N-O. No. And I’m not a priest anymore, but then again, how would you know since you’ve been in the slammer most of my life? So, the answer is no. N-O. Am I perfectly clear now?”
“No?” she said, raising her eyebrows in a gesture I remembered only too well. “No? You’re going to tell me no? Well, we’ll see about that, won’t we, Tommy? We’ll see about that, you and your little smart mouth. We’ll just see, won’t we?”
I did not like the tone of her voice. It made me feel like a helpless twelve-year-old.
She turned to the waiting room. “My son, the queer!” she announced loudly. “My son, the big queer! The dick-sucking faggot! Won’t even talk to his goddamn mother! Some kind of son, ain’t he? And he’s a fucking priest too. Can you believe that? What a fucking hypocrite! Too busy having those altar boys suck his little dick for him. That’s what I think!”
“You get out!” I shouted at her.
“What are you going to do, Tommy? Arrest your mommy? Hide behind your police friends because you don’t have half the balls your father did? You make me sick, you little faggot! Do you hear me? You make me want to puke! Fucking hypocrite!”
I turned to Mary Beth. “This woman is violating a restraining order. Would you page someone to come and arrest her?”
Mary Beth’s eyes went wide and she stopped chewing her gum. She looked at the phone as if it was a live reptile that might bite her.
“Jesus!” Daniel exclaimed behind me, a look of surprise on his face.
I looked around in sudden worry. Now what?
Daniel was already in motion, trying to swerve past me, but he was not fast enough.
I turned just in time to see my mother stab me in the upper part of my arm with a syringe she must have grabbed out of her purse. She grinned a mad, insane grin that I was, unfortunately, all too familiar with.
Chaos ensued.
I sank to the base of the receptionist’s desk. Mary Beth screamed, a high-pitched, panicky sound. Daniel jumped over me and tackled my mother, who was laughing and cursing. The people in the waiting room jumped up, muttering, backing away from my mother.
She had left the syringe buried in my right arm, and I yanked on it, tossed it aside, and tried very hard to ignore the desperate, angry pain. Like a little boy in front of his friends, I struggled not to cry, not to show how much it hurt.
Mary Beth flew around the desk. “Oh Jesus! Lieutenant! Are you, like, all right? Oh Jesus!”
She was a stupid cow, I thought.
I clutched my injured arm, ignoring her. I wondered if the needle had hit the bone because that’s what it felt like. I was also wondering—trying not to, but unsuccessfully—if the needle was one she’d shared with her junkie friends. I hoped to God it wasn’t, but why would she waste a perfectly good new needle on me?
“Lieutenant?” Mary Beth exclaimed. “Are you, like, okay? Should I, like, call someone?”
I closed my eyes and began to cry. I was in pain, yes, but I was also embarrassed. Humiliated, in fact. One thing you didn’t do with my mother was tell her no. The word “no” was not permitted in her world. Tell her no and you could watch her grab the nearest thing at hand that could serve as a weapon. She was completely fearless. She had taken on men much bigger than I was and had come out none the worse for wear. And since she was mentally ill and not quite aware of what she was doing, she very often left a trail of destruction in her wake that she did not even have enough presence of mind to be sorry for. Or to remember afterward.
By now, officers had arrived to drag her away. Daniel was crouching down, giving me anxious, bewildered looks, as if this was the last thing he expected on his first day of work, which it probably was. Mary Beth was still piping away about whether I was, like, all right or not.
I tried to stand, grimacing at the pain it caused. I was no longer a young man, no longer able to bounce back from injuries the way I had
“No?” she said, raising her eyebrows in a gesture I remembered only too well. “No? You’re going to tell me no? Well, we’ll see about that, won’t we, Tommy? We’ll see about that, you and your little smart mouth. We’ll just see, won’t we?”
I did not like the tone of her voice. It made me feel like a helpless twelve-year-old.
She turned to the waiting room. “My son, the queer!” she announced loudly. “My son, the big queer! The dick-sucking faggot! Won’t even talk to his goddamn mother! Some kind of son, ain’t he? And he’s a fucking priest too. Can you believe that? What a fucking hypocrite! Too busy having those altar boys suck his little dick for him. That’s what I think!”
“You get out!” I shouted at her.
“What are you going to do, Tommy? Arrest your mommy? Hide behind your police friends because you don’t have half the balls your father did? You make me sick, you little faggot! Do you hear me? You make me want to puke! Fucking hypocrite!”
I turned to Mary Beth. “This woman is violating a restraining order. Would you page someone to come and arrest her?”
Mary Beth’s eyes went wide and she stopped chewing her gum. She looked at the phone as if it was a live reptile that might bite her.
“Jesus!” Daniel exclaimed behind me, a look of surprise on his face.
I looked around in sudden worry. Now what?
Daniel was already in motion, trying to swerve past me, but he was not fast enough.
I turned just in time to see my mother stab me in the upper part of my arm with a syringe she must have grabbed out of her purse. She grinned a mad, insane grin that I was, unfortunately, all too familiar with.
Chaos ensued.
I sank to the base of the receptionist’s desk. Mary Beth screamed, a high-pitched, panicky sound. Daniel jumped over me and tackled my mother, who was laughing and cursing. The people in the waiting room jumped up, muttering, backing away from my mother.
She had left the syringe buried in my right arm, and I yanked on it, tossed it aside, and tried very hard to ignore the desperate, angry pain. Like a little boy in front of his friends, I struggled not to cry, not to show how much it hurt.
Mary Beth flew around the desk. “Oh Jesus! Lieutenant! Are you, like, all right? Oh Jesus!”
She was a stupid cow, I thought.
I clutched my injured arm, ignoring her. I wondered if the needle had hit the bone because that’s what it felt like. I was also wondering—trying not to, but unsuccessfully—if the needle was one she’d shared with her junkie friends. I hoped to God it wasn’t, but why would she waste a perfectly good new needle on me?
“Lieutenant?” Mary Beth exclaimed. “Are you, like, okay? Should I, like, call someone?”
I closed my eyes and began to cry. I was in pain, yes, but I was also embarrassed. Humiliated, in fact. One thing you didn’t do with my mother was tell her no. The word “no” was not permitted in her world. Tell her no and you could watch her grab the nearest thing at hand that could serve as a weapon. She was completely fearless. She had taken on men much bigger than I was and had come out none the worse for wear. And since she was mentally ill and not quite aware of what she was doing, she very often left a trail of destruction in her wake that she did not even have enough presence of mind to be sorry for. Or to remember afterward.
By now, officers had arrived to drag her away. Daniel was crouching down, giving me anxious, bewildered looks, as if this was the last thing he expected on his first day of work, which it probably was. Mary Beth was still piping away about whether I was, like, all right or not.
I tried to stand, grimacing at the pain it caused. I was no longer a young man, no longer able to bounce back from injuries the way I had
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