Comma Translation

T for Two

by Paul McGuire

Andy’s not looking well today, he’s the colour of uncooked pastry. An hour ago he thrust a Polaroid into my hand.

‘Look at that for Christ’s sake,’ it was a picture of his foot, ‘my skin is rotting away. Michael, I’m disappearing.’ It was black and swollen with small indentations which where his nails. Andy was getting eaten from the ground up. His doctor told him his T-cells had dropped below fifty, mine are three hundred and forty.

It’s his birthday today and I wish I could parcel fifty of mine up, put a big pink bow on the top and give them to him.

I’m waiting to tell Andy about some spring water which comes out of the wall in St James’s Cemetery. I read about it on the internet; it said the water has beneficial powers. One of our friends takes it with his whiskey; he said it makes him feel much better.

‘You’ve got to stay buoyant, And, that HIV virus knows when it’s winning.’

‘There won’t be enough of me to be buoyant, Michael.’

The Pier Head smells especially salty today, a thick chilly breeze is blowing in from the Mersey and Andy is sitting on the bench next to me with everything crossed or folded; he looks like a pair of tights in a washing machine.

There’s a man just to the right of us, his red army uniform looks vivid in the cool afternoon sun and he’s directing the traffic (unofficially). The scousers around here call him Sgt Pepper. The police are trying to move him on at the moment, there’s cars driving up grass verges and pavements.

In front of us the ferries, going back and forth, are whisking up the thick green soup we call the Mersey, and the dirty seagulls in their grey jumpers, swoop down to feed.

‘I want my ashes spread on the Mersey when I go Mikey, will you do that? That can be my birthday present.’ I stay silent; it’s one of those no-win questions. But he’s thirty eight and looks like shite and we all know it’s going to end in tears – soon. ‘Come on Mikey, say you’ll do that for me.’

‘The ferries will be obsolete by then, I’ll have to hire a boat, it’ll cost a bomb and anyway there’s all those health and safety rules now.’ Andy tuts and turns away – he’d rather look at anything else than me at the moment. ‘Of course I will And, of course I will.’ I reassure him, touch his bony legs. He feels colder than the air around us and the few bristles left on his chin look too black against his skin.
‘It’s bloody cold Mikey, can we go soon?’ His hands are wrapped intimately around a plastic cup.

Our friend Billy draws up in his 1922 Model T Ford. He’s taking us to drink the water. He normally does weddings but he owes me one and this is my present to Andy. Billy’s in a tuxedo, he opens the door and stands waiting like we’re dignitaries and everyone’s trying to work out what’s going on.

Andy’s dropped off. His mouth hangs open and a small line of saliva trickles out of the corner of his mouth which stains my hankie pink.

‘Come on Andy.’ His bony leg feels like it will break as I gently shake it. ‘Billy’s here.’ He wakes up, bewildered.

‘Why, what’s going on?’ His smile is frightened and nervous. His teeth look too big for his mouth.

‘It’s a surprise.’

The smell of leather and perfume consume us as we get into the car. Small pieces of confetti, like scared creatures evading capture, occupy the crevices of the upholstery and trim. They pop their heads out, wondering why we’re not the usual punters. Andy coughs into his fist, then puts his hand into his pocket, he doesn’t want the fuss.

Billy’s allowed to park outside the Cathedral, everyone thinks it’s a wedding, until we appear. Andy stretches his body like a butterfly emerging from its chrysalis, but he needs the warmth. He glances back at the wet seat like a naughty boy and we both avoid Billy’s eyes. The warm moist urine smell follows Andy out of the car like a shadow.

‘I’ll wait for you.’ Billy props himself up against the car, closes the door and pulls out a neatly folded copy of the Sun from his back pocket. A gust of wind blows around the curving walls of John Moores University opposite, and his newspaper starts to look belligerent as he fights to straighten it.

Andy walks like a cowboy – his legs, already weak, now have to move slightly apart to avoid the wet trousers chafing his papery skin.

The slope leading into St James’s is too steep for Andy. I walk in front to support him and we shuffle forward performing some inappropriate dance. Gravestones line the narrow passageway and my eyes are drawn to one in particular. It has a tragically long list of young children who died in Bluecoat Hospital.
‘You know how to cheer a guy up Mikey.’ I want to point out the ages of the children on the gravestone, but he’s too busy getting his legs to do what they normally do automatically.

Resting against the wall to let the people behind pass, Andy puts his fingers behind his ears.

‘They’re like golf balls man.’
‘What are?’
‘These fuckers, behind my ears.’

He struggles to hold himself up with only one hand as he guide my fingers behind his ears.

‘You’re always bragging, Andy. They’re no bigger than marbles.’ But he’s heard the joke before and we both know his lymph nodes are up. His skin, which once evoked such passion, now chills and curdles me. Wiping my hands on my shirt, I feel compelled to check my own; they seem okay but I feel like asking a healthy person if I can check theirs. Andy levers himself vertical, his hand strokes the kids from Bluecoat Hospital. We move on and Andy’s laboured breathing and shuffling feet echo back at us as we make our way through a natural sandstone arch.

Not once does Andy ask why we are here. His tiredness gives him a complacency, a total trust in whoever leads him; he’s a child again smiling and saying yes to all he is asked to do.

We fall to a sitting position by the side of the spring and people around us scatter, they think we are drunk. I smile but it makes things worse.

In front of us stands the great sandstone monster of a Cathedral. From a distance it looks elegant, majestic with its great tall head and hunched shoulders. But from here it threatens to topple over and crush what little life we both have.
‘A healthy person has six hundred T-cells.’

‘Andy will you stop…’ But he is talking to some internal figure that tells him things he wants to hear. Somehow I know he’s being led away, maybe it’s by one of those children he touched before on the gravestone.

The plastic cup from my pocket crinkles enthusiastically back into shape, but it takes forever to fill from the trickle of magic water. My feet slip and slide on the gravestones laid flat for paving stones, and I apologise to Mary Richards who was only around two days, but Andy really needs the water trickling reluctantly from this green mossy crack in the wall.

The gentle breeze blowing up from the far end of the graveyard eases past Andy, who is still in deep conversation with himself. It turns an occasional leaf once or twice, then trades its mustiness for Andy’s smell of aftershave and vomit.

Dr Cuthbert looks over the top of his glasses, the mouse moving and clicking on my digital other self. ‘The Crixivan seems to be working for you Michael, I want you to stick with them.’ I want to tell him I haven’t been taking them, I haven’t been up to much since Andy died, it’s knocked me for six. The image of the ambulance men lifting him so easily up and over the iron gate at the entrance to St James’s is seared into my brain. Like he said, there wasn’t much left of him in the end. The spring water didn’t taste too bad, I drank two or three cups before the ambulance came, although I think it would spoil a good whiskey.

‘Sorry to hear about your…’ he hesitates, unsure of what relationship we had.
‘Andy, my partner.’ I remind him.

Dr Cuthbert clicks a few more times. ‘Wow, good news. Very good news.’ He turns and takes off his glasses. I take a sip of water which tastes bland and insipid compared with the other stuff. The light from the computer screen makes Dr Cuthbert seem unreal, bloodless, ‘Your T-cells are up by twenty five. I can’t believe it.’