The Guts (4 page)

—Sorry, he said.

She said nothing.

—I had to tell you.

—I knew, she said.

—Knew?

—Yes.

She patted his stomach.

—How? said Jimmy.—Did someone phone you? They’d no right —

—No.

They spoke softly. The bedroom door was open, a bit. In case Brian woke.

—I just knew, said Aoife.—You weren’t yourself.

—So I had cancer?

—Something was wrong. It was in your face.

—I should’ve told you.

—Yes.

—I was goin’ to.

—Why didn’t you?

—I was goin’ to tell you that I was goin’ for the test, said Jimmy.—Then I decided – I suppose – to wait till after. If it was clean —

She hit him. He hadn’t – he could never have expected this. It was like she’d driven her fist right through him.

—Jeee-zuss!

He got his hand to her shoulder and shoved her away, almost over the side of the bed.

—Shit —

He reached out to grab her. But she wasn’t falling. They were both breathless and scared. Her hair was shorter these days but it was still hanging over her eyes.

The silence was loud and colossal.

A mobile phone buzzed.

—Fuck – !

They’d both jumped – the shock.

—Yours, said Aoife.

She exhaled, and breath lifted her fringe.

—It doesn’t matter, said Jimmy.

—Go on, she said.

—It doesn’t matter, I said. It’s only a fuckin’ text.

—It’s your dad, she said.—He’s the only one who texts you this late.

There was no hostility in what she said.

He found the phone and she was right. It was from his da.
Wayne fuckin Rooney!!

—Is anything wrong? Aoife asked.

—No, said Jimmy.—Not really. It’s grand. I’m sorry.

—Me too.

She was on her knees, on the side of the bed. Jimmy leaned across and she let him hug her. Her face was wet. He kissed it. He didn’t cry, and that seemed good.

—I’d better answer him, he said.

He knew she was looking at him, looking for difference or slowness – or bloodstains. He picked up the phone. He wrote, or whatever it was called – texted.
Complete cunt
. He sent it back to his da. He put the phone on the floor, and lay back.

—I know I should have told you, he said.

—It’s okay.

—I thought it would go away. Fuckin’ stupid. Once I did the right thing an’ made the appointment.

—I understand.

—It was stupid.

—So are lots of things.

—I suppose. Anyway. I didn’t want to worry you. That’s the truth. Then I found out.

He stopped for a while. He was grand.

—And I was stunned, he said.—Fuckin’—. When I went back to work after. And I eventually had to talk – this fuckin’ twit wonderin’ where an order was supposed to go. When I opened my mouth there was no jaw. I couldn’t feel it. Like I’d been at the fuckin’ dentist. As if goin’ to the – here we go – oncologist. Impressed?

—Good lad.

—As if goin’ to the fuckin’ oncologist hadn’t been enough, I had to drop in on the dentist on the way back. But your man didn’t notice.

—Is he really a twit?

—No. No, he’s grand. He’s young.

—Oh, that.

—Yeah. So anyway. I came home. And I was goin’ to tell you. That was the plan. I even stopped off at SuperValu an’ bought a bottle of wine. Remember?

—Yes.

—I had it all mapped out. The two of us in the kitchen. Some fuckin’ hope.

—Brian had a match.

—That’s right.

—I drank the wine while you were gone.

—That’s right.

—Well, I opened it.

—You drank it.

—Okay. Not all of it.

—Grand.

—Anyway. I wasn’t pissed.

—You were all over me, said Jimmy.—Later, like.

He looked at her.

—You rode a man with cancer.

—Jesus.

—And I couldn’t tell you after that.

—I wouldn’t have believed you.

—That’s music to my fuckin’ ears.

Now he cried. He couldn’t help it. Actually, he wanted to. He felt no better and he felt no worse but it seemed natural, something she’d have wanted to see. Reassurance. And then he couldn’t stop for a while.

—Can I not just text everyone?

—No, said Aoife.—It wouldn’t be right.

—But last night you said —

She’d said this after she’d made him come in about three seconds.

—You said I was to think about nice things, said Jimmy.

It was Saturday morning. The kids – he hadn’t told them yet; Jesus – were either out or still in bed. Brian was on a sleepover and the mother of his pal, Ryan, was bringing them both to the football. The father was in England, working. Jimmy would go and watch the second half and bring them back here. But now Jimmy and Aoife were alone.

—I said that? said Aoife.

—Look on the bright side, you said. That kind o’ shite. And now I’ve to —

He picked up the sheet of paper, the list.

—I’ve to go from door to door. From Barrytown —

He was going there today, later, to tell his mother. He looked at some of the names.

—to Castlepollard.

His sister, Linda, lived there. It was in Meath or Westmeath, miles away.

—I’ve to tell —

He looked at the list again. He pretended to count.

—fifteen or sixteen people that I have cancer. And I’ve to do it in a rush so no one feels upset because I told him or her before I told him or fuckin’ her.

She was smiling and he loved it.

—I’ve to travel the length and breadth of fuckin’ Ireland and tell them all. And this is goin’ to cheer me up?

—I’ll come with you, she said.

—No.

—I want to.

—No, he said.—I’m not doin’ it. It’s mad.

—How then?

—Don’t know, he said.

She took the list.

—I’ll phone Sharon and Linda and Tracy, she said.

They were Jimmy’s sisters.

—It makes sense, he said.—Is it okay?

—Yeah, she said.—No, you’re right. But you didn’t put my side on the list.

—I wasn’t finished, he lied.

—We’ll have to go to my parents’.

—Okay.

—I’ll phone the others.

She added names to the list, the brother Jimmy thought was a wanker, the sister who was mad and getting madder.

—Sound, he said.—I’ll phone – let’s see. Darren. She’s pregnant, by the way.

—I know.

—Who told you?

—She did.

—Melanie?

—Yeah. I met her.

—I thought you didn’t like her.

—What’s that got to do with anything? Jesus, Jimmy, grow up.

—I hope to, he said.

—Haha. Anyway, I do like her. She just annoys me.

—Grand.

—Sometimes.

—Okay.

It wasn’t too bad. If he’d been asked what it was like, that was
what he’d have said. He had his mother coming up, and the kids. Telling them was going to be dreadful. And his boss – he’d have to tell her. Although she wasn’t really his boss. But anyway, other than that, it really wasn’t too bad. He had no dates yet; he wasn’t counting down the days. He was in limbo for a while, and it was okay.

Mahalia was going to look after Brian and his pal, Ryan. Her first big professional job. Five euro for the hour, or however long it took.

—Will we go to my parents after? said Aoife.

—Ah Christ.

—It makes sense.

—Okay.

—We can go for a coffee on the way.

—Fuckin’ wonderful.

She smiled.

Mahalia wasn’t having it.

—Five euro for most of the day, nearly? No way, like.

—Ah look —

—I have a life, like.

—I know, said Jimmy.—Ten euro.

He watched her face. A tenner was a fortune. The excitement, the little grin – it was lovely.

—Fifteen, she said.

He’d bargained her down to twelve, and now they – himself and Aoife – were on their way to Barrytown.

He was driving.

—Can you manage? she’d asked when they were walking out to the car.

—I remember where my parents live, he’d said.—I grew up there.

—I mean, I thought you might be a bit anxious.

—I’m grand.

—And I don’t want to die on the way, she’d said.

—Fuck off now.

He drove onto the roundabout and indicated left – the turn-off for Barrytown. He decided to avoid the shopping centre. It was Saturday afternoon. Although it was never busy. It had started to look like a monument to a different era a couple of years after it had been built, when Jimmy was still a kid. When his Uncle Eddie from Australia had seen it the first time, he’d thought it was the
local jail, all the barbed wire on the roof. It wouldn’t be busy now but Jimmy didn’t particularly want to see it.

—When’s best to tell the kids?

—Before
The X Factor
, said Aoife.

They laughed.

—Seriously but, said Jimmy.

—Tonight, said Aoife.—We can make sure they’ll all be there.

—Chinese, said Jimmy.—Special occasion. I want to tell the boys first though. Marv and Jimmy.

—Yes.

—I’m right, yeah?

—Yeah.

He drove past his old school, then left, onto the green.

—No one here.

—It’s lovely, said Aoife.

—No kids any more. All grown up and gone.

They sat outside his parents’ house, holding their door handles.

—When are you going to tell your friends? said Aoife.

He thought about this.

—I don’t have any.

—Ah, you do.

—Ah, I don’t.

—You do.

—I don’t know, he said.—I haven’t really thought about it. And that probably proves I’m right. I don’t really have any.

—You do.

—Okay.

Maybe he was imagining it. But maybe there was some sort of a scent off him; the cancer was doing it. His wife wanted to ride him. He was sure of it. It was a biological thing, his body sending out the message; he had to reproduce before he died. There was sex in the air, in the car – definitely. He’d start the car, before anyone in the house noticed. He’d drive them up to Howth summit, or down to Dollymount. It was a miserable day; there’d be no one there. They’d do it like two kids half their age. Or to a hotel, one of the ones called the Airport this or Airport that. The one beside Darndale was nearest. A room for the afternoon. And he wouldn’t remind her about his vasectomy.

—We’d better go in and tell my mother I’m dyin’, he said.

—How did she take it? Darren asked him.

—Not too bad, said Jimmy.

It was true. His mother –
their
mother – hadn’t torn her hair out. She’d cried. They’d all cried. He’d told her he’d be fine. The success rate – he was beginning to like the language – the success rate was encouraging. She already knew her chemo and her radiation. Her brother, Jimmy’s Uncle Paddy, had been through it and survived.

The surgery, though, was news. He realised it as he told his mother: he hadn’t told Aoife. He’d told his father but he’d forgotten Aoife. She went pale as he spoke. He thought she was going to faint. He really had forgotten. He couldn’t believe it, but it was true.

—They’ll take out 80 per cent of your fuckin’ bowels? said his da.

—Just stop it, said his mother.

—Wha’?

—The language, she said.—For once. Just stop it.

—Righ’, said his da.—Sorry.

—They said it won’t make any difference, Jimmy told them.—I’ll be able to eat everythin’ as normal.

—With what’s left.

—Yeah.

Aoife still looked wrong.

—The 20 per cent, said Jimmy’s da.

—Fair play, said Jimmy.—You were always good at the subtraction.

It wasn’t working. His laughter in the face of bad luck. There was no one smiling.

—Look, he said.—It’s not life and death. That particular part. The operation’s nearly just routine. It’s part of the journey through my treatment.

He picked one of the buns on the table, to prove he was still able to eat. It was a low point – the low point. He’d fucked up. He hadn’t told Aoife.

—I forgot, he said, to only her.

She nodded, once.

—Weird, he said.

She nodded.

—It was grand, he said now to his brother, Darren.

He was sitting on the stairs in Aoife’s parents’ house. He didn’t
know where Darren was. He could hear voices in the background.

—Where are yeh?

—Liffey Valley.

—Hate tha’.

—Give me cancer any day, said Darren.

—I’m a lucky man.

It was Jimmy who’d phoned Darren. He’d forgotten to tell Aoife – he really had; he kept testing himself – and now he felt the urge to tell everyone, to get it out there as quickly as possible, so everyone who needed to know would hear about it properly.

—Yeh shoppin’?

—Kind of, said Darren.

—With Melanie.

—Yeah.

—How’s she doin’?

—Grand. Great.

—Congratulations there, by the way.

—Thanks, yeah. I was goin’ to phone you.

—I know. You’re grand. Da told me.

Darren and himself weren’t close, but that meant nothing. They were brothers. Jimmy decided: he was going to find Leslie.

—So yeah, said Darren.—Everything’s grand. She’s had to give up the kick-boxin’ and the crack cocaine. Other than that, it’s business as usual.