Authors: Harvey Smith
Big Jack looked like a bird had flown out of her mouth. He stared at her slack-jawed. “We ain't havin' no pie?”
“Yes, dear,” Grandma said. “But later…”
“…wouldn't be Christmas without some goddamn pecan pie,” Big Jack grumbled, leaning back.
Everyone sat for a while, drinking coffee from the delicate cups. Perry Como's voice filled the dead space. "...follow them, follow them, you've been away too long. There is no Christmas like a home Christmas, for that's the time of year...the time when all roads lead home." Big Jack drained his cup and got up to refill it. He walked over to a bookshelf near the record player, sipping coffee and looking at the old photos on display.
“That was my first gun,” he said, mostly to himself.
Jack got up from where he was sprawled over a cushioned ottoman. He needed to pee and had been holding it since dinner. He crossed the living room on his way toward the hall, galloping with a skip-step like he was riding a horse. His grandfather reached out and snatched him up just as he passed.
“Come here, boy!” Grandpa pulled him into the recliner with arms that were absurdly thin, but strong from decades of driving nails. The old man tussled with Jack, hooting and flipping him around. He pinched the boy's skin where it was stretched over his ribcage, trying to tickle him.
Jack nearly lost control of his bladder. He made an
urk
sound as he writhed in Grandpa's lap, but otherwise went stone silent, struggling to keep from pissing in his pants. This, he knew, would ruin Christmas and signal his doom. “Please, Grandpa,” he whined, “I've got to go to the bathroom.”
The old man laughed and flipped him upside down. With gnarled hands, he attacked Jack's underarms, trying to tickle, but inflicting pain. Jack continued to beg and Grandpa laughed again, his voice hoarse as they wrestled. Everyone in the room watched.
About to wet his pants, Jack couldn't wait any longer. Desperation struck him and he wriggled harder. He and Grandpa went silent in their efforts, except for intermittent grunting. At that moment, the wiry old carpenter put an unbreakable hold on the boy and in an animal panic Jack sank his teeth into his grandfather's scrawny arm.
Grandpa released him and cried out. “Goddammit, boy!”
Jack sprang to the floor, bladder about to burst. “I gotta peee.”
Grandpa swung his fist wide, throwing a roundhouse. Jack ducked the blow and Grandpa hit the wood paneling behind his chair, the impact booming through the room. A glass-framed portrait fell from the wall and exploded. Jack was wailing now and darted down the hall, unzipping his pants madly as he ran.
The old man bellowed from his position in the recliner. Contorting his spine, he threw his head over his shoulder and yelled, “You will not bite me, you little son of a bitch.”
Everyone watched in stunned silence. Ramona blinked several times.
In the bathroom, Jack barely had time to slam and lock the door. He hopped like a wounded rabbit over to the toilet, tearing his jeans open along the way and unleashing a spray of urine that was not quite focused enough to be called a stream. He hit the wall, the floor and several spots on the commode itself. The roll of toilet paper hanging to the side of the bathroom cabinet was soaked before Jack finally got the entire operation under control and started peeing into the toilet bowl proper. Relief spread through him and he let out a bestial groan.
His grandfather's voice was muffled by the bathroom door as he yelled and cursed from down the hall.
When Jack finished, he zipped up and wiped his hands on his jeans. Mopping everything off with toilet paper, he cleaned up the bathroom as best he could. Then he stood in front of the mirror and looked at his reflection, chewing one small fingernail. Still winded from exertion, he heaved air in and out of his mouth. His breath whistled around his fingers. Finally, he opened the door and walked down the hall toward the den.
Jack could hear them talking over the Christmas music as he approached. To his surprise, they didn't seem angry. Everyone got quiet when he entered the room. Ramona had already swept up the glass from the picture frame, leaving the busted remains of the portrait on a nearby counter. The picture was very old and depicted Jack's
great
-grandfather standing in front of a woodshed.
“Jack, come here,” his grandfather said.
He walked up slowly and stood next to the recliner, head bowed.
Grandpa reached out slowly with one scarred hand and took Jack's shoulder. “Now, listen, boy. What you did was wrong, you understand?”
Jack nodded. Everyone in the room was quiet. Everyone watched them.
“I don't want you to bite any more, alright? Bitin' is for babies.” The old man waited, looking at Jack through his black-framed glasses. “If you bite me again, your daddy is gonna whip you. You understand?”
Unable to prevent himself, the boy looked over at Big Jack who was now standing in front of the Christmas tree. He was silhouetted against the tree…a dark, empty body made of shadow and surrounded by glimmering red-gold light.
“Yes, sir,” Jack said, looking back at the old man.
Grandpa tightened his grip on Jack's shoulder until the boy squirmed and the cartilage popped. “Are you sorry for what you done?”
“Yes, sir,” Jack said.
From across the room, Granny said, “Now give your grandpa a hug and let's get on with Christmas.”
Jack leaned forward into his grandfather's leathery embrace, smelling the strong aftershave around his neck intermingled with cigarette smoke. They released each other and Jack went over to the couch as quietly as possible. He sat down softly then bent over to re-tie his sneakers, which allowed him to disappear.
Big Jack turned to Grandma. “We gonna have pie now or we gonna open presents?”
“Presents first, dessert later,” she said. “Ramona, set up a trash bag by the back door for the paper.” Grandma waited until Ramona started moving. “Why don't you play Santa Claus this year, son?”
Big Jack's eyes widened. He turned to his father. “Daddy, is that okay? You don't mind if I do it, do you?”
Somehow this humiliated the old man, but he tried to hide his expression. “No, I do it every year, so you go ahead.” Grandpa had always performed this function, choosing the presents to hand out and reading the name tags. From his seat on the recliner, he smiled meekly at his wife.
Big Jack stepped over to the Christmas tree and knelt. Everyone got settled behind him, taking up seats and waiting for him to offer up the first present. Digging around in the pile, he pulled out a small package wrapped in silvery-blue paper. He read the tag then set it back on the pile. After reading the tag on the next box, he turned to the room with a grin. “This one is to me from Momma and Daddy.” He turned around and tore into the package. It was open in seconds and he tossed aside the thin paper, holding up a new pocketknife in a leather sheath.
“Hot damn,” he said, opening up the knife. “It's a lock-blade.” He got up and walked around the room, showing everyone the knife. It was ten inches long when opened, with a black and green rubber grip.
Jack saw his own face reflected in the blade as his father held it near.
“Look at that, boy,” Big Jack crowed. “It's big, ain't it?”
Jack faked an expression of awe and nodded.
Grandpa got serious again. “Now we spent a lot on that so take care of it. It's a nice one…one of the most expensive knives they had at the gun shop.” He grinned at his son.
Big Jack looked back at him and nodded. “I will, Daddy.”
“Dear,” Grandma said. “Why don't you pick out one present for everyone? That way we can stay on schedule.” With a fingernail, she tapped the watch affixed to her thick wrist.
“Oh,” Big Jack said. “Alright then.” He snapped the knife closed and slipped it into his pocket. He picked out several presents, including another for himself, and distributed them around the room.
Jack sat on the couch opening an oblong package. He tore the paper slowly, afraid of appearing too greedy. He removed the paper and all the pieces of tape then folded everything up, taking it over to the plastic trash bag near the back door. Taking his place on the couch again, he opened the box carefully. It was surprisingly heavy. The lid came away, revealing a new BB gun, nested in tissue. Jack plucked off a bow and lifted the gun out of the box. All over the room, the others were opening their own packages.
“Would you look at that?” Big Jack said. “…I got a new thermos.” He focused his attention on the object in his hands.
“Well, who was it from?” Ramona asked.
Big Jack blinked. “I don't know.” He stared at her then dug around in the paper. He read the small tag and looked up at her again. “Oh…” He chuckled. “It's from you, Jack and the baby.” Then the smile faded from his face. “Though you gotta admit…you, Jack and the baby don't work out at the plant. So I sorta paid for this myself.” Ramona opened her mouth, but didn't speak. She turned her head toward the patio doors, staring into the dark backyard. Big Jack turned his attention back to the thermos and unscrewed the lid. He held it under his nose and sniffed for a long time. “Oh, man…I love that new thermos smell.” He held it up to one eye, looking into the silvery glass barrel of the thing.
Granny called out to Jack. “Whatcha got, little Jackie?”
“A BB gun,” he said. “I love it.” He put on a smile.
Grandpa pointed at him and arched his eyebrows. “Now listen, boy. If I catch you shootin' anybody's mailbox or winders with that air rifle, or puttin' out some dog's eye, I'm gonna whip that ass. You hear?”
Jack pretended to study the gun in fascination. “Yes, sir,” he said. “I won't.”
Big Jack looked over at his son. “I had a .22 rifle when I was your age. Not an air rifle, but a real gun.”
“He sure did,” Grandpa said. “He grew up with guns. Not like kids today, with the television.”
Jack looked up at each of them. He felt ashamed, but didn't know what to say, so he turned his attention back to the BB gun.
Big Jack gathered up another round of presents and passed them out. They repeated the ritual, opening gifts until the skirt under the tree was bare. With each round, Grandma asked Ramona to collect all the loose wrapping paper and stuff it down into the trash bag.
When all the presents were gone, Grandma lined everyone up for photos, directing them by pointing and shaking her heavy arms, making disgusted sounds and frowning until they understood her wishes.
Afterward, they ate pecan pie.
Chapter 6
1999
That morning at the El Cinco Motel, I woke up slowly, wondering where the hell I was. Finally, my daze passed. I remembered that I'd returned home and I remembered why.
Rolling over and kicking free of the covers, I sat in the near-dark at the edge of the bed. My shoulders and neck were stiff until I rolled them and stretched for a couple of minutes. A thin wall of light reached across my lap from a gap in the curtain, dividing the bed crossways. I blinked a few times and tried to wake up. My tongue felt swollen and dry as it moved around within my mouth. I rarely drank anything while I was visiting the coast. The water smelled even before it hit your lips and the coffee was thin and usually stale. I stayed dehydrated, surviving on the overly sweet orange juice they served in 24-hour breakfast places scattered along the highway.
The region had a distinctive smell, with the dank air acting as a carrier for various chemical odors. No one living down here ever noticed, but the smell assaulted me every time I came home. It went beyond smell. It was an atmosphere created by the gray landscape of refineries. Waking up, eyes burning, it was always the first thing I noticed.
At the window, I pulled back the drapery, leaving the gauzy under-layer in place. Dust floated around me as the morning sun lit up the room. The carpet was stained and filthy even though it was probably vacuumed daily by the minimum wage housekeeping crew. My skin crawled as I looked out over the floor...pubic hair woven through the carpet fibers, interlaced with occasional roach legs or antennae. I wanted a shower.
In an effort to keep them off the floor, I'd draped my clothes over a chair the night before. I collected them up now and shook out my shirt and jeans. At the closet, I reached for a wooden hanger and the others went swinging wildly, clacking like dried bones.
The rectangular window over the tub allowed a fair amount of light into the room, so I left the overhead light off. With great care, I avoided the toilet's cold porcelain base as I maneuvered around in the tiny space. Under the shower, I started to feel better. The steam helped me breathe and the warm water woke me up.
My mind went to Mandy back in Sunnyvale, all red-blonde curls and petite body. She'd been talking about her upcoming honeymoon and this had a powerful affect over me. Eyes closed, I thought about taking her clothes off in my office, late in the evening. Pulling on myself until I was erect, I leaned into the cold tile and started jerking off. Pleasure rushed through me a couple of minutes later and I angled myself away from the wall, pumping semen onto the transparent shower curtain. The little spurts left clean places wherever they landed, clearing downward pathways on the filmy plastic before disappearing into the drain.
I coasted into one of the available parking spaces attached to my mother's government-subsidized apartment complex. The place was located in the far northeast corner of town, next to a massive field of salt grass. A train track ran alongside the road, throwing the place into a thunderous rumbling for short periods. The train served the numerous chemical plants in the area exclusively, freighting industrial materials into and out of the plants.
Horrible stories circulated about the contents of the trains when I was growing up. The words stenciled onto the sides of the cars were too long and too alien to pronounce. Over the years, a dozen train cars exploded, flooding entire neighborhoods with lethal gasses and forcing the evacuation of hundreds. Industrial accidents had killed three of my friends' parents. Once a field of cattle were found dead because a train passing through their pasture leaked chlorine gas. The entire herd suffocated in the middle of the night. Sometimes when I was trying to sleep, I could see them lying in the damp field, convulsing. I could hear them lowing and bellowing.