The Merry Men Masquerade

8. Reason #1

Ronan was six when he learned about his father.

He'd never cared to ask. It had always been him and Wendy, and he didn't mind.

But lately, it had been him, Wendy, and the booze.

He had only just learned the word, tossed around amidst giggles and grumbles by the Older Boys as they chased down the street, whipping each other with a dirty rag. They didn't let him play just yet - he wasn't big enough, wasn't fast enough - but he sat at the curb with a couple of kids his age and watched them with awe, scuttling out of the way every time they ran carelessly too close.

They chatted breathlessly about how they stole their parents' booze, how they hated the taste but loved the feeling, as they played. They talked about it like it was something to desire, until one kid stopped in the middle of the street and lifted his shirt and said, "My pops gave me these the last time he had booze," and all of a sudden none of them cared much for talking anymore.

Ronan wasn't the one to knock the bonnet clean off a passing lady's head during street footsie, but he was the closest, so he was the one she turned to with her pruny lips set in irritation and expectancy. "Your pa raise you with no manners, or are ya just stupid?" she sneered when he didn't apologize.

"Don't got one of those, ma'am."

The woman got all sad in the eyes, and Ronan wondered if he was supposed to care. He never had before, but, well - the way things were going at home, between him and Wendy and the booze, he wondered for the first time if he could use a father.

One of the Older Boys explained, "She thinks your pops is dead. That, or your ma's a floozie."

That evening, he burst into their narrow row house and stormed upstairs to the bedroom they shared. He half-expected to find it empty - almost hoped he would, because that would mean Wendy had gone to work today - but there was a telltale lump on top of the sheets that didn't budge at the sound of his footsteps.

"Momma, where's my pops?"

Wendy just about jumped out of her half-doze to stare at him. Her chestnut hair was in disarray, her eyes framed with dark circles, and after moving so quickly, she had to bring her fingers to her temples.

It took her a long time, and a lot of evading, to finally answer.

"He passed away before you were born." She broke the news gently, beckoning Ronan closer. "Factory accident."

Her face was kind as she opened her arms. She hugged him, and he sank into it, if only for the familiar warmth he adored. It was hard to miss someone he'd never met.

When Wendy climbed into bed that night, thinking Ronan was long asleep, he noticed a smell clinging to her, the smell he'd come to associate with bad nights. Ronan liked that he finally had a word for it, for this poison.

He tried not to breathe it in and found that it wasn't so hard to miss someone he'd never met, after all.

Ronan was nine when he learned about his father - the second time.

Millie was over. Ronan never went to bed on time when Millie was over, lest he miss prime eavesdropping hour.

He lay awake, waiting for something interesting to float up the stairs. Millie had a tendency to talk on and on without leaving much room for response, but Wendy had always been the quieter of the two, anyway. Ronan liked to listen to Millie's stories during the daytime, when she wasn't slurring her words so much.