David Gates - Jernigan

1

By October neither Danny nor I had spent a night in our own house for over a month.

“Has it occurred to you,” Martha said, “that this is getting silly?”

“I’m not complaining,” I said. I was sitting on the edge of the bed, in shirt and trousers, pulling a sock over my right foot. Martha was lying face-down, cheek against my left thigh, pulling down the sock I’d just put on my left foot. I wasn’t complaining, true, but this wasn’t the time for her to be proving she was still seductive. I was already going to miss the 7:48, and I’d be lucky to get the 8:04. Although I was probably misreading simple playfulness.

She caressed my bare left foot with both hands, burrowed her head into my clothed crotch and kissed, rolled over onto her back and then sat up. “I don’t mean us being together,” she said. “I mean you and Danny shuttling back and forth with your clothes and everything. At least you’re not rousting him out of bed at the crack of dawn anymore to drive him over to your house for the bus.” She cocked her head, stuck out her tongue, crossed her eyes and made crazy-circles around her ears with her index fingers.

“I still think I was right about that.” I picked up the other sock from the floor and pulled it back on. “I don’t think you’re taking into consideration how weird this whole arrangement is,” I said. “Somebody’s going to start burning fucking crosses on the lawn.” This was Peter Jernigan talking, taker of twenty-three acid trips (I had kept count) and sworn enemy of convention.

“Well if anybody’s freaking out,” she said, “I haven’t heard about it. Nobody here even knows anybody.”

“Isn’t it pretty to think so,” I said.

“Why pretty?” she said. Oh well.

“Dear Peter,” she said. “If we could only get you to quit worrying about what people are going to do to you.”

“And live the rational life?”

“I like it when you’re angry sometimes,” she said, rubbing the small of my back, “I’m not saying stay home and fuck me”—she slipped a hand down into the back of my trousers and fingered my coccyx through my shirttail and jockey shorts—“because I know you have to go to work. But just think if you didn’t have to.”

“The unlived life,” I said, raising an Uncle Fred forefinger, “is not worth examining.” Neatly turned, I thought. Sailed by.

“But it’s so stupid,” she said. “You said yourself it was like being in high school.”

“Right,” I said. “Builds character. Teaches citizenship.”

She worked her hand inside the jockey shorts and poked with a nailed finger. “Mr. T says think straight.”

“Hey,” I said. She reached in further, up to her elbow, hand all the way between my legs and up the front of me. “Hmm,” I said.

“But promise you’ll always wear a business suit,” she said in my ear, undoing my belt with her other hand. “I like reaching around in baggy pants.”

“If I quit my job,” I said, lying back and letting her, “even my jeans are going to be baggy.” I was alluding, obscurely, to starvation.

“I would never let you go hungry,” she said, somehow understanding.

A knock on the door. “Dad?”

“He went to work for Christ’s sake,” I called. “You think the breadwinner can lollygag around the house all day?”

“You want me to come back later?” said Danny.

Martha nodded yes.

“Nah, hold on,” I called. “Be with you in a second.” Martha shook her head and silently booed me. “He’s got to catch the bus,” I whispered, standing up and zipping my trousers. “Back in a trice.”

“Drat,” she said.

Down in the living room, Danny had spread out the tablecloth I’d forgotten to put back over the tv the night before, and was sitting on it in full lotus position, the soles of his sneakers turned to the ceiling.

“Sbantib shantib,” I said. “ ’S’up?”

“Listen,” he said, uncurling. “Do you mind if I use the house after school for something?”

“For something?”

“Well, like, for band practice?”

“What band?” I said. Thinking of gold braid and tubas.

“It isn’t really like a band band,” he said. “I was just talking to this kid that plays bass? And he doesn’t like the band that he’s in and we were just going to get together and jam or something.”

“Great,” I said. “I’m glad. Sure. By all means.”

“And Clarissa can maybe sing,” he said, looking away. “Or I was thinking maybe about starting her on drums if we can’t get a real drummer.”

“Well,” I said, determined to encourage, “at least you could have her shake a tambourine or something.”

“Do you think it’d be okay if we turned up kind of loud? I mean not real loud, but it would sound better if we could have it a little loud.”

“Okay by me,” I said. “You might want to keep the windows shut so old Mr. Howard doesn’t call the cops on you.” (Cop with holster sitting at the kitchen table: This is a normal thing to you?) “He doesn’t strike me as a heavy metal kind of guy.”

“It’s not metal , Dad. You know, it isn’t anything yet. Dustin’s into the Smiths and stuff.” Whoever the fuck the Smiths were. “I mean it probably won’t even work out or anything. I never even played with this kid, okay?”

“Well, whatever,” I said, ignoring the tone. “Mi casa su casa . I mean, obviously. Now, should I call and tell the power company they might have a brownout in the area of Heritage Circle?”

He looked at me. “Is that a joke?”

“Yes,” I said. “Hope it amused you.”

“Sorry,” he said.

“One more thing,” I said. “If you plan on smoking dope — of which I firmly disapprove — do it in your bedroom or something, so when the cops do come about the noise you don’t end up in the hoosegow.”

He raised his eyes like a persecuted saint.

I heard a door close upstairs, and down came Clarissa. She drifted into the living room, stinking of pot smoke. When she noticed me, she shrank back, but she couldn’t very well turn tail. So she just stood and blushed. Which was something, to see that pale face go red.

“Sorry, Mr. Jernigan,” she said. “I thought you went to work already.”

“What can I say?” I said. “Sometimes your mind will play tricks with you, you know? What we used to call your my-yind.” Smalltime cruelty, I know, I know. I wasn’t her father, thank God, so it wasn’t up to me to come down on her. But she might as well know I wasn’t an idiot.

“We’re gonna be late, babe,” said Danny. Though only after saying this did he take his eyes off Clarissa to look at his watch. “Got everything?”

She had nothing but a purse the size of a wallet, black leather with silver studs, dangling at her hip from a disproportionately long shoulder strap.

“’Bye, Ma,” she called. (“ ’Bye, honey,” from far away.) Danny took her hand and led her out the door. I checked my watch. So much for the 8:04.

Back upstairs, I found Martha under the covers with only her head sticking out. Oh surprise surprise.

“It’s seven forty-five,” I said. “Do you know how smashed your daughter is?”

“Oh shit,” she said. “I knew she’d been backsliding a little on the weekends.”

“Well,” I said, “I’d hate to be in her little Reeboks when they get to quadratic equations.”

“I don’t think they have anything like that this year,” she said. “But I take your point.” She smiled what was meant to be a wicked smile. “And speaking of taking your point …” She lifted one arm free of the covers and kitchy-kooed. And what do you know? The arm was bare to the shoulder!