A Son Called Gabriel

by Damian McNicholl

  “Why’s it filthy?” Caroline asked.

  “Shut up, you, or I’ll send you off to bed.” She turned back to me. “Don’t ever use that word again.”

  Mammy ordered James and Nuala to bed. She peered into the fire until they’d left the room, watching its orange-and-mustard-colored tongues flutter and lick the crackling coals.

  “Caroline, check and make sure James isn’t listening in the hallway.”

  After Caroline returned to say he wasn’t, Mammy said, “The pair of you, go sit on the sofa.”

  We sat rigid at opposite ends of the couch as our mother studied the dancing flames again. Her lower face glowed in the light and muscles on the side of her mouth twitched. Something big was coming.

  “It’s time to tell you the facts of life, because you’re at Saint Malachy’s now, Gabriel.” She rose and switched off the television. “Caroline, you’re smart and will be experiencing little changes to your body shortly, so I’m going to tell you also.”

  Mammy took a deep but slow breath. “Son, you may hear a lot of awful words to describe the private parts of your body from the boys at school. They use words like that because they haven’t been told the facts of life properly. Those boys have learned about the sacred act of sexual intercourse the wrong way. Never forget that sexual intercourse is sacred. It’s a gift given by God for the purpose of bringing new life into the world.”

  My mother sat stiffly as she explained about the changes that would occur to my penis and Caroline’s vagina. She explained the actual doing of the sacred act. She used words like “engorged” and “spermatozoa.”

  “God also allows sexual intercourse at times other than when the woman is trying to conceive. He allows it when a woman isn’t ovulating, but she must use the rhythm method. If she uses that method, then the Catholic Church says it’s okay not to produce a baby.”

  “Isn’t there another way a woman could avoid conception?” I asked.

  “How might that be?” Mammy’s voice had risen at the end of her question.

  “Well, if the man lies flat on the bed and the girl climbs up and sits on his engorged penis, then that would stop the spermatozoa coming out, wouldn’t it?”

  Her jaw slackened for a split second. “I’ll wash that dirty mouth of yours out with soap. How on Jesus’s good earth did you come up with such a filthy idea?”

  “It’s a law of physics that things don’t flow upward.”

  “Physics doesn’t apply here.”

  “Can a blind man’s penis get engorged?” Caroline asked.

  “Yes, and that’ll be all the questions for today.”

  “How can a blind man get engorged if he can’t see his wife?” I asked.

  “You’ll understand the mystery if you get married . . . though, of course, I’m still hoping you’ll be the priest in our family.”

  “Are you going to get Daddy to explain the other part to me?” I said.

  “Other part?” Mammy cocked her head.

  “About men doing it together?”

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, what are you saying? Haven’t you been listening? Men don’t do the sacred act with other men. That’s unnatural.”

  Icy tingles passed instantly from my hipbones to the top of my spine. The hairs on the back of my neck rose. My ears exploded in bells.

  “It’s only the women that have eggs . . . forbidden . . . abomination . . . eyes of the Church . . .” Her lips moved faster and faster. “Unnatural . . . mortal, mortal sin . . . abomination . . . hear such a thing?” She stared at me as if expecting an answer. “I asked where did you hear of such a thing, Gabriel?”

  My mind raced faster than the tumbling pieces of James’s kaleidoscope.

  Abomination. “I don’t remember, Mammy.” Forbidden.

  My voice was weak and false, as weak and false as my lie.

  Unnatural. Forbidden. Abomination.

  I couldn’t say I heard boys talking about it at school, because it was unnatural. I realized then that no boy did talk about this at school. How could I have been so stupid?

  Mortal sin. Abomination.

  An image of the man at the beach popped into my mind. I saw myself crawling underneath his towel. I’d wanted to see all of him. It was unnatural to have wanted to see him naked. Another image flashed, the one of Fergal watching me kneel before Noel at the bridge.

  “Tell me the truth, Gabriel. Who told you about this wickedness?”

  I met her gaze. It was as hard to look at her as it had been to look at Fergal at the bridge. Noel had lied to me. God forbade it. I would go to hell if I died. Fergal had known it was an abomination. Was this why he looked at me strangely in class sometimes, or was I imagining it?

  Chills raced up my spine again, yet inside I was frying. My mind leaped from Fergal to the polished altar rails where I knelt to receive Holy Communion every Sunday. I was a sinner receiving Our Lord’s body. It was hell for me when I died. Roasting flames and bodies that never cooked. Another surge of sweat came as soon as I realized I could never confess such wickedness to Father McAtamney. Not even in the pitch-dark of the confessional could I whisper this evil. Even more terrifying, I’d have to go on receiving Our Lord’s flesh in a state of sin, because I was too young to refuse. Mortal sin would pile upon mortal sin. I couldn’t breathe.

  Clawing every ounce of my strength together, I raised my eyes to her face. I felt transparent as glass. I was sure she saw my every thought. But I had to continue as if everything were normal.

  “Mammy, I made a stupid mistake. I just thought sexual intercourse was such a wonderful gift from God that it was for all kinds of people to enjoy together.”

  “Now you know better,” she said.

  Twelve

  Next time I saw Fergal, I could barely look him in the eyes. I felt like my cousin Connor. My new knowledge changed everything. I felt such shame, I was sure I reeked of it and he could smell it. And I was sure the other boys could smell my shame, too.

  School and the classroom became a living hell. If I thought Fergal was acting coldly toward me, I suffered a thousand agonies. I would check constantly to see if he was upset with me about anything, to see if he was still my friend. If he chose to sit beside another boy in the classroom, I was convinced it was because I was an abomination. If I saw him and the boy he was sitting with snickering in class, I was sure I was the reason. I was certain he’d told him about what he’d caught me doing to Noel. I’d brace for odd looks and the teasing to begin. I couldn’t talk to anyone about it and felt so alone in the crowded classroom. Instead of concentrating on my lessons, I’d try to count the number of times Noel and I had done it, asking myself why I’d allowed it to occur in the first place.

  It got so bad that I began to avoid Martin and his gang of three friends. I’d fallen into the habit of meeting them by the handball court where we’d play. If the court was already taken, we’d usually go to an empty classroom and eat our sandwiches while we chatted. It didn’t matter to them that I was only a first-year or that I wasn’t in the House of Cork. (Our school used a four-house system for competitive purposes at sports and examinations. The house that accumulated the most points won a trip abroad at the end of the year. I was a member of the House of Belfast.)

  It didn’t matter to his gang what House I belonged to because I was Martin’s cousin and he was their leader. The other members were Giles, Niall, and David. Giles was the most colorful and, until I’d learned about my wickedness, I really enjoyed him. Although only thirteen, he was already six-foot, skinny, and extremely funny. He refused to trim his patchy sideburns or wear his hair regulation length and was forever hiding from Father Rafferty.

  But he was also girly. Some of the other boys had nicknamed him “Pansy” before I came to Saint Malachy’s. He didn’t care. He’d even given Martin and the gang permission to call him that name, telling them the more it was used, the less ammunition it gave the other boys. They’d see it wasn’t hurting him and the joke would be on them. The ga
ng hadn’t been able to bring themselves to say “Pansy,” but had compromised. They called him “Pani” instead.

  As gang leader, Martin had us make our school ties in loose, exaggerated knots, roll up our blazer sleeves, and strut about the corridors and around the edge of the football field as if we were doing a fashion parade. Until I found out about my mortal sin, I’d loved to strut with them. Until then, I hadn’t cared much about Pani’s girlishness or the name-calling.

  For the first time, I was glad I didn’t have fifteen-inch flares in my pants. They looked ridiculous and made Martin and his friends stand out from the rest of the boys. I began to think the name-calling and wolf whistles were directed at me as much as at Pani. The boys could smell I was different, in the same way a healthy dog can smell another is sick and snaps at it to get the sick one to leave.

  I didn’t strut with the boys for six days. On the seventh, Martin stood outside my history classroom when the lunch bell rang, the top of his indigo toothbrush peeping from his breast pocket, because he always brushed after eating.

  “What’s the matter, Gabriel? The others say you don’t want to associate with us anymore.”

  “That’s not true.” I looked at the wall instead of his rolled-up blazer sleeves and exaggerated tie knot, both of which annoyed me.

  “What gives, then?”

  “I just don’t like all the name-calling. It’s got under my skin. I can’t hack it.”

  “Please. I’ve told you before you shouldn’t give a hoot what these heather-goons say.”

  Heather-goon was Martin’s name for country boys—a name that hurt, because I was from the country, too.

  “I care, Martin.”

  “You know as well as I do that the insults are directed at Pani, not you and me.”

  Martin paused as Fergal and two other boys came out of the history room. Fergal’s eyes locked on Martin’s indigo toothbrush. One of the boys had his arm around Fergal’s shoulders, which made me instantly icy inside because of what I’d done to Eamonn Convery, a quiet boy who’d tried to be my friend in chemistry class two days ago. As we were sitting on our stools at the lab desks, Eamonn had put his head near mine and rubbed his hair playfully against the side of my ear. I’d wondered why the hell he’d done it and warned him not to do it again in front of two other boys. He’d turned scarlet and I’d felt dead sorry as soon as I’d seen his mortification, but I hadn’t apologized.

  “You simply must stop being so sensitive, Gabriel,” said Martin. “I’m always telling you this.”

  “Put that toothbrush in your inside pocket.”

  My cousin looked puzzled.

  “I don’t think—”

  Two more boys came out of the room and I stopped talking until they’d passed by.

  “I don’t think it’s only Pani they’re calling a pansy,” I said. “It could . . . it might be some of the rest of us, as well.”

  “I don’t give a damn about the heather-goons.” Martin’s face puckered. “Half of them can’t even speak proper English, for Christ’s sake. It’s what you believe about yourself that matters. You mustn’t allow these people to control your life.” He swept his bangs, which he bleached with lemon juice, off his forehead. “For Christ’s sake, let them call us any name they want. They’ll be the idiots when they see it doesn’t bother us.”

  I liked Martin when he acted like a big brother. In fact, I was jealous of Connor in this regard. Often, I thought how wonderful it would be to have an older brother to act as my protector, just as Uncle Brendan had told me Daddy had protected him.

  “These farm boys are jealous of us, Gabriel. Look how some of the seniors roll up their blazer sleeves as soon as school is finished and they’re walking out the gate to the buses. Who do you think started that? We did. That’s who. Our group started the whole thing. They want to look so hip when they chat up the Saint Mary’s Convent girls. But never forget, we started the craze.” Martin pointed a finger at his chest. “The heather-goons follow us when it matters.”

  It made sense, but I still needed time to think and told him so. I needed time to analyze, just like I analyzed everything, turning it over and over in my mind until all angles were examined.

  For the next few days, I thought and analyzed. The more I did, the more I realized he was dead right. Martin didn’t give a damn if the boys called us names. Pani didn’t give a damn, either. Neither did David or Niall. So why should I? Martin was also right about me—I was far too sensitive and that needed to change.

  Another amazing thing happened over the course of the next few days. My mind stretched Martin’s opinion to apply to the terrible thing I’d done with Noel. I was being far too damned sensitive about that, too. Yes, I had committed a sin. But I hadn’t known it was a sin. I hadn’t known it was an abomination when I’d been doing the acts. God would understand if I asked Him to. What had happened was unnatural, but God knew I wasn’t evil.

  The hardest part to analyze and overcome was the confessing aspect. I could never tell a priest. The very thought of confessing always brought Uncle Brendan to mind, which set me back every time because it whipped up the shame again. I thought about how clean living and holy he was. I could never tell him, or any other priest. As I analyzed that problem, it popped into my head that God was all about forgiveness, too. God would forgive what I couldn’t tell a priest. I would talk to Him directly and ask for forgiveness. No priest was required here.

  At my bedside, for the next ten nights, I got down on my knees and chanted the Act of Contrition. I did it faithfully. I did it swiftly, too, before James came into the room and asked what the hell I was doing. I also talked in my own words to God, told Him how sorry I was and that I’d never do it again.

  An astonishing thing happened as I was doing this one evening. He came to me. He came and spoke inside my head in a beautiful, fatherly voice. He told me I was completely forgiven. I heard Him clearly, as clearly as the pealing bells of Derry City.

  He asked only one price: I had to stop avoiding Noel and tell him it was over.

  “Your aul doll said you were down here,” said Noel. He walked toward me with his hands in his pocket. “Do you want to go to the hay nest?”

  I was fetching drinking water from the well. “I won’t be doing the caper with you ever again, Noel.” Lifting the buckets, I started quickly across the field.

  Noel looked surprised as I hurried past him. “What are you talking about?”

  “You heard.”

  He followed me. “Why?”

  “You know why.”

  “I don’t.”

  I put down the buckets so hard, water sloshed over the sides. I looked him in the face. It wasn’t hard, because I despised his ugly face now. Everything about Noel was ugly. He was a thin body of ugliness and filth and I wished he were sixteen and leaving to join the Merchant Navy, like he wanted to do.

  “I know the facts of life. What we’ve been doing is unnatural, a mortal sin. Men don’t do that sort of thing. It’s an abomination. You’d best drop to your knees and ask His forgiveness. I did.”

  His yellow front teeth flashed as he smiled.

  “Sexual intercourse is sacred and for making babies,” I insisted.

  “Lots of men do it together. That’s the God’s truth.”

  “It’s a mortal sin and I’m not doing it again.”

  Noel’s face contorted into a hideous mask. “You tell your aul doll about us?”

  I picked up the buckets and started walking. Water sloshed over the rims and soaked my jeans. “I didn’t.”

  “Make sure you don’t. If you do, I’m going to tell her exactly what you did to me . . . and more importantly, what you got me to do to you.” He came in front of me and started to run in reverse as we advanced across the field. “I’ll tell her every detail and she’ll believe me because I’m older than you.” His eyes pierced mine. “Do you understand?”

  I didn’t respond.

  “Do you understand?”

  He
was the one who’d offered to do it to me. But I’d permitted him. Did my permitting him make me as guilty as him? I wasn’t sure. I really wanted him out of my sight.

  “I understand. Leave me alone.”

  “I’m glad we see eye to eye.”

  He started quickly across the field. He lit a cigarette, its blue smoke whipping behind his head as he slouched toward an arching gap in the ragged hedge. His camel-colored jacket merged with the turning leaves as he passed under the narrow arch. My shoulders and arms throbbed from carrying the buckets, but the pain was lovely. Never would Noel touch me again. Not so much as a finger of his would touch my clothes, and this lovely pain would bear witness to my promise to God.

  My first school examinations occurred in mid-December. I sat with two hundred boys in the huge gymnasium with its wall of windows that let in the bleak gray light. No two members of the same class were allowed to sit within ten feet of each other, in case they were tempted to cheat. Teachers stalked the narrow aisles with folded arms and slowly swiveling heads, hoping to catch a boy or two succumbing to temptation. Trust was taught but not practiced at Saint Malachy’s.

  Toward the end of the term, the results flooded back and it became quickly apparent that I hadn’t done well. With the announcement of each result, clusters of boys sat tallying averages during class breaks and then compared their scores with one another to ascertain who was in the lead. Latin, Irish, and mathematics were my downfall. I’d failed them miserably. My other results were average and I ended up in sixteenth place out of a class of twenty-two. I finished ten places behind Fergal, which ensured I had my first terrible Christmas.

  The report card arrived on a snowy late Saturday afternoon at the end of January and gave rise to fresh misery when Mammy resurrected her scalding comparisons to Fergal. I stared at the list of results, already embedded in my brain, and my class position in each subject. They were written immaculately in black ink. Only one other thing appeared in the report card. It was written in blue: “Only a mediocre student,” was Father Rafferty’s comment in dusty blue fountain pen ink.