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

by Stan Hayes

  “How long they been married, anyway?” he asked, sensing the old man’s need for further disclosure.

  “Quite awhile. Since ’38. Even then, he shoulda known better. I could smell trouble when I was twenty-three, couldn’t you?”

  “Most of the time,” said Moses. But, he thought, not always; and that’s why I’m out here, most improbably, on the porch with you. “Can’t say I batted a thousand, though.”

  “Th’ difference between bein’ seen as a trifilin’ motherfucker and a pillar of the community ain’t no wider than a human hair sometimes. A good wife’s a big help to a man in Buster’s sitchayshun. All she’s done’s stir up man trouble around here since she was in high school,” he went on. Got a teacher fired, and damn near locked up, before she could drive a car. You just don’t marry a case of itchy britches like that.”

  A car turned into the driveway, its headlights stuttering from high beam to low several times before being shut off. “Guess that’s old Itchy Britches now,” said Moses.

  “Mose?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Me.”

  “Hey.”

  “I need some help, honey. Can you talk for a minute?”

  “Sure. What’s up?”

  “It’s Jack. The sheriff brought him home last night; about one-thirty this morning, actually.”

  “Why?”

  “He said that he found him and Ricky parked on the golf course in Trisha McNeil’s car with her and Terry Marsh. He found a pair of panties on the ground outside the car that Trisha admitted were hers.”

  “Hm. One-thirty. A little past curfew.”

  “I know. I was worried sick. Mindy Terrell called at eleven-thirty. Jack was spending the night over there, and they had to be in at eleven. They’d given them an extra hour as it was, because of the holiday.”

  “I thought they were all with Lynne Browne.”

  “They left Daddy’s with her, but Jack said she wanted to go home, so they told her to drop them off at Trisha’s house.”

  “Where’s he now?”

  “Asleep. He got sassy with me and I told him to go to his room and stay there. I’m so mad at him; I got absolutely no sleep last night, and I don’t want to be at close quarters with him until I get hold of myself.”

  He looked out at a weeping gray sky. “Want me to come get ’im?”

  “Yes, if you can. I hate to ask you, but-”

  “Forget it. You need some rest, and he needs a workout. I’ll be over in a few minutes.”

  They sat in the café looking at Denver omelets and whole-wheat toast. A look from Moses told Reba they needed privacy. “You sleepy?” Moses asked him.

  “Hell yeah I’m sleepy. You’d be sleepy too if you’d been in th’ county jail half th’ niit,” Jack responded.

  Moses’ eyes narrowed. “What the hell were you doin’ in th’county jail?”

  Jack cut into his omelet, flinching slightly as egg-juice spurted from the cut. Grabbing the ketchup to cover it, he said, “Trisha ain’t got a driver’s license, so they took us all in and called her folks to come get her. And fuckin’ Wahoo locked us up ’til they came.”

  “No wonder it took so long to get you home. What were y’all doin’ out there, anyway?” asked Moses.

  “Aah, nothin’; we were just foolin’ around, playin’.”

  “Bullshit. Playin’ around lookin’ for a place to stick your dicks, right?”

  Jack looked around the room, checking for open ears. “Ricky was; Terry and I were mostly listenin’ to them from th’ back seat. She won’t let me do much of anything with her; kissin’ and feelin’ around a little’s all.” A pause. “I really don’t care that much about it.”

  Moses paused to take a large bite of his omelet, catching a piece of green pepper that tried to escape. “That’ll change soon enough,” he said upon swallowing. “When it does, when you’re where Ricky is now, remember this; rubbers or not- he did have rubbers, didn’t he?”

  “Yeah-”

  “Well, rubbers or not, when you decide to- let’s say- have intercourse, you’d damn well better be ready to back it up. Th’ human race wants its crop of little critters, and what life does to them that spawns ’em’s completely secondary…” Jesus, he thought, what the hell am I doing, telling him about this? He knows damn well I’ve been screwing his mother all this time, and I’m preaching to him about fucking. “…anyway, if the rubbers let you down, you’re an instant father. You just tied an lifetime anchor to your ass. Pretty bad deal for a few minutes of- what?”

  “I dawno. I told ya, we wudn’t doin’ nothin’. I don’t eb’m know how ta use a fuckin’ rubber.” Jack stopped for a bite, took it, chewed. “Mose,” he said, still chewing.

  “What, bud?”

  “What’d you do?”

  “Do? What about?”

  “What’d you do when you wanted to?”

  “You mean, what’d I do when I had a girl inna car? When I was your age?”

  Jack looked at him, green eyes bright. “Yeah.”

  Moses wiped his mouth, put his napkin on the table, and looked back at the boy. “My first time was a little bit further down the road than yours. And it wasn’t in a car. And nothing happened. I mean the girl didn’t get pregnant. She wasn’t even my girlfriend. So I was stupid, and lucky. I’d hate for your luck to run out on you, pal, that’s all.”

  “Me too. I sho don’t wanta be anybody’s daddy anytime soon. I told Mom that we weren’t doin’ anything but kissin’ and foolin’ around, and she said I shoulda got out and walked if Trisha wouldn’t leave.”

  “And you didn’t think much of that idea.”

  “No.”

  “And I guess you told her so.”

  “Yeah, I did. And then she started hollerin’, and wouldn’t listen any more, and then I did, and things just quit makin’ sense. She told me to go to my room, the way she did when I was a little kid. So I did. But I’m not a little kid any more.”

  “No,” said Moses. “You’re a big kid. And gettin’ bigger every day. But you won’t get anywhere buttin’ heads with your mama. Hell, bud, she was worried about you, naturally. And not just about this little stunt. My guess is that she’s not real comfortable with alla this growin’ up you’re doing.”

  “Well, I’m not either, but there ain’t much either one of us can do about that. I’ll tell you sump’m else, too.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Those four little rooms up there are gettin’ pretty small for two regular-size people.”

  “I imagine they are,” said Moses.”

  “When we’re in there together, seems like we’re always tryin’ to get through doors at the same time or sump’m. Of course, she’s up on th’ roof almost every night bein’ an artiste.” Said through his teeth.

  “Well, how about if I ask your mom if it’s OK with her for you to bunk in with me for a few days? C’mon, I’ll drop you off at th’ house and call her when I get to the office.”

  “Suits me. Can I call somebody to come over?”

  “Yeah, but wait ’til this afternoon. You need some more sack time, and I’m countin’ on you to fix us some lunch.”

  “You got stuff for bacon, lettuce and tomato?”

  “You bet. Just make sure th’ bacon’s crisp, bud.”

  Jack had just moved the last of the bacon out of the skillet onto a paper towel-covered plate when the Buick pulled to a stop under the carport. “Hiya, bud,” said Moses, wrestling a case of soft drinks, kicking the door closed with a heel.

  “Hey.”

  “That’s smellin’ good. How ’bout a Nehi?”

  “ ’Ja get some grape?”

  “Grape, orange, strawberry; eight each. Have to have ’em on th’ rocks, though, ’til we get ’em cold.” Setting the case down in a corner, he retrieved a grape and a strawberry and put them on the kitchen table.

  “That’ll do,” Jack said as he thin-sliced a tomato.

  They sat, temporarily mute, savoring the
merger of home-grown tomato and smoky bacon. Moses broke the silence with a single word. “Congratulations.”

  “Thanks,” said Jack. “What for?”

  “Becoming a hell of a cook when I wasn’t looking. This is one great BLT.”

  “Well, thanks again. I’ve been gettin’ a lot of practice at home. Mom pushes dinner off on me about half th’ time. Like I said, she’s up on the damn roof every chance she gets.”

  “Yeah, your mom’s got some pretty definite ideas about the kinda artiste she wants to be, so she’s pretty ruthless about having her time up there. It sure as hell ain’t a hobby with her, that’s for sure.”

  “For damn sure. And she wonders why she’s got problems.”

  “She may not think she has any,” said Moses.

  “Hell, she’s not that far gone. Or she wouldn’t be givin’ me hell every time I turn around. You either.”

  “Me?” She’s not givin’ me any hell.”

  “She is. You’re just not hearin’ it.”

  “Then I guess you must be.”

  “I am.”

  “Then what’s th’ nature of this hell I’m gettin’?” Moses asked him.

  “She don’t say that much to me. But she says plenty around me. She must not think I hear it, but like I said, that’s a pretty small place we live in.”

  “You gonna tell me, or not?”

  “Sure, I’ll tell ya. Th’ thing is, it won’t sound th’ same when I say it. It’s more how it sounds when she does. It’s like she wishes you hadn’t showed up here at all. Th’ one thing she says all th’ time is ‘big impresario sonofabitch.’ ”

  “OK. What else?”

  “Ahh, stuff like ‘Plucked from bullshit by th’ fuckin’ Egyptians.’ ”

  “Makes me wish I had a name from some other book than th’ bible. Wouldn’t be so easy for her to make those herniatin’ metaphors. So what you’re tellin’ me is she’s mad at both of the men in her life.”

  “Yeah, off an’ on,” said Jack. He drained his glass and set it down with a thump. “She’s gonna be a major artiste, an’ we’re gettin’ in her way.”

  “Hm. Well, nobody’s perfect. I guess she’s told me pretty much what she’s told you. About goin’ back to New York, I mean.”

  “Oh, yeah. She’s been tellin’ me that for a year or two. Makes me think I’m holdin’ her back, just bein’ her kid. An’ I guess I know how you must feel, bein’ in love with her.”

  “If anybody knows, pal, it’s you. She’s some homo sapiens, your mama.”

  Standing up from the table, Jack went to the refrigerator for another Nehi. “If that’s what you think,” he said as he sat down, “how come y’all don’t get married?”

  “She’s still married to your dad.”

  “Would you want to if she wasn’t?”

  “Yep. Nothin’s changed since I asked her four years ago.”

  The boy, his face very still, contemplated this. “Well then, I reckon we better just keep on seein’ If we can handle who she is. But it ain’t exactly the easiest job in th’ world.”

  “Telephone, Mr. Kubielski, line three.”

  “Hello.”

  “Mist’ Kabeesky.” The Cajun quartertones of Skeeter Daguerre, just above a whisper, trickled into his ear.

  “Skeeter?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How you been? Hab’mnt seen you in a coon’s age.”

  “I been all right. Listen, you need ta know ’bout sump’m.”

  “Can ya speak up a little?”

  “OK. You know ’bout de Klan?”

  “Th’ Klan? Th’ guys with th’ white sheets?”

  “Das right. You gonna get a visit from dem dis Friday niit.”

  “A visit.”

  “Yeah. A cross-burnin’.”

  “What the hell’re you talkin’ about?”

  “I’m talkin’ about you oughta not be home Friday niit, ’cause if you be dere dey probly won’t stop wid a cross-burnin’. Dat fool Pissant Grant got ’em riled up and ready ta hurt you. Say no goddam Jewbaby’s gonna slap his ass an’ live.”

  “Hm. So how many of these gentlemen would you say I could expect?”

  “Huh?”

  “How many in this cross-burnin’ party?”

  “Oh, twenny-thutty. Sump’m like dat. You don’ wawna be standin’ up to no crowd like dat. Please jus’ be someplace else dis Friday.”

  “You pretty sure ’bout this, aincha?”

  “Dead sho, Mist’ Kabeesky.”

  “OK. Listen, Skeeter, thanks a lot.”

  “OK. ’Bye.”

  Still holding the handset, Moses pushed the one of the plungers on its cradle, held it for a second and dialed.

  “Hello.”

  “Gene Debs.”

  “Yayuh.”

  “How’d you like to blow up a Klan meetin’ this Friday?”

  “Where?”

  “I understand they’re plannin’ to burn a cross over here to thank me for poppin’ one of their boys the other day.”

  “Oh yeah. Pissaint. Pap told me you had ta straighten him out.”

  “The very same. Hope you didn’t get rid of that bazooka.”

  For a few seconds, all he heard was laughter; then Gene Debs caught his breath and said, “Still got it. Ain’t thought about it since you and I made that bigass hole in th’ dirt last year.”

  “Well,” Moses said, “I thought it’d be fun to do th’ same to their fuckin’ cross-burnin’.”

  “Mm-mm-mm-mm-mm-fuckin’-mm. What time’s th’ party?”

  “Why doncha ease on over here about three? We can shoot some skeet and get in th’ mood.”

  The shadow of a large thunderhead shaded the porch from the afternoon sun as Moses opened the door. “Hey,” said Gene Debs, his craggy face split by a wolfish grin. “Ready ta make a lil’ noise?”

  “You bet,” said Moses. “How ‘bout a beer?”

  The skeet table sat just a few steps from the edge of the pond nearest the road. The shotguns, Moses’ Savage and Gene Debs’ Remington, breeches open, shared its sheet-tin covered surface with a hand trap and four boxes of 12-gauge shells. Moses bent over to pull open the top of a case of Peters clay pigeons that sat on the grass underneath. “You take the first five,” he said, “and I’ll get warmed up with this trap. Haven’t thrown any with it since Spring.”

  “That beats me by a year or two,” said Gene Debs, pulling a pair of yellow-lensed shooting glasses from the bib of his Big Dad overalls. “I ain’t used a hand trap more’n two or three tiimes in my liife.”

  “Oh, with this one there ain’t a lot to it. Just gettin’ the hang of hittin’ the release at the right point in your swing. See?” Slipping one of the dark green discs into the trap’s bracket, Moses pulled it back to set the spring. “The spring does mosta the work.”

  They were out of targets by four o’clock, in time for the sun’s passage to leave half the terrace in the shade, where they sat among assorted hardware. “Any idea which way they’ll come?” asked Gene Debs as he swung the bazooka’s two tubular halves into line, a solid, lubricated snick of mating metal confirming their alignment as the latch slipped into place.

  “Well, they’ve got two choices,” said Moses, “ ’less of course they come both ways. “Wouldn’t surprise me if they met up someplace south of here, though, to get alla their shit together and go over who’s doin’ what. You don’t figure they’d want to do that in town, in front of a lot of people, with their goddam hoods on; somebody might tag along and screw up their surprise. Either way, they’ve just about gotta put the cross over there on the edge of Larkin’s field, just opposite my gate. Otherwise, you couldn’t see it from here, which you’d think was the whole idea.”

  “Good thang about that,” said Gene Debs, “is ’at hill runnin’ up behind there’ll catch any of ’ese he-unh rockets that miss. I never did ask you; I don’t guess you wanta kill any a’ these stupid bastards.”

  “No, not that it’s not temp
ting. We’d be doin’ the world a favor, but it’s not worth it. I just thought it’d be fun to let a few rounds go and watch ’em scatter.”

  “ ’At’s what I figured. And since we hab’mnt had a lotta practice with this here M9A1 tank smasher, I reckon we oughta start shootin’ up inta th’ kudzu with a round er two, an’ gradjilly ease down on th’ cross. Hell, hittin’ that hill’ll prob’ly get ’em movin’ right by itself. They won’t have a real good idea where we’re shootin’ from ’til we get a few off.”

  “I was thinkin’,” said Moses, “that if we set up just a little way up there, beyond th’ barn, we’d have a pretty good field of fire and be shootin’ down on ’em.”

  “Makes sense. No big trees blockin’ th’ view, an’ maybe sixty-five, seb’mty yards range at th’ most. I think I got this sight pretty well figured out. Lemme show ya sump’m here.”

  After Moses locked the gate, they began moving gear up to the firebase, in a clearing in the hillside’s stand of pines from which the view of Larkin’s field was generally clear for forty-five degrees or so either side of where they figured the cross would be. Besides three cases of bazooka rounds, each holding six rockets, they took the shotguns, four boxes of 00 buckshot shells, and Gene Debs’ Marlin .30-06 carbine, fitted with a 4X telescopic sight. Sitting sweat-soaked in the shade on ground softened by a cushion of pine straw, they cracked a couple of Red Caps and were sharing Nelson Lord-fried chicken with the mosquitoes and flies by six-thirty. “What in the hell d’you suppose makes people do shit like this?” said Gene Debs.

  “What?”

  “This fuckin’ Klan shit.”

  “Oh. For a minute I thought you meant us.”

  “Hell,” said Gene Debs, “What should we do, let them idiots just go on doin’ what they please? It’s time they’us shut down, and we’re th’ boys to it.”

  “A couple of old sailors, and not a Landing Party Manual between us.”

  “Old, young or one-legged, I’d put two sailors up against a packa shitheels like these any day a’tha week,” said Gene Debs.