Thomas Murphy Read Free Page A

list aloud to thesea. Mary Albright, Peter Andrews, Peter Brody, Michael Brophy, Irene Cassidy—in alphabetical order, for the sake of equality. I did not want the sea to think I played favorites. After a while, the sea shouted the names back to me, though not alphabetically. And sometimes it would jumble the letters, creating new words. Powers became Worpes. Law became Wall. Figgis, Figs. And so forth. Like me, the sea never omitted a name. It understood Inishmaan, yet I could not tell if love or hate came with its understanding. Or mere indifference, maybe, the worst of all attitudes. I put my money on indifference.
    NINETY-THREE. Eighty-six. Seventy-nine. Seventy-two. Dr. Spector is about to form an expression. Sixty-four, I say, to see if she will indicate alarm or mere clinical interest. Máire searches my eyes for mischief. She calls me Holden Caulfield without the maturity. The doctor says, Remember, Mr. Murphy, we are counting down from one hundred by sevens. Oh, I forgot, I say. In that case, sixty-five. Did you really forget, Mr. Murphy, she says, or are you just messing with me? It is the first thing to come out of her all morning that makes me like her. I forget, I say. She says, You think this is all a joke, Mr. Murphy? It depends what you mean by all, I say.
    Were it not for the eggs, none of us would have to go through this arithmetical dance. Have I told you aboutthis? I’d like to say it could have happened to anyone, that it was a natural mistake. I simply forgot about the buggers. So the water boiled and boiled and then evaporated and the flames shot out from under the burning pot, onto a nearby roll of Bounty paper towels, thence to a wooden cutting board, thence to the backsplash. If the heat had not set off the fire thing, whatever it’s called, on the ceiling, the whole house might have gone up. The entire Belnord, once the largest apartment house in the world. Whoosh. Just like that. Not the flames I had in mind to go down in. Danny Perachik, the super, the super snitch, called Máire, and she called the doctor. Jesus. It mattered not to Máire that I responded quick as a cat, swept down the extinguisher, which I had always wanted to try out anyway, and ended the crisis with a flourish. It was the last straw, she said, referring to previous straws involving the house keys and the car keys, and that time at Hornby’s swimming pool. I wasn’t safe living alone, she said. Everyone lives alone, I said. She gave me that look.
    Nonetheless, so far so good. I am able to count down from one hundred by sevens. Look at me! I know what year it is. I can spell syntax . And recommend . If they asked me, I could even recommend a syntax. I can sing “Happy Birthday to You” flawlessly, like an angel. I sing it twice, once to Máire, once to Dr. Spector. I know the three branches of government, though I don’t much care for them. I prefer tree branches, except for the government branch wherethe judges perch. I’m gaga over those robes. I know where I live, at least most of the time. And don’t bring up that business with Mrs. Livingston last Friday, because all the apartment doors on my floor look alike, and after some initial frustration with the lock, and Mrs. Livingston’s expression of terror and surprise, everything was jake. And you can tell that whinging rat Perachik to stop running to my daughter every time I piss and miss the can.
    But Dad, says Máire, you still must come back for more testing. No bullshit, please? She touches my shoulder. I am uncertain as to whether my morning’s performance has won me anything but a temporary pardon. I’d call the governor if I could remember his name. I put my hand on hers in a gesture of reassurance. Who am I kidding?
    In the too-bright waiting room rises a rack of pamphlets on assisted living. Who does not need assisted living, may I ask. If no one required assistance in living, writers would be out of