Mid-morning. But already the sun sits high, sky marked with scattered dots of cloud. Joanne shrieks again as a hen pecks at her toes, then giggles. Jasper turns back to watch her. That funny smile once again stretches his lips. The house shadow lies cast short across the browning lawn. Him right in its shade. Must be the only shade for miles. His pale figure fits there, Lizzie thinks. Summer too brown and blooming for his sallow skin. Too healthy. She wonders how often he saw the sun in there. Wonders now, left unguarded, how quickly his skin might burn.
Lizzie finishes hanging the last bits of the wash. Joanne’s socks – one pair pink, one blue, one green. A skirt of Katie’s. Brown. Her own floral nightshift. Two towels. Both white. She dumps the clothespins back into the now empty laundry basket, bends and lifts it to rest on her hip, momentarily letting her eyes slip from Jasper’s frame. Spray from wet sheets blows against her skin. Evaporates.
His eyes never leave Joanne. Not even as Lizzie comes to stand beside him, though she is sure he heard her approach, is sure he feels her standing there. The closeness of their bodies intensifies the sticky cling of morning heat. But his head does not turn. He does not acknowledge she exists. At length, as though to no one, he murmurs, ‘I can’t remember the last time I heard a child laughing.’
Joanne’s chasing the chickens now. Jumping over them. Teasing them with bits of feed. Laughing. ‘She reminds me of you,’ he says. Voice soft, but not a whisper. Not quite.
Lizzie follows his gaze. Makes no reply. Watches her daughter. Sees herself. Sees bits of Bobby that she both cherishes and shies away from. Looks back to Jasper’s stern profile. Says nothing.
‘It ain’t just her looks neither.’ Eyes still on the girl. ‘You had that same spark in you.’
A deep breath to steady. ‘I reckon that was a long time ago.’
He looks at her then, his movement drawing her face to his. Eye to eye. Close enough for their breath to touch. Warm, sticky, stale. Dark eyes drilling into her. Searching. A rawness in them that alarms, makes her want to back away. But she doesn’t. She hadn’t realized how very close she stood to him. When he speaks again, his voice sounds husky, as if it has become part of the deeper shade in which they stand.
‘Has it really been so long?’ Husky, husky, shadowed voice.
His gaze contradicts the softness of his tone, his eyes like two spotlights forced and focused upon her. Relentless in their drilling. Their searching. She turns away. Has to. Shifts the basket from her hip to hold it long and low before her stomach. Presses it against her just to feel the reassurance of the pressure. Even the shade feels too hot. No breeze so close to the house. ‘A lot’s changed, Jasper.’
He laughs then. A soft, rumbling chuckle. Her brother’s laugh. The one that she remembers. The one that maybe means he’s really home. ‘You’re telling me?’ That softening twinkle in his eyes.
She smiles then. Just a little. Can’t help it. A sad smile, playing with the corners of her mouth, teasing them up. An unfamiliar feeling of late. But it doesn’t stick. She answers, ‘Am I really so changed?’
The laughter drains from his face, leaving it sallower, tenser than before. He looks at her. The same unflinching gaze. The pause between them grows, suspended, uncomfortable. A breath too long held. He looks down. Away across the lawn. Out over the prairie. Beyond. ‘Sometimes,’ he says, ‘I think maybe I’m dreamin’. I think I’m gonna wake up ’n’ find things ain’t so changed. Then I realize I’m awake. And it’s like I’ve always been awake, and truth is, now I forget how good it used to feel to dream.’
Lizzie makes no reply.
A cloud nearly covers the sun, but fails, beams of light and heat burning right through it. A crow lands on the porch railing with its harsh cackle.
One of the hens pecks Joanne’s ankle, and she hollers. Pain and laughter mixed together. Lizzie pulls her eyes away from Jasper. Regrets having come to stand beside him. Buries that regret. No time for such luxuries. ‘Joanne!’ she snaps. ‘You stop messin’ now ’n’ hurry up ’n’ get ’em chickens fed, you hear?’ She does not look at her brother again. Turns before even her own voice has faded, walks up the three back steps and opens the screen door, basket still balanced on her hip. She pauses in the doorway. Jasper has not moved. She cannot see his face or eyes. She opens her mouth to say something. Closes it. Lets the screen door slam shut behind her. Joanne’s laughter fades.
Walking along the country road that leads from the house back towards town, Jasper’s not fully sure he likes how Lizzie has divided up Daddy’s land. The Turners rent and farm the north cornfields now. The Grays rent out the south acres to graze their longhorns. That’s how Lizzie scrapes by – those rents and the odd bits of mending she picks up. Not a good living but enough to scrape by. He can see that. Can see the stress of a hard life worn into her weathered skin. She’s not the sister he remembers. He respects her for that.
Around the house stretches unused prairie that was there even when Jasper was a boy. He likes that. Likes that she kept it, kept the wildness of it. Wishes all the land had grown wild like that, had never been farmed again.
When Daddy died, Jasper never went back out to work the fields. Didn’t feel right out there without him. Worked with Bobby for a couple years instead. A small garage in town. Grease on his hands all day instead of dirt. The hum of motors sparked to life. A part of him wonders if that’s why he watched his father die.
Jasper had looked on helpless as the heart attack shook all life from the big man’s frame. Daddy’s eyes had rolled back in his head till just the whites showed. Mouth moved and twisted as dried lips gasped for breath. Jasper had wondered if perhaps Daddy were praying under all that pain. Jasper himself said no prayers. Just watched in silence till the tremors no longer spasmed through Daddy’s body. He’s thought back on that many times. Has often wondered why he didn’t pray. Has wondered, if he had, might Daddy have survived?
They were forty-five acres from the house when it happened. Ploughing season. Daddy fell right off the tractor, left arm clutched, face pale. Jasper could have run for help. He’s thought over that many times, too. Has asked himself what it means that he didn’t. If it means anything at all. Deep inside, Jasper knows nothing could have saved his daddy. When your time is up, it’s up. Nothing can save you. A simple fact. Praying, running, screams for help – all useless and he knows it. Jasper watched his father die. Simple as that.
It took only two minutes. Kneeling there, watching his father’s lips dry as they gasped for final breaths, Jasper did not shed one single tear. Not then. Not later. Not at the open casket or even back at the house during the after-funeral spread the church ladies had laid out. Mama cried, frail and white and lost in a sea of well-wished condolences. And Lizzie, eyes red with newly dried tears. At the funeral, behind his pulpit, Reverend Gordon had described Daddy as an ‘outstanding citizen’, a ‘man of morals’. Stretched truths at best. But Jasper had never been a man to cry. Had never been a man to hold grudges against kin. And he’d never been a man to run for help neither.
He asked that therapist once, the one in Huntsville sent that first year to evaluate his mental health. He asked him what it meant that he watched his father die. That he didn’t run for help. But the therapist had just sat there in his pinstripe suit, peering down through bug-eyed glasses, marking things on a pad Jasper could not read. Eventually Bug Eyes had looked up at him, chewing on his pencil’s eraser, and had asked Jasper if his daddy had ever touched him ‘inappropriately’, and Jasper had laughed right in his fat face at the stupidity of such a question. His father never touched him. No slap. Or pat. Or hug goodnight. Even when he was young and acted up and Daddy had to put manners in him, it was always Daddy’s belt that touched Jasper, never Daddy’s hand. They shook hands once that Jasper could remember. High-school graduation. And their eyes had met. And Daddy had said, ‘I guess you’re a man now. Reckon you’d best start actin’ like one.’ Releasing Jasper’s hand before the words even faded. It was a firm hand
shake. A calloused hand.
How dare that asshole therapist insult his daddy’s memory? Jasper had answered, ‘How many times did your daddy jerk you off, Doc? How many times? Did you like it?’ and Bug Eyes had sweat real bad and squirmed and sunk down in his chair a little, and that was the last time Bug Eyes tried to assess Jasper’s mental health.
Until they’d let him out, that is.
They didn’t talk about his daddy that time.
The clock on the whitewashed office wall sounded like a ticking bomb. Though ticking down his doom or freedom, Jasper could not decide. Bug Eyes’ pencil rasped and wheezed, like strangled breaths, as it scraped against his notepad. And this time all Bug Eyes wanted to talk about was her.
Jasper could have told him how her cum smelt. Coconut oil and sweat and saliva and canned salmon all musky and divine tangled in one sour scent. He could have mapped out and drawn the lines that marked her palms. Heart. Head. Life. He could have told him how in the mornings her breath smelt like coffee beans. Dry-roasted. But he didn’t. He sat there in silence, steering his mind from her, padlocking the doors that guarded his memories, listening to the clock tick, the pencil rasp. He sat there, not defiant, not insolent. Just there.
A tiny bead of sweat ran down Bug Eyes’ brow. He wiped it. A new bead formed. He cleared his throat. ‘Mr Curtis, do you understand that you are due to be released at six a.m. on this upcoming Tuesday, the tenth of July?’
‘Yessir.’
‘You understand that the board of directors of this here institution has granted you release due to good behaviour during time served?’
A small smirk he did not attempt to hide. ‘Yessir.’
‘Is something funny?’ The pencil stopped. Lifted off the page. Bug Eyes’ bulging eyes bored into him as if they knew him, wanted to know him, to understand. Typical therapist psycho bullshit.
‘We both know why I’m being let out, Doc.’ His voice even. Steady.
A raised eyebrow arched way up high on that shiny bald head. Looked out of place so high with no hair above it. A fuzzy caterpillar climbing with no real place to go. No cocoon. Bug Eyes leaned back in his chair. Another bead of sweat dripped. ‘Oh? And why is that?’
The whir of a ceiling fan replaced the scratch of the pencil. Jasper wondered why he hadn’t noticed the fan before. The shaky sound of its whir. He smiled. ‘Overcrowding. Y’all want my bunk for some new sinner.’ He laughed. ‘And I’ve served my time, Doc. Fact is, no matter how you sugar-coat it, y’all can’t keep me here no longer. I reckon this here interview is just ’bout pointless.’
Bug Eyes smiled. A tight, tiny smile that did not reach his eyes or stretch beyond his lips. Pencil back to page. Scratch. Rasp. Wheeze. ‘Is that so, Mr Curtis? I assume, then, that you know why you are meeting with me today.’
‘I reckon I do.’
‘And that would be?’
‘To evaluate my mental health.’
An identical tight-lipped smile. ‘That is correct, Mr Curtis, very good indeed.’ Pencil scratch, scratch, scratched on the page.
Jasper was surprised to realize he didn’t care what was written there. He knew the words were about him, but he also knew what lay inside far better than anyone else. He had never cared much what others thought. Time served did not alter that. And now, soon, he would be free. She cared. She always cared a bit too much what other folks thought. He could have told Bug Eyes that, but he didn’t. Held his tongue. Didn’t want to think about the way she used to be.
‘To be frank with you, Mr Curtis, I have been assigned to deem whether or not you remain a menace to society.’ The pencil stopped scratching. Bulging eyes met his. ‘Tell me about Miss Saunders.’
Dark hair. And dark eyes. And a smile just for him. A smile no other man could have. Jasper paused. A door creaked open, just a crack. He lowered his eyes. Thought about prairie grass running through open fingers. Her lying down in it, bluebonnets and daisies crushed beneath her hair. Carefully he shut down the memory. Met the therapist’s gaze. ‘Do you meet with all the men coming in ’n’ out of this place?’
‘Yes.’
Jasper nods. ‘ ’N’ you evaluate ’em?’
‘That’s right, yes.’
‘All of ’em?’
‘Most of them, yes. It’s a standard procedure, Mr Curtis. We need to be sure that the convicts released pose no threat to themselves or others.’
Jasper nodded slowly, as though thinking. He shifted his weight in his chair. Met the therapist’s gaze with cold, hard eyes. ‘Who evaluates you?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Who’s to say there ain’t a bit of a “menace to society” inside you too, Doc?’ Jasper laughed then, low and deep and long. ‘You know, I think I see it, that menace, lurkin’ deep in there. It’s in your eyes, you see. The way you squint. You can tell a lot from a man’s eyes, Doc, and fact is you don’t seem so different to me than the folks I shared cells with.’
Bug Eyes shifted in his chair. Swallowed. ‘We are here to talk about you, Mr Curtis, not me.’
‘And what do you decide exactly?’
‘I’m not sure I follow you.’
‘I mean, what difference does this make? I’m already due release. Board’s granted that. Time’s nearly up now. I’ve served. So I guess what I’m askin’, Doc, is how does what I say here matter?’
‘Everything we say matters, Mr Curtis, don’t you agree?’
‘No, that’s not what I mean, Doc, ’n’ you know it. Don’t sidestep the question now, you hear?’ Defiant eyes met defiant eyes, all trace of laughter drained from Jasper’s voice. ‘What I want to know is: can anything I say here keep me locked up?’
The doctor shifted his weight from left to right. Back again. Looked uncomfortable squished in that tiny chair behind the massive desk. Sweat still beaded on his brow before rolling down his forehead to be wiped away only to form again. Clock a ticking bomb. Bug Eyes cleared his throat. Fidgeted with his pencil. Put it down. Picked it up. Chewed on the eraser.
‘No.’
‘So I’m a free man?’
‘Do you want to be free?’ Pencil calmed, raised, ready to be back in action, busy on the page.
Jasper smiled. ‘Every man seeks freedom, Doc.’
‘You’ve been avoiding my question, Mr Curtis. About Miss Saunders. Does it bother you to talk about her?’
‘What do you want to know?’
‘Do you regret your actions?’
‘You mean my crime?’ A smile played on Jasper’s lips but did not settle there.
‘Yes. I mean your crime.’
Jasper shifted in his chair, his hands clasped and folded in his lap before him. His cuticles, grown long, covered the half-moons on his nails. He stretched his legs out long, feet flexed before him. Thought about sunlight and open fields and showers not shared. Thought about long dark lashes. And tan lines. And remembered the taste of Mama’s peach cobbler hot on his tongue. At length he lifted his gaze. ‘That bitch got what she deserved.’
The pencil stopped scratching. ‘No regrets?’
‘Plenty.’
The road to town feels longer than Jasper remembers. Can’t quite guess how many miles still to go, though there was a time, not really so very long ago, when, without thinking, he would already have known. He had left Lizzie in Mama’s old chair in the parlour, bent over someone’s lace tablecloth, mending. Open window beside her, but scarcely a breeze blowing in. Doe Eyes at her feet, lying on her belly, flipping the pages of a fashion magazine. Feet kicked up behind her. Blonde hair slipped loose from her ponytail falling down onto her face. Lizzie didn’t look up as Jasper slipped out of the door, but Doe Eyes did. He paused for a moment, caught by her bright blue gaze. She stared back. Gaze too unflinching for a child. A woman’s gaze. Almost. He didn’t bother saying goodbye. Just slipped out of the door. It’s been years since he could leave a room without permission. A long time since he could simply rise, and walk, and go. Unlocked doors amaze. He almost said somethin
g to Doe Eyes when her look caught him like that. But he halted the words on his tongue before they were spoken. Thank God. Little bitch in the making. More of Bobby in her than he’d like. Eyes he’s not sure he trusts. And yet a softness to her that somehow makes him think perhaps there’s still a chance to feel at home.
A mirage on the open road ahead rises up on the concrete, like a pool of water, only to distort back into pavement as Jasper approaches. The afternoon sunshine feels healthy on his face, his neck, his arms. He can feel himself tanning, browning. He wonders how quickly he might burn. Doesn’t care. Step by step, he feels his heart pumping, blood flowing. He can’t remember the last time he felt that. Healthy.
Wind rustles burned prairie grasses together, a sound like crickets dying. No coolness in the breeze. June bugs buzz through the tall grasses. Too early still for cricket song. Far off the whir of a truck engine makes itself known and can be heard speeding closer. A sound low and lost as a brewing storm.
He stands on the shoulder and watches the Ford get closer. Blue. Bright, shiny, new-paint blue. He can see even from a distance not many miles have been put on that pickup yet. More toy car than true truck. The kind that folks in the cities and suburbs buy in an attempt to look country. That truck has probably never driven a proper haul. He watches it all the same, though. A speck at first far off on the prairie road, barrelling closer and bigger, approaching with almost alarming speed.
It’s been a great while since he saw something move so fast, and he stands still, watching its rapid approach as though transfixed.
The wind hits him as the pickup passes him, and he closes his eyes better to enjoy the cooling blast of air. Over in a second, but still that second makes him smile. It feels like freedom on his face.
The Last Days of Summer Page 5
