Jerk, California

by Jonathan Friesen

  People walk by, frown and stare, but for the first time I don’t give a rip.

  Hours pass and the sun scorches. I slump down, and my head feels heavy. Vision doubles, sharpens again.

  “Well, guys, if you don’t mind, I’m going to take a little nap.”

  I dream of working with George. Dad’s there, too. We squeeze into the old truck, drive to a fancy house, and unload flowers. George and Dad joke and laugh and we all take shovels and start to dig. We dig deep, I think too deep. Dad puts down his shovel and leaps into the hole. George strokes my cheek and does the same.

  I race to the edge and look down. Nobody’s there.

  “No!” The gravelly voice is my own. I try and sit but Naomi presses me down onto the front seat of the Chevy.

  “Here’s some water.” She raises my hand. My lips quiver, touch the glass. Water streams down my cheeks and neck.

  “Sorry,” she says, and wipes my face.

  I blink and focus. Naomi comes clear. She wears her unreadable face.

  “You’ve been talking a lot. You never told me that you were seeing things—you know, your dad.” She bites her lip, but it isn’t the cute bite, it’s a worried bite and comes with a frown.

  “Just dreaming. That’s all it was this time.” I breathe deep and reach for water. “Dad’s different than I thought, Nae.”

  “You’ve told me that.” Naomi says. There’s a distance in her voice, as if she talks about a stranger, but it doesn’t matter right now.

  “My grandma, you know. She’s waitin’ at the end of this trip. I can get all my questions answered.”

  “I know that, too.” She sets down my cup and strokes my head. But something’s not right.

  She helps me sit up, and climbs over me into the driver’s seat. I’m beat but I feel close to a big thing. I slump down.

  “Why is it that when things go good for me, when I get close to Dad, you get all different.”

  She looks at me and I can’t tell if she cries or my eyes water.

  “Because he’s dead.” She takes her hands off the wheel and whispers, “And I’m not.”

  Her words hit like a Minnesota October. There’s no green, everything’s brown, and it’s cold enough for a pretty coat of white, but snow won’t fall. The world feels stuck, stuck and cold and dead.

  “He don’t seem so dead anymore. Besides, what does he have to do with you?”

  She folds her arms and pulls her legs up against her body.

  “Why don’t you ask him?” she whispers.

  I have nothing to say to that and my eyes fall closed.

  “We’re here.” Naomi’s voice is soft, and I straighten and rub my eyes. The sun shines. She drove all night.

  “You got to be tired,” I say. “I am and I didn’t drive.”

  Naomi points to a green sign.

  JERK POPULATION 468

  The string of large houses that makes up the town of Jerk sits high on a hill. The address I want hangs on the last mailbox in that string, before the road winds down toward the ocean, which I hear. I close my eyes and it sounds like a snowstorm. Though rhythmic, it’s just as wild.

  We park at the bottom of a long driveway. I get out and stretch.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?” I say. “But I don’t see any windmill, do you?”

  Naomi steps out, grabs me, and tugs me up the driveway. “Whatever.” Her hand squeezes my forearm hard, and her body moves quickly—not the smooth walk I know.

  “Naomi.” I stop, and she jerks back and exhales hard. “I’ve been thinking a lot about my dad.”

  “Oh, really,” she says, and pulls forward, but I don’t budge.

  “And you’ve gone along with it and that’s great. But I screwed up. Again. ’Cause your deal is hard on you, and alone sucks, and you’re gonna need . . .” I look her straight in the eyes. Her gaze falls to the ground.

  “I’m still here,” I say.

  She steps back, and I know she’s thinking hard, too. “You just . . . you forget about me sometimes. It feels like I could lose you.” She watches me. She’s trying to see inside.

  I nod. “You haven’t lost me.”

  She flings herself at me. I catch her and hug her and lift her off the ground.

  “I need all of you, Sam.”

  Her words make me wince and both arms tense. I’m suddenly angry. I want to kick something hard and I don’t know why. I repeat her phrase in my mind and gently set her down.

  “What was that you just said?”

  “I said I need all of you.” Naomi bows her head. “Sounds pretty desperate. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to smother you.”

  I exhale hard. The second time she said it, it felt different. More dumb than aggravating.“Yeah, that wasn’t your best line. But I don’t think that’s exactly what you said the first time.”

  “It is.” She steps closer. “I’m not stupid, Sam Carrier, so—”

  I hold up my hand. The fire burns again.

  “That’s it! No more.”

  Naomi steps back.

  “It’s my name.” I slap both hands on top of my head. “Sam is not it. A thief stole ‘Jack’ and gave me ‘Sam’ and I’m sick of it.” I pump my fists and laugh hard. It’s a full, angry, excited laugh, and sounds strange coming from my mouth. It’s a bursting laugh, full of so many feelings I don’t try to sort them out.

  “And I don’t want it anymore!” I turn and tug at my shirt. “I’m ripping it off right now.”

  Naomi’s eyes are big and I laugh again. “George was right. It’s Jack. No more Sam.” I step nearer. “Will you do that for me? I need you to call me by my name. Only my name.”

  Naomi gently cries but doesn’t look away. She steps toward me. “Sam always comes back. He never leaves me.” Naomi reaches up and strokes the back of my neck. “I don’t know this Jack.”

  “Trust him,” I whisper.

  She nods and closes her eyes and leans in to my arms. “Okay . . . Jack Keegan.”

  chapter forty-two

  THE FRONT DOOR FLIES OPEN AND AN OLDER woman steps out, squints.

  Naomi releases me, turns, and wipes her eyes with her palm.

  “Hello.” I step forward and stop. The woman doesn’t look anything like me. Maybe the old lady in Hillsboro was delirious.

  “Are you expecting me?” I ask.

  The woman opens her mouth. Nothing comes out. Her body crumples against the door frame, and it looks like she’s going down.

  “You okay?” I jump toward her.

  “Stop,” she says quietly. “Please. Let me look at you.”

  She folds her arms and gently rocks. The woman stares at me, and I stare back. A slight twitch works her eyes, and she blinks hard.

  “My name is Jack Keegan.”

  “I know!” She rushes me and smothers with her hug. “You have James’s voice.” She cries into my chest, and I peek at Naomi, who shrugs. “George, that rascal! I thought it was a joke. So much time has passed since your second birthday, and I’d given up seeing you.”

  She steps back. “Hello, Naomi.”

  Naomi cocks her head and furrows her brows.

  “Oh, I’ve been hearing about you for years.” She looks back at me. “And I’ve waited a lifetime for you to visit.”

  My stomach is hollow, like an old, dead log. I should feel full, because I’m here. I made it; this is my grandma. But I’m scared of what she knows—what was kept from me for sixteen years.

  This woman sighs. “Do you even know my name?”

  “Yes.”

  “If you knew how many letters that hideous man sent back to me unopened, how often I tried to call.” Francine closes her eyes, nods, and lifts her hands to her face. “Tell me you received at least one letter. Tell me Lydia told you something.”

  I shake my head. I want to say more, but I don’t know how to talk to a relative and words come hard.

  She bursts into more tears. “You have to believe that I tried.”

  I watch her cry and think
of where I am and the dam breaks. “I know you did. Guess now that I’m here, you’ll have to tell me what you wrote in all those letters. At least the good stuff.”

  She takes off her glasses and wipes her eyes. “I’d love to.” My grandma reaches out her hand. I grab it with my left and squeeze Naomi’s with my right. I inhale the same air my father breathed, exhale all my butterflies, and we step inside.

  Three items fill Francine’s house—plants, watercolor paintings, and pictures of guys. One of them is me. Me as a baby. Me running down the street. Me caught in the middle of a twitch. I’m surrounded by myself, and I plop down onto the couch. Dad is everywhere, too. The other guy is in black-and-white.

  “That’s your grandpa.” Francine catches me looking. She glances around. “Handsome group of men, isn’t it?”

  I smile and nod.

  “Now, where’s that Old Coot?” she asks. “I was sure he’d come with you.”

  My smile goes away—I can feel it. “He was sitting there.” I peek at Naomi. “Then he wasn’t.”

  Francine looks to Nae, and then back to me. She pales and slowly shakes her head. Her eyes close tight.

  “Yes.” The word barely squeezes out of her. She stands and leaves the room.

  “That was his last word, too,” I whisper.

  I open my eyes. Don’t know how long I’ve slept, but it is black outside the window.

  Francine’s feet appear on the steps, and she walks toward the love seat, steadies herself against the armrest. “Have you driven far?”

  “Las Vegas this morning,” I say.

  “All today? You must be tired. What can I make for you to eat?”

  “I’m good.” I push up off the couch and stretch. “And I’m not tired now. Naomi, how about you?”

  She sits in a big armchair, knees tucked beneath her chin, like they’ve been for hours. “Same.” She smiles weakly at me.

  Naomi’s gone again. She looked happy hours ago but now she’s gone. I lean over and try to catch her gaze, but she’s lookin’ through stuff. How can I take care of her if I don’t know where she is?

  “There’s so much I want to hear, but I suppose it can wait.” Francine smiles. “I’ll get your rooms ready.” She looks at Naomi. “I’m so glad you’re both here.”

  She walks toward the armchair, leans over, and kisses Naomi’s forehead. Francine straightens, turns, and takes one step. Then she freezes, her back to us.

  “Was it his heart?”

  “Guess so.” I say.

  “Was he alone?”

  My shoulder jumps. I shake my head. “No. He crumpled into my arms.”

  Francine looks toward the ceiling. Then she turns, clears her throat, and walks toward me. “Bless you.” She hugs me again.

  “I’ll see to those rooms. Feel free to walk down to the ocean. Your dad used to love the ocean at night. When he was young, we’d spend hours staring at the water.” She pauses, whispers. “When he was young.”

  I raise eyebrows. Naomi nods and stands.

  “Yeah,” I say, and wonder about Dad and Francine. I glance at the Tourette’s so evident in Francine’s face. I should thank her for letting us stay and being so kind, but her face makes me embarrassed of my own and I look away. I think about it all the way to the door.

  I take one more look at the pictures of my dad.

  Were you embarrassed, too?

  chapter forty-three

  THE BEACH ISN’ T FAR, BUT THE ROAD WINDS STEEP and narrow through thick trees and feels more made for mountain goat than car. It levels, and we step out into deep sand. A moon, waves that smash against jutting rocks, and forever water steal my words. We pad toward the shoreline and stand shoulder to shoulder in silence.

  But inside, my mind tosses, because now is a good time to say whatever I want to say. And what I want to tell Naomi is that I like her. Maybe that’s dumb. Maybe she already knows because she seems to know a lot of things before I say them.

  But not lately. Not since Dad showed up. Since then maybe she wonders, and I’ve wondered a little, too. Standing here, I think I’m sure. It’s a good time to say it aloud.

  “Why do you think my grandpa wanted you to come here?” Naomi says.

  My mouth is already half open to tell her my important thing.

  “Don’t know.”

  Naomi nods, and she takes my hand. It feels like her hand again, the gentle one. But she doesn’t hold on for long. She kicks off her thongs, throws back her hair, and looks at me like she used to. And runs. A steady jog away from me.

  I wait until she turns her head. When she does, I give chase.

  Moonlight shimmers off the water and lights Naomi’s figure in glints of yellow. I could catch up, but tonight following feels right. My gaze shifts from sandy footprints to her form.

  I’ll tell her when she stops.

  I jump a piece of driftwood and land in a footstep. Looks like a size thirteen, my size, probably his size. I pull up and shake my head.

  “Dad?” I’m going crazy.

  “Jack?” Naomi runs back, grinning. “Can’t catch me anymore?”

  I point to the sand and blink. Only Naomi’s prints.

  “No. I guess I can’t,” I say.

  “You’re tired from the drive.”

  I walk back to the driftwood and plunk myself down.

  “Probably more than I thought,” I say.

  She sits beside me, and we listen to the waves. Again, I want to tell her my important thing, but now I want to say more. I want to tell her that I like Jess, too; and though I’ve never spoken to Naomi’s child, the kid matters, like family matters. It’s not Jess’s fault that the dad’s an idiot, or that Naomi has fancy school plans. The baby is small and helpless and just needs Naomi to say “I love you” and tell the truth.

  I breathe deep. “You can’t hide Jess from your mom forever. I mean, look at my dad. I ran from him and he turned out pretty good. It’ll be tough with your mom, but I’ll bet you could face her. Heck, if you wanted to, I think you could even raise this baby.”

  It’s not even close to what I wanted to say, but I thought it, and Tourette’s fired it out.

  She jumps up and sprints off, her footfalls quickly swallowed by the waves.

  “Good job, Jack.” I sigh and trudge back down the beach. “Probably should have stuck with ‘I like you.’”

  We’ll patch it up back at Francine’s.

  The sea is hypnotic. Though night is normally horrible for twitches, this evening my muscles are at peace. I arrive at Francine’s driveway out of breath from the climb, but calm clear through. Still, something feels wrong. I look around, pat my pockets, and waggle my head.

  “The Chev.”

  I stand on the spot where we parked the beauty.

  Naomi’s gone. It’s a heavy absence. She won’t come back tonight, or tomorrow, and I wonder if she will at all. There’s nothing I can do but feel, and thick emptiness pushes my rib cage from the inside out.

  I’m alone. Everyone’s left me or died. And it’s not fair, not anymore. I don’t deserve it. Because I’m not dumb or retarded. My hand tenses, and I nod. My name is Jack Keegan, my dad is James. He’s proud of me.

  I reach the door, bend down, and pick up the note—the one from her.

  I’m sorry.

  Living parents are harder to face than dead ones.

  I fold the note carefully and slip it into my back pocket. I’m sorry for many things, too. And I never told Naomi how much I like her.

  “I never met anyone like George.” Francine smiles and hands me a lightbulb. The chair I’m on creaks as I take the bulb and reach way into her ceiling fan. My arm jerks, catches a cord, and starts the blades spinning.

  Francine laughs. I chuckle, then screw in the bulb.

  “While I’m here, anything else I can do?” I ask.

  “Sit down.”

  I recline on the couch while Francine takes Naomi’s big green chair. Pads of paper and watercolor paint cover the coffee table bet
ween us, and Francine reaches for paper, tray, and brush. She lays the paper across her lap, looks at me, and squints as if she’s trying to find something.

  “You’re as bad as George.” I say, “He takes my picture, you paint it.”

  She puts down her brush. “Not that old Polaroid.”

  I nod.

  “Oh, he loved that thing. Carried it around everywhere.” She smiles and splashes streaks of color on her small canvas. “Why did you come, Jack?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Is that true?”

  I pause. “George asked me to. I’d talked myself out of it, but then Naomi showed up and—” I run a hand through my hair. “She changed my mind.”

  Francine keeps painting. “I think it’s wonderful. My grandson and George’s granddaughter.” She frowns at her brush, grabs another. “Where did she go to so early?”

  I say nothing.

  “When will she return?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Did you fight?” She raises an eyebrow and peeks at me.

  The conversation is turning a direction I don’t want to go, but Francine’s questions are hypnotic like the ocean, and I can’t stop.

  “I said stupid stuff. She took off.”

  “I hope she has a shorter memory than your father,” she says. Francine’s eyes glaze, and she stares over my head. Her brush wanders aimlessly over her pad—back and forth—and turns vibrant color into black streaks.

  chapter forty-four

  “WOULD YOU LIKE TO TRY?” FRANCINE HOLDS UP A brush. She looks down at her black-streaked painting and sighs. “More black streaks.”

  I shrug and take the brush from her hand.

  We set up in her sunroom. It’s huge, with hardwood floors and wall-to-wall windows. The ocean view is incredible, and we stand our easels side by side.

  “How do I do this?” I ask.

  “No directions, just paint with me.”

  I dab a little red on my brush, make a pinkish dot on the corner of the canvas. Beside me, Francine goes crazy with color—she has a brush in both hands. She’s a wild woman, splotching and streaking until little white remains.