The Brothers' Lot - Kevin Holohan [52]
“Where’s dad?”
“He went out for a walk. Declan’s in the parlor. He’s writing away for a job that was in the paper. You can do your homework at the table here when you’ve finished your tea.”
“I can do it on the bed. It’s only a bit of Geography and some Latin verbs.
“All right so. Just be sure to get straight to it. No daydreaming.”
Finbar gobbled down the last bits of crispy rasher and fried bread, then drained his teacup and shuddered a little at the strong tannic bite of it. He picked up his dishes and carried them out to the scullery.
“Just drop them in the sink, pet. I have to boil the kettle. The hot water’s on the blink again. Go on now and finish your homework like a good boy.”
Finbar peeked in the half-open parlor door as he passed down the hall. Declan was sitting on the vinyl sofa with a writing pad on his knees and the Help Wanted pages of the evening Way Forward on the cushion beside him. He wrote furiously, stopped, ripped the page out of the writing pad, and crumpled it up into a little ball. He glanced up expressionlessly at Finbar and then, without a word, dropped the ball of paper on the floor, lowered his head, and again started his letter.
Finbar took his schoolbag from beside the hallstand and quietly went up the stairs two at a time. He paused at the top and listened. The only sounds were the soft, warm chuckling of the tea dishes in the soapy water from the scullery and a short tearing of paper followed by a quietly hissed “Fuck!” from Declan.
Finbar propped his pillow up against the headboard and sat back. He pulled out his Latin copybook and his Geography book. On Declan’s bed sat his duffel bag, still waiting to be unpacked.
Amabo, Amabas, Amabat, Amabamus, Amabatis, Amabant. I used to love, You used to love, He/She/It used to love, We you used to love, You used to love, They used to love, Finbar wrote for the tenth and last time.
All he had to do now was the pluperfect ten times and learn off the fishing ports of Ireland counterclockwise starting with Howth.
“Don’t disturb Finbar, he’s doing his homework,” he heard his mother’s voice call out from the scullery.
“I won’t!” replied Declan from the landing.
The bedroom door opened. Declan came in and closed the door softly behind him. Without looking at Finbar, he dropped the newspaper, writing pad, and pen on his bed and set to emptying out his duffel bag.
Keeping his head still, Finbar moved his eyes to watch. Declan dug into the bag and pulled out a pair of trousers that looked like they had been tied up in knots and left out in the middle of the road for trucks to run over.
Piece by piece Declan removed his clothes from the bag and threw them into a pile at the foot of his bed. Then he stopped suddenly and picked them all up. He unrolled them and started folding them as neatly as he could, setting them in a pile on the bed. He went to the wardrobe, opened the door, looked inside, and closed the door again. “Fuck sake,” he whispered to himself. He turned and glanced toward Finbar.
Amareram, Amareras, Amarerat, Amareramus, Amareratis, Amarerant, I had loved, You had loved, He/She/It had loved, We had loved, You had loved, They had loved, he wrote, and then added above the two neat columns, Pluperfect Tense Active. He drew a line and started two more columns, this time writing the English first for variety’s sake.
“What’re you doing?” asked Declan quietly.
“Latin.”
“Hated Latin,” said Declan.
Finbar simply continued to write.
Declan sat down on the edge of his bed and faced his brother. Finbar pretended to be engrossed in the pluperfect tense and ignored him.
“I was in London,” said Declan suddenly, as if he were answering a question.
Amareramus, Amareratis, Amarerant, wrote Finbar without looking up.
“I met this fellah on the mail boat over. Ambrose, his name was. From Dundalk. Said he had a cousin in London. Said I could stay with them until I found me feet. Said he could set me up with a job on the buildings. So we get the train to London and when we arrive we go to this pub somewhere