F. Wilson - Secret Histories

Weezy had said she had a bad feeling about the pyramid going to the Smithsonian. Wel , Jack had the same sort of feeling about Weezy getting into

Carson Toliver’s car.

Jack sat by the living room window, pretending to read but real y watching the driveway.

Mom had the annoying Oklahoma! score playing, and he was forced to listen to “The Surry with the Fringe on Top” as he stood watch. Stupid, lame-o

song.

She was in the kitchen fixing dinner and Kate was helping. Dad wouldn’t be home from work for another half hour or so. Only Tom was unaccounted for.

He’d been gone most of the day but Mom said she expected him for dinner.

Jack wanted to know when he arrived so he’d have time to set up his sting.

When he saw Tom’s ‘79 Malibu pul ing into the driveway, he jumped up and hurried to the kitchen. He pul ed out the bag of pistachios and, while Kate

and Mom weren’t looking, emptied the envelope with the tepin-treated nuts on the counter. He’d just tucked the envelope into his back pocket when Kate

turned and saw the pile.

She frowned. “I’d eat those right now, Jack. You-know-who just arrived.”

Good old Kate, always looking out for him.

Jack shrugged. “They’l be okay.”

She shook her head. “You’re a glutton for punishment, aren’t you.”

“Trust me, Kate,” he said with a smile. “I’m anything but a glutton for punishment.”

But, he thought, I’ve arranged some punishment for the glutton.

He started shel ing pistachios but ate them instead of adding them to the pile. He tensed as he heard the frontdoor screen slam. This was it. Tom stil

had a chance. He could turn Jack’s plan into wasted effort by walking past and leaving the pistachios where they were. His fate was in his own hands.

Jack pretended to be looking the other way as his big brother breezed into the kitchen. Without breaking stride and without the slightest hesitation, Tom

swept the nuts off the counter and into his hand, then popped them al into his mouth.

Jack yel ed, “Hey!”

Kate said, “Tom!”

Mom hadn’t noticed and Tom said nothing as he opened the refrigerator and reached for a beer. He never made it. He froze in mid-reach, then

coughed and spat the nuts into his palm.

“What the—?” As he turned toward Jack, his face started to redden. “What did you—?” Then the redness darkened. “Oh, my God!”

As Tom dove for the sink, Jack remembered what Mr. Canel i had said about water making the burning worse. He felt it only fair to warn Tom, but he

lowered his voice, Wil y Wonka style.

“Stop. Don’t. Come back.”

“Dear Lord!” Mom cried as Tom dumped the partial y chewed nuts in the sink and turned on the water.

He didn’t wait to get a glass, simply tilted his head under the faucet and let the water run into his mouth.

“Tom?” Kate said. “What on Earth are you doing?”

Tom lifted his head—his face was almost purple now—and pointed to Jack. “That little bastard—!”

Mom whipped him with her dish towel. “Thomas! I wil not have that kind of language in this house. Now you—”

Tom wailed and stuck his mouth under the faucet again.

“The burning!” he croaked between gulps. “I can’t stop the burning!”

Jack watched him, trying to keep from smiling. He felt like going over there and dancing around him, chanting, Gotcha-gotcha-gotcha!

Kate turned to Jack. “What did you do?”

Jack raised his hands, palms up, and shrugged. “Nothing much. Just spiced them up a little.”

She smiled. “With what? Pepper?”

Jack nodded.

“What kind? Jalapeño? Habañero?”

“Hotter.”

She began to laugh. “Oh, this is rich—this is too rich!”

“It’s not funny!” Tom yel ed, his voice echoing from down in the sink.

Mom was clueless. “What’s the matter? What’s wrong with him?”

“He poisoned me!” Tom cried, then went back to drinking.

Mom obviously knew that wasn’t true, because she was half smiling as she turned to Jack.

“Why did you poison your brother, Jackie?”

Kate was stil laughing. “Tom stole his pistachios, but they had pepper on them!”

Mom hit Tom again with the towel. “Now are you going to stop stealing from him? Have you learned your lesson?”

“I’m going to kil him!”

“You’l do no such thing. And drink some milk. Water makes it worse.”

Tom lifted his dripping face. “What?”

Kate grinned at him. “The stuff that burns is an oil. Water spreads it around.”

“Oh, no!” Tom leaped for the fridge.

“And don’t you dare drink from the carton!” Mom told him.

Jack stood by while Kate told Dad what had happened.

“Serves him right.” He laughed, then settled down to watch the evening news

before dinner.

Though the burning from the tepin juice had been intense, it hadn’t lasted long.

Tom recovered and had retreated to his room in embarrassment. Jack was heading back to the kitchen when he heard a knock. He reversed direction

and arrived in time to see his dad opening the front door for Mr.

Bainbridge.

They shook hands, then Mr. Bainbridge pointed at Jack and smiled. “There’s the man I want to see.”

Jack looked around. Man? Me? Was he in trouble?

“Jack?” Dad said. “What for?”

“Seems he stood up for my brother-in-law the other day when that Bishop punk

was hassling him.”

Dad tilted his head down and looked at Jack over the top of his reading glasses. “That so?”

Embarrassed, Jack shrugged. “Not real y. Weezy’s the one who—” “Yeah. Walt’s not always reliable in what he says, but he told me you and the

Connel girl took his back against two guys a lot bigger.” Mr. Bainbridge looked at Dad. “Sound like your boy’s not afraid of anything—just like his old

man.”

Dad gave him a sharp look, then turned to Jack. “Grab us a couple of beers, wil

you?”

“Sure.”

As he left the room he heard Dad say, “No Korea talk, Kurt. You know how I feel

about that. Save it for the VFW.”

Yeah, Dad never wanted to talk about the war. He and Mr. Bainbridge had met

in Korea. Then, seven years ago, when his company transferred him

from Kansas City to Trenton, he looked up Dad. He loved to fish, and when he

learned how plentiful the trout and bass were in these parts, he decided Johnson was the ideal place to live. So he moved in with his wife, Evelyn, and

her brother, Weird Walt.

Jack pul ed out a couple of Carlings, red cans with a black label, and brought

them back to the living room. On the way in, he heard Mr. Bainbridge

speaking in a low voice.

“Yeah, Walt’s al right. Keeps to himself. Mostly we don’t know he’s there. But the

drinking … man, the guy’s always half lit. He says it’s because of

‘Nam, but come on—he couldn’t have seen any worse than we did above the

thirty-eighth. We—”

He cut off when Jack arrived with the beers.

“Ah, here’s the man we’ve been waiting for.” He laughed as he took the can from

Jack. “‘Mabel! Black Label!’ I see you’re stil stocking the Canuck stuff,

Tom.”

“They know their beer.”

They popped their tops, clinked cans, and drank.

Jack hesitated, then had to ask: “What did you mean by ‘above the

thirty-eighth’?”

Dad shot Mr. Bainbridge an annoyed look, then said, “North Korea and South

Korea are divided along the line of latitude thirty-eight degrees north of the equator. It’s cal ed the thirty-eighth paral el. When the commies in North