David Gates - Jernigan

“I don’t want to get Danny in trouble,” he said. “You know, kids like to party. If I had a kid, I’d be a lot more worried about how the kid was feeling, inside himself, instead of did he do drugs or something.”

“And you don’t think Danny is feeling very well.”

“Well, yeah, no. I think he’s feeling really really bad. And other kids can’t do anything to help, because they’re just kids too.”

“Dustin, thank you,” I said. “You did the right thing to tell me.”

“You were kind of my last chance,” he said. “It was weird that you just came by.”

“Tell me something,” I said. “What are they really doing over at what’s-his-name’s? Is it all right him being there?”

“Mitchell’s? Oh yeah. No problem. They’re probably just listening to music and everything.” He stubbed out his cigarette. “I don’t think anything would happen as long as there was somebody around. It’s when you’re alone that things really get weird. You know — Mr. Jernigan, I know this sounds really heavy, but I would not trust Danny by himself right now.”

I got up and went back into the kitchen. I opened the cabinet, reached up and took down the Quaker Oats. Sure enough: there was the gin, still about half full. But I couldn’t. Not and live with myself. This had turned into a night where you stayed sober and did your best to handle something. Dustin had followed me in. What he must have seen was a grown man gazing up at a bottle of liquor.

“Mr. Jernigan?” he said. “I’m sure Danny’s okay over there. You’re welcome to stay around and watch a movie.” I put the Quaker Oats back. “That sounds weird,” he said. “Telling somebody they’re welcome in their own house. Sorry about that.”

“Look, it’s fine that you’re here, Dustin,” I said. “But in light of what you’ve told me, I think I’d better get going and see if Danny’s back yet.”

“I understand,” he said. “Absolutely. Anyhow, I’m glad we got to talk. I would have felt really bad if I hadn’t tried everything, you know?”

“You’ve really helped,” I said, “and I’m really grateful to you. I know it took a lot of nerve. And meanwhile, if there’s anything I can do to help out your situation — you know, is there anything you’d like me to say to your dad when I talk to him?”

He shook his head. “It’s no big deal,” he said. “Everybody’ll get over it okay.”

“Well, I’m still going to call up and touch base with him,” I said. The thought of that changed my mind about the gin. A little jolt couldn’t hurt, might help. I took the Quaker Oats down again, got up on tiptoes for the bottle and brandished it yo-ho-ho style to show cheerful self-irony. “So what are you watching tonight?” I said, replacing the Quaker Oats once more. The old geezer on the box looked at me nonjudgmentally.

“I don’t know yet,” he said. “It seemed like I should make it like a special occasion, so I sort of pigged out at the video place. I got Re-Animator and Texas Chain Saw . I tried to get Night of the Living Dead but somebody already had it out. You ever see that?”

“Yow,” I said. “You’re a better man than I am.”

“They’re not actually that bad,” he said. “They’re pretty funny, actually. And I got a couple of operas too.”

“A rock-and-roll guy like you?” I said. “Or is that the latest thing?”

“Nah,” he said. “My dad got me into it when I was really little. Being a music teacher and everything.”

“Be great if you could get Danny into it,” I said. “Sake of a little variety.” Whatever a little variety was worth. I was way overacting the concerned parent. Standing there trying to jam a fucking gin bottle into an overcoat pocket that was too small and talking about opera providing a little variety. “So what did you get for operas?” I said.

“I don’t know if you know it,” he said, “but Les Troyens? It’s by Berlioz? It’s really long. And I got Madama Butterfly.”

“Madama, yet,” I said.

“I hate when people say Madame,” he said. “My dad taught me a lot of stuff, he really did. Oh, and then I got — I mean, it’s really actually pretty stupid, but this old movie It’s a Wonderful Life?”

“Great movie,” I said, sounding like the old fuck on tv who says “great story” when he catches his grandson reading Moby-Dick . (Ad for these leatherbound Great Books.) “Sounds like you’re in for quite an evening of it. Listen, I don’t mean to sound like a parent, but don’t stay up too late, okay?”

“No chance,” he said. “Listen, thanks.”

“Por nada,” I said, opening the door to the breezeway. “Thank you . And don’t worry about my blowing your cover with Danny.”

“Oh, it’s okay if you do,” he said. “It’s not going to make any difference now.”

“Well,” I said, “whatever.”

“Whatever,” he said, and gave me a mock salute. Good kid, this Dustin. I saluted back.

When I got to the car, I looked back at the house. At the left-hand side of the picture window, the drapery was being held aside just a crack. I saw white fingers against the dark fabric, half a face peeping. So despite what he wanted me to think, some sort of sneaky shit was probably going on.

4

Martha’s Reliant was still gone when I got back to the house, but Clarissa’s window glowed yellow. I called, “Hey, anybody home?” from the kitchen, which now felt as cold as out-of-doors. No answer. Holed up as always. Clarissa had one of those oil-filled electric radiators in her room; with plastic over the window and an old blanket over the door, she and Danny could just settle in and everybody else could go fuck themselves.

I put the gin in the refrigerator and went into the stone-cold living room. From in there I could hear the God damn music going. Meaning that Danny either had or hadn’t rolled in. What pissed me off especially was that I couldn’t let myself be pissed off. Instead I had to prepare to talk to my son about whether or not he might be thinking about killing himself. First thing to do was go back in the kitchen and have a couple good slugs of that gin right off the bat, then get that stove going while the gin was taking hold. That way you’d have someplace warm to have your talk in and you’d also be in a little steadier frame of mind. But it was a hell of a thing when you couldn’t even go in your own house and just take your coat off and sit down. Though of course it wasn’t your own house, so what did you expect.

I went in and had about three good belts, meaning five or six, then came back and opened the stove’s clanky iron door. Ashes in there six inches deep for Christ’s sake. So I went back to the kitchen one more time and got the Rubbermaid bucket Martha used for stuff that was going into the compost. I couldn’t think what to use for a scoop. Finally I found a loaf pan. So I was down on my knees in the cold, scooping ashes out of a stove with a tin pan and dumping them in this stinking bucket. And I remembered coming in here the first time, on the Fourth of July, and thinking Hey, nice, a woodstove . When I got most of the ashes out, I packed the bottom of the firebox with crumpled pages of The New York Times , then snapped sticks over my knee, laid them crisscross on top of the paper, lit the corner of page C7, made sure it blazed up okay, and clanked the door shut. Took the bucket of ashes out the kitchen door and through the backyard to the compost pile, leaving dark footprints in the crisped, whitened grass. Not just some rotting heap for old Martha, boy, but a whole big deal fenced in with chicken wire. Stakes here and there in the pile that you were supposed to pull out at some point to let air in. I dumped the ashes on top of withered carrot tops and cantaloupe rinds. And I’d probably hear about that, too. You were probably supposed to put down a layer of grass clippings first. Grass clippings or blood meal, whatever the hell blood meal was. For the nitrogen. No ashes on top of cantaloupe rinds without an intervening layer of blood meal, that was probably the rule around here.