Like it Matters (22 page)

And, I see it now—

It’s the first day of my life that my natural pity for my dad turns angry, and on the spot I concoct this crafty revenge scheme—the kind of thing I hope I’m not capable of anymore. I say to him, “For my birthday I want to go kick a ball this afternoon, Dad,” and I won’t stop, I start believing in that desire, I get close to manufacturing a tantrum before he finally says,
Okay, we’ll do it …

On our way over to the school fields, in our sports clothes, and I look over my shoulder and I see my dad battling up a hill, having to stop with his hands on his knees at the top of it—the pang that gives me—but I’m not going to blink, I’m going through with it

I get to the field and I punt the ball off and run after it, collect it somewhere in the middle of the pitch and wait there for him. Watch him trudge through the gate. Holding his side and rubbing his chest.

All I want is for him to walk up to me and say,
I can’t.

Tell me that the doctor had let him know he was basically at death’s door, and if he didn’t take better care of himself he was going to orphan me.

But all he does is take up a position further down the field, then some of the most ginger, rusty stretches you’ve ever seen, then he tries to shout to me to go for it but ends up in a coughing fit instead—

And I fall apart right then

I don’t think I’ve ever cried like this in my life.

When he comes over to me, lying on the grass in the middle of the field, all I can say to him is, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry”—

And I say those words again, kneeling there on the grave.

Over and over again.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

I reach for all the bits of trash around me, stuffing the packets and bottle caps and little bits of plastic and toilet paper straight into my pockets. The only sound’s the lowing of the traffic on Main Road, and to overcome it I start singing a ccr song my dad used to love

Till the crying stops, and all I’ve got left in me’s a headache.

“I’m sorry,” I say again. “I’m sorry about your wife. I’m sorry about running away, I’m sorry you got so poor, and”—I heave—“I’m sorry you came looking for me. That one’s the worst. I was
coming
, Dad. I was just late.”

I notice I’ve been crying so much that I’ve wet the dirt in front of me. I put my finger in the softness and it comes away with a thin coat of mud and I use it to write his initials on the stone.

R.B.

It’s not bold.

It won’t be there tomorrow.

But you’ll know.

You’ll know, Ed.

I stand up to kick a rusty can off the edge of the grave-plot, and as I stand, in the brightness surrounding my shadow, glowing in the sun I see a thick clump of dandelions.

I tear about ten off the clump and I pick up the can and I shake it out and then feed the dandelions through the hole at the top. All of them except one.

I kneel and set the bouquet in front of the headstone and then I stand up. I know it’s for the last time.

I twirl the dandelion in my fingers and I say, “God, Dad—and it must’ve happened so fast.”

I’m crying a bit again.

Something Freddy said to me once,
You live like nothing matters
, streaks through my mind and I say, “That’s not true, Dad. Don’t worry, okay? I’m not that young anymore but I’ve got some time. I’ve got some time.”

And then I take a deep breath, and I hold the dandelion up to my face and for a while I just stare at it, its brightness and frailty—and then I close my eyes and stroke it over my nose and against my cheek and then I can’t hold my breath anymore and I open my eyes and blow it away into the bright sun.

I wipe my eyes and move off, back towards Main Road.

I go through the hole in the fence and I’m on my way down the little grass bank

When I see this dog—this kind of dog I recognise from the Eastern Cape. You don’t see lots of them around in the city—mainly you see proper breeds—but I’ve always liked them. Long-necked, upbeat and long-suffering things—living in packs, sharing meals out of trash bags, roaming and fucking their way around town, when it rained in summer they played in the gutters, in winter you’d see them sleeping in piles outside bars or petrol stations or wherever’d have them

And I’m feeling completely nostalgic about the dogs—and I suppose about Grahamstown as well, and about everything to do with being young and still having eternity on your side

But I snap out of it when he just darts over from the pavement and launches himself onto my leg and starts humping my knee.

“Jesus, boy,” I tell him, and I force him off me. He starts biting my shoes and barking, then he does some spins in front of me and sits down on the pavement and barks some more. I see he’s got those wonderful, open, brown eyes they normally have.

“Hey there, boy,” I say. “What’re you doing out here on your own?”

I scratch his neck a bit and his tongue starts lolling and when I stop scratching he tries to give me his paw about five times.

I tell him, “Be careful out here, boy,” and I walk off down the street.

I get to the end of the block and then I hear this grating scream—it’s a bus coming in, and I get a face full of black exhaust as it pulls over about twenty metres in front of me.

The doors open and there’s a wash of people, they stream past me in both directions—

And when they’re gone, there’s the dog sitting next to me on the pavement.

You’ve fucking always had a thing with dogs, Ed.

I try not to acknowledge him too much, I walk fast down the road

But he follows

And the saddest thing is when I turn and look at him, he stops and cowers and looks away, almost like he’s pretending he’s invisible or something, it’s ridiculously endearing.

You’ll need to buy him a collar.

You’ll have to walk that fucker every day.

You’ll have to get him some toys and shit to chew, as well.

Or how about a proper place to live?

Or food?

You need a job.

A proper job.

While I’m on my haunches, squatting next to him on the pavement, stroking his ears and staring into his bottomless eyes

This girl, she’s wearing school clothes and a headscarf, and she comes up to me and she says, “Is this your dog?”

“Maybe,” I say.

She looks into my eyes and asks me, “Are you feeling chilled?”

“No, I’ve been crying.”

She puts a cigarette in her mouth. “Do you have a lighter?”

Only strippers and young teenagers wear that much make-up.

“Are you allowed to smoke?” I ask her.

She smiles at me.

“No, I mean legally.”

Still just smiles.

I give my lighter to her and she lights the cigarette and coughs.

“Ooh, careful.”

“Please, man,” she says. “I’ve been smoking for years.”

And then she bites her thick, red bottom lip

And she says, “I also do other stuff.”

I laugh.

“What’s funny?”

“Your poor fucking dad,” I say.

She’s still smiling at me.

“Go home,” I tell her

And I walk off and the dog follows me.

Out of the corner of my eye I see her crossing the street, not at a corner or anything, just skipping through the traffic and then turning down Scott Road, not smoking the cigarette much, tilting her face up and letting the sun have it

And I stop where I am and I watch her till she vanishes, then watch her shadow finally melt from the walls and then I imagine her getting home—

Probably some falling-down Victorian place, dark inside. She’ll go in and straight to the bathroom and she’ll wash her face and brush her teeth in case her ma’s home. And then she’ll lie on the couch and watch
TV
, and think about boys all afternoon. Her dad won’t be home till six.
Where’s her dad?
He’s stuck behind a counter or a cash register or a computer in one of these buildings surrounding me, all of them looking burnished as the sun begins to soften, already on its way over the city and into the sea—

And what’s
he
thinking about?

And what does
he
want?

And my heart breaks at the sudden sense of how many lives there are in this world, how much need—I’m astonished the street doesn’t just cave in
.

But it doesn’t.

And it won’t.

I
see
it, it’s built for us, us and our leaden dreams—our heavy fortunes, our pregnant hopes and their mangled issue

It goes on, Ed. And people do it.

They do it.

And lots of them have dogs. And all of them have ghosts. And all of them are lonely and all of them—every single one in their very own way—are as scared and entranced and misfit as you.

And they do it.

And they do it.

I keep on going down the street and now the dog’s jogging out in front of me, sniffing everything—it looks like he’s having a great time

But he never goes too far before he spins round and sits—

Just for a second

Just to make sure I’m still here

The author wishes to thank:

Damon Galgut, for his friendship

Fourie Botha, for his faithful support

Beth Lindop, for her unerring work on the manuscript

Dave Tyfield and Brendon Robinson, the first readers of the book

Gretchen van der Byl, for the beautiful cover art

Jaco Minnaar, for taking my photo

Stephen Watson and Don Maclennan, my best teachers

My friends

My family

And most of all—Danieyella.