Big Jack Is Dead

by Harvey Smith

  “I'm good, sir. As good as can be expected.” I gave him a perfunctory smile.

  He scrunched up his face in regret. “That's a terrible business with your daddy.” He shook his head from side to side and made a tsking sound. “But truth be told, Big Jack was one pissed off son of a bitch.”

  I nodded calmly, looking down at the shrunken man in front of me. His skin was discolored along his hands, forehead and nose, mottled with patches of mauve or red. Though his body had lost its bullish mass, his eyes still bulged in their sockets with infernal vigor.

  “No, I mean it...you might not see this 'cause he was your daddy and you loved him, but I mean he was just always mad as hell. I never understood it.” His voice was twice as loud as necessary and it boomed off the walls. “Every single time I tried to stop your daddy to talk, he acted like I was a horse thief or something.”

  I smiled, caught between amusement and loathing. “Dad had problems.” Most likely, one of those problems was that he didn't enjoy the thought of your hairy ass pounding the fuck out of his wife.

  “…just always pissed off, even out at the plant. Some of the boys just didn't even wanna work with him.” Tilting his head down for emphasis, he balled his fist and held up a crooked, knotted finger, poking me in the chest to punctuate his words.

  My jaws locked together when he touched me. An urge came over me, to grab his arm and yank until the gristle popped in his shoulder. I saw myself biting down on the claw of his finger, crunching and slicing through the first knuckle with my teeth, taking him by the throat and throwing him through the window. I imagined him lying in the gravel and leaves just outside the window, covered in his own blood, shards of glass rising from his body and trembling with his breath like the fins and plates of some decrepit dinosaur in its death throes.

  “Hey!” The old man looked up, grinning maniacally. “I saw your momma out there.” He looked up into at my face with wide-eyed excitement. Pinching up his mouth, he squinted as if in pain. “Ooh…she looks rough, don't she?”

  I actually laughed out loud. “Yes, sir, I believe she does. She looks rough.” Then again, so do you. Running my tongue over my teeth, I wondered how much longer Mr. Bornado would walk the world. How many years, or months, until he fell and broke a hip, or forgot where he was one too many times.

  “Yeah,” he said. “She looks real rough.”

  “Well, it's good to see you, Mr. Bornado, but I need to go get ready.”

  “Aw, yeah, aw, yeah. I'll see ya out there.” He turned and angled around me, moving down the sunlit hall, his gait mechanical, broken.

  Listening to him shuffle away, I stared out the window into the courtyard. When he was gone, I headed toward the funeral hall to take my place.

  The off-kilter quality of the day continued; everyone was in the right place, more or less wearing the right clothes for the occasion, but no one was quite sure how to act; nothing felt right. Everyone attending Big Jack's funeral seemed bewildered. There was confusion in the air and latent tension layered over it. Is it possible to miss someone like him? Does anyone really feel sad about this?

  I chose to sit at the far end of the first pew, closest to the wall and farthest from the center aisle, with Brodie at my left. Mincy and Ramona sat further down. They rarely spoke, but occasionally my stepmother directed my mother in some small way…sliding her down the pew a few inches, telling her to pick up her hymnal or tuck her purse back further under the seat. Ramona did these things slowly, but without question. Mincy watched her with what seemed like concern, which surprised me.

  The only light in the chamber filtered in from eight stained glass windows that were vaguely religious, but technically non-denominational. An organ player sat at the front of the room, a rail thin woman wearing enormous glasses. She barely moved as her hands crawled deliberately over the keys. Between each song, she paused for thirty seconds then nodded to herself twice as she launched into the next piece.

  Handling all the arrangements with efficiency, Mincy had reserved the facility and hired both the preacher and the organ player. My stepmother hadn't been married to Dad for many years, but she was undoubtedly the right person to manage the affair of his funeral. The preacher she enlisted had never met my father, but Big Jack was not known to keep the company of preachers, or to keep the company of any other men save co-workers from the plant or the occasional deer hunter he met out on a lease.

  The preacher waited off to the side, ready to begin. He was stout, with red hair and pink skin. Shifting in his seat, he adjusted his portly frame, applying lip balm so often that I wanted to get up and take the small tube away from him.

  The door opened, filling the entryway with overpowering sunlight. Ricky was one of my father's oldest hunting buddies. Swaying on his feet, he swung the door wide and held it back for several others, including Jenny. As she passed, he stared hypnotically at her ass cheeks as they shifted from side to side beneath the shimmer of her skirt. Once everyone was inside, he pulled the heavy door, slamming it too hard then fumbling with the handle until he got it closed and the last sliver of light was eclipsed.

  Jenny stood tentatively in the light shining through the stained glass windows. The closest window depicted a woman in amethyst and teal standing on the bank of a river. In the watery light, Jenny looked like a mermaid. Comfort came over me; she was at least a part of my history that I'd chosen. I stood up, facing her and straightening my jacket. The people in the pews around me looked up, unsure of what I was doing. Some of them craned their heads and followed my gaze. When Jenny noticed, I smiled and gestured for her to join me.

  When she got close, she said, “Are you sure?” Leaning toward me, she mouthed the words, worried about breaking decorum by sitting with the family. The notion that the people around me had the right to insist on enforcing rigid social laws made me want to smash the windows. I took her hand and waited for my family to scoot down, which took a while as Mincy gently scolded Ramona into action. My mother rose stiffly while everyone waited to take their new positions. As Jenny settled in next to me, I could feel her warmth through the thin material of my suit.

  Ricky spotted Kohen and made his way to the back aisle, weaving and wobbling as he negotiated his way past the others seated at the rear of the chamber. He looked roughly the same, unchanged by time. He was still cobby-shouldered with very little body fat and the stiff bearing of the men who worked heavy labor jobs out at the plant. I envisioned him sitting in the truck before coming into the funeral home, draining a beer for nerve and crushing the can, the same way he'd worked up his courage the first time he'd humped some pimply rodeo queen at seventeen. He wore cream-colored cowboy boots, jeans and a Western shirt under a jacket with coattails that reached his knees. His blond hair was still thick and curly, though it contained more gray now. His clothing and hair combined to give him the appearance of some fairy tale dwarf, just emerged from the forest, ready to pose riddles to the townsfolk in exchange for a captured infant. Startling both Brodie and Jenny, I laughed as I watched Ricky drop down onto the seat next to Kohen.

  As the funeral started, the red-headed preacher spoke with great reverence for a man he had never known, painting a noble portrait of my ridiculous father. “The Bible says, the father of the righteous shall greatly rejoice, for he that begets a wise child shall have joy in him. And we all know that the late Jack Hickman was the kind of righteous and wise man who in turn brought into this world righteous and wise sons, for the child is in the making of the father, always and forever, Amen.”

  The hypocrisy was offensive, another onslaught. I slitted my eyes and listened as the stubby preacher stood behind the pulpit and talked about my father's “community service” and lifelong membership in the Christian Rifle Association. Looking at the ceiling, I took in a big breath, trying to let go of my tension.

  Each time I remembered why we were gathered, I felt a small shock. My eyes lit upon my father's calm face and my senses reeled, the church shifted. His death and this ritua
l did not fit into my view of the world.

  The preacher raised his eyes to the ceiling. “He is with the angels now.”

  I saw my father standing in the company of angels, twisting his head to look up at them, his eyes wild and red-rimmed. They were tall and beautiful, with infinite understanding and compassion. My father, stunted and filthy. I tore into them, firing a handgun into their beautiful faces at point blank range. They shrieked and wailed as I poured gasoline over their feathered wings.

  Several women were crying now. My mother continued her stunned oozing while my stepmother made a much bigger show of it, sobbing into a lace handkerchief. Midway back, a plump woman with blond and gray hair also cried. Her hair matched Ricky's almost perfectly and I recognized her as Shirley, the doughnut waitress. Over the years, I'd seen her around my father enough to suspect that they'd carried on a long-running affair.

  At the high point of the ceremony, the preacher opened a songbook. “Now we'll all sing Always Watches Over Me,” he said. “I'm told this was Jack Hickman's favorite hymn…the one he loved most as a boy and as a man.”

  I nearly burst out laughing at the notion that my father had a favorite hymn or any other favorite thing about church, but I opened the songbook, holding half of it while Jenny and I sang along.

  Out in the shadows, there I've seen Him,

  The one who shed His blood for me;

  He'll come down on wings against the Seraphim,

  The one I know is watching me.

  We all rose when it was over. Starting with the front row, everyone filed past the casket. The crowd moved slowly, sharing the same discomfort as they drew near. The music swelled as the organ player began the final song of the service. In the casket, Big Jack lay perfectly still, his face childlike. He was lit dramatically, like a stuffed creature in a taxidermy case.

  One hand came to my mouth unconsciously as I approached the coffin. To my surprise, I choked, making no sound, but convulsively gasping for air. Jenny grabbed my hand as I teetered backward, on the edge of collapse. She squeezed and pulled me along. Thank you.

  At my back, I heard my mother's voice. “Oh...there ain't no bag on his face or nothing.”

  “Ramona,” Mincy squawked, “Don't say that.”

  The line continued making progress toward the back of the room then Jenny and I were away. Suddenly, it was over and we were outside, under a carport. We walked to my rental car, still holding hands. Others milled by the back doors, smoking. Some of them stood in the parking lot, trying to work out carpooling arrangements for the funeral procession. Next to the car, I pulled Jenny against me, holding her to my body tightly. She reached up with one hand and took the back of my head, burying it against her neck.

  “Baby,” she said.

  Inside the Lexus, I told her, “I'm glad you were here.”

  When everyone else was ready, the hearse moved into place and flashed its lights. Driving our mother, Brodie backed out and fell into place. I waited for a minute then slid into the next spot. Mincy and her latest husband were in the next car, with him behind the wheel. I could see her sobbing into her hands. Eventually, the entire line of cars and trucks rolled out onto the road next to the funeral home and we began the twenty-minute drive to the cemetery.

  At the first major traffic light, I leaned over and pulled Jenny closer. I kissed her, softly at first then aggressively. She responded, hesitating only when I pressed her hand into my lap.

  “Now?” There was surprise on her face and her accent twanged, giving the word multiple syllables.

  “I swear I'm losing my mind,” I said.

  Jenny turned her head slightly, looking into the street.

  “No one will see you. The windows are dark.”

  Her eyes showed concern, but she began kneading my erection through the black cloth. Working together, we got the zipper down. Jenny looked around once more then leaned into my shoulder. Hooking the band of my underwear with her thumb, she stretched them out of the way. I released my belt buckle, giving her more room.

  As I accelerated through an intersection, Jenny lowered herself down and I cried out in ecstasy at the contact with her mouth.

  Chapter 15

  1980

  Autumn came limping into Lowfield, a half-hearted change from the heat and humidity characterizing most of the year...roach weather, as Big Jack liked to call it because of the long, black insects that crawled or flew across the town at night during the warm months. Nothing on the Gulf Coast resembled what people elsewhere would call fall; autumn meant that jaundice crept into the leaves, clamminess into the air, and a chilly drizzle fell every day.

  When Jack found the car, Ramona and his brother were waiting. Other kids swarmed the area, moving along the sidewalk in front of the school, armed with backpacks and lunch boxes, crying out like birds.

  “I got the front,” Brodie said.

  Jack ignored him and slid behind his mother's seat, into the back. He was thirteen and attended the only middle school in Lowfield. Brodie, only eight, went to one of the elementary schools dotting the town.

  Ramona slipped it into gear and joined the line of vehicles leaving the parking lot. Big Jack had finally gotten her a car, a ten-year-old Honda hatchback that was eaten down to the frame with rust. It coughed and backfired as she pulled away.

  Halfway home, she turned into Sonny's Gas and Bait for cigarettes, buying her brand and her husband's. Before returning, she made a call from the pay phone on the sidewalk outside the store while the boys waited in the car. Brodie sang and kicked the dash, watching her. Tuning him out, Jack watched black-feathered grackles outside the window, hunting through the grass for bugs.

  Five minutes later, Ramona turned onto the block where they lived. As it often did, the car died, but they were close enough to the house that she just coasted to the curb and put it into park. Brodie wrestled with the door and threw it open. The bottom edge scraped the curb, screeching as he jumped out onto the sidewalk. He ran toward the porch with a pile of drawings in one hand. Carrying his books, Jack followed. Ramona trailed behind, struggling to rip a pack of cigarettes from the carton.

  A strange suitcase sat on the living room coffee table. There were letters across the side that said Myerson and Sons, a brand of door-to-door cosmetics peddled by agents roaming the town. As Ramona and the boys stood looking at the makeup case, Big Jack and Mincy emerged from the hallway.

  Big Jack rounded the corner with his mouth agape. “What are y'all doing home?”

  “The boys just got off school,” Ramona said. She smiled at Mincy, who stood blinking. “Looks like you just about missed me again. You always come by when I'm out doing somethin'.”

  “I wanted to show you our fall collection,” Mincy said.

  “Oh...well let me get settled and we can look at it.” She dropped her purse and cigarettes on the coffee table next to the makeup case. “Though you know he won't let me spend any money on stuff like this.” Gesturing at Big Jack, she curled her lips into something between jovial and sneering. She paused. “What was y'all doing in there?”

  Big Jack pointed back to the bedroom. “I was just showing her that sink I fixed last week.”

  “Oh,” Ramona said.

  The boys went into the kitchen, hunting food. Brodie watched while Jack piled sandwich materials on the counter. He made several bologna and cheese sandwiches, putting everything in place except the meat. Hefting a cast iron skillet onto the stove, he added oil and started the burner. Five pieces of lunchmeat sat on the counter top in a line. Starting in the center of each round slice, Jack cut outward to the edges so the meat wouldn't puff up like a basketball when it cooked. He fried the lunchmeat, mashing it flat with a spatula. Once the bologna was black, he scooped up each slice and dropped it onto the mayonnaise-covered bread, melting the American cheese underneath. On side-by-side paper towels, he divided the sandwiches. Then the two boys sat down at the dinner table and started eating.

  There was an argument underway in the l
iving room. This was a common occurrence, but usually their parents only fought when no one was visiting. Suddenly they were screaming so loudly that it gave Jack a chill. Even Mincy was involved.

  “You oughta go to your room and play,” Jack said to Brodie calmly.

  His little brother nodded with a mouthful of food, wrapping up the remainder of his sandwiches. The paper towel was so greasy now that it was translucent. He tip-toed down the hall toward his bedroom, balancing the bundle in one hand.

  Jack got up to follow him after a minute, grabbing his own food and heading for the back of the house. As he passed his parents' bedroom, he noticed something strange. Like a burglary scene in a cop show, half the dresser drawers were open, sticking out haphazardly, strewn with shirts and underwear. The closet door was open and the light was on, a dim bulb hanging nakedly from a cord. Something stood out as wrong, but Jack couldn't identify it. Holding his last sandwich, he took a furtive step into the bedroom and looked around.

  All of his mother's clothes were missing from the closet and dresser. Her cheap shoes were gone from the rack on the backside of the door. Her dresses and pants were no longer hanging along the back wall of the closet. Instead, Jack was confronted with a blank wall and a few naked hangers. The bed was unmade, a mess of ripped quilts, ancient pillows and threadbare sheets. The food in Jack's mouth went cold and his stomach turned.

  The living room door slammed.

  “Boy, get in here,” Big Jack yelled.

  Jack crept into the hall just as Brodie stepped into the doorway of his bedroom. Brodie looked up at his older brother, unsure.

  “You stay in your room,” Jack whispered. He handed Brodie his last sandwich and turned around. Brodie bit into the sandwich, watching Jack disappear down the hall.

  Big Jack was sitting in his recliner and Mincy was sitting on the couch in front of her makeup case.

  Taking a drag on his cigarette, Big Jack cocked an eyebrow. “Boy, I got some bad news.”