Shadows Burned In (15 page)

“Yes, I realize that.” Jackson’s tone was infuriatingly
passive all of a sudden. But his eyes weren’t. They were staring hard, flat as
black stones, at David.

Idiot!
David thought.
Why did you have to answer
the phone?

“And I realize I’m three months behind schedule with the
payment.” The words panted out of him, the labored breath of a man running for
his life. Through his creeping fear, David noted the change in his father’s
voice. The old man had gone from tyrant to bootlicking slave in seconds. It
made the boy feel queasy. But the old man’s eyes hadn’t changed. “But it’s
November now, and I get paid tomorrow. I can guarantee you one thousand dollars
in the mail by Friday afternoon.”

“Mr. Jackson—”

“What, isn’t that enough?” Some of the defensiveness crept
back. “I mean”—with a toned-down voice—“what’s it gonna take so I can keep my
truck?”

There was a sigh on the other end. It sounded as if the
salesman were battling his own conscience—please his manager or do this pitiful
fool a favor. The hair stood up on the back of Jackson’s neck. If he could
have, he would have reached through the phone and grabbed the no-nuts prick by
the shirt and punched him in the fucking face.

“Mr. Jackson, I’m really tempted to believe you, but your
record isn’t conducive to that.”

You calling me a
liar,
you fucking little—

“Look,” said Jackson, “I can appreciate where you’re coming
from. You’re right. I’ve fallen down on the job here.” David’s stomach got
queasier. “But I can guarantee a check in the mail tomorrow afternoon. If it’s
not, you guys come out and take the truck on Monday. No questions asked, huh?”

Another sigh. “Mr. Jackson, I’m making a record of this
conversation in my database. I will expect a check overnighted to our office
here in Houston tomorrow. If there’s not a FedEx letter delivered to me by
lunch on Monday, we’re going to do just that.”

“Overnighted? But that costs . . . I mean the mail will get
there in two days—”

“Take it or leave it.” All pretense of cordiality was gone.
The plea bargain was set. The judge-salesman was smiling over the phone.

“All right, all right,” the old man grumbled. “It’ll be
there.”

“Good. I look forward to receiving it. Good-bye.”

Jackson pulled the phone away from his ear and looked at it.
“I’ve got something you can receive,” he said quietly, then brought the
receiver ringing down onto the cradle. “You fucking little
prick
!” He
screamed the last word and it echoed in the otherwise silent room for a moment.
David wanted to hold on to the sound, keep it going, capture the moment to hold
it in place for a thousand years. Because as soon as it was over, the next
phase would begin.

His father turned to him. “Stand up,” he said.

“Daddy, I . . .”

Jackson slumped his shoulders as if to say,
Why string
this out, boy? You know where we’re headed, so let’s just get there and get it
over with
.

“I said,” he said, “stand up.”

The boy stood up off the bed. He was within arm’s reach, and
his father made good use of that fact. David was on the floor before he
realized it. The left side of his face was numb. It started to burn, slowly, a
little sun of pain spreading to his brain.

“What did I tell you about answering the phone?”

David was dazed, shocked by the blow, despite knowing it
would come. His hand went to his face and felt the heat there. He was careful
not to touch it. A bruise would settle in by morning.

His father was moving on him. The boy inched away, and
immediately he knew it was a mistake.

“Don’t draw away from me, boy,” his father raged
,
the
lava finally boiling out of him. All his impotent anger at the salesman, all
his frustration at his financial situation, the crap job, all of it, coursing
through his veins, balled in his fists. He grabbed the boy and held him in both
hands, arms pinned to his sides. “I asked you a
question
!”

“I-I…” David was starting to cry.
Another mistake, idiot!
his brain shouted at him.

“Stop blubbering like a baby and answer my question!”

“It wasn’t the company!” David cried. “I didn’t
know
who it was!”

His father set him down on the ground, then slapped him
again. David cried out this time. His face was burning and now his brain was
working overtime to tell every inch of his body that his left cheek was in a
bad way.

“If you hadn’t answered it, like I
told
you, it
wouldn’t have mattered!”

The boy lay on the floor and looked up at him. All of a
sudden it was very important to win this argument.

Idiot!

“You told me to check the caller ID first, not to not answer
the phone!” Some part of him knew that wasn’t entirely true, but that detail
wasn’t important. Making his stand was all that mattered.

His father drew up. “You questionin me, boy?” He raised his
hand again.

Screw this
.

David dodged the blow and it sent his father off-balance. Jackson
fell against the dresser, and David shot out through the bedroom door as fast
as he could.

“You come back here, boy!”

Fuck you!

He ran up the hallway and then heard his father in pursuit.
David burst into the kitchen, the door bouncing off the cabinet, and ran around
the center island where all the Tupperware was stored. His father was through
the door, seconds behind him. The boy grabbed the handle to the back door and
knew, once he got beyond the privacy fence’s gate, he at least could run for a
lot longer than his beer-bellied old man could.

“Boy!”

The word barked close behind him. David turned the knob and
was out and into the backyard, his father almost on top of him. He angled left,
meaning to run a wide pattern, hoping the old man would stumble over something
on the back porch and give David the time he needed to get the latch on the
back gate open. No such luck. He felt fat fingers wrap around the back of his
shirt collar. The old man pulled him up straight like a fly caught in the web
of a very nasty spider.

“Now boy, we’re gonna teach you a little discipline.” He
shook the boy to punctuate his sentences. “You’re gonna remember the next time
I tell you to do something. You’re gonna learn what it means to be responsible,
follow instructions.”

David was done. He was trapped. There was no escape. But
he’d have his say.

“You only told me to check the caller ID,” he said directly.
Despite the footrace, the beating, the pain, his voice was very calm, hardly
wavering at all.

Jackson raised his right hand again. “Why, you little—”

Out of the garage she came, barking savagely to herald her
charge. Queenie leapt right for Jackson’s upraised hand, and the vice of her
jaws clamped down around his tendon-stretched wrist. The old man shrieked a
high-pitched howl and dropped David to the concrete. Jackson fell backward onto
the porch, spilling over and destroying a lounge chair, carrying the dog with
him. She still held his wrist, as if she didn’t know what to do now that she
had him, but then he was beating on her, trying to drive her off him. David saw
his father punching Queenie and shouted “Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!” but the
dog released Jackson’s arm, getting inside his defenses and nipping at his
face. The old man’s instincts kicked in then, and he slammed his arms over his
face to protect it. Finally, he grabbed her under her legs and chest and heaved
her off, sent her flying across the porch. She landed clumsily on all fours,
working her legs like dynamos, preparing to charge him again. But David grabbed
her collar and weighed her down as Jackson got his own feet under him again and
shouted, “Goddammit! God fucking
damn
it!” at the pain in his pockmarked
face. The old man stumbled toward the back door. David held her down, not for his
father’s safety—the thought never entered his head—but because he didn’t want
his father beating her again. Jackson stumbled into the house and slammed the
door.

The boy could hear his father shouting obscenities as he
walked through the kitchen and deeper into the house. Queenie stood there
panting, growling, daring him to return. David held her tightly. He buried his
burning cheek in her cool fur and burst into tears.

He didn’t see his father for the rest of the day or night.
David washed his face in the spare bathroom, testing its tenderness with his
fingertips, then retired to his bedroom and watched reruns on television until
he fell asleep. His father had never looked in on him once. He’d eaten a
sandwich for dinner.

The next morning he was awakened at 7:30.

“Time for school, boy,” the old man said. David thought
there might be another chapter like yesterday. But nothing. No follow-up. The
strangeness of it worried him. “Brush your teeth.”

The boy rolled out of bed, his muscles aching from yesterday’s
chase. His cheek was a low, dull throbbing now. He’d tell the kids at school he
fell on the sidewalk. They’d believe that.

He took a leak, brushed his teeth, and walked through the
kitchen to the back door. He grabbed the bag of Ken-L Ration, walked outside
and poured the food in Queenie’s bowl. Usually she came padding along at the
sound of the food. But not this morning.

He whistled for her. When that didn’t bring her, he walked
into the garage, where her bed was. It was there. Queenie wasn’t. And her leash
was gone.

He walked back into the house. The truth slowly began to
melt into his brain. His father was sitting at the table, reading the paper and
drinking a beer.

“Where is she?” the boy asked.

His father looked up. “Who?”

“You know who.” David wasn’t in the mood for games. His
voice was defiant. Downright challenging. But his father didn’t seem to care. Not
this time.

“Oh. I went hunting this morning. She run off.”

David blinked.

“I was gonna go fishing,” said Jackson, as if from practice.
“But then I decided to go hunting. Took the dog. She run off after somethin in
the woods. I looked for her. Couldn’t find her.” He turned the page of the
paper, flicked it straight.

David’s heart emptied at that moment. It sank into his
stomach where, deep down, he knew—he
knew
—what his father had done.

Chapter 14

“Hey man, final’s in thirty minutes,” his roommate said,
shaking him. David Jackson rolled over and sat up, trying and failing to
retrieve a line of drool. He sat there weaving back and forth in his bed, only
partly awake. He’d been up till three
A.M.
studying for his macroeconomics
final, then put himself to sleep by splitting a six-pack with his roommate. The
same roommate that now seemed much more awake and ready for the final than
David was.

“How the
fuck
can you be so chipper this morning?”
David asked. His mouth tasted like ass.

Larry Brackett smiled. Standing with legs apart, he put his
fists on his hips and looked off into infinity. “It’s in the genes, buddy!
Supergenes!”

David worked his tongue in his mouth like it had just been
installed. “Fuck you.”

“No thanks, though I
did
notice you tried to get me
drunk last night.” He waved his right index finger. “Tough luck, roomie. I
don’t play for that team.”

David fake-laughed really hard for about three seconds, then
immediately regretted it as his head pulsed. “That’s very funny. You should
work North Gate as a comedian.”

Larry smirked. “Living with you for a year now, I
should
be a comedian.”

“Yeah-yeah. Ha-ha. What the fuck time is it?”

“8:32,” Larry said. “Now you’ve got twenty-eight minutes to
the final.”

David’s eyes sprang wide open. “Oh,
shit
.” He
launched himself off the bed and headed for the shower.

“No time, buddy!” called Larry after him. “Wheels up in ten
minutes!”

“I’ll be ready,” shouted David back at him. “Promise!”

Larry rolled his eyes. “I’m not missing this test so you can
smell pretty,” he yelled back.

“I’ll be ready, goddammit!”

Larry sat down on the couch in the small living room of
their apartment and looked around. There were lots of empty beer cans.
Hey,
at least they’re upright
, Larry thought. Two pizza boxes, one of which
still had two slices slowly growing old in it, sat askew on the coffee table.
He grabbed one of the pieces and thought about cleaning up things for a few
minutes while David took his shower, shrugged off the idea without too much
effort, and picked up the TV remote. He fired up their brand new 3-D TV’s Web
browser.

Nothing better to do. Might as well look at some porn for
a few minutes
.

He’d been surfing around looking for blondes and streaming
the free video grabs (using that term for web porn always made Larry laugh) for
about a minute and a half when the phone rang. Larry smirked at it for
interrupting his body surfing and let it ring twice more. Finally he got up to
answer it. He was tempted to let it go to voicemail but then decided it might
be someone calling to let them know the nine o’clock exam—the one that was now
less than twenty minutes away—had been canceled. He didn’t want to miss the
news.

“Joe’s Morgue, you kill ’em, we chill ’em.”

There was silence on the other end, then, “Um, may I speak
to David Jackson, please?”

“He’s in the shower. Can I take a message?” Larry went into
routine mode, turning his attention back to the busty blonde on the screen.

“Well—this is kind of important.”

“Hey, no problem. You have my undivided attention.”
Now
those
are breasts
, he was thinking as he said it.

“Well—it’s about Mr. Jackson’s father. I really should speak
with him directly.”

Larry stopped clicking. David’s old man had been sick off
and on for the last six months. David had joked to Larry that he couldn’t wait
for the old fucker to die, and the sooner the better. But Larry heard something
else in his roommate’s voice the few times the topic came up. What, he wasn’t
sure. But he knew enough to know that, whatever this call was about, it wouldn’t
be good news. He clicked off the TV.

“I’m listening,” he said. “I’ll make sure he gets the
information.”

Driving home from Texas A&M University, David was
furious with his father. If he had to die, why the hell did it have to be
right
in the middle of finals? But that was just like him. Always thinking of
himself.

The road thrummed under him, the sound of rubber gripping
pavement. It was early May, and already the heat had forced the windows up and
the A/C on. David was holding the wheel with both hands but released one to tune
the radio to a new station. He was nearing Houston, about halfway home, and
they always had better rock stations than he was used to. He found a retro
station playing heavy metal and cranked it way up. He was tempted to roll down
the window and let the wind blow through the car, but then decided it was just
too warm for that.

When he’d called her back, the woman on the phone had said
the old man was really bad off. He wouldn’t leave the hospital again, she’d
said. And if David wanted to see him before . . . Well, he’d better come on.

“Yeah, well,” he said out loud as he drove. David could
barely hear himself because of the radio pounding the rolled-up windows. “I
wouldn’t say
want
.”

Ozzy Osbourne was singing about a crazy train.
He used to
eat the heads off animals on stage
, David recalled the lore.
What a
fucked-up bunch of people
his
fans must’ve been
. The song was only thirty
years old, but to him it might as well have been from the Civil War.

Progressive, degenerative liver failure. And because of his
drinking, he wasn’t a viable candidate for a transplant, though he was on the
list. And even if a liver was available, the old man’s pension from his company
wouldn’t cover it, not by a long shot. And there was no money saved.

“I’ll be lucky to get anything out of the old man,” David told
Ozzy. “The house isn’t worth the ground it’s sitting on. He let that go, just
like he let himself go. Wouldn’t follow anyone’s advice and would curse you for
giving it to him.”

He bit his lower lip and focused on the broken stripe in the
middle of the road as it lapped by. He vaguely realized there were cows in the
barbed-wire pastures on either side of the highway. Bluebonnets were in full
bloom along the roadside. But David focused on the road in front of him. “Driving’s
a full-time job, son,” his father had said when he taught him. “Pay attention
and try not to kill anyone.”

“Well, you’re one to talk. You dumb sonofabitch. Drink
yourself to death and then fuck up my finals to boot!”

He didn’t remember starting to sweat, but he must’ve,
because the road was getting blurry and he
damned
sure knew he wouldn’t
shed any tears over the old man. Not
his
old man. How many times had
David wished he would just die—just
die
—when he was growing up? How many
times had he
prayed
for it? And now, that moment you’ve all been waiting
for—and here he was, sweating like a baby.

He wiped his eyes again, cranked up the radio and A/C a
little more, and drove on.

“Room 302?”

The nurse at the floor desk glanced at him, decided he was
worth helping, and pointed down and around the elevators. “Down the left
corridor and it’s on your left, about ten rooms down.”

“Thanks.”

Though he hadn’t been in many, the smell of a hospital
always made him uncomfortable. The sterility. The cleanliness. The likelihood
to get you sicker than you were when you came in the door. He never understood
that irony.

David walked down the length of the corridor past the other
rooms, some with open doors, some closed, and some he wished had been closed.
In one room he saw out of the corner of his eye an old woman lying cockeyed in
bed, as if she’d fallen there after a long drinking binge and was just glad not
to have hit the floor. She stared glassy-eyed at a television that sounded
excited to be on. A bouquet of get-well flowers sat dying in her window. He
passed back by the elevators he had come up, watching the one-foot-square
speckled floor tiles coming toward him.

step – step – step

He superstitiously tried to place his feet in the open area
of each square where he stepped

(step on a crack, break your father’s back)

and felt stupid for doing it.

David hadn’t seen his father much since leaving for college.
Escaping, more like
, he thought to himself. He didn’t send cards on
birthdays or holidays, but then neither did his father. About every six months,
David worked up the courage to go home, perhaps driven by the masochistic need
to see the old man again, for what reason he couldn’t fathom. But deep down
David knew: It was mandated. You had to love your family no matter what, even
when you hated them, when you told yourself you didn’t need them or couldn’t
love them. None of that mattered. It was in The Rules. The price of admission
to the wonderful world Louis Armstrong used to sing about.

step-step-step

He would usually drive down on a Friday evening after
classes and pull into the driveway of the old house

(seems smaller now, doesn’t it)

and ring the front doorbell. His father would greet him
with a smile, which didn’t seem as forced now that he was older, and they would
shake hands, because that’s what men did. They would retire to the kitchen
table, where his father had a small television running constantly set to Fox
News, as if he were afraid of too much silence. His father would ask how school
was and David would say fine, and David would ask how retirement was and his
father would say fine. The uncomfortable non-conversation, with a subdued game
show or comedy rerun usually droning in the background, would give way to
discussions of whatever Houston sports team had its season at that time. When
that topic dried up, the weather would come along, or something exciting would
happen on the television to elicit a shared giggle from the two men. During
commercials, his father would ask him if he wanted a beer. Sometimes David
would say yes, sometimes no.

This was their ritual.

stepstepstep

The visit would last until David couldn’t stand it anymore,
which varied between Saturday afternoon and Sunday morning, and he would drive
back to Texas A&M feeling for the hundredth time as if he’d just been
paroled. And then it would occur all over again in another six months or so.

He reached his father’s room and stood outside the door, not
really wanting to go in but knowing he had to. David thought of the old woman
lying sprawled in her bed like a drunk. Maybe he should have brought flowers or
something. He had the devilish thought of running back and stealing hers, since
she wouldn’t notice

(you’ll go to hell for that)

and then, smiling at his own deviousness, decided his
father wouldn’t want them anyway. Flowers weren’t a man’s gift.

He pushed the door open.

The television was on, of course. It was midday on Tuesday,
and watching
Wheel of Fortune
was his father’s favorite pastime these
days. David opened the door quietly, not sure if the old man was asleep or not.
It was a semi-private room, but the second bed, the one nearest the door, was
empty for now. From the door he could see his father was snoozing, so he walked
in quietly between the two beds and sat on the empty one. He was vaguely aware
of hospital policy and that, specifically, this bed was to be kept neat and
clean at all times in case a second patient needed it. So he made a mental note
to smooth the covers back out before he left so they wouldn’t give the old man
a hard time about it.

David looked at his father’s face. His thinning wisps of
gray hair splayed out on the pillow under his head, uncombed. His head was
cocked to the left, as if looking at David from behind closed lids. His mouth
was open slightly, the way the body does when it’s providing a contingency plan
in case the sinuses fill up. His skin looked like it might crack open, a dry,
clay reservoir after a week of constant, baking sunlight. His cheeks were
sallow, his color very pale. His hands grasped the thin, gritty sheets of the
hospital bed at the top of his chest, as if warding off Death itself. The lumpy
form beneath didn’t move. If not for the chart at the foot of the bed, David
wouldn’t have recognized his father. He was an emaciated form of the man David
remembered his father having been. Older now, of course, but also withered.
Time had bleached the life out of him.