Happy Mother's Day! When my great friend and fabulous writing colleague
Nuala Nà Chonchúir and I realised a few months ago that we both had new short story collections with the word "mother" in the title, we decided we'd do something a little special for this day, a different twist on the old book promo, where I would bring you a story from Nuala's book,
Mother America, and she from mine. I hosted Nuala on her Virtual Book Tour here last year, we played
word association. I talked about Nuala - author of 4 story collections, 3 poetry collections, a poetry anthology and a novel and - then so I thought this time I'd let her writing speak for her. Suffice it to say this is an absolutely wonderful collection of stories, rich and varied, lush with atmosphere and language. Here is one of my favourite stories in the book:
Letters
Mattie’s letter arrived on Tuesday morning and I saved it, like
always, for the evening. For after my walk on Avenue of the Americas,
which I take to feel like I am alive. For after a coffee with Vito in
the Washington Square Diner, where we indulged in our small ritual of
winks, smiles and chat. For after a meal of tortellini and a glass of
milk, alone in my apartment; I had no vegetables – the asparagus
and broccoli looked groggy in the heat, so I left them at the store.
These days I say store instead of shop; messages are now groceries; I
say sidewalk not footpath. I will never blend in but, with words, I
make some effort.
Mattie was always my favourite, though they say a mother doesn’t
have such a thing. He was my best boy before we left the old country,
right up until we came to New York. His brothers were tougher, gone
from me sooner; Mattie had stuck around my ankles since he was a
baby. I named him for his father and, though I don’t like to think
of that old fool, I always enjoy remembering Mattie as a boy, before
he made us come away, leaving all behind.
~
Steam swelled from Mattie’s woollen socks.
‘Would you ever keep your feet back from the fire, son?’ I said.
Mattie grunted, resenting the interruption. He was reading to me from
the Evening Press, an after school habit he took on when his
father died. I sometimes listened, sometimes didn’t; all the
stories were sad.
‘What?’ he said.
‘Will you go to the pit? I want to start the dinner,’ I said.
He sighed, hunched his body further into the chair, and rattled the
newspaper. ‘Do you not want to hear the last bit of this?’
‘Go on and get me the spuds,’ I said, knowing he wouldn’t.
I heaved myself up, got the bucket from the pantry, and lifted the
back-door latch. The potato pit was covered with flour sacks; I
flicked one off and leaned forward, ready to fill the bucket. I
stopped. There was a frog on the pile, squatting fat and perfect like
a little king; I let a roar and jumped away from the pit. Mattie came
running.
‘Ma?’
‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph. Get it!’ I shouted.
‘What? What is it?’
‘There’s a frog. Bring something to trap it in.’
He ran back into the kitchen and fumbled in the dresser. I could
hear him banging the drawers and cursing while I stood, trying to
keep the frog fixed to its spot by staring at it. The frog’s body
pulsed and made me feel sick; I willed it not to move. Mattie came
out and walked slowly to the pit, his face worried.
‘It looks wicked,’ he said. The frog lunged forward, a jump that
didn’t move it far, and I imagined I heard the squelch of its
insides; Mattie leapt. ‘Jesus, it looks wicked. Wicked!’
‘How are you going to catch it?’ I said. He held up a sugar bag
and a spoon. ‘God almighty,’ I said, thinking I’d have to throw
away the spoon after. A waste.
Mattie knelt by the pit, holding the bag and the spoon. He worried
his bottom lip with his teeth. I looked again at the frog; its skin
was like an autumn leaf, mottled and dry.
‘He’s not slimy at all,’ I said.
‘It’s awful big. For a frog.’
‘Go on, son, get him.’
The frog looked ahead lazily, its cheeks twitching. Then it belched
and jumped again; its skin changed from brown to green in the evening
light.
‘The fecker,’ Mattie shrieked, and fell onto his behind.
‘Catch it, Mattie. Spoon it in, come on. Oh God.’ I felt giddy
and wanted to laugh, though I was afraid; I pulled my skirt closer to
my legs, thinking of the frog’s skin touching my own.
‘I’m telling you, it looks wicked,’ Mattie said.
His brothers came back in the middle of it all; Stephen stood in the
doorway.
‘What’s going on, Ma?’
‘Look, there’s a huge frog on the potato pit. He’s lepping
about.’
Stephen laughed. He lunged forward, grabbed the frog into his big
hands, and hooshed it over the back wall. Johnny crowded behind
Stephen, laughing at Mattie, who was still holding the sugar bag and
spoon. I clipped Johnny on the ear to shut him up, but he laughed
more.
Stephen and Johnny called Mattie ‘Wicked’ for a while after that;
I said not to mind them.
~
Now there’s no back yard, no fireplace, no potato pit. There are
seven storeys below me and three above; I never imagined people lived
in any way but our own, until Mattie brought me here. He brought me
here and left me here, to go as far away again to the other coast, to
a place full of Mexicans.
My view is of glass-fronted blocks and an old brownstone that huddles
between two taller buildings; I have to lean out to see the street
below, but its noises come clearly to me: sirens, banging trash-cans,
shouting, and endless cars with tooting horns. This city is always on
the go.
I walk on Tuesday along Avenue of the Americas. Mattie’s letter is
a comforting, papery wad in my pocket. I haven’t carried a handbag
since a dirty-faced girl dragged me to the ground trying to pull it
from my hands. My legs got scraped but the little bitch didn’t get
my bag; she hadn’t reckoned on the strength of an Irish mother.
These days I carry all my bits and bobs – money, hankie, keys –
in my pockets, like a man.
The Avenue is throbbing as it always is with hucksters and mad-men
and ordinary people doing ordinary things: shopping, arguing,
hurrying. I’ve never known such a place for haste. I’m glad to
leave the busy Avenue for The Washington Square Diner. My back is
clammy with sweat when I push open the door; it’s cool inside. Vito
is sitting at the window, his behind lapping over the sides of a high
stool like rising dough.
‘Bridie,’ he says, getting down off the stool, ‘when will you
be my bride?’ He kisses my hand and leads me into my booth.
‘Vito, like I tell you every week, I’ve been up the aisle once
already and that was enough for me.’ I smile.
‘You break my heart,’ he says, and claps his meaty hands across
his chest. He brings us two coffees and winks. I wink back. Vito is
fat – fatter than me – and he already has a wife. ‘And how is
your son, Bridie?’ he says.
‘I have his letter right here.’ I pull it from my pocket. Vito
takes the letter and fingers it; he stares at the sealed envelope,
the stamp, my address and Mattie’s, as if it all might tell him
something.
‘So many words, so many letters,’ he says, and hands it back to
me.
‘Yes, Vito, there are so many words. So many letters.’
We sip our coffee and Vito squeezes my fingers in his plump ones. ‘I
love you, Bridie. Really,’ he says.
‘You’re a silly old man, Vito.’
The heat swaddles me when I leave the diner, wrapping itself around
my face and body; it pulls the breath from my lungs and makes me
gasp. The whole city is muffled under this blanket of still air. The
coffee has made me hotter than before and the grocery store is two
blocks away. Still, I’m in the mood for crisp vegetables; the taste
of something clean. On the way, I think about the letter, wondering
what news it might hold; I put my hand over my pocket to protect it.
At the store, the vegetables in the boxes outside are browned and
sagging, so I don’t buy any. The greengrocer shrugs apologetically
at me from inside and I send him a little wave.
My apartment is warm but not as heavy as the street. I switch on the
air-conditioning; it bangs and thrums, so I switch it off again –
one less noise in the city’s din. I warm up some tortellini that
Vito has given me, but they are dry and salty in my mouth. I drink a
cup of milk to loosen up my tongue; it tastes good – cold and
creamy like the milk back home. When I’ve finished eating, I push
the window wide and pull my chair up to it. I sit with my back to the
window and let the warm air dry the sweat on my blouse. Taking the
envelope from my pocket, I slit it open with the blade of a scissors.
There is money, of course, and, this time, a photograph. I put the
dollar bills into my pocket and study the picture.
There is Mattie, moon-faced and smiling, stouter now than when he
left; his arm is draped across the black wife and she is grim and
thin, holding a baby across her breasts. Is this a son? My grandson?
They are standing at a railing by the sea. There is writing on the
back of the picture. I study the curls and squiggles; I see ‘M’
for Mattie and another ‘M’. This is one of the letters I know; I
know B makes the start of Bridie too. Maybe, I think, he has named
his boy Matthew, for himself.
I unfold the letter: it’s a long one, three pages. Poring over
each sheet in turn, I run my finger under the lines, trying for
letters and words, pushing into my mind for something. When I reach
the end of each page, I toss it over my shoulder, out the window, to
the street below. I throw the envelope out after the pages and hold
the photograph between my fingers; I stare at the three faces and go
to send it over my shoulder, along with the rest. My hand stops in
mid-air and I look at the photo again; my darling son is smiling for
me. I take up the scissors and cut Mattie from the picture. Throwing
the other bit of the photograph out of the window, I bend and kiss
Mattie’s happy face. Next Tuesday I will show Vito a picture of my
son.
To read more about Nuala's collection - and all her writings - and to find out how to buy the book, visit
NualaNiChonchuir.com. Happy Mother's Day to all.
For published and aspiring writers alike - enter the Writers' & Artists' Yearbook 2013 short story competition and you could win: