Anna #2
An hour passes, and then another, and the women begin to leave.
I thank them for including me, wasn’t it a fabulous afternoon, isn’t it great to get out?
All that carry-on. I let them know that I’ll wait here with Jack.
I let Jack know that I am leaving with Betty.
People don’t need to know where I am all the time.
It’s good to be alone. But then, I’m never alone, am I?
As much as I would like to be, I can’t be alone.
There’s always a whisper in the wind, a memory on my mind.
I can’t remember the last time I really felt I was by myself.
I walk through the town, wandering along the sea road.
Losing track of time. It’s sort of like dancing, I follow a rhythm within me and let my feet take me where they will.
Betty has grown tired of me. She wants me to diversify, to have new friends.
And while parts of me agree that is a good idea, I can’t bring myself to a point where I could follow through with it.
I have to wonder if I’m the only loyal woman in the country.
I must be the only person who isn’t comfortable picking people up and dropping them. Hasn’t it gotten dark?
I carry on. A little dancer, floating through the hills. That’s what I’m like. The fog comes, and pulls the sun down with it. Mammy’s headscarf tied tight around my chin, damp. Barbed fences, almost begging to be grasped. Wooden pillars holding them up, sharpened like pikes.
And although I follow a road I have never taken before, at twilight, I find myself back at Betty’s house.
The golden light spilling out from her kitchen window makes me realise how dim the evening has gotten.
I head down closer. Don’t be surprised. This was always going to happen.
I am a homing bird. For a while, she was my home.
Purple grey sky. A pale-yellow drizzle, coloured from the light of her blessed kitchen, almost like neon signs you’d see in Cork city, bouncing off the Ford tractor that Bill keeps on the slope down to the field, its tyres caked in mud.
Closer, and closer still, I am drawn to her home.
I can’t explain it. I just need to be near her.
I need to be in that kitchen. And it hits me: her kitchen is where I belong.
Since leaving Kilmarra, Betty’s kitchen is the only place I haven’t had to hold my breath to fit into.
Her kitchen feels right. She feels right.
And without them, I feel incurably wrong.
The stone of her walls against my cheek, cold and rough. I sit under the window, peering in until I catch a glimpse of her. Look how she moves through the room, taking in the air. Laughing, touching Bill’s back. Only a windowpane between us. A cosmos between us.
Her hand there, unmoving from his back. His hands on her shoulders, her arms, her waist. Bending her backwards like the stem of a flower. Lowering himself, his face on hers. A cosmos between them, shared as he kisses her. Tender and suave, and nothing at all like the Bill I have known.
Of course, I knew all along that she must kiss her husband now and again.
I just never thought I would have to see it.
I never thought I would feel my insides rotting at the sight of their meeting lips.
I never thought every cell in my body would tremble, wanting to become the cells of Bill.
To stand in his place, grey-haired, round-bellied, the farm under my nails.
But if it meant bending Betty back gently, and having her so close to me, of course I would want to be Bill. Of course I would.
Kissing. They are kissing. I am briefly tantalised; deeply jealous.
The kiss doesn’t stop. It deepens. He kisses her as though he means to make love to her.
And she kisses him back. As though she means to let him.
My blood screams, my tendons tear themselves from my bones.
Every part of me thrashes against this. I have to stop them.
It’s late, and it’s rude, but I hurry to the back door and knock hard. I just want to pause what they’re doing. To bring them to their senses and spoil the mood. Any small way of putting a distance between them. Less of him and more of me. Did you ever feel this way?
Her giggling comes to a sudden stop. As though the guards have knocked.
I wait. There is some hesitation between them about opening the door.
Already, regret is settling within me. I am humiliated, but more than that, I am desperate to see her.
The door opens. A flood of her cleansing light washes over me.
But it isn’t my Betty before me. It is her husband, who looks at me with such confusion it’s like he has never seen me in his life.
What kind of way is that to look at a guest?
He looks flustered, like he has been caught out. He smooths out his jumper.
There was a time when this door would be flung open for me. When my name would be cooed and a drink would be poured before I had even sat down. This evening, I hardly get a smile.
‘Anna! How are you? There’s no sign of Betty yet, I’m afraid. She’s out and about still.’
But didn’t I just see his hooks in the fat of her waist?
Didn’t I hear the falsetto of her laughing?
For a minute, I expect him to invite me in to wait for her.
But no invitation comes. He lets a tight silence accumulate around us and waits for me to break it.
I know she is inside. Turned on and left to go cold. I know she is.
‘No worries, Bill! I was only passing. I’ll see ye again.’
I give him a big smile and a wave. Like it’s all fine. Like I haven’t made a fool of myself and he hasn’t made it worse. Whatever, it doesn’t matter. I put a space between them, didn’t I?
‘Goodnight so, Anna.’
Without anything else to do or say, Bill closes the door and leaves me in the dark.
My pupils, dark and widening for her. Ready to pull her in and drown her.
I could crumble to dust, honestly, I could fold in half and drop to the floor.
I feel it in my legs. I swear I hear them talking now.
Probably saying that she doesn’t know how long she can keep humouring me.
Wondering whether the moment they had conjured up has gone or can be recaptured.
If I only knew what she was saying. If I only knew how to give her what she wants.
I just need a little bit of attention. To remind her of me.
Something comes over me. It’s more than embarrassment or desperation.
It’s like shock. It’s like I can’t catch my breath.
I pull the box of matches out of my sleeve.
Something in the drizzle sticking my headscarf to my face.
Something about being ignored. If I struck a match and touched it to the grass, what then?
If I smoked them out, would he keep his hands off her?
If the house burned down to nothing, and she came to stay with us while they rebuilt.
How could she ever ignore me again after such an act of charity?
She could lie across the floor with me at night.
I would save her from the fire. Unfazed by the smell of burning hair and skin. She would need me then.
And then I swear I feel your hand on my shoulder.
I swear you’re telling me it’s alright, and that I should go home and dry off.
Nebulous blonde, all around me. Your warm hands on my shoulders, saying, never mind, try again tomorrow.
I swear I hear you say that you forgive all my mistakes, and that Betty can do the same.