name over and over again until it falls apart in your mouth. And you think: Is this really my name? These broken sounds, this air? Is this really me? Is this place my home?
I had decided on going to Toronto. So I could wait for him there, I thought. But I had already lost hope, and I realized, as the years began to pass there, that I had only chosen to live where I knew I was unwelcome, and so where I truly belonged.
Dublin
IV
GOING UNDER, 1968. 3 @ 14" X 18" X 4" THREE-PART BOX CONSTRUCTION. WOOD AND GLASS WITH FOUND OBJECTS AND OIL PAINT. WORKING ELECTRIC LIGHTING. BERGMAN COLLECTION, INDIANA UNIVERSITY, BLOOMINGTON, INDIANA. LEFT: A SINGLE BUOY SEEMS TO FLOAT IN MIDAIR AGAINST A DARK BLUE BACKGROUND. MIDDLE: THE SEA, REPRESENTED BY LAYERS OF PAINT AND GESSO, IN MANY SHADES OF BLUE. RIGHT: A SHIP LIES AT THE BOTTOM OF THE SEA, OBSCURED BY WEED AND CORAL.
ONE WEEKEND IN OUR FIRST WINTER, WHEN MARTIN
and I met up in Rochester, we spent a morning in bed and I made up a game.
The Sunday Times was spread all over the sheets, the grey sky outside the window making it easy to stay in the room. Here, I said, let’s test how well we know each other.
You don’t think we already do?
We have our intuitions, I said. One of us will tell a story, and it has to start out true, but end up false. And the other person has to figure out where it switched. He shrugged. You go first, I said.
Okay, he said. I’m nine.
You’re always nine in your stories, Martin.
It’s 1937. I’m in hospital.
I already know this one.
It’s a detail from a larger work.
I laughed and pushed some of the paper off the bed to turn around and watch him on my back. I propped myself up on some pillows at the end of the bed.
It makes it hard to concentrate, with you all spread out in your glory like that.
Cope.
He grabbed one of the newspaper sections and draped it over me, then pulled one of my feet into his lap and warmed it in his hands. Like I said, I’m nine, and I’m in Temple Street. I’ve been there a couple weeks and I’m scared — a lot of the children in the ward are still very sick. There’s a boy in the bed beside me who’s probably eleven or twelve. He’s started growing, he’s taller than me. His parents never come to visit; it’s like they’ve left him there and forgotten him. But when mine come, they bring toys and books for him too, which he never says thank you for. It makes me angry, but they seem to understand. I always feel strange, after they leave, when we both open our toys and start putting them together, or start reading books, and I know I have these things because my parents love me and are worried for me, but then what does it mean that they’ve given him things too?
Anyway, one night, long after the lights are out, I’m woken up by the sound of the boy trying to breathe. His chest is rattling and he’s gasping for breath. I switch on the lamp beside my bed, and as soon as I see him, I’m horrified by the greyness of his face and I switch it off again. I pull the covers up and turn on my side, but then I think, no, he’s almost my brother, this boy. So I turn the lamp on again. There’s yellow stuff running down from his mouth. I get out of my bed and crouch on my knees beside him and I wipe his chin. He looks frightened. He says, I can’t breathe. I tell him I’ll get a nurse, but he grabs hold of my shoulder and asks me not to go. So I don’t. And we sit there together. I see all the books and toy soldiers my parents have bought him sitting on the table on the other side of his bed, and I can’t help thinking that if he’s going to die, I’m going to take those things back, that I think of as my own. But I try to pay attention to the boy. I tell him, You’re going to be all right. He nods. Then he coughs more of the yellow liquid, and it’s flecked with blood. And it gets worse.
Worse how? I grabbed the duvet from the edge of the bed and pulled it around me, cowering.
He begins to quake in
I had decided on going to Toronto. So I could wait for him there, I thought. But I had already lost hope, and I realized, as the years began to pass there, that I had only chosen to live where I knew I was unwelcome, and so where I truly belonged.
Dublin
IV
GOING UNDER, 1968. 3 @ 14" X 18" X 4" THREE-PART BOX CONSTRUCTION. WOOD AND GLASS WITH FOUND OBJECTS AND OIL PAINT. WORKING ELECTRIC LIGHTING. BERGMAN COLLECTION, INDIANA UNIVERSITY, BLOOMINGTON, INDIANA. LEFT: A SINGLE BUOY SEEMS TO FLOAT IN MIDAIR AGAINST A DARK BLUE BACKGROUND. MIDDLE: THE SEA, REPRESENTED BY LAYERS OF PAINT AND GESSO, IN MANY SHADES OF BLUE. RIGHT: A SHIP LIES AT THE BOTTOM OF THE SEA, OBSCURED BY WEED AND CORAL.
ONE WEEKEND IN OUR FIRST WINTER, WHEN MARTIN
and I met up in Rochester, we spent a morning in bed and I made up a game.
The Sunday Times was spread all over the sheets, the grey sky outside the window making it easy to stay in the room. Here, I said, let’s test how well we know each other.
You don’t think we already do?
We have our intuitions, I said. One of us will tell a story, and it has to start out true, but end up false. And the other person has to figure out where it switched. He shrugged. You go first, I said.
Okay, he said. I’m nine.
You’re always nine in your stories, Martin.
It’s 1937. I’m in hospital.
I already know this one.
It’s a detail from a larger work.
I laughed and pushed some of the paper off the bed to turn around and watch him on my back. I propped myself up on some pillows at the end of the bed.
It makes it hard to concentrate, with you all spread out in your glory like that.
Cope.
He grabbed one of the newspaper sections and draped it over me, then pulled one of my feet into his lap and warmed it in his hands. Like I said, I’m nine, and I’m in Temple Street. I’ve been there a couple weeks and I’m scared — a lot of the children in the ward are still very sick. There’s a boy in the bed beside me who’s probably eleven or twelve. He’s started growing, he’s taller than me. His parents never come to visit; it’s like they’ve left him there and forgotten him. But when mine come, they bring toys and books for him too, which he never says thank you for. It makes me angry, but they seem to understand. I always feel strange, after they leave, when we both open our toys and start putting them together, or start reading books, and I know I have these things because my parents love me and are worried for me, but then what does it mean that they’ve given him things too?
Anyway, one night, long after the lights are out, I’m woken up by the sound of the boy trying to breathe. His chest is rattling and he’s gasping for breath. I switch on the lamp beside my bed, and as soon as I see him, I’m horrified by the greyness of his face and I switch it off again. I pull the covers up and turn on my side, but then I think, no, he’s almost my brother, this boy. So I turn the lamp on again. There’s yellow stuff running down from his mouth. I get out of my bed and crouch on my knees beside him and I wipe his chin. He looks frightened. He says, I can’t breathe. I tell him I’ll get a nurse, but he grabs hold of my shoulder and asks me not to go. So I don’t. And we sit there together. I see all the books and toy soldiers my parents have bought him sitting on the table on the other side of his bed, and I can’t help thinking that if he’s going to die, I’m going to take those things back, that I think of as my own. But I try to pay attention to the boy. I tell him, You’re going to be all right. He nods. Then he coughs more of the yellow liquid, and it’s flecked with blood. And it gets worse.
Worse how? I grabbed the duvet from the edge of the bed and pulled it around me, cowering.
He begins to quake in
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