“Run the tub,” Leo said. “And bring a wet dishrag.”
“Teddie throwing up …”
“Ain’t nobody died, Marge. Do like I say.”
Marge returned with a pot of cold water and a handful of clean dishrags. Leo pushed me toward her.
“Better peel ‘em out of their duds out here, we don’t want to track the kitchen. Looks like these two been to a hog killin’ and the hog won.”
“What happened out there?”
“Oh, I think our Mr. Teddie finally jerked somebody’s chain once too often, and somebody liked to kick his ass.”
“All that blood, Leo.”
Leo took Junior’s face in his hand and held the cut up to the light. The bleeding had stopped, and Junior stood submissively in front of Leo, sniffing quietly, holding very still as Leo wet a rag and dabbed at the cut.
“Old Mr. Teddie got him a pretty good lick.”
“Look at that goose egg coming up over Teddie’s eye,” Marge said.
Leo nodded. “Going to have a shiner. Better throw him in the tub and get some ice on it.”
“We got the judge at two!”
“Ain’t the first time the judge’s seen a shiner.”
“He’ll think we beat the kid half to death.”
“Not likely, Marge. Just throw the kid in the tub.”
“Well, what if?”
“Then he can go to hell.”
“What’ll we tell Junior’s grandma? She’s going to have a conniption she sees that lip.”
“Look better when it’s cleaned up.”
“That lip is split wide open!”
“I reckon the woman lived this long, she seen worse than a split lip.” Leo began unbuttoning Junior’s shirt.
“Well, I just don’t know what we’ll say to the woman. She ain’t going to let the boy come over he comes home with his face looking like a prize fight.”
“You ain’t going to have to say nothing to her, Marge, I’m the one taking him over.”
“We’ll both today. I can’t send Junior back to that woman and not tell her how sorry …”
Marge had removed all my clothes, and I was shivering, trying to climb up her leg and into her arms.
“Get some ice on that eye and throw Teddie in the tub. Me and Junior’ll be in in a minute.”
Marge pulled me into her arms and took me inside. She wrapped some ice in a dishtowel and tied it over my eye, then pinned it behind my head with a safety pin. She put me in the tub, next to the faucet, and began pouring potfuls of warm water over my shoulders.
“What happened out there, Teddie? Tell Grandma what happened.”
I cupped some water in my hands and threw it toward the side of the tub. I would not meet her eyes.
“Swords,” I answered.
Junior hurried into the bathroom, naked, dancing on his toes, juggling a piece of ice between his hands. His body was long and stringy with muscles. Shoulders broad, buttocks fat and hard. Except for the light tan of his palms and the soles of his feet, his skin shone shoe-polish black in the white and porcelain of the bathroom.
Leo was close on his heels and lifted him into the opposite end of the tub. Leo folded Junior’s hands around the ice and made him press it against his lip. “Tight,” Leo told him.
Junior closed his eyes, wincing when the ice touched his cut.
“That a boy,” Leo said.
Junior and I ignored each other while Marge washed us. She finished Junior first, and Leo took him to the kitchen. Marge dried and dressed me in the bedroom. Soon, Leo called from the kitchen.
“Bring Teddie in here. I want him to see what he done. Bring the styptic out of the medicine cabinet.”
Marge carried me to the bathroom, found Leo’s styptic pencil, and brought it with us to the kitchen. Junior was sitting on the table, and Leo sat in a chair before him, cutting the sticky ends of Band-Aids into narrow, half-inch slivers. Junior had been outfitted in one of Leo’s work shirts, and it hung on him like a coat, dangling past his knees, sleeves rolled up to his wrists. Junior’s eyes were closed, and he was holding ice against his cut, swinging his legs back and forth over the edge of the table.
“Give Teddie the styptic and sit him down next to Junior.”
“Don’t want to sit by him.” I clung tight to Marge’s bosom.
“He don’t want to,” Marge said.
Leo tapped the table with his finger. He did not look up.
Marge put me down next to Junior and handed me the styptic pencil. I rolled it between my fingers; then, in an effort to ignore Junior, I pretended to write on my palm.
“Okay, Junior.” Leo pulled Junior’s hand away from his lip. “Let’s fix her up.”
Junior kicked his feet faster. “Ain’t going to hurt bad, is it, Mr. Woodar’?”
I looked at the cut. It had been cleaned and the ice had controlled most of the bleeding. It was not a long cut, but it was deep into the border of the upper lip and the soft skin of the mouth. It would ooze each time Junior spoke.
“Some,” Leo said, “but the ice’ll kill most of it.”
Junior began to swing his legs harder.
“You got to hold still,” Leo said. “Movin’ makes it worse.”
Junior stopped his legs, but started to cry.
“Cryin’ ain’t for big boys,” Leo said, but the tears continued to flow down Junior’s cheeks. “Gimme the pencil, Teddie. Slide on over here. I want you to see what you done to poor old Junior.”
I handed him the coagulant and sat on my knees a foot from Junior’s face. I watched as Leo took the sharp end of the pencil and rolled it along the edges of the wound. Junior squinted and cried out in a high-pitched squeal, but he did not pull back.
“That a boy. See that, Teddie? That’s how big boys do it.”
“Hurts him.”
“Damn rights. Hurts like hell.”
When Leo was satisfied that he could do no more for the bleeding, he pinched the edges of the wound together, taped them with the strips of Band-Aid, and put a regular Band-Aid over all.
“That’ll do her. Good as new, ain’t you, Junior?”
Junior nodded.
Leo sat me on his lap.
“You hurt Junior bad. That ain’t no way to be. You ever hurt Junior again, I’m going to let him knock the living daylights out of you.”
“Leo!” Marge hissed, and took a step forward.
Leo waved her off. “You understand me, Teddie? I’ll let Junior wipe up the floor with you. You and Junior got to be friends from now on. Men needs good friends. I won’t have it no other way with you two. Now, you shake.”
Junior and I looked in each other’s eyes for the first time since the fight. Neither of us made a move.
“Come on, now. This is how men do. You want to be men, this is how you do.”
Junior held out his hand, and I stared down at it. The back of it was black, large-pored, flaked with tiny gray scales from working in the wind; the palm was caramel-colored, inset with long, fraying life lines over-crossed by a hundred tiny creases. I thought of the iceman, the rough, abrasive skin of his hand as it had closed around mine. And, although Junior’s hand dwarfed my own, it appeared thin and bird-like when held to the memory of that other huge, life-beaten hand.
Leo picked up my hand and placed it in Junior’s. I felt the smooth warmth of it. Leo covered our hands with one of his own, pressed our flesh together, and made a shaking motion.
“That a way,” he said. “Friends.”
Junior nodded.
“No more fighting, Teddie,” Marge said.
“Hungry,” I said.
“Better feed ‘em up, Margie. We got men, now. Our men needs feedin’ up.” He released our hands and stood me up on his chair. He went outside to ready the truck for the drive to the courthouse.
Marge sighed and walked to the sink. She poured the bleach out of the bucket where Junior’s dishes had been soaking. She rinsed them in steaming hot water from the faucet and spread
them on a dishtowel next to the drain board where the rest of the breakfast dishes were drying. She opened the icebox door and bent before it.
“Who wants a meatloaf sandwich?”
Junior watched the steam rise from his dishes. He ran the tip of his index finger along the edges of the Band-Aid on his upper lip.
“Me,” he said.
THIRTEEN
Junior lumbers across the living room floor, threading his way among the piles of parts, and disappears down the unlighted hallway leading to the bedrooms.
“Chicken on Sunday,” he calls, his voice receding into the darkness. “Come early, you can help me haul Jordine’s Falcon out of the living room—clear a spot for Anne.”
“Anne who?”
I follow the sound of his voice, stopping at the end of the hall at his bedroom door. I lean against the jamb, hands dug deep into my pockets.
“Who’s Anne?”
“For once, I don’t suppose you could wear something besides them ugly things?” Junior points to my overalls. “Been bragging you up to Anne—how you made it from the neighborhoods all the way to big-time college professor. See you in them bibbers, she’ll think I was just running my mouth.”
“I wouldn’t call a master’s in English and a luck-out junior college job ‘the big time’. Save your brags for yourself.”
Junior snorts. “Yeah. Me, Mr. Sears, and Mr. Roebuck.”
“You made City Service Rep.”
“Service Coordinator. They changed the name again last month. Now my boss is makin’ noises like she wants me to take over Parts.”
“Step up?”
“On paper. Bump you up a couple of bucks. Nobody wants it. Nothing but headaches and you’re out of town more.”
“Sounds like ‘the big time’ to me.”
Junior sits on the edge of the bed and twists off his shoes; he stands briefly, unfastens his belt, and steps out of his slacks and boxer shorts. He makes an effort to fold the slacks and lays them gently at the end of the bed; balling his shorts in one hand, he shoots them toward the steeping mound of dirty clothes in the corner. Halfway to the pile, they billow open and flutter to the carpet like a blue satin flag.
I pick up Junior’s slacks and walk to the closet. I check the pockets, scratch away a crusty piece of sandwich stuck to the shiny-slick seat, stretch the inseams where the tortured polyester has been bunched about his immense thighs.
I cough, and the ash that has been building at the end of my cigarette drops to the floor. I rub it into the carpet with the toe of my boot.
“Teddie, you mind taking that cancer stick out of here?”
I turn my head and raise my eyebrows.
“Anne. Stuffs her up.” He taps the bridge of his nose.
I pull his pants onto a hanger and make a place for them in the closet. I walk to the window, slide it open, flick the cigarette out into the yard. I shut the window and smile.
“Okay to smoke in the living room, but not the bedroom. That the deal?”
“Yeah. That’s the deal.”
“So, how long’s this Anne been sleeping over?”
Junior sighs and begins to strip away the velcro knee brace from his left knee. He winces as he pulls it free, then heaves it on top of the dresser. An empty carton of juice and a small screwdriver fall to the floor.
I pick them up and return them to the dresser.
“You going to tell me about this Anne, or am I going to have to be a real pain in the ass?”
Junior massages his leg where the brace has imprinted the skin.
“I thought you was doing just fine, pain-in-the-ass-wise,” he says.
“Where’d you meet her?”
Junior shrugs out of his shirt, and his breasts bounce and jiggle as he pulls his undershirt over his head. He throws the shirts in the direction of the pile.
“CDF.”
“CDF?”
Junior lifts his knee in his hands and slowly flexes the joint, making a face as it crackles and grinds. He speaks over-casually, as if he has been practicing his delivery for this very moment.
“Christian Divorce Fellowship.”
I look away so he does not see me smile.
“Christ. That pretty much the way it sounds?”
“Which reminds me. Don’t cuss around Anne. Especially don’t take the Lord’s name in vain. Anne’s cool, but she really, really don’t like taking the Lord’s name in vain.”
Junior watches my face as I gaze slowly across the bedroom, surveying the sight of laundry and newspapers strewn across the floor; the empty beer cans and potato chip bags on top of the television at the end of the bed; the unopened junk mail, the scattering of unmatched socks, the heap of paper plates cluttering the top of the dresser.
“These Christian women,” I say. “Aren’t they supposed to be a little on the tidy side?”
Junior lowers his leg to the floor and scrapes at some crumbs on the sheets.
“Going through the whole place with a fine-tooth comb come Sunday.”
“So, what kind of women do you meet at a Christian Divorce Fellowship?”
Junior looks up at me with the same quiet, penetrating eyes of the boy who sat across the table from me at one of Marge’s “working-man breakfasts.”
“Fifty-three year old widow woman. Down to the bone Christian like Grandma Lilly, but she don’t press it. Somebody farts, she laughs like a little girl caught snitchin’ out of the cookie jar.” Junior smacks the taut expanse of his belly with the flats of his hands. He smiles. “Big-boned woman. Not one of them skinny little Miss Molly Dollies you bring around here. Knows how to ‘preciate a full-figured man.
“Cooks out at the state retarded school. Seventy meals, twice a day. This last couple of years, until the County put the boy back with his mother, she’s had her great-grandbaby on account of her granddaughter’s so coked out of her head.
“You best get your butt over here on Sunday, Teddie. Anne wants to meet you. Said she’d fry us up a skillet of her low-fat chicken. Mashed potatoes and skim-milk gravy, ham hock greens with okra, homemade biscuits with honey. I’m tellin’ you, Teddie, the woman can damn well fry chicken make even old Marge sit down and cry like a baby.”
“What’s low-fat fried chicken?”
“Hell, man, how should I know? What do you care, anyways? Every chicken hits your lips gets ate down to feet and claws!”
“Okay.” I raise my hands, shrugging my shoulders. “Okay.”
It is good to hear him like this. When his second wife left a little over a year ago, a part of Junior disappeared inside himself. He lowered his head and walked a track from work to bed to grocery store. He lost interest in cars for the first time since Leo showed him how to hold a wrench. He put on a hundred pounds in less than six months. I am pleased he shows signs of returning to the ranks of the living.
Junior laughs and stretches. Three rings of fat crease the back of his neck as he lifts his arms toward the ceiling.
“Listen, man.” He flops backwards onto the bed. “I got to be up early. You got the spare bedroom you want it. Move the crap off the bed, I got the neighbor’s tranny pulled apart in there. You got the living room couch, you want it.”
“One o’clock class,” I answer. “I should be heading out.”
“You know, you oughtn’t to be driving with a snootful. One more breathalyzer, and you’re going to get your license jerked for real. Then you can just hand them Ranchero keys over to me. But nobody never could tell Teddy Durbin his business. Ain’t that right, Teddie?”
“Night, Junior.”
“Hit the lights on your way out. Pull hard on the back door. Listen for the click.”
I leave through the kitchen door, pull it tight behind me, listen for the click.
It has turned colder in the hours I have been inside, and I trot to the truck’s cab and slide behind the wheel; I am trembling and breathless; it takes two tries to find the ignition with the key. I tap the gas pedal once and turn the key; the engine sh
udders and roars on the still night air. A cloud of unfired gasoline rises behind the bed. I kick the pedal again, and the engine idles lower.
There is a sheet of sparkling frost on the windshield, and I turn the heater fan and the defrost on high. I reach for the scraper behind the seat, and, while the engine warms and the firing smooths, I jump out and cut long, narrow swaths across the windshield. The soft, white ribbons curl away from the blade and tumble down the glass, over the wipers, and onto the hood. As the hot air begins to warm the bottom of the glass, two small fan-shapes of dark, beaded droplets appear over the tops of the wipers.
There is no hint of lighted sky behind the forest of rooftops and power poles; the night is yet crisp and black and starry, but I feel the coming of day as though it is about to dissolve the thinnest of membranes. A few kitchens have come to life, and their gleaming windows shine at intervals along the street. Far off, out in the darkness where a driveway ends at the river, there is the sound of a cold, reluctant engine turning and turning, weakening with every turn.
In a moment, I will take to the interstate, and, outracing the commute, will speed along the icy asphalt before the first radar sweeps the rush of early morning violators. It will be light by the time I reach the apartment; I shall have only six hours to sleep before I must wake and prepare for the academic multitudes.
Sitting in the cab of the truck, waiting for the engine to warm completely, I smile, remembering how Junior was ever my protector at school and in the neighborhoods. How, from the very first, the generosity of his friendship has been a comfort to my life.
I am thinking of that fall afternoon he rode with Marge and Leo and me to the county courthouse. If it was the beginning of a lifelong friendship, it was also a defining moment for my family. It was the last time we would ever assemble together in the same room.
Ted and Lorraine’s divorce had been long and spiteful, but, finally, all but one issue remained to be resolved—the status of my custody. In the end, Lorraine maintained that she was willing to surrender all rights to alimony and child support, that she would assume half the debts incurred during their marriage, if Ted would grant her absolute custody of her son. She said she would concede to him full rights of visitation, with the stipulation that all visits were supervised. Ted, of course, would have none of this, asserting that no boy of his would ever be raised by “no damn perverts.”
The Violent Child Page 18
