Read Online The Son of a Certain Woman by Wayne Johnston - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Wayne Johnston
Tags: Contemporary
Ads: Link
Joyce? It wasn’t like she had a
reputation
to protect, an unmarried mother, a woman who answered the door wearing next to nothing. It wasn’t fair, especially to celibate cocks, to be a cockteaser. Why didn’t she just see if she could get one of them to throw off his vocation? She shouldn’t let self-respect get in the way!
So they argued on and on, not really shouting, merely picking at each other, throughout most of which my mother smiled and Medina frowned and pouted, arms folded across her chest. My mother laughed. Medina laughed. Medina talked herself out. I could tell that my mother knew she would. She didn’t get upset. She seemed to assume that I too knew Medina didn’t mean a word of it, for she paid me no mind as they were jousting. They wound up, after Pops came home from Brother Rice and took up his place in the armchair in the sunroom, drinking beer and playing cards in the kitchen until late at night, laughing as if the point of an argument was to joke about it afterward.
My mother, to my disappointment, did relent and stopped wearing her bathrobe while working, switching to skirts and blouses and high-heeled shoes as if she were a receptionist.
I can’t remember not knowing what “it” was. My mother and Medina swore I always knew, never bothering to explain how innate knowledge of anything was possible. They both said they never told me, so I suppose it’s possible that I always knew. My mother said that I was “gaping” at girls and women by the time I was five. She said she doubted that my “condition” had anything to do with it, but I was as hyper-sexed as some people thought my condition fated me to be, precocious in the extreme when it came to maturation. She
knew
, she said; she did the laundry and never overlooked or ceased to be amazed by whatshe called a “crusty crotch.” She didn’t know that, even then, the object of my desire, the object of my dreams both dry and wet was Penny Joyce.
The Archbishop began to send me special occasion cards:
Merry Christmas, Percy. May God bless you and watch over you on His special day. I want you and your mother to know that I remember both of you each day in my prayers. May I humbly ask that both of you remember me in yours? Yours in Christ, P.J. Scanlon, CJM, Archbishop of St. John’s.
Sometimes he referred to me in writing as Little Percy and wrote to me as though to a colleague whose job was as important and difficult as his.
Well Little Percy, Merry Christmas to you and your mother. Isn’t this a busy time of year for people like us? But we must not forget the importance of Christmas, which celebrates the birthday of our Saviour, The Lord Jesus Christ, who loves us and watches over us always. Well, I must get back to my duties as you must get back to yours. Again Little Percy, Merry Christmas and my best wishes to you and your mother, Penelope, for the New Year: Yours in Christ, Archbishop P.J. Scanlon, CJM, December 12, 1961.
“I’m surprised he doesn’t sign the cards ‘Your pal, Paddy,’ ” my mother said, though she always helped me reply to the Archbishop’s card with one of my own.
Merry Christmas, Your Grace. I had a cold but now I’m fine. I hope you don’t get a cold. My mother is fine too. Happy New Year: Percy Joyce, ESQ., December 17, 1961.
“I guess it’s good to have friends in high places,” my mother said. I took her words literally and imagined my friend the Archbishop writing to me from high up in the Basilica. “He never forgets to send you a card. Easter, your birthday, St. Patrick’s Day, even Valentine’s. I think he’s using the soft-sell approach to bring us back to the Church. I hope that when he realizes it won’t work, we don’t have an
enemy
in high places.”
Pops said he was sure that the Archbishop was just being nice and had no ulterior motive. But priests from the Basilica who
didn’t
use the soft-sell approach and were sent to our house by His Grace exhorted—in some cases
reputation
to protect, an unmarried mother, a woman who answered the door wearing next to nothing. It wasn’t fair, especially to celibate cocks, to be a cockteaser. Why didn’t she just see if she could get one of them to throw off his vocation? She shouldn’t let self-respect get in the way!
So they argued on and on, not really shouting, merely picking at each other, throughout most of which my mother smiled and Medina frowned and pouted, arms folded across her chest. My mother laughed. Medina laughed. Medina talked herself out. I could tell that my mother knew she would. She didn’t get upset. She seemed to assume that I too knew Medina didn’t mean a word of it, for she paid me no mind as they were jousting. They wound up, after Pops came home from Brother Rice and took up his place in the armchair in the sunroom, drinking beer and playing cards in the kitchen until late at night, laughing as if the point of an argument was to joke about it afterward.
My mother, to my disappointment, did relent and stopped wearing her bathrobe while working, switching to skirts and blouses and high-heeled shoes as if she were a receptionist.
I can’t remember not knowing what “it” was. My mother and Medina swore I always knew, never bothering to explain how innate knowledge of anything was possible. They both said they never told me, so I suppose it’s possible that I always knew. My mother said that I was “gaping” at girls and women by the time I was five. She said she doubted that my “condition” had anything to do with it, but I was as hyper-sexed as some people thought my condition fated me to be, precocious in the extreme when it came to maturation. She
knew
, she said; she did the laundry and never overlooked or ceased to be amazed by whatshe called a “crusty crotch.” She didn’t know that, even then, the object of my desire, the object of my dreams both dry and wet was Penny Joyce.
The Archbishop began to send me special occasion cards:
Merry Christmas, Percy. May God bless you and watch over you on His special day. I want you and your mother to know that I remember both of you each day in my prayers. May I humbly ask that both of you remember me in yours? Yours in Christ, P.J. Scanlon, CJM, Archbishop of St. John’s.
Sometimes he referred to me in writing as Little Percy and wrote to me as though to a colleague whose job was as important and difficult as his.
Well Little Percy, Merry Christmas to you and your mother. Isn’t this a busy time of year for people like us? But we must not forget the importance of Christmas, which celebrates the birthday of our Saviour, The Lord Jesus Christ, who loves us and watches over us always. Well, I must get back to my duties as you must get back to yours. Again Little Percy, Merry Christmas and my best wishes to you and your mother, Penelope, for the New Year: Yours in Christ, Archbishop P.J. Scanlon, CJM, December 12, 1961.
“I’m surprised he doesn’t sign the cards ‘Your pal, Paddy,’ ” my mother said, though she always helped me reply to the Archbishop’s card with one of my own.
Merry Christmas, Your Grace. I had a cold but now I’m fine. I hope you don’t get a cold. My mother is fine too. Happy New Year: Percy Joyce, ESQ., December 17, 1961.
“I guess it’s good to have friends in high places,” my mother said. I took her words literally and imagined my friend the Archbishop writing to me from high up in the Basilica. “He never forgets to send you a card. Easter, your birthday, St. Patrick’s Day, even Valentine’s. I think he’s using the soft-sell approach to bring us back to the Church. I hope that when he realizes it won’t work, we don’t have an
enemy
in high places.”
Pops said he was sure that the Archbishop was just being nice and had no ulterior motive. But priests from the Basilica who
didn’t
use the soft-sell approach and were sent to our house by His Grace exhorted—in some cases
Similar Books
