Tribulations

by Richard Thomas

  He wasn’t anything special, really, the man in the black suit, picking at his teeth with his long fingernails. I offered him coffee as I sat at the kitchen table, my mug steaming—the smell of bacon filling the air. He was a gangly man, with empty black eyes, his pale wrists sticking out a bit beyond the dingy white dress shirt, the black cuffs rubbed raw at the edges.

  “You understand how this works, Mr. Jones? It’s her first offense, but the cameras don’t lie.”

  He pointed to the laptop sitting open on the scarred, wooden table, my daughter snatching some candy bars, dropping them in her jacket pocket, eyes darting this way and that. I hardly recognized her.

  “Yes, I understand.”

  “So you choose the second option, Mr. Jones. No trial, immediate justice right here, right now. I’m a busy man, you see, lots of stops to make. Your daughter, Talia is it, yes, Talia,” he says, leaning over the computer, tapping a few keys, “three days shy of her eighteenth birthday, so technically she’s still a minor.”

  I nod my head.

  “That’s a good thing, Mr. Jones.”

  I will come to think of him as a phantom, Agent Allen. He will haunt my dreams, my waking life. I will see his square, yellow teeth, his bookish glasses, his long fingers, everywhere I go.

  “I understand all of this, agent. I will take door number two, yes. We can take care of this right now, I understand that she is my responsibility.”

  I take a sip of coffee as his smile widens.

  “Dad, no, don’t,” Talia says. “You don’t have to do this. Honest. It was a simple mistake, it won’t happen again.”

  I look at my daughter, my little angel, my flower, and while I hear her voice, I do not seriously consider letting her go downtown, no matter how quickly Agent Allen says she would be tried. She will not sit in a cell, brooding, exacting revenge on anyone but herself, the circumstances that put her there, the people that contributed to her acting out. No, I will up the ante right now and show her there are others that suffer when she breaks the law, starting with her father.

  “What do I need to sign, Agent Allen?” I ask.

  Talia starts to cry, no longer struggling, it has been decided.

  “Here we go,” he says, whipping out a few sheets of folded paper from his jacket pocket. I sign here and here and initial there, and it’s done.

  “Thank you, Mr. Jones. You are a fine, upstanding citizen. Now, if you could place your hand on the table, please.”

  Talia doesn’t speak, her head hung, pale skin taking on a green tint, the men holding her up, silent, their faces void of emotion.

  I place my hand on the table, my left hand of course, and Agent Allen leans down and picks up his black, leather briefcase off the floor, placing it on the table, clicking it open, depositing the paperwork, and taking out a slim metal device that looks something like an electric toothbrush.

  “There will be pain, of course,” he says, “but not a lot of blood.”

  I nod my head.

  “You ready?” he asks.

  “Yes, go ahead.”

  “Good thing she’s seventeen, that’s all I have to say, Mr. Jones,” and he cuts off the tip of my left index finger. The laser held between two thin, metal posts at the end of the device is quick and efficient, one squirt of blood, cauterizing as it cuts through the flesh and bone. I open my mouth to scream, and then it’s done. The tip sits there as if looking for a lost brother, a space between it and the rest of my hand. It is an illusion, a parlor trick. The agent puts his toy away, and reaching down with a disinfectant wipe, makes sure the finger is sealed, cleaning up the streak of blood on the table.

  The men let go of Talia, and the agent tosses the tip to her.

  “Here you go, sweetheart.”

  She opens her mouth, aghast, the tip bouncing around in her hands, leaving little red blotches every time it touches her, falling to the floor.

  “No offense, Mr. Jones,” he says, “but I hope I don’t see you again. Have a nice day, you two.”

  Talia is at my side, she is crying, apologizing, and I sit like stone, feeling that I’ve made the right choice, but sick to my stomach nonetheless. She is my daughter, and I love her and it was a small sacrifice. But I wanted her to learn something here, to see how her actions ripple out into the world like a stone in a pond.

  “You have a birthday coming up,” I whisper, as she kneels next to me, crying. “Let’s do something fun, okay?”

  And things are just fine for a bit. But kids will be kids, and the crowd she started running with, they wanted to make a difference, they wanted to change the world. The next time I saw Agent Allen was a few years later, standing in my kitchen again, his goons holding my daughter, accusing her of spying, treason, grand larceny—explaining to me the options here, my choices, as I nodded my head, and sipped my coffee. Talia stood tall, defiant, an entirely different creature than the first time. She was my daughter, and I loved her, and it was my job to protect her, even from herself. She was nineteen now, and could stand trial for her actions, or, as the law stated, any family member could voluntarily help them administer immediate justice, right here and now. No court, no trial, no crowded jail cell—simply the videos playing out before me, Agent Allen standing there with his toy, its jaw widened now, not for a finger, but for the entire hand. And a second device, a long, metal stick with a buzzing device at the end, spinning and crackling with electricity. But I can hardly hear his voice, my eyes on Talia, angry again, always so angry, tears running down her face, her pleas landing on deaf ears. She would learn this time, I would make sure of it. There were four men in gray jumpsuits today, two to hold her, and two to hold me. The hand, and then the eyes, it seems. Lasers separating flesh from bone, taking my sight as the room fills with the smell of burning flesh, her screams mingling with mine, and then it all goes dark.

  I love my daughter. It’s my job to protect her.

  ****

  I can hear her singing over by the stove, Talia, as I sit at the table. It is a new table, white Formica, something she tells me she found in a thrift store, with gray swirls and shiny metal framing the edges, which I can feel with my right hand—my fingers. She tells me the chairs are yellow vinyl on the backs, and a white cream for the seats. I have to take her word for it. She is making chicken noodle soup, it’s cold outside, the crop taken in, snow on the ground, and she’s telling me about a man she met at the university. Her hair has grown back out, it’s long now, and I imagine she looks a lot like her mother.

  “Is he a student?”

  “No, a teacher. Philosophy,” she says.

  I pause and wonder—this man full of ideas.

  I hear the grilled cheese sandwich sizzling in the pan. She doesn’t get out here to the farm that often now—busy taking classes in the city, still trying to figure out who she is, and that’s okay. I understand. And I don’t want to be trouble, ask her for too much. She has already shoveled the walk, taken the garbage cans down to the end of the driveway, tidied up around the house. I can take care of myself, I’ve memorized the layout, it wasn’t that hard, only a handful of rooms, but I want her to feel needed. Because she is needed, I love my daughter—her visit is the highlight of my day, my week—my month. I love her with all of my heart.

  I feel her hand on my shoulder and a kiss on my cheek, the soup and sandwich in front of me, and she joins me for the meal, and we catch up. She tells me about this man, and I worry of course, I’m her father after all. But she sounds happy, she tells me about her classes, some bands she saw recently, and I nod my head and listen, chime in when I can, but for the most part I eat my soup, and every once in a while I feel her hand on my arm, and I smile. I picture her face as I remember it, as a child, smiling up at me, holding my hand at the playground, laughing on the swings—scrambling up and down the slides. It’s how I see her now, my eyesight gone, always as a child. And I’m not sure why.

  When she has left, I stand at the sink and do the dishes—I wouldn’t let her clean up, I
have to show her I can take care of myself, I don’t want her to feel bad, to worry. We don’t talk about the men in gray jumpsuits, about Agent Allen. We pretend it never happened, the elephant in the room at all times.

  I retire to the small living room off the kitchen and turn on the television set, slipping into the leather recliner. I reach for the remote with my left hand, my coffee cup in my right, an old habit, and I laugh. I still feel it sometimes, the phantom hand, and when I say that word in my head, phantom, I see the face of Agent Allen, and I frown. I hold no animosity for him, just doing his job, but I break out in a slight sweat anyway. I think of Talia driving into the city by herself, and I hope this man is a good man, somebody at the other end of the line that will be nice to her, support her, and see how special she is, my daughter. Placing my cup down, I grab the remote with my right hand now, chuckling to myself, clicking the television on. I set the remote down on the end table, and then touch my right check where she kissed me goodbye—a whiff of her perfume floats to me, sandalwood and red currant, and a hint of something darker.

  ****

  “Adultery,” is what Agent Allen says, standing in my kitchen again. They’ve taken her outside, her screams were drowning out the agent, we couldn’t talk, two more men in gray jumpsuits, and I wonder if they’re the same. I have no way of knowing. I guess the man at the university…I guess he wasn’t so nice after all. Wife and two kids, so achingly predictable, and I’m disappointed in Talia. I cannot see her face, but I can hear her pleading with me from the yard, her explanations, she is in love, he is going to leave his wife. I don’t ask what will become of him, because I don’t really care. He is a distant shadow filled with black hair and slick flesh and hidden lust and my head is throbbing with a swarm of bees.

  “All parties will be dealt with, Mr. Jones,” he continues, “I don’t make the laws, they continue to evolve, I understand your questions, certainly I do, and she’s a woman now, sir, if you don’t mind my saying so…”

  And he goes on and on. I am cold. They’ve taken my clothes off, preparing for the inevitable, I suppose. They know me by now, my motivations, how I work, I expect. I run my hands over my skin, dry and winkled in places, sagging stomach, aching back, but the men with their hands on my shoulders, they are not there to keep me, as if I could run, they are merely there to hold me up, I suspect.

  I love my daughter.

  White Picket Fences

  I’d been painting Mrs. Johnson’s fence all week, the sun beating down on me hot as hell, a jar of sun tea brewing on her front porch, lemons cut up and floating in a big glass jar, one rumbling Chevy after another cruising up and down the strip, but all I could think about was Connie, and the smell that was coming from the basement. It was a strange mix, the sweat and exhaustion washing over me, the call of the movie house, the plaid skirts, the poodle skirts, jeans rolled up to show some ankle, one girl after another walking those black and white saddle shoes up and down the concrete, their cat-eye glasses peeking at me, my t-shirt soaked through. But, Connie—I could watch her suck the pop out of a soda for the rest of my life, for sure. And lurking underneath this all, every time I went around back for a new gallon of paint, was the thick stench of something dead from the cellar doors, the heavy padlock, the paint flecked and peeling, the grass worn away to reveal a dirt path that ran all the way around to the sidewalk.

  I like Mrs. Johnson enough, she paid pretty well, and I couldn’t beat the location. Just catty-corner was the Sonic, where all the kids were hanging out, and even though I was hard at work, I got a glimpse of the girls in my class, a bit of shiny metal or maybe a flash of red paint, just enough to make me feel like I was there, just enough to make me work harder, to try and finish this job. She’d come out to check on me, as I worked on the fence that ran all around the perimeter of her property, a cigarette in one hand, her sunglasses on, and some sort of housecoat, as if she were an old maid, but I knew what she hid underneath that long, floating outfit. I’d seen her in the back yard in her bikini, slathered in baby oil, glistening like a seal, her lips a dark red that just begged to be on my neck. The heat was getting to me, Connie and Mrs. J, her wink and a nod, a glass of that tea, it was fine with me, I guess. What else was I gonna do this summer, sit down by that greasy lake and smoke cigarettes, starting rumors about girls that none of us had kissed? It was torture, and yet, I had nowhere else to go.

  “Jimmy, you getting thirsty?” Mrs. Johnson asked, standing on the front porch. I was definitely getting thirsty, I was damn tired, and it was hardly noon, my nights filled with the smell of dead cats and shadows moving in and out of the bushes, my dreams filled with her house, the yard, the cellar doors, when I should have been thinking about Connie.

  “Sure, Mrs. Johnson,” I said, putting down the brush and walking over.

  “Jimmy, how many times have I told you to call me Grace? You’re making me feel ancient, hon.”

  “Sure thing, Mrs. Johnson. I mean, Grace,” I said, sucking down the iced tea, as she patted me on the shoulder, a floral scent filling my nostrils, jasmine or something, cedar and bourbon underneath.

  “How’s it going? You gonna finish up this week you think? I’ll bet the lake is calling, right? And how about that Connie?”

  “What about her?” I asked, turning to face her.

  “Oh, I see her walk by here all the time, honey. I’m not dense. I mean, how many burgers can that girl eat? I’ve never seen her take a bite. I think that’s the same Walgreens bag she’s been carrying around all summer, I haven’t seen her lipstick color change even once,” she laughed.

  “Oh. Her. I don’t know, Mrs. Johnson…Grace. I mean, she’s cute and all. I better get back to painting.”

  I never paid that much attention to how many times Connie came and went. I mean, it seemed like she was always there, but how many times was I imagining it, wishing her onto the street, her eyes glancing over, that little wave, her blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail?

  I went around to the back to get some more paint, the cellar doors rattling, but me only wishing for a breeze. I eyed the padlock, as the shadows in the basement window swam and unfurled, my eyes rolling back up into my head, the grass rushing up to me in one fell swoop.

  ****

  Opening my eyes, I could feel the cool air around me, the room dark and musty, shelves on one side filled with jars of canned pickles and peppers, tomatoes and green beans. And on the far wall, a workbench, covered in dust, a rusty saw lying out, a bag of lye, a bag of soil, some rock salt, and that smell washing over me, causing me to gag.

  “Here, drink some water,” she said, stepping out of the shadows, handing me a glass.

  I was lying on a cot, an old army canvas thing, down in her basement, Grace standing with one hand on her hip, the other holding that damn cigarette, exhaling smoke as if it was a chore.

  “You passed out, sonny boy, heat got to you, I guess. I told you to take it easy.”

  “That smell…”

  “I know, it’s horrible, I’m sorry, something died down here and for the life of me, I can’t track it down. A squirrel, a possum, something got in here and never got out,” she laughed, her eyes glancing over to the bench, to the corner where a huge steamer trunk sat, a stain around it, seeping into the concrete. Her lipstick was smeared to one side, her house coast popping a few buttons on the bottom, a lot of leg showing, her eyes dancing as she inhaled.

  “You okay, Grace?”

  She smiled, and exhaled smoke, laughing. “Yeah, I just don’t like being down here. I couldn’t think of another way to cool you off, I was worried you were sick or hurt.”

  “You carried me down here?”

  She eyeballed me. “You don’t remember walking? You really are out of it,” she said. “Why don’t you take the rest of the day off, you’re making good progress. We can pick this up tomorrow.”

  I stood up, a bit dizzy, but okay.

  “I should probably clean up a bit down here anyway,” she moaned, and her lip
trembled, her gaze easing over to the shadows again, a tear pushing its way out of her left eye, turning away from me.”

  “You okay, Grace?”

  “Oh, honey,” she said, staring into the shadows. “I’m just fine,” she said, the clammy basement pushing goosebumps over my skin. Outside a car horn honked, and I looked over at the steps leading out and up, the flash of sunlight filling the opening, and it seemed like a million miles away. “There’s nothing you could do anyway,” she muttered.

  “What’s that?” I asked, taking a step towards her.

  “Go on, get,” she said, waving me away. “You can’t fix everything around here, Jimmy, I have to be more independent, you know, do these things myself. Can’t rely on a man to help me out every time I stub my toe, break something, or have to bury some dead thing or another.”

  I stared at her for a moment, a long red scratch running around the back of her neck, her back to me as she inhaled on that cigarette, leaning into the shadows, and that trunk.

  “Grace?”

  “Go on, Jimmy. I’ll see you tomorrow, but not too early, sleep in a bit, get some rest.”

  I took a step towards the cellar door, as she took a step towards that trunk, and outside I heard a car backfire, up the steps, the light and heat blanketing me, and then I was outside, back into the oven, leaving her behind, the paint cans lined up by the back door, the brush already washed off, and then it was down the sidewalk, heading home. I tried to clear my head, wondering what I might say to Connie the next day, what she might like to hear, a station wagon drifting by, kids in the back licking at their ice cream cones, the mother up front, her hair in curlers, her hands tapping on the steering wheel, the music up loud so she could sing along, something about a hotel, something about heartbreak, the guitar riffing and in the distance a scream, or maybe it was nothing, turning my head back towards the house, walking on, tired of it all. Connie was at the edge of my hazy vision, her tapping pencil in math class, her white teeth biting into a crimson apple at lunch, the way she scrunched up her nose when taking a test. She was an oasis in a desert, but I couldn’t find my way to her.