Jack

His mother was in the hallway right outside his bedroom, the door open just wide enough so he could see her shadow on the wall. “I’m not going,” her shadow said and from somewhere farther away his father’s voice made sounds that were too muffled for the boy to understand.

She came into his room, smiling but not looking happy, telling him it was time to get up, time to get ready.

After his bath she put cold sticky stuff in his hair so the part up front wouldn’t move as long as he didn’t touch it – could he remember not to touch it? – and then she made him stand in front of the tall mirror in their bedroom. He had to put on two different pairs of pants and three different shirts and take them off and put them on again in different combinations. The clothes were new – he’d never seen them before. The shirts still had the tags hanging off them.

“It doesn’t matter what he wears,” his father said, standing in the doorway.

“It matters,” his mother said.

He ended up in the black pants that felt too itchy with a thick belt to hold them up – he hated belts – and a blue shirt with white buttons and a stiff collar that rubbed annoyingly against the back of his neck. She got out lace up shoes, shiny black ones still in the box they came in, and watched while he walked back and forth across the floor, telling him to lift his feet and take big steps like a big boy who’s almost five years old.

Breakfast was a one-eyed egg and buttered toast with a cup of chocolate milk as a special treat —he had to wear a bib so he wouldn’t spill on himself—and right after he brushed his teeth with her inspecting his mouth to make sure he did a good job and then she got down on her knees and wrapped her arms around him so tightly he couldn’t breathe.

“We need to get going.” His father already had on his coat and the gray cap he only wore on special days.

It was still dark as they walked out to the car. He couldn’t see anything—not the other houses, not the cars in the other driveways, not the big trees up and down the street except for the spindly black tips of the very highest branches. As they backed out onto the street he looked to see if his mother might have changed her mind—if she was hurrying down the steps, running with her elbows flapping in that funny way that always made him laugh—but she was still in the same place, watching them from the living room window, her palms pressed flat against the glass like she wanted to break through but couldn’t.

He asked his father why she wasn’t coming with them.

“We’ll see Mommy tonight,” was all he said.

“Close your eyes, it’s a long drive,” his father said later as they went past all the small roads with their still-dark houses and pulled onto the big highway that was all lit up with bright lights and had no houses and where no one lived; even he knew that. “Go on, go back to sleep, I’ll wake you when we get there.”

But he didn’t want to go back to sleep, he wanted to sit up and pay attention as the sun got higher and the road got lighter and he could watch out for where they were going so he would know the way back. They passed trees and ponds and went under overhanging green signs that looked like they might snap off and fall on them. They passed mountains of gray rock he couldn’t see the tops of and open fields he couldn’t see the end of. Everything was new, nothing was anything he’d ever seen before.

His father lit a cigarette and opened his window halfway, sending a sudden rush of cold air to the back seat.

“Don’t tell your mother,” his father said, winking.

The boy asked, again, who they were going to see and his father, using the exact same words he used yesterday and the day before, said a nice lady who lived far away wanted to meet him. When he asked why, his father glanced back at him and smiled. “Now who wouldn’t want to meet you?”

He wanted to know if they were almost there and his father said, “Almost,” which meant no.

After a long time they stopped for gas. Sometimes his father let him help hold the pump handle but not this time; he said he didn’t want him getting dirty. Afterwards they went together into the brightly lit store where his father bought a new pack of cigarettes and a bouquet of flowers with big fat white heads which he lay down next to him in the empty front seat where his mother should have been sitting.

A million miles later his father asked him if he wanted to play a game to make the time go by faster. You tell me every time you see a red car, he said. But only the red ones count. Unless you’d rather count blue cars. Would you rather count blue cars? The boy shook his head. He didn’t want to count cars, he didn’t want to play a game, all he wanted to do was go home. Could they please go back home?

#

It wasn’t their house or anyone’s house. It was a long brick building with windows all across the front but the glass was black so you couldn’t see inside. His father stared at it for a long time, his hands gripping the steering wheel like he was still driving.

“Okay,” he said, unstrapping his seat belt and puffing his cheeks like he was trying to blow out all the air in his body.

When they were both out of the car his father tucked in the boy’s shirt which had come loose on the ride. He brushed something off the boy’s shoulder only he could see. Then he went around and got the flowers from the front seat. “Will you give these to the nice lady? Can you do that for me?”

Together they walked across the parking lot—his father made him hold his hand which meant he had to hold up the flowers with the other hand and make sure he didn’t drop them—and down a long brick path and through two glass doors that opened automatically like the magic doors at the supermarket. They went up to a woman sitting behind a big desk who made his father get out his wallet and answer questions and then they sat down in some brown chairs—there were lots of brown chairs but no one was sitting in them—until a man in a blue jacket and baggy blue pants came up and said his father’s name.

They followed the man down a long corridor. Right away the boy didn’t like the smell. He didn’t like the strange yellow lights that made everything look like wet sand. There were too many people walking back and forth in a hurry and too many noises happening at the same time. Things beeping, things squeaking, TVs talking all over the place.

“She’s been waiting for you,” the man said, glancing back at them as he led the way to wherever he was taking them. “She got all dressed up. Put on a wig and had her face made up. The works.”

His father only nodded and smiled.

“That was her big goal, making it to today,” the man said. “To see the boy. That’s all she talks about. When she talks. Mostly she sleeps now.”

They passed a room where the boy heard music playing and another room where a big yellow dog lay across someone’s bed.

“She wasn’t sure she should write to you, if she should let you know,” the man was saying. “She knows she’s not real family. But I guess it worked. You said you’d come and you came.”

He finally slowed down and stopped at an open door and the father pulled the boy close and told him to stand up straight and don’t forget to smile.

“Ellen,” the man called from the doorway. “You have guests.”

She was sitting up in the bed at the back of the small room. Above her head were wires coming down as though she were a puppet being held up by strings. Her face was colorless but her cheeks were pink and her lips red and her hair plump and shiny as a black olive. There were hoops hanging from her ears and the same pearls around her neck his mother wore sometimes.

“You can go in now,” the man said to the boy’s father. “I’ll be right outside if you need me.”

The boy wanted to turn around and run but felt his father’s firm hand on his back, guiding him forward. The farther in they went the warmer the room got. There was a hissing sound coming from the radiator and a whirring noise coming from somewhere else. They moved close enough to where he could see the yellow speckles in her eyes.

“Jack,” his father said, “this is Miss Swift.”

She tipped her head forward and made a soft tsk-tsk sound. “Oh please, not that, anything but Miss Swift.” Her voice was low and scratchy. Her lips barely moved when she talked. “You don’t need to call me anything, Jack. Just you being here. Just you. That’s enough.”

She asked him to take a step closer and then she reached out and laid her hand which was very cold on the side of his head—she seemed to know she wasn’t supposed to mess up his hair standing up in front. “He’s beautiful,” she said, turning to look up at his father and then back at him. “My God, look at you,” she said. “You’re absolutely perfect.”

The boy suddenly remembered to stand up straight and smile. Then he thrust out the flowers. He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to do it then or wait but when he looked over for confirmation his father was staring down at his shoes. She took the flowers and lifted them to her face with her mouth wide open like she was going to scream—maybe she didn’t like flowers after all—and when she pulled them away her face was wet with dark lines under her eyes.

She lay the flowers on the small table next to the bed. At the back of the table, lined up in a neat row, were some pictures. “Do you know who that is?” she said, pointing at the pictures.

One was a picture of a boy standing in front of a swimming pool with his belly protruding like he was doing it on purpose, and another was the same boy coming down a silver slide, arms and legs up in the air, laughing. Then there was one that wasn’t a picture at all but a white paper with a small red handprint.

“I had them framed,” she said to his father. “Every single one you sent me.”

“Yes,” was all his father said.

She asked if the boy could sit up on the bed with her so she could see him even better. His father lifted him and set him so his legs dangled over the side but his body was turned the other way facing the lady.

“Tell her about your school, Jack,” his father said.

The boy shook his head.

“It’s fine,” she said. “I was shy when I was his age.”

“Here,” she said to the boy. “I got something for you.”

She handed him a white box that had been sitting on her lap this whole time. He opened the top and inside was a chocolate cupcake. He took it out and was amazed how it barely fit in his hand; it was the biggest cupcake ever. He took the greatest bite he could which made the lady squeal with happiness and then his next bite, even bigger, caused a clump of frosting to fall onto his new shirt which he tried to brush off but only ended up smearing into a giant ring so it looked like he’d been hit with a dirty snowball. Immediately he felt his eyes sting.

“Oh honey, don’t cry,” the lady said even though he was already crying. “It’s all right. It’s just a silly shirt. Come here.” She drew him to her and pressed her head against his chest, right up against the wet stain as if she was trying to hide it, and closed her eyes. “Oh my God! I can hear your heartbeat! I remember that sound! Oh I remember! I do!”

The boy looked down on the top of her head and saw that her hair had shifted so it was pushed to one side as if it might slide right off; he didn’t know someone’s hair could move like that. She didn’t notice; she lay back in the bed and whispered his name and said today was a good day and now she was going to close her eyes for a minute but he shouldn’t go anywhere, he should stay right where he was.

#

He woke with the car light shining right in his eyes. He felt himself being lifted up and out of the car seat and into the cool outside air. It was dark again, just like when they left that morning.

As they came up the walk his mother was waiting for them at the front door, under the porch light. She had her arms out.

“I got him,” his father said. “He’s heavy.”

“Give him to me,” she said.

His father stopped suddenly and the boy felt him tense up, his arms flexing and his chest rising. “Okay” he said. “Fine. Here. You can have him. I don’t want to fight over it. Jesus. All right. Here you go. Careful now. There.”

They continued into the house except now he was in his mother’s arms. “He smells like smoke,” she called back as they started up the stairs. She was breathing heavily like she wasn’t going to make it all the way to the top and her body swayed and he thought for sure she would lose her hold on him and he would fall down the stairs and break into a million pieces like in the cartoons. But somehow they made it to the top landing and down the hallway.

They went past his room to their bedroom. His mother set him down on the bed and began taking off his clothes, starting with his shirt which she unbuttoned slowly and if she noticed the chocolate stain—and it seemed to have grown even bigger—she didn’t say anything. She undid his belt and wriggled off his pants and pulled off his shoes which she put back in the box so they would be safe for next time. She had his pajamas already laid out which he got into all by himself.

“You can stay with me tonight,” she said. “Just you and me. Just this once.”

He got under the covers and she shut off the light but there was no night light like in his room so you couldn’t see anything. He only heard her footsteps and felt the bed sag as she lay down next to him.

“Sweet dreams, my sweet Jack,” she said.

There was a noise at the door. The door handle jiggled.

“Shhh,” his mother whispered.

“Claire, are you in there?”

“Shhh,” she said again.

“What’s going on? Open the door. Jesus, Claire, let me in.”

The door handle rattled like crazy. She pulled the covers over their heads and the darkness doubled. It was the darkest dark ever, so soft and thick he felt as if he was floating in it. She drew him closer to her, fitting him in the hollow between her knees and chest like she was trying to pull him all the way inside.