smoke. Broken glass on the bottom steps. Smells of piss and puke. Through the courtyard. A man held a pit bull on a training rope. He was teaching it to bite. The dog snapped at his arm: there were huge metal bracelets strapped across the man’s wrists. The snarls rolled across the yard. Corrigan was backing up his brown van, which he’d parked on the side of the road. I slapped the windows. He didn’t turn. I suppose I thought I might knock some sense into him, but after a moment the van was out of sight.
Over my shoulder the dog was snapping again at the man’s arm, but the man was staring at me, like I was the one trying to rip his wrists. A McCa_9781400063734_4p_01_r1.w.qxp 4/13/09 2:31 PM Page 41
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half- smile crawled over his face, malevolent and pure. I thought: Nigger. I couldn’t help it, but that’s what I thought: Nigger.
This place would ruin me: how did Corrigan stand it?
I wandered the neighborhood, hands down deep in my pockets, not on the pavement, but at the edge of parked cars, an altered perspective.
Taxis brushed by, close to my hip. The wind blew the smell of the subways up through the traffic. A hard, musty waft.
I went to the church on St. Ann’s. Up the broken steps, into the vestibule, past the holy- water font, into the dark. I was half expecting to see him there, head bowed, praying, but no.
Small red electric candles could be lit at the back of the church. I dropped a quarter inside and heard the deep rattle against the emptiness. My father’s ancient voice in my ear: If you don’t want the truth, don’t ask for it.
Corrigan came home to the apartment late that night. I left the door unlocked but he came in with a screwdriver anyway, began to take all the screws from the chains and locks. “Job to do.” He was lethargic and his eyes were rolling around in his head and I should have known then, but I didn’t recognize it. He knelt on the floor, eye- level with the doorknob.
The underside of his sandals were worn down. The sole had faded away, a little bubble of flat rubber. His carpenter pants were tied around his waist with a length of cord. They wouldn’t have stayed up on his hips otherwise. The long- sleeved shirt he wore was tight to his body and the bones of his ribcage were like some odd musical instrument.
He worked intently but he was using a flathead screwdriver for a Phillips head bolt and he had to prop the screwdriver sideways and angle it into the grooves.
I had already packed my bag and was ready to go, find a room, get a bartending job, anything, just get out of there. I pulled the couch into the center of the room under the ceiling fan, folded my arms, waited. The blades couldn’t cut through the heat. For the first time ever I noticed that Corrigan had a bald spot beginning in the back of his hair. I wanted to make some crack about it being a monkish thing but there was nothing between us anymore, no words or glances. He toiled away at the locks. A couple of screws fell on the floor. I watched the beads of sweat come down the back of his neck.
He rolled up his sleeve absentmindedly, and then I knew.
McCa_9781400063734_4p_01_r1.w.qxp 4/13/09 2:31 PM Page 42
42
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—
if you t h in k you know all the secrets, you think you know all the cures. I suppose it wasn’t too much of a surprise to me that Corrigan was scoring heroin: he had always done what the least of them had done. It was the perverse mantra of what he believed. He wanted to hear his own footsteps to prove that he trod the ground. There was no getting away from it. It was what he had done in Dublin too, though a different quarry of recklessness. He was standing on the little ledge of reality he had left, but it seemed to me that he wasn’t getting high, just getting level. He had an affinity with pain. If he couldn’t cure it, he took it on. He was shooting smack because he couldn’t stand the thought of others being left
Over my shoulder the dog was snapping again at the man’s arm, but the man was staring at me, like I was the one trying to rip his wrists. A McCa_9781400063734_4p_01_r1.w.qxp 4/13/09 2:31 PM Page 41
L E T T H E G R E A T W O R L D S P I N
41
half- smile crawled over his face, malevolent and pure. I thought: Nigger. I couldn’t help it, but that’s what I thought: Nigger.
This place would ruin me: how did Corrigan stand it?
I wandered the neighborhood, hands down deep in my pockets, not on the pavement, but at the edge of parked cars, an altered perspective.
Taxis brushed by, close to my hip. The wind blew the smell of the subways up through the traffic. A hard, musty waft.
I went to the church on St. Ann’s. Up the broken steps, into the vestibule, past the holy- water font, into the dark. I was half expecting to see him there, head bowed, praying, but no.
Small red electric candles could be lit at the back of the church. I dropped a quarter inside and heard the deep rattle against the emptiness. My father’s ancient voice in my ear: If you don’t want the truth, don’t ask for it.
Corrigan came home to the apartment late that night. I left the door unlocked but he came in with a screwdriver anyway, began to take all the screws from the chains and locks. “Job to do.” He was lethargic and his eyes were rolling around in his head and I should have known then, but I didn’t recognize it. He knelt on the floor, eye- level with the doorknob.
The underside of his sandals were worn down. The sole had faded away, a little bubble of flat rubber. His carpenter pants were tied around his waist with a length of cord. They wouldn’t have stayed up on his hips otherwise. The long- sleeved shirt he wore was tight to his body and the bones of his ribcage were like some odd musical instrument.
He worked intently but he was using a flathead screwdriver for a Phillips head bolt and he had to prop the screwdriver sideways and angle it into the grooves.
I had already packed my bag and was ready to go, find a room, get a bartending job, anything, just get out of there. I pulled the couch into the center of the room under the ceiling fan, folded my arms, waited. The blades couldn’t cut through the heat. For the first time ever I noticed that Corrigan had a bald spot beginning in the back of his hair. I wanted to make some crack about it being a monkish thing but there was nothing between us anymore, no words or glances. He toiled away at the locks. A couple of screws fell on the floor. I watched the beads of sweat come down the back of his neck.
He rolled up his sleeve absentmindedly, and then I knew.
McCa_9781400063734_4p_01_r1.w.qxp 4/13/09 2:31 PM Page 42
42
C O L U M M c C A N N
—
if you t h in k you know all the secrets, you think you know all the cures. I suppose it wasn’t too much of a surprise to me that Corrigan was scoring heroin: he had always done what the least of them had done. It was the perverse mantra of what he believed. He wanted to hear his own footsteps to prove that he trod the ground. There was no getting away from it. It was what he had done in Dublin too, though a different quarry of recklessness. He was standing on the little ledge of reality he had left, but it seemed to me that he wasn’t getting high, just getting level. He had an affinity with pain. If he couldn’t cure it, he took it on. He was shooting smack because he couldn’t stand the thought of others being left
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