What Dies in Summer (7 page)

This time it turned out worse than usual for him. The pedal happened to catch him under the chin on an upswing, and I heard a loud clack and a couple of yelps as the dog broke off the chase. I
looked back and saw him shake his head and make chewing motions with his lips pulled back as if he had peanut butter in his mouth. Pedaling away, I hooted at him and pumped my fist in the air, full
of victory and knowing now what a winning streak I was on.

I WAS STILL
replaying the chase in my mind as I coasted around the curve of Alameda and into Mom’s driveway under the old magnolia. The storm must
have been a strange one in other ways than being full of fish, because it obviously hadn’t rained here at all.

The house was painted white now instead of the light yellow it had been when I lived in it, and the windows were framed by new green shutters with curved shapes cut into them. The holly bushes
that grew in front and along the side of the house looked the same, and so did the two middle-sized chinaberries in the front yard, but the skinny poplar Mom had planted beside the house the year
we moved here seemed quite a bit bigger than I remembered it. At one end of the porch was a wide clay pot planted with dry-looking red geraniums. There was a vacant feeling in the air, but I
couldn’t see the garage around the corner toward the back of the house, so I wasn’t sure if anyone was home or not. I leaned the bike against the porch rail and climbed the steps to the
front door.

Knocking twice, I called, “Mom? Hello?” but there was no answer, so I opened the door and stepped inside. I could smell old smoke from Mom’s cigarettes and the little cigars
Jack smoked, and fried bacon from earlier that morning.

The sense of emptiness continued in here, but I didn’t entirely trust it. Houses usually feel different when people are in them, no matter how quiet the people are, but somehow I
couldn’t tell about this one anymore. Since Jack had moved in the second year after Dad died and we had moved up to Dallas from Jacksboro, I was a stranger here and the house no longer really
made sense to me.

I looked down the hall toward what used to be my bedroom but was now Jack’s weight room and wondered if any of my stuff was still in there. I visualized the red chili-pepper lamp I’d
left on the dresser and my dartboard and the Cowboys poster on the inside of the door. Thinking about this caused a weird feeling in my chest, and I made up my mind that if it turned out there was
nobody here I’d go in there and see if there was anything I could salvage. Maybe bust something of Jack’s while I was at it. I called to Mom again but still got no answer.

I walked on into the kitchen. There were dishes drying in the rack and next to that on the white-tiled counter I saw a glass ashtray with three Kool butts in it. Each one had Mom’s bright
red lipstick on the filter and had been stubbed out half smoked. Reasoning back from that, I knew Mom had gotten up first and had a cup of coffee while she read the
Morning News.
Then
she’d have made breakfast and eaten with Jack and after that cleared the table, washed the dishes and had another cup of coffee over the puzzle page before leaving the house. In my mind I
could see her setting the ashtray beside the drain rack on her way out the back door, saying, “I’ll wash you when I get back.”

In the living room I noticed the dark green cloth-bound book with a little brass latch on it lying on the side table next to the old blue easy chair where Mom always sat. Her diary. She was the
only person I had ever known who kept one, and she had always been faithful about it. It wasn’t like her to leave it out in the open like this, but there it was. I stood for a while having a
silent argument with my conscience, then walked over to pick it up. The house still felt empty. I carried the diary back into the kitchen where the light was better, intending to sit at the table
and maybe read the pages dated around the time L.A. showed up on Gram’s porch.

I had just found the right date and caught a glimpse of the words

when there was a loud rap behind me. I flinched like the thief I knew I was and looked around. Of course it was Jack. He must have whacked his can of Schlitz down onto the
counter, his trademark move, closing in silently and then making some loud noise to scare the shit out of you. Now he walked around the table and was lowering his butt lightly into a chair across
from me, a tense-looking guy with quick movements and a lot of dark hair on his chest and eyes that had a funny jitter in them.

“The prodigal son,” he said as he leaned back in his chair and looked at me. “Your mama’s not here.”

“Yes sir,” I said.

“Grocery shopping or something,” he said, taking a swallow from the can. He reached across to take the diary from my hands, closed it with a snap and dropped it on the table in front
of him.

“Yes sir,” I said again, thinking about Jack’s job repossessing cars and wondering why I couldn’t for chrissake get it straight when he was going to be here and when he
wasn’t.

“Left me here by myself in the peace and quiet,” he said.

He was wearing only sneakers and track shorts and one of those undershirts without sleeves or a neck, just straps over his shoulders. His armpits were shaved.

“What brings you over here to our little domicile, Jim? Leah’s mama kick you out too?”

I realized that the whites of his eyes weren’t really white but light pink, with little veins in them that branched like red lightning. I thought of Caruso’s ears. Jack looked out
the window as he tipped the can up and I could hear the thumping sounds in his throat as he swallowed.

“No sir,” I said, feeling jammed, like the time in Jacksboro when I was four and somebody’s big orange dog had come roaring out at me from behind a hedge. I’d been frozen
in my tracks, completely unable to move, which I guess was a good thing because the animal had just stood in front of me barking for a while and then given up and gone away, leaving me stuck there
on the sidewalk like a wad of gum.

“Guess I’ll go on back to Gram’s,” I said, edging toward the door.

“Naw,” said Jack. “Stick around.” He stood up and took a long last swallow from the beer can, then tossed it into the sink, where it ricocheted around and shot some foam
up into the air. I’d seen him do this before, and it wasn’t a good sign.

“Yes sir,” I said.

Jack rolled his shoulders and sucked his teeth. “C’mon,” he said, “let’s work out a little.” He motioned me toward the back yard, where he had set up a speed
bag outside the toolshed.

I followed him out the back door, wondering if there was any chance of somebody else showing up. Jack told everybody he’d been a Golden Gloves welterweight, and he watched all the fights
on television and explained everything the fighters did wrong. He liked practicing his skills.

We got to the shed and he brought out two pairs of boxing gloves. “You can have the light ones,” he said.

As I was pulling on the cracked and faded red gloves, Jack said, “What are you—about as tall as me now? Damn near.” He popped his gloves together. “Looks like
you’re gonna have your old man’s shoulders too. We’ll just see what you got.”

I stood there with my hands at my waist while Jack started to dance around me. Usually he did this for a while before he got serious about throwing punches. But he had his own gloves up and was
bobbing and weaving. “Stick and move!” he said, bringing in a left hook to the side of my head that staggered me a little, then skipping away.

This was not my first boxing lesson with Jack, and I knew there was nothing to gain by not trying to defend myself. I got my hands up and tried to watch his shoulders. I could sometimes slip a
shot if I caught his head fake and the slight push of his left shoulder just before he threw the right.

“Really shoulda gone pro,” he said, bouncing and feinting. “Show all them niggers a thing or two.” He blew out his breath and shook his head.

I kept my gloves up and watched him. He had a tendency to come in hard after he said something like this, and I wanted to be ready.

But I wasn’t ready enough. He floated in with a straight right, and I sat down hard. Stinging tears tried to come up in my eyes but as I got up I brushed them away, trying to make it look
like I was just swiping at my nose.

“Make a man out of you yet,” Jack said. “Here, come on in and take your best shot.” He dropped his guard and let his hands hang at his sides, counting on reaction speed
to keep from being hit.

I knew things were going to get worse now but there was no good way to go from here, so I got my chin down and my elbows in and moved forward. Jack was just watching me with a little smile,
waving me in.

Then something suddenly changed in me. Everything went red and started happening in slow motion, the universe shrinking down to a bloody target with Jack’s grinning face right in the
center of the bull’s-eye. I felt weightless and unreal. Without thinking about it or even knowing I was going to do it, I gave him my best imitation of his own head-and-shoulder fake and
threw my right hand as hard as I could. I wanted the punch to land, wanted to destroy that face more than I’d ever wanted anything in my life.

And I did nail him. His head snapped backward and the jolt shot up along my arm to my shoulder and neck as he staggered a couple of steps to the side but didn’t quite go down.

It was absolutely the best punch I could possibly hope to throw, much less land, but there was Jack, still on his feet. He got his balance back and shook his head again. A trickle of blood
started down from one nostril toward his mouth. As I looked at him, things began to change back to their normal colors and I tried to catch my breath. Jack gave me a tight smile and said,
“Pretty good shot.” But he was white around the lips and a muscle roped up in his jaw.

He started dancing on his toes again, this time watching me more carefully. He did a little shuffle and sidestep and from the other end of the universe I heard Mom saying, “What the
hell’d you do to him this time, Jack?”

I opened my eyes and tried to get up but couldn’t. Mom’s voice echoed around in my head, not seeming to have anything to do with me. She was kneeling beside me, bending down to
inspect my face. I could smell her cigarette and her flowery perfume as she put her hand on the grass by my head to balance herself. Above her the light coming through the leaves moved and sparkled
in her golden-brown hair.

She looked back at Jack, who was lighting a cigar. His gloves were nowhere in sight. “For chrissake, his eye is swollen almost shut!” she said.

“Just sparring a little,” he said. “He walked into one is all. He’s fine.” He looked at me. “Arncha, Jim?”

Nothing seemed to have any connection with anything else.

“Whagga,” I said.

Mom helped me sit up. My gloves were gone.

“Oh, baby,” said Mom. “You’re just a mess. Here, let me clean up your face a little.” Shaking back her hair, she took a tissue from her purse and wiped blood and
sweat away from my mouth and the side of my nose. It felt like my arms and legs belonged to somebody who wasn’t here at the moment.

“Guess I coldcocked him pretty good at that,” Jack said, taking a drag from his small cigar. “Need to learn to hold back a little more.”

“Hey, Mom,” I finally managed to get out, my tongue slow and thick. “We’re boxin’.”

“Yeah, I know, hon.” She gave Jack another look. “Jack’s quite the athlete. Are you okay now?”

“Sure,” I said, swallowing the blood in my mouth.

Jack said, “Where you been, sugar?”

“Don’t start, Jack,” Mom said. She pulled me up.

“Just saying,” Jack said. “Reasonable question to ask, man wants to know where his lady’s been.” He tilted his head to pop his neck. “You telling me
there’s something wrong with that?”

I managed to stand up. “Go onna Gram’s now,” I said to the ground.

“Oh, honey, you must’ve wondered where your mama was when you needed her, didn’t you?” Mom said, kissing me on the cheek.

“No ma’am,” I said.

She didn’t say anything else. She stood by Jack as I stumbled back toward the driveway to go around front and get my bicycle.

“I’m just asking you what’s wrong with the question,” I heard Jack say before the corner of the house came between us.

On my way back to Gram’s I threw the fish to the dog and pedaled away as he snuffled at them in the gutter.

AS I WALKED
in the front door I saw L.A. standing on the little blue granny rug in front of the record player, listening to Sam
Cooke with her eyes closed and her hands in the back pockets of her jeans, moving slightly with the music: “Wonderful World.”

Her not turning around meant that as always she knew it was me who’d come in. Gram was in the kitchen at the sink and the house smelled of roasting chicken, rare for us in the summertime
and one of my all-time favorites. But I had no appetite and wasn’t looking forward to explaining to Gram and L.A. what had happened to my face. On top of that, my head felt funny.

Coming back from Mom’s I’d stopped to throw up, and I started toward the bathroom now to brush my teeth and splash some water on my face. But before I got there the floor tilted up
at me and I was watching small fish that jumped in every direction and became silvery coins rolling away in the dark. There were millions of them. I was desperate to keep them from getting away but
no matter how hard I tried I couldn’t get my hands on even one.

Then I realized that somewhere some kid was calling for his mother in a wailing voice that rose and fell in a weird, tragic rhythm. All around me the red light was back, except this time it was
flaring on and off and back on again. Everything shifted and bounced and roared. I was going somewhere in a hurry. L.A.’s girl-breath was in my face and I heard her yelling at me down a long
echoing tunnel, “Be all right, Biscuit!” She was nose to nose with me, gripping me by the ears. “You hear me?” she screamed. “
You gotta be all right!
”