Love & Darts (9781937316075)

by Jones, Nath

  “She was looking forward to seeing that boy's college years. She never got to go.”

  “How could a child do that to his mother? I couldn't go on living if one of my boys, or even Frank, passed on.”

  “Frank’s not going anywhere.”

  “No. I guess not.”

  The women were facing each other in the line, talking more quietly now about the specifics. It wasn't right, and they knew it. The red-haired woman was facing the coffin with her arms crossed across her chest again. The fat woman looked over the red-haired woman’s shoulder with an eye on the back door.

  “A shotgun? Really? I didn't know that. I thought his brother lived in Utah somewhere.”

  “He does. Well. Wyoming. But he left his gun at home. His grandfather gave it to him when he turned sixteen. He wanted it to stay nice. It's an antique. Frank was real impressed when I told him what it was, but I forget now.”

  “That's one thing that I made Jim listen to. I said, 'No guns in the house.' You can see what can happen.”

  The fat woman saw a group of tall teenage boys come through the door together. She watched them all sign the guest book and mill around together. Presumably, they were five of the six starters from the high school basketball team. She recognized one of them as the younger brother of one of her son's friends. They looked so defeated. She couldn't watch. Young men are not supposed to be defeated. She moved herself around in line with the red-haired woman, and they faced the coffin side by side. There were still several people in front of them to greet the mother and pay their respects at the coffin. The fat woman was nervous. “Well, he did it out in the back barn.”

  “He was probably afraid Marion would crucify him herself if he got blood on that precious white carpet of hers.”

  “Oh, you are awful.” Their conversation gained momentum. Together, with little words, they kept death at bay. It was hard work. They gave it their full attention, unconsciously.

  “You’d never laugh as hard if you'd seen Michael when Marion told him to take off his shoes when we went over there to play bridge last fall. I laughed out loud. I have never seen that man without shoes in all the years we've been married. And here's Marion with that little flippant hair of hers telling my husband to take off his shoes.:

  “Did he?”

  “Of course! He had to. But we stopped playing bridge after that, except on holidays with my mom and dad.”

  “Oh, Lord. That is funny. With some of Frank's socks I would be embarrassed to have him take his shoes off.” The people in front of the woman moved forward. They did not. The people behind them moved in closer. The women inched forward with the tiniest high-heeled steps.

  “Oh, I know it. Especially walking on that white carpet she's got. It is pretty.”

  “Well, white carpet or not I would still rather have my son alive. Did you hear anything about why he did it?”

  “Just bits and pieces. One of the kids had a friend who actually read the note he left.”

  “I didn't hear there was a note.”

  “Well, there was, and apparently it was about how he couldn't stand to watch his dreams become his friend's realities or something like that. All those years of dreaming big to watch other kids be able to pick up that stuff like it was nothing.”

  “Strange. How tall was he anyway?”

  “Oh, I don't know; something like six-four. I'm not really sure. Michael would know.”

  “That basketball scholarship was only for tuition, and at a school that size, the cost of the dorm room and the books is more than twice what my youngest son pays for community college up north.”

  The fat woman had remembered the five boys. She glanced back at them in the line without really turning her head. Two of them were laughing and pushing against each other. The other three stood in a triangle with their feet and shoulders in line. All three left their hands forgotten behind them. They waited patiently as if the national anthem was about to start. Her eyes filled with fat tears and she replied with a a shaky voice, “Oh. How is he doing? Community college, you say?” She cleared her throat and coughed into a torn-up tissue.

  “Pretty good. He has that girlfriend of his, still, and they are living together now. Michael is not at all pleased, but she's on the Pill so she shouldn't be getting pregnant anytime soon. So I just keep my mouth shut and pray as much as I can.” She wanted a cigarette.

  “Oh. Well, bless your heart. I know I have been praying for Marion ever since I heard about this. So he wasn't going to take the scholarship then?”

  “No. He would have had to work for his father, contracting.”

  “That's not so bad. Both my oldest boys did that for a few summers and made quite a bit of money.” She was crying now.

  The red-haired woman opened her purse and dug through it for a Kleenex. She did not look at the fat woman. “You know how they are at that age. Nothing is good enough. And plus remember that it wasn't just for a summer. This would have been a more permanent situation. He was just too proud for his own good.” She pulled a wrinkled tissue out of a plastic package and handed it to the fat woman. “You should take what you are given and be thankful, if you ask me. I did, and I have been.”

  “I suppose. Still—”

  “Oh well, I agree. It certainly is not cause to shoot yourself in the roof of the mouth.” Too loud; way too loud. The people around them in line shifted uncomfortably. “He worked so hard to get away. His family still didn't have the money.”

  “His father must be devastated.” She pushed her eyeliner back in place.

  “Well, sure. My God, that boy was his life. There was just the two boys, you know, and with the one off in Wyoming. I think they have other children, but just the two boys. That construction business has been going downhill ever since he started it, and I am sure this thing isn't going to do much for it.”

  “Maybe people will feel sorry for him and start coming.”

  “Well sure, at first, but then it will drop away to less than before.” The arms were crossed over her chest again. The bra strap was almost to her elbow. Too many eyes were watching from behind her to fix it now. She really wanted a cigarette.

  “I guess you're right. What kind of business is it, now?”

  “He's a contractor. Builds farm buildings. Sheds, or whatever else.”

  The fat woman sensed irritation. “Oh. Right. Silly me. I still can't get over how long this receiving line is.”

  “We should have come an hour ago while people were still eating dinner.” The skinny woman was irritated that the fat lady had been late.

  Apologetically, “I just now got away. Frank's daughter from his first marriage has been visiting with her little girl.”

  “Has she? Now who is she married to?”

  “Well, she's not. The guy ditched out on her. You know how they are.”

  “Of course I do. That's why Michael and I are so worried about our youngest living with this girl. Michael would absolutely die if one of our boys left a girl in a way. You know, that's how we got married.”

  “Really? I hadn't known that.”

  “Yes, I was two months pregnant before we even got married. No one knew.”

  “Of course not.” Everyone had known, but it is important to protect yourself.

  “But see, that’s just it. Michael stayed, and he married me. And I know that's what he'd have his boys do.” She would have added, “Damn fools that they are,” but her eyes landed on the coffin and her words got tangled in a gasp.

  “That was the old days, and Frank's poor daughter just got left. She's doing all right, and really, from what I have heard, this guy wasn't too good for her anyway. Still, it's someone to watch the kid for an hour so you can get away. Now I wasn't pregnant when I got married, but I was still pretty young. Frank was so much older, and he'd already been married. My parents just had a fit.” The fat woman was licking the tissue and trying to fix her eye makeup. She noticed the red-haired woman wasn't really listening to her. “Well, anyway.”


  “We're getting closer.”

  “Yes.”

  “Marion looks nice, doesn't she?”

  “She’s a god damned angel.”

  “That’s a bit extreme. All you see is the contrast. Without it, she’s nothing special. Just one of us. Look. It’s that dark hair she's got against her pale skin. It looks nice with the dark dress. She does have cute hair. I can never tell if it's brown or red.”

  “It's lovely.”

  “I couldn't wear my hair short. I would look like a chipmunk. I'd rather keep it long and put it up every day like I do.”

  “She can get away with it because she’s got a slender face.”

  “She does.”

  “Marion.”

  “Thank you so much for coming.”

  “The flowers are gorgeous.”

  “I have never seen so many flowers.”

  “Most of my family is out west. They couldn't make it. Weather and holiday traffic at the airports. So the flowers are from them mostly.”

  The red-haired woman wondered how many families from out west travel extensively on Valentine’s Day. “They’re gorgeous.”

  Marion looked stunned. “Did you sign the guest book?”

  The fat woman said, “I sure did.”

  “I will as I leave.”

  “Good.”

  “They are beautiful.”

  “So colorful.”

  “Yes.”

  The fat woman said, “Marion, we've both been praying so much. You will never be forgotten.”

  And the red-haired woman, the one who lived over on Fourth Street after she left her husband, after the night she broke out his back window when she found out how much he’d lost at the OTB by the interstate, agreed, “Oh yes, I haven't stopped praying since I heard.”

  “Well, thank you both so much. You know it really does help. It's so hard, but the thoughts are special and help so much.”

  “The wood is very pretty. Is that cherry?”

  “I am not sure. It's the one he had here that we liked best. The others seemed suited to old folks more, you know.”

  “Well, good reason. You don't usually have teenagers dying at your house.”

  The three women stood stock-still pretending no shotgun had gone off, pretending no high school kid’s mouth wrapped around any double-barreled shotgun, pretending no toe of his boot finally pressed the trigger back far enough, pretending that the back of his skull hadn’t gotten blown across the barn, pretending no fathers ever found any sons dead.

  It was the redheaded woman’s responsibility to stop them all from thinking anything. She knew it. “It's nice that it’s a closed casket.”

  Marion nodded. “They said it had to be. After we identified him, that was enough.”

  “Oh.”

  “Well. We will pray for you, Marion.”

  “Thanks for coming. It means so much.”

  The women fled down the aisle the same way the little girl and her brother had. Safe in the back of the parlor, they leaned in. The fat woman fumbled into her coat and the red-haired woman located her cigarettes and lighter in her purse.

  “Oh shit, I can’t believe I said that.”

  The fat woman tied a scarf under her chin. “I know. It was pretty bad, but don't worry about it. She is totally in shock.”

  “Dear soul.” The lighter didn't work. She chucked it back into the purse and hoped for a forgotten book of matches at the bottom.

  “Just sign the guest book. Let's get out of here.”

  “Sign for me. I need a cigarette.”

  “I signed when we came in and had no idea what to say. Plus, the pen wouldn’t hardly work. Just leave it.” Out of what was meant to be taken for a high-end crystal ashtray the fat woman picked up a gold book of matches with the name of the funeral home stamped on it in black and handed it to the red-haired woman. “All right then. It’s been so good to see you. Sorry it’s been so long. I know you called.”

  “Don’t worry about it. We had a nice little chat right here tonight, huh?” She grabbed the matches and lit her cigarette on the threshold.

  The fat woman held the door for her. “Sure.”

  “Say hello to Frank for me, would you?” The red-haired woman took a few thankful drags and looked up at the gray sky. She stamped her heels on the sidewalk to warm up a little. The red pickup was waiting at the curb. The fat woman was already making her way toward it.

  “Of course. Same to Jim.”

  “Jim and I broke up twenty-five years ago. You know that. It’s Michael now. But. Will do.”

  “I knew that. Sorry.”

  “It’s not like we’ve been out much. Don’t apologize.”

  “Why not? It’s the only thing I’m good at.” The fat woman laughed and opened the door of the truck carefully and climbed in. The truck leaned toward the curb. She closed the door quickly before it got stuck. She cracked the window of the truck and said to the woman on the sidewalk with a smile, “And keep those socks clean.”

  The red-haired woman waved back. She tried to think of something to say. She could not. The tears came instead. No real reason. They had good lives. Worthwhile lives. She wanted to yell at that stupid kid, and then she wanted to join him. Such a shitty small little nothing nowhere town. No one would miss her, really. Her kids didn’t give a shit. Couple of pains in the ass after all she’d been through for them. But. No. Muster that smile for your friend. Don’t flinch when you see her husband’s arm reach out behind her back. Don’t stop breathing when the pickup truck eases off on its way with the fat lady grinning and waving out the window. Don’t get bitter. Just let the cigarette fall into the wet gutter from the height of a tall-as-you-can-ever-extend redheaded hand-wave.

  PIETA

  Solutions come easily when you cradle your dead son on your lap. More strict less strict understanding tolerant easygoing lots of hugs. There aren't any gray areas anymore. I know what I should have done for Jason, what I could have done for him. But it wasn't so easy when he came home drunk, so self-righteous, and so full of hard-edged life. I’d never admit it. Not even to my husband, Dan, but in my mind I called my son Genghis Khan. Because to have this massively disrespectful adult-sized child in my kitchen, with my collections of Longaberger baskets and antique swan figurines, was just beyond comprehension. I got so sick of his back talk. I wanted to beat the insolent belligerence out of him. Don't get me wrong; I never hit my child, but I did as much with words. Well not me, exactly. My husband was the enforcer.

  I never questioned it. Because other people's children tiptoe in and try to sleep off their beers. Not my son. Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, curfews didn’t matter. He’d come into the house with an armload of empty beer bottles and dump them in my kitchen trash can. He never got sick; just wanted to eat. Invariably he’d cook something. Two in the morning and he’d have half the kitchen torn apart trying to make scrambled eggs or grilled cheese and bacon. Never anything simple like a bowl of cereal.

  Upstairs I’d roll over and fret. My mind was in a constant tizzy about whether we should have done more of this or that. Everything that seemed like it might have been a mistake replayed to haunt me. Regret is not a strong enough word. I was dismantled. Night after night the world I tried to build came down. And it was never meant to be a dungeon for him, never a cell he was sentenced to as punishment. I wanted a fortress just to protect him, to keep him safe, to give him a chance. Because I knew no one would understand. People wouldn’t love him like I did if they knew the truth. Maybe we’d been keeping secrets from him about some part of life he should have understood. But how could he know anything about what I did? He wasn’t even born.

  But that kid picked up on something. When he’d come home all clattering beer bottles like that, it’s not that Dan and I weren't already awake waiting for him every time. We were usually in bed each pretending the other might be sound asleep. After twenty minutes of listening to dishes break and cans of corned beef hash fall on the tile, to the fauce
t running to overflowing and him banging around into everything, it was like a pattern. I’d say, “Maybe I should just go down and make him a real meal.” Only after my suggestion did the man I married ever say, “No. No. You get some sleep, dear.”

  No one knew. Jason didn’t look much different than his brother. But. Oh God. What I wouldn’t do to have those three weeks of my life back. Dan forgave me, let me come home, and that was it. We moved on with our lives. Did everything we could for both our sons.

  But Dan operated from this frightening sense of honor about the whole thing. So those nights when Jason came home drunk, when I was about to get up and go down to him, maybe even sit with him long enough to tell the whole story, my husband always did what he thought was the right thing. Dealt with it for me, you know? So he’d pat me and go downstairs. Exactly the same way every time. “No. No. You get some sleep, dear.” And then two taps like I might have been a Labrador.

  And that was it. Dan kicked off the covers, muttered, swore a bit to me, and went downstairs. He always started in on him the same way. “Damn it, Jason. Your mother is trying to sleep. What the hell do you think you're doing actin’ a fool in my house? Are you drunk?”

  Now even if me and my husband had a routine upstairs Jason had two different responses. He’d either laugh hysterically and go right on bumpin’ into things, or he’d fly into an uncontrollable rage. Personally, I liked the rage better. They got everything out in the open. Sure they fought like hell. I half-thought they’d like to kill each other some of those nights. But they got exhausted quick and usually stormed off to bed within the hour.

  If Jason laughed right in his father’s face, though, those nights took a lot longer. Instead of screaming fits I heard taunting, jeering, and lectures. I never went down, but I could just see my Dan standing in the middle of our kitchen with his hands on his hips and his spindly little-old-man legs running down into those disreputable slippers, seething mad at the insolence, professing his infinite knowledge to the drunk cook. All the while I could hear Jason disrespecting his father, darting all around in the cabinets and the pantry looking for different things to throw into his late-night snack. Once they went on that way for more than three hours.