Jerk, California

by Jonathan Friesen

  “Never been in a storm cellar?” George asks.

  “Never lived in one.”

  “Fair.”

  I stand and step down into dank cool. Sunlight streams in from where I just was and want to be again. George’s outline casts shadow around me, but I make out plants and rakes and mousetraps.

  “This is my apartment? I ain’t sleepin’ with rats.”

  “Calm down, Jack. Keep going.”

  Keep going? I look up at the foundation—at a wooden door with a brass knob, a peephole, and an address. And a name—Keegan 115. I brush dirt from my knees, and reach toward the door hewn into solid block.

  “What kind of—oh.”

  Light and warmth pour out of what should be, given the age of the place, rough dirt-floored crawl space. But the ceilings are high and furniture modern. A kitchen with an island is on the left, a large family room with couch and La-Z-Boys on the right.

  “Bathroom is in the hall yonder, the bedroom across from it.” Behind me, George plunks down one of my duffels. “And those stairs straight on lead up to my place. Ceiling door.”

  Polaroid photos of windmills cover every wall except the one in the living room, where family pictures dominate. Grandpas and grandmas. Husband and wife with baby. Just happy baby.

  “Photos okay?” George says.

  I twitch hard near the eyes.

  “Take that as a yes.” George motions around the place. “Come and go as you please. Cover your own meals. I don’t cook.” He walks to the freezer. “Couple TV dinners to get you started. Questions?”

  I spin a slow circle, still, and rap a few times on the table. “I get all of this?”

  He don’t say anything. He just stares at me like I’m supposed to say more. I want to thank him big. Tell him this is the best gift I’ve received since my green cement-mixer jacket. But I don’t want to screw it up and say something dumb and watch him yank the gift away just like Old Bill.

  “Sorry for hollering that day. I did mean to thank you for the money.”

  George cracks a smile. “Yep. You get the apartment.” He hobbles over to me and stares at my jumpy shoulder. “That money came from your dad’s wallet. That was all he had on him when he died.”

  My stomach sinks.

  “Ain’t much, but ten dollars bought a lot of medicine sixteen years ago.”

  I spent Dad’s money on shoelaces and Mountain Dew. Feels wrong, and I turn and walk toward the wall and stare at a windmill. Don’t worry. Got your twitchy inheritance tucked away safe in my brain. Really appreciate that.

  It’s quiet for a while. “You know,” George says, “I once had two mills settin’ side by side, and their fins whipped in opposite directions.” I glance back over my shoulder. “What do you make of that?” he asks.

  I shrug, turn back to the wall. “Maybe one of your mills was screwed.”

  “S’pose.” George’s footsteps shuffle to the door. “Or maybe the wind was confused.”

  I think on that with no success.

  We have the rest of my stuff inside by midafternoon. “Get sleep tonight,” George says, and knocks his knuckles on the door frame.“I’ll be pounding early. Missing work today means twice as much tomorrow and morning comes soon.” He smiles and opens my door to leave.

  “Hey, the pictures are fine.” I point at the portraits. “Looks like a nice family. These your grandparents?”

  He doesn’t turn and disappears into the storm cellar.“Nope,” he calls, “yours.”

  The door shuts behind him, and I tremble. Biting my lip, I move nearer to the display. Mine?

  Both grandpas and grandmas look pleasant enough. They wear the old-person serious look, but the grandma on the left has a twinkle.

  “Nah. Coot pullin’ one of his—”

  I see Mom. Nearly unrecognizable behind her glow, her arms circle the neck of a tall, good-looking guy. It’s not Old Bill. And the baby in the stranger’s arms isn’t Lane, the Golden Child. Stepping closer, I stare into the man’s face, blink hard until the urge passes. He has my eyes.

  So does that baby.

  “Crap.” I step back, trip over a box, and land on my rear. My heart races.

  I should get up off my butt and settle it, stare harder at my father until I can see the embarrassment in his eyes and the sneer around his mouth. ’Cause I know it’s there, it must be, he’s holding me.

  But I rise and tremble and look away because that’s not what I saw. He looked like the same guy who wrote the letter. The proud one.

  Your old man was so ashamed. I shake Old Bill’s words from my mind.

  See for yourself. I try to peek.

  “Can’t do it. What if he’s laughing at me?”

  I rip the pictures off the wall, stuff them under the sofa, and stare breathless at the space.

  “Who cares what you thought anyway?” I run hands through my hair. “Just my dumb, dead—” I wipe the sweat from my forehead. “Just leave me alone.”

  Suddenly I’m tired, and my knee aches. I plod into my bedroom and fall diagonally onto the king-size mattress. “What a bed.” I close my eyes, and then shoot them back open. Dad’s photo is stuck on my retinas. I rub them hard and try again. Still there.

  “No way I’ll sleep.”

  For four hours, I stare at the ceiling. But I must have given in, because the next sound I hear is a woodpecker above my head. The bird takes voice, gravelly and loud.

  “Wake up, Jack! Hey, down there. We got a drive ahead of us.”

  chapter thirteen

  “NOBODY HOME.” GEORGE TRIES THE DOORBELL. “Be right back.” He leaves me in front of the largest door I’ve ever seen. I turn a slow circle and gawk at the mansion. “This is insane.”

  I faintly recall a sunrise stumble from my bed to George’s truck. The two-hour drive to the Twin Cities lulled me back to sleep. Not sure exactly when I woke next—my head is still thick—but I know I’ve a good case of morning face, and I hope this big door don’t open.

  I squint at George’s beater. Looks ridiculous parked in the beautifully landscaped cul-de-sac that forms the owner’s cobblestone turnaround. I dig sleep from my eyes and look down at the ketchup stain on my white T-shirt. Heather’s right about us—hicks from Hicksville.

  “Go see the lake.” George presses a keypad on the six-car garage. “Lake Minnetonka. ’Round back.”

  It takes a while, but I finally reach the backyard. Waves splash gently against a private beach. Manicured gardens dot the lawn and surround a tennis court, and a swimming pool shimmers in the sunlight. I scurry back around to the front of the house. I don’t belong at a place like this, and the way I look, neighbors will think I’m breaking in.

  “Never seen anything like—what are you doing?” I ask.

  “Ripping.” George digs up one of the nice-looking flowers that line the front walk.

  “You supposed to do that?” I glance up the drive and toward the neighbors. “I mean, you do work for these people. Don’t you?”

  “Nope.” Plunge. His shovel head vanishes into earth. “Figured I’d come out here and steal a few.” Step. His boot drives the shovel deeper. “And since those cameras out back took a shot of your face, reckon I’m in the clear.” Curl. He twists the tool and the ground releases its grip—the stalk with all its roots rises and topples beside the hole. Near twenty already lie dead, and he moves on.

  “You’re joking, right?” I bend over, try to catch his eyes.

  George smirks but doesn’t look up. “Relax. You don’t look so bad. Those cameras don’t do anyone justice.”

  “I’m on film?” I straighten and twitch hard and try and remember if I let loose while in back. Man! One full-body job right by the pool.

  “Hold up, George. Do you work here?”

  “’Course I do.” He swears, and I feel really stupid. He kills another pretty flower.

  “So . . . what do I do?” It strikes me that the only plant I know is a Christmas tree, and then only if cut and decorated.

>   “Find the line of hosta on the far side of the garage.”

  “What’s a hosta?”

  George points at a clump of green with racing stripes.

  I hurry to the side of the garage but can’t find a match. “There are green plants here,” I holler, “but no stripe thing.”

  “That’s them. Back of the truck are thirty plastic pots. Lift ’em and stick ’em.”

  I stare at the plants. “You sure the owner wants this?”

  “Shovel’s in the truck. Big hurry today.”

  I jog to the truck, find the stack of pots, and jog back. I breathe deep. The first green clump gives me a mean look. He’s big and happy where he is.

  “Hang on, plant. I’ll ask him again.” I poke my head around the corner. “Why—”

  “We’re gonna slam them somewhere else,” says George.

  I bite my lip and jab at the dirt. “And if I kill ’em?”

  “Can’t.” George hobbles toward the backyard and disappears around the corner.

  It takes twenty minutes to uproot the mean one. I stare down at my defeated enemy. I’m still staring when George rounds the corner. He glances into the crater I dug and nods. “Ever done anything with plants before?”

  “Cut Christmas trees.”

  He smiles. “Yep. Got the job for you.”

  I hold up my shovel. “Will I need this?”

  “Hell, no.”

  He leads me to a small grove of trees near the lake. “This one.” He whips out a knife from somewhere on his pant leg and flicks his wrist. The blade missiles into a slender trunk. “And, this one.” George winces out the blade, spins, and flings it into another tree, narrowly missing my nose. His eyes scan, widen, and squint as they find their target. George wrests the knife from the trunk and fires it circus-thrower style. It embeds in a tree thirty feet away. “And that one. Gone. An ax and a tree saw are in the garage.”

  George heads toward the house, but I stand motionless and stare at the knife.

  “How’d you learn to throw like that?” I call.

  “Didn’t. It was luck. Bound to hit one.”

  I step toward the blade. I tug once, twice. That thing is deep, and straight, and dead center, and heart level.

  “Bound to hit one.” I leave the blade and run toward the garage.

  By the time I reach the hosta, they all rest comfortably in plastic pots.

  “Man, he’s fast.”

  A pickup engine sputters, and I run toward the truck. George gets out and counts some plants.

  “Three lilies short.” He slaps the outside of the truck. “Even shorter on time. I’ll run out and grab us some lunch. Chop those trees off near the ground. Drag ’em up by the hosta.”

  “Okay.” I look toward the open garage, and back at George. “Is this all we do? Dig stuff up? Chop it down?”

  He guns the engine. “You’re a gardener now. Everything dies before it lives. Be right back.”

  I can’t hold it any longer. “Wait. Yesterday, you said we’d see—”

  Tires squeal, and the truck vanishes. “Naomi.”

  Nobody is around, and I allow my muscles a twitchy minute. I dash into the garage. I’d failed a kindergarten-level hosta task; I won’t fail again.

  “Ax, ax. All I need is a stinkin’ . . . red Porsche convertible.” The car calls to me from the far end of the five-car garage. Would be unkind to ignore it.

  I step nearer. My fingers dance along its frame, but both of us want more. The car wants me to get in, to stroke it, and caress it. I can tell. It wants me, twitchy me, to move within it.

  “No.” My arm jerks back. I turn from the car, wipe my brow, and haul myself toward the tool wall. “The man told me to chop.” I straighten and grab an ax.

  Treads squeal on the driveway.

  “Back already? I got nothing done again!” I race the length of the garage toward the open door.

  I regrip the ax and leap into the sunlight.

  Naomi stands an arm’s length in front of me. My eyes widen, and I skid to a stop.

  “Hey, Naomi!”

  She screams, whacks me over the head with her gym bag, and bolts. I straighten in time to see her front door open and slam shut. I tongue the inside of my cheek, nod, and drop the ax. The metal head falls onto the ground.

  “Tree saws, hammers, axes. If I see her again, I’ll be packing a chain saw.”

  I peek at her house. Probably isn’t the best time to knock and apologize. I walk away from her home and toward her car, peer through the driver’s-side window. I touch my eye. Straightening, I shuffle around to the back. I lean in to the car, rock it—feel it move. And remember how it plowed through a drift.

  A tingle warms my cheek, and I glance back at the ax.“Some hero.”

  chapter fourteen

  GEORGE AND I MUNCH WHOPPERS ON THE STEPS. I want to tell him what happened, to ask him for advice. I want him to tell me why I keep screwing up with this girl. But he’s old and he’s a coot and he doesn’t know anything. I peek at him. Ketchup fills the corners of his mouth, and he belches. I’ve known three men in my life. One’s dead. One’s cruel. And one belches.

  “You’re mighty quiet,” he says, and wipes his face with his wrist.

  “Thinkin’ on something.” I exhale and stare at the ax. George hasn’t noticed it. I wish he would. I wish he’d see it and ask about it and then I could ask him all my questions. But he just burps again.

  “While you were gone . . .” I pause, but he says nothing. “I had a run-in.”

  The door behind us creaks and a sliver of face peeks out. “Get in here, George!”

  He turns from Naomi to me. “Whacha do, Jack?”

  We both stand. Naomi’s finger pokes out, zeroes in on me. “Not you. You stay right there where I can see both your hands.”

  George shoots me a terrible look. “What did you do to Nae?”

  Never seen that face on George. I swallow and my gaze drops. “Charged her with an ax.”

  “Oh.” George’s body relaxes, and he nods. “Yep. Had me concerned there.” He pats me on the back and disappears into the house.

  Five minutes later, the door opens and George and Naomi step out.

  “She says you jumped her in the garage. That true?”

  I peek at Naomi. Her eyes are hard and I want to run.

  “I might have jumped. But I wasn’t jumping her. That didn’t come out right. I wasn’t coming after her, I mean, I was going to kill trees, not—I didn’t know she was there—”

  George holds up his hand and turns to Naomi. “Satisfied?”

  Her face softens and she exhales hard. “Yeah I—I didn’t think you were like that.” She breathes deep. “I’ve been sort of jumpy lately. Just stuff going on, you know?”

  I nod, and she continues. “How are you two doing?” Her smile starts and stops.

  “Been well.” George rubs his chest.

  “Same,” I say.

  It’s quiet for too long, and my arm leaps.

  “I think that’s our cue.” George walks down the steps and heads to the truck. “We have to be going, Nae. I’d like to wait for Melissa, but I need to be done planting at the retreat house by six.”

  “Okay. Bye, George,” Naomi says.

  It’s her and me left on the step. We both shuffle our feet.

  “I’m sorry for the ax thing. I feel stupid and . . . well, that’s what I wanted to say.”

  “We’re all stupid sometimes.” Naomi turns and vanishes behind the door.

  We don’t stay to chop trees. George pitches plants and tools into the truck. “In, Jack.”

  I obey like a poodle. Back on the road my mind swirls, and my anger rises. He could have helped me explain.

  George gulps from his thermos. “So, you attacked Naomi.”

  “Well, yeah. I mean no . . . no! I didn’t. You heard me. She was just there.” I run my hand through my hair. “She keeps popping up.”

  I tell him about the 10K, about Christmas Eve, the Dairy
Queen. He’s quiet a long while.

  George reaches over, grabs a toothpick from the glove compartment. “What do you think of her?”

  “She’s okay.”

  George nods. “Real pretty, though.”

  “Yeah, she’s that.” I clear my throat. “And Melissa is her mom? And that really is her house? And you really are their gardener?”

  “Yeah. That’s a—that’s all true.” George squeezes his forehead between thumb and forefinger and lets the truck drift into the other lane. “Been gardening there near twenty years. Watched Nae grow, change hands four times.” He exhales hard. “Melissa’s on husband four.”

  “What else do you know about her?”

  George glances over at me, smiles weakly. “Probably too much.”

  With no response to that, I drift into my own thoughts.

  We pull up to a flowered, gated entrance with a sign out front:

  JESUIT RETREAT HOUSE—DEMONTREVILLE

  “We got three hours to slam one thousand impatiens.”

  “Translate,” I say.

  “We have a hell of a lot of flowers to plant. I promised Father McCullough I’d have these in by the time this weekend’s retreat started. We’re lining the outside of the monastery on the hill.”

  “A monk place?” My stomach turns. “Never been into God stuff.” I grunt and George’s eyes twinkle.

  “Ain’t askin you to go to confession, just plant a damn flower.”

  We pull into the retreat center, rumble past the chapel, and skirt beautiful Lake Demontreville. The truck turns up between the stables and chicken coops, weaves through woods. The monastery looms before us. Big and brick and fortresslike.

  George pulls over and pushes out the door. “Grab a flat and follow me.”

  I scoop up impatiens and catch up with George, who’s already dumped his load in front of a ten-foot statue of Jesus.

  “Area around His feet needs to be covered. Don’t worry about perfect rows.”

  I look around. The place makes me queasy.

  “How’d you find this job?”

  George takes his trowel and scoops up some dirt. He cracks a plastic holder, lifts up the flower, and slams it into the hole. With one deft motion the roots are covered, pressed, and mounded with earth. “Do that one thousand times and we’re done.” He points at the fortress. “I’ll be working along the brick.”