Jacinta McDevitt was born in Raheny, but lives in Malahide, Dublin, Ireland. "Way to Go, Dad" was shortlisted for the prestigious Francis MacManus Award and broadcast on RTE Radio, Ireland. She is the author of Sign's On (2002), Handle With Care (2003) and Excess Baggage (2004). She is currently
working on her fourth novel, Men at Work. Read her exclusive interview in tDQ
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I married a rat. Twenty
five years ago. Dressed up like a big meringue in the Holy Rosary Church. He stayed for a
decade then left. Left me, this stinking kip and all who lived in her.
“Please, please. Don’t leave us. Please think about what you’re
doing to me and the children. I couldn’t bear it if you left me. Don’t go.” I begged. Implored
the bastard not to go. Begged the bastard to stay.
“Don’t go. Please. Stay. Stay. I’ll do anything, anything you
want.” I soothed and cajoled. Pouted and tried to look appealing and sexy in my see throu’
tears. I tried to humour him. Tempt him. Tried everything. Begged.
“Think about all you’ll be leaving behind.”
“Like what?”
“Like your four beautiful children and me. Me.”
I used my most sultry tones. Sucked in my sagging stomach. Clenched
my fallen arse. Tried to remind him of steamy nights of endless passion. Lust, sometimes love,
sometimes both. Sleepless, orgasmic nights. Not thinking of other nights. Lonely, cold. With one
or all of the beautiful children vomiting or bed-wetting. Holding them in the darkness. Cuddling
them to me. “Hush, hush, Mama’s here, always here.” Keening favourite tunes and nursery rhymes.
And they ranting and raving at demons that only existed in their heads, or maybe not.
“You’re right.” He said as he climbed up the stairs to our bedroom,
“I should think about this.” He kept nodding his head. A moving target.
| "A woman on the loose is a dangerous thing. Liable
to pick up any ugly husband that’s hanging around. No man is safe least of all yours. The bastard’s
safe. He’s gone, good riddance to him. Or bad riddance." |
I wanted to take a swing at him. Draw out and hit him. Hard. Feel my hot hand sting against
his smug little face. Watch bright pink weals rise up in the soft of the cheek that I had
stoked with tender hand before. Inflict pain for all the tortured times I had turned to tell
him that I loved him. Ignored. Forgotten. Do him damage for all the bitter hurt I knew, deep
down in my waters, he was going to cause. To me. My children. Especially them. Bile burnt
like acid. I wretched and gagged and waited. Sitting on the bottom step of the stairs.
Five minutes later he came down. Carrying a small bag. Neatly
packed with shirts I had ironed and sexy boxer shorts I had bought.
“Well” the bastard said. “I’ve thought about it and I’m definitely
going.”
“Why? Why are you going? What about me and the children? How will
we manage without you? Please, please don’t go. I love you more than anything.” I pulled at him.
He shrugged and turned away.
“I’m going. I don’t love you. Nothing you can say will make me stay.”
So he did. He left. Without so much as a peck on the cheek. Just
one big kick on the arse for me and he was gone. Gone with all my hopes and dreams packed up tight
in his small Samsonite. The big strong man carried all my weak little dreams away with him.
And week in, week out I missed him. Ached all over for him. I
needed him. My body needed him. I am a man’s woman. I like men, even bastards. Sex is natural
for me. In out, in out. An’ slow slow, quick quick, slow. Men recognise the beat. Sense the rhythm.
The thrashing in me to rouse the game. The wanting. And now, when I thought the chase was done I was
facing a new hunt. Raw wounds oozed. Love, hate, panic. Circling over. Watching it all. Calling out
in the void of my soul. For love. Crying out for him. But he was gone. The bastard was gone. Hate
is more physical than love. Sex cures love. There is no cure for hate. Only death.
Pity he didn’t die. He had a bad heart. Healthy but bad. I could
have coped better with death. It is the cure all. The panacea. Death is socially acceptable. Do
gooders get high on it. Craw thumpers offer you craic and sympathy. Now they purr happily behind their
yellowing net curtains. Congratulating, themselves on their timing. I step out they step in again.
Curious but afraid. Fearing obesity. It might be catching.
A woman on the loose is a dangerous thing. Liable to pick up any
ugly husband that’s hanging around. No man is safe least of all yours. The bastard’s safe. He’s gone,
good riddance to him. Or bad riddance. Why should he have anything good in his life? Let him suffer like me.
Paying Peter, robbing Paul while he sits back snug. Smug in his Mammy’s arms. Lullaby’s of ‘there there’
and eat up a fine bite. My children lost two grandparents, three aunts. Four uncles, one great great
grandmother, endless cousins and their father all in the one day. Pruning and culling, pillaging and
raping their little lives. They cried when I told them he was gone. They thought he would come back.
Some time. He didn’t.
Time is cruel. Selective. Only heals some wounds. Others it leaves
open. Festering. Annual reminders of anniversaries and birthdays. Time ticks off all the couple
days, family days. Days it would be better to forget. But can’t. Then, after a time, one Christmas
day. Peace on earth, good will to men. He rang. Not to wish me comfort and joy. Nor to deck the
halls. Not bearing gifts of gold, regret or remorse. No question of many happy returns.
“Hi how’s it going? How’ve you been?” The bastard was happy. None
of my wishes had been granted.
“What do you want?”
“Any chance of a divorce?”
Two chances.
“I’ll have to think about it.”
“Well we could come to some arrangement about money and things. Get
it all sorted out once and for all.”
So after all these years. He wanted to sort it out. Sorting it out
seemed reasonable when he said it. How come the bastard always sounded reasonable? Even in his finest
moments of madness he seemed reasonable. It was reasonable that I had reared our four beautiful children.
On my own. Always the odd one out. One of a pair is always odd. Awkward to place at a dinner table
or invite to parties. So against all odds I fed and clothed us, body and soul. Shoes, coats, pyjamas,
teddy bears I collected for them all. Bowed and Scraped. Encore, encore. No round of applause for
living hand to mouth. Money couldn’t buy what we lived on. Which was just as well. After him we had
no money. Delivered from all evil. After him everything was rooted in my children. And I was rich.
| "The master of his own destiny.
And mine. Give him half a house, let him keep all his money, forget about what he did to his children,
pretend his wife doesn’t exist. Decree it all. Let’s hear it for the bastard. Three cheers for the
big bastard." |
On the day the bastard left. One of his children, the six year old,
only six, sat on the bottom step of the stairs. Sat watching out the window. Little chestnut
hands pulling at the skirt of her short blue cotton dress. Yanking it down over her knees. To
her no-toes. Waiting for her Daddy. Her hair all tied up. Little gold bunches streaked with the
sun. Waiting. Big blue pools when he never came. “And why not Mammy?” I gave a reasonable answer.
Her brother held her. Couldn’t cry or speak. He was the mute man about town now. And that was
reasonable for an eight-year-old. The newborn babies slept through it all. Oblivious. Babies do
that. Sleep in the afternoons. It is the reasonable thing to do. It was reasonable that I had
bled and cried sewing strange dresses. For even stranger women. All sequence and glitter. For
silver. Now half my home was his. It was very reasonable that he put his hat on and walked into
the sunset. To sow his seed. Go forth and multiply.
There is only one reason for wanting a divorce. Bastard mark
two was on the way. The new voluptuous foetus grower wanted everything legal. The silly bitch had
fallen for the same line I had. Hook, line and sinker. And sink her he would. Deep. Shards of
lunacy and pain would pierce and cut her bloody heart. Crack and shatter the illusion of his
perfect image.
There are no windows in the divorce courts. Just glass panels way
up high for the birds. Everyone is for the birds. All in camera and not a smile to be seen.
Pink, green sickly safe colours. They have tried but it is still a frightening place. I was
frightened. Face to face with the unknown.
I didn’t recognize the bastard at first. He knew my most intimate
secrets and I didn’t know him. I never knew him. I knew the smell. A persons smell never changes.
I smelt the rat. Turned and there he was. Beady little eyes staring at me. I had loved him. Once.
Once he was my friend. The best.
A friend or loved one cannot be with you in the divorce courts. Only
enemies and the unloved. Loneliness and sadness hand like cobwebs waiting to be swept away. Under
the carpet and forgotten. No one is interested in the pedantic little details of your miserable life.
The endless times you wished someone else would put on the kettle or heat the bottles. Pour a glass
of wine. Break the tarnished silence. Speak so you’d hear your own voice. Watch your martyr for the
cause routine.
No ones likes a martyr. No matter what the cause. Details of enforced
retreat and solitude are boring. So let’s hail the conquering hero. The master of his own destiny.
And mine. Give him half a house, let him keep all his money, forget about what he did to his children,
pretend his wife doesn’t exist. Decree it all. Let’s hear it for the bastard. Three cheers for the
big bastard.
In the divorce courts no one has a past. No one wants to remember.
No blame is apportioned. Past, present, future are all together. Its all in the now and the hear ye,
hear ye of the judge. Roll up, Roll up. Grab your partners for the last dance. Last dance. No jury.
Just one good man and true. My face is haggard and lined standing before him. I smell of carbolic and
years of clean cheap living. I am aware of every part of me. It’s all scarred and hurt. I see nicotine
stains on the bastard fingers. Grape tainted teeth. The dark suit is not new. Frayed edges on the shirt.
The cuff gaping open. Nothing to hold it together. And deep down, dark, in the hollow of his eyes there
is a flicker. Not remorse or love. A coldness I saw one day, before, a long time ago. I shiver. The worm
is about to turn again. Bolt. Leave the new love. For a new love.
The judge decrees it. All I have is mine. So I smile.
I go back to the four of them. She is sitting on the bottom stair. Blonde,
hair piled high up on her head. Pulling at her mini skirt. Trying to yank it down over her knees.
Fidgeting with her high platform heels. Waiting. Her brother, gentle giant, is behind her. Silent.
He turns to the twins. They are tired. It has been a long day.
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