10. This Sunday
He pursed his lips and the word came forth.
“Pops”, whispered Cassidy.
He gave a strangled, euphoric yelp and then he laughed out, long and loud,
clapping his hands at the recognition.
‘Red Pops’. That was it, the name of his blue
tailed kite.
Christ,
the banality; his very own ‘Rosebud’
moment.
He
loved Citizen Kane; and Orson Wells; what a man; all of that
early promise; and, and jeez… Red Pops…
Both Daniel and Archie were looking up at him
quizzically, and he in turn squinted up into the blue and breathed in deeply; he loved the parks of North London in early
springtime.
Up there with the jousting kites, a confusion of
gulls stalked the skies, noisily claiming territory. Cassidy craned his neck
and watched as one bird caught another by the wing. After an initial fitful
fluttering, their bodies stiffened and froze, perhaps out of fear, or perhaps
in dazed deference to the gravity of the unfamiliar moment, a moment that
lasted fully twenty seconds, as they looped and twirled in silent dance, a
feathery boomerang skimming the sky, before better nature caused them to
release and break their arcing descent. The two gulls, seemingly chastened,
flew briefly in stunned formation before resuming their raucous rivalry.
“Jeeezus,
did you see that boys?”
“Mom says that you shouldn’t take the Lord’s
name in vain.”
“She’s quite right Daniel. I am sorry, but… did you see that?”
“And
she says that God loves me and Archie more than almost anyone” Cassidy let that
one slide. His boys were due some special attention. In four days time they’d
be in Massachusetts, scattering their Grandpa’s ashes into the bay. He wanted
them to believe that there was purpose to that particular parade. He’d spoken
to his mother the night before. She was rock solid.
“I’m staying put. Why wouldn’t I? The beach
house is my home. Your dad always jokes about it being built on sand but… don’t
fret about me Pickle.”
Pickle.
She hadn’t called him that in years.
“I’ve always taken care of myself while you boys
were off doing your things. Besides tending to your dad’s shrubs there won’t be
too much to adjust to. Still be talking to myself, there’ll just be more
potatoes left over is all…”
Cassidy saw then what he’d known all along: he wanted
to go home. Back to the Cape, back to the beach house, back to what he was
before he wanted to be something else. What prevented his return was that which
he loved the most. His sons needed their mother and she was bound to London.
And although Amelia might be beyond capers, clowns and Cassidy, she sure as
hell needed his benefits: school fees were waived for all faculty kids. That
would keep him here for the next ten years at least. He felt sick, dizzy with
resentment; he’d be in his mid fifties before he would be free to return home to live, to abide. By that time
Annie might have followed Harry and the beach house could have fallen into the
sea…
Cassidy rubbed his brow and stumbled, there was
a rushing cacophony, a crescendo as blood seemed to flood his brain, what sounded
like the snapping of a twig and then just a staggering, bright silence. Cassidy
worked his jaw, shook his head, tried to make his ears pop, but the silence
remained. He looked to the sky again, beyond the squabbling birds, beyond the carnival
of kites, out beyond the blue and, with a jolt, Cassidy saw. He saw that
there was much to be held and nothing to be kept. He felt unburdened; an abrupt
sense of liberation and release; suddenly
everything seemed clear. Cassidy shook his head in wonder; this was his
morning for epiphanies.
The noises of the park gradually returned to him
and he tested the air.
“The
obsession’s in the chasing and not the apprehending”, he quietly sang.
Tom Waits.
He loved Tom
Waits.
His eyes stung and his throat ached. Cassidy paused,
a hand on each son’s shoulder. He softly squeezed, and then gently pushed the boys
into the breeze, towards the football pitch. A group of kids were clapping and noisily
cheering Johnny, their maverick coach, who balanced a ball on his head like a
performing seal.
You should
throw that man a fish.
The young brothers turned back towards their
father, both gave a puzzled shrug, rolled their eyes and sighed in unison “a
fish?”
Cassidy swallowed hard.
“See you guys in a couple of hours. Love you
both”
And don’t take
any shit from that Johnny, he thought.
“Dad”, howled Archie, “you did it again.”
Life,
thought Cassidy, placing a cautionary hand over his mouth, is fucking killing me.
He returned the boys to Amelia bang on time. He
even got a wave and a smile from the doorway seven steps up. From Bayswater he stepped
with a spring, up through Hyde Park to Marble Arch and then along Oxford
Street. At Oxford Circus he turned north up Regents Street and entered Regents
Park at its southern end. Without thinking he broke into a steady jog. He
passed the boating lake and the bandstand and at the northern edge he turned
east on the outer circle until he reached the zoo. He then turned north towards
the southern slopes of Primrose Hill, following the now familiar path to the
brow of the hill. As he surged up the slope Cassidy was giddy with hope; though
still steeped in sadness, for the first time in an age he felt that he was
running towards something. An elderly
man feeding fish and chips to a scruffy mongrel occupied the bench. As Cassidy
approached he recognized the slippers on the man’s feet.
“Monty, what are you doing here? Fancy the
chances…”
‘Ah Pete, how are you doing old boy. Not such a
coincidence really; you’ve rattled on about this bench so many times that I
thought I’d come and see what all the fuss was about. It’s quite a setting.”
Monty nodded southward “What a city?”
Cassidy stretched and eyed the view. “How’s the
healing Monty?”
“Oh, fine, fine, though gently does it; weeping
wounds… As you can see I’ve become more discerning about the company I keep.”
He patted the dog. “My new best friend. I’ve decided to call him Claude.”
“To protect you from his namesake?”
“No, that particular son of a bitch is long
gone. I decided that I needed some reliable company; I took at trip down to the
dog’s home in Battersea. I never could resist a pathetic stray. Our eyes met
and I think that we both recognized a kindred spirit. He’s a good egg. We’re
well suited; we’ll stop each other from wandering.
“Speaking of which,” said Cassidy jogging on the
spot “I’ve got to keep moving or I’ll seize up. See you back at the ranch
Monty.”
“Indeed. Cheerio old boy.”
Cassidy patted Claude, helped himself to a chip
from the greasy paper bag and then turned back down the slope, exiting the park
at Elsworthy Terrace. Picking up the pace he crossed the Finchley Road at Swiss
Cottage and was soon at the front door of his apartment block in West
Hampstead.
He entered the communal doorway and slid his key
into the door of his flat. Before he had the chance to turn the key the door swung
open on fractured hinges.
Turmoil; upended furniture, broken glass,
scattered papers, an aroma of stale sweat, the rustle of material, a shadowy
movement, a punch to the ribs. He didn’t feel much; a stinging pain as the
knife entered his side, then just a dull ache that he knew to be deliverance.
He dropped to his knees and gently lowered himself onto the carpet face down. His
eyes watered and he blinked away the tears. From his supine position his vision
was limited and darkening with every shortening breath. That run had taken it
out of him. He needed to breathe deeply to control his gasping. He tried
humming, that would calm him. He blinked again and focused on ‘The Cassidys’,
he and his brothers standing with Harry after that final gig. The photograph lay
skew on the floor with the glass and frame shattered. Next to the picture were broken
pieces of terra cotta pot and damp earth. His cactus lay flaccid, like a fish
out of water. Or a limp dick thought
Cassidy. Was that irony or symbolism, metaphor or simile? That was one for
Archie’s next breakfast question time.
He could hear movement but couldn’t raise his
head.
What a weird
and wonderful week, he thought.
“Say what? What’s that? Say something?”
Cassidy recognized the lisp.
“Want some more, bitch?”
Claude knelt beside him and rifled his pockets
roughly.
Cassidy stared at a Rolex with a crocodile
strap; Monty’s watch on Claude’s wrist. He fixed on the frozen second hand as
it twitched and pulsed with every second, ineffectively pushing against an unseen
resistance, and he found himself breathing in time with that retarded tick. He
needed to do something but couldn’t think what that might be. He’d just lie
there a little longer until he felt… less tired.
As his breath shortened Cassidy was overwhelmed
by a tremendous sense of calm. And he was filled with love; he loved his
parents, his brothers, Daniel and Archie, Monty, Christ, he even loved Claude. The whole wide world was in his arms
and it was no burden because Cassidy
cared. He started humming again, and only then did he recognize the tune.
Joni.
He loved Joni
Mitchell.
His fingertips caressed the carpet and he felt
himself sink deeper.
“Amelia, it was
just a false alarm”
The carpet rose to meet him.
“Amelia, it was
just a false alarm”
The carpet absorbed him.
“Amelia, it was
just a false alarm”
He stared in wonder as the detailed patterns
merged into a glorious golden brown.
“Amelia…”
Cassidy closed his eyes and she turned towards
him.
He saw sun splashed pigtails and the grain of
her hair, all burnt copper and straw.
She simply said “Hello handsome” and that was that.
***
“What’s that son?”
Harry leant closer this time.
Cassidy could smell Old Spice and modeling glue.
“Nothing Pops, just… thinking out loud.”
His mother’s voice sang out from within the
beach house, “Suppers nearly ready you two. Up to the table in five minutes.”
Cassidy squinted and fixed on his cactus,
searching for a word.
Harry reached down and gently slid the turquoise
pot out of their creeping shadow and into the softening light.
“Some things can’t be fixed Pete, some things
are beyond repair, but it’s good that you care son; there can be a blessing to
burden.” He rubbed his forehead and then rocked back into his chair, crossing
his heavy hands against his chest as if nursing an injured bird.
Cassidy did the self same thing.
There was much that he needed to let go of, but
not this.
He needed to hold this close, and wondered if he
would.
The sun was sinking over the salt marshes and a
bourbon sky gently backlit his father, ancient and immortal.
He looked into that steady eye, then down at his
own shaking, outsized hands, and Cassidy realized, with some relief, that his
fate was sealed.
*** Fin
***
Kites
We
are all connected
By
our unravellings
But
don’t always feel the tug
The
line might tighten
Leave
a mark
Draw
blood even
Then
relax and
All
will seem normal again
Limbo
It’s
sorrow’s way
A
gentle rise and fall
Towards
oblivion
We
mark the journey
And
then leave without a destination
The
rest is hazard
With
joyful detours and interludes
Still,
the path remains sorrow’s way
