Bolloc

by Seamus Boshell

“Bridgid Fitzpatrick, you’re a beautiful woman,” I say, the succinct culmination of three hours of skulking, waiting until she was alone, bored and alone. Her daughters at Bingo, I think, her blabbermouth son at pub, I think, and Mr. Fitzpatrick at pitch-and-putt, I think. But comfortable skulking, I should add, and neighborly, too, performed on our sofa only a small distance from her pebble-dashed house.

“Jesus, Bol-, I mean, Fergal, would you stop,” she replies, rushing up to her crowded sink, the kitchen table wobbling behind her. “Drink your tea,” she urges, lifting her own, leaning against the sink, her bare leg rising, a bulky knee protruding from her tea-stained skirt. But staring. Her gray eyes wide in a wash of wrinkles. “You’re an awful chancer,” she adds, lifting her chipped cup against an unsinkable smile. “Sure, we’re going to miss you.”

In deference to my dad’s promotion—the civil (yawn) service—we were moving west to Tipperary, which was fine with me. I was tired of Dublin, of Finglas, tired of the slander. Here was a chance to make myself anew, a new town, a new name, and, yes, I would be bringing my ice cream van. Eighteen years old, and I was already worth a tiny fortune, no matter what they called me.

“And your mother,” she adds, grimacing, showing so fully the ire reserved for her dearest competitor. A feud, the trivial origins of which I don’t remember, had been in earnest for years. Something about fashion, style, womanhood. “We’ll miss her. Noreen O’Leary.”

“You’re beautiful,” I repeat, trying but not ready to rise, her bare, purpled feet defeating me. Behind her, a lawn mower, probably the Nolan’s, is pushed into life. “You’re bleedin’ gorgeous,” I add, a studied tremble to my voice, my hands in mock confusion. Hairs darken her nostrils. Lines tree-trunk her neck. But up I stand, her head recoiling, her cup even higher. Up I stand, determined, crossing her sticky lino, crossing those 20 years that had left her stretched and flabby, her skin raw, her breasts retired. For inspiration, I think of Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, her neighbor, only two younger doors down. The same dirty blonde hair but shapely, ripe, juicy.

“Now what are you up to?” Mrs. Fitzpatrick says, her voice raised, her eyes delighted.

“Fancied you for years,” I say, taking her by the meat of her forearms.

“Have you, now,” she replies, leaning back, her spine against the dishes. She looks directly at me, skeptical. But, yes, something else, not just the usual curiosity, something else—hope.

I return her stare. “I’m going to kiss you,” I say, thinking of her son, Liam Fitzpatrick, blathering all over the street.

“Are you, now?” she says, her eyebrow arched, but her lips, the top one already over her bottom, moistening.

I put my mouth on hers, squeezing her forearms, easing them, opening them, lowering my hands to her waist, the shock! that welt of skin, that overflow of fat. Behind her closed lips stand the hard force of her teeth, but I push, I lean, determined. I get my arms around her. Behind her the dishes subside, a crescendo that arouses her. Her mouth opens, a taste of peas, an intrusion of teeth, and a tongue—I nearly laugh—a little ticklish tongue—I almost giggle—but I keep going, my crotch moving into hers. Her arms open, lift, surround me, the house-holding warmth of her chest, the crumbly trail of her fingers on my neck. She kisses me back. I think of Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, her tongue around a lollipop.

We burrow into each other. The fridge shudders on, jerking her deeper into me. I jerk back.

All for her son. Her fat, squealing son.

I try to dance her away into her smaller sitting room, its window abutting her private back garden and not our street, Ratoath Crescent. She stops, removes her mouth from mine, that odor of peas, that peel of skin, her arms hot and heavy on my shoulders. “An’ where did you think you’re going?” she asks, surprised. And, yes, the old lady is shocked. But not at me, no, at herself.

“Let’s,” I say. “We’ll never get the chance again. I’ll be so far away and—” I pause, but she doesn’t interrupt. She wants me to work for it. She wants it fucking all. “I love you, Mrs. Fitzpatrick....”