Jasper Jones

by Craig Silvey;

  An Lu doesn’t fall down when they hit him in the face. He buckles, but he still stands. He holds his arms out, but they grab him and pull him and keep hitting him. In the body and the face.

  It’s only when I see Jeffrey and Mrs. Lu at the open doorway that I surface and scream for my dad. My father bursts out of his study. He says nothing, he just follows my gaze. My mother comes out from the bedroom in a thin nightdress, frowning and asking what the matter is. My dad peers out our window.

  Then he’s out our front door, running at them. I am so scared, but I follow him out. I’m running too. The road is still warm under my bare feet. The night is hot and still. Mrs. Lu is screaming. She’s holding Jeffrey back; he is slapping at her grip, but she’s got him firm. An Lu is on the ground now. Huddled on their front lawn. And they keep going. They hit and spit on him. Swinging and kicking. I can hear them shouting: Red rat! Fucking red rat! My father is shouting too as he runs. Demanding that they stop. But they don’t. I find myself shouting too, shrill. Other veranda lights come on. My father catches up. He’s so tall. He’s so goddamned tall. And I watch as he rips one of the men away and pushes hard at another. There’s grunting and the smacking sounds of flesh. Someone takes a swing at my dad, but he’s too swift for it. He rocks back like a boxer, lets it slide in front of him. And he’s stepping between them and An Lu, who is crawling back toward the steps on his haunches. I can hear him wheezing. My dad has one of them by the collar, a stocky younger man a head shorter than him. He’s got him at arm’s length, pressing his shirt into his throat. My dad is gritting his teeth, telling him to leave off. Amid it all, I’m shocked to note that he is the stronger of the two. The men have a dog chained to back of their truck, white with a black patch around its eye. It’s testing its tether, gnashing and barking.

  One of the other men steps in to take my dad and I yell out, but behind me, Harry Rawlings from next door has leapt the asbestos fence that divides the two yards and wraps his arms around the assailant. Harry is a broad, copper-haired truck driver and four times regional log-chop champion, and when he wrestles the wiry body to the ground, it stays down.

  “Stay there, you bastard!” Harry orders.

  The two other men have pushed back toward the truck, but another neighbor from across the road, Roy Sparkman, who is dressed in khaki workshorts and nothing else, has slipped the keys from the ignition and now walks toward the scene. There’s a strange silence that follows the cutting of the engine. The dog hushes and whimpers. I notice that almost the whole street has come alight, couples looking on from front steps, keeping their inquisitive kids indoors.

  After a brief pause, the youngest of the four men breaks away and bolts down the street. I hear Maggie Sparkman screeching and upbraiding him from across the road as he runs: “It’s not like we don’t know who y’are, James Trent! You’re a bloody disgrace! I know your mother! You should all be ashamed of yerselves!”

  The stocky man in my father’s clasp suddenly pulls away, ready to scrap, but he backs down when Harry Rawlings steps up and Roy Sparkman falls in behind. My father smooths his shirt and goes to An Lu, who is sitting on the step. Mrs. Lu, sensing it’s safe to approach, releases Jeffrey and crouches over An.

  Jeffrey, pent up and furious like I’ve never seen, takes a running dash at the wiry man on the ground, lining up a kick to his face. Mrs. Lu screams at him, holding out her arm. But Harry Rawlings moves fast and collects Jeffrey before he can fully swing his leg, lifting him up easily in a strong tackle. Jeffrey claws and flails to get free, like an angry cat, but Harry has him firm. He plants Jeffrey back on the veranda, holding his shoulders until he’s calmed down.

  “Charlie, get him inside, will you, please?” my father asks, looking up from his inspection of An Lu’s face. I tentatively approach Jeffrey, but I know I’ll never get him to move. I stand beside him, ready to hold him if he goes again. But Jeffrey Lu, who was the toast of this town just hours before, stands quietly. He breathes quickly and deeply and holds a level gaze over these men.

  The oldest of them walks back from the truck, a little unsteady on his feet. He kicks a clump of jasmine that has adhered itself to his boot. I suspect he might be drunk.

  “Give me my fuckin keys, Roy. This is none of your business.”

  “When you’re in my street, it’s my business.”

  “Strike me, you need a red star, you lot,” he sneers.

  “Fuck off,” says Harry Rawlings. “It’s not his fault you pissed away your job, you worthless bastard. It’s got nuthin to do with him.”

  “Don’t it, now? You big sack of shit. Listen to yerself. Jesus Christ, you’re all sittin on your hands. He’s involved. He’s red. He’s a red! fucking! rat!” He leans forward and spits those words at An Lu. “He’s got a fuckin card. I know it. He probably killed that young girl. Go back to Hanoi, rats.”

  Harry takes two steps and delivers a swift backhander to his jaw. The dog pulls and barks in a frenzy. I freeze. The man, Mick, keeps his head turned. He spits blood.

  “You want some more?” Harry steps up again.

  “Leave it,” warns Roy Sparkman, who tosses the keys back, hitting Mick in the chest. “Here. Piss off home. We can deal with this shit in the morning.”

  Mick snatches his keys from the grass. I’m not afraid anymore. The two other men have slunk back to the truck. Mick looks up at Harry Rawlings.

  “You just watch yourself, son. You don’t know a fuckin thing. None of youse do. You’re everythin what’s wrong with this country. Use your eyes! The rats are here and they’re breedin, mark my words. They’re fuckin breedin.”

  “Go home!” my father explodes. He stands up, tall and intimidating. He glares with real anger. And I can’t help but feel a blush of pride, seeing it. I’ve been wrong about him.

  The truck shudders to a start. The engine roars. And they tear up strips of lawn with their tires before they scream down the street. They leave a very strange silence behind them. Folks move back into their homes, ushering their kids to bed. My dad helps An Lu to his feet.

  “I’m so sorry, An,” he says.

  An Lu shakes his head and waves him away, offering a thin smile. He climbs the stairs stiffly, his wife under his arm. She’s crying. An looks shaken and hurt, but still quiet and dignified. Seeing him struggle cuts straight through me. My eyes sting and I have to look away. My dad follows as far as the door. He leans on the doorframe and says words to them that I can’t hear, but they seem comforting. I feel like I should be doing the same for Jeffrey, but I don’t know what to say. I open my mouth, but there’s nothing. I don’t have the right words in me.

  Roy Sparkman is standing with Harry Rawlings on the lawn. He calls out to Jeffrey.

  “Well batted today, kid. I didn’t see it, but I heard all about it. They tell me you’re the last ball hero, am I right? What’d you make, forty odd?”

  Jeffrey nods absently.

  “Forty-three,” I say. I don’t know why I feel the need to clarify it. Maybe I want to distract Jeffrey with his own success.

  “Forty-three!” Roy exclaims and whistles, and he seeks and holds Jeffrey’s eyes. “Well, you should be bloody proud of yourself. You keep your head up, orright? Y’hear me? You did a great thing today. And no one can take that off you. You understand?”

  Jeffrey nods. He shuffles his feet. He stays quiet, his face giving nothing away. He reminds me of An. He’s flipped a switch on himself.

  I feel my father’s hand on my shoulder. He doesn’t speak, but I know it is time for us to go. He moves past me, onto the lawn.

  Before we leave, I put my own hand on Jeffrey’s shoulder, my thumb pressing on his collarbone, trying to transmit the reassuring things I want to say. He nods and tightens his lips. He moves inside.

  The street has shut its doors. I tread heavily down the steps and meet my father, who is talking to Harry and Roy. He bids them goodnight and absently lays his arm around my shoulder. It feels comfortable and protective and I don’t mind at all.
I really don’t. And we walk all the way back to the house like that. Stunned. To be honest, I’m close to tears, and there’s something about my proximity to my father that seems to urge them further. But I blink them away and suck in air.

  At our front door, my father pauses and holds me to him. He moves away first and looks me in the eye.

  “I’m sorry you had to see that, Charlie. You okay?”

  “I don’t know. No. Not really.” I shrug and look away.

  “Well, I’m not either, if that makes you feel any better. I feel lousy,” he says.

  We stand there for a time.

  “Why did that just happen? Why would anyone do that to An?”

  My father breathes in deeply, carefully crafting a response, but he’s interrupted by my mother, who opens the door and calls us in.

  We sit at our kitchen table. It’s strange. None of us are tired. Neither do we know what to say.

  After a time, my father gets up and fusses around our drawers and cupboards. He sits back down with a pack of cards, a bottle of port, and three small glasses. My mother frowns at the third glass, but she lets it pass.

  I shuffle as he pours out three plum-colored measures. My mother gets a yellow pad and a pen. I hand the cards across and my dad deals. He hasn’t answered my question, so I ask him again.

  He sighs. “Mick Thompson is a coward and a fool. He’s a man who’s trapped in his own gutter. See, it’s those sharks in the dark again, Charlie. For some folks, it’s easier to condemn another man than have the strength to right your own wrongs. But he’ll get his one day, because for every one of him, there are a dozen Harry Rawlingses ready to stand in his way.”

  I nod, my head bowed, though I still don’t understand a thing. It doesn’t seem to be enough to fit what I’ve just seen at all. But I don’t want to press him further on it. My mother leans forward and touches my arm.

  “Don’t worry about An, Charlie. He’ll be all right. He’s strong as a bull, and so is Jeffrey.” She takes a pull of her port. “God Almighty, it’s been a torrid few weeks. I don’t know what is happening to this town.”

  I look through my hand and wait for her to sound off about Everything That’s Wrong with Corrigan, but she doesn’t. She sifts through her cards and tuts.

  “Once again, Wes, you’ve dealt me the worst hand imaginable.”

  “It matters not, dear. You’ll still somehow engineer an impossible victory,” he says.

  “I think not, dear. You’re not sitting where I am. These cards are about as useful as a chocolate teapot. I can’t do a thing. You’re not dealing anymore. You’re banned.”

  And so we sit and play canasta until it’s late. It’s hot, and there’s plenty of banter, and things are remarkably civil. Our kitchen fan whirrs and stirs above us. I take tentative sips at my port, feeling like I’m getting away with something.

  Just as my father predicted, my mother still beats the pants off us. She’s crafty and relentless at cards, especially canasta. My dad always lays his melds too early, and I never seem to get the right cards when I need them. But my mother is uncanny. She always hoards her hand, cursing her luck, giving nothing away until she suddenly presents her columns in one satisfied flurry, grinning.

  My dad and I groan as she neatly lays down her last card. She reaches for the pen and the tally.

  “Add em up, boys,” she gloats.

  “How does she keep doing this to us, Charlie?”

  “Because I’m brilliant. And I have fine instincts.”

  “I think she cheats,” my dad says to me, shielding his mouth with his hands and winking.

  “If you sorry lot ever became a threat, maybe then I’d consider being underhanded. But I’ve got no need to bend the rules. It’s like shooting fish in a barrel.”

  “You know,” I say quietly, lifting my glass of port, “I never understood why you would ever feel the need to shoot the fish in the barrel. I mean, they’re in a barrel, you’ve already caught them. The hard work’s done, they can’t escape. So if you want them dead, just drain the water out. Why bring guns into it?”

  My dad laughs.

  “See, Ruth, this is why the boy is going places. It’s a fair point. And one worth remembering, should you ever encounter a man pointing a rifle over an open barrel of trout.”

  “Drain the water, save your bullets,” I say, shrugging.

  “It’s an expression,” says my mother. “You two aren’t right in the head. Anyway, give me your scores.”

  We read out our numbers. I know that my dad just made his up, and I smile in collusion. When my mother writes, her tongue presses out the side of her mouth. It makes her look girlish. She whistles at the scores on the pad.

  “You’re on a train with no brakes, gentlemen.”

  “Come on, Charlie,” says my dad. “We need to put a halt on this loose caboose. It’s not over yet. The Good Luck Express over here has got to run out soon.”

  “Luck?” my mother exclaims. “It’s skill. Don’t be so obstreperous.”

  “Obstreperous?”

  “Obstreperous.”

  We all smile. It’s nice, I guess. It’s obvious that we’re all trying to make each other feel better. I wonder if they’re playing canasta at Jeffrey’s house. Probably not. I hope he’s okay. I feel like knocking on his window like Jasper Jones.

  My mother cocks her head, biting her lip.

  “Gentlemen, I’ve got some devastating news.” She starts laying down her cards in columns with a smirk. We both groan and lean back.

  “Already? You’re ruthless as a sack of snakes.”

  “Add em up,” she says, reaching for the pad.

  “I don’t think there’ll be any need.” My dad tosses his cards onto the table. “This spells the end for us, Charlie. Time to surrender. We’ve been plundered. To bed with ye.”

  I get up. And as I do, there are sudden Gatling gun pops on our roof. We all flinch and look up. It’s raining. Slow, then a heavy barrage. Fat silver sheets of it. I can see it through the kitchen window. It silences us for a time.

  “Hell’s bells,” says my father. “It’s really coming down.”

  My mother unlatches our windows to let the cool air in. The roar of the rain gets louder, and a sheet of white flashes.

  Thunder erupts soon after, and it startles my mother. She clutches at the back of my father’s chair.

  “Christ Almighty,” she says. “That’s it! That’s enough. I’m going to bed. Night, Charlie.”

  My father clears the table, and I stand and set my chair.

  “You all right?” he asks, pausing.

  I nod, but I’m not really. Not at all.

  I don’t know how my parents can distance themselves from what just happened out there so easily. How they can put a lid on their outrage and bang it shut. I keep thinking of An Lu being held steady by his wife, trying to stay level and dignified. And Jeffrey. For the first time in his life he looked defeated, and it was on the first day in his life he’d bloody won. I don’t know. Maybe there’s something wrong with me. There has to be. Because it feels as though there’s something squeezing my heart and I can’t breathe properly and I just want to lie down and think of how soft and warm Eliza Wishart felt today, but even that’s displaced by her face when she cried, her wet dimples, the creases at her eyes. She told me she wasn’t a good person, and I countered it with nothing. Because I’m an idiot. I didn’t say any of those things I’d always meant to tell her, the hundreds of words I’d scribbled in preparation. I stayed quiet. I didn’t stand up for her. Whereas my father tonight, he proved me wrong. He stood up for something. He really did. And I was so impressed, so awed to see him lean in with that kind of aggression. But not even that stays in me unchecked; there’s a low dog with its teeth in my shirt, hassling and tugging and pulling me down with the insistent thought that it wasn’t enough, that it would never ever be enough.

  Because Jeffrey Lu was a hero today and when he got to the top they dragged him back to the bottom. Th
ey showered him with shit. They made him feel like rubbish when he should be kite-high.

  Because those men struck his father, over and over, and they destroyed something beautiful. And nothing will ever happen to them.

  Because a girl goes missing in this town and it’s Jasper Jones who is held and threatened and belted for days, but somehow those monsters will arouse no suspicion.

  Because now Jasper Jones has to leave Corrigan before it breaks him. And I have to go with him, knowing what I know, having done what I’ve done, feeling as I do.

  Because Laura Wishart is dead. She was beaten and hanged. Maybe by Jack Lionel. Maybe by those men. And we took the rope from her neck and wrapped it around her ankles. We tied her to a stone and we threw her in the water and we sunk her.

  And because Eliza Wishart will hate me if she ever finds out what I did to her sister after she died. She’ll never clutch my arm or lean on my shoulder. I will have kissed her for the last time. But I still feel the need to tell her. To unburden us both. To assure her I tried to do the right thing. To etch that word.

  Oh, I’ve got myself into trouble. I know they’re coming for me. The blue suits, the dragonflies in the sky. It’s the waiting that’s the worst. I can feel something slowly closing in, a slow choke. An ambush. And I don’t want to be alone with this.

  It’s pissing down now, blanketing our house. And heavy as I am, the snow dome won’t settle. Perhaps it never will.

  “Good night,” I say.

  ate in the morning on New Year’s Eve, Jeffrey Lu is declaring his intention to master the One-Inch Punch.

  “You have a one-inch what?”

  “You’re an idiot. The One-Inch Punch. It’s karate. It’s Bruce Lee. He introduced it to the greater martial arts community. Jeffrey Lu is going to make it famous.”