David Gates - Jernigan

“Of?”

He shrugged. I screwed the lid back on, tightly, and handed it back.

“Don’t mind me,” he said, unscrewing the lid again. “I’m sure you’ve seen this on television.” He put a heaping spoonful up each nostril. Then he did each nostril again. He kept snuffling and rubbing at the underside of his nose with his forefinger. “Rrrighty-o,” he said. “Okay, for ten points, who said that? Rrrighty-o. Famous cartoon.”

I knew it was Felix the Cat, but you couldn’t say anything. Not and keep your dignity.

“As seen on television,” he said. “I know you know. And you know I know you know. You just don’t want to say because this is serious, right? An intruder right in your h ome , man. Which you just found out isn’t your home.”

“It’s a little hard to believe,” I said, “that somewhere in the divorce—”

“The divorce? The divorce? Oh now don’t tell me that my little Martha is going around saying … Listen. Man to man, here: this is a sick bitch.”

“You’re telling me that you and Martha are not divorced,” I said.

“C’mere,” he said. “C’mere c’mere, I’m not going to do anything to you. You want to see it on paper? C’mere.”

He went right to the drawer where Martha kept the phone books, thumbed around and found the P’s. “Now,” he said, flipping two pages forward, then one back, then running his finger down the column. “Peretsky R,” he said. “Not Peretsky R Mrs. , not Peretsky M. Fuckin’ R , babe.” He tapped his chest. “See, I know Martha, Martha’s great. But she’s always had this problem, man. Like she doesn’t tell the truth , you know what I’m saying?”

“Oh come on,” I said. “So she didn’t change the name.”

“Danny don’t!” cried Clarissa.

I turned and there was Danny pointing the little pistol and Clarissa reaching for him.

“Clarissa get the hell away from him,” I said. She moved. “Danny. What do you think you’re doing?”

“I want him to get out of here,” said Danny.

“He was just about to leave,” I said, giving Rusty Ronson a look. A steelier look, I must say, than I’d dared give him before. “Now put that thing up.” Danny didn’t move.

“Hey,” said Rusty Ronson, “I like this Danny Boy.”

“I don’t like you,” said Danny.

“Danny enough,” I said. “He’s on his way. Now put it down now.” I took a step toward him and he moved the gun so it was pointed, wavering, at the space between Rusty Ronson and me.

“Dad,” he said. “I’m really serious.”

Rusty Ronson laughed. “Okay,” he said. “Beautiful. I’m outta here. Okay, partner,” he said to Danny, “now all’s I’m doing, I’m just going in the other room get my coat—”

“Clarissa,” said Danny, not looking at her, “go in get him his coat, all right?” He moved the gun so it was pointing back at Rusty Ronson, who put his hands up cowboy-style.

Clarissa brought in a stinking leather Eisenhower jacket.

“Okay, I’m just putting on the jacket,” said Rusty Ronson. He put on the jacket. Then he moved toward his bag. “What I’m doing now, I’m just getting my bag off the chair, right?” he said. He slung it over his shoulder. “Danny?” he said. “Been a pleasure. Clarissa? Don’t forget your old man now.”

He saluted, wrist limp, fingers straight across the eyebrows, and then he was out the door. Clarissa ran into the living room and up the stairs.

“You , boy,” I said to Danny, “are fucking crazy.” I heard Clarissa’s door slam. “You give me that thing immediately.”

“He knows he’s not supposed to come here,” said Danny, heading for the door. “He was watching the house until Mrs. Peretsky left. She’s got papers on him.”

All news to me.

“Now, enough,” I said. I stood with my back against the door. “You don’t know what you’re getting into. He’s on drugs , this man, he could have a gun for all you know, he might be waiting out there. I’m calling the police.”

Outside, a car engine started.

“That’s not a real great idea, Dad,” said Danny. “All he’s going to do is say I was pointing a gun at him.” I turned around and, with my index finger, parted the calico curtain that hid the panes of glass in the top half of the door. I peered through and watched red taillights recede. They winked and vanished over the crest of the hill.

“He leave?” said Danny.

“Sure,” I said, letting the curtain drop, “for now.” I went over and grabbed the receiver off the wall: dial tone in my ear. Danny sprang at me and clawed the cradle down: dial tone stopped.

“Please, Dad, just forget it, okay? He’s not going to come back. All the cops are going to do, they’re going to come here, they’re going to probably find the gun, then they’re going to search me and Clarissa’s room, and — you know.”

Well, now I did.

Danny opened the door and walked outside, long-legged cowboy swagger, as far as the street. I watched him standing there, his head sweeping slowly, all the way left, all the way right, all the way left again. His skinny neck. A couple of snowflakes came down. Then a few more. The way he stood there reminded me of his first day of real school. 1977. And him, six years old, standing at the end of the driveway, lunch bag in hand. Even then he knew lunch boxes were strictly for kids. Judith and I watched him from the living room window: he never turned around.

He came back in and laid the gun on the kitchen table. “Dad,” he said, “could you do something with that, put it somewhere? I don’t think it’s that great of an idea for Clarissa to know where it is tonight.” Then he went upstairs. Neither of them came down again.

2

I sat and drank more gin. Got out Martha’s Rand McNally Road Atlas and looked at New Hampshire-Vermont. Oh, I knew the way to Uncle Fred’s camp: I just wanted to look at the lone dot and at the red and blue roads like veins and arteries. Then turned on the tv and watched the Channel 9 news. At least we weren’t on it: there was that to be said for the Channel 9 news. I preferred the Channel 7 news because I was hotter for Kaity Tong than I was for this one on Channel 9, whatever her name was, but the Channel 7 news wasn’t on yet. I mean not hot, exactly; just something. Commercial came on and I got up to piss. It was “I’m Not Gonna Pay a Lot for This Muffler.” In the bathroom you could hear the same commercial going up in the kids’ room. Water pipes maybe carried the sound. Tried to construct a joke around the idea of piped-in music, but I couldn’t see how to set the son of a bitch up.

Martha came in just when they were getting to the sports, except there wasn’t much sports because it was Christmas, although they still had to have the sports guy, who was nowhere near as good as Jerry Girard on Channel 11, Very Independent Sports. So which to confront her with: the Rusty Ronson thing, or where the hell she’d been all day? Ended up going with the Rusty Ronson thing, largely because I really didn’t give a fuck about the other anymore. I mean, I was out of here anyway.

“Had a little holiday visit today,” I said, being oh so sardonic.

“Did you,” she said. Really interested, boy. Well she would be, in about one second.

“Do you want to know who from?” I said.

“Do I?” she said.

“Your husband,” I said. “Who is going around saying he still is your husband. Which I found pretty disconcerting. Don’t you find that pretty disconcerting?” She had enough dignity left not to say anything. “Imagine my surprise,” I said.