If Jack's in Love (18 page)

“Why are you yanking at your pants?” Reedy asked.

“I ain't got a belt, I'm hitching 'em up. Is that against the law?”

The crowd pleaded furiously to refute the lame excuse and Reedy tugged nervously at his fingers. Stan passed a hand over his mouth, concealing a smile.

And then someone, a lady I'd never laid eyes on, turned a vicious frown in my direction. “Look, there's his brother!”

Everyone swung around.

Reedy seemed relieved to see me on the scene. He wiggled his finger for me to come closer.

“Why don't you take your brother on home?”

“I can't make him do anything. I just got here, I don't even know what this is about.”

I wanted people to understand I'd played no part in my brother's evil machinations. (He gave me a wink, which I refused to see.)

“Tell your brother to stay away from us,” Mrs. Kellner said.

“Miss Kellner, I can't—”

“Oh, you're just a pint-sized version of him. You Witchers are all alike, you're nothing but trash.”

In the yard, Gaylord sputtered and turned away. Probably he was laughing because soft-spoken Mrs. Kellner had been brought so low as to shout meaningless insults in public. Even I found it kind of funny. Everyone was amazed at how into it she was. Two or three kids broke out grinning. Yet wasn't it pathetic that such a pleasant lady would let the antics of a Witcher bring her down?

Unfortunately, Stan had observed Gaylord's sputter, and to him there could be only one cause for it: Mrs. Kellner's insult to his brother. Before Reedy knew what was happening Stan was running towards Gaylord and tackling him to the ground. His fist rose once and came down on Gaylord's lip. The second time he raised it Reedy clapped a viselike grip around it. In a flash he had Stan upright, with his arm behind his back.

“All right, let me go!”

Myra gave me a look and I stared helplessly back. That's all that occurred between us. There wasn't any time after that.

The crowd had pulled away, scared of the violence, and now everyone spoke at once. Myra and Mrs. Joyner were tending to Gaylord's bloody lip, and suddenly Myra dashed inside the house.

Reedy, meanwhile, was trying to negotiate a peace between Gaylord and my brother. Gaylord handsomely refused to press charges, which earned him the esteem of the entire crowd and allowed it to draw a contrast between the behavior of Joyners and Witchers.

“You know I could haul you in for this,” Reedy told Stan. “I can think of three charges right off the top of my head. Give me thirty seconds and I'll come up with three more. Now get out of here. If you bother these people again I'll get a court order to restrain you.”

Stan formed an
f
with his lips and teeth, but he didn't say it. He just stalked off, leaving me to struggle with the dilemma of whether to join him.

It wasn't as though the neighbors would accept my solidarity, if I even offered it. I knew damn well nothing would cause them to differentiate me from Stan. Besides, I didn't want to take their side. But I didn't want to take my brother's side either, not as long as Myra was around.

She came running out of the house with the first-aid kit, and as she handed it to her mother her eyes drifted towards mine. I guess she couldn't help herself. I put earnestness in my expression, devotion, concern, love, heeding, adoration. But not so much as to give her away. And she nodded invisibly. Her eyes flickered before she turned to her injured brother.

And then I followed my bully brother home.

NEUMAN'S WAS a blindingly parti-colored ice cream establishment whose regal banquettes made even the tallest and most substantial of our citizens appear puny and trite. There might as well have been a sign at the door, “The management requires you to leave your despair outside.” Frosting, frivolity and fluorescence were the essence of the Neuman universe. The nightmare of history had nothing to do with the place.

Deep inside the cushioned pleats of a corner booth sat Pop, Mom, Stan, Anya and I. Our special guest that day was Tillie, who at the last minute had claimed my birthday as an affair she simply could not miss. In hindsight I suspect she only wanted to check out the Witchers, since there seemed no end in sight to her daughter's infatuation with Stan. Nevertheless, I was flattered to have earned the enthusiasm of such a magnificent dame.

She had driven the Fleetwood to Neuman's, with Stan and Anya making out in the back seat. In the parking lot, where we all met, I discerned a restrained frown on her face while she watched my mother climb out of the Ford. But she brightened up considerably when she saw Pop. There was a spark in her eyes, and I decided I would watch these two closely.

Sure enough, once we got settled on the banquette and my mother's face had disappeared behind the elongated menu, the flirting began in earnest.

“I hear you're looking for work,” Tillie said.

“Yes ma'am.” Pop's chin was on his fist. He was chewing gum, which made his head bob. He gave her one of his crooked grins. “You got something?”

“You mean work?”

She giggled.

I shot a look at Mom, but she was puzzling over Neuman's encyclopedic list of sundaes.

“Pop's a mechanic. Not a grease monkey, a mechanic,” Stan said. This had to do with some private joke between him and Pop, and they guffawed raucously.

Tillie eyed Stan witheringly and turned to me with a smile. “How about Jackie boy. Thirteen years old!”

“Yeah, congratulations,” Stan sneered, “your best years are behind you.”

Anya elbowed him. “Oh stop. And how about little Mary, are you lovebirds still going at it?”

Mom's eyes peeked up from the menu.

“You mean Myra,” I said. “I don't think we should be talking about her.”

“You better not be seeing that girl,” Mom said.

“But she's such a little darling,” Tillie exclaimed.

Mom bit her tongue and hid her face behind the menu.

“The Joyners are crazy,” Stan said. “They sicced Reedy on me just 'cause I was walking past their house. What kind of justice is that? Do we still live in America?”

“What are you talking about?” Mom said.

“I popped Gaylord good.” Stan brandished his fist.

“You got in a fight with Gaylord Joyner?”

“I was walking past their house and they called the cops. I wasn't doing nothing, I was just walking along minding my own business.”

“Did Officer Reedy show up?” Tillie asked.

“How is it everyone seems to know Officer Reedy?” Mom said. “What's going on that I don't know about?”

“I was out for a stroll and I walked past their house and they up and called the cops, like for no reason at all. Then Gaylord got smart with Jack and I had to pop him one.”

“You were there too?” Mom said.

“I tell you what, let's change the subject,” Tillie said. “Who besides me is having a banana split?”

“Please, I'm trying to have a conversation with my boys.”

Mom's eyes darkened. I don't think she liked Tillie.

“I was just walking along,” I said, “and I heard all these people hollering at Stan. There was this big commotion, Rusty barking and all. And then I saw Reedy's cop car. And then Stan punched Gaylord and we came home.”

Pop grinned. “You punched Joyner in front of Reedy? Boy, you got balls made of—” He caught himself and said, “You got guts, that's for sure.”

“What is the problem you have with that young man? You almost punched him when you were at my house too,” Tillie remembered.

“When?” Mom said. “When did that happen?”

“It ain't no big deal. Gaylord got on his high horse one day because Jack brought Myra to the swimming pool.”

“That happened before I got grounded,” I intervened. “Come on, Mom, it's my birthday.”

We grew quiet. Mom pursed her lips, studied the menu.

Tillie clasped her hands. “So who's getting a banana split?”

“Say, you know why the banana split?” Pop said.

She laughed and touched his arm, thinking that was the punch line.

“I'm getting a hot fudge sundae,” Anya said. “What about you, birthday boy?”

“I'd have never believed you're old enough to have two teenage sons,” Tillie said to Pop. He was two or three years younger than Mom.

Mom looked up to see if she was included.

“And how old are you, Stan, I can't remember.”

“Old enough to go out with your daughter.”

Tillie pretended to laugh.

“I'm thirty-nine and holding,” Pop said.

“Oh, you!”

Tillie squeezed his wrist, dead set on touching him. I kept checking with Mom, but she was lost in the menu. Her forehead was all crumpled now with wrinkles and worry.

“Maybe Basil knows of a job,” Tillie said. “He hears about all sorts of things in his line. I'll ask him when I get home.”

“He's a lawyer?”

“Sometimes his clients tell him things, pass on tidbits, you know.”

“I'd appreciate it if you spread the word. I can do just about anything, plumbing, heating, refrigeration.”

Mom was working her lower lip, which she tended to do whenever the topic of employment came up. All Pop did was lie around watching soaps all day. And now I knew he had other ideas about ways to make money. Every time I remembered Gladstein I felt a pang for his trusting nature.

I shot Pop a glance, which must have caught him off guard, because he was staring back with a look that made me go cold. It was as though he were remembering thirteen years earlier, before I came into the world. Maybe he'd realized it was kinship and kinship alone that made us friends and not enemies. Whatever it was, he didn't bother to rearrange his face. All he did was send me an unconvincing wink. And then I had a weird idea. I thought, This man would kill me if I gave him the occasion. I don't know why I would think a thing like that. Maybe I was schizophrenic. Maybe I needed a psychiatrist. But it was a scary thing to think and it made the universe grow dark and cold.

Tillie jerked on Pop's sleeve to get him to order from the gangly kid who was waiting on us. I stared at the table, wanting to be out of there. I wanted to tell Mom that Pop was planning to rob Gladstein. I wanted this thing off my shoulders.

Everyone was just sitting around, not saying a word. We'd already run out of things to say. Tillie seemed embarrassed. She was rubbing her fingertip over the table like she was erasing a dirty word.

All of a sudden I blurted, “I've been smoking cigarettes. One or two a day, sometimes more. I do it in the woods, I just sneak right off and smoke. A lot of times when you think I'm going to the store what I'm really doing is smoking.... Sometimes I cut classes so I can go in the woods and smoke by the creek.”

I have long since wondered what fatality it was that caused those words to cross my lips. Because fatality it was, and from that moment on my family was never the same. Did my pop provoke it? Was it the look in his eyes? Was I throwing down some gauntlet? But why would I do that? I was only thirteen. I still needed a roof over my head—three hots and a cot.

I shot a look at Mom, who was sipping from her water. Slowly she brought the glass away, while Stan narrowed his eyes, giving me a warning lest I tell tales. “What is this, trueconfession time?”

“I'm just saying I smoke. Right?” I looked at Pop.

“Since when did you start smoking?” Mom's hand went to her head, caressing an instant migraine. “Lord, these kids, I give up. Why on earth are you...?”

“Why on earth are you telling everybody you smoke cigarettes, you damn weirdo,” Stan said.

“Stop saying ‘damn.'”

“Pop let me puff on his cigarette last year at my birthday and I've been smoking ever since.”

Mom turned to Pop. “Is that true?”

“Well heck, it might be. I might of give him a puff. But I didn't know he was smoking. It's not like I been letting him.”

Anya burst out giggling. “He's so cute!”

Her eyes were weird and I realized she was probably high. She and Stan must have smoked a joint before they rode over.

There followed an uneasy silence that lasted intermittently until the ice cream came. I was trailing my finger in the condensation on the tabletop, wondering why I had told them what I did. To snitch in front of Pop and Stan was the worst thing a Witcher could do.

The waiters brought me a banana split (Tillie, enforcing her gaiety, had insisted I order one) with a festive candle jutting out of the fudge. The entire staff was singing “Happy Birthday” and everyone joined in except Stan, who folded his arms in disgust. The whole Neuman's crowd sang along. It was a tradition there. It was why people came, for stuff like that.

When the song was over Anya let out an inappropriate whoop and Stan swore at her.

I made ready to blow out the candle.

“Did you make a wish?” Tillie said.

I wished for Myra.

Everyone in the parlor applauded.

Later, after everyone in our party had gobbled down their ice cream and headed to the bathroom, Pop, Tillie and I were hanging around just inside the front door, where people could sit until their table came open. A cigarette machine was in the foyer and Pop went over and bought a pack of Salems.

“You can't have one,” he told me when he came back.

His tone was joking, but he wasn't happy with me and I knew it.

“You're not corrupting minors anymore?” Tillie asked him.