Authors: John Lutz
Holifield, Ohio, 1994
Hardware Hill had started out the cold winter morning with a frozen crust on the surface of five inches of snow. By the time Jerry Grantland got there with the American Flyer sled he’d almost outgrown, the kids who’d gotten a snow day off school and used it for winter hijinks had made an icy mess of things.
The hill was city property, a wide thirty-degree plane leading to a shallow lake. But for the prospect of an icy dunking at the bottom, it might have been designed for sledding.
During the winter the city stacked bales of straw along the lake’s edge to keep overenthusiastic sled riders from zooming onto the frozen surface or into the frigid water. Often there were bonfires at the edges of the hill to warm those who stayed long or managed to find their way beyond the straw-bale barrier. At the top of the hill was the back of Munger’s Hardware Emporium, where many of the wooden sleds, plastic saucers, even skis were sold. During winters with lots of ice and snow, Munger’s did very well and paid the city a lot in taxes. Everybody enjoyed themselves sledding, battling in snowball fights, or making money.
Jerry was dragging the sled behind him by steering ropes he’d fashioned from clothesline. He was wearing his old green parka with the fur-edged hood, a black watch cap, thick corduroy pants, and rubber boots with metal clasps.
He waited for a clear path all the way down the hill, then held his sled with both hands off to his right side and ran. With each stride he bent his knees a little more until he was running in a crouch. He flung himself forward and at the same time brought the sled around so it was beneath him. He landed on it and lay on his belly, gripping the steering rope that was fastened to the sled’s wooden yokes. All very smooth.
The sled moved slowly at first and then began picking up speed. It was going to be a good run.
He glided past two girls seated on a slower sled. Hit a slick spot and flashed past some little kids rolling in the snow. He was really traveling now. The cold breeze was getting inside his hood, causing his ears to sting.
At the bottom of the hill, he chose not to crash the sled into the hay bales, as did many of the sledders. Instead he yanked the rope back with his left hand and shifted his weight to the right, raising the leading edge of the sled’s left steel runner. The sled veered sharply to the left, dug into the snow, and tipped abruptly to the right, spilling Jerry off and into the soft bale.
Perfect!
He stood up and brushed snow off his coat and pants, then wiped away some that had sneaked under his collar.
That was when he saw another sled bearing down on him. A slight figure in a blue parka was lying flat on it. Chrissie Keller, staring up at him, grinning widely and screaming for him to get out of the way. He knew it was Chrissie even at a distance. She was the twin who wore her thick stocking cap rolled up at the bottom. He had cataloged in his mind details like that about the girls.
“
Jerrrry! Move!”
He could have, but why? Her sled wasn’t traveling that fast, and if he lifted his feet and pretended he was trying to dodge the sled, he might land against the bale in a bundle with the sled and Chrissie. The prospect created a familiar tightening in his groin.
He yanked his right foot back just in time so the sled’s runner wouldn’t glide over it, then acted as if he’d lost his balance and landed on top of Chrissie and the sled. They rolled and lay in each other’s arms at the base of a bale. The sled was upside down on top of them.
Everything but the sled was soft. Nobody hurt.
They were both grinning.
“You okay?” Jerry asked.
“Nothing broken,” Chrissie said.
“You sure?”
They struggled to their feet, helping each other up, and brushed away the snow.
“I’m sure,” Chrissie said. He could see her breath fogging in the cold air.
“Sometimes you can’t tell till you feel,” Jerry told her. He pulled her close and slid his hand beneath her parka. Her sweater had come untucked, and he felt the warm soft flesh of her firm belly.
To Chrissie, the hand might as well have been carved from ice. “Jerry, damn it! Stop!”
But he didn’t want to stop. And right now didn’t even care if someone noticed.
She gripped his wrist and pushed his arm and hand away. The effort caused her to lose her balance and fall, dragging him down with her. They sat in the snow with their backs against the bales.
“You afraid somebody might see?” Jerry asked.
Chrissie made no attempt to get up. “It isn’t right. I don’t want you to do that again.”
“We all have our secrets,” Jerry said, watching his own breath fog in front of his face.
“You and me aren’t gonna have that one.”
“I know your secret,” Jerry said. He swallowed. “I’ve got the same one.”
She looked horrified for a few seconds; she knew what he meant, and briefly thought about confiding in him. He could see the indecision in her eyes.
Tell me, Chrissie. We’ll tell each other. That’ll make it all right. Or at least better.
Her lips parted slightly, and then her expression hardened.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Jerry.”
“Yes, you do.” He took a deep breath, gathering courage, and tried to kiss her.
She shoved him away violently and attempted to stand, but her feet shot out from under her and she fell back down.
“Damn you, Jerry! Don’t try that again! Ever!”
“I didn’t know you cussed. Knew you did other things, though.”
“You’re too old for me, Jerry.”
“What? A year?”
“You’d be too old for me if I was thirty and you were thirty-one.”
He gave her a look that scared her. “If we were those ages…”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
She stood up on her own and stayed on her feet, brushing the snow off her parka. “Keep that in mind, Jerry. Nothing. Not if you were the last boy on this earth.”
“We’re the same,” he said.
She acted as if she didn’t know what he was talking about, but she did know. He was sure she knew that he watched sometimes at night. Both twins knew.
“We’re the same,” he said again. “You, me, and Tiffany.”
And suddenly Tiffany was there, on a sled that looked brand new. Its curved steel runners were still painted bright red. The red was so vivid against the white snow.
Almost in the instant she appeared, Tiffany deftly turned the sled sideways and dragged her boots in the snow. She came to a smooth stop and stood up, holding the sled on end and leaning on it.
“You, me, and Jerry what?” she asked her twin.
But Chrissie was gazing beyond her, toward the top of the hill.
All three of them looked.
The twins’ father stood staring down at them, his feet spread wide and his fists propped on his hips.
“Nothing,” Jerry said.
Dragging his sled by its steering rope, he began trudging back up the hill, but at an angle, away from Mr. Keller.
“Nothing!” Chrissie echoed behind him.
The desperation in her voice stayed with him always.
“You were talkin’ to Chrissie Keller,” Jerry’s mother said, when he’d returned home. He’d struggled out of his snow-crusted coat, hat, and boots and left them piled on the floor in the mud room off the kitchen.
Still in her white terry cloth robe, his mother was seated at the kitchen table, her hands invisible in her lap.
“Sure,” Jerry said. “She lives next door and we go to the same school.”
An empty bottle flew through the air and crashed into the wall beside him. It was his first realization that his mother was drunk. Usually she started in heavily with the gin in the early evening, when she was off work from her waitress job at Vellie’s, where they served only breakfast and lunch. But today was her day off.
The throwing motion had caused her robe to open, and one of her breasts was entirely visible. She automatically pulled the robe closed with a quick motion of her right hand.
“I ask you a question,” she said, “don’t give me a shit answer.”
“I wasn’t—”
She raised her right hand palm out and shook her head back and forth violently. “You hear me? I mean, you
hear
what I said?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Jerry knew that if he agreed with her about everything without making it too obvious, kept everything smooth if delicately balanced, she’d become sleepy and get tired of picking on him.
Either that or…
“Chrissie’s father saw you talkin’ to her, called on the phone, and said you musta told her somethin’ that made her upset. Said Chrissie was cryin’.”
“I didn’t—well, maybe I did. But if I did, I didn’t mean it.”
“You tryin’ to get in that young bitch’s britches?”
Jerry felt himself go red. “Mom!”
“Britches bitch’s.” She threw back her head and laughed at her unintentional rhyme.
Then she stopped laughing. “I don’t want trouble with the neighbors, you unershtan’?”
It was the first word she’d slurred. This could become worse.
“Yes, ma’am,” Jerry said.
She stood up unsteadily. The gin bottle she’d thrown at the wall had been empty. The one in her left hand was half empty. Not a good sign.
“’Cause you don’t have a father around don’t mean you can go misbehavin’,” his mother said.
“No, ma’am.”
She peered at him as if through the wrong end of a telescope.
“I mean, yes, ma’am.”
“It don’t mean you ain’t got nobody to whip your worthless ass when you need it.”
Jerry didn’t know what to say. He could only nod, hoping it was the right thing to do.
It wasn’t.
His mother weaved her way out of the kitchen and returned with a slender wooden switch about a yard long. It was actually a hickory switch, which seemed to dignify and make acceptable what she was about to do to him.
Taught to the tune of a hickory stick…
Jerry knew all the words to the venerable schoolyard tune. Spanking was simply part of disciplining a boy, in his mother’s mind. Or in the mind of anyone who might inquire or in any way come to Jerry’s aid.
Spare the rod…
That wasn’t going to happen in the Grantland household.
“Bedroom, young man,” his mother said.
Jerry went.
“Need to learn how to hold your tongue,” his mother said behind him.
Jerry knew what to do. It took him only a few minutes before he was standing shivering, wearing only his socks. The top of one was still wet where snow had worked its way inside his boot.
His mother stared at him until he bent over the foot of the bed, his elbows on the mattress.
“I wouldn’t do this if I didn’t have to,” his mother said. “If you didn’t make me.”
Jerry clenched his eyes shut and waited.
The wooden switch hissed like a snake as it cut through the air.
Over and over again. After each hiss came the sharp
snap
of the switch whipping into the bare flesh of his buttocks and the backs of his thighs. The pain became a constant fire.
She shouldn’t be doing this to me. I’m too grown up. It isn’t fair. It isn’t right.
Jerry knew enough not to make a sound. He’d adapted to the pain enough so that he could remain silent except for an occasional whimper that escaped on its own and didn’t seem to his mother to count. Clenching his teeth hard enough to break them, he could smell the sweet reek of gin on his mother’s breath as she began to labor at her task.
She spread her slippered feet farther apart to gain leverage. Jerry had to be disciplined, didn’t he? Best thing for him in the long run.
The lashes with the switch began coming further apart. His mother’s breath was now ragged, rasping harshly with each inhalation. She was making more noise than Jerry.
With his eyes closed, Jerry stared into the darkness inside him, waiting for it to be over.
But for the pain, it might have been happening to someone else.
Sometimes it did happen to Chrissie Keller, whose father loved her.
Jerry stayed in his room after the whipping, lying curled on his bed and listening to the rain that had begun falling and would soon melt the snow. If the temperature dropped below freezing again, there would be an icy mess outside.
For some reason he was drained of strength in his mother’s presence. She could do what she wanted with him. It was…infantile, and he was ashamed.
He didn’t move for several hours. The rain hadn’t exactly stopped; it now sounded more like sleet.
He heard the rattle and jingle of a car with chains on it, loud enough to be in the driveway.
The car stopped. Jerry didn’t bother looking out his window to see who might be driving. It would be a man he wouldn’t recognize. Or worse, one that he did. A car door slammed, and he heard someone on the porch. The doorbell didn’t chime, but he heard the door open.
A few minutes later his bedroom door opened and his mother stuck her head in. She had on a dress now, and her hair was combed with bangs carefully arranged on her forehead. She was wearing makeup.
“I’m going out for a while, sweetheart,” she said. “There are leftovers in the refrigerator if you get hungry.”
Jerry didn’t move. Said nothing.
After about twenty seconds he heard the front door open and close and the sound of footfalls on the porch. The car in the driveway started up, and he heard the faint jangling of its tire chains again as it backed out to the street and then drove away.
To be on the safe side, he counted slowly to a hundred before getting up and going to his mother’s bedroom. The pain was still there, and he moved slowly.
The bedroom was warm, as if she might still be there with her body heat, and it smelled of rose-scented powder and spiced sachets.
When he was in front of his mother’s dresser with its tall mirror, he turned his body slightly and saw that there were bloodstains on the seat of his white Jockey shorts. Red lash marks patterned the backs of his pale thighs.
He smiled at his image in the mirror and then bent low and opened the dresser’s bottom drawer.