The Rough English Equivalent (The Jack Mason Saga Book 1)

by Stan Hayes

  Ralph Williams, his face frozen in the smallest of smiles, returned to the room from the kitchen, from where he’d watched Wash being pushed into the cab of Pat’s ’49 Dodge pickup. “Thanks, boss. Guess we should’ve expected sump’m like this. Don’t think my mama heard any of it, up there in th’ livin’ room.”

  “Jesus, Ralph, I’m sorry.” He looked across the room for Ziggy, who’d moved to the bar as Wash departed and was smiling, fresh drink in hand, at a couple of sober-faced young men, obviously doing what he could to put them at their ease. “Doesn’t look like it bothered Ziggy much.”

  “No way a little shit like that’s gonna upset ole Zig,” said Ralph, his face relaxing as he felt a new surge of pride for his little brother.

  “I’ll call Pat at home,” Moses said with a rueful short wag of his head. “I don’t want that sonofabitch around any more. He can take ’im his check Monday after work.”

  “What can I do to talk you out of that, boss? Ziggy wouldn’t want anybody fired over sump’m like this.”

  “I know it. But this ain’t his call. We’ve got a small crew, and I mean for us to work happy around there. It’us my mistake lettin’ Pat talk me into takin’ ’im on in th’ first place.”

  “You’re right, it’s your call. I’ll scare up somebody else quick as I can.”

  “Fine. Now le’s go see what your brother’s bangin’ on Webster’s ear about.”

  “That ’us quite a party you threw ole Ziggy,” said Webster after the first long slug of his latest Red Cap as Moses took his seat in the Bisque Lunch Room.

  “Thanks. You left sort of early.”

  “Guess I’m not as young as I used to be. Or maybe I thought I’d be gone if the maniac returned with friends, firearms or both.”

  “That little asshole? Not likely.”

  “Don’t be too sure. It’s in his blood.”

  “Whatchoo talkin’ about? Ole Pat’s a right guy.”

  “He’s got another uncle, at least one more, that I’m talkin’ about. Doin’ five to seven down at Reidsville, less’n a hundred miles from here.”

  Moses’ eyebrows twitched. “Lindall?”

  “Yep. He’s Wash’s uncle on his mother’s side.”

  “Sorry to hear that. But there’re lots of nasty people in the world. And Lindall’s got about four years left to do, minimum.”

  “I’m just sayin’ you wanta watch yourself. That little asshole’s the kind who’d lay for you with a shotgun, just the way Lindall did with Precious Lord.”

  “Thanks, I’ll watch my back.”

  “Make damn sure you, buddy.”

  “By the way, Ziggy was givin’ you the gas hot and heavy right before you left. What’d he want?”

  “The usual. For people movin’ to Atlanta, that is. An introduction to Zack Shears.”

  “Hm. Did he say why?”

  “Appears as how he wants to join the herd of would-be singers that want Zack to make ’em famous.”

  “Well, don’t sell the boy short. He got out of here, and he’ll probably get out of Atlanta when he gets ready.”

  “He probably will at that,” said Webster.

  Chapter XVII. Little Old New York

  Jack brought the Harley to a halt with a scant screech of rear tire. No longer the “Wincycle,” it was his bike since Moses gave it to him, sidecar and all, for his sixteenth birthday, November first of ’52. He’d left the sidecar on just long enough for his mother to get used to his riding it every day; it became a solo rig way before Christmas, the fat “buddy” seat and its hydraulic plunger giving way to a small dual spring-supported number made by Bates of California. By the following June, Jack having taken his cues from photos in Cycle magazine, it was a full-fledged “bob job,” with a new front fender hammered out of the spare tire cover off a ‘36 Ford roadster, the old front fender cut down and moved to the back, and with Roy Hartwell’s connivance, a four-speed transmission in place of the old three-forward-plus-reverse. Roy had also heated and bent the end of the exhaust pipe upward to a forty-five degree angle and sent the pipe to Atlanta to be chromed. A matching chromed “reverse cone” megaphone rode at this jaunty angle beside the rear wheel, replacing the bike’s muffler and giving Jack the satisfaction of making more noise than Freddy George could with his new Triumph Thunderbird, which sported its own twin megaphones.

  Moses looked up from his desk at the sound of his knock. “Excuse me, Mose.”

  “Hey, bud,” Moses said with a grin as he looked at his watch. It was just past one o’clock. “This is a surprise. Whad’ja do, get kicked outa school?”

  Jack, who had been smiling, stopped. “No, but I’m AWOL. Sump’m happened over there a little while ago that I need to talk to you about.”

  “Sure. Have a seat. What’s going on?”

  “They suspended Ricky today; and kicked him off the football team. Trisha McNeil’s dad told the principal that she’s pregnant, and that Ricky did it.”

  “Oh, no. What does he say?”

  “He told me they’d been making love since Thanksgiving, and that she didn’t have her period last month or the month before that. She told him when she missed the first one, and they kept on waitin’, thinkin’ it would come. Then the time for her next one came and went. They were just too scared to tell anybody. Finally Ricky told his dad, and he went and told her folks. He said that they could get it fixed; she could get an operation- you know, an abortion. But that made ’em so mad they threw him out. They’re really mad.”

  “I guess they are. Abortions are illegal, and most of the people who do them aren’t doctors. It’s a very dangerous thing to mess with. Matter of fact, I’m amazed we’re havin’ this conversation. You guys are way too young to be talkin’ about stuff like this, and you- he- damn sure shouldn’t be doin’ it. Where’s Ricky now?”

  “Home, I guess. He left school during lunch period, as soon as he told me. He’s really confused, and mad, too. I’m goin’ over there, but I wanted to talk to you first.”

  “I’m glad you did, buddy. Do me a favor, though. I need some time to think this through. Go on back to school before they miss you, and meet me back here when it lets out.”

  “No, Mose. I can’t. Ricky needs me now. I’m not leavin’ him alone.”

  “Jack. You came here to talk to me. Did you want me to tell you what I think, or just listen to what you have to say?”

  Focusing on him, the boy’s eyes widened. “No, Mose, I need your help. Just don’t ask me to go back to that school right now. I can’t.”

  Moses got up and walked around the desk. Stopping behind Jack’s chair, he put one hand on each of his shoulders. “Mm-mm-mm- fuckin’-mm. OK. Forget about that. Let’s run out to Ricky’s.”

  “Hey, Melinda,” Moses said, forcing a smile.

  “Mose. Jack.” She looked as though she hadn’t slept, and was trying not to cry. “You’ve caught us at a bad time.”

  “Yes. I’m very sorry. We were hopin’ to help somehow; Jack’s worried about Ricky.”

  “So are we,” she said. “Richard’s not here right now. Why don’t y’all come on in. Jack, you wanta run on back and see Ricky? He’s in his room.”

  “Yes ma’am. Thanks.” He looked questioningly at Moses.

  “Go on, buddy. I’ll sit out here with Miz Terrell.”

  Jack knocked on the red-and-white steel KEEP OUT sign that Ricky had bolted to his door. It made a boinking sound like the one it had the night that they’d ripped it off the door to the gymnasium’s furnace room. “Rick?”

  Rick opened the door. His face was almost the same light gray as his sweatshirt. “Hey.”

  “You OK?”

  “Shit.” Ricky said. “Shit fuck piss. No, I ain’t.”

  “Is Trisha home now?”

  “I dawno.”

  Have you talked to ’er?”

  “You kiddin’? They won’t let ’er. They’re so pissed off I’ll prob’ly never see ’er again.”

  “Mose brought me
over; I told ’im about it; I think he can help us.”

  Ricky looked at him for a long thirty seconds. “Maybe so. You did right, buddy. He’s always backed you up, and God knows I need some good ideas about what to do. Daddy’s idea went over like a lead balloon, and now I’m sittin’ here without a clue.”

  “What wouldja really like to do?” asked Jack.

  “Right now?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’d sorta like to cut my dick off, if you wanta know the truth. I’ve fucked a buncha people, not just Trisha and me. And you know what? It wasn’t fuckin’ worth it.”

  “And here I’ve been envying the shit out of you because you were gettin’ steady pussy. Remember that bet we made way back that fourth of July at Pap’s?”

  “Oh yeah. When Korea’d just started. I won,” Ricky said, smiling at the irony.

  “Yeah, you were definitely first.”

  “Wanta swap places?”

  Jack smiled ruefully. “No thanks. But I still wanta help. Believe me, if I’d had the chance you had, I’da done the same thing. Funny, ain’t it?”

  “What?”

  “You say it wasn’t worth it, and I believe you. But most guys want it bad; really bad, I mean. Do most anything to get it, far as I know. That’s what nearly every damn movie’s all about. So if there ain’t much to it, what in the fuck are we gettin’ so shook up about?”

  “Easy,” said Ricky. “Between times, you forget. All th’ blood that it takes to get a hard-on must drain right outa th’ brain. Remember what Smokey said that time? ‘A stiff dick ain’t got no conscience.’ One thing’s for sure; we ain’t got much control over it, or I wouldn’t be sittin’ here feelin’ like such a fuckin’ idiot.”

  “You’re no fuckin’ idiot, no more than anybody else with a dick,” said Jack as he stood up, looking at the Lockheed P-80 that hung from the ceiling, its wingspan something over two feet. “No idiot built that,” he said, “and we’re gonna get through this shit together. I made up my mind about sump’m while we were drivin’ out here, by th’ way.

  “Yeah, what?”

  “They decided they could do without your services as quarterback; I’m gonna let ’em do without mine, too.”

  Ricky stood up, spinning Jack around by the arm so that they faced each other. “The fuck you are!” he said, his jaw set. “What the fuck do you think you’re doin’, givin’ me one more person to feel guilty about? Goddam it, what’re you thinkin’ about, anyway? You just fuckin’ forget that, pal.”

  “You forget tellin’ me to forget it, pal,” Jack shot back as he shook Ricky’s arm off and moving his face within a couple of inches of his. “I’m in this with you, just the same way you’d be in it with me. You would be, would’ncha?”

  Ricky turned away, looking out the window. “Yeah, sure I would,” he said, his voice dropping. “Goddam it, don’t you get it? Nobody can get me outa this, or make it better. But you’re right. I’d try, and I won’t keep you from tryin’. Thanks, buddy.”

  Jack’s hand reached out to clutch Ricky’s shoulder, just below his neck, and squeezed. “OK. Mose’s gotta get back. I’ll call you in a little bit.”

  “How’d it go?” asked Moses as they headed back to the office.

  “OK. How was Miz Terrell?”

  “Not bad, except she’s convinced that they’ll have to leave town. Beats anything I ever saw; most of the people in this fucking town are so full of fear that they’ve forgotten what they’re afraid of.”

  Jack looked at him for a long moment, jaw set, green eyes nearly black. “Yeah. Sump’m like this hurts people like th’ Terrells the most. It’s important to them to do th’ right thing, and when somebody points a finger at ’em and says they did wrong, it hurts just as much whether they really did it or not. If you play th’ Bisque game, you’re guilty until proven innocent. Somebody like you or Pap or Mom’d just tell ’em to go to hell, but most people just knuckle under. We’ll get ’em through it, though. I’m takin’ the first step today. Wouldja drop me off at school?”

  “Sure. What kinda step you got in mind?”

  “I’m tellin’ Coach I’m off the team.”

  Moses kept his eyes on the road. “Sounds like you’ve already thought this though. Any chance you’d like to sleep on it?”

  “Nossir.”

  “OK, buddy. Shall I come in?”

  “No, thanks. I’d like to handle this myself.”

  Moses turned the car toward the gymnasium. “No,” said Jack, “just drop me at the back door. He drove into the parking lot, near the cafeteria, and stopped. Coach’s civics class’ll be out in a few minutes.” He sat looking straight ahead. He pushed the door handle down, then turned to Moses as the door swung open and the bell’s clanging surged into the car. “Hey, beer man.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I love you.” He was already out of the car.

  “I know,” Moses shouted after him. “I love you, too, buddy.”

  Moses sat smiling in the car, the motor running, watching Jack through a trickle of tears as he walked past the cafeteria toward the door. That kid’s bitten off a very large piece of growing up, he thought; and right this minute I don’t see much that I can do to help him chew it.

  Bisque High School’s new building, Serena thought as she walked up the front steps, looks a lot like those long, narrow chicken houses they’re building around here. Even the wire imbedded in the glass of these doors looks like chicken wire. Looking through its hexagons, she saw the familiar figure of Miss Nola Thomas pushing her way through the stream of student traffic. She leaned her weight against the inbound door, calling to the white-haired woman as it hissed open. “Miss Nola!”

  “Yes? Well, my goodness, Serena,” she said, smiling over her half-glasses in the bemused, inquiring way that took the younger woman back over twenty years, to her desk in Miss Nola’s World History class. Still wearing that green cable-knit sweater that she wore way back then. “How’re you doing?”

  “Just fine,” said Serena, “Considering.”

  “I know,” Miss Nola said, “I’ve heard about it. It’s all over school, and I’ll tell you I’m not the least bit surprised at what Jack did. He has a pretty good instinct for justice.”

  “You can’t know how good that makes me feel,” said Serena. “He hasn’t said all that much to me about it, except that he feels that he has to stand by Ricky, and this is the way he’s chosen to do it.”

  Miss Nola’s smile faded as she looked past her old student toward the administration office. “It’s been too long since we visited, Serena; would you be free to have a cup of coffee with me after school? I could drop by the hotel around three-thirty.”

  “That’d be just great. Let’s meet in my apartment, up on the sixth floor, so we won’t be interrupted. Suite 601. I’m really looking forward to catching up.”

  “So I am I, honey,” said the teacher as she turned to go. “See you this afternoon.”

  The clock on the office wall behind conceded a single tinny chime as John Martin stepped through the door. The principal extended a long arm toward Serena, offering his hand. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Mason,” he said. “Thank you for coming. Please come in.” They walked past the office’s chest-high counter and into Mr. Martin’s office, where Jack and Mr. Whitehead sat, their faces reflecting the walls’ dusty, aging yellow. They stood to greet her. “Of course you know Coach Whitehead,” the principal said as they shook hands. “Shall we sit down?” Serena sat beside Jack on the sofa opposite Martin’s desk.

  “After Coach Whitehead told me about Jack’s decision to leave the team,” Martin said, “I thought it might be a good idea for us all to get together and talk about what we think the results of that decision might be.”

  “As far as I can see,” Serena said, “the results are pretty obvious. Unless I’ve missed something.”

  “In one sense, I suppose, that’s true,” the principal said, shifting in his chair to bring Coach Whitehead, seated at the far co
rner of the desk, into his field of vision. “Football, like our other sports programs, is an elective activity. So if Jack doesn’t want to play any more, the school respects his decision. I just want to make sure that he, and you, Mrs. Mason, are sure that the decision in his best interest.”

  “From what Jack’s told me in the last few days,” Serena replied, I believe that it is.”

  “Yes. Well. I’m sure that he’s told you a great deal by now, and that he feels like he’s done the right thing. He’s standing beside his friend, and that’s very admirable. I’m concerned, though, that in this immediate response to the necessity of suspending Mr. Terrell and removing him from the team, Jack may be overreacting. I’d like to make sure that you folks understand that the school had no discretion in the handling of this matter. Even if we had, I can tell you that would’ve made very little difference in my decision. These children made a very serious mistake, and the school can’t ratify that behavior by ignoring it. I’d just hate to see Jack pay too high a price for this gesture he’s making on behalf of his friend.”

  “Jack’s the one to tell you how he feels about that,” said Serena, “but as long as I’m here, I’ll tell you how I feel about it. The time for a ‘gesture’- and the action that backs it up- is when a friend needs it.”

  “Yes. Of course. I know he feels that way…”

  “You’ve asked him?”

  “Well, not yet, but…”

  “Then why don’t you ask him? That’s why we’re here, isn’t it? To make sure Jack knows what he’s doing?”

  “It is,” said Coach Whitehead, shifting his bulk on the seat of a chair not designed for it. “Absolutely. But we want him- and you- to be real sure you understand what Jack’s gonna lose by passin’ up his senior year of football.”

  “OK. And let’s also look at what he stands to gain. That all right with you, son?” asked Serena, smiling as she looked at Jack.

  Jack, sitting with his back away from the sofa, his hands on his knees, returned her smile. “That’s just fine,” he said.