The Son of a Certain Woman by Wayne Johnston

Author:Wayne Johnston
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub, azw3
Tags: Contemporary
ISBN: 9780345807915
Publisher: Knopf Canada
Published: 2013-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

My mother called the police about the possibility of pressing charges against Buddy Coffin. “The prosecutor said he wouldn’t advise involving a boy like Percy in something as public as court proceedings.”

“I don’t want to go to court,” I said.

“It doesn’t matter anyway,” my mother said. “There isn’t a single person who’s willing to say in court that Buddy Coffin laid a finger on you.” She brooded more on my beating than I did.

Eight days after my encounter with Buddy Coffin, when the bruises around my eyes had faded to the shade of iodine, I went back to school, accompanied, in spite of my protests that I wanted to go alone, by my mother and Medina, one on either side of me, though I refused to hold their hands. Pops volunteered to join us, but my mother said he would only make the trouble he had caused me even worse.

As usual, the button just above my mother’s tits, the highest one she ever fastened, looked as though it would pop at any second and her tits would tumble out. Her blouse was tightly tucked inside her skirt, the white cloth pulled flat against her back. Her skirt, navy blue, with small zippers on each side of her waist, made of her bum a perfect peach. She had on the heels she wore while typing and a pair of nylons, down the outer thigh of which ran a thin white seam. On my other side walked Medina, dressed in her lime-green hospital overalls and her flat-soled grey shoes.

The boys and girls of Bonaventure lined the street, which made me feel like the sole attraction in a miniature parade. There were a few shouted remarks from deep in the pack. “Nice bodyguards, Percy. One nice one, anyway. Nice new face too.” There were wolf whistles and shouts of “Penelope.” I couldn’t help but identify with the boys who merely groaned, as if to themselves, “Jesus, will you look at that piece of ass.”

Just outside the gates of St. Bon’s, my mother looked around at all the boys and girls until they fell silent. My mother, her fists clenched at her sides, rose slightly on the balls of her feet. “LISTEN TO ME,” she shouted, “every last one of you little snotbags. What Brother McHugh does to you is not Percy’s fault. Percy Joyce is not a tattletale. It wasn’t because of Percy that Brother McHugh beat up Stevie Coffin. Tell your older brothers and sisters, tell your fathers and your mothers. It is not open season on Percy Joyce. Buddy Coffin will get what’s coming to him. The next person who harms a hair on my son’s head will end up with a broken nose.”

“Who’s going to break my nose? You and her?” one of the older boys from Brother Rice laughed. “Who’s gonna take on Buddy Coffin? You?” He pointed to Medina.

My mother pointed back at him. “Would you like me to demonstrate? If I have to make an example of someone, it might as well be you.

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