by Harvey Smith
Jack smiled. His face was pale and unmarked. “Yeah, it does.” The trace of a frown passed over his face as he spoke, a hint of shame at saying the word 'yeah' instead of 'yes, sir.' He'd been yelled at for that before, but the rule was never enforced consistently or even very often. It just came once in a while, explosively, but not often enough to make him remember it until after the fact.
Big Jack wore a thick work shirt, marked with small holes burned into place by a daily shower of welding sparks and molten slag. The shirt opened to reveal a ratty t-shirt, worn threadbare under the arms. He wore very tight Wrangler jeans and had tiny, battered cowboy boots on his unusually small feet. His face burned with shame whenever he remembered the size of his feet. He hated how small they were, thinking that this shortcoming was also tied in some way to his dick.
Big Jack wheeled the truck off the road, one-handing it into the gravel driveway of a small convenience store. The toolbox scraped across the truck bed, screeching and startling the boy as the truck jolted into the parking lot. The air outside smelled faintly of chlorine.
“Stay here,” Big Jack said. “I'll be right back.” He jumped down, slamming the door at his back.
Jack sat in the truck, watching through the open window, relaxing once his father was gone. A drift of dust followed the truck in from the road and settled in the hot air around the vehicle, falling like powdery rain. Jack stared, trying to trace individual particles as they floated downward. He could taste the dust on the air inside the cab of the truck, which otherwise smelled like oil and tools. Using one of his small hands, he lifted the collar of his shirt to cover his mouth and nose. He breathed through the cloth, filtering out the dust and fantasizing about being a desperado, getting ready to rob a train.
On the horizon just over the low treeline, boiler stacks from one of the nearby petrochemical plants rose like a pair of corroded gray flutes, embedded in the ground. The identical stacks stood high in the air, skeletal ladders running up the sides, leading to small catwalks near the top. A twelve foot flame rose up from one of them as the plant burned off excess gas byproduct. The plant was known as Bardiché by everyone within fifty miles. Jack studied the flame.
Another battered truck pulled up, grinding and slinging gravel, and another cloud of fine dust rolled in and began to settle. The truck came to a stop in front of the convenience store and a hefty man opened the door. He slid his ass off the seat and stepped out, dressed like Jack's father in jeans and thick, flame-retardant shirt. The jeans were tucked into his leather boots, which passed for rakish among the plant workers. His belly was distended far forward, like something grafted onto his frame. He wore a pair of prescription work glasses with dark plastic guards attached to the sides. The handle of the knife hanging from his belt had been wrapped and re-wrapped with layers of duct tape.
Slipping further down in the truck, Jack struggled to contain a laugh. He imagined himself screaming the word pig out the window. The notion came to him without provocation. He held his collar up over his mouth again and watched the man over the edge of the dashboard.
The man coughed and tried to suck in some of his gut before entering the store. He emerged a few minutes later eating a Butterfinger bar. His unshaven face was partially covered by his own hammy fist and the candy bar wrapper as he passed the open truck window. His eyes carried the weight of his sullenness while his mouth worked the Butterfinger bar. As he passed, he locked eyes with Jack, but the boy kept his expression blank. A few feet on, the man opened the door to his truck, put one booted foot up into place and grabbed the steering wheel, hauling himself up into the seat. He bucked his hips, shifting over onto the seat of the truck, which groaned like bed springs. Taking in an enormous wad of candy bar, he started the truck and backed out, creating another wave of dust.
Half an hour later, Big Jack came out of the convenience store carrying a Shasta. He climbed into the truck, got situated and handed the drink to his son. It was half-empty and warm, but Jack was happy to have it. He took a sip, feeling the carbonation, the sugar, and the acid hit his mouth all at once. Everything else in the world went away and he leaned his head back, taking a long, burning pull from the aluminum can.
Big Jack sat behind the wheel, watching the boy drink. “Goddamn, son. You are such a fucking glutton.” His chin was directly over his right shoulder, jowls quivering and face flush. He raised his right fist to hit the boy, but the cramped interior of the truck restricted his movement. Unable to swing, he grew flustered and lowered his hand.
Jack held the Shasta can sheepishly. The contempt in his father's voice stunned him even without a physical blow. He felt the calluses on Big Jack's hand as he reached over and took the drink.
Still seething, Big Jack killed the Shasta in a couple of swigs. Then he started up the engine and crushed the gas pedal with one of his small boots. The truck kicked up a spray of white gravel and raced away like an out of control sled.
Chapter 10
1999
The drive from the restaurant only took five minutes. I parked under a pecan tree, where a pair of squirrels chased each other up the trunk and through the branches, making muscled leaps from one limb to another. Searching around, it took a minute to find the right number. Jenny's trailer was one of roughly two dozen units. Walking toward it, I crushed a pecan against the asphalt. Unlike some of the trailers, there were no toys out front, no Christmas lights around the windows, no potted plants on the porch. I stood on the thin metal steps and knocked. The door made a strange rattling sound, thin layers of fiberglass and aluminum.
Jenny opened up. “Look at you, stranger.” She beamed, her eyes flitting over my face, following the faint scar running up through my eyebrow. I smiled back, but flinched internally; two of her teeth were now gold.
“Come in. My husband's in Baton Rouge, on-site for the company, so we got the place to ourselves.”
The interior of the trailer was dark. The air conditioner shook the walls and I could feel a breeze blowing up from a floor vent set in the carpet. I looked at Jenny and tried to remember her as a teenager. Her skin was weathered now, but she still wore thick blue eye shadow. She was lean and wiry, a few inches shorter than me. Unlike most of the women on the Gulf Coast, she had not blown up like a trophy-winning sow. Genetics, I suppose. Wrapping her up in a slow hug, I whispered over her shoulder, “Been a long time.”
“It's good to see you too.”
And it was. We hugged for a while, rocking in place. I pressed my mouth against the skin at the base of her neck, where it met her collarbone. She didn't say anything.
“Sorry I'm only down here because of the funeral.”
Softening as she remembered the reason for my visit, she said, “Yeah, I'm so sorry about your daddy. He was a good man.”
I thought about biting her, tearing into the soft skin on her shoulder. It just flashed through my head. I held back an angry response and kissed the side of her throat. “Thank you for saying that and for having me over.” I backed away and smiled, trying to lift my mood.
She leaned back, letting me hold her weight against falling, her eyes locked on mine. “I catch myself thinking about you a lot,” she said. “You don't come home that often.”
“You're the only thing I miss.”
She laughed. “You live so far away, out there in California. I've thought about taking a drive, coming to see you.”
“You could. It's really nice.”
“That would be so much fun, to get away from here for a while.” She hesitated. “It almost killed me when you moved.”
“I know. I felt bad.” We stared at each other while I thought about the ways in which we had been intertwined. As if we were dancing, I put my hands on her hips and pulled her closer. She settled into my arms and we swayed in place, making her laugh against my ear. “What would have happened between us if I had stayed?”
She creased her brow, but didn't speak.
“Sorry,” I said. “I couldn't stay here, with my dad.”
Looking down, she nodded.
Taking a step, I moved us over to the sofa. I sat, dragging her down with me, encircling her with one arm and pulling her near. She settled in, draping one of her legs over my lap.
“Maybe I should have gone somewhere too,” she said in a quiet voice. “Off and on, I think about those days, especially when things aren't going so well.”
We passed time in silence, just enjoying the proximity.
“After all this shit with dad, it's good to see a friendly face.”
“Good. Glad I can help.”
“I don't even feel sad. It's just weird.”
She looked concerned, studying me.
“Dad, my family...I try not to think about them. Even lunch with my brother today was difficult.”
“I'm sorry,” she said. “You both went through a lot. I thought you got along with him.”
I frowned, not sure what to say. “He's different. Hard to describe.” A phrase came into mind, California is my religion.
She leaned her head against me. Reaching up, I brushed my fingers through one of her curls, tracing the skin of her neck. “Tell me about what you're doing.”
She let her head fall back against the sofa. “There's not much to tell. I've been living with Leonard and he's been working different jobs with the company. The pay is good when he gets enough overtime.” She started to say something else, but trailed off.
Her thigh was warm against my belly and lap. I toyed with her hair. “Wish I could blow off the funeral and stay here.”
She laughed softly. “That'd just make it worse for everyone else.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
“No, it would,” she said. “They need to see you.”
I looked away from her for a second, actually thinking about my father suddenly, thinking about the last time I'd seen him. After a minute, I found her eyes, tilting my head and leaning closer. “I really want to kiss you.”
When Jenny spoke, her voice was low, her forehead wrinkled in determination. “Then kiss me.”
I leaned into her, inhaling perfume and traces of cigarette smoke, feeling her small breasts flatten against me. The texture of her skin and the smell of her hair were familiar. Our faces came together. I cupped her breasts and she moaned into my mouth. Our hands roamed over each other like they had a decade before. She began rubbing me through my pants. Mid-kiss, she tried to unbuckle my pants, fumbling blindly with the zipper. I pushed her hand aside, jerked the belt open and tore the flap down. She stuck her tongue deeper into my mouth then dropped her head into my lap. As her lips wrapped around me, I collapsed back against the couch, raising my hips in time with her movements. I cried out when I came, warmth flooding through me and my mind going blank, the obliteration of release.
Sitting there with my eyes closed, I remembered a night from just after high school. I drove her out under a lonely bridge, stopping at a spot where people went crabbing during the day. The bridge was located in the middle of a stretch of county highway separating Lowfield and Quailbury. Cow pastures flanked the road on either side and the moon was bright. Talking on the phone an hour or two before, I convinced her to lie to her fiancé, to meet with me.
She sat up in the semi-darkness of the trailer. She leaned against me, my pants still down around my thighs. We alternated between talking and nuzzling before moving to the bedroom. Propped up on all the pillows in her bed, I asked about her husband.
Weasel-like, her face drew into a snarl. “He's a fat asshole. I hate him.”
I was genuinely surprised by her intensity. “That's fucking terrible.”
“Yeah.” She exhaled a deep sigh. Smiling sheepishly, she dropped her voice. “I've been seeing someone else. He's a foreman over in Plant B and has his own boat.” She covered her face in excitement and I laughed. Which one of these guys are we actually cheating on?
We made love without a condom and drank cold, bottled beer in bed.
“Tomorrow is the funeral,” she said.
“Yes it is.” I took a long pull, bringing the bottle to rest on my belly, relishing the sweating glass. I studied her, nestled beside me. “I'm glad I got to see you.”
She smiled at me. “Yeah.” She looked away, at the curtained window. The dying sun lit up the yellow cloth, turning it to white gold. “You never would have been happy here.”
I raised my eyebrows. “No argument there,” I said. It was still hard to connect with anyone. Nothing was exactly right; it always felt like something bad was about to happen.
“We'd have just ended up cheating on each other anyway,” I said.
She laughed and slapped my chest playfully. “I wouldn't have…maybe you, mister.” A beat later, she gestured vaguely across the bedroom with her beer. “Okay, you're right.”
We laughed and she put her head against my shoulder. All along my body, I could feel our skin touching, hot in some places, cool in others.
“I hope you're coming tomorrow. It would help.”
“I will,” she said. “Don't worry.”
We got dressed and I drove back to the motel.
Chapter 11
1979
Jack walked beneath a sky the color of crumbling Christmas tinsel. A line of black clouds lay across the horizon and the wind pushed at his back, occasionally lifting the hood on his windbreaker. His backpack was slung over one shoulder, full of middle school texts and a rusted lunch box. He made his way past a large vacant lot where chain-link backstops capped two corners of the field parenthetically and a weed-covered levee ran along the far side. A small utility building stood on a concrete slab near one of the backstops.
With furtive glances, Jack watched a skinny girl walking on the opposite sidewalk across the street. Roughly his age, her name was Jenny. She wore bell-bottom jeans and a sweatshirt covered in hearts. He saw her almost every day because they had science class together, but they rarely spoke. She was reserved; tentative in a way that was appealing to him.
When he reached his block he ran for a while just to feel his legs move. Hoisting the backpack higher, he took off down the sidewalk, concentrating on moving fast but keeping his sneakers as quiet as possible. One of his favorite books told the story of a heroic field mouse who wielded a needle, using it like a sword against a clan of predatory rooks. Sprinting along, Jack fantasized about a huge blackbird chasing him. High above, the bird tilted its head, regarding him with shiny eyes. He stopped running after half a block, breathing deeply for a few more paces and finally blowing out a huge breath before settling into a walk.
Big Jack's truck was in the driveway and the garage door was open. Inside, his father was messing around at his tool bench.
Jack stopped just between the truck and the doorway. Studying his father, he let his backpack sag to the concrete, dangling it from a shoulder strap. “Hi, Dad.”
“Hey, boy.”
Jack watched his father shuffle things around, hanging a set of wrenches on a pegboard rack. He really had nothing to say to his father and Big Jack rarely spoke except when he wanted something or was angry. Jack felt uncomfortable in the silence. He tried to think of something to say, but couldn't. Leaving seemed wrong somehow. Walking away without speaking would draw his father's ire.
Big Jack picked up a wrench and tested its weight in his hand. He fished a roll of pipefitter's tape out of his jeans and tossed it onto the workbench. He seemed perplexed by the collection of objects in front of him. The workbench itself was so saturated with grease that the wood was black and the garage perpetually smelled like the insides of an engine. Jack smelled the odor every time he walked through the kitchen past the door leading into the garage.
“What'd you do at the school today?” Big Jack asked, still looking down at the tools strewn out along the bench.
Jack swallowed to counter the dead feeling in his throat. “Nothing,” he said quietly.
“Nothing?” Big Jack turned to look at his son a few feet away. His wiry hair stood out from his head in tufts,
molded and mussed all day by his welding cap. “You didn't do no school work? You didn't run no laps in gym? You didn't talk to nobody?” Big Jack's eyes were a little too wide, bulging slightly with challenge. His voice carried a sarcastic undertone.
Jack stared at his father, aware of the truck parked behind him. A strange heat was coming off the engine and the boy could feel it. He could smell the dead insects embedded in the front grill of the vehicle. “Yes, sir,” he said, “I did school work. And I talked to people.”
“During class?” asked Big Jack.
“No, sir. I listened in class.”
Big Jack tried to detect some sign of falsehood. “Yeah, I bet you did.” His interest waned and he turned back to the tools in front of him. Scratching one side of his face absently, he left a grease streak there. The vein in the center of his forehead stood out freakishly, as it always did when he was puzzled or angry, which was almost a constant.
The kitchen door jangled and swung out. Brodie stood on the step, just inside the house. There was a guilty expression stretched over his face. Jack and his father turned to regard the young boy. Jack felt afraid for his brother.
Brodie looked down at the concrete floor of the garage. “There's something wrong with Boss Hog,” he said.
Boss Hog was Brodie's hamster. The tan, chubby rodent lived in a cage in the boys' bedroom.
“Go see,” Big Jack said. He reached into a small tin of washers and fished around for one of a particular size.
Jack was happy to have a way out of the encounter with his father, but concerned about his brother. He crossed the garage and entered the kitchen, leaning his backpack against the dishwasher. Brodie stepped aside and followed sheepishly.
In the living room, down among some of Brodie's toys, Boss Hog was in a bad way, dragging himself along through the carpet. Jack walked over and sank to the floor. The hamster was making steady progress toward some unknown destination, but his back legs trailed behind him uselessly. Jack made an unconscious sound as he watched the small thing. A dull sensation swam through his chest, paralyzing him as it spread to the rest of his body, a leaden fatigue that caused his arms to droop.