by Dan Mooney
Of the other three housemates there was no sign, but that was not unusual. They were not early risers.
“Good morning, Penny O’Neill,” Denis said sleepily as he flipped back his covers and stretched his legs over the side of the bed.
A grunt was all the reply he got; standard response from her. Not much of an early riser either.
Sunday, as with every other day of Denis’s week, was a day carefully planned in advance. Early-morning breakfast (high-fiber cereal, orange juice and black coffee)—ten minutes. This particular Sunday morning he was feeling just a little bloated. It happened from time to time, but Denis Murphy had no time for ailments; they interfered with his schedule. Next up was exercise (run followed by light core work)—one hundred twenty minutes. Shower and shave—twenty minutes. Then came the part of Denis’s Sunday that had to be tolerated despite how much he disliked it. His mother’s visit. He grimaced at the thought. It upset him that there could be no timetable for this whirlwind event. Her arrival time was at her discretion, her departure usually an uncomfortable mess of goodbyes or recriminations. There was no telling how long or how briefly she’d be there and equally no way of knowing how critical or how friendly she’d be feeling. Denis pushed the thought out of his mind in favor of embracing the tasks that lay before him.
Invariably he prepared no food for his housemates. They never ate it when he did, so he had stopped bothering. He did shop for them when the unfortunate need to grocery shop arose, and their list was a complicated mess of fats, oils, complex carbohydrates, E numbers, MSG and sugar. He didn’t begrudge them. What would be the point? He prepared his own simple breakfast, cleaning the mess left over from a feast his housemates had clearly held in the small hours of the night before. Just as clearly, they were maintaining their protest against cleaning products in general and sponges in particular. Deano was by far the worst. He didn’t so much eat as mash the part of his head where one assumed a face might be into a plate. Some of it disappeared into a mouth presumably, but by no means definitely. The rest of his pile of “food” gravitated toward the hardest to clean places in the kitchen, as though compelled by whatever magical powers a person who was entirely represented by hair might have.
His breakfast consumed and the dishes tidied and stored, Denis set about his exercises. It should be said that this was one of the few times that Denis didn’t mind the rain. The exercise had to be completed and there was a shower waiting at the end; what was the harm if he got soaked? His housemates despised it when he came home wet and sweaty, his hair plastered to his head. They would berate the silly look he sported. Denis tolerated them, as most people do with their housemates. It was worth it to feel the exhilarating freedom he got from running. Each step seeming to carry him further away from his own thoughts and into a steady rhythmic trance in which there were no worries, no people, no blue eyes smiling in his rearview mirror from the back seat of his old car. Just a curious peace. There wasn’t much rain on this particular Sunday, so there wasn’t much ire to contend with when he finally arrived home. The crew was, however, awake.
“I’m back,” he called after he’d performed the door-unlocking procedure and stepped through into the hallway.
“We know,” came the reply in chorus.
Denis chuckled to himself. The chorus calls always amused him. After his shower, but before the arrival of his mother, there would be time to light the Sunday fire. Sundays mean a fire. It could be, though it rarely was, in the midtwenties temperature-wise, but this didn’t change the fact that a fire was mandatory. There is, undeniably, something about a fire that makes a house a home. He rose from the edge of his bed, where he had carefully dried his feet and meticulously checked his toenails for cleanliness, and then did something so utterly surprising that he shocked himself. Without any justifiable reason, and apparently engaged by his own free will alone, he walked to his closet and pulled out a battered cardboard box. Misshapen by age and utterly out of place in the immaculately organized haven that was the bedroom of Denis Murphy, it was stuffed with photos. The box offended Denis on several levels: first, was the fact that it was so old and battered. It should have been replaced with a box that had retained its rectangularity. Second, there was no discernible filing system, not even an attempt at keeping the photos facing the same direction. They were simply packed in there any way at all, and for a brief second, his hand recoiled from touching such a disorganized mess.
Then he saw her again. With Jules. For the second time in two days, his eyes lingered on her, absorbing the beauty of her face. She was smiling at the camera, not a fake, posed affair, but a genuine smile that seemed to make her brown eyes sparkle even in the photo. Next to her on one side, with one arm draped lazily over her shoulder was Denis Murphy. Not the Denis Murphy he knew, but a different version. A stranger. His face was partially stubbled; his hair, longer than normal, was a disheveled mess. His eyes were squeezed shut and his mouth agape. He presumed the photo was taken in the throes of laughter. He was wearing a vest. It was the inside of a club. He looked ridiculous. On the other side of her, with her more serious, innocent face, was Jules. She had the hint of a tiny smile playing on her lips, but she was fighting to look serious, fighting to maintain decorum. She had always been the responsible one of the two of them. Just like their mom. Denis frowned at the picture as the memories flooded, all unwanted, into his head. The bass line of the music thumped and jumped up into his chest as people surged past them wearing garlands around their heads and shoulders. A beach party. A mess of drinking and dancing. He had been more than half cut, whipping back shots and practically inhaling beers. And kissing. So much kissing. In his mind’s eye he snatched the camera from Eddie and forced him to cram in alongside them. Stretching the camera to arm’s length, he took another photo of all four of them. Idly he wondered where that photo had gone.
I think she has it. I seem to remember it on the cabinet next to her bed.
His eyes were stinging, and he blinked to clear his vision. He considered placing the photo by his bedside, but thought better of it. Without a frame, it would simply lay there, and the common convention of tacking it with a pin would leave a small hole in the finish of his built-in headboard. Denis knew himself well enough to know that such a hole would keep him up at night. It had no place in a built-in headboard. He would eventually have to throw the whole thing out and buy a new one. And then what would happen to the photo? He reluctantly put it back in the box, which he replaced in his closet. It was only then that the shock of what he had just done hit him. His hands began to shake, and all of a sudden his mind was racing. The box suddenly seemed like the dirtiest, filthiest thing he’d ever touched. In fact, the whole room seemed to be unclean and out of place to his mind. He struggled to regain control of his thoughts; they flitted back to the hospital, and then to the club, and then to a roadside and shards of broken glass. He bolted to the closet and grabbed his cleaning products. To correct the anomaly in his behavior he spent thirty-eight minutes carefully dusting the bedroom, feverishly throwing himself into the task until his mind focused itself. Then he showered again, as though cleaning would simply wash away the absurdity of this random act of nostalgia. After a shower he could start again as if it had never happened.
He toweled himself dry and dressed in his well-pressed underwear and well-pressed socks, along with a pair of suit trousers, which were, predictably, well-pressed. He selected a shirt, this one a pastel green, and a darker green tie to offset it. His hair was combed carefully and styled with a respectable amount of gel. He washed his hands twenty-two times. Gel upset him, but not as much as messy hair. There was a trade-off in such incidents. He nodded at his own obvious pragmatism. As he made his way to the door, he heard the sounds of a conference being held in the hallway.
“It is most certainly a suitable gift for a Sunday afternoon visit,” came the voice of Professor Scorpion.
“It is, but you all know he’s never going to go
for it. Think of the mess. Think of how he’ll react. You know what a bitch he is about things like this.” That one was Plasterer.
“But I think he likes her visits about as much as we do. He’ll love this.” The third voice was unmistakably Penny O’Neill’s.
“Once again, the mess. All right, all right, calm down, Deano. I get your point,” said Plasterer again. Clearly Deano was gesturing. Sighing, Denis opened the door and walked into the hallway.
“Oh hello, Mr. Bank Manager,” Penny O’Neill said, mocking his crisp Sunday clothes with a curtsy.
“Good day, madam,” Denis replied, affecting the tone he assumed was a bank manager’s. He hadn’t met many of them.
Penny O’Neill giggled girlishly.
“I believe you four were discussing something?” Denis inquired, looking straight at Deano. The hair ball shrank back from his gaze, as though there was something menacing about it. He was shy that way, from time to time.
“Your mother is coming to visit,” Plasterer told him.
“And?” Denis began cautiously.
“We wish to give her a cake...” the Professor told him.
“Why?”
“...in her face,” the zombie finished.
Denis laughed out loud in spite of himself.
“Told you he’d love it,” crowed Penny O’Neill.
“Amazing,” said Plasterer sarcastically. “Quick, Deano. Bake a cake.”
“No,” said Denis. “No hitting my mother with cake. Regardless of how hilarious it is. Remember how upset you all made her when you painted that teddy bear?”
They took on the manner of small children, staring down at their feet and scuffing at the carpet. It set his teeth on edge slightly.
“I’m sorry, guys, but no.” They grumbled, Plasterer even going so far as to throw him a menacing look, but the big clown eventually ambled away, muttering under his breath.
Oh yes. He’s definitely the one to fear.
Denis set about preparing for her arrival. He always felt like he should prepare properly, when in truth, there was very little to do. The house was immaculately kept, when he could control the four anarchists who lived with him. The cupboards seldom needed organizing, since he seldom disorganized them, and they got a thorough cleaning once a week. The floor was swept several times a day, and while it can never really be swept enough, it wasn’t a job he felt that adequately prepared him for her arrival. The bathroom occupied him for a while. Since it was used only by his housemates, it had a tendency to get messier more quickly than the rest of the house, but Denis rarely allowed the situation to develop to serious proportions. There would be no repeat of the time that he got so lazy there was no toilet paper in there, and the toothpaste was being rolled up to squeeze out the last drops. That had been a complete disaster. Finally, there was only one job left to do. Light the Sunday fire.
He made his way to the living room, where four all-too-innocent faces beamed at him from their usual seats.
“What’s going on?” he asked suspiciously.
“Nothing,” replied Plasterer and Penny O’Neill at once.
“We lit a fire in the anticipation of our pending houseguest, but it seems to have gotten rather out of hand...” the Professor told him, to scowls from the couch.
Denis looked at the empty fireplace.
“Looks like you need to start again. This time try adding firing materials to the fireplace,” he told them sarcastically.
“...in the kitchen,” the Professor told him matter-of-factly, glancing toward the door.
It took a moment for this information to sink in, but when it did, Denis was amazed that he’d missed it. The smell of smoke was appalling. He bolted for the kitchen, where what was left of the toaster was sitting on the step by the back door, which had been left wide-open. Flames licked the wooden door where it charred and smoked. The light drizzle caused the melted plastic of the toaster to hiss occasionally. He stared at the lump of twisted metal and plastic. There were about a dozen melted candles leaking out of what was left of the slot for the toast. He dashed into the kitchen, grabbing the fire blanket and covering the flames, the acrid smoke stinging his eyes.
Dangerous, so dangerous. You need to be more careful. Really any one of them can kill you.
“Toasters aren’t cakes,” he screamed into the living room.
“Cool,” Plasterer replied. “Wanna watch TV?”
Denis tried to contain his rage, fighting it down, smothering it.
“I’m going to compile a list,” Professor Scorpion declared to anyone who would listen, “of other common things that are not, in fact, cakes.”
Denis sighed and surrendered. The doorbell rang.
“Doorbells are not cakes.”
“Get out of here,” Denis barked in reply.
The curious thing about his housemates was that while they were familiar with all the people in Denis’s life, through endless stories, they had no interest whatsoever in meeting or engaging with any of them. This suited Denis fine, since he held tightly to the belief that neither his friends nor his mother would be overly fond of them either. And so, when the doorbell rang, there was a mass exodus from the living room, accompanied by a scampering noise, like the sound a child makes when he climbs stairs using all four limbs, at full speed.
“I’m coming,” he called out, still trying to collect the destroyed toaster without burning himself. He headed for the door and pulled on it three times before unlocking it carefully.
“Hello, Mom,” he said to her, nodding and smiling slightly.
“Hello, my dear,” she replied, opening her arms and imploring him with her eyes. “Any chance of a hug this time?”
He stepped back from the offer and shook his head slightly. It broke her heart just a little more, he could tell. It was for precisely this reason that his mother’s weekly visit was almost unbearable to him. Each week she’d call. Each week she’d ask for a hug. It’s no great thing for most people, a simple gesture of greeting or of parting. A way of consoling or celebrating. And each week he would refuse her. She would wince ever so slightly and attempt to cover it up by adjusting her coat, or rearranging her handbag, but her eyes would show everything. Each week she came with the simple intent to love her son a little better, and each week he would refuse to love her a little better in return. For Denis, a hug was no small thing. The thought of just brushing up against another person was sometimes enough to send him into a panic attack. A hug? She may as well have asked him to take her to the moon. How must she feel when she meets with her friends? he wondered. When their children, or in some cases, grandchildren, hug them, or kiss them on the cheek, or hold their hand. She had only one child left, and he wouldn’t even grant her a hug. Denis hated himself from time to time.
“Come in,” he told her to cover the awkwardness of yet another rejection.
“Drizzly out there,” she said conversationally.
“Yes,” he replied. “Was out for a run this morning. Not great for August, is it?”
“No. Not great at all. I suppose we should be used to it.”
“Yeah. You’d think we would be. Would you like tea?”
“Yes, please, that would be lovely. Have you a fire on? I can smell smoke.”
“Er, not quite. I, er, was experimenting with something, and I kind of burned my toaster. Nothing major. I’ll put a fire on though.”
“Yes. Please do. It’s nice to have a fire when it’s bad weather out.”
“It sure is.”
This was the manner of most of their conversations. This was the manner of most of Denis’s conversations with people. Sometimes she would arrive all guns blazing in an attempt to shock Denis out of his “disorder.” Once, he even locked himself in the bathroom to wait her out. It worked; she had left the house that day in tears. A victory for order he recalled bitterly. Other t
imes it would be just like this; polite chitchat with some subtle maneuvering until she could hit him with a question loaded with emotion. A salvo intended to rock him.
“Anything exciting going on at work?” she asked, as they moved into the living room.
“Nothing really,” he replied, tactically placing himself on the armchair closest to the door.
An awkward silence settled around them.
“Did you get a new computer?” she asked finally. He had not. They both knew that. It was something to say. She would say anything at all to help feel connected to him.
“A few months ago,” he told her. “Still working fine. How’s everything at home?”
“Good,” she replied. “I was thinking of getting a new fridge.”
“Good idea,” Denis replied. “You’ve had that one for a while.”
More silence. This round heavier than the last. She was building to something.
“I was thinking maybe I’d get one that has the ice dispenser on the front. Very fancy,” she said with a half laugh.
“Yes, we’ve always been a fancy family,” he replied. They had never been a fancy family. He was chasing conversation. It didn’t work.
She was here because he wouldn’t go home. He wouldn’t go home because it smelled and looked like a shrine to another life. It smelled like Jules. His mother had to understand this. Perhaps she did, but more likely she did not, since it seemed more likely that no one did, or ever could, save for those precious four housemates of his.
Another silence settled in. She was smiling at him now, but it was fixed. She was building to what she wanted to say. He could tell.
“Eddie’s parents tell me that you were out visiting yesterday,” she said suddenly.
“Yes. I went to visit,” he replied cautiously, feeling his chest and shoulders tensing.
“I think they’d like it if you’d talk to them, Denis,” she said, choosing her words carefully. Doireann Murphy was all too aware of her son’s tendency to retreat when she charged at him with such dangerous conversation.
