Black Tickets

by Jayne Anne Phillips

  Simpson was sweating now, his hair gleamed pomaded and perfect. He held out the money and Lacey didn’t move. I stepped forward and took it.

  We put the money in the iron box; Lacey gave up the deed to the mill. I remember J.T. staying in his room, and the sound of the rocking chair creaking for hours as he sat, rocking, with his arms crossed, staring at the wall. Jocasta was not singing. Lacey had locked her door and the house was weighted with silence, sinking in the dark. I fell asleep.

  I saw my father standing over me in his checkered cap, red silk scarf, old suede driving coat. He had a pistol in his hand.

  “Frank,” he said. “It’s time to go.”

  He lifted me so softly I thought I dreamed him. He pulled my nightgown down to cover my thighs and we crept quietly down two flights of stairs past the sleepers. Everything slept; trees drooped close to the house, no insects sounded. My father’s face above me took on an ivory cast. The moon was gone and it was nearly dawn.

  At the garage he fired two quick shots at the locks. The sharp report of the gun echoed back and forth. I saw Lacey’s light go on but I was in the car and the car was roaring. J.T. eased it down the street and gathered speed. He smiled, his hair blew back. The old bridge rattled under us and moved its lamps; their twelve whirled reflections wobbled in the river. J.T. flexed his beautiful hands and muttered. He touched the leather dash and the steering wheel laced with calfskin. We went faster out the bridge road to the mill.

  “Pop?” I said. “Pop, where we going?”

  “Straight home, boy. Straight home.”

  The motor revved. At top speed the car began to shake. We were moving up Tucker Mountain and we shuddered at the crest. A sharp quick crack. I didn’t feel myself jump but I saw the wheel spin off, I saw the black Ford fly off the mountain and my father’s red scarf streaming.

  I looked down two ledges at the overturned car. The wheels whined and smoked. I scrambled down but J.T. was nowhere. I called for him, choking on the smell of the car, then I saw him above me climbing back to the road. He had the steering wheel in one hand. At the top he turned and looked down.

  “Frank,” he yelled. “Hurry, it’s getting late.”

  The mill was on the other side of Tucker Mountain. We walked. The light came up. Mist rose off the river and the rows of empty shacks seemed to float.

  “There they are,” said J.T. “They’re always here this time of day.”

  “Who, Pop? Who’s here?”

  “They are, boy. Look at them, they know who you are.”

  He raised his arm in the direction of the shacks. His hand hung limp and crooked.

  “Where, Pop?”

  “The windows, Frank. Look at the windows.”

  They were slanted in their rotted sills. Broken glass stood out in jagged angles; what was left pearled at odd curves in the light. Something moved, then I knew it was true; I was as crazy as him. The faces shimmered like they were coming up out of water. They rose up from some place existing alongside and suddenly visible. Their blurry features held the same expression, they moved in and out of each other. Wind rushed, whispering sounds I couldn’t make out; more and more whispering, louder and louder … then they made one sound. “Francine,” they said, “Francine.”

  “Francine. Francine, come here. Over here.”

  I saw my mother at the edge of the woods. She had J.T.’s old deer rifle and she had it pointed at him. Beyond her Jocasta sat in the delivery cart and didn’t look at us. Lacey called me again and I tried to move. She fired the gun in the air; while the sharp boom moved around in the trees I ran to her. I knew the faces watched me. J.T. still looked at them, smiling. My mother held me away from him, tightly, until the faces faded. I must have talked, I must have said I saw them. Her eyes were hard with light. The butt of the gun pressed into her stomach. She put J.T. in the cart and tied him in with a thick rope. He smoothed his torn clothes while she walked me through the shacks. Empty, every one of them. Rats thumped across the porches.

  After that we had to have him put away. The morning they came and got him, he turned at the door.

  “Lacey,” he said calmly, “Aren’t you coming with me?”

  Solo Dance

  SHE HADN’T been home in a long time. Her father had a cancer operation; she went home. She went to the hospital every other day, sitting for hours beside his bed. She could see him flickering. He was very thin and the skin on his legs was soft and pure like fine paper. She remembered him saying ‘I give up’ when he was angry or exasperated. Sometimes he said it as a joke, ‘Jesus Christ, I give up.’ She kept hearing his voice in the words now even though he wasn’t saying them. She read his get-well cards aloud to him. One was from her mother’s relatives. Well, he said, I don’t think they had anything to do with it. He was speaking of his divorce two years before.

  She put lather in a hospital cup and he got up to shave in the mirror. He had to lean on the sink. She combed the back of his head with water and her fingers. His hair was long after six weeks in the hospital, a gray-silver full of shadow and smudge. She helped him get slowly into bed and he lay against the pillows breathing heavily. She sat down again. I can’t wait till I get some weight on me, he said, So I can knock down that son-of-a-bitch lawyer right in front of the courthouse.

  She sat watching her father. His robe was patterned with tiny horses, sorrels in arabesques. When she was very young, she had started ballet lessons. At the first class her teacher raised her leg until her foot was flat against the wall beside her head. He held it there and looked at her. She looked back at him, thinking to herself it didn’t hurt and willing her eyes dry.

  Her father was twisting his hands. How’s your mother? She must be half crazy by now. She wanted to be by herself and brother that’s what she got.

  The Heavenly Animal

  JANCY’S FATHER always wanted to fix her car. Every time she came home for a visit, he called her at her mother’s house and asked about the car with a second sentence.

  Well, he’d say, How are you?

  Fine, I’m fine.

  And how’s the car? Have any trouble?

  He became incensed if Jancy’s mother answered. He slammed the receiver down and broke the connection. They always knew who it was by the stutter of silence, then the violent click. He lived alone in a house ten blocks away.

  Often, he would drive by and see Jancy’s car before she’d even taken her coat off. He stopped his aging black Ford on the sloping street and honked two tentative blasts. He hadn’t come inside her mother’s house since the divorce five years ago. He wouldn’t even step on the grass of the block-shaped lawn. This time Jancy saw his car from the bathroom window. She cursed and pulled her pants up. She walked outside and the heavy car door swung open. Her father wore a wool hat with a turned-up brim and small gray feather. Jancy loved the feather.

  Hi, she said.

  Well, hi there. When did you get in?

  About five minutes ago.

  Have any trouble?

  She got into the car. The black interior was very clean and the empty litter bag hung from the radio knob. Jancy thought she could smell its new plastic mingling with the odor of his cigar. She leaned over and kissed him.

  Thank god, she thought, he looks better.

  He pointed to her car. What the hell did you do to the chrome along the side there? he said.

  Trying to park, Jancy said. Got in a tight spot.

  Her father shook his head and grimaced. He held the butt of the cigar with his thumb and forefinger. Jancy saw the flat chewed softness of the butt where he held it in his mouth, and the stain on his lips where it touched.

  Jesus, Honey, he said.

  Can’t win them all.

  But you got to win some of them, he said. That car’s got to last you a long time.

  It will, Jancy said. It’s a good car. Like a tank. I could drive that car through the fiery pits of hell and come out smelling like a rose.

  Well. Everything you do to it takes money t
o fix. And I just don’t have it.

  Don’t want it fixed, Jancy said. Works fine without the chrome.

  He never asked her at first how long she was going to stay. For the past few years she’d come home between school terms. Or from far-flung towns up East, out West. Sometimes during her visits she left to see friends. He would rant close to her face, breathing hard.

  Why in God’s name would you go to Washington, D.C.? Nothing there but niggers. And what the hell do you want in New York? You’re going to wear out your car. You’ve driven that car thirty thousand miles in one year—Why? What the hell for?

  The people I care about are far apart. I don’t get many chances to see them.

  Jesus Christ, you come home and off you go.

  I’ll be back in four days.

  That’s not the goddamn point. You’ll get yourself crippled up in a car wreck running around like this. Then where will you be?

  Jancy would sigh and feel herself harden.

  I won’t stay in one place all my life out of fear I’ll get crippled if I move, she’d say.

  Well I understand that, but Jesus.

  His breathing would grow quiet. He rubbed his fingers and twisted the gold Masonic ring he wore in place of a wedding band.

  Honey, he’d say. You got to think of these things.

  And they would both sit staring.

  Down the street Jancy saw red stop signs and the lawns of churches. Today he was in a good mood. Today he was just glad to see her. And he didn’t know she was going to see Michael. Or was she?

  What do you think? he said. Do you want to go out for lunch tomorrow? I go down to the Catholic church there, they have a senior citizen’s meal. Pretty good food.

  Jancy smiled. Do you remember when you stopped buying Listerine, she asked, because you found out a Catholic owned the company?

  She could tell he didn’t remember, but he grinned.

  Hell, he said. Damn Catholics own everything.

  He was sixty-seven. Tiny blood vessels in his cheeks had burst. There was that redness in his skin, and the blue of shadows, gauntness of the weight loss a year ago. His skin got softer, his eyelids translucent as crepe. His eyelashes were very short and reddish. The flesh drooped under his heavy brows. As a young man, he’d been almost sloe-eyed. Bedroom eyes, her mother called them. Now his eyes receded in the mysterious colors of his face.

  OK, Jancy said. Lunch.

  She got out of the car and bent to look in at him through the open window.

  Hey, she said. You look pretty snappy in that hat.

  Tonight her mother would leave after supper for Ohio. Jancy would be alone in the house and she would stare at the telephone. She tore lettuce while her mother broiled the steaks.

  I don’t know why you want to drive all the way up there at night, Jancy said. Why don’t you leave in the morning?

  I can make better time at night, her mother said. And besides, the wedding is in two days. Your aunt wanted me to come last week. It’s not every day her only daughter gets married, and since you refuse to go to weddings …

  She paused. They heard the meat crackle in the oven.

  I’m sorry to leave when you’ve just gotten here. I thought you’d be here two weeks ago, and we’d have some time before I left. But you’ll be here when I get back.

  Jancy looked intently into the salad bowl.

  Jancy? asked her mother. Why are you so late getting here? Why didn’t you write?

  I was just busy … finishing the term, packing, subletting the apartment—

  You could have phoned.

  I didn’t want to. I hate calling long-distance. It makes me feel lost, listening to all that static.

  That’s ridiculous, her mother said. Let’s get this table cleared off. I don’t know why you always come in and dump everything on the first available spot.

  Because I believe in instant relief, Jancy said.

  —books, backpack, maps, your purse—

  She reached for the books and Jancy’s leather purse fell to the floor. Its contents spilled and rolled. She bent to retrieve the mess before Jancy could stop her, picking up small plastic bottles of pills.

  What are these? she said. What are you doing with all these pills?

  I cleaned out my medicine cabinet and threw all the bottles in my purse. They’re pills I’ve had for years—

  Don’t you think you better throw them away? You might forget what you’re taking.

  They’re all labeled, Jancy said.

  Her mother glanced down.

  Dalmane, she said. What’s Dalmane?

  A sleeping pill.

  Why would you need sleeping pills?

  Because I have trouble sleeping. Why do you think?

  Since when?

  I don’t know. A long time. Off and on. Will you cut it out with the third degree?

  Why can’t you sleep?

  Because I dream my mother is relentlessly asking me questions.

  It’s Michael. Michael’s thrown you for a loop.

  Jancy threw the bottles in her purse and stood up quickly. No, she said, Or yes. We’re both upset right now.

  He certainly is. You’re lucky to be rid of him.

  I don’t want to be rid of him.

  He’ll drive you crazy if you’re not careful. He’s got a screw loose and you know it.

  You liked him, Jancy said. You liked him so much it made me angry.

  Yes, I liked him. But not after this whole mess started. Calling you cruel because he couldn’t have things his way. If he was so in love it would have lasted. Cruel. There’s not a cruel bone in your body.

  I should never have told you he said those things.

  They were silent. Jancy smelled the meat cooking.

  Why shouldn’t you tell me? her mother asked quietly. If you can’t talk to your mother, who can you talk to?

  Oh Christ, Jancy said. Nobody. I’m hungry. Let’s eat and change the subject.

  They sat down over full plates. There was steak when Jancy or her brothers came home. Their mother saved it for weeks, months, in the freezer. The meat sizzled on Jancy’s plate and she tried to eat. She looked up. The lines in her mother’s face seemed deeper than before, grown in. And she was so thin, so perfectly groomed. Earrings. Creased pants. Silk scarves. A bath at the same time every morning while the Today show played the news. At night she rubbed the calluses off her heels carefully with a pumice stone.

  She looked at Jancy. What are you doing tomorrow? she asked.

  Having lunch at the Catholic church, Jancy said.

  That ought to be good. Canned peaches and weepy mashed potatoes. Your father is something. Of course he doesn’t speak to me on the street, but I see him drive by here in that black car. Every day. Watching for one of you to come home.

  Jancy said nothing.

  He looks terrible, her mother said.

  He looks better than he did, said Jancy.

  That’s not saying much. He looked horrible for months. Thinner and thinner, like a walking death. I’d see him downtown. He went to the pool hall every day, always by himself. He never did have any friends.

  He did, Jancy said. He told me. In the war.

  I don’t know. I didn’t meet him till after that, when he was nearly forty. By then he never seemed to belong—

  I remember that weekend you went away and he moved out, Jancy said. He never belonged in this house. The house he built had such big rooms.

  Did you know that house is for sale again? her mother asked. It’s changed hands several times.

  I didn’t know, Jancy said. Let’s not talk about it.

  Her mother sighed. All right, she said. Let’s talk about washing these dishes. I really have to get started.

  Mom, Jancy said, I might call Michael.

  What for? He’s five states away and that’s where he ought to be.

  I may go up there.

  Oh, Jancy.

  I have to. I can’t just let it end here.

  Her
mother was silent. They heard a gentle thunder.

  Clouding up, Jancy said. You may have rain. Need help with your bags?

  The car’s already packed.

  Well, Jancy said.

  Her mother collected maps, parcels, a large white-ribboned present. Jancy heard her moving around and thought of waking at night in the house her father had built, the house in the country. There would be the cornered light from the bathroom in the hall. Her father would walk slowly past in slippers and robe to adjust the furnace. The motor would kick in and grunt its soft hum several times a night. Half asleep, Jancy knew her father was awake. The furnace. They must have been winter nights.

  Can you grab this? her mother asked.

  Jancy took the present. I’ll walk you out, she said.

  No, just give it to me. There, I’ve got it.

  Jancy smiled. Her mother took her hand.

  You’re gutsy, she said. You’ll be OK.

  Good, said Jancy. It’s always great to be OK.

  Give me a hug.

  Jancy embraced her. How often did someone hold her? Her hair smelled fragrant and dark.

  Jancy left the lights off. She took a sleeping pill and lay down on the living room couch. Rain splattered the windows. She imagined her father standing by the dining room table. When he moved out he had talked to her brothers about guns.

  One rifle goes, he’d said. One stays. Which do you want?

  Jancy remembered cigarette smoke in the room, how it curled between their faces.

  It don’t make any difference to me, he said. But this one’s the best for rabbit.

  He fingered change far down in his trouser pockets. One brother asked the other which he wanted. The other said it didn’t matter, didn’t matter. Finally the youngest took the gun and climbed the steps to his room. Their father walked into the kitchen, murmuring, It’ll kill rabbits and birds. And if you go after deer, just use slugs.

  Jancy heard water dripping. How long had it gone on? Rain was coming down the chimney. She got up and closed the flue, mopped up the rain with a towel. The pills didn’t work anymore. What would she do all night? She was afraid of this house, afraid of all the houses in this town. After midnight they were silent and blank. They seemed abandoned.