Boys Don't Cry

by Fíona Scarlett

  Ma got up then, paced the room, kept her back to me, but I knew by the shake in her shoulders that she was crying. Caroline took out a packet of tissues from her desk, went over to Ma and handed her one.

  ‘What’s the success rate, Doctor?’ she asked, whispered to her, in case I’d hear.

  ‘Once we get the treatment plan together, Mrs O’Reilly, Finn’s team will sit down with you and go through everything. Today is a shock, I know that. But please make sure to bring your questions. Both of you. As many as you want.’

  Ma’s shoulders continued to shake, Caroline still at her side, and I just sat there, too afraid to move, to give her a hug, or kiss her cheek, in case I gave her the cancer too.

  Joe

  I put the key in the latch, and heave my shoulder against the weight of the door, the heat swelling it, making it impossible to sneak the announcement of my arrival. I needn’t have worried; Ma is already up, and dressed, and leaning against the counter eating toast.

  ‘Good party so, yeah,’ she says, giving a knowing smile.

  ‘Ah all right, Ma,’ I say, reaching behind her to put the kettle on.

  ‘It’s good to see ya starting to enjoy yourself again, love,’ and she puts her hand on my back.

  ‘Do you want one?’ I say, taking a mug down from the press, the faded Crunchie one that Da always used.

  ‘Ah no, love, you’re grand, had a coffee earlier.’ She is looking grand too, the best I’ve seen her in a while in fairness, and it’s nice to see even a sliver of Ma creeping back through the cracks again. Taking my mind off my own.

  ‘I’m going back into work later,’ she says, ‘just part-time, told Pat I’d only do the day shift mind, till I’m back on me feet right like.’ She caresses her left elbow with the palm of her right, her free hand scratching at her neck.

  ‘That’s great, Ma, really great,’ I look properly at her now, ‘but I would’ve loved to have seen the face on Pat and you telling him that.’

  She starts laughing then. ‘Ah sure Pat’s all mouth, told me it would be full-time or nothing, I told him I’ll start back to three days a week, and I’d see him tomorrow.’

  Then I start laughing too. ‘Sure you’ll be back to running the place in no time, Ma.’

  ‘More like putting manners on the lot of them, love.’ She ruffles the top of my head, like she used to, like she used to do to Finn, and I turn to pour the water into my mug, watch as the teabag brews.

  ‘I was in to see your Da yesterday—’

  ‘Ma. Don’t.’

  ‘He misses you, Joe.’ I bring my tea to the couch, not wanting this chat again, not wanting to fight with Ma, not today, when she is finally pulling the pieces back together.

  ‘He asked me to give you this.’ She takes an envelope from the top drawer, the one where she keeps the swarming bills, all jammed in, hardly able to keep it shut.

  ‘He wants to see you, Joe, wants you to come in to visit.’ She lays the envelope on the arm of the couch, places her palm lightly on my forearm, takes it away just as quick, leaving the breath of her imprint on me.

  ‘I’ll see ya later, OK,’ she says as she’s putting on her jacket, grabbing her bag from the table, leaning over to give the top of my head a kiss.

  ‘Read it, love,’ and she’s out the door. She can easily forgive and forget, think that it’s OK that he abandoned us to all this.

  I pick up the envelope; it’s the same as all the others, thinking that the discreet black print in the upper left-hand corner makes the property of Mountjoy Prison any less obvious. It’s been opened too. Like all the rest. Sellotaped seal stamped, to show it was read and deemed appropriate for mailing. My hand hovers over the seal. I could phone the Governor if I wanted. Tell him I didn’t want to receive any letter. I saw that in the booklet Ma got, on prisoners’ rights, the first time Da went in.

  I turn it back over, bring it right to the bin, am about to drop it, just like the others with its Sellotaped reseal left intact, but I don’t. I fold it over, and zip it into my jacket pocket. Tight.

  Finn

  Cancer. They said I had cancer. Do kids even get cancer? I thought it was just for auld ones like Shane’s Granda or Rebecca’s Ma.

  Shane’s Granda died. From the cancer. But Ma said it was from all the smoking and he was really old and stuff. Rebecca’s Ma, well, she just went bald. I saw it when she was picking up Rebecca from school once, and I pointed and pulled at Ma, asking why she’d no hair left. She shushed me and whispered, ‘Because of the cancer, God love her.’

  I didn’t mind going bald. Da was nearly bald. He kept his head shaved tight, so it looked bald, but with little small spikes, warning you away. I liked rubbing my hand on his head and feeling the bristles of those spikes tickling my hand. He’d let me do it sometimes, usually when it was freshly shaved. ‘Feel here, Finney boy,’ he’d say, rubbing my hand over the top. But other times he’d tell me to get away the fuck, slapping my hand off him.

  I still wasn’t allowed to go home. Even though I’d had all their tests. I may need more, so the doctor said. I hoped they’d let Ma bring in my pyjamas soon; I was in this weird apron thing with teddies on it and I wasn’t allowed to wear my jocks, so my bum was on show all the time, which was really scarlet for me. The nurses and the doctors seen it so they did, my bum, when I had to jump on the bed to get into that big coffin of a yoke. I had to lie down flat and stay really still and then they pushed a button that slowly brought me into it, with lights like a spaceship or a time machine, they said. But it really wasn’t like that at all. I couldn’t breathe properly, I couldn’t see, I was trapped right in. It was worse than the needle taking that spongy stuff from my hip. But I kept still. Nurse Sarah, with the big smiley face and the strawberry-smelling hair, said I’d have to just do it again if I didn’t keep still. So I did, and started to count sheep in my head to try to distract me, just like she told me to do. ‘A little trick,’ she said. But they were just too hard to count. They kept running away, not wanting to jump the fence I made for them.

  I was in a room now on my own. I had a TV too, with the remote all to myself. It was painted in lots of different colours, the room was, all blues and greens and pinks, and it looked just like Dollymount Strand. It even had octopuses and mermaids and fish and sharks, peeking out between the waves, saying hello. Da would say it was like a baby’s fucking room. I didn’t mind it too much.

  I heard Ma on the phone to Da earlier, just outside my room. She was crying and I could hear the muffled shouts from the other side. It sounded like Da was crying too. I’ve never seen Da cry. He tells us that crying is a sign of weakness. That boys don’t cry. That boys should never cry. So we don’t. Ever. Unless we’re in private, when nobody sees.

  Da was here now; Ma had just gone down to get him, to show him where to go. To show him how to find my room. I hoped they’d let him stay. I hoped he’d tell me that they’re wrong, that they made a mistake, that I don’t have the cancer after all.

  Nurse Sarah said I was lucky to get the room on my own. ‘Usually you’re all packed in like sardines,’ she said. I didn’t feel so lucky. I had no one to play with, no one to talk to, and no one to ask if getting the cancer meant that you die.

  Ma said kids don’t die of cancer, but the specialist never said anything. She didn’t agree with Ma, she just said nothing, and looked away, so I wasn’t really so sure of that now.

  Joe

  I can see that my locker is open before I reach it, door swinging on its hinges, indicating a lock freshly picked. I’m bracing myself for another hunt for my books, pricking my ears for their routine guffaws, waiting for the inevitable fucking show-time of making the povo search for his stuff, played on repeat for when the natives get bored.

  I hate having to give a shit about what’s in my locker, that my stuff is not so easily replaced, that my stuff is forever connected to the veins of broken skin cracking Ma’s hands, and the deep dark set of the bags under her eyes, from the months and months of over
time she gave, for those books, for that stuff, a second thought always having to be given.

  I reach the locker and put my hand in, scan carefully, everything still there, thank fuck, but the relief I feel is boiling the anger in me more than it should, seething right to the brim of me, and it’s then that I see it. Painted bright red. Scum. All neat and cursive, not done in any rush like, right at the back filling the full of my vision. I take a sharp look around, to see who’s on hand to make sure that I’ll know my place. But no one’s about. The senior corridor empty, and graffitiing lockers is not something that St Augustine boys would ever dream to waste their time on, I’d be reminded, but here I am, staring at their handiwork.

  First class maths and I make it to my seat, to an accompaniment of snide whispers, ‘skanger’, ‘druggie’, ‘dealer’. Johnny keeps trying to catch my eye, but my head is down, hoping he’ll look away, leave me alone. He tries to get to me after class, Johnny that is, trying to get my attention.

  ‘Hey,’ he says, right at my shoulder.

  ‘Johnny, please mate, just leave it, yeah,’ and it’s the mate that catches, that throws me off guard, how much his friendship meant to me, how much I actually needed him here.

  ‘Look, Joe, I’m sorry,’ he says, finally stopping me, getting me to look at him. ‘Seriously, I can’t tell you how sorry I am, I should never have—’

  ‘I can’t do this,’ I say, but he keeps pushing at me, even as I’m walking away, trying to step in time with me.

  ‘Naoise is doing great too, well, back to bossing us about the place, and asking for you, a lot, so the usual.’ He laughs, I continue to ignore. ‘Silver lining, no charges were pressed,’ he says, completely failing to make light of the situation. ‘I told Dad, I told him if he did, I would tell the Guards it was all me.’ The breath in me pushes harder against the rigid top-buttoned noose of my collar, choking, tightening with each gasp taken.

  ‘So, I should be grateful?’ The force of me stops him, but he still doesn’t understand. My fingers make their way under my collar, pinching at my neck, feeling the sharp burn of it, over and over. He has nothing else to say and I leave him there, open mouth gaping.

  I spot Mr Broderick on up ahead, and I duck down the next corridor, not wanting to answer questions about how I’m getting on, or whether I have talked to Ms Smith about my catch-up classes yet. But he’s seen me.

  ‘Joe,’ he calls after me, the exit is straight ahead, ‘Joe,’ he calls again, louder this time, firmer, but I’m nearly there, ‘Joe,’ he says, right at my heel now, but I push on the bar of the door, he puts his hand over it to block.

  ‘What is it, what’s going on?’ he says. I keep my eyes fixed on the bar, on the exit. ‘If you leave, I have no choice but to issue another slip, that’s a suspension.’ I keep my focus, keep my hand on the bar.

  ‘Come back to the office, even if you want a bit of time to yourself, just come back in.’ He takes his hand down, leaving my path clear and I push myself out, don’t look back, run, until I get to the bus shelter, sit on the familiar cigarette-burned luminous orange seat. It’s there as I’m sitting that I feel it jagging into my side. Zipped in tight in my inside pocket. Da’s letter. I take it out, and without a second thought, rip it open, and start to read.

  Finn

  Da came in on his own, a stuffed plastic chippy bag swinging at his wrist, rain dripping off his nose and black leather jacket. That jacket was Da. It was in photos all over the flat, him and Ma, when they were younger than Joe, on the back of a bus, and Da in that jacket still.

  ‘Your Ma’s out havin’ a smoke,’ he said and sat down at the side of the bed, put his big arms around me and pulled me into his hug. I could hear his heart thump, all strong in his chest, while the drops from his jacket soaked right to my skin, and I just hugged him closer to me.

  ‘You doing all right, bud, yeah?’ he asked, breaking away, rubbing my hair, straight back to doing what Da usually did, and as quickly as that it’s as if the hug never happened at all.

  ‘I wasn’t sure, son, what ya needed like,’ he said, dumping the bag’s contents all over the bed, ‘but your Ma said to make sure there was pyjamas, whatever about anything else,’ and he shot me a wink, and the two of us laughed and I took a good look at what else he had brought. Fizzy colas, Taytos and a big bottle of Lucozade, not bad like, but Ma would have remembered that I don’t like Lucozade, and she would have remembered that I prefer salt and vinegar, and she definitely would have brought my DS and games. But then I saw it, still trapped in the bag, my favourite Transformer, and sure Ma would never have thought of that. I reached on down and pulled him right out and remembered the time when I got him. That day at the funfair, with Da, Ma and Joe, and the lights of the rides and the big lumps of candyfloss, spinning on waltzers till we were all nearly sick, and then Da winning my Transformer in a big game of hoops that he was able to crack even though it was rigged.

  ‘Ah look, you’ve a telly an’ everything, Finney, go on, budge over there, son,’ and he hopped up on the bed, with his shoes on and all, not even caring about the mud manking up the sheets. He gave the channels a good flick through, and settled on the RTÉ News, and not even the news, the thing that’s on before it, with those long bell yokes where everyone is supposed to pray.

  ‘Here, Da, look at this,’ I said, trying to fill the boredom, and pushed the bed button that made it go up. Da didn’t look too impressed, and I started to wish I had just watched the news, and now I thought he was going to bust one, and why did I need to butt in.

  ‘Ah sure go on now, give us a shot of that,’ he said, and he grabbed the remote straight out of my hand, smiled at me and showed off his front cracked tooth, while pushing the buttons up and down to ninety.

  ‘Hey, Frank, you can’t be doing that, you’ll only go and break it,’ Ma said, coming in through the door.

  ‘Ah break it me hole, come on, love, get up.’ But she just stood there looking, arms folded and cross.

  ‘Come on, Annie,’ he said, patting the place beside him. I thought for a minute she’d just make us stop, that she’d get us back to watching the news, but instead she looked at the door, then hopped on up too.

  ‘Nice one, Annie,’ Da said, and he squeezed her hand, and kissed her cheek, and the three of us huddled right in, breaking the crap out of the bed. No funfair like, but it would do all the same.

  Joe

  I give a loud knock, sharp with the knuckles this time.

  ‘Ah Joe, you coming in,’ the door opened wide. I ignore and rummage into my bag, take out the envelope and hand it to him.

  ‘There’s eight hundred there,’ I say as he goes to open it, ‘six hundred for Sabine, the extra yo-yos for yourself to keep your mouth shut.’ I zip up my bag, flinging it back onto my right shoulder. ‘Not a fucking word to Dessie, yeah, Gertie came and paid it off,’ I say, holding his gaze, ‘that’s the story, yeah.’

  I stay, waiting for him to confirm it.

  ‘Yes?’ I say again, more forcefully this time, in between his muttered counting.

  ‘All right, all right, yes, Gertie brought it, Scout’s honour,’ and he’s holding up his fingers, giving the surf’s up salute.

  I get to the stairwell and on up to Sabine’s, let myself in – left it on the latch like arranged – dump my coat and bag by the door.

  ‘It’s all right, Nanny’s at knitting club,’ Sabine shouts from the bedroom, her familiar sprayed White Musk making its way to me.

  ‘How did ya manage to get out of class,’ I call back.

  ‘Sure, it’s terrible so it is, I had to leave after second class, fucking horrendous period cramps so I have.’ She enters the living room, mock doubled over, hands clenched to her stomach.

  ‘Jaysus, and you should have seen the face on Mr Greene. The second I mentioned the rag, he was signing me out quicker than hot snot so he was,’ she laughs.

  I sit myself at the table; she pulls out the chair beside me. I reach into my inside pocket, unfold Da�
��s letter again, the folds reinforced with each reopening. I push it towards her and she takes it in her hands, not sure of what it is, or what it contains, but it doesn’t take long for the recognition to drop, the prison watermark strengthening in the light.

  ‘So you opened one,’ she says eventually, filling the heavy silence between us. ‘I never actually thought you’d open one.’ She lets her words hang there. I’m not really sure how to respond, because I never thought that I would ever open one either. Her and Ma have been at me long enough to do it; Sabine even went as far as retrieving one from the bin, said she’d read it for me if I wanted, let me know what was in it. But the full force of me saying no stopped her from ever trying again, or from ever even mentioning it. Here I was like a hypocrite, passing her the very letter I told her to fuck right off from, that I barricaded her away from, and she doesn’t even flinch, or tell me where the fuck to go.

  ‘Do you want to see him?’

  I push myself out of the chair and begin to pace. Sabine stays where she is and rereads Da’s words, heavy etched in blue Bic, the pencilled first draft still visible underneath.

  ‘Do you?’ she asks again, her steadiness, her strength, filling the room.

  ‘Ah Sabine, I don’t know.’ I rub my hand over my face, the stubble scratching my palm. I rub it again, harder this time, making sure I feel the stab, the pain of it scratching deeper.

  ‘You know I’ll go with you,’ she says, ‘you know that yeah,’ and I know that yeah. ‘He talks about him a lot,’ she says, her eyes back on the letter, the paralleled crease between her eyebrows deepening as she reads on. ‘It must have been so hard for him, not being there,’ I can hear the crack, ‘not being there in the end,’ she continues.