The Son of a Certain Woman

by Wayne Johnston

  MY homeroom teacher, Brother Hogan, said that Brother McHugh wanted to have a word with me. I was escorted by a monitor to Brother Hogan’s little office, where Brother McHugh, still wearing his overcoat and gloves, was sitting side on to a desk as if to impress upon anyone who saw him that he had long ago outgrown such meagre accommodations.

  “Percy Joyce,” McHugh said, turning about in his chair to face me.

  “Yes, Brother.” I sat in the chair opposite his. Both chairs were like the armless wooden ones we used for assembly in the gym.

  “You seem fine,” he said. “No major damage?”

  “No, Brother.”

  He said he bet he was the first person I’d ever met who regarded me with neither mockery nor pity. “I’ve respected you,” he said. “Everyone deserves respect. But I’m told that your mother has been making threats against my students. Making threats is against the law. And it will only make things worse for you. If something else happens to you, it will be because she provoked it. There is only so much that I can do to protect you. I keep telling the Archbishop that. His Grace is most distressed about what happened to you, but even more distressed about what your mother did today. It took him a while to convince the parents of the student she struck not to have her charged for assaulting their son. Tell your mother that God helps those who help themselves, not those who strike boys and make threats. Violence solves nothing. Those to whom evil is done do evil in return. It is one thing for me to discipline a student, another altogether for her to take matters into her own hands. And still another to say in public that I beat up a student.”

  He went on to say that I needed to be disabused of the notion that I was exceptional, a notion so many people in my life had indulged that I took it for granted everyone would do so, now and in the future, here and elsewhere. Did I think he had fallen in line with all the others and was catering to my “sulking sense of grievance against all people and all things”? Those who set themselves above others would be brought down—not as Buddy Coffin had brought me down, but more profoundly. “I know you have no idea what it is like to be laid so low, to have not a single thing in the world to rely on but yourself, to feel as if even God no longer cares about your fate. You revel in your so-called loneliness. I can’t stand boys who use their allotment at birth as a crutch, a way of begging sympathy from others. Such a person might as well go cap in hand through the streets.” He leaned across the desk and put his face close to mine. “You’ve seen how dangerous it can be to assume that someone is always looking out for you. My life’s purpose is to lead the Christian Brothers of the Mount, not to play guardian angel to some prideful misfit. I was asked by His Grace himself to keep you out of trouble. But you’re a far cry from being one of my primary concerns. You are a nuisance, nothing more. And you and your mother have done nothing to make my task the least bit easier. Tell her I said so. Tell her the two of you have to do your part as well. Now don’t go back to class. I told your teacher you’d be going straight home. It’s best you leave before the other boys. There’s no telling how worked up they are because of what your mother did and said this morning.”

  The end-of-class bell rang. As if that was his cue, McHugh stood, came round to my side of the desk and grabbed me by the upper left arm, which still hurt from whatever Buddy Coffin had done to it. “Ow,” I shouted.

  “You know what? I’ve changed my mind. I have an idea.”

  “What do you mean?” I managed in a quavering voice. I knew he hadn’t changed his mind, that he’d all along been planning whatever he was about to do and only told me I was free to go to give me an unwarranted sense of relief that, when he broke it, would terrify me that much more.

  “Get up,” he ordered. So scared I thought my legs would give way, I managed to stand. He all but dragged me out into the hallway, which was thronged with boys rummaging through their lockers and heading to their next class. At first, the boys nearest us fell silent, they were so surprised to see me in the clutch of McHugh, who was so vigorously chewing his gum it might have been me he was gnashing between his teeth. Then the boys erupted in scorn and derision: “Looks like the little Joyce boy broke up with His Grace.” “It’s tunnel time, Percy, time for the long march to Brother Rice.” “Percy, Percy, what did you do? Mom and Pops can’t help you now.”

  “Shut up,” McHugh roared, shoving boys out of the way with his free arm, sending one of them flying headfirst into an open locker door.

  “I can take him for you, Brother McHugh,” one of the hall monitors said, but McHugh ignored him.

  “Make way,” McHugh shouted. “Make way unless you want to come with us.”

  The blue blazer–wearing boys of St. Bon’s made way as best they could, though McHugh all but trampled some of them, while others did their best to incite him further by sticking out their feet to trip me.

  “Don’t make me drag you,” McHugh warned.

  We reached the two steps that led down to the iron tunnel door. McHugh, who must have had the key in his hand all along, shoved it in the lock, leaning down from the top step and pulling the door open.

  “So long, Percy,” a boy behind us called out. “Not everyone comes back. Ask Stevie Coffin.”

  “In you go.” McHugh flung me inside.

  For a second I thought he planned to close the door but stay on the St. Bon’s side of it, leaving me locked in the tunnel by myself. But he stepped inside, relocked the door behind us and put the key in the pocket of his black slacks. To our left was another door, on which there was a sign that said: “To Holy Heart High School. Please lock the door behind you.”

  “Follow me,” he muttered, setting off down the tunnel at such a clip I stumbled to keep up. Water pipes painted white ran through the tunnel at the juncture of the ceiling and the walls. The air was chilly, the tunnel dimly lit by flickering fluorescent lamps spaced far apart on the ceiling; the walls, floors and ceilings were made of concrete and had that oily basement smell that I remembered from the night I found the Vat Rat in the sump pump hole. They were stained with what looked like sweat marks, water seeping slowly in through cracks too small to see. In places, water dripped in greater volume from the ceiling and collected in small puddles on the floor. On the walls were hung framed, glass-encased photographs and portraits of the Christian Brothers, the first of whom came from Ireland to Newfoundland in 1875.

  “Are you going to strap me?” I called, but I kept losing ground on him and he didn’t turn around. I couldn’t help but picture my oversized hands as they would look when McHugh was done stropping them, my oversized fingers bloodied and broken, gory stumps such as Pops had once described. “You’re not allowed to strap me. The Archbishop said!”

  “That’s right.” McHugh’s voice echoed between the tunnel walls. “Maybe he’ll send you a Get Well Soon card. But I’m in charge of all the schools on the Mount. That means I’m in charge of you.”

  “No!” My voice sounded thin, even to me. “My mother and the Archbishop are in charge of me.”

  “Maybe. But he said he wants someone to do something about you. He says you and your mother are out of control. You can’t control yourself, and she can’t control herself or you. Spouting filth on her back steps late at night. Uttering threats. Slapping a mere boy in the face.”

  I wanted to turn and run back to the tunnel door, though I knew I couldn’t open it and McHugh would likely enjoy dragging me back again toward the Brother Rice end while I struggled to escape. Unexpectedly, at that moment, a young Presentation nun, her shoes echoing as loudly as ours in the empty tunnel, appeared around a turn in the distance, her arms pressing books to her habit. “Sister,” McHugh said, sounding quite matter-of-fact. “Brother McHugh,” the nun answered. They passed each other without another word. As the nun drew closer to me, she slowed almost to a stop. I knew she recognized me and was surprised to see me in the tunnel, following McHugh to Brother Rice. “Sister?” I implored, hoping she might make some sort of objection to McHugh on my behalf. �
�Keep following Brother McHugh,” she said, and sped up, rounding the turn out of sight.

  Ahead of me, McHugh stopped and leaned his back against the wall of the tunnel. As I caught up with him, he reached into the pocket of his slacks and withdrew a stick of spearmint gum that he slowly unwrapped, then rolled the paper and tinfoil into a tight ball that he slipped into the chest pocket of my blazer. He put the gum in his mouth and chewed it with his front teeth. He patted the wall to indicate that I should lean against it as he was doing. Soon we were standing side by side, our backs against the cold concrete of the tunnel wall, like two people who, having met while going in opposite directions, had stopped to talk. He turned toward me, leaning his shoulder against the wall and putting his hands in the pockets of his slacks. I looked up at him and he smiled with his mouth closed, still working the gum with his front teeth, his white hair a touch dishevelled, his clerical collar askew. I waited for him to speak, but he said nothing, only regarded me for so long that I couldn’t hold his stare and looked at the floor.

  “It doesn’t show any signs of clearing up, does it, that face of yours? Not from Buddy Coffin, I mean, but from the mess you came into the world with. We’re all so tired of it. Everyone must make allowances for Percy Joyce. Because of his face, because his father ran away and left his mother holding something like a baby. Because of the Archbishop. What would you do if His Grace wasn’t in your corner? He has himself convinced that you were born on June 24 for some divine purpose, that your face and hands and feet are therefore signs of that divine purpose. I know several people who were born on June 24 and each of them is far more likely than you to accomplish something of note in the name of God.

  “His Grace sees a fatherless only child whose face looks like a leper’s, whose mother lives in the past, hoping her lost love will come back for her and who, until he does, will go on blaming God and never set foot inside a church.

  “But you know what I see, Little Percy Joyce? I see a spoiled, coddled mommy’s boy whose mommy is glad Daddy is gone and doesn’t lose a second of sleep wondering why God has been so mean to her. I don’t know what your mother gives a damn about besides her Little Percy.

  “I know she’s not the miserable, discarded woman His Grace thinks she is. Would she be married if not for you, Percy? Is it the prospect of having you as a stepson that keeps men away? His Grace believes that, partly, your mother is reluctant to remarry because she’s afraid that a man who’s not your blood father would mistreat you. Perhaps he would. I’m sick and tired of you and I don’t even have to live with you.

  “Somehow it doesn’t all add up, though. My vice-principal tells me that, for a woman with a problem child, Penny Joyce is pretty cheerful.” McHugh moved his head closer to mine. Blood pounded in my temples. I was terrified of what he’d say next and had no idea what my response should be. It occurred to me that he might be working up to telling me that he knew about my mother and Medina, that, contrary to their belief, Pops knew about them and had told him.

  “Listen to me. Are you listening?”

  I nodded. He moved away from the wall.

  “I know how to hurt boys in ways that leave nothing but little red marks that can easily be explained away. It’s called ‘snapping.’ It’s not like getting strapped. Some boys think it’s worse. You’re about to get snapped.” I thought he had misspoken. “Yes, snapped,” he said. “Not strapped or stropped. That comes later. Snapped comes first. Do you know what it is?” I shook my head. “Every schoolboy except one as coddled and as spoiled as you knows what it is.”

  His hand darting out so fast I couldn’t dodge it, he snapped my left eye, launching his index finger from his thumb. I stared at the floor through a blur of tears, feeling as though there were a million grains of sand behind my eyelid.

  Still I thought this was some sort of prelude to strapping. I was certain I would be strapped, stropped, certain he would make minced meat of my hands and explain it to the Archbishop in some way that exonerated him, that would convince the Archbishop that I was a lost cause who had made many look like fools. I foresaw the end of Uncle Paddy’s patronage and protection, the start of open season on Percy Joyce.

  But the “snapping” continued. He “snapped” each of my earlobes. It felt as if he were holding a match to them. I covered them with my hands. He snapped me in the diaphragm with such force I couldn’t breathe. I had to fight to keep from throwing up. He flicked the head of my dick with his finger as precisely as if its location were traced on the outside of my slacks. A sickening ache shot all the way to my stomach. I almost puked. I grabbed my crotch with both hands and would have doubled over had he not prevented it by cupping my chin in his hand. With his other hand he pulled my hands apart.

  He snapped my left nut. Even as I was doubling over with pain, it occurred to me that he had been using that index finger of his on boys for years, so casually adept he was at hitting just the right spot. He snapped my septum and my eyes and nose watered freely, my nose stinging so I thought it must be bleeding.

  “That’s what I can do by barely lifting a finger,” he said. “Think about that. Remember it. You’d best keep this little dust-up to yourself. His Grace would never believe you if you told him what I did. And he’d know that I’d never make up those things you said about me.”

  I squinted, pressed the heels of my hands against my eyes, which felt as if they would otherwise have popped straight out of my head. “Say one word and I’ll start all over again,” he said. “Understand?”

  Hands still pressed to my eyes, I nodded my head. He pulled my hands away from my face. I saw him through a reddish blur of tears. He gave me a plaid handkerchief. “Clean yourself up,” he said. “You look even worse than usual.” I wiped my eyes, my running nose, my face. “Fold the handkerchief and tuck it neatly in my jacket pocket, all the way in where no one can see it.” I did as he told me.

  “Now follow me. There’s something at the school that you should see.”

  “Are you going to strap me?”

  “Follow me.”

  At the end of the tunnel, there was an iron door that read: “Brother Rice High School. Please lock the door behind you.”

  He put the key into the lock. “Who said anything about strapping? Though I must say, you’re quite the little crybaby, aren’t you? The other boys take their punishment like men. But you will always be your mommy’s little boy. ‘Little Percy’ she’ll be calling you when you’re thirty-five and she’s still wondering if your diaper might be of better use if she put it on your head.”

  I felt myself turning crimson with shame from head to toe. He opened the door. Directly in front of us was a set of steps that led up to what I assumed was the bottom floor of Brother Rice. On our right, a closed door read: “Quarters of the Christian Brothers of the Mount: Absolutely No Admittance.” McHugh opened the door and eased me through, his manner now relaxed, his expression one of faint amusement.

  We were in a narrow, barely lit vestibule of some kind, facing an elevator door above which a panel was numbered from one to eight. McHugh pressed the button and the door opened abruptly. “After you,” McHugh said with a mock flourish of his hand. He followed me into the elevator, which was lined with imitation wood panelling. “Press eight,” he said. I pressed the button and the elevator slowly rose, shuddering slightly each time we passed a floor. When the eight above the door lit up and the door slid open, I saw what looked like the corridor of a cheap hotel; on the floor was a light blue carpet that set off to garish advantage the lemon-coloured walls.

  “Follow me,” he said again as he slowly turned left and sauntered down the corridor with his hands in the pockets of his slacks, whistling with his gum still in his mouth.

  There were no doors, it seemed, but at last we reached one. There was nothing written on it, not even a number. With a key much smaller than the tunnel door keys, he opened the door to what he said was his “suite. “I have the whole eighth floor to myself, so to speak.” He sounded boastful
. “There’s nothing else up here but storage space.”

  The suite was more expensively decorated and furnished than our house—two leather sofas, a gleaming cherry wood dining-room table, overhead a grapnel-like chandelier. There was a framed copy of da Vinci’s Last Supper on the wall above the couch, stretching from one armrest to the other. On the wall opposite, there was a silver-framed certificate of some kind, a citation of service perhaps, that bore what I recognized as the official stamp of the Vatican. Although I saw but one room of it, I could tell the suite was small, smaller than his office, where, for reasons I had never considered but now understood, he spent so much of his time. The suite was too cramped, even for a single person.

  The floor was made of hardwood that gleamed as if it had just been polished. I detected the smell of some sort of detergent; it seemed the place had been cleaned just before my “visit.” I pictured one of the Presentation nuns on her hands and knees, doggedly scrubbing the floor with both hands beside a pail of grey soapy water. There were many small crucifixes on the walls or on wooden stands on the two coffee tables—silver, bronze, marble, wooden crucifixes—as though a collector of them, a hobbyist who sought them out, lived here. But there were no depictions of the Sacred Heart or the Blessed Virgin Mary.

  “The living room,” he said. “Now you’ve seen more of where I live than most people have.” The only other door to the room was shut. I assumed it led to his bedroom.

  On the far wall was a large south-facing window. “Take a look,” he said.

  I went to the window and noticed first the distant view—St. John’s, the part of it to the east of downtown, the brightly coloured houses of the Battery, Signal Hill topped by Cabot Tower, the grey Atlantic whose whitecaps were lopping through the Narrows, causing the hull of a small outbound ship to rise and fall as though it was deadlocked with the current. I looked down at a sharper angle and saw, first, Bonaventure Avenue and, second, our house, the red and green facade of 44, the leaf-strewn veranda, the massive Block out front. I could see straight into the kitchen, which was unoccupied, and almost straight into the living room, where I saw my mother typing at the Helm, a cigarette in her mouth. McHugh stood beside me, the sleeve of his jacket touching mine, the two of us sharing the view in a manner so seemingly congenial it was as if the “snapping” had never happened—though every part of me that he had snapped still ached or burned.