Big Jack Is Dead

by Harvey Smith

  John-David and Ricky looked at each other for a second after staking out their respective domains. Both of them nodded and they turned to Big Jack.

  He blinked at the map then looked up at each of them, chewing on a mouthful of potted meat sandwich. Crumbs fell from his whiskered face and his eyes were full of wariness. The south end of the property was the smallest and had the least tree coverage. A series of gullies ran like stretch marks across the surface of the land there where the property line came up against a dairy farm.

  “I'll fight you sons of bitches tooth and nail for the south side,” he said.

  Opening a beer, John-David smirked. “We just told you we want the north side and the east side…”

  “Well all right then,” Big Jack said. “There ain't no dispute.”

  After carrying in the last of the gear from the trucks, the boys gathered in the bunk room. Jack leaned the backpack he was carrying against the wall. They all stood near the middle of the room.

  “This place is a fucking dump,” Mike said. He was the youngest of Ricky's sons. Pulling a knife from his belt, he threw it down in front of him. It stuck hard and stood eight inches tall, embedded in the worn wood.

  His older brother, Brandon, laughed. “We oughta take the truck out tonight and go back up to that Girl Scout camp we went past…get some pussy.”

  John-David's son Kohen pushed him. “You wouldn't know what to do with pussy if pussy found you.”

  “Bullshit…more than you, queer.”

  The three older boys continued to laugh and trade insults. At twelve, Jack was much slighter and stood a foot shorter. He stood in silence, trying to avoid notice. He wanted to leave the room, but knew that he couldn't without drawing attention.

  Mike, who was fifteen, picked up the knife. A wild, challenging look came into his eyes. He spotted the centipede husk and speared it with the tip of the knife. Rapt, they all stared at the centipede, which was almost a foot long.

  “That thing's nearly as big as my dick,” Kohen said.

  Brandon scowled. “You wish, mother-fucker.”

  Surprising everyone, Mike flicked the knife, sending the centipede flying at Jack, who barely dodged it. Everyone else burst into fits of laughter.

  Jack stomped the shit out of it as it landed, crushing the brittle thing into pieces on the wooden floor. Somehow this action saved him from further hostility. He knew better than to cave in or to whine, but he also knew that fighting back would require Mike to put him on the ground.

  “Can you imagine that thing crawlin' up your ass in the middle of the night,” Jack said. Everyone laughed hard. Looking up, he could see that they approved. Even Mike was laughing, his face twisted into perverse knots as he thought about the centipede clawing its way past his anus.

  Standing nearly as tall as his father, Kohen headed toward the door. “Let's go get the rest of this shit 'fore daddy has a fucking conniption fit.”

  That night they all gathered in back around the trash barrel. The boys carried chairs from the porch, arranging them in a chaotic semi-circle around the barrel. Everyone bundled up against the cold and they all looked thicker in their layers of clothing. Ricky started a fire in the barrel, using some old porn magazines, a pile of firewood and a few cups of gasoline. At first the blaze flared up to twice the height of the barrel, causing them all to back up and lighting up the back side of the old house.

  “Fucking cool,” Mike said.

  After the fire calmed, Jack sat on a folding stool and watched the sparks rise from the mouth of the barrel. Peering through holes rusted into the side, he could see deep into the white-hot center of the burning wood.

  The men drank Lone Star beer from bottles and the boys drank Mr. Pibb from cans.

  Ricky asked, “What kind of deer you gonna get, J.D.?”

  John-David spat. “I figure a ten, maybe a twelve point buck.”

  “My ass,” Ricky said. “Maybe a spike…” He chuckled good-naturedly.

  A spike was a male deer with simple antlers that rose like twin digits of bone, instead of branching out like many-fingered hands.

  “If you see a spike,” Big Jack said, “You gotta shoot it even if it takes up your last huntin' tag.” He looked sternly at his son as if passing along some key wisdom.

  “Yep,” Ricky said. “You gotta get it out of the breedin' pool. Ain't worth much, but you gotta do it.”

  Tilting back a beer, Big Jack turned to John-David. “I never heard nobody call you J.D.,” he said.

  “Well, some do,” John-David said.

  “It sounds good,” Big Jack said. “Funny how it only works with some names.”

  Trying to join the conversation, Jack said, “Works with Big Jack.”

  “Yeah,” said Ricky with a wicked grin, “it does…B.J.”

  Big Jack looked at Ricky then smiled at his son and laughed. “Yeah…got a good ring to it, don't it? Just like J.D.”

  “Uh-huh,” Jack said. He took a sip of cold Mr. Pibb.

  “Well-sir,” John-David said. “I'll tell you what…” They all looked at him. “I sure could use me a B.J. about right now if the old lady was around and if she was drunk enough to let me put it in her mouth.”

  Working out his meaning, everyone was silent. Then they laughed together and turned their eyes on Big Jack.

  Suddenly he looked malevolent and flustered. “I do believe I'd slap the shit outta anyone who went around calling me B.J.,” he said, staring at his son.

  The wind whipped up and the fire burned hotter. It crackled and sent up more sparks. Jack swallowed and gazed into the fire.

  “Daddy?” Kohen said.

  John-David occupied the largest of the chairs, a metal rocking chair that had required two of the boys to move it from the porch. The chair groaned against his weight each time he shifted in place. “Yeah?”

  “You mind if we take one of the trucks out to Q-beam some rabbits?”

  “I don't,” John-David said, “But you sure as fuck ain't taking my new truck.”

  “You ain't taking mine either,” Ricky said. He knocked back the last of his beer and threw the bottle into the barrel, sending another column of sparks racing up into the dark sky. He reached for another beer.

  “Take mine,” Big Jack said. “It's old.” His eyes got fierce. “But don't you fucking wreck it.”

  Kohen nodded once. “I won't, sir.”

  “My boy's too small to drive it,” Big Jack said. There was an apologetic note in his voice. “Y'all take him out there and scare some of the pussy out of him.” Everyone laughed hard, surprising Big Jack. Cutting his eyes to one side, he realized they were laughing at his son and felt relief. He laughed along with them, fishing out his truck keys and throwing them toward Kohen, where they landed in the dirt at his feet.

  Glaring at Big Jack, Kohen reached down and picked up the keys. “Thank you, sir.” He finished off his Mr. Pibb and tossed the can into the fire. “Let's go, then.”

  The boys headed into the house to get their rifles. Jack got to his feet and followed. They regrouped at the truck, geared up to go. Kohen climbed in behind the wheel and Brandon slid into the passenger's side. Mike and Jack stood in the bed of the truck holding onto the network of metal pipes welded into place over the back window and around the top of the cab. Big Jack had intended to mount running lights there, but never got around to finishing the task.

  Kohen started the engine and took off cautiously, navigating out onto the dirt road. The truck flattened clumps of weeds then crunched along in the gravel, the headlights illuminating the scrub brush ahead. Once he was far enough away from the house, he stomped the gas, taking the truck down into a sloping ditch and into a level field beyond. The truck almost threw the boys standing in the back as it lurched along, the toolbox at Jack's feet rattling with every bump.

  Working against the turbulence, Brandon plugged the pigtail cord of the Q-beam spotlight into the cigarette lighter. He flicked the switch and a white sun lit up the cab of the truck. Bra
ndon laughed as he directed the thing across the field. He held it by the rubberized pistol-grip, intoxicated by its brightness, which measured in hundreds of thousands of candlepower. The beam was so intense that it projected a harsh, white line out into the night air for a great distance. As it passed through the brush and the branches, it created shadows like the tangled legs of a million insects.

  Jack turned to the older boy next to him and smiled. “This is huntin' weather.”

  Mike didn't turn. “Yeah, colder than shit.”

  A few miles further, Kohen slowed the engine. Brandon pointed the Q-beam out the window into the field, scanning the landscape. Mike prepared his rifle, resting it on top of the cab of the truck.

  When Brandon finally spotted a jackrabbit, everyone went quiet and Kohen braked the truck, idling in place while Mike aimed. The rabbit stood frozen in a circle of light. When the shot went off, Jack flinched and Brandon let out a warlike cry. The rabbit jumped six feet into the air and came down flailing and thrashing.

  After the older boys stopped yelling, Jack could hear a wailing sound. It sounded like a baby crying. Squinting in discomfort, he asked, “What the fuck is that?”

  “I just winged it,” Mike said. “Rabbit's cry like that…you ain't never heard it?”

  “No.” Jack wanted to shut out the sound, which was terrible. Out in the field, the jackrabbit writhed on its side, arching its head backward unnaturally far. Its powerful hind legs pawed the air as some part of it tried to run. It continued to emit the keening sound. “Aren't you going to shoot it again?” Jack asked.

  “Why?” Mike seemed disturbed by the question. “It ain't goin' nowhere.” He looked back out into the field, following the Q-beam as his brother swept it through the grass.

  “There's another one,” Brandon called out from inside the cab. Kohen allowed the truck to creep forward and Mike readied himself for another shot.

  They continued for another hour, shooting twelve rabbits in all. The older boys took turns at the rifle and manning the Q-beam, but Jack refused. The others looked at him with disdain, but were more than happy to take his turns. He crouched down low in the bed of the truck, huddling against the metal and wrapping himself up tighter in his jacket. The air grew more damp and the cold was bitter.

  When they returned to the house, the men were all drunk and greeted the boys wildly. Jack came close to the fire barrel for warmth, but it had mostly gone out.

  “You have fun?” Big Jack asked him.

  “Yes, sir,” Jack said.

  The combined effects of drunkenness and exhaustion set in and everyone grew quiet. A morose, hostile atmosphere settled over the group.

  Jack slipped away from the circle of men and boys, creeping off to the bedroom. The house was unheated and had grown colder in the night. He turned off the light and got into bed. Even wearing his clothes and wrapped in a sleeping bag, it was still freezing. He drifted off to sleep, wrestling in his mind with Mike. He replayed the day's incident with the centipede, but added to it. He saw himself driving the boy's knife up through the bottom of his jaw at the base of his throat and into his skull. These were his last waking thoughts as he fell into sleep.

  Big Jack shook him awake a few hours later. Everyone else was already up and dressing, moving around sluggishly in the frigid, pre-dawn air of the house. Most of the lights were still out and occasionally someone cursed bitterly. Jack dressed and met his father in the front room.

  Big Jack was drinking coffee and smoking. He was wearing camouflage clothing from head to foot. He looked at his son harshly. “Where's your goddamn gun, boy?”

  Still in a stupor, Jack went back into the bedroom and took his hand-me-down rifle off the gun rack. He also retrieved a pair of gloves from his duffel bag. He folded them together before slipping them into his pocket, doubling them over like socks.

  Back in the front room, his father looked him over while sipping hot coffee from a thermos. “Alright…let's go.”

  After warming up the truck, Big Jack drove south across the property. Jack fell asleep a few times, jolting awake whenever his father hit a rock or pothole.

  Big Jack stopped the truck near an open gate just before dawn. He'd been driving very slowly and whispered when he spoke, operating in a kind of silent-running mode. He pointed into the woods along the fence line. “You follow that bob wire for a piece…couple hundred yards. You'll come to an orange stand. That's yours.”

  Jack nodded. He felt unnerved by the notion of heading out into the woods alone while it was still dark.

  “You got toilet paper?” Big Jack asked.

  Taken by surprise, Jack looked down at his lap. “No, sir.”

  “Well goddamn, boy. You wanna wipe your ass with a stick?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Take some of mine then.” Big Jack reached over and opened up the glove box. He removed a roll of toilet paper that had been crushed flat and unwound a section that was four feet long. He wadded it up and handed it to Jack, who stuffed it into a side pocket on his jacket.

  “Alright then,” Big Jack said. “You need anything, like a 'mergency, shoot in the air three times.” He paused, inhaling from his cigarette and studying his son. “Too cold for snakes, so you'll be okay.”

  Jack opened the door and took his rifle down from the back window of the truck. He stepped away, out onto the edge of the dirt road and quietly shut the door, knowing not to slam it.

  “I'll be back around lunch. Wish me luck, boy.”

  “Good luck,” Jack said, but the truck pulled away as he spoke. The scarlet taillights receded as his father braked and took the truck around a bend, vanishing from sight. Soon even the engine, mostly idling along, was too quiet to hear. Jack turned and made his way off the crumbling dirt road and into the brush, hugging the barbed wire fence. Walking along, he tugged on his gloves against the cold.

  When he reached the towering deer stand, he propped his rifle against a nearby tree. Searching around in the dark, he found a stick that was over a foot in length then climbed the ladder leading up into the stand, eight feet off the ground. With the stick and his small flashlight, he cleared away spider webs and searched the underside of the tall chair installed next to the window. Careful to make as little noise as possible, he wadded up the silver chain attached to the end of the flashlight and held it in his palm, the pewter antlers biting into his flesh.

  When he was confident that there were no spiders, wasps or scorpions in the stand, he threw the stick off into the grass and climbed back down to the ground. He detested bugs with a fury and took no chances, even though it was really too cold for insects. He slung his rifle over one shoulder and climbed the ladder again.

  It was still too dark to see, so he propped the rifle in one corner of the stand and settled into the chair. Long, low windows surrounded him on all sides. He looked out into the darkness, barely able to make out the black fields beyond. For a time, he imagined himself a sniper, waiting for the president's motorcade. Eventually, he settled back in the chair and fell asleep.

  When he opened his eyes, the world was lit with gray light, allowing him to see through the scrub brush surrounding the stand. A lonely mesquite tree stood fifty yards away at the left end of a field and a dozen whitetail deer stood scattered around the tree. Jack blinked a few times and felt sleep fall away from him. He stared at the deer and licked his lips in the cold.

  In the morning light, the color of their coats was one part autumn leaves, one part fireplace ash. They blended against the dead grass and cold dirt beneath them, standing like forest spirits around the twisted mesquite.

  Breathless and quiet, he eased forward and put one hand on his rifle, lifting it without knocking it against the stand. In his mind, he saw his father laughing with glee, clapping him on the shoulder. Jack rotated the gun around with both hands until the barrel pointed out through the front window, parallel with the cold ground. Feeling with his sneakers, he positioned his feet on the lowest rung under the chair and pushed
himself to the edge of his seat. He pulled the stock into his shoulder, his body settling down around the rifle, leaning against the window frame. Making a few small adjustments, he looked through the scope, out across the field.

  At first his eyes focused on a spot far beyond the herd. He swept the barrel down by a few inches and the ground rushed by like the waters of a fast-moving river, many yards passing in a second. He settled on a doe, standing in perfect profile. The cross hairs were as fine as the legs of a wasp and Jack put them over her heart. His own heart flipped in his chest like a fish as he struggled to stay calm. Running on autopilot, he wanted to do everything right, everything perfect. He held his breath and squeezed the trigger slowly as his father had taught him.

  The report of the rifle destroyed the tranquility of the field. Jack didn't even feel the gun kick against his shoulder. He lifted his eye from the rubber circle of the scope and watched as the deer raced toward the brush line like a pack of perfect athletes. The herd moved like the downward flow of water, all save one. The doe lay on the ground as the others fled.

  Relaxing, he released his breath in a steamy burst. His nose was running and the tip was cold, so he wiped it on the forearm of his coat. Calm settled over him as he studied the field.

  Her adrenaline might enable her to get up and run if he approached now. He knew stories, practically since birth, about wounded deer running for miles or turning on hunters and goring them. Peering through the scope again, he watched as she kicked on the ground, still moving, but not as much as he had expected. The hole in her shoulder faced up to the sky and was dark, barely noticeable. Eventually she was completely still. With the other deer gone, he felt alone with her in the field. Another five minutes passed. Sometimes he lifted his head to look out across the field where nothing moved.

  As he climbed from the stand and crossed the field, he hunched forward against the cold wind that pushed itself across the open terrain. The rifle hung over his right shoulder as he approached, almost as long as he was tall. The ground was wet with dew, but was not quite frozen. A damp trail stretched out behind him in the grass, leading back to the stand.