From The House that Jack Built
He stood and watched me with a face oddly shrouded by the night sky. The glimmer from streetlights and a slivered moon were the lone sources of a strange incandescence in his dark eyes. After these two jolts, my shorts should have been soiled, but they weren’t. I wiped my forehead while my anger and surprise dissipated.
“What are you doing here? How did you know I was here?”
Jack looked at me with a blank expression. Something on his lips needed to escape, but didn’t know the way out. As if responding to his plight, concern on my face stared at him through iron bars.
“Jack? Are you alright? How did you know I was here?”
Vacancy. Spiraling across his face in dull blue neon.
“Jesus! You’re shivering. How long have you been here?”
He peered at me as if my concern held the secret to an escape route.
“I don’t know.”
Books by Malcolm James
Distortions: A Quinn Masterson Mystery
One Night In Eerie Cove
Whispers In The Mist
Malcolm James
Published by
Icarus Press Publishing
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2018 Malcolm James
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any mean, electronic or mechanical, including World Wide Web, email, photocopying, scanning, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval systems, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.
Icarus Press Publishing
Fredericton, New Brunswick Canada
Web: www.icaruspress.com
email: [email protected]
Icarus Press Publishing is a trademark of HiDef Ideas
ISBN: 978-1717866950
For Sue and Angela:
I couldn’t have crafted this without you.
Part I
Through me you pass into the city of woe:
Through me you pass into eternal pain:
Through me among the people lost for aye.
Justice the founder of my fabric moved:
To rear me was the task of power divine,
Supremest wisdom, and primeval love.
Before me things create were none, save things
Eternal, and eternal I endure.
All hope abandon, ye who enter here.
- Dante Alighieri
Chapter 1
Since Jack never spoke about his father, I was forced to assume; and while assume I did, if he’d left me a trail of Lithium, I still wouldn’t have discovered a path to the truth.
Jack’s mother was dead and I suppose a successful business in automotive parts manufacturing was reason enough for his father to move back to Detroit. It was also a good reason to immerse oneself in work and the never-ending conquest of zeroes. Zeroes to add to a personal fortune that grew like mold. But that’s all I had to go by. Jack may have been my guide, but he wasn’t divulging the destination.
Jack made every effort not to acknowledge him, and I was supposed to be supportive and understanding. Sure, his relationship with his father wasn’t my concern. But he was my friend and that was my concern. I should have seen the signs, and while I didn’t take note of them, I understand now why he was happier hanging at my place. For something wasn’t right at home.
We were enrolled at a public school in Bloomfield Hills. I didn’t stop to wonder, with all his money, why Jack’s father didn’t have him in some stuffy prep school. But I suppose a rags-to-riches man doesn’t relish planting his seed in a field rife with a tall, dour crop.
My father did alright. I had nothing to be ashamed of. But Jack’s family made us look like poor white trash. And while at first he had no interest in talking about his wealth – that got us through the first stage of our acquaintance – his modesty wasn’t about to last, and he made up for it later, like he bathed in cash.
My mother died when I was three and my memory of her is faded. On the other hand, the memory of my father fades because he might as well have been dead. A successful advertising agency was his mistress, and while I didn’t care what he – or how well the business – did, I should have. It was my inheritance to win or lose. But the prospect of inheritance has little meaning to a child in need of a positive male influence.
The only influence he passed onto me was religion. ‘As long as you live under this roof, you’ll attend church on Sundays!’ I suppose he thought he was doing me a favor by exposing me to Catholic guilt and fear. It wasn’t a positive influence.
Originally from an innocuous town in Northern Québec, he dreamed about his home. He often spoke of moving back and I winced when he said it. You see, I wasn’t very well-schooled about geography outside of my little world. My only experience with Canada was Windsor, and while it was a quaint little place, it was quiet and boring compared to Hockeytown. I couldn’t imagine life without Detroit, any more than it could imagine life without me.
We did enjoy a better-than-average lifestyle. Even though I didn’t get everything I wanted, I had everything I needed. Except my father. I missed him the way a child misses the presence of a father. I resented his glaring absence. My friends’ fathers attended their hockey and baseball games. I suppose it was a status thing: if their fathers were there, then where in Hell was mine? How did that make me look? I felt like an idiot. Me, me, me. A child’s reaction.
To his credit, he actually made four of my first sixteen birthdays, and when he wasn’t there, a cursory call was always a mixed, if not unexpected, surprise. Now, I know how hard he worked to make a good life for us, but a child doesn’t understand the need for business, or travel, or career. A child doesn’t care where the money comes from, especially when money is never an issue. There are things that you simply don’t notice when they’re always in front of you.
I dealt with it in the same way that children deal with everything – they may not understand, but they find a way to live with it. And if I’d taken the time to look around, I would have noticed that Jack and many of our peers were virtual orphans, too. But it wouldn’t have mattered.
I laugh about it now, because I can’t imagine him at one of my hockey games. Would he have been up on his feet, pounding on the glass and yelling at me to get a goal, hit that defenseman, or pick up my forechecking? I think not. I would have been more embarrassed if he was there. But kids don’t think about what they have. They fixate on what they don’t have.
Today I almost respect him for it. He didn’t pretend to care. He didn’t put on the facade that would have made the both of us immensely uncomfortable. I’m almost grateful, for as the ancient Chinese curse goes, ‘be careful what you wish for, for you may get it.’ So the omission of a father from my life was far better than the possible alternatives. In fact, an absent father can be a blessing.
Something that happened in Eighth Grade illustrates that point superbly. It was during a hockey game with our cross-town rivals, the Oakland Hawks. Our teams vied for the number one spot in the standings, and it was the last game of the regular season. It didn’t mean much in terms of the playoffs, except to determine who we played in the first round.
But we were boys trying to become men. Our bodies were coursing with hormones and thoughts that were, until only recently, foreign to us. A side-effect of the hormones was the desire to hit anything on two feet that didn’t wear a skirt and training bra. The ice surface was a perfect place to do that. It was legal, abov
e board, and best of all, it was expected of us.
I’m sure that the fathers screamed and swore because they resented us for being out there throwing body checks. When we laced up the skates, we put on a license to take out every pubescent frustration and hormonal imbalance, on anyone who made the mistake of skating too close. Every one of those hormones desperately wanted to win, to earn bragging rights around school. To impress girls. Unfortunately, we didn’t.
Win, that is.
Late in the third period, the game was tied at three. Frustrations were mounting on both sides. Panicked recklessness took over from carefully-planned teamwork. Each bundle of hormones flew around the ice taking unnecessary risks, like the puck was Monday morning popularity. And then Smoogie messed it up for us.
‘Smoogie’ Wilson was our resident goon. His real name was Josiah, something we didn’t discover until Senior Grad. I’ve no doubt that he preferred Smoogie, but no one was about to poke fun at his name – either of them. Forty pounds heavier than the next nearest guy on the team, he was on the roster for his brawn, not his natural talent; and definitely not for his powers of cogitation. He was a shitty skater and rarely did anything with the puck that could have had a positive outcome. But dammit, he could hit.
When Smoogie hit someone, we felt for the target. Shift changes frequently occurred after a Smoogie hit, and if he hit someone into the boards…well, thankfully, it didn’t happen much. As I said, Smoogie wasn’t the best skater, so he threw his body wherever he could and hoped that it would connect. It was because of that simple fact that he was still playing. If he could have skated, he wouldn’t have made it out of pre-season. He would have seriously disabled or killed someone.
During the game he lumbered around the ice while our opponents avoided him. With two minutes left in the third period, we were tied at three. Frustration ran high, as every bag of raging hormones scurried to be the hero that kept the game from going into overtime. The coaches screamed at us along with every parent in the rink.
We had finished retreating from a push into the Hawks’ zone when Jack made a singularly impressive effort. Behind our net, he savagely checked their Center into the boards and stole the puck with some wicked stick-handling. Then he took off like he was firing on eight cylinders. I was right behind him as he shot down the ice surface with purpose.
I was incensed. I’d been playing it safe and hadn’t felt that kind of drive all night. I gave close pursuit, ready to hit anyone who came even close to him. He skated past one of the Hawks’ Forwards like he wasn’t even there. He darted across our blue line and weaved around the other Forward. At center ice, he even slipped the puck between a Defenseman’s legs. The only thing between Jack and a breakaway was the last Defenseman, and no-one doubted the outcome of that encounter.
Roaring and screaming pummeled the arena’s sweaty atmosphere like an electrical storm. I was right behind Jack, skating desperately just to keep up – he was much faster. If he took a shot and it was deflected, I was ready to pick up the rebound and drive it home. That’s when, in one of those rare, terrifying moments, Smoogie managed to make contact.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t with one of his opponents.
He was lurching around center ice after the last play in our opponents’ zone. Like the rest of us he was frustrated, but mostly because the Hawks were good skaters and they valued their skins enough to steer clear of him. He hadn’t landed a hit all night, except maybe when he slammed himself into the boards. I suppose there was sweat in his eyes from his plodding efforts, because it took a lot of energy to move that mass around the rink for sixty minutes. That’s why he didn’t realize that he was making contact with Jack, when he landed the hit-of-all-hits on him.
Jack was about to clear the last defender when out of nowhere, Smoogie came at him like a great hulking missile, making impact so hard that Jack was airborne. Unfortunately, I was right behind Jack, who flew at me like a limp, 140 pound bag of sand. When we collided it was with tooth-rattling force, and in a split-second I experienced a jolt that can only be felt when bone-and-muscle meet bone-and-muscle at high speed. Our bodies flailed wildly as we collapsed onto the ice.
What happened next is a little unclear, for I couldn’t see straight for five minutes. Jack couldn’t see anything at all, because he was out cold. Even through hockey pants, my ass became an ice cube, and something warm trickled onto my eyes, cheeks and lips. I blinked a couple of times as my tongue cringed from the acrid taste of blood. I tried to prop myself up, but my wrists had become rubber, so I lay there, waiting for a whistle to stop the play. But the referee didn’t seem to notice.
Smoogie’s mistake was all it took. The Hawks’ blue and gold jerseys swarmed past us. Thanks to his oafish stupidity, they took possession and with an instant five-on-two, scored moments after we crumpled. With less than a minute left in the game, we were screwed.
They had to carry Jack off the ice while I hobbled off under my own power. By the time he came to, the game was long over. A heated argument with the coach resulted in Jack grudgingly agreeing to let me take him to the hospital. And while I mopped blood from a cut across my left eyebrow, everyone else nursed the gashes and bruises on their egos. Including Smoogie.
No-one talked to him. No-one even looked at him. Even the coach was silent. After we dressed, we quietly filed out of the locker room to meet our waiting parents. In our case, Jack and I met his waiting chauffeur. Everyone was dead-silent.
Well, almost everyone.
One only needed to see Smoogie Wilson’s father to understand where Smoogie got his girth and lack of brain cells. He was a Cro-Magnon who missed the evolutionary train because he was too busy dragging a conquest by the hair while everyone else boarded. A huge man, the other fathers were amoebas by comparison, and he was pissed. Not a pretty sight. He grabbed Smoogie by the collar, as if he’d destroyed the cure for cancer instead of just fudging a junior hockey game.
“You piece of shit!” He lifted Smoogie off the ground with a beefy, tattooed arm. “Where the Hell do you get your stupidity from?” He didn’t appreciate the irony that oozed from his question, but stunned onlookers appreciated it for him. I doubt that he even knew what ‘irony’ means.
Everyone was so frozen in the uncomfortable scene that they couldn’t do anything – or even walk away. If I could have, though, I would have crawled under the ice surface.
“When I get you home, I’ll show you how to land a hit!” He hauled off and slapped Smoogie with the butt of his palm, so hard that Smoogie – who until then was hanging by his collar in limp, terrified deference – was propelled out of his father’s grasp. A sickeningly abrupt sound followed the meaty hook colliding with Smoogie’s thick skull. Everyone jumped in disbelief.
Mr. Wilson held a piece of Smoogie’s jersey in his fist and Smoogie landed with a resounding thud against the floor. Curling up into a ball, he covered his head with his arms and sobbed uncontrollably. Oblivious, his father bent over and hauled him up like he had spotted a dime, then spun around and dragged Smoogie out of the rink.
His comment – about teaching Smoogie how to land a hit – was not lost on us. He wasn’t going to teach him hockey. No-one wanted to think about what would happen to that boy when his father got him home, so everyone quietly shuffled off.
Without saying a word to each other, Jack and I went to the hospital. He had suffered a mild concussion and had to miss school for a few days, but otherwise he was fine. Youthful bones and sinews are, if nothing else, resilient.
So I’m grateful that my father didn’t take much interest in me as a child. No interest is eminently better than taking so much interest that you’d punch your kid for fucking up a hockey game. I gained new respect for my father, and as an added bonus I understood and maybe even respected Smoogie and his brutish, bullying demeanor.
Unfortunately, Smoogie’s injuries went far deeper than bone and sinew. A couple of years ago I tried to contact him – I needed him to sign a release so that I could use his
story. That was when I found out that Smoogie spent most of his adult life in prison before being shot to death during a drug deal.
Chapter 2
A reputation of legendary proportions followed Jack into Ninth Grade. I hoped to benefit from that, because I befriended him more for his popularity than for the commonalities that we shared.
The little that we did have in common was negative. We were only-children and practically speaking, we were both orphans. We both lost our mothers, and our fathers were distant and disinterested. The lack of a positive male role model made us rebellious and uncontrollable, but in hindsight I’m willing to admit that some of our behavior was just the fumbling awkwardness inherent in teenage boys.
Jack was far more popular than I’d ever be, and his successes with women would top the list of his less-than-glorious achievements. I resented him for it, but I couldn’t help but admire his prowess. It was difficult to dislike him for it, for all he had to do was smile: it was infectious. As if he wasn’t rich enough, he was wealthy with the most dangerous of combinations – money, a gregarious personality and leading-man good looks.
Jet-black hair flowed but never strayed out of place; straight and shiny, it was parted on the left. Always coiffed, it fell almost carelessly over his right eye. He had well-defined features: a strong jaw-line, a sharp but well-shaped nose with slightly flared nostrils, and the cheekbones of a model. His skin was unblemished: yet another reason to resent him, I never saw so much as a pimple. And he must have had Mediterranean blood, for he had a dark complexion and near-perpetual tan. But his most compelling and endearing feature was his eyes.
They glistened, and they weren’t just blue: they were a vivid, ice-blue that practically glowed. The picture frame that completed his smile, when he grinned, his eyes glinted with a mischievous, almost devilish gleam. They were compelling, expressive, and yes, even entrancing. He was a pro at getting whatever he wanted, simply by flashing them the right way. Especially with girls. To make matters even worse for we mere mortal teenage train-wrecks, he was slender, sinewy and tall, even for his age. He had a good two inches on me, and I was above average height.
The House that Jack Built Page 1