Jerk, California

by Jonathan Friesen

  I look to Mom, whose gaze falls to the floorboards.

  A balled-up fifty bounces off my chest. “While you’re out, stop off at Jensen’s.” Old Bill drains his soda can, crushes it, and lobs it toward the kitchen. It clinks off half-empty bottles of whiskey heaped in the wastebasket and rattles across the floor.

  Old Bill clears his throat and walks to the counter. Beneath the cabinets, beer and soda cans neatly line the wall. He touches each one, starts his whispered count.

  “Only twenty-six.” Old Bill leans over the sink.“Four short,” he whispers. “None in the pantry.” He counts them again and whips around.

  “I’m low.”

  My jaws tighten, and my hands burn. I stare at the crumpled bill, nudge it with my toe. I take a deep breath and kick it back toward Old Bill. “Already been there three times this week. Thirty cans on Monday. Thirty more yesterday. Maybe you could count something else?” I turn and look at Mom.

  Her hands fidget about her face. She steps back toward the safety of the bedroom. As she shrinks, Old Bill moves nearer and grows larger. The next words will be his. Big, angry, ugly words.

  Old Bill’s eyes flash wild, and he licks his lips. He speaks so quietly I barely recognize the voice.

  “I’m low.”

  In my mind I shout at him. Shout my no, because I can. Because I’m not mute or weak or retarded. In my mind Mom joins me, and together we scream at Old Bill.

  But Mom doesn’t speak up anymore.

  chapter five

  I HAUL TOWARD HOME IN MY ESKIMO GEAR. THE parka fits snug across my shoulders and chest—snugger over my forearms—and a half inch of frozen wrist sticks out the end of each sleeve. At six feet and climbing, I have Old Bill’s peak in my sights. But my brown eyes prove that though balding Bill has height, the man has no genetic claim on me. I regrip the ten-foot pine dragging at my side and sling our tree saw over my shoulder.

  I check Bill’s prized cargo. The snow-covered case of beer rides in a red plastic sled roped around my waist and glides along a tree’s length behind me.

  “I’m crazy—this is crazy. Risking my life for booze so he can count it.” I yank at wrist-hugging mittens and puff air across purple palms.“You’re waitin’ on a tree? Right.” The two-hour trek has stolen feeling from my fingertips, and even with layered mitts, I can barely grip the pine.

  I step onto an ice patch. Both boots slip forward, and I know I’m going down. For an instant, I feel weightless. It’s been years since my last winter fall. I was seven, and it was my birthday.

  “Bill!”

  The back of my head had struck ice with a dull thud. I opened my eyes but saw only red. I blinked and Bill’s head appeared. It was fuzzy around the edges.

  “Stay down, Sam. Take a deep breath.” Bill’s big hand rested lightly on my chest. “Look at me, son. I need to see those eyes.”

  I thought I was looking at him.

  “Concussion, I’ll bet.” Bill scooped me into his arms and walked off Stacy Lake.

  “No! You said we’d go ice fishing on my birthday.” I wriggled, and he squeezed me to his chest. “That’s today, Bill! We need to go today.”

  Bill had laughed. “There’ll be plenty other chances.”

  There weren’t—at least not for the two of us. At supper, my disease woke up and muscles started to jerk again. Five motionless months, the only ones since my diagnosis, came to an end that day—the last day Bill ever called me his son.

  I fall onto the Christmas tree with a crunch and stare into the sky. White is the only color I see. It should be a cold white, but I can’t feel it against my cheeks. I sit up quickly, shake pine needles from my mittens, and force memories of Old Bill out of my head. I stand, plod forward, and listen. Smothered in hood, I hear nothing but amplified breath. Steps quicken. Suddenly I’m afraid that a big vacuum has sucked all sounds and feelings from the earth.

  I’m going to die. Plows won’t clear this road for days, and when they do they’ll find me stiff and clutching a tree. They’ll ask Mom to identify her frozen son, and she might not recognize him.

  Because for once, he won’t move.

  I face the icy wind, and my forehead aches. That pain, breath fog, and wind-whipped white—that’s all there is.

  Until I’m practically on top of her. Well, her car.

  A helpless vehicle covered by an inch of snow hovers perpendicular to the road. I follow its tracks. The red sports car spun a good ten feet off the shoulder, plowed down into the ditch, and climbed its far embankment. Its belly now rests on a rise, which leaves all four wheels free-spinning.

  I indulge a full body twitch. Limbs fire and brains rattle against the inside of my skull, but I’m numb and I can’t feel and I jolt again.

  Damn disease.

  Hazards and headlamps light giant flakes in pinks and yellows. Those lights brighten and dim as the engine revs, falls silent. The crisp air fills with the scent of gas.

  I drop the tree and stomp into the drift.

  “Hey!” I rap on the driver’s door. “Need help?”

  The window lowers an inch, and a glob of snow breaks from the roof and blows inside.

  “Oh, cold!”

  A grunt escapes my mouth. I bend over, peer through the slit, and my frozen body springs to life.

  “Heaven,” I whisper. “ We meet again.”

  “Get away!” The crack disappears, and a flurry of activity fills the car. I straighten and wipe my nose and work the jaw grinds out of my system.

  It’s her. Can’t believe this. Breathe, Sam. I gaze down through clear patches where snow has fallen from the glass.

  If I could put this girl in my sled and whisk her away where no one could find us—away from Old Bill, from Pierce, from myself—she’d get over my twitches. I cough and reach for the blade slung over my heart.

  “The saw! Probably thinks I’m some kind of psychotic—” I pitch the tree saw toward my sled and swipe the remaining snow from her window. I start to unzip my coat; to show her I’m not hiding anything, that I’m not a crazy nut.

  Wild eyes peer out. More stunning than in October. Bare legs and shoulders typically don’t appear in Minnesota until early May, but here they are—perfect. Around her middle, burgundy velvet hugs her tight and moves when she moves beneath auburn hair and angelic face.

  She’s some kind of princess. Just as pretty dry as she was wet.

  The window lowers again, farther this time, and she smiles. Warmth ignites my fingers. The tingle works up my arms; my shoulders rebel, tense, and leap.

  Concentrate, Sam. Be still.

  Perfume wafts from inside the car. I bend in slow motion and press my nose against the glass. With a toss of her hair, she inches nearer. My head tingles, ready again for her touch. I gulp and gaze and hold my breath.

  And she jams a tube of lipstick into my right eyeball.

  “Ah!” I reel, crumple to my knees, claw at my face. “I’m blind, I’m blind—”

  Smack! The door flies open and catches me square on the chin. Fells me like timber into fresh powder. My numb tongue warms and leaks blood that trickles down my lip with the cool consistency of molasses.

  “My mout!” I ball into the fetal position and force open my lipsticked eye. Perfection leaps over my frame and bounds into the night.

  I try to swallow, to speak, to see. Minutes pass, and beneath the storm’s howl, my body stills and faculties return. I stumble to my feet, one big grunt and groan. So the rescue was unorthodox.

  “Pummeled by my princeth.” I spit into the snow and stare at the red spot.“How embarathing.” I squint at the tree—now blown down the road—and massage my neck.

  “Hey, wait!”

  I spin, slip, and lunge for the open car door.

  “You really just stopped to help?” I nod at the silhouette standing safely in the distance. “Where am I?” she asks. “Doesn’t anybody live out here?”

  I nod again.

  “I left my cell at Heather’s.” She pauses and s
tares, and even though I’m hidden inside my parka, I wonder if she sees my muscles stiffen. I relax as her stare finally leaves my face and follows the rope to my sled and the half-buried saw beside it. Her eyes soften and she smiles, breathes deeply, and glances at the felled tree near her feet. “A tree saw. Rescues might go smoother if you leave that at home.”

  I shut the car door and face her and touch my swollen eyelid.

  She nudges the pine tree with her boot. “Is your eye okay? Are you okay? I was scared, and I thought—” She shudders and rubs her bare arms.

  I wonder what that skin would feel like against my rough, scarred hands.

  “It’s just that not every guy who stops wants to help. I mean, I can’t trust everyone.” She looks around, focuses on my face, and smiles. It’s a sadder smile than before. “Why won’t you talk to me?”

  Because you’re perfect and since smacking me you’ve been really kind, but that’s only because you can’t see me and you don’t know me. Maybe if I had time to rehearse, I could come up with something to make her laugh. But I’ve got nothing, and I stand mute.

  She exhales long and slow. “Okay, Christmas-tree man, looks like I need a hero.”

  A hero? Me?

  “I’ve never met a guy carrying a saw and pulling”—she steps toward my sled and bends down—“beer.” Straightening, she blows into cupped hands.

  Why not me? And not just any hero. Her hero.

  Those hands lower to her hips and my gaze follows.

  “I jammed my jacket beneath for traction, but that was dumb because the tires—well, they ate it. Have any ideas? Maybe a push or something?”

  I squint at her car. I know physics, and I know spinouts. It’d take five men to budge that thing in this weather. But heroes don’t show weakness. I put on my thinking face and nod slowly. Maybe too slowly.

  She stomps into the ditch, grabs my hood, and shakes. “Hey! Hello. I’m freezing out here!”

  Of course, the cold. She’s cold!

  “Hee—” I clear frost from my throat. “Here.” I whip off my mitts and cram them into her hands.

  “No, you don’t have to—”

  Stiffened fingers unbutton the parka, unzip the inner lining, shred the drawstring beneath my chin, and throw off the coat. “Here!” I press the parka into her arms.

  I pant in my flannel shirt, misbuttoned and half untucked, still tethered to my cargo of beer. Nose-flow forms frozen ridges and clings to my upper lip. Tears seep from the lipsticked eye, and my swollen tongue fills my mouth. I feel naked without my parka—naked and ugly—but we’re standing so close, my insides burn, and I’m not cold. And after she vanishes into my coat, neither is she.

  The parka never looked so good. To have her wearing my clothes, well, it feels like we belong together.

  Just then, the chain-saw roar of snowmobiles cuts through the howl. My coat turns its back on me to face two oncoming beams. “Looks like company soon. Maybe they’ll help?”

  I nod.

  She glances over her shoulder. “Do you have a name?” Our eyes meet. I try to stay, to let her look into me, but my eyes decide to blink hard, and my gaze retreats to the safety of my boots. We’re a long way from October. She doesn’t remember me.

  “Yeah,” I say.

  She waits for more, finally hinting a smile. “Well, that’s good to know.”

  She waves her arms above her head. Sleds roar nearer, and we step onto the road. Both snowmobiles circle and settle next to her. Three visors raise.

  Just my luck.

  I don’t mind the Dahlgren twins. Not at all. Doesn’t surprise me to see them riding double tonight—they’re always together, laughing and joking, making me wish Baby Lane was seventeen years older. A nod from Nils sends Lars jumping off their sled and tromping toward the car.

  It’s the other one, the lone rider on the yellow Polaris. One look at him and my stomach tenses. He rises, removes his helmet, and rubs the red pressure band formed across his forehead. He forces a hand through thick, hockey hair.

  “Who have we here?” Jace Ryeson’s snowsuit swaggers toward my coat; I no longer exist. “Name’s Jace. Looks like you need a ride.”

  She stiffens—even through my Eskimo coat I can see it. She stuffs my mittens into oversize parka pockets and backs toward me, away from Jace. My heart swells.

  “I’m Naomi. Thanks for stopping. I, well, we—” She points at me over her shoulder. “I think he’s going to push my car out.” She glances back and catches me in a teeth grind. Naomi bites her lip and cocks her head. “You have to be cold.”

  “Sam, what happened to—what are you doing?” Jace snickers at my plastic sled.“Boozin’ Billy’s got ya playing beer Santa, huh? On Christmas Eve. Pathetic.”

  My stomach turns. Why do I care what he says about Old Bill? I suddenly want to tell Jace the truth. That Old Bill’s counting it, not drinking it. I want Jace to stop ripping Old Bill ’cause I know what it’s like when a twitch attack comes, when everyone stares and whispers, and I fake a yawn or stretch. So what if Old Bill hides his habit? Why can’t people leave the jerk alone?

  “Shut up about Bill. He ain’t a lush,” I say. “Can’t help it, is all.”

  My defense sounds weak, and my gaze runs to Nils’s gentler face. He offers a tight-lipped nod.

  “When Santa here jerks his face like that, it ain’t from the cold. Is it, Santa?” Jace does his best jaw-tic imitation and rolls his eyes.

  I swallow hard and shiver. Warmth I feel from Naomi fades fast.

  “Wheels are airborne, Jace.” Lars wades out from behind the car and mounts the sled behind his brother. “She’ll need a tow.”

  “Hear that, Naomi? And that ain’t happening tonight. But look here, two snowmobiles and three of us. Got room for you. Like it was meant to be.” Jace eases onto his snowmobile and pats the seat behind him. “Second thought.” He scoots back. “Ride in front. It’s warmer.” He stretches out his hand.

  Naomi glances at Jace’s glove and back at me. She looks confused, like she can’t figure out why it’s them against me, why they don’t offer to help the guy without a jacket. She stares at me, I think, and wonders what they know and I know and she’ll know, too, if she stares long enough.

  “But you can’t just leave him,” Naomi says.

  “She’s right, Jace,” Nils says, “It’s rough—”

  Jace silences Nils with a glare. “It’s Santa’s night. He’s got work to do.” Again, he reaches his hand out for Naomi. “Don’t worry’bout Sam. He ain’t that far from home. Now come on, I’m getting cold.”

  “Go on. I got this stupid tree to lug.” My whisper falls unheard into fresh powder.

  Naomi still looks at me. She’s been doing that far too long, and I start to squirm. The squirming leads to humming, the humming to grunting. I fight to stay calm, but her eyes are winning and there is nowhere to hide.

  “No thanks, Jace. I’ll stay with Sam.”

  “Hah!” The word fires from my mouth.

  I purse my lips and bite my swollen tongue, but my vocal cords are locked and there’s nothing I can do. “Stay with Sam! Stay with Sam!”

  All turn toward my uncontrollable blurt.

  Jace shakes his head. “Like a freakin’ parrot.”

  The shouting urge returns and I spin away from Naomi as the three words have their way with me and cut into the wintry night. I slam shaking hands over my mouth, but the crowlike sounds keep coming, sharp as barbed wire. Behind me, engine gunning conceals the murmurs and chuckles.

  “Might want to reconsider,” Jace calls.“I ain’t as much fun to listen to, but this sled moves a hell of a lot faster than Twitch’s plastic one.”

  Naomi doesn’t answer. I’m the only one who talks and, like a terrier out barking at snowflakes, can’t shut up.

  Please go! Now that you’ve seen me, heard me. Take your perfect eyes and go.

  “Suit yourself! Stay with Sam. Stay with Sam.” Jace’s voice pierces through my back and lodges in
my heart.“Hey, Naomi, be sure to give Sammy a cracker.”

  The drone of Jace’s sled can’t cover his laughter, and he rides into the night.

  “Can’t you two guys do something?” Naomi asks. “Doesn’t he need help?”

  “He’s okay,” Lars says. “I mean, he—”

  Lars leans forward and speaks to Nils, and their sled roars to life.

  “It’s too cold for anyone.” Lars says, “Hang on. Maybe we can come back with Dad’s sled. Stay in the car, okay? You, too, Sam. Stay in the car.”

  They scream off in the opposite direction toward their Princeton farm.

  “Hey.” Naomi’s voice is soft. “You heard what they said.”

  Salty wet reaches my cracked lips. Quickly wiping my cheeks, I turn to face her. A final whisper escapes my throat.

  “Stay with Sam.” My head droops and we stand in silence. I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to feel warm. I just want to disappear.

  “I’ve seen you before,” Naomi finally says.

  “No, I—I don’t think so.”

  Naomi pulls off my hood and gives a gentle squint. “You’re a runner, aren’t you?”

  I don’t speak.

  She smiles. “Will those guys come back?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Maybe’s not good enough.” Naomi looks into the sky, then back to her car. “My life’s in your hands. What can we do?”

  She said we. My back straightens.

  “Um—well, I guess you can hop in and let me try and push.”

  “You think you can do it?” She gently bites her lower lip, steps through the snow, and climbs behind the wheel.

  I untie my sleigh and tramp behind the car. I lean hard against it but a foot slips and drops me to my knees.

  Naomi leans out the window. “Tell me when you’re ready!”

  I whisk snow off my shirt. Feeling stupid doesn’t brush off so easily. “You know, Lars was right, this car—” She disappears and guns fumes into my mouth.

  I cough. “Ain’t moving.”

  I stare at curtains of white falling from nowhere. At my cranberry hands that match the paint on which they rest. My shoulders jump and relax. “Try and push? What a joke.”