The Dependent

There he sat. Ensconced in the same café he had frequented so often before leaving. It was as if the intervening years had been a kind of illusion. He wondered how he sensed the passing time. The word ‘palimpsest’
sprung to mind. Could it be that there was just an eternal present and experiences were simply overwritten?

‘Another pot please,’ he requested of the passing waitress as he pulled another cigarette from its box. The staff here were the only transient personalities. Students usually, working part-time. The café at least had that familiarity. The locality was large enough for limited anonymity but no-one was lost. People knew of an individual if they didn’t
know them personally and his time abroad had alleviated any sense of claustrophobia. He was his own man now. More relaxed.

As he lit up his cigarette there was instantaneous recognition. There had been no change. He felt they had never parted. And to see her so unguarded; unselfconscious. She was not yet aware of him as she stretched to speak to someone in the back seat. At once he felt the thrill and the guilt of the voyeur.

She was half-turned as she spoke. Her face rigid as if in
dispute.

He watched her for a while and as the car edged forward in the traffic he could see she was addressing a young boy of eight or nine. Seated to his right was another child of four or five. Now he was dumbfounded. Ten years!

It was in this very café he had told her of his decision to
leave. Ten years. She had wept and cajoled and pleaded. Now he was looking at her it seemed like a moment ago. She finished talking and looked directly at him as people tend to when they’re being watched. Their eyes locked. He could not have smiled without feeling facetious. She seemed puzzled and shocked. Suddenly the car pulled off and she was gone.

Now he felt very alone. Sullied even. It was as if in that
moment fate had ransacked his soul and left him vacant. Where had his life gone? What was he to make of it?

The waitress returned with his tea but everything had changed irrevocably. He slipped her a five-pound note and promptly made his exit.

For the rest of the day he was in a sombre mood and wished to be left alone. He cooked for himself and cleaned his flat then quietly dozed off in front of the television.

He must have slept for over an hour for it had passed eight o’ clock when he was awakened by the sound of the door buzzer. ‘ Telephone call!’

Abruptly he jumped to his feet as if in panic and trounced down the stairs.

‘Hello’ he announced trying to sound fully alert.

‘Pat…..Is that you?’ came the reply. Curiously he felt more relieved than surprised at this strangely familiar voice. ‘Hi Fiona. How are you?’

There was a telling momentary silence. ‘I just thought I’d call. When did you get back?’

‘Oh a month ago. Six weeks.’

‘I’d heard something. You must be back for good then?’

Now it was his turn to be silent. ‘Well, I suppose. I’m not…..’

‘Pat!’ She cut him off. ‘Can I come see you? Tonight? Now? I could be around in half-an-hour.’

A million connotations flitted through his mind. ‘Well yeh, I
suppose’

‘Okay look.’ She adopted a very definite tone ‘ I know where you are. What’s the number?’

He proceeded to embellish her with the necessary details while suppressing a nagging sense of danger.

His room he had cleaned but the cosy dishevelment became
immediately apparent to him the moment he returned and he again began tidying things away. He even lit the lamp and a couple of candles to enhance a more relaxed
atmosphere before proceeding to throw cold water over his face and comb his hair.

He wondered what she would think of his flat which was only a bedsit. Like many he had to go down-market since the property boom and was somewhat disheartened with his lot.

He took an unopened bottle of wine from the fridge, popped it and poured himself a glass. The kick-start he would need.

In the interim time he thought of her constantly as he hopped the television channels, fidgeted and sporadically got up to put something else away.

Almost an hour after the phone-call the door buzzer sounded. He wouldn’t answer right away but let her press a second time then casually sauntered down the stairs.

‘Well hello!’ he exhorted on seeing her. ‘Come on in.’

He stood back and allowed her to pass him before closing the door.

‘A damp night I see. Come on up.’

He jogged lightly up the stairs and she followed soberly behind.

Once in the room he hung up her coat and she accepted a glass of wine. Now they could stand and observe each other. Many of his friends had told him he hadn’t changed a bit and he knew they were right but she had changed so little also. Maybe a little fuller in the face and her fair hair
was now longer over her shoulders but no visible signs of aging.

She looked a little nervous.

‘Been a long time!’ he announced humorously and clinked her glass.

She smiled awkwardly and drew a sip. ‘ Nice to see you again.’ she began tentatively, ‘ Can I sit down?’

‘Oh yes of-course. Sorry. Not that there’s much choice of seating.’ He indicated to the only armchair in the room. She chuckled and swept her knee-length skirt beneath her so as not to crease it as she positioned herself close to the edge and tucked her crossed legs beneath. He sat yogi-like on the bed.

‘I’m surprised you called,’ he ventured.

She looked at him for a moment then grinned and looked away. ‘Well, I was thinking about it. Since I heard you were back. Then after seeing you in the café today….’ She was blushing slightly. He felt touched and amused.

‘I couldn’t believe it! You! Married with children!’

She fixed him now with a somewhat anxious look and flayed about mentally for the appropriate response. ‘Well,’ she replied. ‘It happens to the best of us.’

He knew he had gambled with the situation by getting directly to the point but now felt embarrassed at her discomfort as she stood up and retrieved her cigarettes from the coat that hung on the open wardrobe door.

‘Still smoke?’ she asked him, offering the open packet.

‘Thanks,’ he replied, unzipping one from the row.

He watched her intently as she again seated herself. This time not caring about crumpling her skirt. She looked a little despondent as she pulled the lighter from the box and, totally forgetting her host, lit her cigarette. ‘Sorry’ she gasped as she looked up and they both chuckled as she
half-stood, leaning over to light his.

‘So. How about you? Any kids?’

He exhaled quickly, feigning surprise. ‘Well, you know me.
Frightened of commitment.’

She sat grinning as her eyes searched his countenance for a little empathy. ‘You haven’t changed’ she said and continued to stare at him.

He remembered she could be like this. He was always expected to take the lead in conversation. She would often ring him and have nothing much to say or even sound bored and uninterested on the phone. Tonight he had assumed there was some urgent need to see him yet here she was awaiting his discourse.

He asked her about her brother and parents with whom he had become quite familiar before he left. All the time avoiding the issue of her marriage which lurked like a spectre in the back of his mind.

They shared a bottle of wine as he narrated stories of his
experiences in New York; trivialising his relationships and confiding that there was still no-one special in his life. ‘You see! It must be me,’ he affirmed.

He loathed labouring over detail in conversation and eventually felt they had exhausted the subject matter. A knowing silence ensued, the spectre loomed and he could no longer delay the inevitable.

Again, she let him take the lead.

‘So where did you meet your man?’ he obliged.

‘ Oh Tom’ she looked away indifferently. ‘I can’t remember. A nightclub in town I think. A few weeks after you left.’

The words ‘so soon’ crossed his mind but he opted for expedience. ‘Long married?’

She fixed him again with a serious, almost pleading look. ‘We had Barry first. I fell pregnant within the year. I thought you would have heard. Didn’t your folks tell you?’

‘My mum probably thought it would upset me,’ he giggled before realising his mistake. She was hurt and clammed up. There was an awkward silence and he felt his face redden. Eventually she said. ‘I was lonely Pat. He was good to me.’

She was baring her soul. She didn’t simply require his
understanding or his consent. She needed him to know what he had instigated. Her fate was what he made it. She had never been strong enough to believe in her own
will. He could sense a need. A shared momentary vacuum that impelled honesty. He looked at her intently.

‘And that’s why you’re here Fiona. You’re not happy.’

She felt relieved he had said it for her. Glad he had acknowledged that much at least. ‘And you,’ she replied, holding his gaze, ‘Are you happy?’

He looked away from her then stood up and, clasping his hands tightly together, he moved to the window. He scanned the dingy back yards and the rows of lamplit bedsit windows. At that moment it seemed like a living
monument to the marginalised and dislocated. A thousand solitary souls who would never meet. He wanted her now. He needed to blanket himself against this realisation of loneliness. Alone one was devoid of purpose. To have
no stake in another’s life meant insignificance. He had spurned opportunity before as if in search of something deeper. But what was it he sought? Despite himself he could not go back. The past would not reclaim him. He
would stand or fall by the decisions he had made. He needed order and this offering was a chalice of chaos and probably regret. So many traps. So many disappointments. He had befriended failure. It was now part of who he was.

He sighed and spoke.

‘We all live in search of something Fiona. Hoping that some formula, some rhyme or reason will reveal itself. But it never does. There’s just a series of accidental collisions. Sometimes we get lucky. Often we don’t.’ He turned to look at her and she looked away. ‘We have two separate lives
now,’ he added, ‘we have to make the most of what we have.’

She bowed her head in resignation. Nothing could be retrieved.

‘You always were a hard one Pat,’ she said, ‘You can detach yourself so easily.’

She had predetermined not to limp away from the situation however. It was all or nothing. He had to be told and this was the moment. She set her glass on the floor and looked at him resolutely.

‘But know this,’ she began, ‘I wish to Christ I’d never met you. My life would have been very different. Yes I was on the rebound. Yes what’s done is done and can’t be changed. But you pulled my life asunder when you left
and I could only stitch the pieces together again. But I’m strong too Pat. Look at me. I survived!’ She held his gaze intently for a moment, longing to tell him the truth about her first born, before defeatedly looking away.

She cast a sad momentary glance around the room then stood up to retrieve her coat. In silence he watched her put it on and walk to the door. ‘I wish you luck Pat, she said sincerely as she opened it. ‘One more thing though…..as a favour. Avoid me if you see me on the street. Let’s not be friends. It’s for the best.’

He dropped his gaze to the floor and nodded in silence. When he looked again she was gone and as he moved to close the door he could hear her footsteps fading from him for the last time.

He was alone once more but as he turned to look at the four walls of his room he felt a sense of closure. There was both sadness and relief in this release. His destiny was at least his own.

^

Biography

Paul O'Prey was born in Belfast in 1965 and grew up on the  Ormeau Road. He left school at sixteen to take a job in the  building trade as an apprentice joiner and left Belfast when he was 24  to live and work in London, where he spent six years before  returning to Dublin to work in 1996. He is currently working in the  computer industry as a technician. His work has previously appeared in Electric Acorn 1 and Electric Acorn 7.