The Rough English Equivalent (The Jack Mason Saga Book 1)

by Stan Hayes

  His thoughts, as they usually did, turned to Jack. He’d be going to high school this year, and the bond between them had become as strong to Moses as if they’d been father and son. Not yet thirteen, Jack had grown to the point where he could look Moses directly in the eye. These days, when a young man’s questions could come thick and fast, he often did. It had turned out to be a good thing that his and Serena’s involvement had evolved into the simplicity of carnal friendship. He couldn’t say exactly why, but he was certain that he could never hear Jack out on the problems of growing up if he were still in love with her. God knows I miss it, he thought; I doubt I’ll know that much passion ever again in my life. At least the sex, when we have it, hasn’t suffered.

  A slender black man stepped into the office, with a by-the-way knock on the doorjamb as he passed it. “Buildin’s all secure, boss,” he said. “You need me for anything else?”

  Moses came out of his reverie with a smile. “Nope. Not a thing, Ralph. Better get on out of here before somebody hollers for a last-minute delivery. You know I can’t stand to turn down business.”

  “That I do know. Well, have a big time tomorrow. Maybe I’ll see you at the parade.”

  “If you’re there, you’ll see me. Freddy’s gone to Myrtle Beach, so I’ll be ridin’ the rig.”

  Ralph laughed, shaking his head. “You and that Harley. Ziggy still talks about the ride you gave him the first day you got that thing.”

  Moses laughed too. “How’s Ziggy doin’, anyway?”

  “Just fine. Still at Pendleton; I hate to think about him gettin’ shipped out to this Korea binness, but all we can do’s hope.” He shook his head. “He just had to go to the Marines.”

  “You know, he wore that Third Army shirt of yours for so long I have a hard time picturin’ him without it. Seems like he’dve headed right to the Army for a new one.”

  “Well, he always was a kid who liked to be out in front. He’s been bustin’ ass since he could walk.”

  “Well, he’s a great kid, and he’ll be a great Marine. I wish him the best of luck.”

  “Awright, den. See ya tomorrow.”

  The afternoon sun, still high in the late afternoon, stained Bisque High School’s arid infield grass chrome yellow. Its front straightaway sat in the latticed shadows of the bleachers on the visitors’ side of the football field, to which the track backed up. At the far end of the field, the wire of the baseball diamond’s backstop screen wriggled in the rising waves of hot air. “Le’s catch the last two,” Jack said, standing up after pulling his shoelaces tight and retying them. They stood, two almost identical figures, sweat running from dark, short hair down tall, lanky bodies into high-topped football shoes. Jack, just back from his annual New York visit, was anxious to make up for lost time.

  “What? That’s eighteen already,” Ricky moaned. “Four and a half miles in this goddam heat. It’s five o’clock. Trisha’s pickin us up at six-thirty.”

  “It’ll be hotter in August. You wanta be pukin’ and fallin’ out in front of everybody then? Come on,” Jack said over his shoulder as his feet crunched onto the cinders; “two more. We said we’d do five miles.” Ricky spat a meager blob and ran after him.

  They pulled up after a final staggering sprint, the day’s last half-mile of pre-practice conditioning behind them. They paced in slow circles in the bleachers’ shade, arms akimbo, breathing hard. “Shit,” panted Jack, “that was harder than I thought. Six more weeks ’a this.”

  “At least,” gasped Ricky, “They won’t be able to laugh at us for bein’ outa shape. “Sometimes I wish Coach Harris hadn’t got Coach Whitehead to let us into varsity practice. They’re gonna kick the shit out of us.”

  “Well, they can’t kill us. And we’ll learn a helluva lot.”

  “Wish there was going to be more of us. Just six amongst all those big bastards.”

  “Well, there’ll be a bunch of tenth-graders, who’ll mostly end up on the B team with us. Coach Harris said that six from the junior high team was all he could talk him into. Just be glad we’re in there.”

  “Ow! Watch it, godammit!”

  “What?”

  “You damn near took my ear off. Your foot goes on my shoulder, darlin’.”

  “Well, stand still then. I can’t help it if you’re wigglin’ around while I’m tryin’ to get up here.”

  “Just hurry. The cops could be drivin’ by here any minute.”

  Terry was already over the eight-foot cyclone fence that enclosed three sides of the pool. “Come on, Trisha,” she said. “I’ll catch you. Just drop right on over.”

  “You just stay out of the way, Missy. I don’t need any catchin’.” Particularly by you, she thought. What the hell am I doing here, sneaking into the pool with these kids in the middle of the night? This goddern Ricky’s nothin but trouble. What the hell, here I go.

  She hit the grassy slope on her feet, and looked through the fence at the boys. “Come on, you guys; pass the cooler over. I need a beer after that.”

  “Here it comes,” said Ricky. “Y’all get ready to grab it on both sides; it’s heavy.”

  “Wait,” said Jack. “You go on over, Terrell. Then I’ll hand it to you. We ain’t got enough to be breakin’ any.”

  “OK. Gimme a boost.”

  Using the steps in one corner of the pool’s shallow end, they eased into the dark, warm water in their underwear, beers in hand. “They’ll never see us down here,” Ricky chuckled.

  “This is great,” said Jack, pushing off the bottom to float on his back toward the opposite side of the pool, holding the bottom of his beer bottle against his stomach with both hands. “Come on over here, y’all.” He slid into the opposite corner, putting his arms on the converging pool sides, and taking a long drink. “Thanks for gettin’ the beer, Trisha.”

  “My folks won’t miss it. I really don’t liike it that much,” she said. “But I liike the way it makes me feel.”

  “Yeah,” said Ricky, sliding an arm around her shoulders. “and I liike the way you feel.”

  “Mmm. That feels good. It’s warm under water, but this air’s a little chilly. And the beer’s cold, too.”

  “Scoot down a little, then,” said Jack. “Come on, Terry.” They slipped further under the water, two by two, facing each other across the corner, the necks of their four bottles sticking up like snorkels.

  “This is nice,” Terry said. She turned to look at Jack.

  “Go ahead and kiss him, honey,” Trisha said. “We didn’t go to all this trouble for anything els….” Her last word was interrupted by Ricky’s kiss. For a minute, the only noise was the trickle of water that flowed down the surface of the kid’s sliding board.

  Jack and Terry, having kissed, now watched Ricky and Trisha, who hadn’t stopped. Trisha, her mouth covered by Ricky’s, moaned softly in her throat. Then, sensing an audience, she broke away. “What are yall lookin’ at?” she said. “Didn’t you ever see people makin’ out before?”

  “Not like that,” said Terry.

  “Ah, we weren’t watchin’ you guys,” Jack said, taking a long swig of beer. “Just catchin’ our breath. Anyway, if you want privacy, this is a damn big ol’ pool.”

  “Yes it is,” Ricky said, standing up and pulling Trisha to her feet. Come on, sweetie; let’s go sit on the steps.”

  “Well, we’ve gotta leave soon anyway,” Trisha said. “My folks’ll be back by twelve, and I’ve gotta get the car back.” They waded back to the stepped corner of the pool, sat on the second step, and immediately resumed kissing.

  “Jack, let’s go. I’m scared,” said Terry. “We shouldn’t have done this.”

  He pulled her close to him, his arm around her shoulder. “We’ll go soon. Let’s finish our beer and watch them make out. They think we can’t see them over there.”

  “If they catch us in here…”

  “They won’t. The car’s way back by the tennis courts, and when you look down into the pool from the road it’s so dark y
ou can’t see anything.”

  “I want to get out of here. She doesn’t even have a driver’s license. And don’t tell me to drink any more of this beer. I hate it.”

  “Hiya, Sport,” said Moses, wiping the Harley’s already gleaming front fender with a red shop rag. “Ready to knock ‘em dead one more time?”

  “Hey,” said Jack, yawning. “You bet.”

  “Where’s your pal? I thought we were ridin’ 3-up today.”

  “He’s a little under the weather today. Sick to his stomach.”

  “Too bad. Well, this heat sure wouldn’t help him out that much; you and I’ll handle it, as usual.”

  Jack looked around the high school parking lot, which served as the assembly point for all Bisque parades. He accounted for the participants, one by one: both of the police department’s jet-black Harley-Davidsons, the parade’s head and tail; the Bisque High School band; politicians in the new convertibles from the car dealers; green John Deere, orange J.I. Case and gray Ford farm tractors with their trailers full of things and people promoting Bisque businesses; a J.I. Case cotton picker; a GMC flatbed truck for the cheerleaders and Buster Redding’s pride and joy, Bisque Motors’ blue-and-white Hudson NASCAR Grand National racer, resplendent on its lowboy semitrailer. A Hamm County Beverages delivery truck, Ralph Williams at the wheel, its sides ablaze with red-white-and-blue bunting and the logos of Carling Black Label Beer and Red Cap Ale. And a company of National Guardsmen, along with one of their tanks on its trailer. Both the men and the tank would soon be in Korea.

  “Thought I’d go flyin’ tomorrow afternoon,” said Moses. “Wanta come along? If your Mom wouldn’t mind, of course.”

  “Guess so,” said Jack, as casually as he could manage. It would be his first time in a small plane, and his pulse pounded as he thought of flying with Moses as the pilot. He’d had his license for a few months now, but hadn’t asked Jack along until today. “I’ll check with her. What time?”

  “Oh, five or so, after it cools off a little. I’ll pick you up if she says you can go.”

  “OK. Where’ll we go?”

  “Oh, just around here, I guess. Run out to the lake; check out the countryside.”

  “Can I fly it a little?”

  “Maybe. You don’t need to be telling your Mom about doing any flying, though. I’ll have to see how things go once we’re airborne.”

  A squat, dark-haired man in his early thirties, wearing a yellow armband with black lettering that proclaimed him a PARADE MARSHALL, walked toward them. “Here comes the marshal,” said Moses, polishing the Harley’s gas tank.

  “Oh boy.” Jack’s voice was heavy with sarcasm. “Pissant Grant.”

  “They really like to say ‘pissant’ around here, don’t they?” mused Moses. “The first time I ever heard it was the day we met.”

  “Not all that much,” said Jack. “But when it fits so well, you can’t just ignore it.”

  Stopping as he neared the Harley, Grant spoke. “Kabeesky. You ready?”

  “All set,” said Moses, looking up at him momentarily.

  “Well, fire up that crap can and move it over ahead of yer fuckin’ beer truck. The Guard’ll be leadin’ this parade.”

  Moses raised his eyes to look into Grant’s. “I think you’d better go find something else to do.”

  “What?” squawked Grant. “You’re talkin’ to a Marshal. I just gave you an order, boy.”

  Moses dropped the shop rag into the sidecar and reached into his pants pocket, pulling out a dollar bill. “Jack,” he said, handing him the dollar. “Run over to the Coke stand and get us a couple, will you?” As Jack walked away, Moses closed the distance between himself and Grant to six inches. “I understand they call you Pissant,” he said.

  Grant’s adam’s apple bobbed once, but held his ground. “I know what they call you, too,” he said.

  “And what’s that?”

  “Cueball Kabeesky. But Kike’ll do.” The words had barely left his mouth before the back of Moses’ open hand crashed against the side of his face, sending him backpedaling a couple of steps to keep his balance. His face contorted into something less than human as he looked at Moses with purist hate.

  “Well, Pissant,” said Moses, “I guess you can tell your Klan friends that a Kike slapped you silly. You people should really learn some manners. If I hear you say ‘Kike’ again, I’ll slap you again, because I don’t think you’d survive if I hit you with my fist. Now GIT.”

  “You’re dead,” hissed Grant, breaking into a run as Moses feinted a move toward him. “Dead!” he squawked over his shoulder as he continued running. By the time Jack returned with the Cokes, he was nowhere to be seen.

  “Didja get Pissant straightened out?” he asked.

  “Yep,” said Moses, after a large swig of Coca-Cola. Ready t’go?”

  At a little past five that afternoon, the men sat talking among small explosions and drifting smoke on Pap Redding’s porch. Cane-bottom rockers creaked in counterpoint to the conversation as they watched the kids igniting an array of firecrackers, skyrockets and aerial bombs. The house, which Pap had built in 1925, had a porch that wrapped around three of its sides; Pap, Moses, Richard Terrell and Fred Marsh, having just arrived from the golf course, sat on the porch’s middle section at the side of the house. Savoring freshly-lit Chesterfields, they looked absently down the road, which unwound to the south through a mixture of forest, fields and a few large houses, a couple with columns out front. “How’re your drinks holding out, gentlemen?” asked their host.

  “I think I’m about ready for a refill,” said Fred Marsh, passing a tall glass over to him. “As much as you hear people talk about mint juleps, this is only the second time I can remember actually drinking one. These are really good.”

  “You can thank Mandy for that,” Pap said as he filled the glass from a large china pitcher. “She may not have invented ‘em, but she could show whoever did a thing or two; heavy on th’ bourbon, light on th’ sugar. Let’s top everybody up and empty this pitcher before they thin out.”

  “You’re startin’ to get some company out this way, Pap,” observed Richard Terrell after a long pull off his fresh drink. Guess they’ll be callin’ this Academy Street Extension before long. “I can remember when your place was the last house near the road between here and the county line.”

  “Yep, you could say that we’ve got neighbors now,” said Pap, standing to pick up the empty pitcher from the glass-topped wicker table next to his chair. “Highway 6 suits me just fine, but I guess that’s progress. Not that these would-be postbellum mansions are all that bad, but I must say I druther have the woods. Y’all excuse me; seein’ as you like ’em so much, I’ll see if I can’t get Mandy to start us a new batch.” Heading toward the kitchen door, he rounded the corner of the house, nearly colliding with his daughter.

  “Whoa! Watch out, Daddy- those juleps are lethal enough by the glass.” Grinning, the old man caught her right hand in his, squeezing it momemtarily as he went by. “Pretty respectable julep consumption, gents,” she said, resting one hip on the porch railing and taking a sip of her own. “Listen to the voice of experience; they’ll sneak up on you.”

  “Like those bastards snuck up on us in Korea?” said Marsh. “I hope we’re better prepared for these than we were for that little maneuver.”

  “They took the airport at Kimpo yesterday,” said Moses. “If we don’t get a bunch of troops in there right away, they’ll run us straight back inta the ocean.”

  “They already have the capital, don’t they?” asked Serena. “Seoul?”

  “Yeah,” said Moses. “MacArthur’s really got his work cut out for him.”

  “And not that much to work with, right off the bat,” Pap said as he sat a new pitcher of juleps on the table. “Just a handful of American troops in Korea, and some occupation troops from Japan. Congress has cut the armed forces back so much that he’s gonna be very short for awhile, in men and equipment both.”

  �
��How in the world did we get into this, anyway?” said Richard Terrell. Seems like we just finished up with the krauts and japs, and now this. And they’re calling it what? A police action?”

  “That’s what the UN came up with,” said Moses. “Reassurin’, ain’t it? A world where countries call the cops to fix things, and guess who gets to be the cops? Cops insteada warriors. Looks like a real bad deal to me.”

  “Well,” said Fred Marsh, “I wasn’t in the last one, although I was 3A and ready to go if they called me, so I don’t know what it was like to get shot at. Can’t be much fun. Seems like a good thing, though, to try to stop these things before they can get up a real heada steam.”

  “Guess we were all a little old to’ve made the big one,” said Terrell. I’d like to hear what Gene Debs has to say about it. Is he coming, Pap?”

  “No, afraid not,” said Pap. He went to Atlanta yesterday. Friends of his on their way to somewhere- Miami, I think- stopping over there on the way.”

  “Does he think he might get called back?” asked Marsh.

  “No,” said Serena, flinching as a firecracker exploded in the yard, a few feet away. “Jack! Y’all better not throw any more of those over here unless you wanta quit right now! Excuse me,” she said as the firecracker’s smoke and gunpowdery smell drifted over the porch. “He says no, even though he wants to be; he’s already called a friend of his in the Pentagon, and the man told him there wasn’t much of a chance.”

  “Our National Guard unit may get called up if this thing goes on for any length of time,” said Moses, “but there’s at least one Bisquite that could be in Korea any day.”

  “Who’s that?” said Pap.

  “Ziggy Williams.”

  “Ziggy Williams?” said Terrell. “That wild-ass little nigger that Ricky and Jack’re always laughin’ about? He joined up? I wouldn’ta thought he’us old enough.”