected on how and where he'd acquired some of the objects as he stowed them and whether he liked reading that particular book as he put it on the shelf. He assured me I'd love Thomas Hardy. By the time we were finished, his shelves were crowded. I wondered amid all this clutter how long he'd be staying? I didn't ask. We'll need to get you another shelf I offered instead as a hint. Honestly I hoped he was home
forever, but if I said such a thing aloud Himself would take a broom to me.

—Is he still here? his father asked her the next day.

—Well of course he's still here, she said.

The day after he asked.

—And when is he going back?

—You'd have to ask him that, she said knowing full well his pride would not allow it. It might indicate he took an interest in such matters and he was keen to maintain he does not.

By all appearances, Jimmy was neither going back, nor venturing outside the back door. He merely lounged around the house. They slipped into a comfortable routine where she planned the day around feeding him and making him comfortable. They talked about painting his room. They talked and talked and talked and it was wonderful like the years she missed of her son's life were being replayed again for her. She was getting them all back. She concluded forcing him out of college wasn't such a bad move after all.

Every few days Jimmy asked her for money and she obliged him out of the housekeeping money her husband assigned her. She'd tell him the prices have gone up and see would he give her more.

It was a week before they officially realize Jimmy has moved home.

—So he's staying is he? her husband asked.

—I've no idea, she said.

—So he is staying then.

Several Fridays on.

—Is that fella still here? Her husband, asking – a mixture of bemused fear on his face and indignation in his voice.

—Last time I looked he was still here, her speaking flatly.

—What about it? Her husband, sounding defeated. If he's not gone by Monday, I'll put him to work. Her husband, in ideas, without taking his coat off. Between the fields and the front room. Back out the door.

Good luck, she thought, good luck in putting him to work.

On the Monday morning, in Himself stormed, lifted Jimmy's quilt, ordered him out of bed and into a pair of Wellies and out the door to help with the farming.

—Fuck off! said Jimmy.

There was a lot of roaring, she put two tea towels either side of her ears to block the shouts of them.

The you can't lie
in your
bed while we're all out working, and the,
you fucking pulled
me out of college,
if you don't
want me in bed, you shouldn't a done it.

Jimmy said fuck a lot, she noticed. He musta learnt it in Dublin.

Then she heard her husband hurl that
he is
a waster, an idler.

It was enough, in she swept and ordered him to the kitchen.

—Would you not carry on so? You sound like a lunatic, a raging maniac. Sure he's doing no one any harm.

—He's fucking doing me harm is the harm he's doing. Was gone, her husband, his words muddling before him, after him and around him.

Jimmy shouted that his father is a fucking wanker. Loudly.

—Stop would ya, Our Woman said.

And he does stop.

Immediately he stops.

Exactly how she raised him.

She's proud.

She's pleased.

That's her boy.

Home again.