When my father died I danced a jig.
My fellow workers in the warehouse laughed and questioned my joviality. Tact restrained me from telling them that the piece of shit that was my father had kicked the bucket but brown-bread he was. And good riddance.
He was a horrible person. He was a bully and hypocrite. I grew tough enough to argue with him and eventually grew old enough to leave. The main reason, however, for my all-consuming animosity towards my father was the way he treated my mum.
I grew up watching him insult her, belittle her, push her around emotionally and physically. She was a drudge. She was a whipped dog. It made me sick to my stomach to think about it so, in the end, I stopped thinking about it. She wouldn't leave him, but I could. So I did. I moved away and didn't look back. I didn't get far, I still live in the next town over. I visited every other month or so but it was always tense. I always ended up with an overwhelming desire to punch the smug prick in his fat face.
My sister called with the news of his heart attack, his recovery and then his sudden remission and finally his snuffing it. As I said, I felt such glee that I danced in the warehouse aisle between the rows of boxes of toilet rolls.
I should preface the rest of my story with a word about my wonderful mum. She never had an unkind word for anyone. She brought me and my sisters up with a soft, loving, caring guidance that left us all feeling even more acidic hatred for the ogre that she tried her best to protect us from. She never failed to put herself in the firing line of his moods if it meant shielding us from his bile.
One day, not too long ago, I realised I had a crush on my mum. It was a weird realisation. Something from deep within my subconscious told me that the reason I enjoyed watching movies that feature the actress Marisa Tomei was that she reminded me of my mother; she usually plays a kind-hearted, cute mom-type with a dirty twinkle in her eye and the comparison hit me between the eyes. It knocked me for six. There was some serious soul-searching after this broken lightbulb moment. Mum isn't supermodel tall, she doesn't have big tits or a big smackable bum; she isn't even exceptionally pretty but what there is of her petite self is perfectly proportioned. This sounds horrifically callous, to asses my own mother's attractiveness and physical attributes, but I can't help the way my brain works.
In my defence, one of my first thoughts after I found about my dad's death was that she was now free. Free of him. Free of everything. She could be happy.
I arrived late to my father's funeral. I was putting it off because I didn't want to be there. The thought of pretending to hordes of barely recognisable family that I was mourning the twat was almost too much to bear. But I wanted to support my mother and my sisters who were enduring it.
When I got to the cemetery, I found out that one of my sisters wasn't coming. She wanted nothing to do with it. Good for her, I thought. I stepped in the little chapel place and tried to lurk at the back but some idiot uncle recognised me and dragged me down the front. I sat on the wooden bench and scooted along next to my mum.
"Jeremy!" she said and beamed a smile at me. I was taken aback. The last time I had seen her, she was ragged and bedraggled. Washed out and colourless. Here she looked more alive than ever. Her smile was illuminated by a vivid red lipstick. She was dressed completely in black, naturally, but it all looked so stylish. I've always had a thing for goths so it was immediately catching my attention. A strangely small hat at a cocked angle dangled a veil down to her smiling lips. Her black satin jacket had a flowery affair in the lapel and covered a dress with seemed very short (although maybe it was just the way she had to prop herself awkwardly upon these over-polished pews) and displayed her fine legs encased in sheer black nylons. It was hard to keep my eyes off her legs or the killer heels she was wearing. She wore lace gloves that felt warm and soft when she took my hand.
During the ceremony, every time some whingeing bastard got up to praise the character of my old man, she gave my hand a tight squeeze and I returned the gesture, letting her know I felt the same.
We buried him. We went to the house of an aunt to have drinks and sandwiches and bullshit some more about how my father would be missed. My remaining sisters could only take so much of hearing these distortions and evasions so they skipped out as soon as politely possible. After an hour or so, my mum came up to me and asked me to get her out of there. The strained sociable smile on her face made me react instantly. Within a minute, we were in my car and driving away from all those lying pricks.
"Where do you want to go?" I asked.
"Will you take me back to the graveyard?"
"Are you sure? Alright." I swung the car down a street in the direction of the cemetery. When we arrived, my mum held on to my arm as we walked up the path (well, I walked but she tottered on unfamiliar high-heels) to the pile of dirt that was my father's new home.
"Can you see anyone around?" she asked, looking this way and that. I also scanned the grounds and told her I saw no-one. "Turn around." She swivelled her finger at me, I turned my back. I heard a rustling so I turned my head just enough to sneak a peek. My mother had hitched up the hem of her dress and was squatting, inelegantly, over the mound of freshly-dug earth. Her ornately decorated stocking-tops caught my eye and I couldn't help but be aroused, despite the comedy of the situation. The moment quickly moved from funny to bizarre as I covertly watched my mother taking a piss on my father's grave. I couldn't help snickering. She turned my way and laughed but angrily said, "Turn around!" I turned my back on her, chuckling to myself.
"Um, Jeremy, do you have a tissue?" I turned but she raised her voice, "Don't look!" I pulled the folded fast-food napkin (I don't own a cotton handkerchief) from my breast pocket and held it out to her with my hand over my eyes. I peered through the gaps in my fingers at my mum dabbing her dark brown bush and then trying to stand up. She tumbled awkwardly and I caught her. We laughed together as she smoothed down the hem of her dress. She bent over and used the napkin to wipe the mud from her shiny black heels.
"That was a great idea, Mum."
"I always told myself I'd do it. And today's the day."
I was still holding her, she looked up into my face. She kissed me. I felt evil for the way it sent an electric charge through my cock.
"You've been very kind to me today," she said, "You really looked after me." I felt ashamed. I'd done nothing. I felt I could at least do this: I walked over to the grave, turned my back to my mum and released my semi-hard cock. Embarrassment soon overtook me as my pee failed to materialise.
"Um, you... you don't have to do it as well." Mum's slightly mocking tone made me shrivel even more.
"Just give me a minute," I called over my shoulder.
"I'll wait in the car." I heard my mother's steps as she walked away and I cursed my prick. Eventually, it came, not much but enough to be the final insult. I zipped myself up and spat on his headstone before I walked back to the car.
We drove off giggling. It was wonderful to hear her laugh, I'd heard it all too few times in my life.
"Jeremy, I'm starving. I couldn't eat anything back at Aunt Nicole's." We stopped at a junk-food place and sat outside to eat a greasy burger and fries. The day grew cold. We didn't move. It dawned on me that she was putting off going home.
"It's getting chilly. You want to go?" I suggested.
"I suppose," She sighed.
Back at the house I'd grown up in, we parked outside and just sat staring blankly out of the windscreen.
"We can't stay out here all night," Mum said with no intention of moving from her seat.
"You don't want to go in."
She turned to me. "Everything, every single thing, in there reminds me of him. I want... I don't want to owe him one more, oh I don't know, he doesn't deserve any more space in my mind, in my life! Shit!"
I'd never heard my mother swear before. I was genuinely shocked.
"Shit," she repeated and got out of the car and walked up to the front door. By the time I'd caught up with her, she was standing in the dark lounge. I flicked on the light-switch. She was a statue in the middle of the room, her stillness disconcerted me.
"I'm going to get a drink." I headed to the kitchen and filled a glass with water. When I walked back into the lounge, I thought she must've gone upstairs but then I heard a quiet sob. I found her down on the floor, curled up in the foetal position. My heart broke to see her like this. I scooped her
Up in my arms, she was heavy but suddenly, I was superhuman, I carried over to the front door, bungled for a while with the latch, got it open and carried her down to the car.
In the cold air, Mum came to her senses. She asked me what was happening.
"We're going."
"Going? Where?"
"My place." I put her down on her feet, opened the passenger door and helped her inside the car. I got into the driver's side and started the car.
I turned the ignition off. Mum asked what was wrong.
"I have to go close the front door."
"Leave it. Let burglars take it all. They're welcome to it. Just drive." I switched on the ignition and drove.