Big Jack Is Dead

by Harvey Smith

  Big Jack came into the room after a short time. He took up the belt and started whipping his son. Jack screamed down into the covers, begging his father to stop. Big Jack held the buckle in one hand and lashed the belt at its full length across his son's buttocks and thighs. Twisting his neck, Jack looked back, begging. His father was reflected in the headboard mirror, face contorted with rage.

  After an endless time, Ramona came flying into the room, howling like a wild thing, face wet with tears. “That's enough! Goddammit, that's enough!”

  Big Jack stopped the whipping. He glared at her and when he spoke, he was breathless from the exertion. “Go to your goddamn room, boy.”

  Jack fled. Lying on his bed, he screamed into his pillow. Brodie joined him. Standing next to the bed, he tried to take his older brother's hand. Jack yanked it away and rolled over to face the wall. His backside and thighs radiated warmth. The smell of old urine rose up from his sheets.

  The door to Big Jack and Ramona's bedroom clicked shut and a moment later their bed springs began to squeak and crunch with machine-like rhythm.

  Chapter 8

  1999

  Around one in the afternoon, I drove along a stretch of highway running through Quailbury, where my stepmother Mincy lived. I stopped at a traffic light every quarter mile or so. Each intersection was surrounded by fast food restaurants, gas stations and parking lots giving way to recessed shopping centers. And wires…no matter which way I turned my head, I was looking up through a skein of cables.

  Waiting for the light to change, I watched a kid hang plastic letters on the back-lit sign standing next to a chicken place. A dozen blackbirds oversaw the operation from a telephone wire on the east side of the highway. There was a drive-through liquor store next door. The sign at the fast food restaurant read, ALL YOU CAN EAT CHICK'N-CHUNKS.

  Local legend said that the chain was owned by a wealthy Gulf Coast family. The old man was a little crazy and still made surprise visits to all the restaurants, sneaking in disguised as a customer. He had fired dozens of people for minor infractions over the years. I imagined pimply teens, wide-eyed and recoiling from the old man across the counter as he transformed from doddering customer to screaming executive founder. The old man once dropped his act and gave some assistant manager a new car for exemplary customer service.

  Using a rubber suction cup at the end of a long pole, the kid slapped the ground with the cup, grabbing another letter and lifting it into the air. Twelve feet up, the plastic letter popped free from the rubber cup and raced down at him like a roof shingle in a tornado, a playing card hurled by some malevolent god. The kid dodged, hanging onto the aluminum pole like a lance, a stick-figure knight. A giant rooster eyed him from the top of the sign. “Hang in there,” I said under my breath.

  My light turned green and I started to roll forward, but a truck flew through the intersection going fifty. Mother-fucker. I let my heart rate drop to normal before pulling away from the light.

  All the nearby towns existed in a sort of cultural fiefdom, united by their dependence on shrimping and petroleum. Each town played a role in the social hierarchy. The poorest people lived in Lowfield, where I was born. Those better off, but who favored living around pasture land and the ridiculous trappings of so-called country life, lived in Quailbury, where Mincy lived. The people who managed the chemical plants and owned the local businesses lived in Uncle's Lake, considered the cultural high note of the county.

  To my eyes, these differences were illusions, even if the people here pretended otherwise. In truth, everything in the region served to keep the petrochem plants running. Sometimes I wanted a hurricane to wash it all away.

  I pulled into the Gravy Barn to meet my brother Brodie.

  Stepping into the air-conditioned chill, I took in the smell of grease and cigarette smoke. I made my way past the families standing in the buffet line, and walked to the back of the restaurant. I found a booth, but it was adjacent to the smoking section…something I never worried about back in California. Cigarette smoke gave me a headache or made me sick to my stomach.

  Across the restaurant a man and a woman sat smoking next to petite, platinum blond girls around the ages of seven and eight. The man and woman were both obese. Wiry sideburns grew along the man's jowls. The woman wore so much makeup that I could see a line along her neck and double-chin where the makeup ended according to some mysteriously-accepted cultural property line. Below this line, pale bloated flesh is acceptable; above this line, only thick foundation is allowed, made from the creamy goop siphoned out of the tanks behind fast food restaurants like this one.

  It made me crazy that this was so familiar, that it felt like home. I wanted to be back in Sunnyvale, writhing around with Mandy. I wanted to kiss the clean skin on her face and throat, to crush her down and pin her lean body to the floor.

  There were two ashtrays at their table, intermingled with baskets of fried okra, steak fingers, French fries and biscuits. A barn-shaped container of gravy sat dead center. The girls were wearing identical rodeo queen crowns made of paper. I took in the gravy, remembering how it tasted. Thick and salty, with flecks of pepper and traces of garlic. I could not recall the last time I'd eaten gravy on anything.

  I'd been standing in the aisle for too long, staring at them. The man noticed and regarded me with wary eyes, torpid and threatening, blinking up at me through his prescription work goggles. I nodded at him and smiled, shaking off the distraction. Lurching into motion, I made my way further into the restaurant.

  Someone nearby said, in disbelief, “Man…I am stuffed.”

  All around me, plate-glass windows looked out on the highway and nearby parking lots. The sky was filled with clouds and crisscrossed with more wires. I found a booth in the corner farthest from the smokers and sat down. Dropping my keys and wallet onto a clean spot, I checked the clock on my phone for the time. Half an hour remained; my brother Brodie wouldn't arrive for a while.

  The phone vibrated just as I was about to put it down. I nearly dropped it, startled.

  “Hey, guess who?”

  I waited, answering when I recognized her voice. “Jenny.”

  She burst into excitement, giggling on the other end of the line. “I can't believe you knew it was me.”

  “Of course I did. How are you?”

  “Good, good.”

  “How'd you get my number? We haven't talked in a long time.”

  “Yeah, I know. I got it from your step-mom. She's so sweet.”

  I was conflicted over this assessment of Mincy, but agreed for the sake of diplomacy. “Yes, she is…Brodie and I never would have made it without her.”

  “Aww.”

  “Though I have no idea how she lived with Dad, even for a few years.”

  Jenny grew more serious. “I know you're getting it from all sides, but how're you doing?”

  Everything felt like a ritual. I dreaded the funeral. All the consolation, the scripted parts. “I'm okay.” I tilted my head back, looking at the ceiling and blocking out the restaurant. I had the vague sense that a waitress was hovering nearby, but I ignored her. “It's not great, of course. I hadn't talked to him in a while.” The sound of her breathing was audible through the phone. “What do you say when this happens? I'm not sure how I feel. I'm here, I'm seeing people...” Exasperated, I stopped in a way that caused us both to laugh.

  “Well, if you've got time, I'd love to see you. I can give you a shoulder if you need one.”

  A thrill ran through me. “With all this...shit, that would be really nice. I miss you, Jenny.”

  “I miss you too.” Neither of us spoke for a while then she continued, “You should come by if you get time later.”

  “Alright, I will. Tell me where you live.”

  She gave me the address, in a part of town I halfway remembered. “Behind the Presbyterian Church, right?”

  She paused and said somewhat darkly, “No, we moved. We're in the trailer park now, just up the street from the church. You'l
l see it as you get close.”

  “Ah.” An uncomfortable moment passed. “Well, it might help to see you.”

  “Great,” she said. “Come by any time this evening. I ain't doing nothing.”

  “Alright then, it's a date.”

  She laughed at that. “Been a looong time since I've been on a real date, especially with you.”

  I chuckled, remembering the essence of our relationship in high school and just afterward. The two of us sitting through slasher movies, fondling each other in the dark, even surrounded by other people…stripping each other in her bedroom while her mother napped in the next room…skipping class, sitting in my father's truck while she went down on me…pasture parties and clumsy, drunken sex on the ground. I thought about sitting through football games together and eating at fast food places on weekend nights. The nearly constant cheating, breaking up and getting back together.

  “I'll see you later,” I said, “After I visit with my brother and maybe a few other people.”

  “Okay. Talk to you soon.”

  I flipped the phone shut, savoring the thought of seeing her again, the girl I'd dated for longer than anyone else.

  The menu was made of cardboard, sheathed in plastic. Someone had burned a smiley face into the front cover with a cigarette. I read through the items, looking for anything remotely digestible and eventually ordering iced tea from one of the waitresses.

  Brodie approached, coming down the long aisle, wearing gray pants, leather shoes with tassels, and an Oxford shirt. He was thinner than I remembered and his cheeks were hollow; I could see the bones in his face. My brother smiled and waved as he walked up. We hugged carefully.

  Watching him, I felt the world shift as we sat down. I hadn't seen him for a long while. We were quiet, looking at each other, then out the window. Silence was better than mundane pleasantries. Our father's suicide was only the latest act in his long, strange influence over our lives. Through the window, I watched a family loading themselves into a four-door pickup truck.

  Brodie spoke first. “Man, what do you say?” He had Dad's accent and inflection.

  “Yeah, exactly. I'm not sure... What are you doing these days?”

  “Selling cars again.”

  I cringed at the thought of being the judgmental older brother. It was too close to being the controlling father, I suppose. So I tried to be casual about my brother's decade-long addiction to painkillers. “How's the pharmaceutical situation?”

  “Oh, man, I'm doing great.” He gave me a blank-eyed expression that was meant to be earnest then he turned and looked out the window again. He toyed with the saltshaker, going on about “the program” and his relationship with his sponsor.

  I nodded along, but I knew he was lying. When he turned back to face me, his pupils were pinpoints. They looked ridiculous, even with the light coming through the tinted glass. I let it go.

  Brodie was always a tailspin for me. I kept expecting this little boy who needed my protection, who needed me to steer him clear of my father's moods. Instead I got this stranger, this car salesman; someone who borrowed drug money from everyone in the family for years before we figured out what was going on. I wanted it to be different between us, but I wasn't naïve enough to think that it could be.

  “Dad would have been what this year, fifty-five?“

  Brodie had always been much closer to our father and corrected me. “No, fifty-four.”

  After high school, I moved away from Lowfield as fast as I could. Brodie stayed behind. There were stories about Brodie fighting with our father, but mostly they got along pretty well after he got out of school.

  “Was Dad seeing anyone?” I asked.

  “Of course.” Brodie laughed. “Always. I haven't met her, but I hear this one isn't any better than the others…the usual trash.”

  “Damn, Brodie.” I cut my eyes at him.

  He held his hands up, eyes wide. “It's true.”

  I turned away, looking out over the parking lot again. “Yeah.” With the exception of my stepmother, my father had always been drawn to weak women. If a woman had trouble making eye contact, Dad was all over her. So my brother's description wasn't off the mark.

  “You coming over to Mom's house tonight?” he asked.

  I knew that he wasn't referring to our mother, but Mincy. “Yeah, for a while. I thought I'd head over after we eat.”

  I browsed the menu again before settling on fried catfish and a salad. Taking everything into account, these seemed safest. Another waitress in her late fifties came by and took our orders. She also refilled my tea glass and Brodie asked for a Coke just before she shuffled away.

  “Something's bothering me,” he said.

  “Yeah?”

  “I'm not sure he did it.”

  “Did what?” I asked, squinting at him, confused. My voice cracked when I spoke.

  “Suicide.” The word hung between us over the scarred tabletop.

  “You don't think Dad killed himself?”

  “No, I really don't.” He shook his head slowly and pursed his lips. His expression was grave and concerned. He looked worried. “You might think it sounds crazy.”

  I reeled at the implication. It disturbed me even more that my brother could believe this, that his thinking wasn't clearer. “Brodie…Dad put a pistol in his mouth and pulled the fucking trigger. It's not like there's any doubt. He was the most fucked up person I've ever known. Mom said he used to threaten suicide to get sex on some nights. Do you know how many guns he owned? For fuck's sake, he was a walking fucking train wreck. I'm actually shocked he didn't kill himself years ago.”

  The old waitress was standing at our table, holding Brodie's Coke in one hand, paralyzed. I looked out the window, my face red with anger.

  “Thank you,” Brodie said. He gave her a car lot smile, all warmth. She set the Coke down and walked off.

  “You've got to be joking,” I said. “I can't believe you think that.”

  “Jack, I went over there. I saw that old house…the blood and everything.”

  I looked at my brother in disbelief. “Why the fuck would you want to do that? You didn't get enough of his shit when we were little?”

  “I even went to the police station. They have photos of Dad…from the scene.”

  “Jesus fuck.” I watched cars go by. A blackbird landed on the asphalt a few yards beyond the window and started tearing away at a carry-out container.

  “You can call me nuts, but there was a cigarette on the sink. The whole thing had turned to ash, just where it was sitting. Dad never left his cigarettes like that. He always smoked them all the way down or stubbed them out.” His mouth frothed a little as he spoke. “I know, because I spent a lot of my time with him.”

  I couldn't understand his motives, why he would believe such a thing. The crack between us crumbled and blackened with space, became a chasm, an abyss.

  He went on, calmer. “I don't care what you believe. He and I sat around in that house on a bunch of different nights, talking and smoking. You haven't lived here, but I have. I knew Dad really well.” He said this in a way that was prudish and superior.

  I took a drink of tea to clear my mouth, which had gone dry. “That might just be the craziest fucking thing I have ever heard, little brother.” I stared across at him. “So maybe Dad never let his cigarette burn all the way down…but maybe it only happened this one time because he was fucking dead.” My eyes felt like they were about to pop. “I cannot believe we're even having this goddamn conversation.”

  “Alright,” he said. His eyes were dull nickels.

  “This shit isn't weird enough for you, I guess.”

  My brother and I sat in silence. Brodie wore a slack, disinterested look, and I slumped back into the corner of the booth. Walking by, no one would have guessed the topic of our conversation.

  When the food came out, we ate it quickly without speaking. The waitress came by to refill our glasses and was surprised to find our plates empty.

 
; “Goodness,” she said, “you two eat faster than anybody I've ever seen.”

  “Can we get the bill?” I asked.

  Her face darkened, but she rummaged through her apron and retrieved the check. “Well…” she said.

  I dropped a twenty and a five on the table. “I'll get it.”

  Brodie gazed out across the highway, impassive. In his adult face, I could see the little kid I'd grown up with, but I was reminded once again that he was not the same person. More than anything, I wanted to get away from him. “I'm heading over to Mom's now.”

  He nodded. “Okay. I'll finish this Coke and see you there.”

  I scooped up my keys. Outside, the humid afternoon air clung to my skin, but it felt good to leave the chilly restaurant.

  Sitting in the car, I caught myself gritting my teeth. I let all the air out of my lungs. Sleep wouldn't remedy the exhaustion I felt. Glaring through the dark windshield, I focused on the blank space in front of the Lexus. My lips and mouth moved to form words that I whispered to my father. “Goddamn you.”

  I left the parking lot heading toward my stepmother's house, but turned toward Jenny's trailer park instead.

  Chapter 9

  1977

  The truck rattled down the oyster shell road, kicking up puffs of white dust. In the back, a long toolbox jumped with each bump, clanking as the tools inside shifted around violently. Big Jack grunted as the truck hit a pothole, his gut bouncing in his lap. He snorted, drawing mucus into his mouth, and spat it out the window.

  Jack sat on the other side of the truck, not moving save for a slight expression of disgust.

  “Wanna soda?” Big Jack asked.

  “Yeah,” Jack said quietly.

  “That sounds good, don't it?”