Thomas Murphy Read Online Free PDF Page A

time. Can you hear her?
    Come to the window. There’s Paul Robeson, age eleven, walking hand in hand with his ma. He looks up in wonder. Do you know what that is? his mother asks him. The boy shakes his head. That’s the Belnord , Paul. That’s the Belnord !
    THAT’S BOTSFORD. He parks his Vespa near the fountain in the courtyard, where the chrome catches the lights ofthe building and the blue chassis gleams like the blue eye of the vampyroteuthis infernalis , the vampire squid from hell. The great globular eye staring at you, taking you in, sizing you up. The Vespa is that eye, blue eye, the blue with a light in it. I stop and walk around it. And again. Most every night. The tan leather seat, a saddle for a show horse. I know where Botsford keeps the key in the building office, know exactly where it hangs on a hook. Never rode one of these babies. Never took one of these bad boys out for a spin. You know what they say. If you put a loaded Vespa in a play, eventually someone is going to have to ride it. That’s what they say.
    DEAR MURPH,
    It occurs to me—your brooding mind being what it is—that you may think I’m trying to lock you up in the loony bin. I’m not. You probably ought to be locked up in the loony bin, but that condition long preceded your recent shenanigans. I’m concerned that you’ll harm yourself. It’s that simple.
    Your dutiful and loving daughter,
    Máire
    Dear Dutiful and Loving,
    I’m sorry, but I never had a daughter, and I don’t know anyone named Máire. My friend Greenbergused to sing about a table down at Morey’s. Is that you? Or are you the old gray mare, who ain’t what she used to be? Ah, but who is?
    Dear Murph,
    Go fuck yourself.
    Dear Máire,
    Oh! Now I remember you.
    MY DRINKING BUDDY sits beside me on the couch. She has milk, I have coffee. She writes too, with a purple crayon and a legal pad half her size. Every so often, she glances up at me, as if to check that we’re both on course. I look back at her and nod. Her legs stretch not quite to the rug. We continue this way, in silence, writer and writer. Oona sneaks us a look and smiles.
    Something telling about my drinking buddy from the start. Self-confidence absent of self-interest. I am driving her and four other little girls home from a birthday party. They sit in the back. One of the girls gets carsick, and heaves. Three of the others back away, with eww s and gross es. Only my drinking buddy goes to comfort the girl. She holds her hand and wipes her mouth and the front of her dress.
    My drinking buddy and I dine out in a fancy restaurant, just us two. Oona stays home. She wants us to have a special evening. My drinking buddy dresses in a white blouse, a little green tunic, high white socks, and Mary Janes. She prances into the restaurant, like a rich girl, but without the hauteur. Part sashay, part swagger. No sooner have we been guided to our table than she announces she has to go to the ladies’ room. She walks off, returning shortly. A minute or so later, she goes to the ladies’ room again. Returns. Sits. Then she has to go again. I ask her if she’s sick. No, she says, I just like going to the ladies’ room.
    My drinking buddy wants to change her name. None of her fellow second graders can pronounce it. They’ll learn, I say. That accent mark, she says. They don’t get it. They’ll learn, I say. Even my teacher, Mrs. Rosario, can’t pronounce it. She’ll learn, I say. It’s an ancient Irish name, I tell her. Máire. It goes back to the Norman invasion. The normal invasion? Norman, I say. Norman who? she says. Daad! I want a regular girl’s name, like Tiffany or Skye. Tell you what, I say. We’ll call you Ralph. Good, she says, hands on hips. I’m Ralph.
    A framed photo of my drinking buddy riding a camel in Jerusalem stands on the piano. Beside it, a photo of her in a Sailfish. Beside that, one at her