Malarky (19 page)

She checked which way her husband went at the front window. Wrong way for Tubbercurry that much is certain. Right way for Ballina.

Plants a kiss in his groin between his hip and his pubic hair. Delicately. Lip meets skin then she realizes where her lips are – and what's she doing here? Presses it decisively and removes it slowly, from that few-fingered-sized-space of hair-free flesh.

Purposeful she is. They'd been thumbing through a book on some mythical valley and she'd begun to tire of it, and that image of Red and her bare behind propelled her into sudden action. The first stage a blur, somehow she ventured belt beneath, while he continued reading undeterred. Raised the book obligingly, while she parted his trousers to discover practical cotton underwear, disappointingly so identical to her husband's she could easily mix them up in the wash. He obliged, lowered trousers.

Orange light.

On and found flesh.

She won't look up. Places her two hands into his thighs and parts his legs, same way she'd divide bread dough. There
isn't room for her two hands, so one above, one below, his testicles squashed saggy, his penis against her palm, she's got him now, visibly harder, a good sign surely. Encouraged, she places her lips on the top of it, sneaks some dry kisses along, waiting for a protest of some description, none, 'til arriving near the tip, she pauses allows her mouth to fill with saliva before taking the tip in her mouth (as she had read in the book on Jimmy's shelf). Above he whispers something in his language which she hopes is it's my lucky day rather than whose old mouth am I in? She isn't entirely sure what to do now it's inside her mouth, but as planned, copies exactly what she saw the young fella do with Jimmy. The angle is very awkward, but she won't give it up, she'll do battle. Direction confuses her and there's a bit of crashing. Up with her mouth, and down with her hand. Hand towards mouth and back. Repeatedly. It's a bit tight and her jaw nags. She's not sure how well its going, but his hand has extended under to establish her breast. It strikes her she has no idea what her husband of so many years would taste like.

She remembered how the young fella speeded up on Jimmy, and how he worked with his entangled hands. She must shift her position, which she hasn't planned for and then there's the lack of access to do what the young fella did to the behind. She's minus the squeezing. On her knees, she's managing the front end ok, still not the most comfortable, she tries to shove her hands around the back of him, but he can't quite fathom what she's up to and sits firm. Out of space in this arrangement it's all getting too sweaty. Her mouth is really having a divil of a time figuring out the angle and what is required. It tastes alright considering, there's a nice smell of it, but it's ever so uncomfortable on her jaw and his knees are crunching into her ribs painfully. Fifteen more, she'll endure. She lifts her head to mutter something to this effect, when he blows wet, spreads all over her hand and
further beyond onto the sleeve of her cardigan. Just like that. The smell takes over the immediate air like cleaning fluid. So fast. She's pleased. That's all there was to it. Dandy. That it ended will close any need for conversation as to why it started. She can tell you nothing about his body. Her concentration overloaded on execution. All of it took place under a psychological tarpaulin. As normal as lifting a jug or stoking the fire.

All cleaned and rearranged and back sat beside him without a word of explanation on either side, his hand took up her bait, drifted over to her back and moved about in subtle, small motions depressed her flesh gently like he was trying to figure out – post astonishment – what exactly she was made of. Found its way to the spare roll or two around her lower back and delighted in it, lifting it lightly and squashing it playfully. And they stayed that way for the shortest while, neither saying anything, but he's happyish. She can tell this without having to look closely at him. He took one of her hands in his two and kissed it. Such a gentlemanly gesture, in comparison to her who has been furrowing around in this young stranger's groin like a cleaning woman who'd lost her brush in a bucket of water. Ridiculous it might be, but this is what Himself wanted, and she shall want it too, she scolded herself to stem her greater inclination which was to wail in shame and beat her chest for atonement. It wasn't bad, she thought. I could get used to it.

Somehow she is not satisfied.

The arrangement of him sitting was all wrong. He should have been on his feet or back. The two positions she witnessed her son. All the details of what she imagined – never mind the
outcome – were not satisfying. It must be in the execution that the triumph was felt. The triumph that sent her husband returning to Red The Twit. Somehow she wants what it is she has seen, exactly how she's seen it. A need to be under two fingernails at the same time.

—So . . .

she hears Halim say unhesitatingly,

—tell me all about the birth of your children?

But she chooses to let it pass.

In the car back, neither of them say as much as she hopes they will, but a few times he thanks her for the visit and says I had a good time, like he wasn't supposed to. She responds with random questions on whether he wears glasses and where does he buy his food?

—You'll come again, won't you, she asks him. His exams are looming. Does she have an email? No, no she doesn't. You could write me a letter, I am always behind that back door, she smiles.

The rain at the bus station makes it hard to make out the buses but she chitters out that if he misses the bus she'll be happy to drive him and sure, she could drive him anyway, but no he's keen not to inconvenience her.

When she pulls up the car, he turns and places his two arms around her and she notices as he pulls backwards, that he fondles her breast lightly through her jacket, a polite departing afterthought that calms her. He bends down to his knees, puts his two hands on the seat and thanks her, before pulling his bag on his back and walking away. He does not look back at her. And this is good.

Our Woman finally understood why Jimmy took up with
men this way. There was something nice about it, she decided. Even when it was raining.

She scrutinized her husband. Again.

Back from Tubbercurry with little to report: The trailer, unsurprisingly, no good, fellas should not advertise things dishonestly. Their described state reflected nothing of the truth he rumbled. How those words rag at her? What is to become of us she thinks wondering if the evidence of what she had done this afternoon might be written all over her?

She was surprised how easy it is to move into another part of her day after the explicit activities of the afternoon. She's between regret and resignation, a nowhere in particular spot.

She looked at her husband and had the strongest feeling he never put a finger on Red the Twit, despite what Red said, for how could he lay with such a good feeling at him, as the one at her, and betray nothing of it. He'd looked so thoroughly miserable all these months and if he was having this kind of fun, surely his demeanor would have improved.

To tempt him, she boldly asked.

—Two men, homosexuals, what is they get up together? How would they manage it?

He eyed her astonished.

—What else, he said. Sodomy. Sodomy is what they do. He was shook. She could tell. She shook him alright.

—Is that it? she said. Nothing else?

Light off.