When Mr. Dog Bites

by Brian Conaghan

  I heard Mom pottering about downstairs, making loads of noise. She wasn’t out at her boot camp, even though she’d been there three times in one week alone, which I thought was devil dangerous. I’m not a fully qualified doctor, and being at Drumhill I don’t think I’ll ever be able to become a fully qualified doctor, but I do know that doing squat thrusts, star jumps, and sit-ups in some smelly park somewhere can’t be any good for two babies inside a woman’s belly. If babies in bellies could talk, they’d probably shout, “Would you stop bloody bouncing me around your belly like a wee Smartie, Mom, and sit down and watch some telly or something instead?” when their moms decided to run about in public places with a load of other fat women. It wasn’t on. I didn’t think Mom should be doing the boot camp with a belly full of babies. Then forked lightning hit me: maybe that was why I had to go to Drumhill for all these years, ’cause Mom ran about like a maddie on crack with her boot-camp crowd when I was just a tiny tot floating about in her belly; maybe she did one star jump too many. Maybe I landed full force on my head on some tough part of her belly and ended up like this. It could have happened. It could have.

  Mom was doing a lot of huffing and puffing and slamming cupboard doors in the kitchen as I walked in. When she saw me, she stopped slamming. There were two used tea bags on the table but no cups. She looked unhappy. I loved my mom and wanted her to feel A-okay like I did when I left Doc Colm’s hospital that day.

  “You A-okay, Mom?” I said.

  “Yes, Dylan, I’m fine.”

  “Have you been crying?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  “Are you sad?”

  “Why are you asking?”

  “’Cause the tea bags are out, and you only put them on your eyes when you’re sad or crying.” I sat down next to the tea bags and squeezed them between my fingers until the cold tea juice came out.

  “They help with the puffiness and bags.”

  I thought this was funny snigger, not funny ha ha.

  “What’s so funny?” Mom said.

  “Using these wee bags to help your other wee bags,” I said, pointing to her eyes.

  “Very funny, Dylan.”

  “Are you sad because of the babies in your belly?”

  She folded her arms across her tummy. Then there was a tough silence. “No . . . yes . . . no . . . Well, yes and no, but mostly no.” Mom sat down across from me, and this was the first time since we came back from seeing Doc Colm that we had sat at the table together for some chat time. “Look, Dylan . . .”

  “Can I ask you a question, Mom?”

  “What?”

  “Promise you won’t get mad?”

  “I won’t get mad.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  “Mega promise?”

  “Mega promise.”

  “Is my dad the dad of those babies in your belly?”

  Mom looked at me, then looked away as though she were thinking so super hard that her brain was about to explode. Then she looked back at me.

  “No, Dylan, your dad is not the father of the twins,” Mom said, and rubbed her tummy like you would a wee bald man’s head. A part of me felt chuffed because I detected this all along, and it meant that I knew the score. My power of deduction was spot-on.

  “I knew it,” I said. I wasn’t angry or annoyed.

  “Knew what?”

  “That Dad wasn’t the dad.”

  Mom flicked her eyes up to the ceiling as if to say, No shit, Sherlock, but I could tell that she was being sarcastic, which is one of the main things adults do to make them different from children or teenagers at Drumhill.

  “Well, he’s not,” I said.“Who is?” This was the biggie.

  Apart from Dad, I only knew four grown-up men who could make a baby:

  1. Mr. Comeford. But he was married, and his wife was a cracker. (We saw her at the Drumhill fund-raiser for wee Mark Gilmour’s new liver and lung.)

  2. Mr. Grant. He was a straight no-no, because he was a double adaptor.

  3. Mr. McGrain. A definite no-no, because he was about 905, had a huge nose and bad skin; Mom would never find him nude attractive.

  4. Mr. Manzoor, Amir’s old man. But Dad would have been mega mega mega mad if he found that out.

  Actually, there was one more, but I tried to block him out.

  “Who is it?” I said again.

  “You’ve met him,” Mom said.

  “Where?”

  “Right here, sitting where you are now.”

  I shook my head. “Who?”

  “Tony,” Mom said, and let the name explode from her mouth and into my brain. “It’s Tony, Dylan.”

  “The taxi driver?” I said, trying to sound flabber flabber flabbergasted, but deep down I sort of knew.

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “What do you mean how?”

  “How is Tony the taxi driver the dad?”

  Mom looked at me as if she thought my “how” question was all about the birds and the bees. It wasn’t. My how was a how could you take a taxi, have a chat with the taxi driver, offer him a cup of tea in our house, and then have a baby together? That part didn’t make sense.

  “We met a while ago.”

  “In a taxi?”

  “No, not in a taxi, Dylan. I told you we were old school friends.”

  “Like me and Amir?”

  “Well, we were probably a bit closer than you and Amir when we were at school.”

  “Like bf and gf?”

  “Speak English, please.”

  “Boyfriend and girlfriend.”

  “Exactly, we were boyfriend and girlfriend when we were at school.”

  “So why did you leave each other, then?”

  “We were kids then.”

  “So? Amir is my best bud and we’re kids now, but I bet we’ll still be best buds when we’re dead old like you and the taxi driver.” Mom gave me one of her stop-talking-shite looks. “Does the taxi driver know that you have babies in there?”

  “Can you do me a favor, Dylan?”

  “What?”

  “Can you stop calling him the taxi driver, please? His name’s Tony, and I’d appreciate it if you could start using it.”

  “Does Tony know that there are babies in there?” I said, and pointed to Mom’s belly.

  “Of course he knows.”

  “So what’s going to happen, then?”

  “What do you mean, what’s going to happen? You know what’s going to happen—the babies will be here in March.”

  “We only have two bedrooms, so where will the babies sleep?”

  Mom became silent and puffed out her cheeks. A sure sign that something was on her mind. I put my tongue blade in because I could feel the pressure ball rising.

  “That’s something we need to discuss, Dylan, but not now.”

  “So when?” I said, but with the tongue blade in it sounded like a long eeeennnnnn.

  “Not now. I have enough on my plate without discussing all the nitty-gritty stuff right now.”

  I took my tongue blade out. “What about Dad?”

  “Oh, for the love of God, Dylan,” Mom said, and stood up like people who are in an I’m-up-to-high-dough state do. Or who have an invisible jumbo-size railway sleeper on their chest. Mom took deep breaths in and out, in and out.

  “Well, what about him? It’s not fair to Dad.”

  “Sure it’s not,” she said in a soft voice that she didn’t want me to hear, but I heard good enough.

  “I was going to write him a letter and tell him everything,” I said, but I was only kidding, ’cause news like that could have affected his judgment, and an affected judgment in a war zone is a bit like being covered in raw-meat jelly and thrown in a kennel full of pitbull dogs.

  Mom looked at me and blew her top. “WHAT HAVE I TOLD YOU ABOUT WRITING A LOAD OF RUBBISH TO YOUR DAD?”

  “But he’ll want to know w
hy you did it with Tony the taxi driver while he was away at the war.”

  “TONY! TONY! JUST TONY,” she screamed. I think Mom had a problem with Tony’s chosen profession.

  “But Dad will want some big questions answered, Mom.”

  Mom stared at me, and then out the window.

  “Like, if you love Dad, why would you make two babies with someone else?”

  Major annoyed sigh. Breaths in and out. Deep raging breaths. In. Out. I joined in. We sounded like we were wearing Star Wars costumes.

  “I don’t love your dad anymore, Dylan,” Mom said, in her low voice. All calm and soft. This was her scary voice.

  “What?” Shock-a-roony bombshell.

  “I am not in love with your dad, Dylan.”

  “Why?”

  “Too many whys.”

  “But you slept in the same bed.”

  “I wasn’t in love with him.”

  “What, ever?”

  “Not for the last few years.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really.” Wow!

  “Do you love the taxi . . . I mean, Tony?”

  “Yes.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, Dylan. I’m in love with Tony.”

  “Does he love you back?”

  “Yes.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really.”

  So Mom loved Tony the taxi driver and he loved her back? Heaven help us! This was one of those moments in your life when you never, ever forget where you were when something big happened, like when that president of the USA got shot donkey’s years ago. I would always remember that I was sitting at our kitchen table rubbing a used tea bag between the fingers of my left hand and Green between the fingers on my right when Mom told me she didn’t love Dad anymore and that she loved Tony the taxi driver now. Jings!

  “Mom?”

  “What?”

  “Can I ask you another question?”

  “Why not, it’s open season,” she said. I didn’t really know what this meant. Adults = crazies at times. “What is it?”

  “Does Tony love me?”

  “Well, you haven’t been very nice to him, have you?”

  “I have. I listened to Pink Floyd.” It was Strange with a capital S talking about love and stuff with Mom. It felt like an adult conversation without all the big massive words. “So Tony doesn’t love me, then?”

  “He loves me, Dylan, and I love you, so in a roundabout way I suppose he does love you, but you probably have to spend more time with each other for any love to develop between you.”

  I could see what Mom was going on about. Important alert! Tony the taxi driver would love the babies because they were his very own babies, and I would love the babies because they would be my very own brothers or sisters or both, even though they were only half wee brothers or sisters or both. I couldn’t have cared less; I’d still love the wee monkeys. I’d be the best big half brother in the world and show them the ropes, the word on the street, and all of life’s nooks and crannies. That meant that me and Tony the taxi driver would love the same three things: Mom and the wee monkeys. He’d have to love me after that. How could he not?

  “Does Dad love you?” I asked. If Mom’s head were see-through, you’d have been able to see her brain spinning around inside.

  “I’m not sure he does.” She said this with a smile on her face.

  “Why, what did you do?”

  Mom sniggered. It was good to see her happy and laughing a bit. “What did I do?” She said this to the ceiling. “What did I do?” She was still laughing. Strange behavior.

  “Yes, what did you do?” I really did want to know.

  “I’ll tell you what I did, shall I?”

  “Okay.” I couldn’t wait to find out what Mom did. I sat up in my chair.

  “I was the one who looked after you when he couldn’t be bothered, or was too drunk to even notice you were there. I was the one who took you to school when you were little, because he was too embarrassed to be seen outside the gates of Drumhill. I was the one who didn’t question him when he stayed out for days on end, hanging out of whatever floozy was the flavor of the week. I was the one who acted as his human punching bag when he was feeling tied down or imprisoned here with you and me. I was the one who had to lie to everyone and say he was somewhere with the army when he wasn’t. That’s what I did, Dylan. There. Happy now?”

  A mammoth, epic

  KERPOW

  CLANG

  BANG

  SCUD MISSILE

  moment to beat all others.

  Jesus H. Jones, as the Americans say.

  I thought about what Mom had said, and I really wanted to give her a hug and tell her that I loved her and that I’d never in a month of Mondays use her as a human punching bag. Never ever ever. No Way, José.

  “Does Dad love me?” I asked Mom.

  “In his own way, I suppose he does.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me he was using you as a human punching bag?”

  “You were a kid, Dylan. It was something you should have been protected from. I tried to shield you from all that crap.” Mom turned her back and pretended to be doing busy stuff in the kitchen. I knew she was doing pretend cleaning, though I didn’t say anything. “And anyway, you had your own problems to contend with, like your Tourette’s. You didn’t need to know about the problems that your mom and dad were having.”

  “I could have told Miss Flynn—she’s good with things like that.”

  Mom stopped pretending and turned around. “Well, that’s exactly why I didn’t say anything.” She ruffled my hair, which I really, really liked. It made me tingle inside when Mom ruffled my hair.

  “But what did you do for him to treat you like a human punching bag?” I said.

  Mom started laughing loudly, but this certainly wasn’t a hee-hee-hee-oh-that’s-so-blinking-funny laugh.

  “You’re definitely your father’s son.” Which was a strange thing to say, because this piece of information I already knew. “I didn’t do anything, Dylan. It was his way of having some recreational fun when he wasn’t out with his cronies or one of his little hussies or in some pub.” Then she sort of changed the look on her face and pointed her finger at me. Her finger was dead angry. “No man has the right to lift his hand to any woman. No man. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” I said. I agreed with her. But then, if a woman attacked a man with a hatchet or hammer, surely that man could defend himself. I didn’t say this to Mom, though, in case she thought I was being a male chauvinist runt pig. “But why did Dad do that?”

  “You’ll have to ask him that, Dylan.”

  “Did he punch you for real, like, full force?”

  “Slapped, punched, kicked, head butted, shoved . . . you name it, he did it.”

  My head rattled, and a few WHOOPs came flying out. I put the tongue blade in again and bit as hard as I could, almost all the way through it. It was a Mr. Angry bite. I wanted to cry for Mom and for her to give me one of her hug specials, or for me to give her one of my hug specials. I was like earthquake lava with rage flowing inside me because I had this picture in my head of Mom being flung around the living room when Dad used her as a human punching bag. That was not on your nelly. The picture made me want to bubble or scream. I breathed hard through my nose and then took my tongue blade out.

  “But I don’t understand, Mom. Why did he do that? That’s not nice, not nice at all. Why would he do that?”

  “You’re telling me. I really don’t know why he did it.”

  “He’s a big man bully.”

  “He is.”

  “I don’t like people who bully other people.”

  “Me neither, son.”

  “It’s just not right.”

  “I know it’s not.”

  “Does Tony use you as a human punching bag?”

  “No. No, Tony is gentle and caring.” I was hoping Mom was going to say something like this, because I didn’t know what I’d
have done if Tony the taxi driver liked his women to be punching bags. I would’ve had to have a word in Amir’s shell so that we could’ve come up with a proper plan of action. No need, thankfully.

  “That’s what I want to be when I grow up—caring and gentle,” I said, because that’s what all good men should be like. Even if you don’t have money to buy swanky dinners in flashy restaurants like Applebee’s or T.G.I. Friday’s or wear trendy clothes or have a shit-hot hot-rod car, you can still be gentle and caring. All those other things don’t really matter that much. “If I’d known what Dad was up to, maybe I could have stopped him. I could have done something.”

  “He was an animal, Dylan. No one could have stopped him.”

  “Not even the army?”

  Mom sat down next to me and took my hand in hers. My hand was Sweaty Betty and hers was Clammy Sammy. She looked at me directly in the eyes, really serious, like, the same as when me and Amir were having one of our major blinking competitions, which I always won. Amir said it was because Pakistani eyelids are more sensitive than Scottish ones and he needs to blink more, which I never realized before. People’s bodies are bonker machines! Mom stared at me.

  “Look, love, your dad left the army a long time ago.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  Mom seemed surprised that I knew serious stuff, as if she thought I was the smallest birdbrain in Britain or something. “You do?”

  “Yes, he’s in some special forces now. It’s a bit like a higher-up version of the SAS. Major Intelligence Unit, I think.”

  Mom shook her head, and her eyes had a Feeling Sorry look about them.

  “No, he’s not, son.”

  “He’s not?” Now I was confused dot com, like in algebra class.

  “He left the army last year.”

  “2013 last year?”

  “June 2013, to be exact.”

  “He left last June? Why?”

  “When I say left, he didn’t exactly leave.”

  “So he didn’t leave?” Now it was like double algebra class with algebra detention after school, followed by algebra homework and a crossword at bedtime.

  “He was asked to leave.”

  “Asked to leave the army?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because of his poor discipline.”