The rabbit jerked its gaze towards the house but felt that, no—on consideration it must decline. Chew chew. The base of Kenneth’s palm hurt, and yet how briefly elevating it had felt to bang one thing very hard against another. “Anger,” Theresa believed, “comes from feeling powerless.” Well, yes. Beep beep beep. A sudden hunch and Kenneth rounded the table quickly to depress the fat button of the microwave; the little door popped and swung out to reveal a vaguely semenistic stain of hardened oatmeal on the frosted circular plate. But no, not the microwave. He sat on the edge of the sofa and waited. The room was silent. He stood up and waited, and the room was silent. He walked back and stood at the kitchen window and looked out and waited. Beep beep beep.
That sky hanging over the back hills was heavy with rain about to get falling. Sidney, his older brother, would be heading up to the cattle in an hour or so. He’d get soaked.
Beep beep beep.
In every room in the house something was dying or calling out or crying to be tended to and soothed and nursed again on energy. Behind that rabbit, on the hillside in McMullens’s field, the pylon, the carrier of all that energy, stood with its arms upraised like St. Kevin’s, in perpetual ache, bringing the news of heat and light to all these decent bill-paying people. At the beech hedge the telegraph pole met a substantial black cable and led it down into the soil to swim through articulated tubing beneath the neat lawn and raucous flowerbeds, a few potato drills by the bitumen fence, the three bent-backed apple trees, and the tarmac and newly varnished decking, before it surfaced at the back door to surge through the rubberized wires in the wall, slalom the fuse box circuits, and arrive in his house to power this fucking beeping he still could not locate.
There was a rumble of the cattle grid and a second later Judith’s Volvo swung round the back of the house. The bunny upped and scarpered across the grass into the beech hedge, and the finality of the movement—the way the coppery leaves gulped down the little marshmallow tail—pleased Kenneth. He liked it best when problems disappeared themselves. He thought of Liz, his eldest, sloping towards him across twenty-five years, down in the hollow of Faulkner’s back field, retrieving a rabbit Kenneth had just shot. The wee lass’s lanky arm straight out, the coney hanging by the ears, urine still trickling from it. He remembered how his daughter had turned away from the thing, her mouth closed tight and her face concentrated upon not showing any emotion at all. He’d shot it through the hindquarters, the bullet entering from the back, and as Liz walked along little bits of white fluff came off the tail like a dandelion clock unseeding.
He put the kettle on and pressed his fingertips against it until they started to hurt with the heat. It was what? Eleven o’clock? A quarter past. He felt sleepy and heavy, like he might tip forward onto the counter. He tried it slightly, letting his stomach press against its beveled edge. The New Truth Mission calendar hung on a nail by the window, a little black child grinning out at him from Africa, delighted to receive some wispy shaving of Kenneth’s eight pound monthly direct debit. The child had a perfectly round head, and perfectly round eyes with perfectly round pupils, black circles in white circles in a black circle …
Judith was back now, she was just outside, she would come through the door and events would happen, life would move forward. A starling hung upside down on the feeder, mutilating with a wild flurry of pecks the fat ball he’d put out after breakfast. They went so quick. He’d bought twenty of them in Poundland only a couple of weeks ago. The door of the Volvo banged shut. The sky above the Sperrins was like a sheet of lead, cutting him off from all sources of energy—the sun’s heat, the sun’s light. He was trying to put off the thought that in two days there would be 112 drunk people in his garden, no doubt trampling over his newly planted flowerbeds.
The next beep entered his left ear a millisecond earlier than the right, and with a small grunt of triumph he realized it must be the tumble dryer. It sat atop the washing machine in the little porch by the back door. He pressed the button with the symbol of the key and the porthole clicked open; Kenneth pulled out the clothes in tangled clumps and let them fall in the plastic basket by his feet. They gave off warmth and a lilac smell and Kenneth felt his mood shift slightly upwards. The optimism of a load of freshly tumbled clothes. He could see his morning spreading benignly out before him. A bit of telly, one of the auction shows. A cappuccino. A piece of shortbread. But then as he lifted the basket, beep beep beep. It came from behind him, from the tumbler again.
Seeing the pixelated Judith looming through the back door, fiddling with keys, he said loudly, “But this is only ridiculous!”
He had the basket in his arms and was stepping through to the kitchen when she got the back door open. He could see immediately that something was not right by the look on her face, that his own morning trials were about to be subsumed by something much larger, but he kept going and set the basket on the table, and was already back in his armchair by the time she’d hung up her coat and come in. Maybe if he didn’t look at her, maybe if he kept his focus to the orange-skinned fool on the TV pricing antiques, whatever was coming would not arrive.
Judith unpacked the bags and put the shopping away, letting the cupboards slap shut, Kenneth noted, with scant regard for the hinges.
He kept on staring at the TV, but on the far left of his vision he could still see her, trying to arrange scarlet tulips in a Belleek vase so that a bent-necked one stayed straight in the middle of the bunch. It flopped forward, and again. The rain that had been threatening for the last hour started. Big drops exploding on the roof of the car. The patio spotted, mottled, in a moment darkened uniformly.
“I don’t know why I ever buy these. They never last. Honest to God the petals are already coming off this …”
Something in her voice—some new alarm, some warning—made him turn to her. He softened as he always did at the sight of sadness and stood up in his new, tentative way, and went to her. She was sobbing now and fell into him, and held him while he repeated—although he knew the answer—“What’s wrong, what’s wrong? Whatever’s wrong now?”
The moment the students filed out of the classroom, Liz felt humiliated. She could never entirely shake the suspicion that they had been laughing at her moments before she entered, and then at best they seemed indifferent and at worst contemptuous through the long three hours that followed. The ideal of teaching was surely to produce something like a gravitational effect when one walked into the room. She’d certainly had dons like that: dry, thickly draped women with hair in retentive buns; or Professor Paulson himself, who would walk up the lecture hall to a silence that gathered and gathered until only the sound of his footsteps ascending to the podium were heard. But lately Liz found herself forced to the conclusion that she was of a different stripe, the kind of teacher who talks fast because she’s not entirely sure of her facts, directs questions to the logorrheics to waste time, and forgets her grading, or forgets to do it, and whose lesson plan is three lines long and most weeks consists of reading out chapters of her own far-from-finished book. She couldn’t get her act together. Although the classroom engendered panic, it was never quite enough to spur her into useful action. Now she closed the door behind the last shuffling backpack, fell into one of their empty seats, and at once opened her Gmail, looking for relief, distraction, and read: LIZ: URGENT DISASTER which seemed an accurate if brutal definition.
Liz, darling, it’s Margo—
It’s been so long! Too long!
I still think back to the Myth project with such affection and such pride and I’ve been hoping to work with you again for the longest time. I heard you were teaching in America so I hope this e-mail finds you happy and well and ensconced in life stateside. But not *too* happy and not *too* well! Because I need your help!
A somebody called Charlotte