I Am the Messenger (13 page)

“Bad luck, Ed,” and he turns away again. He’s gone.

Watching his legs disappear into the darkness, I stand there, climbing memory.

A dark wind makes its way through the trees.

The sky is nervous. Black and blue.

My heart applauds inside my ears, first like a roaring crowd, then slows and slows until it’s a solitary person, clapping with unbridled sarcasm.

Clap. Clap.

Clap.

Well done, Ed.

Well given up.

I stand in long grass and hear the river now for the first time. It sounds like it’s drinking. When I look toward it, I see the stars in it. They look like they’re painted to the surface of the water.

The cab,
I think.
It’s open
. The keys are also still in it, which is the number one sin any cabdriver can make in pursuit of a runner. A cardinal sin, in fact. You always take the keys. You always lock up. Except me.

I see the cab in my mind.

On the road, alone.

Both doors are open.

“I have to go back,” I whisper, but I don’t.

I remain still until first light shows up, and I see my brother and me racing.

Myself, failing.

I see us fishing together, from the riverbank, and then going further upstream, past where you can see any houses. Up high, where you have to climb, where we fished from the rocks.

The rocks.

The smooth rocks.

More like—

I walk slowly at first, then hard. I walk hard upstream.

I follow my brother and me, and I climb.

The water crumbles on its way down as my hands and feet push me forward. The world is lightening, taking shape, and turning to color. It feels like it’s being painted around me.

My feet are itchy.

Changing from cold to warm.

I see it.

I see us.

There,
I point out.
There are the rocks. The giant stones.
God, I see us there, throwing down the lines, hoping, sometimes laughing. Vowing not to tell anyone about us coming here.

I’m nearly there.

Far away, the cab doors are still open.

The sun is up—an orange cutout in a cardboard sky.

I make it to the top and kneel down.

My hands touch the cool stone.

I breathe out.

Happy.

I hear the river and look up and realize that I’m kneeling down among the stones of home.

There are three names carved into the rock.

I see them a few moments later when I look back up, and I go over to them.

The names are these:

THOMAS O’REILLY

ANGIE CARUSSO

GAVIN ROSE

For a while the river rushes through my ears and sweat shoves itself under my arms. Down my left side, it runs past my rib cage to the top of my pants.

I search for pen and paper, knowing I don’t have them, the same way you give a person the wrong answer in the unlikely hope that by some miracle it might suddenly be right.

It’s confirmed. I have nothing, so I pencil the names into my mind and go over them in ink. Then I scratch them in.

Thomas O’Reilly.

Angie Carusso.

Gavin Rose.

None of the names is familiar, which is good, I decide. I think it would be even harder if I knew the people I’m sent to.

I take a last look and walk away, chanting the names so I don’t forget.

It takes me nearly forty-five minutes to make it back to the cab.

When I get there, the doors are shut but unlocked, and the keys are no longer in the ignition. I sit behind the wheel, and when I pull down the sun visor, they fall into my lap.

“O’Reilly, O’Reilly…”

I’m going through the local phone book. It’s midday. I’ve slept.

There are two T. O’Reillys. One in the better part of town. One in the slummy area.

That’s the one,
I think.
The slummy one
.

I know it.

To make sure, I go to the uptown address first. It’s a nice cement-rendered house with a big driveway. I knock at the door.

“Yeah?”

A tall man opens up and stares at me through the flyscreen. He wears shorts, a shirt, and slippers.

“Sorry to bother you,” I say, “but—”

“You selling something?”

“No.”

“You a Jehovah?”

“No.”

He’s shocked. “Well, in that case, you can come in.” His tone has changed immediately and his eyes are friendly for the first time. It makes me consider accepting his offer, but I decide against.

We remain on either side of the flyscreen door. I wonder how to do this properly and decide that straight out is probably best. “Sir, are you Thomas O’Reilly?”

He comes forward and waits a moment before answering. “No, mate, I’m Tony. Thomas is my brother. He lives down in some Henry Street shithole.”

“Okay, sorry to keep you,” and I start to leave. “Thanks.”

“Hey.” He opens the door and walks after me. “What is it you want with my brother?”

I pause. “I don’t know yet.”

“As long as you’re going down there,” he says, “could you do me a favor when you see him?”

I shrug. “No worries.”

“Could you tell him greed hasn’t swallowed me up yet?” The sentence lands between us like a ball with no air in it.

“Sure. No problem.”

I’m nearly out the gate when Tony O’Reilly calls out one last time. I turn back to face him.

“I think I should warn you.” He comes closer. “My brother’s a priest.”

We’re both completely still for a few seconds as I consider it. “Thanks,” I say, and move from the driveway.

I walk away, thinking,
It’s still better than a wife-beating rapist
.

“How many times do you want me to tell you?”

“You’re sure now?”

“It’s not me, Ed. If it was me, I’d tell you.”

I’m having this conversation with my brother, Tommy, on the phone. My thoughts have wandered toward him after being led to the river and the stones of home. To my knowledge, Tommy’s the only other person who knows we went there since we never told anyone. We always thought we’d get a good hiding for going that far up the river alone. Then again, maybe someone knew but chose to ignore it. We could both swim.

Earlier, I told him about the cards, to which he said, “How does this sort of thing always seem to happen to you, Ed? If there’s anything weird floating around, it always manages to land on
you
. You’re like a weird-shit magnet.”

We laughed.

I thought about it.

Taxi driver. Local loser. Cornerstone of mediocrity. Sexual midget. Pathetic cardplayer
.
And now weird-shit magnet on top of it.

Admit it.

It’s not a bad list I’m building up.

“How are you, Tommy, anyway?”

“All right. You?”

“Not bad.”

End of conversation.

It’s not Tommy.

We’ve had a bit of a card-playing drought lately, so Marv organizes a big night. The decided venue is Ritchie’s place. His folks have just gone on holiday.

Prior to going to Ritchie’s, I head over to Henry Street and have a look for Thomas O’Reilly. As I walk there, my stomach fidgets inside me and my hands search for my pockets. The street’s a complete shocker and has always been renowned for it. It’s a place of broken roof tiles, broken windows, and broken people. Even the father’s house is pretty objectionable. I can already tell from a distance.

The roof is corrugated, red, and rusty.

The walls are a dirty white fibro.

Blistered, sore-looking paint.

Crippled fence, struggling to remain standing.

And a gate that’s in agony.

I’m nearly there when I realize there’s no way I’m going to make it.

Three very big men step out of an alley and start asking me for things. They never threaten, but their presence alone makes me feel very awkward and alone.

“Hey, man, you got forty cents?” asks one of them.

“Or cigarettes?” says the next.

“Do you really need that jacket?”

“Come on, man—
one
cigarette. I know you smoke. It ain’t gon’ kill you to lend me just the one….”

I freeze for a moment, turn, and walk away.

Very bloody quickly.

At Ritchie’s, I keep reliving it while the others deal and talk.

“So where’d your folks go, Ritchie?” Audrey asks.

There’s a lengthy gap as he considers the question. “I have no idea.”

“You’re joking, aren’t you?”

“They told me, but I must have forgot.”

Audrey shakes her head, and Marv laughs through his cigar smoke.

I think of Henry Street.

Tonight I win for a change.

A few rounds pass me by, but somehow I manage to win the most games out of all of us.

Marv still talks contentedly about the upcoming Sledge Game. “Did you hear?” he puffs at Ritchie and me. “The Falcons have got a new guy this year. People are saying he’s something like one fifty.”

Ritchie: “One fifty what? Kilos?”

Like Marv and me, Ritchie’s played the last few years, on the wing, but he’s even less interested than me. To give you an idea, he usually shares a beer or two with the crowd during the game’s flat spots.

“That’s right, Ritchie,” Marv affirms. This is serious business. “One fifty big ones.”

“You playing, Ed?”

That question comes from Audrey. She knows I am but asks only to comfort herself with me. Ever since the front-door just-Ed incident she hasn’t really known what to say to me. I look up at her from the table and half smile. She knows it means we’re okay.

“Yes,” I tell her. “I’ll be there.”

Her smile back says,
That’s good
. Good that we’re okay, that is. Audrey couldn’t care less about the Annual Sledge Game. She hates soccer.

Later, when the cards are over, she comes back to my place and we drink in the kitchen.

“New bloke still going well?” I ask. I’m emptying toast crumbs into the sink. When I turn around to meet her answer, I notice some dried blood on the floor. Blood from my head among all the dog hair. Reminders are everywhere.

“Not bad,” she answers.

I want to tell her how sorry I am for showing up like I did the other morning, but I choose not to. We’re okay now, and there’s no point going over something I can’t change. I come close a few times but let it go. It’s better that way.

When I put the toaster back down in its familiar place, I catch my reflection in it—even if it is a touch filthy. My eyes are uncertain to the point of being injured. For just that instant I see the pitiful nature of my life. This girl I can’t have. These messages I feel I can’t deliver…. But then I see the eyes become determined. I see a future version of myself going down to Henry Street again to see Father Thomas O’Reilly. I’ll be in my dirty old jacket, moneyless and cigaretteless, same as last time. Only next time I plan to make it to the front door.

I have to,
I think, and I speak to Audrey.

“I know where I have to go,” I tell her.

She sips on the grapefruit Sub I gave her and asks it. “Well, where?”

“Three more people.”

The scratched names on the giant stone appear in my mind, but I don’t speak them to her. Like I’ve said, there’s no point.

She’s dying to ask the names.

I can tell.

Not a solitary word makes it out of her mouth, though, and I must say this for Audrey—she never forces things. She knows I’ll tell her nothing if she pushes too hard.

The one thing I do tell her is where I found the names.

“I had a runner, and that’s where he went….”

All Audrey can do now is shake her head. “Whoever this is sure is going to a lot of trouble.”

“They also seem to know me unbelievably well—almost as well as I know myself.”

“Yeah, but,” Audrey begins, “who knows you real well, Ed?”

And that’s just it.

“No one,” I say.

Not even me?
the Doorman walks in and asks.

I look back and reply.

Look, pal—a few cups of coffee don’t mean you know me
.

Sometimes I don’t even think I know myself.

My reflection finds me in the eyes again.

But you know what to do,
it says.

I agree with it.

I get to Henry Street the next night after work and make it to the front door, and I must say, Father O’Reilly’s house gives new meaning to the word
atrocious
.

I introduce myself, and without much more, the father invites me in.

Without even thinking, I speak, in the hallway.

“Jesus, it wouldn’t kill you to clean the place once in a while, would it?”

Did I just say that?

But I don’t need to worry because the father responds immediately.

“Well, what about the state of
you
? When was the last time you washed that jacket?”

“Good point,” I say, thankful for his quick reply.

He’s balding, the father, and about forty-five. Not quite as tall as his brother, and he has bottle green eyes and fairly big ears. He’s wearing a robe, and I wonder why he lives here and not at the church. I always thought priests lived at the churches so people could go there if they needed help or advice.

He leads me into the kitchen and we sit down at the table.

“Tea or coffee?” The way he says it, it’s like I have no choice in the fact that I’m having
something
. It just depends which.

“Coffee,” I reply.

“Milk and sugar?”

“Yes, please.”

“How many sugars?”

I’m a bit embarrassed about this. “Four.”

“
Four
sugars! What are you, David Helfgott?”

“Who the hell’s that?”

“You know—piano player, half crazy.” He’s astounded I don’t know. “He used to have about a dozen cups of coffee a day with ten spoons of sugar in each.”

“Was he good?”

“Well, yes.” He puts the kettle on. “Crazy but good.” His glassy eyes are of kindness now. A giant kindness. “Are you crazy but good, too, Ed Kennedy?”

“I don’t know,” I say, and the priest laughs, more to himself than anyone else.

When the coffee’s ready, the father brings it over and sits down with me. Before he takes his first sip, he asks, “You get hassled for smokes and money out there?” He jerks his head back toward the street.