by Jackson, Meg
Steel grumbled slightly as he brushed past my shell-shocked body. The smell of blood woke my mind up in a hurry and I trotted after him, rushing to beat him to the back of the truck. I knew what he was hoping; that they’d brought the goods, even if they’d planned to take the money and run.
That’s when we found the fourth body, and things suddenly made sense. Steel turned to me with a grin that made my stomach turn.
“I don’t reckon you shot this one?” he said, pointing to the limp form. I shook my head no. If there were four bodies, and we’d only shot three….
Steel tried to pull up the lift gates, but his wounded shoulder made him wince. I rushed in to assist him; the smile on his face as the bounty was revealed was so big it looked like a damn banana. Just as we’d expected, the cargo was there.
And now, it was free.
Steel flipped open his switchblade, made a tiny incision at the top of the bag of dope. Taking in a long sniff, he threw his head back and laughed. When he looked back at me, his eyes were glassy, drugged. He offered me a bump but I shook my head; heroin wasn’t my bag. Speed, though…
As though reading my mind, Steel did the same to one of the bags of white powder, and I gratefully dipped my nose down, treating myself to a nice, long shot of high-octane amphetamine.
“Shit!” I exclaimed as I came up from air, my eyelids wide open, feeling like I’d never be able to close them again.
“Shit, indeed,” Steel said, leaning backwards slightly as the opiates started to dig in. “Can you drive back?”
“I can drive to fuckin’ Florida,” I said, hearing the extra volume in my voice and liking it. My body felt numb and amazing at the same time. Even better than my body feeling numb was my brain feeling numb. Suddenly, the four corpses baking on the blacktop meant nothing to me.
Shit; it didn’t take a genius to figure out what had happened. The two men who were meant to complete the deal had been hijacked somehow, a rival gang taking advantage of the situation and meaning to take the drugs and the money. They’d already taken care of one of the other guys by the time we rolled up. Hell, if we hadn’t dispatched the two hijackers, they would have killed the third guy, anyway.
Of course, to a sober and sane mind, that didn’t justify jack shit. But right then, feeling like nothing could be better than the way I was feeling, everything was justified. From the corpses to the birds in the sky and everything in between. Every atom and every molecule, it was all good, baby.
I hopped into the bed of the truck, and we rode off, leaving the Federal Express truck kneeling forward like a penitent at church. If we weren’t gonna be kneeling down to say any prayers for our own souls, maybe that big ol’ rig would do it for us.
Cass
“Cass! Git down’r bitch!” My father’s voice roared across the apartment. First, my heart stopped; then, it doubled its beating, and I offered up a quick prayer. Please lord let it be quick, I said, my lips moving to match the words although I couldn’t say them aloud. I turned around; Jennie was looking at me with wide eyes. I gave her my best attempt at a genuine smile.
“Whatchu looking like that for,” I said, trying, unsuccessfully, to keep the tremble from my voice. “He’s just drunk. Nothing’s gonna happen.”
“He’s gonna hurt you,” Jennie said, her little cheeks turning bright red, her eyes welling up, lower lip trembling.
“Cass!” my father yelled again. I hopped up from the desk where I’d been studying.
“Now, you know that’s not true,” I said. “He’s never touched a hair on my head, or yours.”
“This time…”
“This time is gonna be the same as all the others, little J. He’ll huff and puff and blow himself to sleep.”
As I walked past her, her grade school work spread out across the little miniature desk that she loved so much because it looked just like mine, I tousled her hair and leaned down to kiss the top of her head, taking an extra moment to breath in the sweet smell of her shampoo. I gained courage from it, from her innocent smell, from knowing that later, after Pop passed out, I’d comb out her hair and tell her a story and she’d sleep like a little angel. I didn’t mind, then, taking the brunt of Pop’s anger, since it mean she was spared.
Still, I had to take an extra deep breath in before entering the kitchen, where Pop’s presence announced itself in the discordant clanging of pots being thrown about.
“Pop,” I squeaked out, turning the corner. The noise of metal clanging didn’t make any more sense when I noticed the steaming bag on the counter: take-out from the chicken place down the street. Pop turned on his heel, eyes red and big and wild and watery, slack-jawed and looking as stupid as a newborn baby. I could smell the whiskey on him from across the room. It seemed the old man actually sweat Jack Daniels. The way he looked at me then, all moonfaced and dumb, you almost felt sorry for the bastard.
If you weren’t too busy being scared half to death of what he was gonna say to you this time.
“Didn’t you see the dinner I made…” I started to say, pointing one finger towards the note on the top of the stove, which directed him to look in the oven for the pot pie I’d made him. He slapped my hand down. It didn’t hurt, but it required him to stumble in closer to me, and the mere sight of him, larger-than-life and swaying, made me want to disappear into thin air. I shut my eyes tight.
“I di’t, I din’it, you done know I…get’r sister…fat BITCH,” he said, spit flying down from his mouth onto my head. “Git’r sister’s dinn’r, girl.”
“We ate already, Pop,” I said, knowing that I could argue with him until kingdom come and it wouldn’t make any difference. Even though he could see the plates soaking on the drying rack, he wouldn’t believe it until he saw it. But I’d already fed Jennie. I didn’t want to make the poor thing eat a second dinner. The last time he’d done this, demanded to eat all together, “lik’er real fam’y”, she’d gotten sick and I’d had to hold her hair back.
My father’s drunken rages were predictable, which occasionally made them easy. For example, it seemed that tonight he was on the “we eat dinner together” rant, though it was well past 8pm.
Sometimes he went on the “you’re why your mother left” rant. Sometimes, it was “you’ll never get married” rant, or the “why don’t you have any friends” rant, or the “more trouble than you’re worth” rant, or the “too dumb to live” rant, or the “spending all my money” rant….oh, the list went on and on, but every night it was one of them. Same song, pretty much, same old tune with different lyrics. I was too fat, too ugly, too dumb, too spoiled. I was just a bad, bad girl, and I’d never be any good. I was the reason he drank, the reason my mother left, the reason we were poor.
At 18, I’d been listening to him sing those songs for 10 years. I could repeat them word for word. And I even believed some of them. Hell, how could I not? It was hard enough being a little bit bigger than a lot of my rich, model-esque classmates, hard enough being nerdy, hard enough never being able to go out on a date or to the movies because God forbid I left him alone with Jennie.
Having someone tell me that I was worthless every other night only made those things harder, only made the things he said seem more true. I certainly couldn’t argue that I did have friends, or that I was pretty or thin. The only thing he said that I knew was dead wrong was that I was stupid, too stupid to ever make anything of myself. I was set to graduate at the top of my class. It was the only way I’d be able to go to college and save Jennie and myself from living under his roof, living out this nightmare. Soon, Jennie would be old enough for him to start ruining, too…
“Get’r! Fuckin’ stupid cunt, fuck-hic-in’ stupid bitch, can’t – hic – unders’an som’in simple, gon’ eat tugether like – hic – real fam’ly!” He screamed, calling me back from my errant thoughts. I sighed, closing my eyes tight.
There was nothing for it but to do what he said; some nights, I let him scream and scream until he passed out on the couch. But that night…no, I didn’t hav
e the energy for it. I glanced at the clock; Sabrina the Teenage Witch would be on soon, and we could watch that while we ate “dinner”. For some reason, Pop just loved Sabrina. It put him in a swell mood. He loved the talking cat, thought it was the funniest damn thing since Mary Tyler Moore. It was easier, that night, just to give in.
“Okay, Pop,” I said. “Do you want the pot pie or the chicken?”
He swayed, dumbfounded by the simple question, its complexities surely becoming tangled in his drunken state.
“Pie,” he finally said, voice thick and heavy. “Wan’ pie. You girls, your f’r the chick’n.”
He pushed past me into the living room. I heard the TV click on; some other sitcom was just ending, it seemed. I slipped down the hall and into the tiny bedroom I shared with Jennie; she was staring at the door, waiting for me, eyes wide.
“Jennie,” I said, crouching down next to her slight frame. “Come have dinner again.”
“But we already…”
“I know, honey, I know,” I said, taking her hand in mine. “But Pops wants us to eat together. So try, okay? For me? Try to eat a little bit more?”
“Dee-Dee, I’m not hungry,” she said, tears welling up again. My heart split in two, seeing her big blue eyes fill with tears like that. It made me want to kill the bastard out in the living room.
“I know, baby J, I know, but you can eat some peas, can’t you? Just a few? Think of it as dessert,” I coaxed, rising up. She sighed, a sigh that was far too old for her little lungs, and followed my lead. I poured out two glasses of milk and a beer.
“Take this to Pops,” I said, handing her the foamy mug. Her little hands barely met around its girth, and she seemed to be focusing all her attention on not dropping it. Her tongue poked out the side of her mouth as she stared into the golden drink. I didn’t really like to think about how I was encouraging Pop’s drinking by giving him more booze; I only knew that he’d grumble if I tried to give him anything else, and that the more he drank the quicker he’d pass out.
“Thas’r good girl,” I heard him say, loudly. “Jennie, you’re goodest – the good – hic – you’re the goodest lil’ girl any – hic – ol’ papa could wan’.”
I cringed. He used to say those things to me, too. I wasn’t jealous of Jennie – not by a wide margin. I was terrified for her. Pop loved little kids, always had. But once you got to about nine or ten…well, that’s when “Thank Heaven for Little Girls” turned into “Bitches Ain’t Shit”. At eight, Jennie was fast rounding that awful corner. And I prayed for her every day. Prayed for her to never look her age. Maybe…
“Hungry!” Pop yelled, and it snapped me out of my reverie again. No wonder he thought I was stupid; I had to dive so deep into my own mind whenever I dealt with him, to keep myself safe from his drunken rants, that I was always a little slow on the uptake.
The bag held one portion of mashed potatoes and one portion of macaroni and cheese. For whatever reason eight-year-olds have for anything, Jennie refused to eat macaroni and cheese. She said it looked like little worms to her. I plopped the mashed potatoes onto her place, the macaroni and cheese onto mine, divvying up the chicken and peas as well, giving myself the lion’s share.
Conjuring up all my weekend waitressing skills, I hurried out of the kitchen holding the three plates and the two glasses of milk and deftly set them down on the fold out-tables. I took a few bites of the macaroni and cheese, under my father’s watchful eyes. He nodded and grunted as I took my fourth bite. The potatoes tasted like nothing, like buttery cardboard.
“Star’ wi’ the chick’n,” he said, turning to Jennie. She looked up at him, a forkful of peas halfway to her chin, eyes wide and confused and nervous. “Star’…wi’…chick’n.”
“I think you should have some chicken first, Jennie. Don’t you agree? Good idea, Pop,” I said, startling her with the clarity of my voice in contrast to his slurring.
I had no idea why Pop was demanding that Jennie eat her chicken first, but then again I could count on one hand the things that I really understood about him. Mostly, he was a confusing mess, but it was better just to go along with it. Jennie nodded and put down her fork, picking up a wing in her two tiny hands and taking a nibble that looked to be mostly breading. I smiled down at her, nodding, and glancing up saw Pop doing the same.
“Protein ‘s good f’r ya,” he slurred, patting her heavily on the head, blind to the way she winced at his touch. I ate some more macaroni and cheese. It tasted a bit strange, but it was better than the chicken.
Just as I’d thought, Sabrina was just starting, a re-run. Pop stabbed into his pot pie, must have burned his damn tongue shoveling in those first few spoonfuls. Serves him right, I thought, thinking of all the horrible trash that spewed from that mouth. He guffawed at some joke. Bits of food flew across the air, landing just shy of the TV. I ate a few mouthfuls of peas, feeling sick from eating so much after already having had dinner.
I looked over at Jennie; her mouth was working slowly, some small piece of meat or vegetable being chewed and chewed. Her eyes drifted back and forth from our father to the television screen. I wanted to eat, to make him happy enough to shut up about it for a while, but each time I raised the fork to my mouth it was like some invisible force clamped my lips shut. I felt sick. The world was starting to seem too bright and too dull all at the same time, my head pounding, my stomach churning. Pop looked over at me, chewing with his mouth open, eyes angry for all their drunkenness.
“Eat,” he said. On the TV, Salem the talking cat was wearing a pinstripe suit and a fedora, playing poker, or something. My father was finding this insanely funny; his laughter, though, seemed demonic. The plot line of the show was, strangely, becoming impossible to follow.
Hemingway’s way of describing bankruptcy was to say it happened gradually, then suddenly. That was how it felt when the long, slow, disconnected moments of fog gave way to a great and terrible sickness.
“Dee-Dee,” I heard Jennie say, her voice sounding far off and distant. I looked down and was repulsed to see that I’d thrown up some of the peas onto the front of my shirt; when had that happened? I couldn’t remember, couldn’t remember when we’d sat down, how long we’d been on that couch, it felt like forever, it felt like hell, it felt like hell….
“Oh, Pop,” I managed to murmur, and then it all went black. The very last thing I remember was seeing that blonde little witch on the screen, hearing the canned laughter, and feeling like all that laughter was directed at me and my sad, sorry little life.
Trigger
“You’re gonna see one hell of a show if this sorry fucker doesn’t come with the money,” Steel said, taking a long drag on his cigarette before releasing the smoke in a billowing cough. That cough sounded less good every damn day, but the old man wouldn’t put the smokes down to save his life.
Shit, it was 2003, everyone knew that smoking was no good, but he was an old man, and set in his ways. I’d found myself smoking more and more those days, too. It just felt so good when you were rolling so hard you couldn’t even feel your face…but I knew it was just gonna kill me, and shit, Steel smelled so bad from a lifetime of smoking that it was almost enough to turn me off altogether. He stabbed out his cigarette and lit up a new one.
“What’s he owe,” I asked, bored to tears but needing to make conversation. It was a quiet, lazy, summer day at one of our fronts, a topless joint. It was just past 11, no one had showed up yet to clean up last night’s filth and get the bar ready to open. Just me and Steel, waiting on a meeting that was supposed to happen fifteen minutes earlier. A real easy deal, no funny business. Guy owed some money for some drugs he was gonna sell, was supposed to show up with it today.
“’Bout two grand,” Steel said. I was slightly taken aback; for the Bleeding Deacons, two grand was damn near pocket change. Steel could have wiped his ass with a grand and blown his nose with the other. It seemed weird to me that he would make time to meet the guy himself to collect the debt.
As though seeing my confusion, Steel grinned at me, smoke leaking out the corners of his mouth and nose.
“Ain’t much, but he’s a dumb Irish bastard, and I fuckin’ hate dumb Irish bastards,” he said. If I’d felt safe doing so, I would have sighed or made a noise of disgust.
Steel hated a lot of people. Irish, Italian, Mexican, Black, Asian…I didn’t even know what his heritage was, but he sure as hell didn’t have much patience for people who weren’t straight up WASPs. Then again, he hated those New England WASP types, too. Talking to Steel was like listening to some terrible never-ending spoken word poem of racial slurs. “I wanna watch the poor shit beg.”
“Right,” I answered, a safe enough response.
“Stupid Micks, dumb as the potatoes they eat, huh?” Steel cackled. “Stupid, nasty drunks, every one of ‘em.”
“Sure,” I said. There was a pause as Steel seemed to consider some universal truth.
“Still, not as bad as the damn wetbacks,” he said. “Coming around and speakin’ that damn mumbo jumbo. At least the dumb ass Paddies speak English. So drunk half the time they can’t even do that, though!”