by Charles Rose
There is a hoop and backboard outside, but no net, and no basketball. Jimmy’s standing with his thumbs in his belt; then he sits down on one of the benches. Big Tim lights up a cigarette. He lets Jimmy take one drag. When Jimmy asks for another drag, Big Tim says he’ll have to work for it. He’ll have to play him one on one. Streaks of sunset are still in the sky, outside the courtyard gate, in the parking lot. I tell Big Tim he’s too tall, over six feet, no contest. I tell Jimmy I’ll get him a cigarette on the next break if he can whip me.
Jimmy goes in for a lay-up. He gets by me for the lay-up. I get off a one-handed push shot. Swish, I say to myself, two points. Jimmy cuts to the right, gets by me again. But we can’t go on; even Jimmy knows that.
The next day I come home for lunch and see that Susan’s window isn’t shut. I move out through the screen door and move on to the garage. The door at the top of the stairs is open. I can hear Peggy vacuuming in there. In a paper bag there are cigarettes. And the candles are in the paper bag. Some of the clothes are tied up in a sheet, what was going into the washer. There are skirts and sweaters heaped on the bed.
Peggy turns off the vacuum cleaner. “You can drop these off at the cleaners.” I see that Peggy hasn’t dusted the window sill. The ashes from Susan’s cigarettes, those tiny columns of meaning for her, have been obliterated, are gone.
I say, “I want you to leave it the way it is.”
“It’s too late for that. I’m cleaning it up.”
“I’m not sending Susan to Stockton,” I say.
“All right. All right. You say you aren’t but I say it’s the only way Susan will get better.”
Peggy turns on the vacuum cleaner, moving the trolley across the floor. I watch Peggy bear down on Susan’s bed. She tries to vacuum under the bed, but she can’t get far enough under. She doesn’t ask me to help her move the bed, so I leave and go back to the house. The front closet is where we keep the games—Monopoly, Backgammon, Scrabble, a few others that aren’t that popular. We keep the games on the top shelf. I pull down the Scrabble game. The box is coated with dust. I go to the kitchen table. I open the box and lay out the board. I think about playing all the tiles to make sure they are all there. But there isn’t time to do that today. I soak a handy-wipe in water and wipe the dust off the board.
Susan isn’t watching the Scrabble game. Susan is at the window, doing her numbers again. For her, the numbers mean something—one, eleven, three, forty-two. She is out of restraints; she is quiet. There are silences between the numbers. I write down the score. I play my tiles. Naturally, Jimmy is pleased with the score. His hands are gripping his wrists, and he rocks in his chair with glee. I don’t intend to finish the game today. I will sit with Susan in her room, accompany her in the corridor, keeping step with her as she paces, alert for the slowdowns, the stops, the shifts in direction mapped in her brain. Will we go to the end, the fire exit, to the showers, the refreshment room? Will we sit down in the alcove, in the love seat, going only part way?
The next day Shirley Ray’s there. She tells Jimmy he has to pack tonight because he won’t have time to pack tomorrow. She tells him to be ready at six so they can have some time together. A deputy sheriff will be there at seven to take Jimmy to Stockton. When Jimmy asks about his father, she says his father won’t be coming. But he will visit Jimmy at Stockton. That is when Jimmy looks at me. I can’t say no to that look, but I don’t know how to say yes. Peggy wouldn’t put up with it. She wouldn’t have Jimmy in the house.
Jimmy goes with us to the door. He waits for a nurse to buzz us out. We are leaving the hospital together. We can’t see the ward from the parking lot. In the parking lot, standing near my car, Shirley brings up her ex-husband, Jack. Jack is living with Kay Lyn; they are living in a trailer park. It is Kay Lyn who won’t have Jimmy. Shirley says she knows this for a fact because she has talked to Kay Lyn herself.
“We had a talk,” Shirley says flatly, folding her arms and looking at me. “Kay Lyn said she wouldn’t feel safe with Jimmy around.” Shirley is standing close to me, a little too close, I’m thinking. I put one hand on the door of the car.
There is a telephone in the paint shop and, sitting next to it, an answering machine. Jack listens to Shirley tell him that I happen to know about Stockton. My daughter has been in Stockton; there are certain things Jack should know. Jack has sideburns and a wavy mustache. For awhile he is looking away from us. Then he gets up and goes to Shirley. He stands over her so I move away.
“I told you I’ll visit him at Stockton,” Jack says.
“I’ll believe that when I see it, Jack.”
I go to the door of the paint shop. The body shop is across the yard. There are cars in there being worked on.
The next day I’m back at the ward. Big Tim tells me what happened, how a deputy sheriff took Jimmy out of the ward. Shirley was there. Jack wasn’t there. Jimmy’s hands were handcuffed in front of him, his legs were chained. That was the way it had to be done, Big Tim tells me.
We are moving along, down the corridor, past the nursing station. Susan might do the numbers next, or ask for a cigarette at the nursing station. Susan might go anywhere, do anything, if she weren’t here, having to pace.
Photographs
Snug in the Corvette’s bucket seat, a quart of Wild Turkey in a paper sack, he passed a stand of pines, a pair of mailboxes, the mouth of a road yawning out of woods. He thought of stopping right there. He would get out of the car, crack the Turkey. But Jimmy would want him to hold off. Jimmy would break the seal, and they would have their first drink together. That was necessary. That was how it was done. And something else in how they drank together—they used their grandfather’s silver drinking cups. The two cups had stood untouched for years, until Richard and Jimmy were men enough to hold their liquor, old enough to buy it legally. They were men enough to serve their country, but the colonel had not insisted on that. Only one thing he would ask of them. You’ll remember me when you drink from these cups. But Richard didn’t want to remember him, not now, not after what he had found in his grandfather’s roll-top desk. He had left his silver cup behind. He would drink his liquor out of a jelly glass.
He hadn’t written Jimmy a check yet. Jimmy wanted to buy into a marina, get out of the tree business once and for all. Jimmy wanted ten thousand from him, what was left of his share of the inheritance. He knew he could always sell the Corvette. But he wasn’t about to do that. Five thousand was as far as he would go.
He had the photographs in the glove compartment. They had been taken on Okinawa—Japanese prisoners of war, in a column of twos, on the double. They had not known they were being photographed, would end up in the colonel’s roll-top desk, in the bottom left-hand drawer with Japanese yen and some swizzle sticks. His grandfather had taken the photographs. He was a first lieutenant then; he had fought on Okinawa. He had Japanese yen to prove it, and the photographs, and a samurai sword. We shot the paymaster and took the yen. Of course, they weren’t of any use to us.
Richard had kept the roll-top desk, and Jimmy had kept the footlocker. It was Jimmy who had the .45, the commendations, the Purple Heart medal. He kept them in the footlocker, in his cabin on the lake. It was time to show Jimmy the photographs because Jimmy thought he might have a future, be somebody for a change. Sooner or later he would have to know. Because for Jimmy the funeral had ended it. What was done in his grandfather’s life was done. Jimmy had stared at the coffin, his big hands cupped for the cartridges. The officer in charge of the detail had come to Richard with the folded flag. It would go to the elder brother. Their mother was standing between them, there only for her sons. Their father was missing in action, in Viet Nam, lost, unburied. When the volleys were fired his mother’s head twitched, her ash-blond hair brushing his face. Richard lowered his eyes to his grandmother’s grave, the tombstones in the family plot. A breeze swept through the canopy. Again he felt the touch of his mother’s hair. Ji
mmy had been close to him then. They were standing shoulder to shoulder. The silence went on spreading.
He passed a trailer, another satellite dish, a row of houses with junked-up yards. Then the pines were on either side of the road, and the branches clawed out at his new Corvette. The next thing the asphalt gave out, around a bend in the road, without warning. He felt the new car shake and bang in the ruts. Goddamn it you could have told me—but Jimmy had let him find out for himself. All he had to do was slow down, keep the Corvette crawling for a while. He passed a roadhouse, some cabins behind it, then a bait store selling beer and ice, live minnows, earthworms, catalpas.
He could see one end of the lake now. He took the dirt road to Jimmy’s cabin, still driving slow, easing over the ruts. He pulled in next to Jimmy’s Land Rover. Inside the cabin he put the Turkey on a table beside an egg-stained plate. Then he went out to find Jimmy.
They were moving along one shoreline. There was a little wind, just enough to blow his line around. He hadn’t been fishing for a long time. He didn’t want to make a fool of himself. Jimmy had given Richard the boat chair. The boat chair would enable Richard to cast sidearm. That’s why they put this mother in, for guys like yourself who don’t know how to fish. He was able to tie on the jitterbug while Jimmy took the boat out on the lake. They saw ducks flying over a headland. Then Jimmy was raising the motor and letting the anchor slide off the stern. Richard swung the boat chair out to one side of the boat, the jitterbug flying free from the rod, the line swinging out again in the wind. He raised the butt of the rod and pulled back the rod. He hadn’t made his first cast yet. It had been that long; he was that bad. Then the line came in and he grabbed it. He flipped the bail, made his first cast, yes sidearm, but that didn’t matter. He did an overhead cast when the wind slacked off. Jimmy said nothing, let him fish.
The wind picked up again, rocked the boat, riffling Jimmy’s hair in his vented black cap, blowing Richard’s line out farther. Richard reached out, pulled the line in. He watched Jimmy pop open a can of beer. Jimmy leaned out and down from the stern of the boat, handed the beer to Richard. He got another beer out of the cooler, opened it, set it between his knees. He turned, flipped the spin reel’s bail, did an arching overhead cast. The jitterbug splashed between rotting stumps. Jimmy didn’t wait long to reel in his line, drew it in without snagging weeds. Richard had cast in open water, reeling in slowly, methodically. He made sure he was holding the rod straight up. A few drops of water fell on his hand. He felt the sun beat down on the back of his head, squinting out at the glittering shoreline.
“Not much doing,” Jimmy said. “You feel like moving on.”
“I’ll leave that up to you,” Richard said. “You know this lake. I don’t.”
“I think we should move on,” Jimmy said. “That is if you want to catch some fish. If you don’t we’ll sit here and drink our beer.”
“Let’s sit here then.”
“Okay by me.”
Richard moved away from the steering wheel. He had to give himself some leg room, one foot was going to sleep. He watched Jimmy take a long swallow of beer. He would nurse his along, take it easy, save the serious drinking for later. He watched Jimmy light a cigarette, cupping a match, taking a drag. Jimmy did a long cast toward the shoreline. He reeled in, threading the stumps. He changed lures, tied on a beetle spin lure, the cigarette hanging from his lips.
Richard laid down his rod and reel, on the sun bleached twill of the carpeting. It had to get said sometime. “You ready to talk?”
“Let’s have it.”
He was rushing his words, as he knew he would. “I just can’t risk it, Jimmy.” He pushed more words at his brother’s face, at the flat eyes set in an impassive squint. “I’d be willing to lend you something. Hell, I’ll give you thirty-five hundred. But that’s really all I can handle.” He felt the rock and slosh of the boat. “I’ll write you a check this afternoon. If that will help, Jimmy, it’s yours.”
Again Jimmy cast in deep water, without shifting his gaze, moving a muscle in his face Jimmy planted his feet on the carpet, his legs spread, reeling in. “It won’t help. I need more than that. I’ll go ass deep in debt to get it. But a freebie from you I don’t need.”
Jimmy pulled the cigarette out of his mouth, let it drop burning into the lake. His brother was turning away from him, facing out from the stern now. Jimmy put one boot on the motor, the other on the thwart in the stern. He did a long cast in deep water. Across the lake, over a mile away, the marina seemed unattainable. Why was Jimmy so goddamned stubborn?
“Okay, you want a loan, that’s what you’ll get. I’m offering you five thousand.”
“Okay, I’ll take a loan. I’ll take five thousand on a three-year note. I’ll use the Land Rover for collateral. How would a Land Rover suit you, Rich?”
“Suits me fine, but you don’t need collateral,” he said, seeing Jimmy smile, with relief. “I’ll lend you five thousand without collateral.”
“Okay, Rich, you got it. So I say we do some fishing. You can troll from the stern while I look for a spot.”
Richard started to pick up his rod and reel. His brother was lowering the motor. “Leave it. I’ll hand it to you.” Jimmy handed him the rod and reel. He had the motor in the water now and was pulling the anchor up over the stern, his left hand under the anchor, his right on the pulley line. Richard got out from behind the wheel and hauled in the anchor on the bow. He felt the strain on his biceps and wrists. Drops of water lit on the carpeting.
“I’m all set,” he told Jimmy. He crawled back to his place at the wheel, waiting to switch with Jimmy.
Trolling, seeing the shore move by, Richard felt eased, relieved. He would never see the five thousand again, but he had done what he could for his brother. He changed lures, tied on a kangaroo worm. His line trailed out behind the boat. He reeled in a little, slowly, watched the spool rise and fall on the spindle.
He felt the impact, heard the rasp of the drag. Richard got both hands on the rod and held; then his left hand found the reel handle. He knew enough not to reel in yet. He let the bass take the line to the left, swiveled round to keep the line taut. Then he reeled in, fighting the strain in his wrists. The line wouldn’t break; he had set the drag right. Then the largemouth bass was coming up. He was reeling it in toward the side of the boat. Jimmy leaned out with the landing net, stretching to balance the boat. Jimmy netted the bass in one motion, pulled it in over the side of the boat. He stuck two fingers inside its mouth, and pulled the bass out of the net. The hook was caught in a corner of its mouth, torn sideways with the worm hanging out.
He caught the suppressed excitement in Jimmy’s voice. “Not bad. Must weigh at least five pounds.” Jimmy leaned out with the bass on the line, hefted it, let Richard take it. “Maybe five and a half but I wouldn’t say six.” Richard ran his left hand along the dorsal fin. He hooked his thumb under the gaping mouth. The barbed hook came out easily.
Ahead of them bass were feeding. Jimmy picked up his rod and reel. Richard got down from the boat chair, moving one hand along the green twill. The boat drifted into lily pads. Dragonflies skimmed the surface. A bass jumped, thirty feet from the boat. He heard the bass slosh in the net. He would change lures, try a minnow. He found a painted minnow in the tackle box. He took care not to stick himself on a hook. By the time he got the lure tied on, Jimmy had already pulled in a bass. It was small, but Jimmy kept it.
In an hour, they were back at the cabin. There were four bass in the net. Jimmy shook out three of them. They flopped on the sun-bleached concrete steps. Jimmy gripped one bass behind the dorsal fin and the tail. He slapped its head on the concrete. He laid his cigarette on the edge of the step. “You can do it this way, or use a hammer. The toolbox is in the cabin.”
The big bass was still in the net when Richard came back with the hammer. The small bass was on the concrete. It was quiet, twitching its tail, the gi
lls spasmodically quivering. Richard laid his left hand behind the gill, raised the hammer and lowered it. His fingertips felt slimy, pressing into the scaly flesh. He raised the hammer again, brought it down. Then he shook the big bass out of the net. It was flopping on the concrete. He would have to put his foot on it. He waited just a little too long, for Jimmy had pinned the bass with his boot. Richard hit it hard below the eye. It was stiff when he picked it up.
They put newspapers under the dead bass. Jimmy cut off the heads, and gutted them, leaving the tails. Richard took charge of the scaling. He used his pocket knife, moving its edge toward the head, in short sweeps, scraping the scales off. Scales stuck to his knuckles. He heard the crunch of Jimmy’s fish knife, saw the head with its fringe of blood on the knife-slashed, gut-soaked newspaper. Flies buzzed around the heads and guts. Jimmy waited for Richard to scale the last bass. Fish scales silted the newspaper; the newsprint was unreadable. He read a fragment of a headline. He was getting used to the crunch of the knife, the squishing of guts in the fingers. Then he was cleaning the knife, snapping it shut. Jimmy wrapped up the heads and guts in a section of clean newspaper.
A young woman came out of a trailer. She moved past her maroon Volkswagen. She came across the road to Jimmy’s garbage can as soon as Jimmy got there. She watched Jimmy take the lid off and drop the newspaper in like a dead bird before he wiped his hands on his shirt. She let Jimmy have a sip of her beer and put her other hand on the back of his neck. Richard got up and moved toward her. Then her fingers were curling inside his.
“So you’re Richard. I’m Paula Smithson.” He found it hard to look away from her. Her fingernails on the foam-rubber sleeve were almost the same shade as her lipstick. He watched her take in the Corvette.
“Nice car. It must really move out.”