The Word Around Town

"The word around town is..." Donald pauses to pick a sesame seed from his tooth. He eyes it on his fingernail, then sucks it off.

Murphy cocks an eyebrow. "Yes? The word around town is?"

"That girl over there—"

"Over where?"

"The red-haired lass sitting at the fountain, eating that sandwich."

Murphy squints through his little round spectacles. "That's Christine, isn't it? Gladys's daughter."

"The word around town is," says Donald, "she tried to kill herself."

"Who told you that?" says Murphy.

"You know. People."

Donald is fond of starting conversations with, "The word around town is." Murphy finds this amusing since he's quite sure he's the only person in town Donald ever talks to. He peers at him over the rubber eucalyptus sprigs on the table. "That's ridiculous."

Also on the table is a saucer dashed with butter cookie crumbs, and two empty coffee mugs, both of which are Donald's. Soon, Donald will order a third, and Murphy will have to tell him, You'd better slow down there, chum. Your ticker, remember?

"Why is that ridiculous?" says Donald indignantly.

"Just look at her."

"I am looking at her."

"She isn't the type."

Donald stares at his friend. "Isn't the type? Isn't the type, Murphy? Really, I don't know if it's your wits or your spectacles that are defective, but it's one of the two!"

"Besides"—Murphy raises a hand to hail the waiter—"she doesn't have any wounds, does she? If she'd shot herself or jumped from a height and broken her legs, there'd be signs, wouldn't there?"

"No noose marks on her neck."

"No blue tinge about her."

"Good catch. That rules out her trying to drown herself."

The old men watch as the slim thirty-five-year-old picks the crusts off her sandwich and throws them to the pigeons, knees gangling, feet tucked en pointe in her canvas flats. A zip-up windbreaker sulks around her shoulders, hiding the top piece to the navy-blue pencil skirt hugging her thighs.

"It could have been sleeping pills," says Murphy.

Donald snaps his fingers and leans back in his chair, the rattan crackling like a campfire. "I believe you've cracked it, Murphy. Sleeping pills."

The waiter pops up at his elbow. "Gents, what can I get you?"

"Double espresso," says Donald. "And can we be a bit more generous with the mints this time, Paul? Two per cup is standard, I believe. Thank you."

"You'd better slow down there, chum," says Murphy. "Your ticker, remember?"

"My what?"

"Your ticker... Your ticker!" Murphy taps his ear. "Check your battery!"

Donald huffs and waggles his hearing aid. "There's nothing wrong with my battery, you old mole! Or my ticker!"

"Then why are you shouting?" Murphy turns to the waiter, whose very blank face tells him he's too busy for this. "Sorry, Paul. Nothing for me, thank you."

Paul nods and hastens back into the café.

"You're right, though," says Donald. "She doesn't look the type."

"I don't know," says Murphy. "Now that I'm looking at her... really looking at her—"

A big yellow bee zings past his face. He jerks back reflexively, then shifts side to side like a boxer. "Ouch! My back, my bloody back!"

Donald takes a swipe at the persistent insect. "Ouch!" He snaps upright out of his chair, flapping his hand. "It stung me!"

"Where?"

Donald opens his hand, revealing a tiny dark stinger buried in his palm. Murphy can't stop laughing.

"Don't you laugh!" says Donald, making a fist. "I've still got this one to thump you with."

"Sit down, you. Let's have a gander at it."

Donald grunts and sits. He lays his hand open on the table. "It hurts."

"It's really in there," says Murphy. "I'll need to use tweezers."

Donald raises his free hand and yells, "Paul! Paul!"

Paul's tall, stern figure appears carrying Donald's espresso. "Sir?"

"We need tweezers. Do you have any?"

"Tweezers, sir?"

"Yes. I've been assaulted by a bee."

"So have I," says Murphy.

Paul puts the steaming cup on the table. "You need tweezers, too?"

"No, he needs a chiropractor," cuts in Donald.

"There might be some lying around in the back, sir."

"Chiropractors?"

Donald rolls his eyes. "He means tweezers, you imbecile!"

Paul leaves to find the requested tool.

Because of all the commotion, Murphy has forgotten his noon cigar, which means Donald hasn't been able to tell him, You know, mate, one of these days, those things are going to kill you.

"What were you saying before?" says Donald.

"I don't know. What was I saying?"

"About Gladys's daughter looking like the type to kill herself."

Murphy shrugs, then sucks his teeth as the gesture fires a shock of pain up his spine. "I don't remember."

"Pah! Bloody useless, you are!" Donald examines the tiny barb in his palm. There is an itchy pink ring growing around it. "It's always the ones you'd least expect, isn't it?"

"I'll tell you what, though," says Murphy.

"What?"

"She doesn't half look like her mother, God rest her soul."

Donald gazes over at Christine. She is sitting cross-legged on the fountain's ledge now, one of her sleeves rolled up, swishing a slender arm around the babbling water.

"You had a crush on Gladys back in the day, didn't you?"

"So did you," retorts Donald dryly.

"Everyone did. But she never married. She went with that Polish chap for a while, remember? Old boy left her to raise the poor kid on her own."

"Could that be the reason?"

"Reason for what?"

"The reason she swallowed the sleeping pills. Do try to keep up, would you, Murph?" Donald blows the steam off his espresso. "You know? Having no parents, now no husband herself. She shares packed lunches with pigeons for Pete's sake."

Murphy scratches his beard, triggering a shower of dandruff. "That could certainly do it... Yes, I believe you've cracked it, Donald. Loneliness."

"A terrible thing to bear," says Donald, shaking his head. "A terrible, terrible thing."

Paul returns holding a pair of tweezers.

"Thank you," says Murphy. "I'll take those."

"And could you grab us an ashtray, Paul? There's a good boy," says Donald.

"Right, you," says Murphy, rapping his knuckles on the table. "Let's get on with it, shall we?"

Donald lays his hand out. Murphy grips it with both hands and yanks him a little closer, leaning in to get a good look at the task afoot. "You were never any good with needles either."

"No, I was not!" Donald grimaces and looks away as Murphy hovers the tweezers above the sting, straining to steady his jittery fingers.

"Okay. Hold still!" Murphy's nicotine-browned tongue slides out the side of his mouth like a tortoise's head as he tries to concentrate. "I have a good grip on it, Don, I think. One swift draw and it's done. You ready?"

"Wait!" Donald glugs his espresso, gasps, and nods with urgency.

"Three... Two..."

"Ashtray, gents," says Paul out of nowhere—Donald yanks his hand back.

"Damn it, don't be such a baby," says Murphy.

Donald ignores him and looks up at Paul. "Thank you, Paul."

"Will there be anything else?"

"Nothing for me, Paul."

"Nothing for me, Paul."

Murphy slides a fat Cuban cigar out of his top pocket and lights up. "Saved by the cigar, Don."

"You know, mate, one of these days, those things are going to kill you," says Donald meekly.

"I outlived that bee. Who knows who I'll outlive next."

Donald looks around and taps his thumb against one of the empty mugs. "You really think Christine looks like Gladys?"

Murphy floats a quivering smoke ring at him. "Are you kidding? She's her spitting image." He picks a fibre of tobacco from his bottom lip and drops it into the ashtray. "How did Gladys die, anyway? Do you remember?"

"She just died," says Donald.

"Do people do that?"

"Left alone, I suppose they do."

"Just give up, huh?"

Donald nods slowly.

An eerie quiet follows in which the air becomes a fraction chillier, and both men know that the other feels it. The bustling square seems to recede and become slightly misty, as though photographed and dropped suddenly into a plastic sleeve.

Donald clears his throat and speaks up first. "How about some wine?"

"Little early for all that, isn't it?"

"For the pain, I mean."

"Oh. That seems sensible, good idea, Don."

They sit in silence for a few long moments until Paul emerges from the café door, untying his black apron and slinging a jacket over his shoulder.

"Off to meet someone, Paul?" Murphy asks him.

"Clocked off for the day, chaps," says Paul. "What do you need?"

"Bottle of red, Paul, if you'd be so kind!"

"I'll send someone out."

Murphy turns to Donald. "He's a good lad, that Paul, isn't he?"

"He's the best."

"Gay as a whistle, mind."

"Oh, gay as it gets."

Presently, a young girl who must be new brings out a bottle of house red and two glasses. They thank her, she smiles shyly and trots back into the café.

"Who was that?" asks Donald as he fills the wine glasses.

"Didn't she have a name tag?"

"They don't have name tags here. They've never had name tags."

They raise their glasses. "For the pain," says Donald.

"For the pain."

They finish their measures in a gulp.

"Now then, what say we patch you up, Private?" says Murphy.

Donald takes a deep breath and gives Murphy his hand.

"Y'know, Murph..."

"What?"

"That Gladys. How do you think she did it? All those years on her own. She had no family aside from her daughter. I never saw her speak to anyone."

"I saw her talking to one of the postmen once."

"You did?"

"Yeah. Walking past her house on my way to the garden centre."

"Did she look happy or sad?"

"I don't know, Don. Sad, maybe? She didn't really look anything."

"Well, your eyes are rubbish anyway."

Murphy grips Donald's hand tight across the table, pulling his wrist close as he hovers the tweezers a millimeter from his palm. "Stop stalling... Ready? Three... Two..."

"Excuse me," comes a voice beside them. They look up: it's Christine. "Sorry to interrupt, but I just wanted to say... I think you two are lovely."

Donald and Murphy gawk at her.

"It’s just wonderful, seeing two people of—well, your generation—so open about who they are. Out in the daylight, sharing wine, holding hands... honestly, I think it’s inspiring."

From by the fountain, Paul calls out, "Christine! Darling! We'll be late!"

Christine waves. "My fiancé is waiting for me; I must go. I think you're beautiful, both of you."

With that, she skips over to Paul and takes his hand, and they disappear into the crowd, enormous smiles on their faces.

At the café table, the old men's mouths are still wide open. Murphy’s fingers are still clamped around Donald’s wrist; the tweezers hover uselessly in the air.

Finally, Murphy sets the tweezers on the saucer. "Don... She thinks—"

"Paul knows us. He'll fix it." Donald's mouth goes dry. His face whitens. "He has to... He will, won't he?"

"Mind your ticker, chum."

Donald heaves against the rattan—his knees crack, and he drops straight back down, gasping. "We gotta get after them!"

In a perfunctory gesture, Murphy braces on the table edge and twists. "Nope."

Donald presses hard against his sternum.

Murphy picks up his cigar from the ashtray and sucks on it. "Reign it in, Donald. I'll tell everyone a bee slaughtered you."