Frankie McCafferty

N plate.

N for no clue, no brakes, no girlfriend, no leaving cert, no job, no sense, no insurance, no taste.

Fonzie raises a fist salute from the gutter.

No surrender, no regrets.

Cortland shakes his head slowly.

Approaching on the footpath, two abreast, the sisters McGinnity, retired, pink-cheeked and weight-losing with fast walking, arm-pumping and high-visibility vests.

Morning, Cortland.

they say together.

Good morning, ladies.

They whiz past, no time to talk.

Swip-swiping in their windbreakers, they set off on their first loop of the universe of the day, leaving only in their cool afterdraft a hint of rosewater.

Cortland picks it up, and it brings to his mind suddenly, sharply, in those final few steps to the shop, his mother.

And through his mother, Lord rest her soul, his father, very much alive.

Cortland Alexander II, who at that very moment, and not ten miles away, is being fed a warmish, palish mix of porridge made on milk, the runny residue of which is being scraped from the runnels of his chin by Jorg, a Brazilian nurse of infinite, selfless, beatific patience.

And Cortland should think... I must go and visit him.

Instead, he thinks... Is that all there is to it?

The three-legged stray dog, whom nobody owns, is at the shop door.

He hobbles towards Cortland and lifts his sad-eyed, down-on-his-luck, war-veteran-of-a-dog face.

His tongue hangs out as if it is broken.

He is salivating.