by Cara Finegan
Irish coffee
After sex I lay in his arms. He held
me close. Wrapped his arms around me and whispered about what a great team
we made. Whirring thoughts in my brain revealed the truth. This was when he
excelled, what made him feel good. Swelling with pride at the monster he’d
created. He treated me like a boisterous bitch that he was trying to train. Praised
me and gave me treats when I agreed with him. Regardless of whether or not I
was admitting my own incompetence, my own mental deterioration. If agreeing
with him was admonishing myself, all the better. It made him feel righteous.
Powerful. It made him feel like God.
He drifted off to sleep. But I couldn’t
sleep. I was too busy remembering the extinguishing of my memories. Too focused
on the replaying of my bonfire of the vanities. That was what he liked
to call that Halloween. Our first Halloween together.
‘I’ve a surprise for you, ma love.’
I’d just returned from answering the door for the tenth time to demons, witches
and the odd caped crusader who were gathering treats.
‘I love surprises.’ He was sitting
on the settee, arms spread out over the back. He poured me a glass of wine.
‘You’ll love this surprise.’ He
winked at me and I felt like a child as I clapped my hands.
‘What is it?’ I searched the room
for a box or bag.
‘Jesus, show some patience.’ His arm
snaked around my shoulders. ‘It’s an important surprise. It’s for both of us.
It’ll show how much I love you.’
‘I know you love me.’
‘And I know that I get annoyed
sometimes and that there’s been a few hiccups already and us only married a few
months.’
‘Everyone has hiccups.’ I tugged at
the wedding band on my finger.
‘Exactly. That’s why I wanted to
organise something memorable.’ My mind raced, imagining a romantic weekend or
some pretty piece of bespoke jewellery. I looked at his handsome face and I
thought about how lucky I was. A terrible feeling of guilt washed over me. I’d
begun to think that getting married was a huge mistake. That I was doing it all
wrong. That I was making my new husband hate and resent me. I must have misread
him.
‘Tell me what it is.’ I leaned in to
kiss his cheek. ‘Please.’
‘Patience is a virtue, ma love. Ten
minutes.’
‘You’re so mean.’ I joked. I pulled
playfully at his shirt, but he swiped my hand away angrily, his brow furrowed.
I froze. Panicked as I stumbled over my words. ‘I was only joking. I know
you’re not mean.’ My heart thumped so hard I thought he could hear it. He
jerked his head toward me stopping just short of my face. I jumped back. He
laughed. As if he'd just heard the funniest joke.
‘Look at you.’ He pointed at me,
grinning. ‘You’re scared shitless. You need to lighten up.’ He grabbed my face
roughly and kissed it. I breathed out a confused and unnerved sigh of relief.
‘I thought you were mad at me.’
‘For what? Am I that bad?’ He
stretched his arms above his head and yawned. ‘Right.’ His hands slapped the
sofa. ‘Let’s get this show on the road.’ He stood up and pulled me by the hand
after him through the kitchen and out into the back courtyard. I had decorated
the courtyard positioning pumpkins along the steps and around the walls. I
admired the carefully made grimaces that flickered in the crisp evening air. I’d
spent hours decorating the courtyard with them. All carved by me. Despite their
eerie smiles they looked pretty and autumnal. He led me to one of the
deckchairs. There was a vase of flowers from the garden sitting on the table. I
hadn’t seen him set these out.
‘You even picked flowers?’ My heart
did a merry little dance. I clasped my hands to my chest.
‘Wait. We need your favourite
things. Music and wine.’ He ran into the house returning seconds later with a
blanket and a glass of red wine. He handed me the glass and kissed the tip of
my nose before draping the blanket around my shoulders. The cd player was
pulled out to the patio doors. He held up a shiny disc. I recognised my
handwriting in permanent marker across the front of it. He smirked at me
‘What’s wrong, ma love? You’ve gone very pale.’
‘Nothing. Everything’s perfect.’ My
mind raced but I tried to look unphased.
He put the cd on, and Piano Man
started playing. I knew what cd he’d used. It was a collection of songs that I’d
compiled myself only a few weeks earlier, I’d been feeling down and lonely and
had written “Memories” on the shiny disc. As soon as I’d written the word I
knew it was a mistake. I should have chosen a different word. So I hid the cd
in my knicker drawer just in case it annoyed him. I only listened to it when he
wasn’t there. I smiled at him when he stooped to look into my eyes. He kissed
me, tweaked my cheek. His face was open and gentle. He could have been mistaken
for a prince in a Disney movie.
‘You’re going to enjoy this, ma
love. I know I can be a bit agitated every now and again, so I want tonight to
be all about you.’ Another pang of guilt flashed across my brain. Why was I
always so easily offended? Why did I never give him the benefit of the
doubt? I shook that doubt away and
mouthed the words ‘I love you’ to him. He did the same.
‘This is exciting. Are you getting a
drink too?’
‘Of course.’ He left to get his wine
but instead returned with a large cardboard box. The box seemed new and had
black-markered words written on the side. Halloween Surprise. I could
tell from the way he carried it that there was a strain from the weight.
‘What’s all this?’ He walked past me
and half set, half dropped the box on the ground.
‘All will be revealed. I need a
drink first.’ He made to go into the house then turned abruptly. ‘No peeking.
I’ll be really cross.’
‘I’m not going to peek.’ I laughed.
‘I’m not a party pooper.’ I pulled the blanket tightly around my shoulders and
took a sip of the wine.
‘Good girl.’ He disappeared into the
house. I glanced around our courtyard. It was dancing with the eerie shadows of
ugly, grimacing faces. I noticed the barbecue had been taken down from the
shed. It stood in one corner like a miniaturised red and black UFO, like
someone had modelled a flying saucer and stuck it on three metal legs. To one
side of it was a bag of kindling sticks. Beside those was a can of lighter fuel
and a box of matches, these were sitting on top of newspapers. I jumped when
his hand touched my shoulder and I realised he was beside me; he had moved so
stealthily. He was holding a bottle of beer.
‘How come the barbecue’s down?’
‘Nothing gets past you, love does
it?’
‘It’s not long since we had dinner.’
‘Oh don’t worry, it’s not for food.’
‘Oh.’
‘It’s your surprise. We’re going to
have our own private wee bonfire.’ He
began to pull the barbecue into the middle of the courtyard using his free
hand. It screeched and rattled.
‘So the bonfire’s my surprise?’
‘Yep.’
‘Oh.’ I hadn’t meant for my voice to
sound so disappointed, so dejected, but even I heard how ungrateful I sounded.
He stopped and glared at me.
‘What type of a surprise did you
think I meant? I’m trying to be thoughtful here.’
‘I’m sorry. I know you are. I
didn’t mean it to come out like that.’
‘Other women would be ecstatic to
have a husband that was as romantic as me. I try to think outside the box to
keep you happy.’ He took a long guzzle from the beer.
‘I am happy. I’m sorry.’
‘Maybe tell your face that.’ I put
my glass down and got up from the chair. I wrapped my arms around his neck, the
blanket folding around him.
‘I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful.’
I kissed his beer bittered lips. ‘I know you’re being thoughtful. Don’t let me
ruin the surprise.’ I smiled at him. He relented, his expression softened.
‘Sit back down.’ I did as I was
told. He became more animated, more dramatic. He stood up straight with his
shoulders pushed back, one arm across his abdomen and one behind his back, his
chin up. Then he projected his voice like he was a ringmaster.
‘Tonight, ladies and gentlemen, is a very unique night.’ I clapped my
hands and beamed with delight. ‘Tonight we are going to have a spectacle
indeed.’
‘Yay.’ I clasped my hands to my chin
in amusement.
‘A bonfire to celebrate the true
love of a most beautiful and wonderful couple.’ He paused dramatically turning
around as if waiting on the crowd to applaud. I applauded and voiced a few
encouragements. ‘Tonight we are going to have a bonfire of the vanities.’ I
clapped again, then took another sip of wine. He lifted the lid and the
barbequing rack off the barbecue and set them aside, then bent down and lifted
the newspaper. The can of lighter fluid fell onto its side.
‘To begin with, oh hold on a
minute.’ He returned the lighter fluid to its upright position. ‘Let me set the
scene, ladies and gentlemen.’ He used large movements as he pulled out each
page, twisted it tightly, showed the invisible crowd, then laid it in the drum.
‘It’s important to get every, detail perfect. This bonfire will symbolise a new
beginning. The death of all that is negative. It will kill all the
transgressions of the past. It is our Salem.’ I applauded enthusiastically,
happy that he was in such an upbeat mood. The light from the jack-o-lanterns
flickered mysteriously on his face. I remembered how easily I’d fallen for him.
How I used to tell all my friends how lucky I was snagging a catch like him.
When he was finished with the twisting he emptied the bag of kindling sticks
onto the paper.
‘This is so much fun.’
‘I’m glad you’re amused, ma love.’
He said with a cheeky grin, then returned to his ringmaster voice. ‘Drink up,
ladies and gentlemen, we’re almost ready.’ I held up my glass to him in a
silent toast. Reflections of orange light from the lanterns twinkled and
mingled with the wine. He lit the edges of various pieces of paper, letting the
flames take hold, then squirted some lighter fuel into the drum of paper and
wood. The flames sparked and danced and cracked into pretty flecking tongues of
fire. I gasped, giddy with glee. He waved his arms over the flames as if
concocting a spell.
‘Look, ma love, I’m being one of
your witches.’ His grin held something else, something I couldn’t put my finger
on. His eyes sparkled with mischief and a horrible feeling of dread washed over
me. He danced his way to the box and opened the cardboard flaps out. I saw at
the top of the contents a colourful, silk shawl. My shawl. A shawl that had
been bought for me at a Fleetwood Mac concert in Hamburg by a boy that I was
madly in love with. He’d been killed in a car accident a few weeks later. I was
devastated. The night of the concert I had dressed up as Stevie, but instead of
a shawl I only had an old piece of cloth thrown over my shoulders. He bought me
the most expensive shawl that night. We both knew he couldn’t afford it, but he
insisted on buying it. He’d whispered in my ear. ‘You’re my Stevie. My wild
child. I love you.’ I remembered his lips tasted of my strawberry flavoured
lipstick. He put the shawl over my shoulders and lifted me up as he spun me
around. butterflies danced up a storm. I believed I would be with him
forever.
‘So, looky here. What’s this?’ He
lifted the shawl from the box. I inhaled slowly.
‘That’s my Stevie shawl. Where did
you get that?’
‘Oh it was at the back of your
wardrobe wrapped around some of your most intimate belongings.’ I made to get
up, but he held up his hand. ‘No. Stay where you are, ma love.’ I slumped back
down. The flames skipped and crackled into the night air. Rhiannon
played out and he walked over to me. The blanket was lifted from my shoulders
and replaced with a shiver and the shawl. The smell of patchouli wafted up.
‘You’ve been unfaithful to me
already.’ He rummaged around in the box. His back to me.
‘What? I’d never be unfaithful.’
‘Really? I believe you’re lying, ma
love.’ He was shuffling paper. Letters. I knew what they were.
‘Why would you say that? I don’t
leave the house except to go to the shops.’ I could hear a whine in my voice. I
tried to stop it. It was cloying and pitiful.
‘Oh I don’t mean that you’ve been
shagging someone. Why would anyone else want to shag you.’ I gasped. What had I
done?
‘What?’
‘Are you deaf? Why would anyone want
to shag you? Please listen. There’s nothing worse than a wife who ignores you.’
He was still smiling. His words didn’t fit his expression. My eyes darted.
Tried to make sense of the shift in mood.
‘What have I done? Tell me. We were
having a lovely night and now..’
‘It’s still lovely. It’s only the beginning,
ma love. Look.’ He held up his hand. They had a handful of letters tied with
purple ribbon. ‘Love letters. This is you being unfaithful to your husband.’
‘But they were before you. They’re
only keepsakes. He’s dead now.’
‘You must still love him. you can’t
love more than one man. Not unless you’re a dirty slut.’
‘I told you about him. You know the
story. They’re only memories.’
‘If they’re only memories you won’t
mind burning them then.’
‘But, why?’
‘Are you serious? You’re sitting
here reading letters form old boyfriends. How do you think that makes me feel?’
‘I’m not sitting reading them.
They’re just to look back on. To laugh at in years to come.’
‘In this marriage we’re only going
to look forward.’ He handed me the letters. ‘Burn them.’
‘But…’
‘Burn them. It’s only your vanity
wanting to keep them. You want to read through them and see how irresistible
you were.’
‘No. He’s dead. I love you.’
‘I’m not having letters in my house from
some drug addled hippy who wanted to fuck my wife.’
‘That’s not what they’re about.’
‘I know what they’re about. I’ve
been through them.’ He waved his hand over the box. ‘This is our time. There’s
no room for anyone else.’
‘Don’t I get a say in this?’
‘You don’t need a say anymore, ma
love. I’m looking after you now.’
I stopped arguing after that. I
dropped my memories one by one into a metal drum. I watched flames carry pieces
of paper up into the sky towards the stars. Not just letters from boyfriends.
Photographs of my family at birthdays and Christmas celebrations, of me in
cities that I’d visited. Pictures of my friends and I at concerts, mouths open
in laughter and joyousness. Books that I’d received as presents inscribed with
witty comments. “For my wild and wonderful friend. Keep smiling you wee
nutter.” He even made me burn my graduation photograph with Mum and Dad smiling
proudly. My mum who was battling cancer then. My mum who saw the change in my
face just weeks after getting married, who asked me questions about my
happiness and tried to organise weekends away just for me and her. I hid it all
from her. I made excuses and lost precious time. Now, I’d also lost precious
photographs of all the people who cared for me. Who were a part of me. The
numbness began that night. The numbness that still holds me prisoner.
He went to bed content that night,
after he had made me dance around the bonfire. After he made me throw my shawl
on the fire to finish it all off. I
watched the reds, greens and purples melt and curl. He’d won. Again. I stayed
outside shivering until the bonfire died. I retrieved two things that night. A
piece of purple silk melted and hardened black around the edges, and a tiny
piece of a photograph, my mother’s hand holding mine. One of my fingers rested
on her thick, gold wedding band. I’d watched the remnants of the picture spiral
up into the sky in a glowing, desperate escape. It had fluttered down
eventually to settle on the concrete. I lifted it when he left and placed it
carefully into the locket that he’d given me as a wedding present. I took his
picture out, positioned my mother’s hand behind it, then replaced his face
again.
He groaned in his sleep. I released
myself from his arms and turned my back to him. I watched the quivering leaves
on the trees outside my bedroom window, shards of light from the magnificently
luminescent moon shone through them on to our bed. I fell asleep holding hands
with my mother as I gripped the locket that still hung around my neck after all
these years.
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