David Gates - Jernigan

By the time I got back inside, the newspaper had burned away and left the sticks blazing. I thrust in some pieces of scavenged two-by-four, nails and all — hey, give her a little iron to go with her nitrogen when these ashes hit the compost — and dragged the Morris chair over close to the stove and sat down, still in my coat. What I would do was wait until the living room was entirely warm and welcoming: it would be easier explaining to Danny why it was a bad idea to kill himself if we weren’t both sitting huddled in our coats and blowing on our hands. I would open by saying that he seemed down lately. If he admitted it, we were in business; if he denied it, then I’d say that sometimes you could be so down that you didn’t even realize it. What was truly scary about being in that kind of shape, I would inform him, was that nothing was scary anymore. That what might ordinarily be unthinkable started to seem reasonable. Then, once I’d gotten him this far, we could get into why it was a bad idea to kill yourself. Except all I could think of was the usual worldly dog treats. Consent to live and you can fuck more. Listen to more records. He’d already fucked and listened to records; why should he be struck dumb and reverent at the prospect of doing it some more? Better girls! Better records! Oh yeah, and his Art. Forgot all about his Art. Kill yourself and the world will be short one guitar player. No, this was the wrong approach. The way to play this was just to stick to how bad he felt and why, assuming I could get it out of him. And then, probably, life would reassert itself without my feeble help. Assuming it really made people feel any better to talk about how bad they felt and why.

I got up and went into the kitchen again. One more good jolt and then back you go and see if it’s warm enough to take off your coat, and then we get this thing rolling, okay? Assuming Danny was actually home. I opened the refrigerator, unscrewed the cap of the gin bottle and took a good mouthful. Just let my tongue marinate for a few seconds, then swallowed. Then one more, and a last one for good measure. I screwed the cap back on, closed the refrigerator and turned to see Clarissa in the doorway, watching.

“Hey,” I said. That was my new breezy hello with the kids.

“Mr. Jernigan?” she said, though it had been agreed that I was Peter now. “I think I’m in trouble.”

She looked it. I mean, more than usual. Staring. Hair every which way. And I noticed she was barefoot: what that must have felt like in this cold I couldn’t imagine. Shit, I thought, here we go, barefoot and pregnant. So this was what was on Danny’s mind. And here I’d been thinking it was mal de Stècle .

“Come stand by the stove,” I said. I put a hand on her arm, to guide and protect. You should’ve seen her jump.

“You’re not my father,” she said.

“Spared that much,” I said, possibly not loud enough for her to hear. “Clarissa,” I said, beckoning her to follow me into the living room. “Please, sit.” She took the Morris chair; I chose the cold floor beside her. Once you got any distance from that stove, boy, it wasn’t any fucking Dejeuner sur l’herbe in here. “Now, what’s up with you?” I said. “Please tell me you’re not pregnant.”

She shook her head and said, “LSD monster babies.”

“Say again?” I said.

“It makes people have monster babies,” she said. “I think I took too much.” She shook her head. “Whew. I don’t think it’s good to think about that,” she said, then looked around the room. “Whew.”

“Okay, easy,” I said. “Clarissa, are you by any chance tripping?”

“Except I think I took too much,” she said. “I took three because Dustin said it was going to be a real special occasion, but I think three was too much. Because I’m little.” That set her off laughing. “I’m little.”

“Oh Christ,” I said. “Listen, Clarissa? Where’s Danny? Did—” Better go one question at a time. “Okay. Now, where is Danny?”

“All right,” she said. “I heard you.”

“Is Danny here?” I said.

“No, he’s still over Mitchell’s,” she said. “Do you know how far that is?”

“Clarissa. Now, did Danny take some too?”

“He was scared to,” she said. “And then he got real mad at me, and so me and Dustin went to the mall but I didn’t like it there. Could you take me to the hospital?”

“Poor Clarissa,” I said, meaning it. “You’re really having a tough time of it, aren’t you?”

“I think they can give me a shot,” she said. “Dustin said they can give you one. Could you take me?”

“Believe me, Clarissa, I know what you’re going through. It will get better.”

“How can you know?” she said.

She had a point there.

“What I mean is,” I said, “I’ve had this same sort of thing happen to me, and …” And what — just look at me now? “And you do come down and you do feel better. Now listen, can you tell me who else took this stuff?”

“I told you already,” she said. “Dustin. Dustin Dustin Dustin.”

“Okay, easy,” I said. “Whew,” she said.

“Now did Dustin actually take it with you?” I said. “Or did he just give it to you?” The kid had seemed rational enough to me. And we know how much that means.

“How come you want to know so much about Dustin?” she said. “I want to go to the hospital.”

“Okay, okay,” I said. “The hospital it is.” Better, I supposed, than trying to deal with this by myself. Old Martha was going to owe me one when this was over. “We’re going to go in just a sec,” I said. “The reason I’m asking about Dustin is because I’m worried that he might be having a bad time too.”

“Dustin can handle it,” she said. “He was driving his car and everything. We went to the mall, but I didn’t like it there.”

“Terrific,” I said. Little shit had probably swallowed a Pez and given her the real McCoy. Not unheard of back in Jernigan’s day. “Okay, I guess we’ll have to let Dustin worry about Dustin.”

This struck her funny. She squirmed around in the chair giggling, then stopped. “My teeth feel too big in my mouth.”

“Clarissa? Try to relax. This is not going to go on forever, and we’ll get you to where they can help you out, okay? Now, why don’t you go get some shoes on, get your coat on, and we’ll go get you some help, okay?”

“Get some shoes on,” she said. “Shoes on, get some shoes on. Whew. I think I’m still getting higher.”

“I’d better give you a hand,” I said, then realized that if shoes on had stopped her, giving her a hand might really sound grotesque. But it just slid by. I thought about being so high that nothing — not a word, not a visual image, not an idea — made any sense or was attached to anything else. In that kind of state, was even terror just one more thing? Clarissa seemed to be getting close enough to send back a report, but of course asking such a question would be a bad idea. And if she was close enough to know the answer, she wouldn’t be able to understand the question. Wouldn’t know what a question was. I stood up and held out my hand; she remembered enough about how things went to take it and get to her feet. It was one of the many processes that, luckily, she hadn’t yet thought to examine. It was possible that Clarissa simply wasn’t bright enough to get herself in serious trouble. No denying, on the other hand, that she was suffering.

I walked her upstairs to her room and sat her down on the bed. “Socks in here?” I said, opening the top dresser drawer. They were. “How about these?” I said, holding up a pink pair rolled together. She lifted her sweatshirt over her head. Nothing on underneath.