‘Samoan Parakeet’ by Mary O’Donoghue

A window wave flittered from Nallin’s wife. The mini-roundabout taken fast and tidy. Her Ka a bright orange bead in the curved traffic mirror. His own long gone back to the company. The morning cold and opening wide to receive the day’s vulnerabilities.

Their girl pulling Nallin’s arm harder this morning. Fourth morning to walk the prom. Again the diving board. Again no. Big yellow concrete platform facing east. Already a cluttered catwalk. Teenagers hanging off one another. Lankiness and paleness and flags of sunburn. A grope before the plunge.

A dolphin knocking round those waters last year. No time to read the papers back then. Now giving anything to know what happened that dolphin. That other dolphin down in Dingle for thirty years. Fun-loving little fucker getting photographed with Pierce Brosnan and one of the Kennedys.

The platform teenagers swallow-diving to the water. Sculptures for a moment. Ungainly and their gawky selves back on the sand. Then up the platform to do it all over again.

Hauled harder by her. Reel her back from traffic slapping past. Always a shock, her granite. His brother in the girder set of her shoulders.

No. No platform. Not their thing this morning. Will they walk. Just walk. Wouldn’t that be grand.

Nearly strong enough to flip him up and over. Tilt-a-whirl. Young couple going by getting told they’re in LOVE, they’re having a BABY. Kissing her big thing lately. Barbie and the man doll in a permanent clinch on the desk. From Here to Eternity. Barbie on top. The young couple smiling sympathy. The way most people did.

*

Failure of the imagination. Could hardly recall the time before they were told the situation. Never mind a time when she never was. His wife an adjuster. An adapter. Always been. Making the best of their lot.

Last time of calling was acne. Neck and cheeks flaring most terribly. Her back. Prescriptions sought and painted on. Telling their girl sal-i-cyc-lic acid. Supposed to do wonders. Muslin mittens found to help night scratching. Could never imagine a skinny teen in their kitchen. A girl aglow with sun rudeness and some lad’s hands.

Only ever two conversations about having another better one next time. His wife wondering. Second time his suggestion. Quashed as selfish.

Walking all the tighter to her. Daring passers-by. Look longer. Go on then. On the fuck. He’d be happy. Oh more than to punch their lights out.

His wife not like that at all. Pride in her bearing when they all walked out together. The tone set. Their girl treated as a girl. Not sweat billowing when she lunged up from watching telly. Not scabs. Not the gerbil tickled to death. His imagination miscarrying. Keeping account of these things.

*

The diving platform well behind them now. Rockbarton West. San Antonio Terrace. Boys on corners thumbing phones. The Atlantic Bar and Killoran’s. Walking at a fast clip. Sinister windows of the Burren Mount. Filthy net curtains. Rumours of Eastern European teenagers. Closed it must be years now. But still that air of stuff asked for and forcings behind the big windows. Dampness must be something awful. A mystery why the wrecking ball hadn’t been sent through its dark arteries.

Claude’s. No way he’d sidetrack her past its bulbs. In she wanted and in she insisted. That parakeet’s feathers still in her head.

Claude’s perfumed with last night’s bingo. Dustiness and rose. The teddy bear machine. That claw never catching grip. Supposedly a knack. Joggle the joystick imperceptibly. Patience as the bear is craned along. The drop short. Rigged like every last thing in arcades. Further in teenagers eating floss. Drifting. The fridge-high machines clinking and purring and tricking over.

The Samoan Parakeet near the back. Narrower, taller than other machines. Gummy buttons. Whose hands last, who played with elbows tucked tight. The naked parakeet black like a glove.

Pin every flying feather back in place. Blue and green and red cycloning and scattering to the edges. Each a different size and value. Orderliness the order of the day. Patience. One bird eye rolling to the corners most sinisterly. Piddly half-point for fixing it in place, a squawk. Good-on-you. Dead days dedicated to this misery in every corner of Claude’s.

*

Tried to be indispensable with pentium processors. Suffered the commute and long shifts. Packed forty hours into two and a half days. Stopped in Gort halfway home. Middling pints, good toasted sandwiches. Docked just as his wife was leaving. Grind classes for pupils whose parents wanted med at Trinity. Slept later on the mornings she taught at the Bish. Collected their girl from the special school where every day she was harder to handle. Felling other children and the like.

Off to playgrounds all over on Friday afternoons. Off to films. Shrek and Despicable Me. This his third empty summer. DVDs. Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs. Summer to come up with a plan for her. Twelve now. Convinced her she wasn’t dying when her first blood spread on a McDonald’s seat. Young they said. Her physical development in keeping with menstruation though. Fucking joking me in keeping, his heart roaring. Not ready for such a thing. Eyes avoiding the chest in her school jumper. Heavy as turnips.

*

Tried indispensable. Then any old thing to hold on. Demotion. The warehouse. Laughed at by pups from Castletroy and Ennis. Good luck. Mind the door. No such thing as a foothold these days. No such thing as turning up and staying on. Gone with his father’s days.

*

Anything for a beer in his hand while dressing the parakeet. Pluming. Plumaging. Befeathering. Now a full wing on the parakeet. No effort from her, though. Again just watching. Crooning approval when feathers got pinned faster.

Try it wouldn’t she.

No hope.

Worth encouraging though. Online all the parents saying expect the best, work towards the best. Bring her hand to the joystick. Hope for a revelation. Delight in a thing done right. A look on her face to tell him fuck off. Pulling back with a wail. Wanting him to make the parakeet whole.

Bright as one of Liberace’s outfits. Feathers to snap and tack before the clock runs down. Get done with this for good and ever. Get out onto the prom again. Maybe walk the way back into town.

Sea Road. The Claddagh. Boats loitering for action. Hulls green and stinking until that rising tide they talked about floated every boat. Talk now about the pentium plant being taken over by big pharma. Talk about new jobs. Talk.

What about an ice-cream sitting at the massive red flower boxes outside the museum. What about a pink little dainty at the French café.

The new playground by the cathedral.

The red-haired buskers.

The big knitted tree at the library.

All day. Really they had.

From issue #1: autumn/winter 2015

About the Author
Mary O’Donoghue’s fiction has appeared in The Georgia Review, Kenyon Review, The Irish Times, The Sunday Times, The Stinging Fly, Short FICTION, and elsewhere. Her work was longlisted for the 2015 Sunday Times EFG Short Story Award. She is Fiction Editor at AGNI. She lives in Tuscaloosa, Alabama and works in Boston, Massachusetts.