Placeholders, page 17
‘You’ve earned this,’ his father says. He clinks the bottom of his bottle off Aaron’s, then takes a long pull.
Aaron rests the heel of his bottle against the back of his neck. The glass is refreshing on his hot skin.
‘You know,’ his father says, and sighs. ‘It’s nice. You being here. Doing this together.’
‘It is nice,’ Aaron agrees.
The soda is prickly and sweet in his mouth and, when he swallows, he feels its coldness dissipate inside of him. He places the bottle on the floor next to one of the stool legs.
‘What?’ his father says.
Aaron squints, confused. ‘I didn’t say anything.’
‘No, but you’re thinking something. Nudnik, out with it. You look constipated.’
‘I wasn’t thinking anything.’
‘You were,’ his father says, annoyed. ‘We can make this bottle last an hour and then you can tell me, or you can just cut the shit and tell me what’s on your mind now.’
‘I don’t know what to tell you, I don’t–’
‘Out with it!’
‘How do I know that I’m ready for this?’ Aaron blurts out. He takes a measured breath. ‘How do I know that I have what it takes to do this right, I mean, I guess… I don’t know what I mean.’
His father considers the question carefully. He leans forward and shrugs. ‘You don’t.’
‘Then how do I know that I’m doing the right thing?’
‘I was about your age when your mother got pregnant for the first time. Did you know that? She miscarried four times before we had you. Four. The first and second were devastating but within a month or two we were talking baby names again. The third was when it became a medical concern. We saw specialists, all sorts of doctors. “These things happen,” that’s what they tell you. I wonder who tells doctors to tell their patients things like that, because it isn’t helpful. It took a year before we were ready to try again. She was three months pregnant the fourth time it happened. I could see it in her eyes, something just broke. And then she became pregnant with you. We held out hope. Days became weeks, weeks became months, then there you were. Our little miracle. Blinking eyes, grasping hands, existing in the wide, waiting world.’
Aaron shuffles his feet on the dusty concrete floor. ‘And you didn’t regret it?’
‘Sometimes,’ his father says. ‘If I’m honest. At its hardest points.’
‘Like now?’ Aaron asks the floor.
‘I wouldn’t call it easy. You were an asshole when you were a teenager, thought you knew everything, but that’s everyone’s kid at that age. It was certainly me. Maybe we get the kids we were as kids, some kind of parental karma at work.’
Aaron looks up at his father, who looks back at him.
‘It never lasted long,’ his father says. ‘The regret, I mean. It was always a fleeting thing.’
Aaron takes a sip from his bottle and sets it down. His father shifts in his seat like he might get up, but stays still.
‘When Róisín told me she was pregnant,’ Aaron finds himself saying, ‘all that I could think was that I don’t know how to be a father. I didn’t have – I don’t have – the skillset for it, I guess? The knowledge? And then I came home and the whole cab ride here I was just thinking about how maybe you’d teach me how to do it.’
His father nods. ‘Sure,’ he says.
‘And now you’re… I don’t know…’ Aaron starts to say, before the words catch. He takes another sip from his bottle and clears his throat.
‘What? Now I’m what?’
Aaron feels his eyes well up the moment before they do. He looks up at his father, blinking. ‘I don’t know how I’m going to do this without you.’
‘Oh,’ his father says. He looks down at the empty bottle in his hands, tearing the corner of the label. He laughs to himself. ‘You know, for a minute there, I forgot that I was dying.’
They sit for a moment in silence and then he scoots his chair closer to his son’s and reaches forward. They embrace in an awkward hug. Aaron cries and his father pats his back. They stay leant forwards for some time, like the outer angles of some structure whose stability depends entirely on an even pressure from each of its walls. Without one, the other will fall. They stay like that for a beautiful moment. And then the moment passes.
20
There is a stabbing pain, like a corkscrew being twisted, in the base of Róisín’s stomach and then the overwhelming urge to pee. Aaron snores beside her. There was a period of time when he woke up before she did and now their roles have reversed. It’s become rare for her to sleep through the night. She flips on the light to the ensuite and closes the door behind her. The porcelain toilet seat is like ice against her bare skin. Her urine comes out in a stream and she sighs in relief. The stream ends. An aching remnant of the corkscrew pain remains. Her jacket hangs on a hook attached to the wall mirror. A corner of her cigarette packet is visible poking out of its pocket. She’s quick to remove it and jams it deep into the pocket of her pyjama pants.
Róisín yawns as she comes down the kitchen steps. The windows are fogged and pinkish, illuminated by the glow of the morning’s first light. Aaron’s father is kneeling by the cupboards, taking out pans and boxes and setting them gingerly on the floor.
‘Good morning, Mr Cohen,’ Róisín whispers to him.
‘Michael,’ he says from inside of the cupboard.
‘Sorry?’
‘Enough of this mister-missus business,’ he says. ‘Call me Michael. Call her Annette. There’s coffee, by the way.’
The family has an American-style coffee pot with a massive glass carafe that sits on a hot plate. She was amazed the first time she saw it. Hot coffee on demand, instantly, waiting for her to want it. Róisín takes a mug down from the shelf and fills it. She sits at the kitchen table and watches the continued extrication of kitchen equipment from the bottom cabinets.
‘Are you looking for something?’
It’s a stupid question she regrets asking. She blows on her mug. The coffee is hot and bitter in her mouth. She grimaces as she swallows.
He’s sitting up now, watching her, a bemused look on his face. ‘Strong stuff,’ he says.
Róisín nods. ‘Maybe a bit harsher than I’m used to, is all.’
‘Everybody drinks tea over there, isn’t that right?’
‘Tea, exactly. Breakfast tea.’
‘We might have some… Lipton or something,’ he offers, waving his hand towards the pantry doors behind her.
‘Coffee is fine,’ she says.
Michael pulls himself out of the cabinet and then stands up against the kitchen counter. He is an intimidating man in stature and tone but, in these moments of physical frailty, Róisín finds herself looking away from him. He picks up a small white cardboard box on the kitchen counter and brings it over to her, placing it on the table.
‘It’s one of those Italian things. For coffee. I never could figure out how to use it. You might like it more than the sludge.’
‘A moka,’ Róisín says, and smiles. She holds the box in her hand, turning it over. ‘A nice one, actually.’
‘Moka. Right.’
Róisín undoes the latch in the cardboard packaging and removes the metal water reservoir, the grounds basket, the percolator, laying the parts out on the table like a mechanic. ‘The water goes in here,’ she explains. She sets the basket in the open hole. ‘Then the grounds.’ The percolator screws on tight after a few twists. ‘Then the whole thing goes on the burner.’
Michael groans as he sits down across the table from Róisín. ‘And what, the water evaporates up that spout?’
‘Exactly, yeah.’
‘It always just spat at me. I don’t know what I was doing wrong.’
Róisín holds the thing in her hands, unsure of what to say. This is the longest conversation she’s had with either of Aaron’s parents. ‘Have you got grounds?’ she asks.
Michael nods and points to the cabinet closest to the back door. ‘Just in there,’ he says.
Róisín moves to stand and stops. ‘May I?’ she asks, holding up the moka.
He nods. She finds the espresso grounds in the back of the cabinet. She carefully fills the water reservoir to the line and places it beside the stove. She tips over the bag of grounds carefully and taps on it until a small pile forms in the centre of the basket. With her pinkie, she evens out the grounds to form a loose puck.
‘There are teaspoons in that drawer,’ Michael says. He’s been watching her perform this set of actions with interest. ‘What do you call that, again? When you press it down?’
‘Tamping,’ Róisín says absent-mindedly. ‘But you don’t tamp moka.’
‘You do,’ he says.
‘You don’t.’
He grunts but doesn’t argue any further. Róisín screws the percolator onto the moka pot and places the whole thing onto the burner. She turns the knob and the burner hisses and clicks and bursts into a small flame.
‘Gas,’ she says under her breath.
‘What’s that?’
‘You have gas burners. I only just noticed. It must be nice to cook with.’
For the first time, Róisín sees him smile with half of his face, the other limp and unchanging.
‘If you think that’s good…’ he starts. He stands with considerable effort and shuffles past Róisín and through the back door to the mud room. He returns wearing fleece-lined rubber slippers and tosses another pair onto the floor by her feet. ‘Try those on,’ he says.
They’re massive on her. The heels flap up and down as she walks. Michael grunts as he pushes the kitchen table out of the way and opens a door which leads out onto a deck. The floodlights come on automatically. The sky is now some colour on a spectrum between grey and periwinkle. The wind is strong and cold. The branches of the trees in the back garden rustle. Michael pulls a black cover off something large and stands back.
‘This is my baby,’ he says proudly.
Róisín reaches out and touches the shiny red exterior. ‘What is it, a grill?’
‘A grill, a smoker, a barbecue, a rotisserie. I’ve got an attachment to make it a pizza oven, even.’
‘A pizza oven?’
Michael nods. He pats the side of it, dull thumps resonating from inside. ‘Do you cook much?’ he asks.
‘I like to cook. There weren’t many opportunities to do it, though.’
‘Why not?’
‘Small house. Big family. Irish tastebuds.’
Michael lifts the cover back over the grill and Róisín helps him pull it across and secure the buckle straps at the sides. ‘I’m not sure I understand what that means,’ he says.
‘Just that they’re picky eaters,’ Róisín says.
‘Ah, like Aaron.’
‘Is he? I never knew that.’
Michael gives a tight-lipped half-smile and nods. ‘Big time. It used to drive me up the wall. Gross. Nasty. Weird. The operative words of his rejection for nearly ten years.’
He holds the kitchen door open for Róisín and locks it behind them. The air is thick with comfortable warmth. The moka pot sputters on the stovetop. Róisín hurries to turn it off, the heels of her oversized shoes slapping against the floor.
‘Did it work?’ he asks.
Róisín flips open the lid of the pot with her thumb. The percolator is full of rich brown liquid. The centre stem burps out thimbles of almond-coloured crema.
‘No tamp,’ Michael says.
‘No, no tamp,’ Róisín repeats.
Michael squints out the window, now a very light orange. ‘I usually watch the sunrise this time of morning,’ he says. ‘Why don’t you come with me?’
She agrees and he retrieves two of his long, puffy jackets from the closet. Her hands don’t reach the ends of the sleeves. He zips her up so only the top half of her face pokes through the hood. She watches him dump the contents of the moka pot into two heatproof flasks and put one in each of the oversized pockets on the outside of his coat.
They walk to the beach in silence. There are no cars this early, no noise of any kind. They are alone. Róisín feels the soles of her shoes squeak as they bite into the snow-packed roads. They pass through the entrance to the beach. The plastic boards of the walkway creak under their feet. They clamber to the top of a moderate hill. The ocean is still and dark against the sky, which has turned a sort of blueish orange. Michael hands her a flask and she takes it. They unscrew them together and watch as the sun breaches the horizon. All at once, the ocean breaks golden and the sky turns red. Róisín takes a long, satisfied sip from her flask. The sunlight hits in a wave of sudden, radiant warmth. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath in through her nose and out through her mouth. This is what home smells like, she thinks, this is what it tastes like. It feels like she’s pretending. She forces away this last thought and concentrates on the view in front of her.
‘We used to bring Aaron here when he was a baby,’ Michael says. ‘He was a terrible sleeper. He’d cry right through dinner and pass out around ten, up a few hours later, back to sleep, and up for good just before sunrise. He was our little rooster.’ He takes a deep breath in and out, a jet of steam in the cold air. ‘I can imagine it,’ he says.
‘Imagine what?’ Róisín asks.
‘Another one. Running down the beach.’ He takes a long, contemplative sip from his flask.
Róisín pats her pockets then pulls up the side of her coat to take something from her pyjamas. She holds up the packet of cigarettes. ‘Do you mind?’ she asks.
He shakes his head.
‘Apparently it’s worse for the baby if I quit cold turkey,’ she says. She removes a cigarette and makes an indentation three-quarters of the way up. ‘So now I do this.’
Michael nods. ‘Coffee and a cigarette.’
‘Do you want one?’
He doesn’t say yes, but he doesn’t say no either, and she sees for the first time how similar he is to his son. What he wants to do and what he should do are at odds. The indecision plays out in the expression on his face. She takes out another cigarette and hands it to him, forcing the active choice to be giving it back instead of accepting it.
‘I suppose it won’t kill me,’ he says. He half-smiles and nods. ‘Thank you.’
The house is fully illuminated when they return to it. The sky has folded into a brilliant blue. Birds chirp. The wind howls. A car passes slowly beside them on the road, stops, and someone shouts out to Michael, who waves and shouts back. The car continues on.
‘That’s the rabbi,’ he explains to Róisín. ‘Lives just around the corner.’
The world still works in such a way that people stop to say hello. This world out here, she thinks, this one I’m becoming a part of. There is a part of her that feels she will never be a part of this community, not really. It’s inextricably linked to a hereditary history she does not share. Matrilineal descent means something that is passed down by mothers. Aaron explained it to her once. To him, the explanation was academic. To her, it was instructive. She forces away the thought.
Annette is at the kitchen sink, cleaning out the moka pot with soap and water. Róisín knows this is bad for the device, that, counterintuitively, one should only clean it with water, but she sees no reason to talk herself into an unnecessary argument.
‘Was something wrong with the coffee this morning?’ Annette asks them when they get in.
Róisín’s cheeks flush in the sudden warmth. She unzips the puffy coat and emerges from her downy cocoon. Her clothes are soaked in sweat and stuck to her skin. The kitchen smells like wood grain. The heating has kicked in.
‘Rosh here was just helping me figure something out with the pot,’ he says.
Annette shushes him. ‘You’re too loud,’ she hisses. ‘Aaron is still asleep.’
‘He should be out for his run by now,’ Michael says.
‘It’s hardly seven.’
‘If we wait for that pisher to wake up, we’ll spend half the day silent,’ he says. He wraps his arms around his wife and kisses her cheek.
She’s quick to shrug him off and nods towards Róisín. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ she whispers.
‘She’s pregnant. I don’t think she’s going to be offended by a kiss.’ He removes one flask from the pocket of his coat and then the other, setting them on the stretch of kitchen counter bordering the sink.
Annette lifts the flask to her nose and sniffs. ‘Is this espresso?’ she asks.
Michael nods as he unzips his coat.
‘She’s pregnant.’
He stares blankly.
‘Pregnant as in no caffeine,’ she says, hitting him lightly on the chest.
‘Oh,’ he says.
‘Pregnant as in no caffeine at all, especially not a Thermos full of espresso. Hello?’
‘I hear you, I do.’
‘Well?’ she asks, holding up the flask.
‘No more espresso,’ he says.
Róisín slinks up the staircase to the bedroom. Neither Aaron’s mother nor father acknowledge her presence or subsequent departure. Halfway up the steps, she feels the corkscrew pain again, stronger this time, and then the corkscrew twists and it feels like she’s being carved open with a rake. She lets out a dull gasp and hobbles up the final few stairs, through the bedroom door, into the ensuite bathroom, locking the door behind her.
‘Róisín?’ Aaron’s voice calls from the bed.
It’s like her head has filled with helium. The world gains a shimmering afterimage that she cannot discern from its source, so everything blurs together in an indistinguishable mess. She blinks and something runs down her cheeks. She touches her face and holds her fingertips up to her eyeline before she can confirm that what she’s feeling are tears. She reaches out with two hands to steady herself against the bathroom sink. There are three gentle knocks on the door.
