All American Boy

by William J. Mann

  “Walter, please, it’s not right to speak ill when a man is dying.”

  “Well, you stay if you want, but I’m not about to sit here and comfort him, not when he’s this close to burning in hell.”

  Uncle Axel makes a sound, a kind of burp. Somewhere down there among all the gurgling Wally thinks he recognizes his old voice, caught in his throat. They both watch the old man’s face and his chest, to see if this is it. But he goes right on breathing, right on gurgling, eyes closed.

  “Aunt Selma,” Wally asked, “there’s no such thing as Jacky Tricky, right?”

  She was tucking him into bed. She stopped and made a face, a tired little smile. She sat down on the bed and looked at the boy with her dark-ringed eyes.

  “Uncle Axel been telling you stories again?”

  He nodded, suddenly embarrassed.

  “Don’t pay him any mind, Walter,” she said. “Uncle Axel just likes to have fun with you.” She paused. “See, he doesn’t know how to be with children. I guess that’s because I could never give him any.”

  “He’s not real, right? Jacky Tricky?”

  “Now hush,” Aunt Selma said, seeming too tired to go on. “Just stop thinking about all that.”

  She stood up and bent over to turn off the lamp. In its soft light, Wally thought she looked beautiful. She might have been old and tired-looking but she was still beautiful. His mother had told him that Aunt Selma, when she was young, had traveled all over the country. Mom said that before Aunt Selma had married Uncle Axel, the family had called her a flapper. Her sister, Wally’s grandmother, had gotten married and had children, but Aunt Selma just kept flapping around. Wally didn’t know what “flapper” meant, and Mom didn’t quite know, either. “That was many years ago,” his mother told him. “Ladies can’t be flappers anymore.”

  Aunt Selma switched off the light. “I hope you’ll understand about Uncle Axel someday, Walter. He just doesn’t know about children.” She kissed him, unseen wet lips on his cheek. “Good night.”

  Her perfume lingered in the dark.

  Wally was almost asleep when the door opened again, the light from the hallway slicing the darkness of his room in a white column. In the doorway stood the silhouette of Uncle Axel, his shadow falling across Wally’s bed.

  “’Night, chap.”

  “’Night.” Wally’s voice was tight. He pulled the sheet up to his chin and held it there. His toes curled up under his sheets.

  “And Jacky Tricky says good night too. He’s in the window, you know, waving to you. Turn around and say ’night, Jacky.”

  The window was behind the headboard of Wally’s bed. The boy didn’t budge.

  “Aw, poor Jacky,” Uncle Axel said. “Don’t get him angry now, chap. He’s just a little guy. He can fit right there on the window box. But he’s got very sharp teeth.”

  Wally watched as the door closed, the column of white light on the floor narrowing then disappearing altogether.

  For a long time he lay awake. The sheets were very hot, and he was sweating, but he didn’t dare kick them off. Somehow he felt safer with them across his legs. Behind him, he knew the window was open a crack. He could hear the crickets. He lay waiting, listening for any sound.

  And then he heard it: a slight scratching at the window. His muscles tensed. He told himself that he was eight years old now, a big boy, and that Jacky Tricky was not real. Aunt Selma said he wasn’t, and Mom did, too. Uncle Axel was the only one who said he was, and Dad said Uncle Axel was a bastard. Wally wasn’t any more sure of what a bastard was than he was a flapper, but Dad had said it with such force that whatever it meant, Uncle Axel was it, and Jacky Tricky just couldn’t be real.

  But the scratching kept on. Wally imagined long, childish fingers tapping the glass, agile little feet jostling for balance on the window box. He could see those long fingers slipping under the crack, trying to raise the window, a hideous grin on his baby face as he struggled. Wally knew that Jacky Tricky had a wide grin, with lots of saliva running over his long teeth. He saw him just as he was, and no matter what anyone said, Wally knew Jacky Tricky was real, and there in the dark he was even more real than Mom or Dad or Aunt Selma. Wally knew that the little imp was right there at the window behind him, that he wanted to get his claws on his throat and bite him with those long sharp teeth of his.

  And then he’d laugh. Wally knew he’d laugh. Sometimes, early in the morning before he got up, when the sun was just starting to rise and the air was orange and pink, Wally could hear Jacky Tricky laughing out in the woods. A high, long laugh that reached a crescendo and then trailed off. It wasn’t a bird. It was Jacky Tricky, and Wally was sure of it. It was Jacky Tricky, running wild through the woods.

  Uncle Axel had told him that Jacky Tricky was a lost boy, abandoned by his parents when he was only two, left in the middle of the woods to be raised by the bears and the foxes and the rats and the hawks, and then the devil let him live forever. No one knew how long he’d been out there in the woods, but he was there. Uncle Axel knew him. He’d made friends with him. Trouble was, Jacky Tricky just didn’t like little kids—except to eat.

  “He’s been known to have ’em for breakfast with a side of extra-crisp bacon,” Uncle Axel had said, many times.

  Wally figured Jacky didn’t like kids because he was jealous of them. He hated kids who still had a house to live in, and good food, and a mother and a father. Sometimes, during the day, when Wally played with his Matchbox cars or read his comic books, he felt sorry for Jacky Tricky. Sometimes he thought if he could only talk to him, tell him that he’d be his friend, then he wouldn’t hate him anymore. Wally would tell him that his own parents fought a lot, and that sometimes he thought they didn’t want him around. Sometimes he thought they’d like nothing better than to lose him in the woods. He would tell Jacky Tricky that sometimes he wanted to run away. He’d tell Jack Tricky that he wished he had a brother, somebody to play with, somebody he could talk to about all this stuff. Maybe Jacky Tricky could be his brother, and then he wouldn’t be scared of him anymore.

  But those were his thoughts during the day.

  At night, Wally’s thoughts were very different.

  He heard the scratching again, and he began to whimper. He didn’t want to cry out because Uncle Axel would come in and call him a sissy. He didn’t want to cry out because he was eight years old now, a big boy who didn’t believe in Jacky Tricky anymore. But he couldn’t help it: there was the scratching again. It was him. He knew it was him, standing there, smiling with his crazy eyes, saying, “Turn around, Wally. Turn around and see me. Turn around and see that I’m real.”

  Wally began to cry. He bolted upright, and with a hard thrust he spun around in bed. And there, at the window, was indeed the face of Jacky Tricky—sharp teeth, claws, scratching. Wally screamed, and felt a surge zap through him, like the time he’d stuck a pin into the electrical socket. He screamed again, and again, jumping on the bed, and the whole room went white.

  Aunt Selma’s arms were suddenly around him, pulling him down, but not before he saw the bushy tail of a squirrel wave good-bye as it jumped back out into the night from the window-box.

  “Axel, you’ve frightened the boy terribly bad,” Aunt Selma said, her voice shaky. Wally crushed his face into her soft busom. She still smelled of that sweet perfume. His nose was in the opening of her robe, and it slipped down to the spot where her breasts parted. There he rested, heaving with sobs.

  Uncle Axel stood over them, shirtless, lots of fuzz. He wore a silly polka-dotted nightcap on his head. He chuckled. “’Kay, chap, tell ya what. I’m gonna go get my shotgun.”

  Wally peered over Aunt Selma’s shoulder. He watched as Uncle Axel went into his room, and then came back carrying his big hunting rifle. He held it up to the boy. “See?” He walked out through the kitchen. Wally heard the screen door bang behind him.

  He wasn’t crying now, just heaving. Aunt Selma gestured toward the window and Wally looked. Uncle Axel was out there,
the moonlight bright upon him. He disappeared into the bushes.

  In a few minutes they heard a bang, a loud shot, and Aunt Selma whispered in Wally’s ear, “There.” He suddenly felt very silly that this whole charade had been enacted for him, but the sense of relief was stronger. Aunt Selma tucked him back into bed, and suggested she leave the light on.

  “No, Aunt Selma,” Wally said. “I’m okay.”

  She left the door ajar. Wally heard the screen door slam as Uncle Axel came back inside, and then he heard the door to their room shut. He heard them whispering, a hard, intense sound, as if they were arguing. Then he heard their door open again and Uncle Axel stomp into the kitchen. Cabinet doors were opened and closed with bangs. Then it was quiet.

  Wally’s breathing began to relax. He stared at the soft blue light that slipped into his room from the half-opened door. A black shadow moved into it. Wally raised his eyes. Uncle Axel stood in the doorway.

  “You awake, chap?”

  “Yes,” Wally whispered, not wanting Aunt Selma to hear.

  “Got somethin’ to tell ya.” Uncle Axel’s soft words seemed to echo in the dark. “I missed.”

  “Okay, Walter,” his mother’s saying. “I suppose we can go.”

  “Finally.”

  His mother stands, not looking down again at the old man. “They couldn’t have children, you know. I think it was always an ache in Aunt Selma’s heart.”

  Wally just grunts, holding the door open for his mother. He lets it clack shut behind him.

  Outside in the hall the lights seem to have gotten even brighter. Wally blinks against them, not knowing why they hurt his eyes so much. His mother is looking around for the nurse’s station, trying to find the doctor. Wally waits by the old man’s door, looking back in through the little glass window.

  Not yet, you bastard. Don’t die yet. I still have one thing to tell you.

  He waits until his mother is out of sight, then slips back into the room.

  The odor hits him again. He’d gotten used to it before, but even just the few minutes away has left him unprepared again. It’s the stench of death.

  He looks down at Uncle Axel. The old man’s eyes are open, staring down his nose. He’s still gurgling. His head seems to tremble, as if he’s trying to lift it, to see who it is that stands there. Wally watches the old man’s feeble attempt at life, not wanting to feel sorry for him, to feel any compassion. Still, it’s a strange shiver, a pitiful effort to summon energy that no longer exists. He doesn’t want to be reminded of Ned in his last days, his final hours. There can be no recognition here, no familiarity: nothing about this monster could ever remind him of Ned. Not even these last flickers of his spirit, these final tremors of life.

  “Hello, chap,” Wally whispers. His voice sounds strange and unfamiliar.

  Uncle Axel’s head shakes against his pillow. His grotesque ear-lobes wiggle.

  It’s happening. Wally can feel it. He’s about to die. He’s about to walk into hell and right past the gate Jacky Tricky is waiting to greet him, his sharp teeth ready.

  And Wally’s going to make sure he knows it.

  “Do you recognize me?” he asks. “It’s Walter.”

  He thinks he sees the old man’s shoulders stiffen. His black eyes try to make out the form looming over him.

  I hope you’ll understand about Uncle Axel someday, Walter.

  Wally snorts. Here’s what he understands: that the old bastard made an unhappy boy even unhappier. A tight smile stretches across his face. You think Jacky Tricky was bad, Uncle Axel? Meet Wally Day.

  “Wa—”

  The old man is trying to say something. Wally pauses, not sure what it is. He says it again.

  “Wa—er …”

  It sounds like his name.

  “Yes, Uncle Axel. It’s Walter.” He says his name with force, the way his father had said bastard all those years ago. “And I have something to tell you …”

  “Wa—ter …,” the old man rasps.

  “Yes, it’s Walter.”

  “Wa—ter—”

  The old man’s lips are chapped, yellow, flaking like mildewed French pastry. His tongue, shriveled and gray, clicks against the back of his throat.

  “Wa—ter—”

  It’s then that Wally realizes what the old man is trying to say. On a table to his side sits a blue plastic water pitcher and some orange paper cups. Wally looks at them, and then back at Uncle Axel.

  He’s asking for water.

  Damn you, old man, I’m not here to give you water. I’m here to tell you that you’re going to hell and that right inside the gate, Jacky Tricky will be waiting for you, fangs and claws sharpened and—

  “Wa—,” he croaks, and his eyes, rolling, catch Wally’s for just the briefest of moments.

  I hope you’ll understand about Uncle Axel someday, Walter.

  Wally stands there, unable to move. He opens his mouth to speak, then shuts it. He clenches his fists at his sides, then opens them again. “Damn it,” he whispers, turning away abruptly. “Goddamn it!”

  He heads toward the door.

  “Wa—ter—,” he hears, very softly, behind him.

  Wally stops.

  He turns around.

  When does the cycle end, Wally?

  He gazes down at the dying old man.

  When does it finally end?

  “Wa—ter—,” pleads the old man, his dry, cracked lips barely moving.

  Wally stares at him.

  “Damn Jacky Tricky,” he says finally to himself.

  He bends down, cradles Uncle Axel’s head in his arm, and gently, ever so gently, holds the cup of water to his lips.

  14

  RESPONSIBILITIES

  “It will just be for a little while,” Luz is saying as they sit at the kitchen table, their cups of orange tea between them. “Just for a little while, Mrs. Day, and then I’ll be back.”

  Ever since she’d gotten home from the hospital from seeing Uncle Axel, Regina has had the feeling that something terrible would happen. And now it has. Luz is going to leave her. She’s going to go. She took the money and now she was going to go.

  The girl had found her at the shed, trying to pry off the boards with a hammer.

  “Mrs. Day, what are you doing? You wanted me to board it up!”

  He’s got to be in there. I dragged his body from the living room through the kitchen then out through the back door. His head bumped against each step of the back porch. I remember. I can see his head hitting every step. It’s so clear in my mind.

  But Luz said there was nothing in the shed.

  I’m afraid I might be losing my mind.

  It’s happened before, why not again?

  It wasn’t a spa that they sent her to. That’s what Aunt Selma called it, but it was no spa. It was an asylum. An insane asylum. A madhouse. A funny farm.

  “What is your name?”

  “Regina Christina Gunderson.”

  “And why are you here?”

  “My sister says I tried to kill myself.”

  “And did you?”

  Did she? Regina’s never been sure. She can’t imagine it; she was always so scared of blood. It made her think of the bloody bundle they took away from Mama’s room. It takes courage to kill yourself, Regina knew, and she never was that brave.

  But Kyle’s blood didn’t bother me. It was all over the floor and I mopped it up without giving it a thought.

  “Mrs. Day,” Luz said. “Why are you so frightened of the shed? What do you think is inside?”

  “The policeman …”

  “The policeman? You think he’s in the shed?”

  Regina could see him standing there in his blue uniform, his bushy mustache twitching.

  Any idea where he is? Do you have any idea?

  Walter … He came looking for Walter.

  Are you going to press charges against the pervert? We can have his sorry faggot ass thrown in jail, Captain Day, I promise you that …

&
nbsp; “Mrs. Day?”

  She found Luz’s eyes.

  No, not Walter.

  The policeman came looking for Kyle.

  Kyle, who’s in the shed.

  “Mrs. Day, you’re trembling.”

  “It’s cold,” she told Luz. “I should fire up the wood furnace. That will help.”

  “Mrs. Day, come inside with me. We’ll make some tea.”

  She looked into Luz’s eyes. So pretty. How she loved the girl, loved her more in that moment than she’d ever loved anyone. Once, a long time ago, there was another girl who looked like Luz. Regina’s thought about that girl many times over the years. She was her friend. Her name was Terry. They were going to go to the Dogtown Deli and eat corned beef on rye.

  “Kyle,” she said, gripping the girl’s leather jacket. “Kyle’s in the shed.”

  “Oh.” A terribly sad look had passed across Luz’s face. She seemed as if she might cry. “No, Mrs. Day. Kyle’s not in the shed, Mrs. Day. Trust me, he’s not.”

  “He’s there, he must be there—”

  “Kyle’s gone. And he’s not coming back. I won’t let him.”

  “He’s in the shed.”

  “I know Kyle was cruel to you,” Luz told her. “I know he made your life hell. But he’s gone, Mrs. Day. And I won’t let him bother you ever again.”

  Regina looked into the girl’s face. So pretty, so dainty—but so strong, too. Strong like Rocky. Yes, just like Rocky.

  “Do you hear me, Mrs. Day?” Luz’s face was in hers, and she gripped the old woman’s hands. “I won’t let him come back. You don’t have to worry anymore. Kyle’s gone and your nightmare is over. I promise you that, Mrs. Day. I promise.”

  But now Luz was leaving.

  “Is it okay if I leave Jorge here?” she’s asking. “I can’t send him back to my father. He would be so cruel to Jorge without me there. It would just be for a couple days, maybe three. I need to go to the city, Mrs. Day. I need to get a job.”

  “Oh, but you don’t need a job, Luz. You can live here—”

  “I’m going to be a model, Mrs. Day. Just like you said.”

  Suddenly Luz starts to cry. She can’t speak. She shakes her head and waves her hands, unable to stop crying.