by Paul Teodo & Tom Myers

He awoke in a panic with a piss boner bursting through his boxers. He sprung from his bed, legs crossed, praying to God to help him make it in time. He limped into the bathroom, struggled to remove his underpants, aimed clumsily, and let it rip; forgetfully, leaving the door wide open. His stream was that of a young, inexperienced marksman; strong, but with a mind of its own.  Bright yellow urine shot into and around the toilet bowl, echoing down the adjacent hallway. He managed to spray the wall, the vanity, and the flamingo’d shower curtain; his nocturnal back-up making a mess of it all. He stood, trancelike, indifferent to his poor aim, relieving himself like an untrained puppy. 

The rank smell permeated the tiny space, announcing last night’s meal, which included copious servings of asparagus.

He was 12.

“Patrick!  Praise God, what are ya’ doin’ there?” His mother’s shrill voice, screeching like a hawk, rose over the downpour of his urgent elimination. Her hair, a tangled mess woven amongst a cadre of fat curlers, a fag dangling from her cracked ruby lips, and a stained blue robe wrapped around her bony body.

He turned, startled, mid-stream, redirecting his flow, now pissing into the hall, where his mother stood puffing away.

“Patrick!” She grabbed him by his hair. “For shite sake. You’ve wee’d on your mam. You’ve run astray, my God; you don’t know what you’re doin’.”  She pinched his cheek.  “Wake up, lad!”

His mam’s intervention was for naught. He casually finished his business and passed a toot to boot, pulling up his boxers as if he’d just gotten done, in a totally civil fashion, browsing through the Sunday paper while performing his morning ritual.

“Come here, dear.” She moved carefully towards her boy, her feet sheathed with once furry slippers that had spent far too many a year encasing her bunion-covered feet. She drew her son into her arms, taking great pains to avoid his still-stiff organ. She released him. “This has to stop,” she mumbled, crossing herself. “Sweet Jesus,” she looked up and whispered to the bathroom ceiling,“give me a wee bit of direction here.”

“Mam!” Patrick pushed her away, hard on finally relenting, suddenly aware of the yellow rivulets decorating the toilet, the wall, and the flamingos; slammed into the here and now, looking for answers to a question he did not understand.  “What are ya’ doin’, Mam, standing there all daft like I committed a crime!”

“What am I doin’?” Hands planted on her hips. “I’m takin’ care of me boy! My ‘pissin’ all over the house’, asparagus-eatin’, 12-year-old boy!”

In an awkward silence Paddy and his mam struggled to avoid each other’s gaze. Only the rattling fan broke the tension in the tiny, fermenting space. Tears welled in Paddy’s gray-green eyes. His red bed-head hair shot sideways from his skull, creating a fiery halo around his freckled face. “I’m sorry, Mam! I am.”

“It’s got to stop.” Her voice low, exasperated. 

“I don’t know what to do, Mam. It happened again.”

She took another drag, and exhaled a phlegm-filled sigh towards the malfunctioning fan, the blue haze swirliing towards its dirty yellowed grate.  

“Why am I like this, Ma?” He switched off the fan, its blades grinding to a halt.

“It’s a ting,”she said.

“What kinda ting?”

“A family ting. Your da would do it too. Piss all over. I used to have a tiny phonograph. He wee’d on that in the middle of de night. It was still spinnin’. Ruined me favorite record.”

He looked down at the floor. A chill swept over him. She pulled his trembling body into her bulky robe. He cringed, but she held him tight, scruffing his carrot-top hair. The stench of her, the early morning wake-up cigarette, bath powder, and cheap tea, assaulted his senses. “There, there, Paddy. You’ll be fine. “’Tis the challenges in life we need to deal with. It’s not a fecking party in the pub every day of the week, ya’ know.”

“Ma?” His voice muffled in her robe.

“Yeah, son?”

“Where’s da?”

She stepped back from her boy and studied him. She sucked another drag and raised her head, exhaling. “We’ve been down this trail before.”

“Where, Ma?”

“I told you.”

“Ma….”

Her blue-veined hands twitched ever so… as she pulled hard on her cig. She rubbed her scaly neck and fiddled with her thinning hair. “You make it hard, Paddy, with all your questions.”

“He’s locked away.”

“Where’d that come from?” she snapped, placing both his cheeks in her hands.

“James.” His voice a whisper.

“Don’t be leaning on other people’s evil to make up your own life’s story.” 

“He said, Ma, that Da was loony. And the coppers put him away.”

She tossed the fag into the toilet. Its ash sizzled in the yellowish water. “Come, Paddy, let’s have a bit of a chat.” She took his hand and guided him into the cluttered living room, dimming the light and patting the frayed sofa, motioning for him to sit beside her.

His lips quivered, still dressed only in his boxers. “Lord, you’re still cold, da lips, they’re turnin’ blue.” She reached over to the ottoman and removed one of her quilts, wrapping it around him. He snuggled into it, breathing a long sigh.

 “Better?”

“Tanks, Ma.”

“Your da had many tings rollin’ around in his head. He had the troubles. Here.” She gently tapped her son’s head. “But a good man. He tried.”

“I try, Ma.” 

“I know you do, Paddy, but he tried to figure too much.”

“Figure what?”

“Like the sun, the wind. He’d sit and point to the leaves on the trees, blowin’ this way and that. I thought it was nice, romance like, but he did it…,” she shook her head slowly, “too much.”

“He’d just sit and watch the wind?”

“Or the stars. Or the rain.”

“Why would the coppers take him away for that?”

“People don’t understand.”

“But Ma...”

“He could build tings, when he wasn’t dreamin’. And one day he’d finished a fence for Jimmy Doyle. Your da was a grand fence builder. Even built one for Mr. Daley, the kinda’ man you don’t meet every day now, and Jimmy said he’d pay your Da in a month. But the deal was pay now, when done.”

“Why’d the coppers take him away?”

“Your da wanted the money right off, no waiting. But Jimmy was a guy who thought he was someting’. He’d go down to O’Roarke’s and get into scuffs. Put up his dukes.”

Paddy smiled and raised his fists. “I remember Da when I was a wee lad, showin’ me how to fight.”

“He loved you, Paddy.” She rubbed his head. “You have his hair. Red as the burnin’sun.”

“What then, Ma, with Doyle?”

“Doyle had had a few pints at the pub. His chest got all puffy. He got like that when he’d have a drink. And he come here lookin’ for Da.”

“Why?”

“He wanted to scrap. Put on the squeeze. Show him up.”

“What did Da do?”

“He was up on the roof.”

“The roof?” Paddy’s voice rose with both embarrassment and confusion.

“He was gazin’ at the stars, like he did. Them lads were full of dew and tried to have fun on him. Yellin’ vile words and callin’ him loony and tings.”

“What did Da do?”

“He gave ‘em what for.”

“What for?”

“He climbed down. He told Doyle and the other drunkards to leave because he was lookin’ at the stars. They laughed like they were teasin’ a wee cripple.”

“What did Da do?”

“ Your da took his hammer, the claw end....”  She hesitated, picking at the collar of her robe.

“What, Ma?”

“…and buried it in Doyle’s eye.”

“In his eye?”

“Aye, lad. Right in his feckin’ eye.”

“What then, Ma?”

“Doyle lay writhin’ in his mess and your Da just went back on the roof, calm as could be. The other lads scurried off like the banshees were lightin’ out.”

“And then the coppers came?”

“Aye.” Her voice barely audible. “They came and took him away.”

“Was he, Ma?”

“What?” she said, pulling her robe tight around her neck.

“Loony,” he asked, his soft voice cracking in the morning air. “Was he, Ma?”

“Oh, Paddy.” She rubbed her gnarled fingers over her nose, wiping the snot of her tears away. “I don’t know.”

“Am I, Ma?”

“I don’t want to hear it, Paddy.”

“Loony.  Like Da.”

Silence filled the room with a thick darkness. His ma searched for her handkerchief buried in her matted robe. 

“Am I?  I think things too, Ma. Crazy tings. I’m pissin’ all over. I dream when I ain’t sleepin’.  And I look just like ‘im.  Am I, Ma?  Am I loony?”

She choked, coughing up an anguished moan as if her past was erupting from her belly. “I don’t know, Paddy.”

“Will the coppers take me, too?”

She pulled him closer, clutching him with all her strength, keeping him from falling into the blackness of his fate. She took a deep breath, her gnarled fingers squeezing him with her terror.

“Will they, Ma?” 

“Never,” she said, standing, ripping back the curtains.  “Never,” her voice filling the sunlit room.