Big Jack Is Dead

by Harvey Smith

  “I didn't feel like socializing,” I said. Leaning on a metal railing, I stayed far enough away to avoid his smoke.

  One side of his mouth lifted and his brows came together. “That's it?”

  “Yeah…I didn't feel like answering questions and all that. So I sat in my motel room. I felt like shit.”

  “Damn.” He took a drag and looked away.

  “Sorry if that threw people for a loop, but I wouldn't have been good company anyway.” I watched him as I spoke, trying to see my little brother inside this man. When I made eye contact, he looked away. There were lines at the corners of his eyes that made him look weak. He had Dad's eyes.

  Brodie looked me over. “You look really good at least.”

  “Thanks.”

  The back door to the funeral home flew open and Mincy came out onto the steps. Short and heavy even when Brodie and I were young, my stepmother had gained weight, adding to her hen-like appearance. Most of her weight, for whatever reason, was in her ass and in the backside of her thighs. Her legs were like pillars of white clay and her ass was like a beanbag chair that someone had glued to her backside. She had hair that curled up in back like a duck's tail.

  “Jack! Where in God's name were you? I had a house full of people last night.” Her tone implied some catastrophic occurrence.

  My throat tightened and I glared at her. “Jesus, Mom, calm down.” Five seconds and she was digging into me already. “I was at the El Cinco. I felt way too bad to go out.”

  “Well, my God. We were expecting you. We had food and guests.” Her eyes rolled up so that I could see the whites. She stepped closer and I had to tilt my head down to look at her. “You could have called,” she said.

  “Well, I didn't call. I told you, I felt bad. I didn't want to go out. I didn't want to see anyone.”

  She looked up at me, her mouth making an ugly line. Her voice dropped lower and her hands balled into fists. “You only ever think of yourself, don't you? You've always been like that…you don't care about anyone else.”

  “Do you have to say shit like that?”

  Brodie watched us impassively, flat again.

  “Well, what was I supposed to think? You worried me sick last night. Do you know the first thing that came into my mind? Do you?” Her voice was shrill and her eyes rolled upward again.

  “No. What the fuck came into your mind?” I braced myself, held my breath.

  She leaned in closer. “I was worried that you'd followed in your father's footsteps.”

  “Oh, goddammit. Get off me!” I shouted and the words echoed across the funeral home parking lot. Rising up from the weeds in the field beyond, blackbirds raced toward the roof.

  Mincy went silent. Her eyes widened and the muscles in her face tightened. Her dark head was shot with gray straggles, resisting the hairspray. The space behind the funeral home was so quiet that I heard the wet pucker as Brodie put the cigarette to his lips and sucked on it.

  “Alright, Jack,” she said. “Next time please just call.”

  Childhood memories clawed their way up. I remembered all the times she told me I didn't care about anyone else, remembering how she pushed my Dad to dump my mother. “Sure. Next time Dad kills himself, I'll try to be more considerate. I'll try to think about your goddamn dinner plans.”

  She started to speak, but stopped, shoulders falling. “I just want to make things right, Jack.” The fight had left her. “We're not a family any more, but I just want to make things right.”

  When Brodie exhaled a lungful of smoke, I turned toward him. “That is fucking nasty. How do you smoke that shit after watching them do it for so many years?”

  He met my eyes, shrugging and taking another drag.

  “There are much faster ways to fuck yourself up,” I said. Going inside, I left them both standing on the steps.

  Within the cool air of the funeral home, some of my anger slipped away. I stopped and leaned against a wall next to a pastoral watercolor. A herd of deer stood near a lake. I breathed deep a few times, hating the way I fought with my family; trying to forget them. This place was soothing. Dim lighting and faint music. It was a calculated effect, but it helped.

  The main hall was wide and connected all the rooms dedicated to viewings and services. An ornate rug ran the length of the hall and ceramic urns stood every ten feet. Most of the doors off the main hall were closed, covered over by heavy curtains. There was only one open room. The doors were propped back and the curtains were drawn wide, held by braided ropes. I followed the prerecorded organ music, which grew louder as I approached. Under the arched doorway, I found myself twenty feet from my father's coffin.

  Past several cushioned chairs, the casket sat under a strip of track lights. Visible through the opening in the casket, my father's face was lit up. As the seconds passed, I had no awareness of time. My mind struggled to take in the image before me. No one else was around. I licked my lips and took a few steps into the room. There were no rules for this moment that made sense. I half expected a queue of people, standing in line, or for someone to ask me for a ticket. Music continued to play from hidden speakers as I approached and looked down into the coffin.

  Though he was thin, Dad looked perfect, as if resting. There were deep grooves around his eyes, but his face was relaxed. He looked younger because someone had shaved him. This defined his lips, making them look more delicate. He wore a plain suit and his hands were folded atop his chest as if guarding his heart. There was no sign of a gunshot wound on his head, no trace of powder burns on his mouth.

  Without thinking about it, I touched his skin, cupping his folded hands under my palm. They were cool and dry, inhumanly solid, like they were made of hardened wax. I rested my hand there, staring at his face. I felt like I was underwater. His time in the world had ended. Seeing him in that way, unable to affect anything ever again, a strange sense of tension slipped away from me.

  My eyes got misty, but some reflex closed that down. Lifting my hand away, I continued to stare, fascinated. Unable to help it, I wiped my hand on my pants leg.

  The music went quiet, pausing between songs. Sitting down on one of the couches, I leaned forward and steepled my fingers in front of me. Dad's coffin sat in the center of the room, but I was confused as to what I was supposed to feel. I just felt dead.

  Chapter 13

  1979

  Jack was lying on the couch with a comic book. He'd stopped reading and was staring into the air. He imagined himself among the outcasts from the comic, living in a Victorian estate near London. Tears welled up in his eyes as he saw himself sitting next to a fireplace with his caring mentor. Later, he walked along the edge of a pond with one of the superhero girls who lived at the estate. They held hands and leaned close in the evening air. They sat on a bench and kissed. Jack stiffened in his shorts as he thought about her becoming a cat in the middle hours of the night, sneaking into his bedroom and returning to girl form, standing bare in the center of the room, climbing into his bed.

  An engine roared down the street and he lifted his head from the couch cushion. Outside, his father's truck banked hard and bounced into the driveway, groaning springs and sliding rubber. The headlights came through the blinds, lighting up the living room, stretching across the wall and onto the ceiling. Jack sat up as the truck door creaked and slammed. His face burned and he sat paralyzed, wondering what he was supposed to be doing.

  Big Jack walked through the door carrying his battered lunch box. It looked too large for his body, swinging around from a busted handle. Nearly everyone who worked at the plant carried a similar contraption. Ramona packed it each morning at 5AM, filling it with the same fare every day: a coffee thermos, two sandwiches, a bag of potato chips, a dill pickle and a stack of chocolate chip cookies, wrapped in a paper towel. Big Jack struggled to un-tuck his scorched shirt, finally loosening his belt buckle, which was half-covered by his gut. The belt was etched with mustang horses, stained to look like a brand. Jack remembered the way the horses felt
against his face.

  “Goddamn shutdown's over,” Big Jack said. “Worked overtime for four weeks straight. Fuckin' time-and-a-half pay.” From the center of the living room, he looked at his son sitting on the couch. “Whatcha doin', boy?”

  “Reading,” Jack said, holding up the comic. He felt disrespectful sitting down while talking to his father, so he stood up.

  “Funny books?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Ain't you a little old for that?” Big Jack stood with his arms down at his sides, clutching the lunch box in one gnarled hand. His face carried a trace of repulsion. “Ain't you ten?”

  “Twelve.” Jack could smell his father now, a familiar mélange of industrial odors…metal shavings and chlorine. Big Jack smelled like the underbelly of a train. Jack sensed that his father was in a good mood. He smiled. “I like the fights.”

  “Ha!” Big Jack said. “Batman's an ass-beater.” Big Jack laughed then dropped his voice. “Man, I'd sure like to fuck that girl who plays Catlady on TV.” He gazed into space and Jack looked down at the floor.

  “Boy, you excited?”

  Jack's mind reeled as he remembered something that, until that second, he'd forgotten. His stomach lurched. Deer season started tomorrow, which meant that he and his father were leaving for four days. He made himself smile. “Yeah…it's gonna be great, I bet.”

  “Damn, straight,” Big Jack said. “I'm gonna kill a buck!” With a lighter step, he walked into the kitchen. Jack heard the lunch box slam onto the counter and slide through some mail or other papers scattered about. Big Jack bellowed, throwing his voice off every wall in the house, “Hey, Ramona! Where are them goddamn huntin' tags?”

  Jack stared at the living room wall. Thinking about spending several days on the deer lease, he sighed. Shuffling off to his bedroom, he carried the comic neatly at his side, careful not to bend it. He had hunted with his father the year before, though back then he was too young to actually hunt. This year he was taking his father's old rifle and would get his own deer stand. This year he was expected to kill something.

  Jack dreaded spending time alone with his father. It would take five hours on the highways of East Texas just to reach the property. The two of them would stay together in a shack, returning Monday. Ramona and Brodie were staying behind.

  Jack contemplated feigning sickness, but discarded the idea because it might seem too sudden. He lay in bed, looking out the window. There were no curtains and he could see the night sky just over the neighbor's roof.

  Big Jack stepped into the room. “You packed for tomorrow?”

  “No, sir,” Jack said.

  “Well, goddamn, boy.” He looked alarmed, horrified. “What the fuck you waitin' for? We got to leave at five in the goddamn morning. Get a move on.”

  Jack rolled up out of the bed and pulled open the chest of drawers in the corner. Pine shavings littered the top where Boss Hog once lived, leaving an outline of the cage.

  “When you're done,” Big Jack said, “come help me out in the garage. We got a lotta shit to do.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  When his father was gone, Jack took out four sets of underwear and socks, dumping them onto the bed. From the closet, he took down a nylon bag. He drew up his nose at the smell from the closet, where a small hatch led to the underside of the house. He didn't understand the purpose of the hatch, but it gave way to the muddy underbelly of the house, broken up by sections of concrete slab. Wood roaches and other bugs sometimes crawled up out of the hatch and an earthy, drainage ditch smell emanated from the closet at all times.

  Jack grabbed his hiking boots and gathered a few other things, including some jeans and t-shirts, then piled everything on the bed next to the duffel bag.

  Big Jack yelled from the other room. “Pack warm, boy. It's gonna be colder than a witch's titty.”

  Picking through odd spots in his room, Jack found his pocketknife, canteen and compass. Holding the plastic compass, he tilted it one way then another, watching the bubble move back and forth under the glass. He put the canteen into the bag first, followed by his clothing. After stuffing the socks down around everything else, he laid the compass and the knife on top and zipped up the duffel bag. From the lowest shelf in the closet, he took down a shoebox filled with trading cards, each bearing a classic movie monster. Among the cards, he located his flashlight, a Christmas gift from his great grandmother. She had grown up in a house without electricity and placed great value in having a flashlight handy. His father had attached a silver chain to one end and a set of pewter deer antlers hung from the chain. As he often did, Jack held the flashlight like the haft of a weapon and spun the antlers around in a circle until they were a blur of metallic teeth at the end of the beaded chain. He tucked the flashlight into his bag and carried it out.

  Big Jack was standing in the center of the garage with gear and baggage scattered around him. He was holding a rolled up camouflage poncho in one hand. The garage door was open and the truck was backed up to the eaves of the house, tailgate down. Eyeing Jack's bag, he said, “That all you got?”

  “Yeah,” Jack said.

  “Good. Travelin' light…like a man. If your momma was going she'd be taking half this house.” Big Jack stuffed the poncho into the top of an ice chest and closed the lid. He lit a cigarette, surveying the garage and prodding a fluorescent lantern with the toe of his boot, dimpled ostrich skin. It was his habit to change boots after work.

  Jack stood near the wall, leaning on the unpainted sheet rock.

  Big Jack took a drag on his cigarette and said, “Let's see…we don't need no fishin' gear, since this is a huntin' trip.” He laughed. “Alright, I'm bringing the tent, just in case, but we probably ain't gonna need it. They got a pretty good lodge up there.” He rambled along, ignoring Jack until he turned and said, “Okay, boy…why don't you load all this up into the truck, starting up near the cab. I'll throw a tarp over it and lash it down before we take off in the morning. Alright?”

  “Yes, sir.” He set about moving things into the back of the truck, starting with his duffel bag.

  After watching him for a moment, Big Jack dropped his cigarette and stepped on it. “Goddamn, I love deer season.” He turned and went into the house.

  “Get up, boy…time to go.”

  Jack woke up just before five in the morning with his father shaking him roughly. He rolled over, trying to shake off sleep. Most mornings, it was hard enough for him to get up in time for school. On the rare occasions when he woke up this early, his head felt like it was filled with pins and needles. He squinted against the light from the hallway.

  Big Jack said, “I'll be in the garage.”

  The house was quiet. Jack rested on his pillow, feeling heavy. His eyes rolled back in his head and he was asleep again after a few breaths.

  When Big Jack stepped back into the doorway a short time later, surprise and anger flashed across his face as he looked down at the boy, sleeping. “Goddammit…get the fuck up.” Though he wasn't yelling, he spoke the words with such tightly-packed hostility that they cut through his son's sleep.

  Jack sprang up, blinking and shaking his head. His mouth was wide open and an animal whimper escaped before he clamped down on it. Only five minutes had passed, but it felt like an hour.

  “If you wanna go on this trip,” Big Jack said, “you better get your ass out of bed.”

  Jack conformed to the fiction, playing the role of the son who wanted to go hunting with his father. “I'm up.”

  “Alright,” Big Jack said, nodding and eyeing him from the doorway. “You oughta eat something. Once I get rollin', I ain't stoppin'.” He left the room again, heading down the hall.

  Alone again, Jack pushed himself up and sat at the edge of the bed, slumped over. He closed his eyes and opened them wide several times. He stood up and struggled out of his t-shirt and striped socks, leaving them where they fell next to the bed. Padding down the hall to the bathroom, his head still ached but he started to shake off his
stupor.

  Jack turned the shower knobs, adjusting the water temperature. Standing at the sink, he brushed his teeth while the room filled with steam. He left the toothbrush on the counter so he'd remember it, then stretched out on the bathroom rug, spat into his hand, and jerked off. Afterward, he showered quickly.

  Back in his room, he put on a flannel shirt, dressing for the long drive. He walked to the kitchen, started some toast and poured a bowl of chocolate cereal. Wind buffered the screened window over the sink as he stood at the counter, spooning up the cereal. When the toast popped up, he stacked both pieces on a paper towel and buttered them. He ate the toast and finished the cereal in silence.

  Big Jack came into the kitchen from the garage. “You 'bout ready?” He refilled his coffee mug from the pot next to the refrigerator.

  “Yeah,” Jack said. He cleaned up the crumbs from his toast and started to rinse his cereal bowl in the sink.

  “Leave that for your momma,” Big Jack said, “...whenever she decides to get her lazy ass outta bed.” He walked into the living room.

  Jack finished up at the sink, listening to the house. It was quiet, except for the hum of the refrigerator. As he passed the door to the garage, he could see the early colors of the sun through the open garage door, making the sky glow above the houses across the street. Their rooftops stood out, black against the dawn and they sat like low monuments. Higher up, the last span of night was cobalt. His father's truck sat in the driveway, with their gear piled under a tarp. A car passed as a neighbor headed for an early morning shift.

  In the living room, Big Jack stood near the gun cabinet, which housed the key components of the hunting trip. The tall upper section was glass. The base featured carved wooden doors, inlaid with fake mother-of-pearl. Inside, there were cartons of ammo and cleaning rags. When the doors were open, the living room smelled of gunpowder. Two shotguns and a .22 caliber rifle stood upright in the gun cabinet. Big Jack had removed his new Weatherby, along with his older rifle, which Jack would use over the weekend. Long traveling cases for the rifles lay on the carpet, unzipped and spread open like narrow sleeping bags. The older rifle rested on one of the felt-lined cases. The other traveling case lay empty.