RCC03 - Beneath a Weeping Sky

by Frank Zafiro

  He stayed against her chest, hugging her for as long as she allowed it. Then, like a light switch had been flicked, she stood abruptly, shrugged him off and went to the bathroom. He sat down in her seat, feeling the warmth from her body fade. When she returned, her mouth was a hard line again.

  “Don’t make me come bail you out of trouble like that again,” she told him, waggling her finger at him in the same way she’d done in the principal’s office. “Stop making problems for me. Don’t I have it hard enough already?”

  “Yes, Mother,” he said. He felt tears welling up, but fought them down. His mother’s tender moments were few and far between and she didn’t put up with any bawl babies outside of those special times.

  Strangely, the worst thing about first grade was that they all called him Jeffie again. No one called him Jeffrey, not even Mrs. Piper. She didn’t pay particular attention to him, either. She was stingy with the smiley faces and gold stars, too, though she was pretty free with the red ones. He didn’t like the red ones so much, but a star was a star. Still, he didn’t offer any of his drawings to her and she didn’t tell him that they were worthy of the refrigerator at his home.

  He made it through the school year somehow. He dealt with the nicknames of Jeffie Booger Eater (because he’d picked his nose one time and someone saw him, then told everyone that he’d picked his nose and eaten it, which was a lie but everyone believed it anyway so the name stuck) and Jeffie the Queer (which he didn’t understand except that it came from the fourth graders and was really bad). He just kept thinking about summertime and his birthday and how someday his daddy was coming home to fix things.

  At the end of the year, he didn’t hug Mrs. Piper and he didn’t cry. Summer came and it was better than school, even though his mother drank her special stuff most of the day every day. Sometimes she went to the park, though, and let him play on the bars there. Those days were the best, even though it was usually overcast and cool.

  His birthday came (including his single gift of clothes from his mother) and before he knew it, it was time for school again.

  Second grade was much worse than first grade.

  Everyone remembered him, for starters. The same old names from first grade popped up again. New ones sprang into being. He learned that ‘queer’ meant a boy who likes boys instead of girls, but it still didn’t make much sense to him. At school, he was starting to dislike boys and girls, so he didn’t know if that made him queer or not queer, but it didn’t matter because they stilled called him that name.

  On the third day of school, disaster struck at recess. He’d somehow managed to secure one of the swings and even though he knew he had to pee, he didn’t want to give it up. If the fourth-graders realized he’d made it to first in line and was swinging and having fun, someone would do something about it. Maybe even Hugh Jessup, who was a fourth grader now and bigger than any other boy in school. So he held it and he swung and swung, pumping his legs and soaring into the air and back down again. He kept swinging and soaring as the pressure in his bladder grew. Finally, he couldn’t stand it anymore. He decided he needed to stop and go to the toilet.

  He tried to slow down, but that takes forever on a swing. The urgency from his bladder told him he didn’t have that kind of time. He drug his feet lightly on the dirt patch below the swing, resulting in only a marginal braking. So he tried planting his feet more firmly instead. That resulted in his shoes catching the soft dirt, digging in and yanking him from the swing. He went tumbling from the swing, rolling into a heap on the grass several yards in front of the swing set. The force of his landing jolted him enough that he let loose of his bladder, accidentally wetting his pants.

  A crowd surrounded him. At first, there was mild concern that he was hurt. That seemed to quickly fade into curiosity about any injuries he might have incurred. Then someone spotted the giant wet spot on his crotch, pointed and screamed it out for the whole world to know.

  After that, all the other kids called him Jeffie Pee-Pee Pants.

  His second grade teacher, Miss Guidry, didn’t notice a thing for the last two hours of school, but that didn’t surprise him. She was older than dust. She probably couldn’t even smell any more.

  He didn’t tell his mother about the incident, but she figured it out easily enough when he came home reeking of urine. She shrieked at him that he was a disgusting, dirty little boy, that he was just like his father and that he made her sick. She smacked him in the head several times, then hauled him to the bathroom by his hair. In the bathroom, she pushed him roughly into the bathtub and turned on the shower. He yelped at the cold water, but she gave him another smack, so he kept his mouth clamped shut. She never adjusted the water temperature, letting the ice cold water rain down on him as he sat huddled in the bottom of the tub, shivering. After what seemed like hours, she switched off the water and asked him if he learned his lesson.

  “Yes, Mother,” he answered, because he knew it was the right thing to say. He didn’t know what the lesson was supposed to be, other than don’t pee your pants at school, but it was too late for that lesson to do him any good.

  Still, maybe his daddy knew the answers to that, too. Maybe he could help him. Tell him how to deal with the third and fourth-graders (and, truth be told, most of the second-graders, too and a few of the first-graders) that made school so miserable. His daddy could teach him how to fight. He was in the Navy and that was like the Army and everyone knew that soldiers knew how to fight. Heck, that was their job.

  His daddy was coming home.

  He’d know how to handle the pee problem. He’d teach him to fight those bigger kids. Or maybe he’d smack them around himself. Maybe he’d show up in his uniform and grab Hugh Jessup by the collar and give him a bare butt spanking for everyone to see. And then he’d tell them all that Jeffrey was the best kid in the school and they better believe it or he’d be back.

  So he sat by that rain-splattered window every day, looking out at the gray Seattle street, knowing that at any moment, his daddy would appear. He waited for the sailor uniform to appear in the parking lot. He watched for him to stride up the steps to the second level where they lived, carrying a wrapped present in his arms (or maybe a bike! That would be so cool!). He’d jump into his daddy’s arms. His daddy would smell like Old Spice, just like in the commercial on T.V. He’d hug him and his daddy would hug him back and say how much he missed his little boy.

  Everything would be better.

  That was all that mattered.

  So he watched and he waited.

  November 1977

  One week before Thanksgiving, his patience was rewarded and his faith destroyed, all in the same day.

  He sat by the window in late afternoon, more out of hopeful habit than anticipation by that point. He read his favorite book, Dr. Seuss’s Green Eggs & Ham, over and over again. Something about the way that the little guy was able to finally convince the grouch to change his mind about those yucky looking green eggs and green ham appealed to him.

  Finishing it for the second time that afternoon, he glanced out the window. The full rain clouds above Seattle seemed to be almost trembling with the weight of all that water. It reminded him of how it felt to wake up in the middle of the night just a second or two before he had to pee. It was always a battle to push away all the sleep and scramble out of bed toward the bathroom in time to make it.

  He was about to lower his eyes back to the book for a third go-round when he saw the jaunty stride of a sailor coming through the parking lot. His pea coat and sea bag slung over his shoulder were unmistakable signs of a Navy man.

  Jeffrey dropped the book and pressed against the glass, staring.

  Was it his daddy?

  He wanted to scream out to his mother, to God, to the world, but all he could manage was a low whimper. Then a chilling thought struck him. What if it wasn’t his daddy? What if it was someone else’s relative? It was a large complex with lots of neighbors. Maybe—

  He reluctantly tore his
eyes away from the figure and fixed his gaze on the only picture of his daddy in the entire home. He didn’t know how old the picture was, but it showed a rough and tumble sailor outfitted in his uniform, smoking a cigarette and eyeing the camera lens with an expression that Jeffrey couldn’t entirely read.

  After studying that face for a moment, he snapped his head back to the front. The sailor was closer now. In fact, he was coming directly toward the apartment.

  This apartment.

  Jeffrey whimpered again. It might be. It might be.

  Once the sailor reached the stairs, he took them with a steady confidence, swinging around the corner on the first landing. As he turned toward the apartment window, he looked up and caught Jeffrey’s eye.

  It was. It was.

  He was older than the picture, but when he met Jeffrey’s eye, it was with the same expression. He paused a moment, looking at the boy almost as if he’d forgotten about him. Then a rakish grin spread over his face and he tipped him a wink.

  Jeffrey smiled and waved frantically. His daddy was home and he winked at him and he was going to make everything better and tell his mother to be nice and stop the kids at school –

  “What are you in here whining about?” his mother snapped from behind him. “I’m trying to take my nap and all I can hear is you making noi—”

  Jeffrey turned from the window to face her. “Daddy’s home!” he squealed.

  Her face registered surprise for a moment, then her features sank into their customary hardness as she watched the figure pass in front of the window and try the door knob. It was locked.

  “Aren’t you happy, Mother?” Jeffrey asked her.

  “Thrilled,” she answered in a flat voice.

  Jeffrey didn’t think she sounded too happy, but he was too excited to worry about it. When his daddy discovered the door was locked, he began pounding on it with his palm. Jeffrey sprinted for the door. His little hands fumbled with the lock on the doorknob, then he slid the chain aside and flung open the door.

  “Daddy!” he squeaked.

  His daddy’s eyes narrowed at the sound. “Is this my son or my daughter?” he joked gruffly.

  Jeffrey’s jaw dropped. He felt as if someone had just kicked him in the stomach.

  His daddy laughed uproariously and pointed. “Oh, that’s classic. You should see your face, kiddo.” He laughed, looking up at Jeffrey’s mother. “Really, Cora, you should get a look at this kid’s face when I said that. You’d think I took away his teddy bear or something.”

  “Come in,” was all his mother said. “You’re letting in the cold.”

  “S’pose I am,” he agreed, and stepped forward. He brushed past Jeffrey as he entered. The smell of cigarettes and sweat wafted over the boy, but instead of being repelled by the odor, he soaked it in. That’s how dads are supposed to smell, he figured.

  “Close the door, Jeffie,” his mother said.

  He obeyed, turning the knob lock and setting the chain. He turned around to see his mother and daddy eyeing each other in the living room. Jeffrey could feel the electric tension between them, even though he didn’t understand exactly what it was or why it was there. This was a mommy and a daddy. Aren’t they supposed love each other and hug and kiss and stuff?

  “Glad to see me?” his daddy said.

  “It’s been a long time,” she answered.

  “Navy’s a tough life,” he told her. “You knew that when you signed on.”

  She narrowed her eyes slightly and flicked her gaze toward Jeffrey. “Like I had a choice.”

  He dropped his sea bag on the floor next to her chair. “You always got a choice, Cora. Hell, I could’ve chosen not to come home when they gave me leave.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Because this is my family. Now, how about a drink and a little boom-boom for the sailor long-time gone?”

  She pressed her lips together, glancing over Jeffrey. He followed her gaze, then nodded knowingly. “Oh, yeah. Well, then how about the drink now and the boom-boom later?”

  “It’s in the kitchen,” his mother said.

  His daddy cocked his head at her. “Then go and get it,” he said in a low voice.

  She paused, glancing back and forth between him and Jeffrey. Then she sighed, turned and left the room.

  Jeffrey watched the exchange, astounded. His daddy turned toward him, saw his expression and tipped him another wink. “Sometimes ya gotta put a woman in her place, boy,” he said with a grin. “Deep down inside, that’s what really want, anyway.”

  His daddy removed his Navy Pea Coat and tossed it onto the small couch. Then he sat down in the chair and eyed Jeffrey for a few long moments. The sounds of clinking glasses drifted in from the kitchen. Jeffrey squirmed under his gaze.

  “How old are you now, boy?” he asked.

  “Seven,” Jeffrey told him.

  “Seven, sir,” his daddy corrected him, shaking his head. “Didn’t your mother teach you any respect?”

  “No,” Jeffrey answered without thinking. When his daddy’s eyes narrowed at him, he added, “sir.”

  His daddy laughed darkly. “Well, at least you’re honest, kiddo. But you look about as fucked up as a soup sandwich, you know that?”

  Jeffrey blanched at the profanity. His mind worked frantically to understand what a soup sandwich was. He felt his lip quivering and put his hand over it.

  His mother came back into the room with a single water glass. She held it out to his daddy. The man ignored her for a moment, studying Jeffrey closely. Then he turned to his mother. “Jesus, Cora. The kid’s a mess. What’ve you been doing with him?”

  “I’ve been doing the best I’m able to do, Stan,” she replied evenly. “Here’s your drink.”

  “The best you can?” He shook his head and took the drink from her hand. “That’s a pretty piss-poor excuse, you ask me.”

  His mother said nothing.

  His daddy took a large drink from the glass. After he swallowed, his face contracted in a grimace. “Vodka? Good Christ, that’s a whore’s drink. Don’t you have any whiskey in the house?”

  “I drink vodka,” she answered quietly.

  “Like I said, a whore’s drink.” He took another sip. “Damn. It doesn’t get any better as you go, either.” He lifted his chin in her direction. “Go to the liquor store and get a bottle of whiskey. Get the good stuff. Jack Daniels.”

  “I don’t have any money,” she whispered.

  His daddy catapulted from the chair and struck her with the back of his hand. She yelped and fell back onto the couch atop his coat. “Don’t start out by giving me lip, bitch,” he growled at her. “Just because I’ve been gone a while doesn’t mean I’m not still the man around here.”

  Jeffrey stared on in shock while his mother pulled herself up into a sitting position, holding her cheek.

  “I’m...sorry,” she said quietly, avoiding her husband’s gaze.

  “Goddamn right you are.” He sat back down in the chair and took another pull from the water glass. Then he asked, “Why don’t you have any money? My checks should be coming regular.”

  “It gets used up,” she said.

  “On what?” He jerked a thumb toward Jeffrey. “Ballet lessons for him?”

  “Food,” she whispered. “Rent.”

  His daddy laughed. “Food and rent? Yeah, maybe, but you manage to have some vodka in the house, too, don’t you, Cora?”

  She didn’t answer.

  He pulled roll of bills from his pocket and peeled off several, tossing them at her. “Now go get some whiskey. And make it quick.”

  She slowly gathered up the money, folded it and slid it into her dress pocket. Then she rose and walked to the door. “Come on, Jeffie,” she said as she slipped on her jacket.

  “No, he stays here,” his daddy said. “Christ knows he needs to spend some time with a man. Looks to me like you’ve turned the kid into some kind of queer or something.”

  At the word �
�queer’, the kick to the stomach sensation repeated itself, only much harder this time. Jeffrey heard himself whimper, unable to hold the sound inside.

  “See?” his daddy said over the rim of his water glass. “He needs some toughening up.”

  Jeffrey felt the tears rise up in his eyes. At the same time, his cheeks grew hot. His stomach roiled.

  This wasn’t supposed to be how it went. His daddy was supposed love him and hug him and fix everything. He wasn’t supposed to be mean. He wasn’t supposed to laugh at him and call him the same names the kids at school did.

  “Ah, Jesus, now he’s going to cry.” His daddy shook his head. “This just proves my point. What are you, three?” He waved his drink at Jeffrey. “You got a room of your own?” he asked.

  Jeffrey nodded dumbly, tears rolling down his fiery cheeks.

  “Then go there. Get out of my sight until you decide to be a man and not some kind of little crybaby.”

  Jeffrey fled to his room. He leapt onto his bed, buried his face into the lumpy, thin pillow and cried. Vaguely, in the distance, he heard the door open and close and then it was silent except for his tears. His sobs racked his chest, tearing at his little lungs. He was aware of a giant pain in his chest, but it wasn’t until his tears slowed down a little that he realized what it was. He’d heard of it, but never experienced it until now. His heart was breaking.

  A while later, his mother returned, but she didn’t come to him. More than anything, that was what he wanted right then. He wanted her to come to his door, sit on his bed and gather him up in her arms. He wanted to press his face between her breasts and finish his crying there instead of the poor excuse of a pillow on his bed. She would stroke his hair and comfort him and tell him how it was just the two of them against the world and how she would make his daddy go back to the ship or make him stop being mean and she would stop being mean and then everything would be all right.

  Instead, he was left alone to cry into his flat pillow.

  Eventually, his sobs ran out. He lay on the bed, curled up into a fetal ball. His cheeks remained hot, but the salty tears were drying. As they dried, he felt a tightness on the skin of his cheeks. Every once in a while, he gave a little hitch.