8
It’s Saturday morning. The school week that just ended flew by like it was in a hurry. Rhonda and I now meet up every day after school; we go to the cemetery and make out with unabashed passion. Thankfully, we haven’t seen the dirty old man again. Our make-out sessions are getting more and more intense. Rhonda now rubs my pants with her hand and she lets me fondle her breasts over her shirt. Once, things got a bit too much for me and I had to run off into the trees. At school, during lunchtime, we try to find private spots where we can make out, but we’re not always successful; by the time the end of the day comes around, we’re well and truly ready for each other.
I’ve set myself up in the backyard with a beach towel and I’m lying back reading The Outsider by Albert Camus. But I’m not really taking any of it in. I’ve read the same paragraph at least eight times now. Meursault is swimming with Marie. He’s turned on and so my thoughts drift to images of Rhonda in a bathing suit. She would look incredible. Her snow white thighs would be unbelievable. I was gonna have to take her swimming soon. Then my thoughts meander on to, of all things, memories of pet goldfish. I had fish when I was younger, but they all died of various causes, with varying degrees of discomfort. One of the more harrowing deaths I can recall is Crispin’s.
I came out of my bedroom one morning to find Crispin lying on the floor in front of the fish tank. I quickly picked him up and placed him gently back into the water. To my distress, all that poor Crispin could manage to do was to drift backwards on the pathetic current generated by the filter. I thought I could see the sadness in his little eyes. He looked to be in a lot of pain. His scales were all worn from flipping himself over and over on the carpet during the night. I wondered how long he’d been out of the tank and tore myself up for not having got out of bed earlier. When the rest of the family woke up, I told them about Crispin’s ordeal.
Dad looked at Crispin drifting backwards in the tank and told me that he’d have to kill Crispin to put him out of his misery. A split second later, without giving me any time to consider the situation, Dad pushed up his sleeve, plunged his hand into the water and grabbed Crispin’s tiny ravaged body. He took him outside, leaving a trail of water all the way to the wood block. He put him on the block, grabbed the axe and chopped his head off. Just like that. There lay Crispin in two parts – decapitated. I saw everything from inside. Dad began to make his way back to the house. Just as he did so, Bruce came out from behind the shed, picked up the axe and swung it at him. He missed by centimetres.
I was so damn angry. Who would do such a barbaric thing? Dad came inside, grabbed me by the shoulders and said, ‘I’m sorry, Stan. It’s for the best, though.’ He ruffled my hair, sat down at the breakfast bench and picked up the paper. I stood where I was, unable to move.
About half a minute later, Dad said, ‘So, what’s for breakfast, Peggy?’
‘Bacon and eggs.’
‘Terrific!’
I was appalled at how my father had killed poor Crispin in such a violent way and I was equally appalled about his blatant disregard for my feelings. He acted as if the whole thing was nothing out of the ordinary and I was expected to get over it straight away. I went to my bedroom, where I could cry and cry and cry. Bruce was there. ‘Your father is a savage! One day, we’re gonna teach him a lesson!’
On that day, I swore I’d never get any fish ever again – there were just too many deaths to deal with. But that was then and this is now. Now that I’m older, I can look after them properly. I think I want some Japanese koi. Koi are bigger than goldfish and they’re more robust too, with a longer life span. A koi could just about take care of itself. Two of them would do. I could put them in a huge tank and watch them grow.
I get so caught up in the idea of getting some fish that I decide to call Rhonda and tell her about it. I dash inside and pick up the phone. I realise that someone else is already on the extension in the study. I freeze as I recognise Father Ryan’s voice.
‘I can’t stop thinking about you. I know God is disappointed in me, but it’s a force so strong that I just don’t know what to do. I need to see you. Can you come over right now?’
‘Oh, Jerome, I don’t know. I’m scared.’
I replace the receiver and steady myself on the breakfast bench. I feel dizzy and short of breath. Hearing Mum’s voice was like a swift punch in the guts. Jerome? His name is Jerome? What a slimy old bastard. What a hypocritical old fuck! I hear movement from the study. I decide to busy myself by making a sandwich. Mum emerges a couple of minutes later.
When she sees me, she gives me a big guilty smile. ‘Oh! Hi, Stan. I didn’t realise you were home.’
‘Yeah, I just got in.’
She turns a conspicuous red.
‘I-I was just talking to your Aunty Gaynor. She’s coming soon … to Middleton … to visit … for a while.’
‘Oh, cool.’ This is the first time I’ve ever witnessed my mother blatantly lying. It’s horrifying. She’s not meant to lie – she’s my mother, for Christ’s sake! She isn’t any good at it, either.
‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m making a sandwich.’
‘Oh. That’s nice.’
I wish she would just leave the room. She’s talking gibberish and I don’t like it.
‘I’m going shopping in a minute. Is there anything you want?’
‘Not that I can think of.’
She finally leaves the room. I sit at the breakfast bench and eat my sandwich. I’m not hungry, I just don’t know what else to do. Considering all the shit that’s gone down, it’s a surprisingly good sandwich. As I’m taking the last bite, Mum comes back into the room. She’s changed her clothes and is wearing a revealing top, which sits tightly around her breasts. She’s applied fresh make-up too.
‘So, there’s nothing you want from the shops?’
‘No, Mum.’
‘OK. I’ll be off, then.’
‘OK, Mum.’
The minute she leaves the driveway, I race outside, jump on my bike and peddle like crazy to the shops, using every possible short cut. I find a spot behind a tree, where I’m concealed from the shopping centre car park. Mum has parked her beige Commodore near the entrance. I’m instantly relieved. But she doesn’t get out of the car. I creep closer, moving from tree to tree. I try to focus on what she’s doing. She’s talking to herself in the rear view mirror. She places her head in her hands and then she straightens up. She fixes her hair and gets out of the car. She takes her time closing the door. She’s clearly struggling with making a decision. But then, instead of walking towards the shops, she backtracks and makes her way briskly towards the presbytery next door. I dash to another tree to get a better look and watch as she approaches the front door. She knocks and is let in.
I’m trembling. Bruce places his hand on my shoulder. ‘Your mother is turning into a real slut.’
‘Don’t talk that way about my mother!’
‘She’s fucking the priest!’
‘Shut the fuck up, Bruce!’ I tear myself away from him and ride off with a jerky recklessness.
I arrive home and raid my parents’ liquor cabinet. I find a bottle of port, take it into my room and start hoeing into it. I spill a bit on the carpet and rub it with my foot. The stain spreads.
‘I can’t believe that fucking arsehole!’ Bruce is very opinionated. He rarely holds back. ‘What is it with Catholic priests? They can’t keep their dicks in their pants. They think they can go around screwing whomever they like and get away with it!’
‘Just shut up, Bruce. I can’t hear myself think.’
‘I won’t shut up. He’s meant to be a model citizen. He’s meant to be setting an example of how to live a pure life. But what does he do? He lets his dick lead him down a satanic path. He breaks one of the ten golden rules!’
I swig from the bottle, dripping port down my chin. Bruce is worked up, pacing about the bedroom. In fact, I’m enjoying his passion. Everything he says is true.
‘You know, some
people are just born arseholes. And this guy, Father Ryan, is a two-faced showman. I’ve seen him deliver sermons. He’s a fucking actor. Why, I ought to burn his playhouse down!’
‘You can’t just go around burning things down, Bruce.’
‘And why not?’
‘Because you just can’t, that’s why.’
Bruce grabs the bottle off me and pours port over his head in a bid to dramatise his anger. With the dark liquor dripping down his face, he looks at me coldly. He holds my stare until the dripping ceases. ‘You’ve got some growing up to do and I’m getting impatient,’ he says in a quiet, controlled voice that scares the shit out of me. ‘Don’t make me make you grow up, Stan. Step up. Be a man. There’s no room in this world for lame-arse pussies.’ Bruce thrusts the bottle back into my chest. ‘Now, drink. And if you don’t get with the program soon, Stan, there’ll be hell to pay.’
9
I wake up. The sun is going down. I must’ve drifted off. Bruce has gone. I can smell food and I’m famished. Thankfully, I don’t feel too bad after all that drinking. Just a bit seedy. The bottle is on the floor. There’s still a bit of port in it. I look in the mirror and I’m surprised to see that I don’t look too bad. I look like a teenager who’s just woken up. I edge out of my bedroom, head to the bathroom and wash up. I’m so pissed off with Mum! What the hell is she thinking? Is she really cheating on Dad? I go back to my room and put on a clean t-shirt. Mum will be in the kitchen making dinner. I decide that I’m going to play detective and get to the bottom of this whole stinking mess. I seat myself at the breakfast bench so I can keep an eye on her. I make it subtle, though; I have some chemistry homework in front of me. Dad is in the study. He’s on the phone to his sister. Grandad is in hospital at the moment. He had a heart attack. He’s doing OK, but it’s really shaken Dad. I can’t imagine Grandad having a heart attack. I’ve tried to picture it, but it just doesn’t seem like something that could happen to him. He’s strong and he’s never shown any weakness. I’ve always thought of him as super-human; that nothing can beat him, including illness. The thought of him lying in a hospital bed is absurd. He wouldn’t want us to see him in that state. I don’t want to see him in that state. What could I possibly say to the man?
I hear Mum say something to herself. ‘What, Mum?’
She looks up, alarmed. ‘I’m sorry, Stan. What was that?’
‘You were saying something. It sounded like, “Oh, stop it.” What does that mean?’
‘I don’t think I said anything.’ Mum wipes her brow with her apron.
I decide to press on. ‘Yes, you did. You said, “Oh, stop it.” Who were you speaking to?’
‘Who was I speaking to? What are you talking about? I’m in the kitchen, cooking, Stan. I wasn’t speaking to anyone.’
‘You were having an imaginary conversation with someone. Who were you speaking to?’
‘Stan, you’re being completely unreasonable. I didn’t say anything.’
‘I heard you. You said, “Oh, stop it” in a flirty way and I want to know who you said that to.’
Mum takes a few heavy steps towards me and swipes her spoon in the air. ‘What? What is this? I’m cooking the bloody dinner. I was probably singing to myself.’
‘No, you weren’t. It was clear enough. You know what you said.’
‘I don’t appreciate your tone, young man. Take your homework and pretend to do it somewhere else!’
‘Fine. But I heard you.’
‘Oh, you heard me, did you? You’re acting like a bloody lunatic. I don’t know what’s got into you.’ Mum turns away from me and stirs the gravy frantically.
‘Mia!’ she shouts. ‘Set the table, please!’ She barks out the order without even turning around. My sister, who has been sitting there watching TV without a worry in the world, jumps up straight away and starts setting the table in the dining room. Dad emerges from the study looking exhausted.
‘I’m just about to dish up, Trevor. Take a seat at the table. Is everything ready, Mia?’
‘Yes, Mum.’
‘Good girl.’ Mum puts an arm around Mia and squeezes her close as an apology for barking at her. She calls for my other sister. ‘Rose, it’s dinner time!’
We all sit down at the table. I’m furious with Mum. I’m convinced she was reliving a flirtatious moment with Father Ryan. The thought of them alone together makes me want to puke. I would dearly love to hurt him and teach him a lesson. Why do priests become priests if they are going to struggle with celibacy? That’s part of the deal. That’s what you’re signing up for – a life without sex. It’s a bloody tough call, but it’s there in black and white. A large, laminated picture of the Pope is stuck to the wall with Blu-Tack. He’s smiling and waving. I look at him and wonder if he was ever led into temptation.
I’m emotionally drained and really hungry, but, of course, I can’t start on the special roast dinner that Mum’s prepared because I have to wait for my family to say grace and give thanks to God for the food we’re about to eat. Instead of thanking God, I think to myself, we should thank Father Ryan, as this meal has been painstakingly prepared to alleviate the guilt Mum’s feeling as a result of her disgraceful affair. Anyway, I always thought it was a bit stupid to thank God for food; we should really be thanking the farmers who produce it.
In addition to the ritual of saying grace, my family always selects something in particular to pray for. Today, Rose suggests we pray for world peace. This really irritates the shit out of me. The Smiths’ song ‘Death of a Disco Dancer’ runs through my head. ‘Love, peace and harmony? / Love, peace and harmony? / Oh, very nice, / Very nice, / Very nice, / Very nice. / But maybe in the next world.’
‘As if that’s ever gonna happen.’
‘Now, Stan, be positive,’ says Mum.
‘Positive? Actually, I think we should be realistic. What use is it praying for world peace?’
‘Stanley, if you’re not capable of saying something nice, don’t say anything at all.’
I look at Mum as if she’s some sort of alien disguised in a human suit. I’m not going to let this one go. ‘Good’ Christians were really starting to frustrate the hell out of me. ‘We live in a time when money means more than basic human rights. You can pray all you want, but it’s not gonna change anything. There are too many fat, rich men in the world with greedy agendas.’
‘Shut up.’ Silence fills the room for a long five seconds while Dad gives me his most serious I’ll-snap-you-like-a-twig look. It only infuriates me more. I’ve sat quietly and played these bullshit Christian games for too long. And for what? For a slap in the face and a dishful of hypocrisy?
I brazenly continue. ‘Well, I’m sorry, Mum and Dad, but for how long, exactly, do you want us to play this game? I mean, you expect us to believe that God made the earth in six days and had a rest on the seventh!’ Both of my sisters gasp at my audacity. ‘And have you ever heard of the Big Bang theory? Or … or have you ever heard of Darwin’s On the Origin of Species? They’re both quite well known. I mean, you expect us to believe that Jesus’ mother was a virgin, for Christ’s sake!’
Now my family gasps in unison and they all lean back in their chairs at exactly the same time, like bad actors in an over-rehearsed play.
Dad erupts. ‘Go to your room! Get out of my face and go to your room!’
‘OK. I’ll go to my room. I’ll go to my room and pray for your sanity.’ I jab a pointed finger at Mum and then hastily leave the room. Dad stands up as if he’s going to give me a walloping, but he lets me go by.
As I leave, I hear Mum attempt to brush the scene under the carpet. ‘Could you please pass the potatoes, Rose?’
Mum looked terrified when I pointed at her. Maybe she’s picking up on the fact that I know about Father Ryan. Well good. She can have a long hard think about it all. I hope she has trouble sleeping tonight.
10
I hang out in my room for a couple of hours. I don’t feel much, just drained.
There�
��s a quiet knock at my bedroom door and Dad enters meekly. His mood surprises me. He’s not angry or ready to throttle me. ‘Hi, Stan.’
‘Hi, Dad.’
‘That was quite a performance you gave at dinner tonight. What brought that on?’
‘I don’t know. I’m just annoyed about things, I guess.’
‘Well, I … um … I need to talk to you about something.’
Oh, Jesus, no! I can guess what this is going to be about. He’s going to tell me that Mum’s having an affair with the priest, that he and Mum are going to split up and I’m going to have to choose who I want to live with. I do not want to have that conversation with my father.
‘Listen, Dad, you don’t have to…’
‘No, I want to. Your outburst really shocked me. It made me realise that you’re not a kid anymore. I need to be more open with you.’ Dad seats himself carefully on my bed, between magazines, books and records. He doesn’t look out of place among the mess; he is a mess himself. He clears his throat and pushes a hand through his oily hair. He gives a long, deep sigh. ‘You know, it’s a funny thing – with Grandad being sick, it makes me reflect on how I am as a father. And I must say, I’m not too impressed with myself, Stan. I need to tell you about what’s been going on.’
My chest tightens. I never imagined that I’d be having this discussion with my father. A family breakdown is always something that happens to someone else – to some other sucker. How was Dad going to explain to me that Mum was having an affair? And, worse still, how was I going to act surprised about it?
‘First of all, I’m sorry I’ve been so angry all these years. I’ve been a lousy father. I think about times when I’ve been way over the top with my reactions to situations. It hasn’t been good. And there’s no excuse for it. There’s absolutely no excuse for it. I’m sorry. But now, you see, the truth is that I’m completely stressed out. I’m so stressed that I can’t even think straight. I get frustrated over the most insignificant things.’ He gives a short nervous giggle.
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