Malarky (21 page)

Now she understood the question.

His trousers remain open and the back of her cardigan still rumpled where he lifted it. Slightly startled she lifted her head, pressed her hair behind her ears and both her hands return and resume sharing the book. She plunked half of it upon his left knee and the discussion about the book recommenced. His hand stayed at the back of her waist, as though it might respond again with sufficient invitation, she does not press her weight against it. But she did steal a glance at him, to see what, if anything had he made of what just took place, and he smiled at her, a knowing nuzzle of a smile that confirmed that whatever had taken place was damned alright by him. It was important
in these situations not to say too much, she thought. There was a relaxation at her, she hadn't known in a very, very long time.

—You have sexed with many men. He announced.

She shakes her head, her eyes say it all. Not at all.

—You have sexed with a man who has made you pregnant three times.

—Uh ha. Yes she has three children so if you wanted to see it that way you could.

—How did she know?

—How did she know what?

—That her husband would make her pregnant where another did not.

He infers she has had a long line of men. Glory be to God. But there is a man beside her on this couch with his trousers open, so how can she avoid this question?

—What precisely is it you want to know?

—I want you to sex with me and tell me if you can tell any difference?

—Grand, she says, but right now she has to get the dinner on and must put the potatoes on to boil.

She wants to consume, rather than be consumed. She wants to consume exactly as her husband has. She calculates there are two or three more things she must understand until she can release him from their arrangements. And in seeking to understand them she had overlooked he may have his own demands.

A drop to discontentment. Halim goes awful quiet on Our Woman.

Fatigue at the prospect it might never be repeated, that she'll not have her answer drills her into the ground, she caves
in at the kitchen table spreads out her arms and folds her face on them and allows herself to dissolve. The bump of her skin against the dining wood, water from her eyes puddling where it should have no permission, she gives everything up to that wood. What if he will not come back?

All reason and common sense are being squeezed from her forcefully like remnants of toothpaste out of the tube. I have ventured into wasteland I'd rather not tread. I am broken, she thinks.

Halim she hears nothing from. All dwindles to silence. An inescapable silence for she's certain he'll send a signal. If nothing else he's a man full of questions, and there's few in this neck of the woods who'd answer them. She tries to imagine Bina responding to his inquiries about childbirth Bina'd crack him about the kisser. These days Bina is besieged with conspiring. She's a morning, noon and night conspirer and she concludes every story with the words you see there might be something going on we don't know about. There might be something more going on, Our Woman thinks.

In her mind endless scenarios play out from Halim having died under the wheels of a bus, despite the erratic nature of local buses (2 per day), to him raw with despair at what he allowed her to do. What if he's devout? What if he's some kind of devout she cannot spell? A kind of devout where the punishments are high. Perhaps he's gone to his religious person overcome with gloom, wailing she seemed like an ordinary housewife. I had no idea she was going to attack me and to be honest I felt sorry for her.

—What's wrong?

—Can she help him?

—Of course she can.

A work locker. A lost key. Shirts in locker. Only one shirt. College this evening. He needs his single shirt washed and has no way to do it between work and school and he fears they are trying to sack him at work and can give them no excuse to aid them. They've talked to him about personal hygiene. They've complained about the state of his uniform. They won't let him cut the padlock off. No because they want to sack him.

—I'll come and collect it.

—Can you bring me a tee shirt to wear?

She can. She'll see him in thirty minutes. What time does he start work in the morning? Nine, he pants.

He's waiting, agitated on the corner they agreed on, sits into the car, removing his jacket and unbuttoning his shirt. She pulls a shirt of her husband's from her string bag she uses to transport vegetables, brushing a piece of cabbage from the cotton.

He repeatedly thanks her as he does the transfer. He's awful worked up. Not at all, she says. Not at all, sure it's nothing. But he's stranded, how is he going to get it back? She'll bring it of course. The same spot. I'll bring it early she says because Himself will want the car. He leans over on departure and pecks her cheek. It's a boyish quick peck.

Once washed the shirt must rotate. It hangs above the range until her husband comes in from the fields. She removes it to the airing cupboard when she hears his feet on the path. After the dinner is taken and he's gone within to the fire, she whips it back above the range and calculates she can risk it hanging there, deciding Himself will not notice. Beautifully oblivious after Prime Time, he exits again saying he's to go back the road
amid grumbling about the state of the country and how Fianna Fáil will drive them all into the ditch.

—Headfirst into the bloody ditch is where we are headed, he laments.

Is he taking the car?

He thinks he might.

He might call in on a neighbour.

Once the car is gone the shirt is safe. The shirt hangs and dries until Joanie calls in and her eyes immediately light on it. That's a lovely shirt, she says. Eyeing it. Joanie's seen it and she'll tell the girls and they'll all be lookin' for it when they visit.

He comes again, Halim does.

Asks strange questions.

Again, he only wants to know about childbirth. She gives him details of her children: names and ages, hoping he'll respond with a clue to his own age. But no, nothing, so then she talks about their different personalities, searching his face lightly to see is this the information he is after, but his eyes dart at her and away from her and he's not interested in their Leaving Cert results or their potential in the world of plumbing, or nursing, or Áine's banking exams. He turns his thumbs, forward then back, frustration, something in the conversation is frustrating him, and this is difficult, she wants him comfortable, he must be comfortable for the circumstances already shriek sufficient with discomfort. Her, the old pillow she is, and him, so taut and well sprung. Warmly she keeps her eye on his, while considering whether to touch his arm and when she does, lightly just the top on his wrist, he blurts it out like she's given him an electric shock. . . the birth, the birth, how was it?