Jernigan, page 13
The usual bloat and disgust.
The only thing to do was to drink more. Not that drinking more was really going to do it either, but. I checked the old wallet: a five and three singles. Enough either to get a fifth of Gordon’s at the discount liquor place, or to get a pint and enough gas to keep driving around, sneaking sips when headlights were far enough behind and listening to the Walkman. What I did for music these days was just keep a Walkman and a few tapes in the glove compartment; that way they might still break in, but they wouldn’t know they had a reason to. So I checked to see what tapes were on hand, as if that would help me decide. Assorted Beach Boys, good for either cheap irony or actual enjoyment, or for some condition veering back and forth between the two. Assorted George Jones (a gift from Uncle Fred). The Webb Pierce tape Martha had made me. All white people’s music today. So maybe that would give me a safe frisson, driving around some ghetto-y part of Newark listening to white people’s music and sipping from a pint of white people’s liquor.
On the other hand, wasn’t a pint going to leave me just a smidgen short of where I wanted to be?
And then I remembered there was still a bottle of gin—and not some God damn crappy little fifth, either, but a whole big sturdy welcoming quart!—in the kitchen cabinet at Heritage Circle. At least half full, if the kids hadn’t gotten into it. Which wasn’t likely: I’d put it on the top shelf, behind a cylinder of Quaker Oats. Well all right.
Every light in the house was on, and the sagging Cadillac was back in the driveway. God damn shitheap parked there meant I had to walk an extra carlength in the cold. Well, I’d live. At least Danny wasn’t just sitting in his room with guitar and Rockman, looping music back into his own head. I opened the car door to the expected shot of cold air but didn’t hear the expected din. Taking a break? To do what? The screen door onto the breezeway was unlocked, kitchen door too. I stuck my head inside and yelled “Hello anybody home?” to give fair warning, then walked into where it was warm. And in strolled the fat kid, in stocking feet.
“So,” I said. “How’s it going tonight?”
“Pretty reasonably,” he said. “I don’t believe we were actually introduced.” He stuck out a hand. “Dustin Sanders?”
“Pete Jernigan,” I said, giving the man’s handshake. God knows why Pete: I never went by Pete. Powerful Pete. Some compulsion to be hearty. By which I guess I mean not oppressively parental. “Gang all here?” I said.
“Nah,” he said. “I think Danny’s probably still over at Mitchell’s. And I dropped Clarissa off at her place.”
“You’re the only one here, in other words?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I don’t know, we played for about half an hour, and it completely sounded like crap. So we just sort of got depressed and bagged it. I guess we should’ve tried to work through it or something. Did you use to be in a band, Mr. Jernigan?”
“Did I use to be in a band,” I said. “No. No, of the many things I used to be—” Then I decided why give the kid shit. “So now what happened to Danny again?”
“Well, I think he’s still at Mitchell’s.”
“Mitchell being?” I said.
“Kid who plays the drums? We went over to check out his new CD player.”
“But you came back here,” I said.
“I hate CDs,” he said. “It’s like you can’t get away from it. And my dad thinks it’s cold compared to vinyl. Of course he’s into pretty much strictly classical. So anyhow, I decided I’d just go get some videos to watch.”
“But what are you doing here?” I said. “I mean, if you don’t mind my asking.”
“You mean Danny didn’t say anything? Jeez, what a space cadet.” He bethought himself. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean he was really spacey or anything. So this must seem pretty weird to you, if he didn’t say anything. See, he told me I could stay here for a couple days. I hope that was okay.”
“What about your—” I was going to say parents plural, but these days. “Don’t you have another place to go?” I said, meaning to be delicate. Instead it sounded inhospitable, I heard it as soon as it came out.
He laughed. “I’m not a homeless person or anything,” he said. “It’s just a thing where—” He shrugged. “Parents and kids, you know?”
“No, I don’t know,” I said. I did know.
“It was like it was going to go critical around there,” he said. “Like when you get too many neutrons bouncing around and then, balooey.” He slowly spread cupped hands as if to show an expanding fireball.
“Do people know where you are?”
He thought, then said, “They know I’m okay.”
“You won’t mind if I call them,” I said. Not a question.
He took a pack of Camels out of the pocket of his white shirt. “Four three seven, seven seven three four,” he said. “Same forwards and backwards. I’ll write it down for you if you want. Or you can just look up under Martin Sanders.” He tapped the end of the pack against a forefinger and the ends of three cigarettes appeared, each a different length, like the pipes of an organ. It made me want one. After, what, more than a year? “If you could try to not give him the address here,” he said, “that would be good. But I guess if he asks you, you have to say, right? Is it okay to smoke in your house, by the way? I could go outside if you’d rather.”
“It’s just barely my house anymore, anyway,” I said. If he didn’t know the place was sold, he must have wondered what the hell that meant. “Enjoy. Wish it was me.”
He lit a cigarette and looked around for where to put the spent match. He chose an empty can of Betty Crocker chocolate frosting on the counter. He’d laid in provisions, apparently.
“You’re a quit smoker?” he said. “That’s excellent. After tonight I’m not going to smoke anymore. Or eat junk.”
“So you’re having a last fling, huh?”
“A fling,” he said. “Yeah, I guess. Were you going anyplace? Or can you stay and talk for a minute?”
“Sure,” I said. “My time is your time. Go in where we can sit?”
I followed him into the living room. A VCR now sat on top of the television; on top of the VCR, three yellow plastic bags. I could make out BED in gothic type on the top one. I thought bedlam, and how that was actually a corruption of Bethlehem. Cheap Christian irony. “You have made yourself at home,” I said.
“What, that?” he said, nodding at the VCR. “Don’t worry, it’s mine from my room. All I really took was one of my dad’s porno tapes that he’s got hidden in the basement, and he’d be way too embarrassed to bust my horns on that.” He sat down in my recliner, facing the tv. I took a corner of the sofa. “I’m actually glad you came by,” he said. “I’m kind of worried about Danny.”
I looked at him.
“It’s kind of hard to say this,” he said. “Like have you noticed that he seems kind of down or something?”
“Like how?” I said. As a matter of fact, Danny had seemed as usual to me. But to say that was to reveal you’d been failing as a father.
“Well, like has he been saying stuff about death to you?”
“Not to me, no.” I mean he hadn’t, had he? “What has he been saying?”
“You’re not going to tell Danny I told you this, right?”
“Dustin,” I said.
“Okay, you know when those two kids killed themselves? The ones on the news, with the car in the garage?” Teen suicide pact, next town over. I remembered. Back in the summer. “When that happened he was saying stuff like that they were better off. And, you know, like that it was peaceful and they were with God and everything.” This didn’t sound like Danny. “But what’s weird to me is, he’s still talking about it.”
“And saying what?”
“I don’t know, a lot of stuff.”
“Like what, Dustin? Has he said something about killing himself?”
“Well, not as such,” he said. “But we had this thing at school, after it happened? Where they come in and talk about it and tell you things to look for. Like if a kid starts giving away all his stuff.”
I might give a lot of my stuff away. Like to poor kids or something.
“Has Danny been giving stuff away?” I said.
“Not as such,” he said. “But he said if anything happened to him he wanted me to have his guitar. And they also tell you that if a kid’s even talking about it that it might be a cry for help.”
“Jesus,” I said. “What else should I know about, Dustin? What about drugs? How heavily is he into that?”
“I don’t want to get Danny in trouble,” he said. “You know, kids like to party. If I had a kid, I’d be a lot more worried about how the kid was feeling, inside himself, instead of did he do drugs or something.”
“And you don’t think Danny is feeling very well.”
“Well, yeah, no. I think he’s feeling really really bad. And other kids can’t do anything to help, because they’re just kids too.”
“Dustin, thank you,” I said. “You did the right thing to tell me.”
“You were kind of my last chance,” he said. “It was weird that you just came by.”
“Tell me something,” I said. “What are they really doing over at what’s-his-name’s? Is it all right him being there?”
“Mitchell’s? Oh yeah. No problem. They’re probably just listening to music and everything.” He stubbed out his cigarette. “I don’t think anything would happen as long as there was somebody around. It’s when you’re alone that things really get weird. You know—Mr. Jernigan, I know this sounds really heavy, but I would not trust Danny by himself right now.”
I got up and went back into the kitchen. I opened the cabinet, reached up and took down the Quaker Oats. Sure enough: there was the gin, still about half full. But I couldn’t. Not and live with myself. This had turned into a night where you stayed sober and did your best to handle something. Dustin had followed me in. What he must have seen was a grown man gazing up at a bottle of liquor.
“Mr. Jernigan?” he said. “I’m sure Danny’s okay over there. You’re welcome to stay around and watch a movie.” I put the Quaker Oats back. “That sounds weird,” he said. “Telling somebody they’re welcome in their own house. Sorry about that.”
“Look, it’s fine that you’re here, Dustin,” I said. “But in light of what you’ve told me, I think I’d better get going and see if Danny’s back yet.”
“I understand,” he said. “Absolutely. Anyhow, I’m glad we got to talk. I would have felt really bad if I hadn’t tried everything, you know?”
“You’ve really helped,” I said, “and I’m really grateful to you. I know it took a lot of nerve. And meanwhile, if there’s anything I can do to help out your situation—you know, is there anything you’d like me to say to your dad when I talk to him?”
He shook his head. “It’s no big deal,” he said. “Everybody’ll get over it okay.”
“Well, I’m still going to call up and touch base with him,” I said. The thought of that changed my mind about the gin. A little jolt couldn’t hurt, might help. I took the Quaker Oats down again, got up on tiptoes for the bottle and brandished it yo-ho-ho style to show cheerful self-irony. “So what are you watching tonight?” I said, replacing the Quaker Oats once more. The old geezer on the box looked at me nonjudgmentally.
“I don’t know yet,” he said. “It seemed like I should make it like a special occasion, so I sort of pigged out at the video place. I got Re-Animator and Texas Chain Saw. I tried to get Night of the Living Dead but somebody already had it out. You ever see that?”
“Yow,” I said. “You’re a better man than I am.”
“They’re not actually that bad,” he said. “They’re pretty funny, actually. And I got a couple of operas too.”
“A rock-and-roll guy like you?” I said. “Or is that the latest thing?”
“Nah,” he said. “My dad got me into it when I was really little. Being a music teacher and everything.”
“Be great if you could get Danny into it,” I said. “Sake of a little variety.” Whatever a little variety was worth. I was way overacting the concerned parent. Standing there trying to jam a fucking gin bottle into an overcoat pocket that was too small and talking about opera providing a little variety. “So what did you get for operas?” I said.
“I don’t know if you know it,” he said, “but Les Troyens? It’s by Berlioz? It’s really long. And I got Madama Butterfly.”
“Madama, yet,” I said.
“I hate when people say Madame,” he said. “My dad taught me a lot of stuff, he really did. Oh, and then I got—I mean, it’s really actually pretty stupid, but this old movie It’s a Wonderful Life?”
“Great movie,” I said, sounding like the old fuck on tv who says “great story” when he catches his grandson reading Moby-Dick. (Ad for these leatherbound Great Books.) “Sounds like you’re in for quite an evening of it. Listen, I don’t mean to sound like a parent, but don’t stay up too late, okay?”
“No chance,” he said. “Listen, thanks.”
“Por nada,” I said, opening the door to the breezeway. “Thank you. And don’t worry about my blowing your cover with Danny.”
“Oh, it’s okay if you do,” he said. “It’s not going to make any difference now.”
“Well,” I said, “whatever.”
“Whatever,” he said, and gave me a mock salute. Good kid, this Dustin. I saluted back.
When I got to the car, I looked back at the house. At the left-hand side of the picture window, the drapery was being held aside just a crack. I saw white fingers against the dark fabric, half a face peeping. So despite what he wanted me to think, some sort of sneaky shit was probably going on.
4
Martha’s Reliant was still gone when I got back to the house, but Clarissa’s window glowed yellow. I called, “Hey, anybody home?” from the kitchen, which now felt as cold as out-of-doors. No answer. Holed up as always. Clarissa had one of those oil-filled electric radiators in her room; with plastic over the window and an old blanket over the door, she and Danny could just settle in and everybody else could go fuck themselves.
I put the gin in the refrigerator and went into the stone-cold living room. From in there I could hear the God damn music going. Meaning that Danny either had or hadn’t rolled in. What pissed me off especially was that I couldn’t let myself be pissed off. Instead I had to prepare to talk to my son about whether or not he might be thinking about killing himself. First thing to do was go back in the kitchen and have a couple good slugs of that gin right off the bat, then get that stove going while the gin was taking hold. That way you’d have someplace warm to have your talk in and you’d also be in a little steadier frame of mind. But it was a hell of a thing when you couldn’t even go in your own house and just take your coat off and sit down. Though of course it wasn’t your own house, so what did you expect.
I went in and had about three good belts, meaning five or six, then came back and opened the stove’s clanky iron door. Ashes in there six inches deep for Christ’s sake. So I went back to the kitchen one more time and got the Rubbermaid bucket Martha used for stuff that was going into the compost. I couldn’t think what to use for a scoop. Finally I found a loaf pan. So I was down on my knees in the cold, scooping ashes out of a stove with a tin pan and dumping them in this stinking bucket. And I remembered coming in here the first time, on the Fourth of July, and thinking Hey, nice, a woodstove. When I got most of the ashes out, I packed the bottom of the firebox with crumpled pages of The New York Times, then snapped sticks over my knee, laid them crisscross on top of the paper, lit the corner of page C7, made sure it blazed up okay, and clanked the door shut. Took the bucket of ashes out the kitchen door and through the backyard to the compost pile, leaving dark footprints in the crisped, whitened grass. Not just some rotting heap for old Martha, boy, but a whole big deal fenced in with chicken wire. Stakes here and there in the pile that you were supposed to pull out at some point to let air in. I dumped the ashes on top of withered carrot tops and cantaloupe rinds. And I’d probably hear about that, too. You were probably supposed to put down a layer of grass clippings first. Grass clippings or blood meal, whatever the hell blood meal was. For the nitrogen. No ashes on top of cantaloupe rinds without an intervening layer of blood meal, that was probably the rule around here.
By the time I got back inside, the newspaper had burned away and left the sticks blazing. I thrust in some pieces of scavenged two-by-four, nails and all—hey, give her a little iron to go with her nitrogen when these ashes hit the compost—and dragged the Morris chair over close to the stove and sat down, still in my coat. What I would do was wait until the living room was entirely warm and welcoming: it would be easier explaining to Danny why it was a bad idea to kill himself if we weren’t both sitting huddled in our coats and blowing on our hands. I would open by saying that he seemed down lately. If he admitted it, we were in business; if he denied it, then I’d say that sometimes you could be so down that you didn’t even realize it. What was truly scary about being in that kind of shape, I would inform him, was that nothing was scary anymore. That what might ordinarily be unthinkable started to seem reasonable. Then, once I’d gotten him this far, we could get into why it was a bad idea to kill yourself. Except all I could think of was the usual worldly dog treats. Consent to live and you can fuck more. Listen to more records. He’d already fucked and listened to records; why should he be struck dumb and reverent at the prospect of doing it some more? Better girls! Better records! Oh yeah, and his Art. Forgot all about his Art. Kill yourself and the world will be short one guitar player. No, this was the wrong approach. The way to play this was just to stick to how bad he felt and why, assuming I could get it out of him. And then, probably, life would reassert itself without my feeble help. Assuming it really made people feel any better to talk about how bad they felt and why.
