When Mr. Dog Bites (19 page)

“That’s my letter to Dad,” I said.

“Oh, I know it’s your letter to Dad.”

“You shouldn’t be reading it.”

“I’m your mother.”

“It’s against the law.”

“Don’t be stupid, Dylan.”

“It is.”

“Well, I’m glad I did read it. I will be reading all future letters you write to your dad.”

“I won’t give them to you.”

“They won’t get posted in that case.”

“I can post them.”

“Not at the military place. You’re not allowed.” It was true. Only moms or dads were allowed into the special post office to deliver fresh mail. I would have been a chief security risk on my own. All the military stuff would wreck your head. “I need to check them before they’re posted.”

“That’s snooping.”

“Why did you write that strangers were phoning the house?”

“’Cause they were.”

“When?”

“That day you were lying with cucumbers on your eyes.”

“And why didn’t you say anything to me?”

“I did, but you were hiding under the cucumbers.”

“How many times have they phoned?”

“About three.”

“Your dad doesn’t need to know these things, Dylan.”

“I’m just trying to make him feel like he’s here.”

“Well, he’s not here.”

“I know .
.
.”

“And we need to learn to live with that.”

“But he’s probably dead sad where he is.”

Then Mom turned her face to the left and said out of the side of her mouth, “Don’t bank on it.”

“He’s still my dad, and I want him to know things.”

Mom stared at me; I could tell that the little thought cars in her head were all crashing into each other like one of those Indian cities during rush hour. She wanted to say something, but she bit her tongue instead. We had a stare-off. A glare-off. I won, ’cause she spoke first.

Ha! Ha!

“And this crap about the taxi driver.”

“What crap?”

“Why are you blabbing your mouth off about that, eh?”

“’Cause taxi drivers aren’t supposed to go into the passengers’ houses.”

“It wasn’t just a random taxi driver, Dylan.”

“Well, I just thought it was a bonkers story that would have made Dad laugh when he was going to sleep at night, instead of thinking of all the Taliban who are out for his blood all the time.”

Mom didn’t say anything for a while. “I doubt it would have made him laugh, Dylan.”

“Why?”

“Because your dad has a different sense of humor than you and me, that’s why.”

“No, he doesn’t.”

“Trust me, he does.”

“Why are you saying that?”

“Because it’s true.”

“Dad’s got a right to know who was in his parking space and who was drinking tea in his house. He’s got a right to know.”

“And I have a right to invite whoever I want into my house.”

“But a big taxi driver? That’s just weird.”

“His name’s Tony and he’s a friend of mine, so tell me what’s weird about that.”

“He should just drop you off and not scrounge tea from us.”

“He’s a friend, Dylan.”

“He’s a taxi driver.”

“I don’t mind you writing to your dad, but I don’t want you telling him about every Tom, Dick, or Harry that steps over the door.”

“Why not?”

“Because I said so, that’s why.”

“All the neighbors will think bad things if they see taxi drivers in Dad’s space all the time.”

“Oh, shut up, Dylan.”

“They’ll think you’re a filthy whore,” I said. I knew I shouldn’t have said this, but I was at boiling point and mercury was bubbling, and Mom shouldn’t have raised her hand as well. Being the big responsible one, she should have cooled the jets. She should NOT have raised her hand. No Way, José.

“DON’T YOU EVER, EVER SPEAK TO ME LIKE THAT AGAIN.”

I let out a bark and growled at Mom.

“Don’t you dare pull that stunt, young man.”

I growled and barked some more.

Louder.

WOOOOFFFF!

“You’re doing that on purpose, Dylan. Do you think I’m daft?”

Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

“Do you think I don’t know what you’re up to?” Mom clicked her fingers. “I want you to stop this minute.”

Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

“You can turn that on and off whenever you like. Don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to.”

That’s what she thought, but she didn’t know how difficult it was, how tough it was to keep it all in, how I had to clench my fists and toes as hard as I could so that it wouldn’t come out. How I squeezed my eyes shut so tight, hoping it would all go away, until I saw little white balls dancing around in the dark. I squeezed them so tight I gave myself a headache. And still nothing went away. Mom didn’t know any of this; nobody knew any of this.

I picked up the letter, scrunched it into a ball, and threw it at Mom. “Keep the shitty letter.” I ran back up the stairs to get my jacket.

“And you can forget about going to any Halloween disco,” she shouted up at me.

I grabbed my new zip-up jacket, which I didn’t really like too much. It felt like it cost a tenner and smelled like it cost a fiver. I remember she bought it the day after the taxi driver was drinking tea in our kitchen. I secretly called it the guilty jacket. Then I belted down the stairs.

Bang.

Bang.

Bang
on each step, like an elephant learning to walk. I barged straight past Mom.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“What do you care?” I shouted.

“Come here.”

I didn’t. I opened the front door and turned to Mom so I could get the last word in.

“I bet you and your taxi driver can’t wait until March,” I said before scudding the door shut behind me.

Halfway down the path I heard cries of “DYLAN, DYLAN.”

I kept walking until the sniffles faded into zero sound.

The zipper was caught halfway up. “Cheap shite,” I said under my breath.

But after I’d said, “Cheap shite,” I said, “Where the Pop-Tarts are you going, Dylan? It will be din-dins time soon.”

If it was school or the shops, I always turned right going out of the gate at the bottom of our path, but because I was so majorly cheesed off I decided to go left. The left was toward the park. Mom always warned me about the park: the park was full of nasty types, kids whose parents didn’t know what they were up to or where they were. The local NEDs. Mom said the police should round up their parents for bloody neglect. Dad never took me to the park because he said it was full of people drinking tonic wine and smoking cheap-arse hash. I’ve never smoked cheap-arse hash nor drunk tonic wine, so I could never understand why he refused to take me. I would have been A-okay if he had.

The only soccer field in the park had one of the goals smaller than the other and two wonky crossbars; whoever put the lines on must have been on the tonic wine and the cheap-arse hash, because they were all squiggly-wiggly. The field was lumpy, but still, when I was walking across it I dreamed of scoring a scissor-kick sizzler into the top corner from outside the box on the volley. I imagined myself running down the line of the crowd with my jersey pulled over my head, slapping hands. Everyone would be there screaming and singing my name like a bunch of maddies. My dad, Michelle Malloy, Miss Flynn, and all the students from the normal school would be there. That would be a real brilliant thing to do. I wished that my soccer team was actually good enough to play for all the top prizes, like the Regional Schools Challenge Cup. Instead we played in a crap round-robin tournament for special schools only, the Spazzie Schools Super Cup .
.
. and we couldn’t even win that.

“FUCKING SHITE SPAZZIES” just popped out.

I was inside the box next to the penalty spot, which was nowhere near the twelve yards regulation distance from the goal. This penalty spot was about nine point five yards. I know this for sure because I counted out the steps.

And it’s going to be left to none other than Scotland’s finest player, Dylan Mint, to take this last-minute penalty. A penalty that will undoubtedly see Scotland win their first World Cup. With gazillions watching around the world, Mint looks calm and composed as he places the ball on the spot. He steps back from the ball, puffs out his chest, waits for the referee’s whistle. He blows. The world holds its breath. Mint approaches .
.
. strikes it left-footed . . . The ball flies right . . . The England keeper dives . . . and it’s a . . .

“All right, Dildo.”

“Are you talking to yourself again, spazzmo?”

These two headers went to the normal school at the other side of the park. I knew them because we were in the same primary school class for a few months before Mom took me out when I was eight and moved me to Drumhill. The taller one, Fritz, had suspenders on his jeans, which I didn’t understand because his jeans were so tight on his legs that they were never in a month of Saturdays going to fall down. His Mohawk hairdo scared me a wee bit. His mate, Gaz, had no hair at all, but not like Kojak or cancer people. His was shaved to the skin; I could see the scars on his head, like little bits of marble. I couldn’t tell if the scars were from soccer—because Gaz could play soccer much better than anyone in our area—or from bottle fights. His jeans were rolled up to the top of his burgundy Docs.

“What are you doing, Dildo?” Fritz said.

“Nothing, just .
.
.
,” I said.

“Just talking to yourself again?” Gaz said.

“No, I was just going home.”

“But you live that way,” Fritz said, and pointed in the direction of my house. The opposite direction of where I was going.

“I was just looking at the field before I headed home,” I said.

“But nobody’s playing, nobody’s here,” Fritz said.

“That’s what mongos do,” Gaz said.

“Are you some sort of mongo, Dildo?” Fritz asked.

“No,” I said.

“Why are you always talking to yourself, then?” Gaz asked.

“I’m not,” I said.

“Everybody knows you do. You swear at people in the shops and all that, like some fucked-up mongo,” Fritz said.

“Only mad mental mongos would do that,” Gaz said.

I couldn’t tell if they were pulling my leg or deadly serious.

“It’s a condition I have. I don’t mean anybody any harm by it.”

“Well, if you swear at us, we’ll glue your fucking eyelids closed.” Fritz took out a tube of glue from his jacket pocket to prove that this was the real deal.

Wow!

These guys meant business. Ringo Starr rattled at my heart. I said nothing.

“Start shouting some of your mad shit now,” Gaz said.

“What?” I said.

“Yeah, shout some mental mongo stuff,” Fritz said.

“It’s all right, we won’t do anything to you. We just want to hear something,” Gaz said.

“Yeah, it’s okay this time. We just want to hear some mental stuff; it’d be fucking hilarious,” Fritz said.

“I can’t. It happens when it wants to; I can’t just make it happen,” I said. And if there was one time I hoped something would come out, it was this time. I wanted to swear and scream at them, but nothing was happening. I always tried to force it in; it had never entered my head to force it out.

“Come on,” Gaz said.

“I can’t just—” I said.

“You fucking better.” Fritz’s voice had changed, like a G-Man you see on telly. That was when I decided to fake it. I wished I hadn’t argued with Mom now.

“Move it, Dildo. Do something,” Gaz said.

I let the air fill my lungs and puffed out my chest, then I rushed at them like they do in a bullfight.

“G­G­G­G­G­G­G­G­G­G­R­R­R­R­R­R­R­R­R­R­R­R­R­R­. CUNT FUCKERS BUGGER CUNTS. G­G­G­G­G­G­G­G­G­G­R­R­R­R­R­R­R­R­R­R­R­R­R­R­.”

Fritz and Gaz were in hysterics, running around, trying to dodge me, holding on to each other. They laughed so hard, they got out of breath quickly.

“You are one mental fucking mongo, Dildo,” Fritz said.

“That’s bonkers! You need to come down here and do that for the rest of the lads.”

I knew then why Mom and Dad didn’t want me going near the park. I promised myself never, never, never, never to set foot in the park again.

“I’d better go,” I said.

“Wait a minute,” Gaz said.

“But I’m going to be late,” I said.

“Where’s your wee mate?” Gaz asked.

“What wee mate?” I said.

“The coon,” Fritz said.

“The nig-nog,” Gaz said.

“I don’t know any coons or nig-nogs,” I said, which was so true because no coons or nig-nogs went to my school or lived in our area, although Dad used to say that Glasgow was teeming with them now, and that in ten years’ time there would be all these guys with dead-long foreign names playing soccer for Scotland.