Free The Onion Eaters by J. P. Donleavy

muscles in Rose’s thighs. Which grip me with pincers of knob ended knees. What on earth am I going to do with one unearthly wind ready to break. Right from the bowels of my conscience. So awkward after one remonstrates over incivility to a canine. To then unleash a stench closeted with layers of dank linen and wool, not to mention an inch thick emblazoned motheaten counterpane. Under which the two of us are unavoidably heavily breathing. Do please, everybody, get ready. As I ease it out. With no tune. Don masks. Sneak gas attack. Blame it on Elmer. I know for a fact he’s laid one or two. Fuming up pungent. Merrily riding down here. In the compartment of the train.
    ‘What’s that for the sacrifice of the saints.’
    ‘What.’
    ‘Is there a dead rat.’
    ‘I beg your pardon.’
    ‘It’s in the bed it is.’
    ‘Where.’
    ‘Gassing me.’
    ‘It’s Elmer.’
    ‘Get him away the dirty thing.’
    ‘Elmer. Out. Down. Naughty.’
    ‘That dog hasn’t a trace of a bit of manners on him.’
    Through the narrow window slit slants a sliver of moonlight Tree branches scratching the walls. Clouds tumble by. A big boom of sea. A tremble of walls. The fraught fart fading. Brewed up as it must have been from the gravy. And further fermented by old cheese and ancient port. The three master minds when they get a moment free from making their snake pit in my house could concoct a pill to purify blasts. That freshly out of the pink expand. And turn a faceless blue in their beauty. The very latest. Just pop it down the throat. For your fragances. Of fern, lilac or heather. Matched pills for perfume. For evening wear. At one of their operas. Whole audience could come primed with lily of the valley. Making the authenticity of such a smell unforgettable. Rising triumphantly in crescendofrom the best bottoms. A unified blast as the curtain comes down. And the clapping hands fan it up to the rafters. One curtain call after another. Could be taken by Rose. Who is growling again. Gyrating and plunging down on me. Way up her as I am. Between the curious intermissions we’ve been having. Like at the Saturday morning movies I used to see. Discontinued till next week with the hero’s head on the railway track. And I rushed back with my nickels to see if he would get squashed. As did the noses my father punched. Long after he married a wife who kept coming out of their bedroom wrapped in her kimono telling me to get back down stairs. My father so frequent in rage. Saw him sock a man up against a big grain silo and then put his hand around his throat until the man’s face turned blue just like Mrs L K L. Once a month at least he blew up charging through the house breaking everything in sight. Hissing and steaming. Then banging his fist which went through whatever it landed on. I began to like it better than the movies. Watching through some discreet aperture. Dust rising from chairs. Windows shattering. Lamp shades crushed. That latter was my favourite. And if he could find me I was always good for absorbing a few punches. Sending me aloft across the room. Screaming child murder. But I grew to be able to scoot down the cellar stairs and squeeze out a window which was too small for him to fit through. And once when he stood in the basement glaring I emptied a pail of water all over him. Into which I had peed before. The chase went up and down cherry trees, over garage roofs and in and out of his three cars. Till he cornered me in a bathroom in the house. And just as he was breaking down the door, the police came charging in. He knew them by name, Hal, Bob, Dick and gave them beer in the kitchen until they couldn’t stand up. All telling me one by one to behave myself and obey my father. Whose next wife thank God liked me and baked apple pies whenever I wanted them. Which was every day. With a bottle of cream. Followed by spoonfuls of cod liver oil. My palate enjoyed variation. I was a thin but healthy little devil. This new mother was