by J. J. Gesher
Jacob followed the directions, but he flinched in anticipation, closing his eyes. Click. Nothing happened. He looked at Mo, who was grinning—holding the bullet that he’d pretended to load between his finger and thumb—like a magic trick revealed.
“You’re waitin’ for the noise and the kick. You’re expectin’ it, so you get all knotted up. Let go of the expectation.”
Mo took the rifle, deliberately loaded it, and handed it back.
Jacob lined up the can in the crosshairs, breathed out slowly, and squeezed the trigger. He hit the can straight through, and it ricocheted off a nearby tree. The sound of the shot crackled through the late afternoon chill.
“I did it,” Jacob said with obvious satisfaction.
“Okay. You’re ready. Now’s the fun part,” Mo said.
Jacob rubbed his sweaty palms together.
Jacob and Mo crouched quietly in a thicket, watching a wild rabbit make its way out of the underbrush. Mo tapped Jacob’s shoulder and indicated the rabbit with his head. He put his finger to his lips and pointed at Jacob’s rifle. Jacob shook his head. He could not pull the trigger.
Slowly and silently, Mo lifted his own gun to the ready position. He lined up the rabbit and clicked off the safety. The metallic sound caused the rabbit to turn toward them, perk up his ears, and freeze. The rabbit’s eyes were wide and innocent. Mo pulled the trigger, and the rabbit’s head exploded.
A flash of memory physically stunned Jacob. Sarah looking at him from the back of the bus. The sound of an explosion. The smell of singed hair and blood. The immediacy of violent death—then and now—merged in Jacob’s consciousness. He wanted to cover his head and scream.
Mo’s voice pulled him back to the present. Mo slapped Jacob on the back nearly knocking him to the ground. “Right between the eyes…a perfect kill.”
Jacob forced a smile. He knew Mo wanted him to be pleased, but all he felt was queasy.
On their way back to town, Mo filled the silence in the car with harmless chatter, no mention of the hunt or the dead rabbit lying in a plastic bag in the back. Even so, Jacob didn’t say one word.
Later, in the backyard, Langston watched Mo skin the rabbit. Mo whistled an aimless tune, his hands bloody and busy at the same time. Jacob stood off to the side. Mo stopped his random tune and attempted conversation.
“It takes a long, slow simmer to make rabbit tender. You’ve got to spice it up, so it don’t get gamey. But if you do it right, mmmmmm…nothin’ better.”
Jacob, overcome by the sight of blood and the stench of gutted rabbit, began to retch. Mo nodded at Langston, indicating that the boy should offer Jacob some help. Langston cautiously approached Jacob. “You all right?”
“I’ll be fine. It was the smell.”
“You don’t have to tell me. Every time he guts a critter I have to breathe through my mouth.” Langston held his nose and breathed through his mouth in short shallow breaths. Still nasal, he continued, “Dat way I dond get de daste on my dongue.”
Jacob should have laughed, but instead he vomited. Langston pinched his nose tightly and took small sips of air.
Jacob rinsed his mouth with the garden hose, washing away the taste of death.
CHAPTER 22
Jacob carried a timeworn rocking chair from the basement of First Baptist to the parking lot. He set up a work area for himself: tools, sandpaper, cans of paint and wood stain on a small bench. It was a fine December day, unseasonably warm. He rolled up his shirtsleeves and sanded the old chair.
Langston was shooting hoops at the other end of the empty parking lot. He bounced and shot, ducking and weaving, imagining a defender who blocked his moves. Jacob stopped working and watched. The boy dribbled around the basket, faking his imaginary opponent, shooting, and missing.
Jacob closed his eyes. He could see Yossi in dark pants and a white shirt dribbling a basketball down a busy street. He tried to hang on to the picture, but the sound of a ball on asphalt beckoned.
He put the sandpaper down and approached Langston. He held his hands open in front of him, silently asking to join in.
Langston hesitated. “My mom said I should stay away from you.”
Jacob said nothing, but he clapped his hands in the universal “gimme-the-ball” signal. Langston gave him an easy pass.
When Jacob felt the dimpled ball hit his hands, he was in familiar territory. He dribbled to the basket and nailed a layup.
Langston was astonished. “Where’d you learn to do that?”
Jacob shrugged. “When I was a kid.”
“Were you good?”
“Not in the beginning.”
“Who says you’re good now?”
Jacob stopped bouncing the ball and laughed.
Out of the corner of his eye, Jacob saw Rosie watching them from her front porch. He dribbled with his right hand, and then shifted to his left. “You’ve got to dribble on both sides. If you only use your right hand, then you can only go right. The other guy will figure that out pretty quick.”
Jacob passed the ball to Langston. The boy awkwardly dribbled with his left hand. “I suck at this.”
“So practice until you don’t. Otherwise this will happen.” Jacob deftly stole the ball and dribbled with his right hand. “Try to steal.”
Langston tried to get the ball, but Jacob changed to his left hand. When Langston went in for the steal, Jacob quickly switched back. “Don’t watch me. Watch the ball.”
They repeated the process, with Jacob dribbling right, then left. This time Langston anticipated the move and managed to steal the ball.
“You do it,” Jacob instructed. Langston clumsily attempted the maneuver.
“You need to practice. Dribble with your left hand for one week. Move around while you’re doing it. One week. Then we’ll work on crossover.”
As Langston, awkwardly using his left hand, dribbled toward home, Jacob waved to Rosie, still on the porch. She waved back.
Teaching Langston was the most Jacob had spoken in months. The effort was exhausting. How could he take pleasure in a trivial game? He returned to the monotony of sanding the chair’s spindly back.
Mo sat in the cab of his truck in the school parking lot, waiting for Rosie to get off work. Brent High School was originally a one-story brick structure built in the 1930s. It had been remodeled and expanded in recent years, with a graceful new entry, larger windows, and a second-story addition to accommodate new classrooms. Mo watched the students leave the high school in groups of twos and threes. These kids knew the latest fashions: the boys sagged their pants and wore jerseys of their favorite NBA players. The girls wore short skirts or skin-tight jeans and skimpy tops, like pop stars in music videos. The boys looked like their clothes were one size too big, and the girls looked like their clothes were one size too small. To Mo, they all looked like they could be on the streets of Hollywood, not from a small town in Alabama.
When he’d been in school, he wore pressed trousers and a button-down shirt in the warmer months; in the winter, the same pressed trousers with a V-neck sweater. Hair was kept clipped, close to the scalp. Girls wore skirts and blouses. Most of them spent Saturday afternoon straightening their hair for the week ahead. By the time Mo left for Vietnam, school dress had changed completely. The kids grew out Afros. The girls wore bell-bottom jeans that showed off their developing curves. He smiled at the memory.
Mo felt his stomach rumble, and his thoughts turned to tonight’s dinner. He had left some steaks marinating in the refrigerator. The potatoes were peeled and ready to be boiled and mashed. Mo’s thoughts then moved to Christmas, only days away. He mentally reviewed his menu for the big dinner—always good to stick with tradition. Even when Rosie was living in Birmingham, she’d come home for Christmas. They’d developed a nice routine for the day—he made the ham and the sides, and she’d set the table and make dessert. That girl could sure make a mean pie. Mo was so lost in his daydream of Christmas dinner that he didn’t see Edmond come out of the building. Edm
ond rapped on the roof, startling Mo into the present.
“Hey, Mo. What are you doing here?” He reached through the open window and shook Mo’s hand.
“Came to get Rosie. Her car’s in the shop.”
“I could have given her a ride.”
Mo changed the subject. “You doin’ anything special for the vacation?”
“Spending Christmas with my mother. What about y’all?”
“Church. Cookin’. Eatin’.”
Edmond was surprised. “You cook?”
“Damn right. And I’m good at it too. But I leave the pies to Rosie.” An awkward moment passed until Mo added, “So it’s only you and your mother on Christmas?”
Edmond nodded.
“The two of you want to come for dinner?”
When Rosie left school she saw Edmond standing by Mo’s truck. He saw her too and lifted his arm in a wave. She acknowledged him with a quick nod of her head. Before she got to the truck, Edmond ran around to the passenger side and opened the door. “My mom keeps asking if you’re going to stop by again. She’s driving me crazy.” He imitated his mother. “That girl looks like a good catch.”
Rosie pulled herself into the truck. “Yes, I’ll bet she has a checklist for all the women who stop by.”
“There’s not as many as you might think,” Edmond said, amusing himself. “Thanks again for the Christmas invite, Mo. I’ll ask my mother to make her scalloped potatoes.”
Rosie gave a quick sharp look at Mo and smiled at Edmond as he closed the truck door. When they pulled away, Rosie turned to Mo. “Really? You invite people to our holiday dinner without asking me first?”
Mo pretended not to hear her.
Rosie’s laptop sat open on the table with her Christmas playlist filling the kitchen. Mo dotted his sweet potato casserole with brown sugar and butter. Rosie opened the oven and took out the fragrant ham, so that Mo could slip the sweet potatoes in to caramelize. The counters were filled with side dishes: green beans, coleslaw, and collard greens. The small kitchen could barely accommodate the two of them, and the sink was filled with dishes, pots, and pans. Mo looked longingly at Rosie’s pecan, apple, and pumpkin pies, happy that there’d be leftovers for the next week.
“So tell me again,” Mo asked. “What’s wrong with having Sam?”
“You already invited Edmond and his mother.”
“Then one more person at the table won’t make a difference.”
“I don’t want that man at my holiday table. He’s your charity case, not mine.” Rosie dragged a stool to the far cabinet and reached for her mother’s good silver that was kept in a wooden box. “All those long silences. He makes me nervous.”
Mo was emphatic. “Man shouldn’t be by himself on Christmas Eve.” And then the final touch, the comment he knew would convince her, “Not very Christian of you.”
Rosie remembered Mo using those very words about Robert the first Christmas after their divorce. Including Robert in the family Christmas seemed like a good idea—Robert shouldn’t be alone for the holiday, and Langston would enjoy having his parents together. On Christmas afternoon, after Robert returned to Birmingham, Langston had a full-blown temper tantrum. He misinterpreted his parents’ kindness to each other as proof that they were getting back together. That Christmas was a disaster.
Rosie sighed as she opened the box. The silver was tarnished. She’d have to polish everything before she could put it on the table. More work. Mo’s recrimination echoed in her head. The image of Jacob patiently teaching basketball skills to Langston intruded.
“All right, Mo. You win. Invite him. And can you go pick up a pint of heavy whipping cream before the stores close?”
“I don’t mind. Could use some air,” Mo said as he reached for his jacket.
Although they weren’t often physically affectionate, Mo kissed Rosie on the cheek as he left the kitchen. Christmas made Mo more sentimental than usual. From the kitchen window, she watched him get into his truck. He’d always been so youthful, his movement like a man half his age. Although his folksiness sometimes grated on her, she loved him dearly because he was her Uncle Mo—and because he was the last of her parents’ generation. Feeling emotional, she turned up the volume and sang along with the holiday songs.
Sitting down to polish the silver brought back memories of Christmas with her parents. Her mother would be a nervous wreck as the dinner approached. She never was much of a cook, and there were some disastrous experiments over the years. Her father always invited enough guests to fill the small dining room, and he was too busy writing his Christmas sermon to offer any help. Mama insisted on pulling out her best china and silver year after year. Rosie was so proud when her mother let her carry the dishes into the dining room.
Langston interrupted Rosie’s thoughts. He came in with a half-built Lego rocket ship. “Look, Ma.”
Rosie pulled off the polishing mitt and wiped her hands on a dishcloth. “That’s really something,” she said sincerely.
“Come see the launch pad. I finished it already.”
Although the guests would be arriving soon and the table was not perfectly set, she allowed herself this moment with her son. She followed him into the living room. The tree twinkled in one corner, and Langston’s Legos took up most of the floor space. She resisted the urge to straighten up and sat down on the floor to admire his creation.
Jacob was replacing a bulb in the twinkly Christmas lights around the church sign when Mo pulled up in his truck. “Doin’ a last-minute run to the market. C’mon. You can pick up some supplies for the weekend.”
Jacob climbed into the cab. Mo chattered all the way to the market—about the weather, Rosie’s pies, Christmas spirit. Jacob offered an occasional listening noise, a barely audible “uh-huh” that filled the conversation spaces and bridged Mo’s rambling monologue.
Jacob followed Mo into the Winn Dixie supermarket. The place was filled with people and holiday excitement.
Mo grabbed a shopping cart outside the door. “Damn carts. I always get the one that only goes left. Maybe I’m meant to buy stuff that lives on one side of the store.”
The tinny sound of an ancient recording of “It’s a Holly Jolly Christmas” played over the store’s sound system. All of the personnel and some of the patrons wore Santa hats. The store manager casually placed one on Jacob’s head accompanied by a hearty “Merry Christmas.”
Jacob had never worn a Santa hat, never mind been encouraged to enjoy a Christian holiday. His first instinct was to take off the hat, but he thought it might insult Mo. He was relieved when Mo leaned in and quietly told him to remove the hat because he looked like a fool. He scooped it off his head in one swift motion, reminding him of the way he’d remove his kipah before he got into bed each night.
That one thought catapulted him back to his bed in Brooklyn. He remembered the way Julia asked him to rub her lower back for a minute before she fell asleep. She never actually used words, merely turned her back to him and pressed her body close. Recalling that unspoken ritual made his throat tight.
Mo continued his steady stream of chatter as they moved along the dairy aisle in search of whipping cream.
“You know, Rosie and me were talkin’. Sure would be nice if you’d join us for Christmas dinner.” Mo waited to see if Jacob would respond. He gave it a second and added, “Langston asked too.”
For a brief moment Jacob considered the offer. But then he thought there might be rituals or references to Jesus, and he wouldn’t know what to do. He had no gifts to give, nothing to contribute to the holiday meal. He didn’t want to expose himself to some embarrassing, awkward situation.
“You tell them that I appreciate the thought, but no thank you.”
Mo picked up a lonely Christmas decoration that languished on a nearby display shelf, kitschy electric candlesticks with “Jesus Loves You” in red glitter. He looked at the price. Then by way of explanation, he told anyone in earshot, “If you wait till the last minute, the price comes
way down.” Mo placed the decoration in his cart.
He and Jacob were immediately distracted by the voice of a young mother shrieking at her toddler. The runaway child careened through the store, his tantrum gaining momentum as he pinballed off carts and displays. The customers froze and watched the boy’s growing hysteria.
The boy slammed headfirst into Jacob’s legs, grabbed onto his thigh, and looked up. The toddler wailed, his face contorted with fear at the sight of a stranger. Jacob reached down and pried the boy’s hands loose. He handed the tearful child to his fast-approaching mother. The child buried his head in his mother’s neck.
The embarrassed mother offered a hurried “thank you” to Jacob. Then she admonished her child, “Jacob Tuttle, behave yourself or Santa Claus is gonna skip our house this year.” The boy’s muffled cry of objection faded as the mother-son duo walked toward the exit.
Mo shook his head. “Nobody keeps kids on a short rope anymore.” When he looked to Jacob for confirmation of his opinion, he saw a look of anguish on Jacob’s face. “You all right, Sam?”
All Jacob could hear was the sound of his own pulsing blood inside his head. He needed to hear his name aloud. He didn’t want to pretend any longer. He tightened his mouth and rubbed his forehead as if he could wipe the thought away.
Mo was stunned by the words he heard next.
“Not Sam…my name is Jacob.”
CHAPTER 23
After Mo dropped him off at the church, Jacob immediately went to his basement room and sat on the narrow cot, staring at nothing in particular, trying to make sense of his own behavior. He hadn’t planned to tell Mo his real name. It slipped out. So he was no longer Sam the drifter, but Jacob the stranger. Mo had tried to extract more information out of him on the way home, but Jacob stated repeatedly that he didn’t remember. He decided to conceal everything beyond his first name—he wasn’t ready to be Jacob Fisher again. He might never be ready.
In the dark silence of the caretaker’s room, his identity didn’t seem to matter much. Without removing his puffy down coat, he lay down on the bed.