Superman's Cape (5 page)

“I’m good,” he replied anxiously.

“You’re not nervous, are you Jake?” Andy asked jokingly. “Same old same old, same job we had last week, last month, last year … last ten years,” he continued, but now with a token of curiosity in the sound of his voice.

Uneasiness began to stir in Jacob’s belly. An old companion from his early years, when nerves were customary. For a moment he considered it a mind game. The kind where the slightest mention of something was enough to kick the weasels of mental disruption into play and sweaty up your palms.

Another wave of nerves tagged him. It was more than just an unwelcome throwback to a time when Jacob shaved maybe three times a week. It was a throwback to a time when he mixed his TV dinners with leftovers or smelled the socks he picked up from the floor before deciding to toss’em or wear’em. “Nerves are a formality”, he mumbled as his fingers juggled his necktie one more time. “Nerves are a formality”, he mumbled a little louder. He shook out his hands and rocked from heel to toe and then blew out the wind in his lungs. He pushed his throat as if clearing granules of nervous sediment like a cough attacking dust you didn’t intend to inhale.

What stunted Jacob in that moment was being caught off-guard by the minor spell. He always knew what was coming. Without question. His sensitivity was simple enough. It was about knowing answers. It was about knowing what the weather would be, regardless of the forecast. He wasn’t born with the sensitivity. Or maybe he was, but didn’t remember it or recognize it. When his sensitivity started to get stronger, he learned he could use it. Soon the small things his friends struggled with became a little easier for him.

On dates with girls, he no longer stammered trying to find what to say next. He instinctively knew what she wanted to hear, or what she wanted to do next, or more fondly – where it was she wanted his hands to go during the later hours when dreams did come true. He smiled thinking of high school. Thinking about college, he smiled even more.

He considered his sensitivity to be a new and undiscovered area of his brain. The area was open for exploration as long as he proceeded with caution. This morning’s call-back of nerves was a warning. The red flag was up. Something or someone was telling him
tread lightly … watch out
.

“I’m good here, Andy. No need to panic,” he replied without expression, a rehearsed line in a tone he learned when staving off the contagiousness of giggle fits during a live broadcast.

“OK then! We are on in three. Quiet and clear the set – and Three, Two, …” Andy bellowed into his microphone in a familiar
Director
tone everyone on the set reacted to. With that, the ‘Rise at Five’ started the day for the viewers in and around the immediate areas of Jacksonville, North Carolina.

Jonnie trailed his mother and brother, his feet never quite catching up to theirs, as they approached the last dusty steps to their front door. Home for them was a small trailer a handful of miles outside of Maysville, North Carolina. Not quite the boonies, but rural enough that you could drive a while before seeing another house light or stack of weathered mailboxes.

Sara cradled the trailer door’s handle in her palm and pulled up on it before bumping the door with the front of her shoulder. The door kept its ground. Nodding her head in disgust, she expected no less.

“Afternoon humidity has the door all jammed up,” she grunted as she pushed harder with her shoulder. To her relief the door opened and she beckoned the boys in. Kyle first, followed by Jonnie. Sara was certain Jonnie was going to walk into a wall or trip up the steps; his eyes never quite focusing to the attention of where his feet were going.

“Come along Jonnie,” she said bringing her hand down behind his small frame as she followed him through the door. The dark corners of the trailer met her eyes – widening them as she and the boys each went in a different direction. To Sara, the trailer held a dank smell that seemed immune to air fresheners. Pushing open a small window, she grabbed an old book and propped it under the chipped paint of the window’s lip. Sounds of the outside rushed in along with fresh air.

“Lunch?” she asked without looking up. Shuffling through the cabinets and refrigerator she offered, “We have bologna sandwiches, and – well … more bologna. Umm, pick your poison.”

“Mmmm-hmmm,” Jonnie grunted before turning the television on. The sounds of SpongeBob and Patrick filled the trailer as he plunked down onto the floor.
At least there is that
, Sara thought, watching the fading glow of cartoon colors wash over her son’s face. Appreciating the simplicity of the television show her son was watching. The cable subscription was their one allowance. It was an amenity that was also their only connection to the lives they left behind. It let them go online and answer the phone and even watch the Sponge.

Sara looked around the trailer and sighed. Holding a loaf of bread, she let her hands fall onto the counter. She missed their home. She missed their old lives. Most of their furnishings she was able sell in a home sale. A few unsellable misfits remained, such as the late nineteenth century nightstand from their bedroom. These days it served as the trailer’s drop table for her keys and loose pieces of mail. Sara smiled thinking of the odd piece of furniture she and Chris argued over. Most of the time his taste was good. But sometimes it was misguided and seemed stuck in a retro-seventies they were both too young to remember.
Just because it is an antique doesn’t make it a good piece
, she thought and smiled again.

She cashed in their lifestyle during the home sale. It helped pay for the funeral. It helped pay the other fees one would never expect when your husband dies. They lived off the remaining dollars –
at least for now
, she thought.
If those dollars grow thin, too, then even that God-awful Bologna will be missed; Lord knows we already miss the cheese.

Kyle stood at the opposite side of the room leaning against the remains of their move. A tall set of boxes rose above him, pieced together like large cardboard Legos. Each squared up and connected in a wall that stretched from the floor to the ceiling. The cardboard boxes were carefully labeled. They had room names like ‘Dining Room’ and ‘Pantry’ and ‘Master Bedroom’.
Mud room or breakfast room … in a trailer
, she thought wryly. Now instead of going to their respective rooms to be unpacked, they just sat as little cardboard reminders. Each a small window peering back into the rooms they left behind.

Sara looked at the box marked ‘Master Bedroom’ and it showed her a complete set of furniture she and Chris picked out when they bought their home. Through the window, Sara could smell the freshness of the wood. She could almost feel the smooth of the bureau’s top. The window gave her a glimpse back to that first night when she felt the mattress beneath her. When she and Chris shared one another with unbridled passion and intimacy. Sara then looked to the box marked ‘Den,’ and through its window she could see the two boys playing on the carpet. One just a toddler. A sippy cup perched in his hand and leaning precariously from little fingers. His older brother busy smashing a yellow toy truck against the couch and sounding police calls in a mimic of the show on TV. The box marked ‘Mud Room’ showed Sara the room with the new washer and dryer. The ones that came to them only after the boys destroyed the first pair trying to wash and dry sports gear on their own. She nodded her head and laughed. No wash cycle was equipped to handle that.

Sara’s eyes passed from cardboard box to cardboard box. She read the names on each and paused along the way to visit each room as she remembered them. Sara tried to feel normal. She even prayed for normal for her and the boys. But normal for them wasn’t considered something you needed to seek – at least not until it was taken away.

“I’m starving! We have any Hotpockets?” Kyle asked.

“Sorry sport. Just the Bologna.”

Kyle pushed against the boxes. He shadow-boxed one. Then he pounded another before turning to his mother. “This sucks,” he replied.

“I know it does --” Sara answered, “-- when money comes in, we’ll have Hotpockets and ham.”

“I’m not talking about just the food,” he said raising his voice, “all of it. I mean all of this just
Sucks
!” he finished, motioning his hands around him.

Sara missed it in his words the first time. She didn’t hear the hurt and frustration of the day building.

“I know it does, Kyle. I know it does. And I am sorry you and Jonnie are going through any of it … all of it,” she added, trying to sound sympathetic.

“BUT why this, why did we have to move here?
To This?
” he yelled, balling his fists and throwing air punches. He stomped a shoe on the floor, then stomped again hard enough to peel Jonnie’s eyes from the TV.

Sara stepped back, surprised by her son’s growing anger. She looked for the right words. She didn’t want to just explain it away, masked by her own frustrations. She wanted Kyle to understand. “Because the money is gone … well not gone. Just missing,” Sara answered, hoping she didn’t sound as uncertain as she felt. She wondered how you explain the mess that had become their lives. But before she could continue, Kyle’s anger raged. His eyes screamed anger while he gave an indignant shrug and stomped his foot.

“Please Kyle, there are things missing that I am trying to find. And when I find them we’ll get back a lot of what we lost,” she said raising her voice.

Kyle made his way to the nightstand that now played the role of drop table. Through the light of the door, Sara could see the tears cutting trails in their journey off his face. She could hear his breathing stutter when he tried to catch the air. She could feel her heart reach out to the pain he was feeling. Sara moved to him. Regret for having raised her voice warmed her cheeks. She moved to hold him like she did before. When it was simple. When it was just a skinned knee or sore words spoken at school.

Blurred by tears, Kyle’s eyes offered a distorted view of what was in front of him. Squinting away some of the pulls and twists in his vision, he struggled to see the picture frame on the table. Through the car keys and mail, his hand walked across the table before his fingers closed on the frame. He picked it up and looked at the photo. It was his mother’s favorite. And until now it was one of
his
favorites. He still remembered that morning when they arrived for the first time. The picture frame with the photo was the first thing she unpacked and set out after pulling the nightstand from the back of Beasty.

On the face of the old photograph was the home they left behind and the faded images of his mom and dad standing on the grass in front of a large sign painted in red, white and blue. The words ‘For Sale’ stood out in black. Across their hands they held a plaque with the single word ‘Sold’. He didn’t know how old the photo was, but there in his father’s arms helping with the ‘Sold’ sign was a younger image of him. He thought he could remember that day. At least, he told his mom he could. But in searching back through the memory tree in his head, he never came across anything as vivid as the photo he now clutched in his hands.

Kyle squeezed the frame and the glass that protected the photo. It didn’t break. The fires behind a tepid anger grew hotter. The seed of his anger germinated on the day his dad decided to take his hand from his shoulder. The day his father decided to gamble their lives and lost. He squeezed some more. The frame and glass moaned under the pressure. Kyle squeezed harder as though daring it to break in his fingers.

“What about him? Can we get
him
back?” Kyle cried out, holding the picture up for his mother to see.

“Why did he take his hands from me and Jonnie? Why didn’t he just stay quiet and …” Kyle stopped, he didn’t want to say it. He hated the idea of the next words. He hated himself for thinking it. But he was already committing to the thought. No matter how cold or how callous or how mean it was going to sound. “Why didn’t he just let that man shoot Eileen instead of him?” he cried out. Sara raised a hand to her mouth. Hadn’t she thought the same? Didn’t she wish the same nearly every night when hugging the pillow next to her, all the while telling herself it was Chris she was holding?

“Oh Kyle,” Sara consoled, “I know how hard it is for you to understand why your dad couldn’t let that happen.”

“Well, fuck him!” Kyle replied, crying harder. Strength ran from his arms and hands as he dropped the picture frame to the floor.

Sara regarded her son with empathy in her eyes. “Come here, hon,” Sara said taking a step closer to him, her arms reaching for him.

Kyle didn’t want the security of a mother’s hug. He didn’t want the pacifying of a mother’s attention. He didn’t want her caring for his wounded heart. He wanted the rage of the pain to continue. He wanted to clothe himself in it. He wanted to consume it and to bask in the comfort of it. Kyle shot his leg up in the air without thought. His foot shadowed the picture frame and photo on the floor.

Kyle’s mother stopped and raised her palms up, “Kyle, No!” she yelled. “Oh Please don’t. Please!” she begged.

Kyle dropped his foot hard. Not hard enough to shatter the glass, but it was hard enough to weave a web of cracks across the three faces in the photo.
Fractured lives,
he thought as the anger washed out of him along with the punishment of his foot. In place of the pain and anger, a deep sadness and embarrassment settled in as he realized what he had done. Of all the misery and tragedy that made up what now defined his mother, the one thing he saw his mother smiling at, in spite of it all, was the photo. And he just dropped his foot on it. He thought what he did was an attempt to hurt his mom or maybe his dad or maybe it was to hurt the memory of who they used to be.