Jerk, California

by Jonathan Friesen

  “Guess I am. Try it sometime.” He smiles. “When the accident took your dad, I couldn’t dig holes no more, least not as deep—not unless something living was gonna come out of them.” He tousles my hair. “Come on, kid. Got something for you back at the house.”

  “A goat?”

  “Nope.”

  “One of those white tuxedos.”

  “Nope.”

  I’ve been guessing since we left the garden and I’m out of ideas. George yawns and brakes and we putter through Pierce.

  “You are the worst damn guesser I’ve ever met in my life.” He leans forward and peeks at Old Bill’s place as we pass.

  “You could end your agony. Why don’t you just—”

  “Why don’t you just shut up until we get home?”

  I chuckle and whistle a tune I can’t name. Minutes later we turn in to his drive.

  “Be right up.” I shove open the door before we come to a stop and leap out.

  “Don’t take too long down there.” George slams his door, opens it, slams it again. “I’m going to bed.”

  I throw open the storm cellar and burst into my home. Flopping onto the floor, I stretch beneath the couch until I feel the pictures I stuffed. More than my present, I want to look at him. I want to see the guy who stood up to those dock-workers. I grasp a frame, close my eyes, and yank.

  George raps hard on the ceiling.

  Look once and get up there.

  Another rap.

  But what if Old Bill is right? If I see his face, if he holds me and laughs at me, maybe pretends to drop me . . . My stomach flutters. I can’t take the laughter in his eyes.

  I jam the picture beneath the couch and jump up. “You helped out some women. But that was before me. Might not mean anything.”

  A shuffling upstairs. “Besides, I got a gift waiting.”

  It dawns on me I’ve never been on George’s level. I climb the steps, knock on the ceiling door, and push it open. I peek above George’s floorboards.

  Seated with his back to me, George rocks in his rocker.

  “Hey.” I clamor up and walk over beside him. “I figured it out. It’s a new shovel.”

  His body slumps suddenly. I lurch at his frame, haul it upright, and kneel before the chair, my hands pressing against his shoulders.

  “George, are you okay?”

  He looks through me.

  “Listen, George, what do you want me to do? I’ll work harder. Just tell me how to—no! You’re not leaving me!” I move closer, whisper, “Not you, too.”

  His eyes refocus, and his face softens.

  I swallow hard. “God, no.”

  He slowly raises a hand, strokes my cheek, and blinks hard as his purpling lips part.

  “God. Yes.”

  chapter nineteen

  SOME THINGS HAPPEN ALL BY THEMSELVES. LIKE George’s funeral. I glance around my apartment and refocus on the obits. George, my friend, is going to be buried in two days. They’ll dig a hole, slam him into the earth, mound over him, and that will be that.

  I stare at the table. “You’ll probably like being planted. ‘Everything dies before it lives’ and all those things you said.” The newspaper blurs, and I wipe my eyes. “But I don’t see a bloom.

  “Who plans funerals, anyway?”

  Maybe his boy, or one of those grandkids—certainly wasn’t my doing. Since releasing his shoulders and letting his stiffened body fall into my twitchy one, I’d made one phone call—to 911. Officer Biscuit—technically Officer Biscus—arrived first.

  “I didn’t know you were related to Old Coot,” he said.

  “Wasn’t. He was . . . my best friend.”

  As more uniforms arrived, I faded into the backdrop, faded down the stairs and onto a couch, where I hugged a shoe box I stole from the upstairs kitchen table. Seemed an okay thing to do. It wasn’t evidence from a crime scene. And George had tried to give it to me. It was as close to a gift as I could get and it belonged with me, he belonged with me. Crazy that a coot could become my closest friend in a matter of days, or that something from him mattered so much, but it did, and my gut ached.

  It still aches now, days later. The unopened box rests on the couch. It’s the last surprise from George, and the moment I open it, he’ll be gone forever.

  I scan the newspaper print. Three other people will soon be slammed into the earth. From their bios, each sounds as if they deserve a Nobel Prize.

  Faithful, Glowing, Helping, Just, Loving, Mending . . .

  To describe Eloise Kratchkin as a mending person is a stretch, but Clovis at the Mitrista Country Times has a limited vocabulary and a mighty thin thesaurus. And then there’s my friend.

  George Rankin, age 61,

  Outdoor Service Tuesday, June 29 at his home

  Burial to follow

  “Outdoor. He’d like that. But, Clovis, where’s his alphabetized list?” I blink and reread. “At his home? That’s my home, I think.”

  I set the paper down on the table and look at all the windmills on the walls. “Looks like junk on the outside, but someone will buy the place, or it’ll end up owned by a bank or whoever takes over dead folks’ stuff.” I scratch the top of the old box, fingernail the Scotch tape.

  Either way I need a home. I walk to the center of the room, lie down on the floor, and cry.

  Three hard raps. I rub my eyes, shuffle toward the sound, and open the door. An old guy in a fancy suit smiles at me from inside the cellar.

  “Not interested in what you’re selling.” I try to shut him out, but the geezer is quick, and doorstops with his toe.

  “Let me in, Jack.” He knows who I am, and I step back from the door and let the stranger hobble right into George’s house. The man is old—Mildred Moury old.

  This guy should be the one in the obits instead of George.

  He plunks his briefcase down on the table, eases off his suit coat, and seats himself. Two clicks later, papers litter my table. I look at them over his shoulder, and my leg bounces hard.

  “Are you the new owner?” I ask.

  “You are. Sit down.”

  I plunk into a chair and stare at him across the table.

  “How do you know me?”

  The old guy digs in his vest pocket and pulls out a dog-eared Polaroid of The Thinker. He squints and peers from me to the picture. “It’s you, all right.”

  He hands me the photo George took, leans forward over the table, and removes his spectacles. A gentle man, I know it.

  “I’m Michael Malley. I handle George’s legal affairs.”

  I twitch hard.

  “You look like your father,” he says.

  “It’s the twitch.”

  Mr. Malley waggles his head. “It’s the eyes. And the square jaw. Your father was a handsome fellow.”

  I don’t know what to say to that.

  “Well, young man. I had hoped I would not live to see this day—hoped George would take care of this himself.” He stops and lowers his spectacles. His chin quivers, and he smiles weakly.

  “Let’s get started. George left you some land. The plot we’re on, of course. I won’t go into its legal description. I assume you know the boundaries. And then another parcel between Pierce and Mitrista, identified as the north-by-northwest quarter . . .” He continues but I can’t make sense of the words. George left me his farm? I blink hard. Mr. Malley’s voice gets louder.

  “A piece henceforth and herein referred to as the Garden Bowl.”

  “Crap,” I whisper.

  Mr. Malley adjusts his glasses.

  “I’m—I’m sorry,” I say.

  He talks, and I sign papers for a good hour. I stare at the pages, my hand twitches, and the pen flies free of my hand.

  “Hold on,” I say, and reach down to retrieve his pen from the floor. “I’ll take care of the place for him. You know, fix it up? But I can’t afford this much property.” I dig in my pockets and slap a twenty on the table. “I only have enough money for a week’s worth of meals.
Not taxes, not the electric.”

  The lawyer glances at a document. “George has indicated that all expenses be automatically drawn from his individual account. That will continue, unless you wish to make a change. Those monies are yours as well.”

  I grunt, and he continues.

  “Based on your account balance, you should be able to live here for the next”—he punches on a calculator—“five hundred years or so.” He smiles. “Don’t worry, Jack.” Mr. Malley gathers his papers. “Now, here are the keys for the farmhouse and outbuildings.” He slides them across the table and points. “That one looks like a truck key, and here’s his garage opener. It is marked.”

  I pick it up. Zeke’s entry. I stare up at Mr. Malley. “This is the entrance to his garden.”

  “Your garden, son.”

  “So, I live here?”

  “If you want to.”

  “And he set up all this for me?”

  “Last Wednesday. Of course, we discussed matters years ago.”

  He winks, rises from the table, and walks to my door. I follow, but Mr. Malley pauses and spins around.“To think I nearly forgot.” He reaches into his breast pocket and pulls out an envelope. “George asked me to give you this. He made me swear to place this in your hands. He said you’d know what to do.”

  I grab the letter and close my eyes. It’s all I wanted. Words from him to me. Words he wrote that I can read tonight and tomorrow and every day until this pain goes away. The money, the farm—they remind me of him, but the letter is him, and a smile crosses my face.

  “Thank you, Mr. Malley.” I open my eyes and slide my finger under the fold. “Thank you so much!”

  Scrawling on the outside stops me mid-rip.

  “My number is on the card clipped to your copies. Call if you have questions.” Mr. Malley moves to let himself out, pauses in the doorway. “Do you have any clue as to what’s just been given you?”

  I tremble and shake my head and reread the words on the envelope.

  “Was that a twitch or an answer?” He grins.

  “Both,” I whisper.

  Mr. Malley looks around. “This place could not be in better hands.” He pats my back. “I’m sorry for our loss, Mr. Keegan.”

  Minutes later, I stand alone at the doorway and my eyes hold tears. Inside, I boil, because it’s not fair, and it can’t be true. I fling the letter, but it flutters to the ground at my feet.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  I listen and hear nothing. But I feel his cold hand on my cheek and see his last smile. I exhale long and slow.

  “Okay, George. I’ll deliver it for you.”

  I reach down, pluck it up, and feel incredibly stupid.

  To Naomi, my precious granddaughter . . .

  I go for a run—there’s nothing else to do. My feet pound and my mind blanks because it doesn’t make sense that I have everything I need, but can’t bring back the only thing I want.

  I miss him so much. My legs lose their will and head back to the farm.

  I do have my shoe box. Something personal could be in there. I accelerate, fly up the drive, duck into my cellar, push through my door, and beeline toward the battered box. I rip off the top and blink at its underside:

  GO, JACK!

  I claw my hands and bend the lid in two. “Go where?”

  The box is nearly empty. Squashed into the bottom rests one crumpled U.S. map.

  “Junk.” I sigh, and my shoulders twitch and slump.“Typical. Think I’d rather have a goat.” I flatten the map out on the table. Looks like you were a doodler. No surprise what you liked to draw.

  “Tall windmill, fat windmill, colorful windmill, garden-bowl windmill,” I say, and dot-to-dot my way from the first sketched mill on the map to the last.

  “And finally, windmill in water.” I frown. My finger is in California. Jerk, California. “My kind of town.” I squint at addresses written beside each drawing, dates beside each address. Next to each, more red marker: STAY HERE.

  “Whoa. You want me to go to California?” I double-check the dates. “That’s next week, you idiot.”

  George’s answer stretches from coast to coast across the bottom and covers all of northern Mexico.

  GO, JACK. IT’S TIME.

  “Yeah, heard you on the cover. But I’ve never been anywhere.”

  I plop into a chair, sigh, and lean back. “‘Go, Jack. It’s time.’ You couldn’t write anything more personal than that?”

  chapter twenty

  IT’S SUPPERTIME WHEN I REACH THE ARCHERS’ neighborhood.

  “Go, Jack, it’s time?” Seems like a stupid time. I bite my lip hard. He gives me all that crap and then wants me to hop in his truck and take off? We could have gone together if—

  “No!”

  The flowers and plants are dying.

  I leap from the truck and race to the spigot. I grab hoses and tear around the house.

  I’d have given those plants CPR if our breathers were compatible. My spray rips wilted leaves from what’s left of stems. Everywhere I turn, George dies again, and I can’t do a thing. I reach the garage and drop my hose.

  “What in the—”

  The coleus I planted thrive, except for one on the end.

  “Naomi.” I rewrap the hoses, and check myself over.

  “Every time I see her, I look alien.” I tuck in my shirt, tousle my hair, and walk over to the truck mirror to check my teeth. I grab the envelope from the passenger seat and slowly approach the house.

  My gut lurches, and I start to sweat. I don’t want to see her right now. I want to set the letter on the mat, play dingdong ditch, and take off. Because the more she sees me, the less she’ll like me, and at least this way I can dream.

  I shuffle up steps toward the massive door; only the letter in my hand keeps me moving. That and my mittens that hang from an upstairs window.

  The door opens, and Naomi grins. Every atom that floats around us speeds up and crashes together. She makes electricity, and my skin tingles. I stand gape-jawed in my soaked T-shirt and jeans and stare at her, also in a soaked T-shirt and jeans.

  “Just about gave up on you two. It looks like the plants already did.” Naomi shivers. “I was just going to lay these things outside to dry.” She runs her hand across her midriff.

  Words don’t come, so I nod.

  “Wait, your mittens. I hung them so I’d remember. I bet you want them back. Take off your boots and come in.”

  Knees lock, and I stand frozen.

  “Really, it’s okay. You’re unarmed.” She reaches out her hand, takes mine, and pulls me into her house. Fancy statues fill the home, but I can’t concentrate. I’m busy holding a hand.

  She leads me deeper inside. We pause at the base of the stairs, and my body tenses. Movements scream at me. They want out.

  Still. Easy now.

  I funnel anxiety into the shoulder opposite Naomi and let it jump. Naomi turns too quickly.

  “Never met anyone like you,” she says.

  I release her hand, and my gaze falls. I tense and brace for the other shoe. Jerky, Twitchy, Retard.

  Please just say it and let me go home!

  “Why’d you give me your mittens and your coat?”

  “Huh?” I risk a glance.

  “When you found me. You could have frozen.”

  I twitch hard, look down. “Didn’t have nothin’ else to give. Not like Jace—”

  “Jace? Oh, your friend. Yeah, he wanted to give me a ride.” Naomi puffs out air and her eyes glaze. “But he didn’t really care.”

  “Care or not, he offered to take you someplace warm.”

  Her eyes narrow, and soften. “They all do, Sam.”

  Minutes later, I hold mittens, and we walk back down the stairs. Naomi chats about some party like the incessant bird outside George’s window. And like bird talk, it makes little sense. I’m lost in replays. Never met anyone like you? They all do?

  “They” being guys, which I guess to you I’m not.
It hits. Sure. Safe-creature Sam. You talk to him like one of your girlfriends. Like a freakin’ eunuch.

  Explains all the handholding, cheek kissing, house inviting—a nonguy like me would never want to take you someplace warm.

  “ . . . Heather’s still upset about the Mitrista move, but here’s the thing. Her dad, her first and only dad, I might add, wanted to spend more time with the family. He quit his job and started working from home out there. Heather’s an idiot ’cause that’s cool. There’s an adventure, you know? I mean, just packing up and leaving because of love? What a romantic.”

  When had Heather shown up?

  “My mom, Ms. Practical, would never do that. Her idea of love is buying my way into Harvard so she can brag to her friends.” Naomi turns and stares out a window. “Not that the university is horrible. It’s just next year would be a bad year to start.” Her voice is barely a whisper. “A really bad year. I was thinking of traveling. I have two brothers in Ireland, and I’d love to see Europe.” Naomi tosses back her hair, and looks at me over her shoulder. “Not everyone goes to college just out of high school, right?”

  “I’m not.”

  “See?” She steps toward me and pauses.“But if I did, Mom’d be happy for the first time . . . ever.”

  She quiets and squirms and for an instant I feel comfortable.

  “So where’s George?” Her bounce returns, and Naomi looks at me as if we both love this chat.

  I freeze at the door, my face prickly and hot. I twitch big and ugly, and Naomi blinks.

  “There.” I raise my palms. “That’s me. That’s what I do from when I wake up until I sleep.” Suddenly I’m furious. “Don’t have choices. No Ivy League, no Europe. And Jace ain’t my friend. Think a lot of people want to hang with this?” I pick up my boots, throw open the door, and whip them toward the truck.

  “Well, one person did—George. Here!” I reach out the letter, shake it before her wide eyes.

  She licks her lips, slowly takes it, and sets it on the table beside her. “What’d I say?”

  “Nothing. I mean, everything! George is a lot more important than one of your stupid parties.”