by Tom Lennon
His mum started to sob.
His dad got up and stood at the fireplace, turning his back on Neil. “I’m not an idiot, Neil, I know your brothers are living with their girlfriends, and I know that Jackie is probably tucked up in bed with that long-haired boyfriend of hers right now. I didn’t come down in the last shower. I’ve always allowed you all a certain amount of freedom.”
His dad turned around and pointed at Neil, his eyes blazing. “But one thing I’ll never tolerate is that queer carry-on. Never! Ever!”
Neil started to cry. “I can’t help the way I am,” he shouted.
His mum reached out and patted his hand.
“I told you, I accept you as a homosexual, if that’s what you think you are. But I don’t accept any of your homosexual practices. It’s flying in the face of God,” his dad replied coldly.
Neil felt the rage inside him rising. It was like he was talking to a complete stranger. “What’s wrong with you? Why can’t you just see who I am?” he roared.
“I told you, no son of mine carries on that way.” His father was unusually calm.
“Well, whose son am I, then?” Neil was bawling now, and his mum draped her arm around him, attempting to soothe him. “Because I am going to carry on that way. I’m not going to change. I can’t!”
His dad swore before he stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him. Neil stood up weakly.
“He’s as big a bigot as those bastards who beat me up,” he said, looking at his mum. But she just stared up at him sorrowfully. Now she understood. All those lonely bike rides, all those silences, the stranger in their midst.
“I suppose you’re going to turn your back on me now?” he snapped, uneasy under her stare.
“I’ll never turn my back on you, love,” his mum said. “You know that.”
Neil wanted to snuggle up to her and tell her about all the little inconsequential things he had done that day. He wanted her to wrap her arms around him and shelter him from the world. He wanted her to rub his hair and call him her little man. But he knew from her tone of voice that she hadn’t finished speaking yet.
“But your father’s right, Neil. It is flying in the face of God.”
Neil’s heart sank right to the bottom of his stomach. But his sadness was quickly replaced by anger.
“You’re just as bad as him!” he shouted, wiping the tears from his face.
“Neil, listen to me.”
“The two of you hate me now, don’t you?”
“Neil,” his mum pleaded.
“Well, it’s your problem, not mine!” he yelled and stormed out of the room and upstairs to his bedroom. He tasted the salty tears trickling into his mouth. Why don’t they ask me how I feel, instead of always telling me how I should feel? Hey Jesus, should I bring Ted with me? That’s everything .All your belongings. Bye-bye, bed. Good-bye, room. Down the stairs slowly, give them their last chance. No sound. Delay in the hallway. Fumble with the latch. C’mon, Mum, at least say “God bless.” Open the door slowly to get the loudest squeak. Still no sound. Screaming inside, but they don’t hear me. Why don’t they understand? Good-bye, house. Close the door gently.
There’s Gary’s wagon of a mother, pretending to water her flowers. Walk faster, she’s standing up. Pretend you don’t hear her. Got to get out of this place. Stop crying, will you? Go through the school grounds, won’t be anyone there. Sundown spreading its last burning orange glow across the sky. Lights twinkling out on Howth Head. What’re the words of Daphne’s song? “Every time we say good-bye…”They’re going to play it at his funeral. Redser told me. Stop thinking about it… Look, there’s some kids playing soccer. Put down the bag. “Hey lads, give us a game. Okay, me and this little fellow against the rest of you. You go in goals, small fry. No, of course I wasn’t crying, it’s from the chlorine in the swimming pool.” Trusting excited faces chasing around, trying to get the ball off you. “Didn’t your mamas ever warn you against the likes of me? It’s Ryan Giggs, he beats one, he beats two, he beats three, it’s there. One nil. I played for Manchester United, you know. Janey!” A gasp of amazement. “You’re going into First Year next year? What’s it like?” “Ah now, it’s a while now since I was in First Year.” Laugh then. “It’s great fun being in First Year, best time of your life, but you won’t know it at the time. Okay, your tip-off. Oh, what a tackle, and the break is on. The keeper comes out, but Giggs sells a dummy and slots the ball home. Two-nil. What about that, small fry? Who’s calling you? Your mum? You better go in. Right, see you, lads.” Off they run, home to their glass of milk, their mummies’ good night kiss, their snug little beds…Pick up your cross. On your own again.
“You’re not leaving us, are you?”
Startled, Neil turned around to face Father Donnelly. “How’re you, Father?” he said with a grin.
“What’s this?” Father Donnelly was pointing at Neil’s multicolored canvas bag. Neil felt his face flushing. There’s no point in trying to lie to Donno, he realized. He can read you like a book, and anyway he’s going to know that you were crying.
“Bit of a row at home, Father,” he said, fixing his gaze on his sneakers.
“Oh?” Father Donnelly was rubbing his wizened chin, as he always did, patiently waiting for the troubled boy to open his heart.
“So I’m going to stay at a friend’s place.”
“A friend in need is a friend indeed,” Donno said, absently pointing across the grounds. “You know, Neil, that tree there is over two hundred years old.”
Neil glanced over at the huge oak tree dutifully, but his thoughts were elsewhere. He knew that Donno always used tricks like this to disarm you, and when your defenses were down, he struck with all the cunning of a python.
“Look at all the colorful flowers growing around the bark.”
Neil nodded. Maybe he wanted the python to strike.
“They’re like the First Years, bright and vivacious. But that disappears all too quickly. And the old oak is left standing there, waiting for the new crop to come along and add color to his life…”
Neil sneaked a look at the elderly priest and he knew that Donno was pretending not to notice his look. He was like an old fisherman, biding his time before he started to reel in.
“Sometimes, the old oak sees a lot more than his flowers think.”
The fisherman had begun to reel in. But the sad fish didn’t fight or struggle. The silent cry for help rang out in the twilight. He broke down and the kindly priest draped his arm around his shoulder. They went inside and all the years of pain and frustration were poured out upon the benign listener. Then the wise old listener stood up and looked out the window as he spoke.
“Neil, there are some things in this life that we’ll never understand. And I’m not going to start telling you what’s right and what’s wrong. But one thing you should always remember. You’re part of God’s beauty, and you have to respect that beauty, both in yourself and in others.”
Neil dried his eyes and drained his coffee. The elderly priest crossed the room and held Neil’s shoulders gently.
“And promise me one other thing,” he said. “Promise me that you’ll phone your mother tomorrow.”
Neil nodded, knowing that he wouldn’t be phoning his house in the near future. But his heart felt lighter. The moon had begun to rise. And as he traipsed through the silvery school grounds, he wondered how Donno would have reacted if he had told him about Shane. He’d probably just say, “Well, Neil, I didn’t think you were going to go off and varnish your nails.”
Neil sat on the steps outside Shane’s flat for over an hour. Crowds on their way into the basement nightclub gave him odd looks as they passed. He pulled the peak of his baseball cap down to conceal his face. One slightly drunk girl stopped and asked him if he was okay. Her boyfriend stood behind her, impatiently shuffling from foot to foot. Neil assured her that he had just forgotten his key and that his brother would be home soon. He liked that, referring to Shane as his brother. But
he couldn’t help smiling when the concerned girl warned him to be careful, that a number of people had been beaten up in the area recently.
Around midnight, he saw Shane stumbling toward him with his arm draped drunkenly around another guy’s shoulder. As soon as he spotted Neil, he unwrapped his arm.
“Neil!” He looked surprised, but Neil noticed his smile dim slightly when he spotted the canvas carrier bag sitting on the steps.
“Hi.” Neil was subdued.
“Sorry, Neil,” Shane swirled around drunkenly. “This is Rory, a pal of mine from Belfast.”
“Hiya, Neil,” Rory said.
“Hi,” Neil muttered, barely glancing at Rory.
“We went to school together,” Shane added quickly, sensing Neil’s displeasure.
“A good Catholic school,” Rory said in a funny voice, and Shane laughed at what was obviously a private joke between them.
Inside the flat, Neil felt worse. Shane and Rory talked about their school days, and Shane kept turning his shoulder on Neil, purposely excluding him. Nothing was even said about the heavy canvas bag that he had lugged up the stairs and that was now sitting in the middle of the room, visible to all. And it wasn’t that Shane was hiding anything, because it was obvious that his pal Rory knew everything about him. Neil wanted to leave. But where to? Go back home and tell them that he was only joking. Too late for that. Sugar’s apartment? Bit more comfortable than this kip, and it’d give that fucker Shane something to think about. If only Becky were still around. It would’ve been no problem staying in her place. At least he wouldn’t have had to put up with this sort of grief. But there was no doubting it, he wanted to pick up the bread knife and stab Rory. He was a potential murderer as well as everything else.
Forget about yourself for once, he said to himself. Join in the conversation. They don’t want me to. Well, just sit there and look pretty then. They don’t know that I’m admiring myself in the mirror. Admiring what? That sulky face? I can watch their faces in the mirror as well. Shane’s face, you mean. Animated in a way that it’s never animated when he’s talking to you. Stop it, that’s not true.
Eventually Rory fell asleep on the sofa and this signaled a change in Shane’s behavior toward him. Suddenly, he was all ears as he listened with concern to Neil’s account of his parents’ reaction. He laughed when Neil revealed that he suspected that maybe there was something going on between him and Rory.
“Even if he was the last bloke left on earth, I still wouldn’t be interested.” It was the old Shane again, and Neil quickly forgot about all his worries.
It took Neil ages to fall asleep that night. His mind was a jumble of confused thoughts. What were his mum and dad doing now? Were they asleep?
Beside him, Shane slept soundly. Neil propped himself up on his elbow and watched his chest rising and falling softly and his face that looked so peaceful now, lost in a dream world. A stranger in the bed with him. Maybe he should go into the kitchen, pick up the bread knife, drive it through that smooth skin, and save himself so much pain.
He began to argue silently with himself. Becky’s right, he thought. It’s only a matter of time before it ends. No, what does she know, she doesn’t see the little magical moments that pass between us. Like in the song, magic moments, magic moments. What magic moments? Well, like the way he smiled at me outside the pub in Donnybrook last Saturday night. Yeah, when he was drunk. But what about those long silences between you while he was still sober? And when you did start to babble on, he wasn’t even listening to you. Stop fooling yourself, Neil, he doesn’t want you here. Did you see the face on him when he saw your bag? Stop, I don’t want to know about these things, I have enough problems as it is. Everything will be all right in the morning, that’s what mum always used to say. And everything always was all right in the morning. Go to sleep now, curl up like you did when you were a little boy, wait for Dad’s stubbly kiss…Oh Jesus, what’ve I done? My life’s in a bigger mess than ever before. Why is this happening to me? I can’t take it any longer. What did I have to fucking well tell them for?
Chapter Ten
Neil spotted his mum’s blue hat instantly. She was sitting at the rear of the restaurant. Sipping her mug of coffee apprehensively with her handbag jammed between herself and the wall, she looked like a total stranger. All the confidence he normally associated with her was absent. She looked ill at ease, vulnerable even. Gone was the poise and control, the wagging finger, the look that had to be obeyed. Then he decided to do something he hadn’t done in years: he leaned down and kissed her cheek lightly before he sat down opposite her. All traces of anxiety vanished from her face the moment she spotted him. They were in Bewley’s on Grafton Street. It was three o’clock and the lunchtime rush had cleared. Two arty types, reeking with pretension, and wearing quasi-hippie-style clothing, sat at the next table. The guy was reading a book, and the girl, who was sporting a purple beret with a flower in it, was sketching with charcoal. A baby sat gurgling in a buggy alongside them.
“What did you do to your hair?” his mum asked.
“D’you like it?”
On Shane’s suggestion, Neil had begun to gel his hair back off his forehead, so that their age gap wouldn’t be so apparent. And he had also colored it with a pinch of henna.
“Oh yes, it looks fine.”
Neil could tell that his mum was trying hard not to let her bewilderment show. He had let a week go by before he had phoned her. And when he did phone her that morning, her voice was fraught with worry and emotion.
Their initial exchanges were awkward, as his mum performed verbal gymnastics to avoid mentioning Neil’s revelations. But Neil was also engaging in a degree of role-playing, doing his Mister Happy act, as though meeting his mum for coffee in town was a normal, everyday occurrence.
“D’you remember you and Dad brought me in here the day I had my confirmation?”
His mum smiled. “And you ate six sticky buns and nearly got sick afterward.”
Neil was amazed at the accuracy of his mum’s memory.
“And then we went to the spring show,” he added, smiling at the memory of himself in his neat blazer, with the big red confirmation badge pinned proudly onto it, the brand-new pressed trousers, and the squeaky clean new shoes. They were on their second mug of coffee when his mum dipped her hand into her handbag and produced three crisp twenty-pound notes.
“Here, love, you’ll need this.” She was embarrassed as she slid the money across the table to him.
Neil felt his veneer of pretense wilting. “Thanks, Mum.”
“I hope you’re eating proper food now,” she said quickly in an obvious attempt to divert attention away from the money.
Neil nodded, smiling to himself.
“I should’ve asked you to bring in your dirty clothes with you,” his mum continued in her fussing voice.
Neil laughed. “There are laundromats in the city, Mum.”
But the ice was broken. The unmentionable had been mentioned, indirectly at least. Neil realized that it was up to him to broach the subject more directly.
“Has Dad said anything else about last week?” he asked.
His mum shook her head, but he knew that she was lying to him. They had probably sat up every night since, discussing the moment that had ripped their hearts apart. It was funny though, he thought, he could never lie convincingly to his mum, and neither could she lie to him.
“We just want you to be happy, Neil,” she whispered, reaching across the table to hold his hand.
“I know that,” he muttered, keeping his head bowed to conceal his reddening face. He was conscious that the two art groupies at the next table were glancing over.
“He did make one suggestion, Neil. Your father.”
“What?” Neil was wary.
His mum leaned forward and whispered, “He thinks that maybe you should go and see a psychiatrist.”
Neil looked twice at his mum to check that she wasn’t joking. Then he leaned back in his chair, s
hook his head, and expelled a quick rush of air through his nostrils. “You are being serious, aren’t you?” he said incredulously.
His mum shifted uncomfortably. “Well, you never know, it might help, they’re very good at—”
“Mum,” Neil interjected, taking hold of his mum’s hand. He saw that she was blushing when she lifted her head to look at him. “After I told you I was gay,” he said quietly, “I swore to myself that I’d never lie to you again. No more pretense. I’ve done enough of that to last a lifetime.”
His mum lifted her eyebrows in surprise.
“So believe me when I tell you, being gay is not a mental illness. It’s the way I am, Mum, the way I’ve always been, and the way I always will be.”
“Ah, you don’t know that,” she said, hitting his hand gently.
He spoke deliberately. “Mum, I do know that.”
His mum managed a smile. “He was only trying to help, Neil.”
“Sure,” Neil sighed, and he turned to glare at the two art groupies who were listening intently. His mum looked sheepish now, so Neil changed the subject and started to ask about his nephew and niece. She told him that they both missed their Uncle Neil, and that they charged upstairs to check his bedroom every time they visited.
“Tell them that I’ll take them in to see my new house one of these days,” he said. The thought of their amazed little faces looking out onto Leeson Street from his bedroom window amused him. But this mention of his flat only prompted another inquisitive search for details of his new life.
“Tell me,” his mum said in her soft whisper. “Do you and your friend…” She paused, holding her hand to her head.
“Shane?” he said, jogging her memory.
“Yes, of course, Shane.”
Neil smiled to himself. His mum’s feigned forgetfulness often amused him. But years of experience told him that it usually meant that she was carefully maneuvering her way toward an awkward subject.
“Tell me, do you and Shane share a bed?”
Neil very nearly slipped off his chair. He wanted to laugh out loud, but he didn’t. Suddenly, he felt so sorry for his mum. Why should he hurt her anymore? Surely the woman who had devoted so many years to him deserved a break. The woman who had carried him around as a tiny, wriggling, red-veined, saucer-eyed fetus.