Jerk, California

  “You didn’t answer me.”

  George turns on his haunches and stares into me. “Your dad used to come here. Make silent retreats here. Came every year.” He stands up. “That’s the connection.”

  “Why’d he come?”

  “It was a God thing. You wouldn’t understand it.”

  So he was a religious nut, too.

  I glance at the statue. He stares down at me. “He’s never been interested in me before.” I point at His face with my trowel.

  “Feel free to get acquainted.” George spins and walks toward the monastery. “Now slam.”

  The ground is hard and my progress slow. Late afternoon fades into early evening and the sun dips behind a row of trees. Horseflies and mosquitoes attack.

  “Damn bugs.” I shoot a glance at the marble face. “Sorry.” I don’t feel forgiven.

  Why am I apologizing to a statue anyway? I stuff another flower into the ground, but my mind fills with words—words I shouldn’t say at this statue’s feet. I grab another mold and swear.

  Not now, Sam!

  Curses fly out of me at regular intervals. It’s a sickening rhythm. Stab the earth, bust the mold, slam and mound, curse! Stab the earth, bust the mold, slam and mound, curse! There, at the feet of God, I explode and give a full-body twitch.

  When my body stills, I jab a trowel toward the statue.

  “So You listen to people. Guess I didn’t cry loud enough for You to hear, huh?” I whack a bug on my cheek. “If You had anything to do with making me into a monster, You could at least turn the other way.”

  Jerking arms send dirt airborne—onto my face, into my hair, and I grovel in the garden. Tension fills me, and I work faster and faster.

  I hear George’s voice, but I can’t stop moving, and the words don’t register. I whip around to find him gone.

  “Fine. Leave me alone with this . . .”

  “Statue?” A man, black pants and short-sleeve shirt, stands above my deformed shape. I’m covered with dirt—God is, too. I quickly rise. The man’s collar is starched white, and I brush off my shirt.

  “George asked me to come and get you. Our retreat has started, so he had to pull his truck off the grounds.” The priest looks at my work. “I’ll water them in, son. Thanks.”

  I nod, pick up my trowel, and gather the plastic cups littered about. With my arms full of stuff, I look pleadingly at this man.

  “Leave your garbage, if you like. We’ll take care of it.”

  I shake my head no. I would leave no record of being here.

  He smiles. “Walk out the way you came. George is by the gate. He might have told you, the guys don’t speak while they’re on retreat. Please respect that.”

  No talking? Dad really was crazy.

  A cup tumbles from my grasp, and he leans down to pick it up. “Hope to see you again, Jack.”

  “Sam.”

  He stares at my tensing arm and his eyes narrow before he breaks into a broad smile. “I knew your dad. You’re Jack Keegan in my book.”

  I lurch away, bent double with my load. Behind me, all down the hill, I leave a trail of plastic molds. A mosquito buzzes my ear, and I drop everything.

  “Oh, dear God!” My words echo across the acres.

  I look up.

  Fifty men stand stationary, silent, like statues that dot the huge lawn. They stare at me. Unforgiving. I gather my things, get a good hold.

  And run. Across the grassy expanses, right by the men. Embarrassment mixes with words inappropriate.

  He might have told you, the guys don’t speak.

  I don’t need silence to figure out what God thinks of me. It comes through clearly in the laughter of his perfect ones; his still ones.

  I dash out the gate, see the truck, pitch the garbage into the back, and keep running.

  chapter fifteen

  IT’S DARK AND I’M STILL RUNNING. I’LL RUN UNTIL I fall, and when I do I’ll crawl to the side of the road and that’s where I’ll stay. And when someone finds me and asks where I live, I’ll shrug my shoulders and stare at the ground because I don’t belong anywhere.

  The gravel road crackles behind me and I’m flooded with light. George pulls his beater truck alongside me and slows to my pace.

  “You ’ bout done?” I try to speed up, but my legs have nothing left.

  “Since knowing you, I’ve been paraded through Pierce, nearly arrested, and laughed at by a priest.” I huff and swallow hard.

  “Hold on!” The pickup skids to a stop, and I do, too.“Father McCullough laughed at you?”

  I look away. “Inside he was. He’s probably good at holding it in, listening to all them confessions.”

  “You self-absorbed whiner. Get in the truck!”

  George guns the engine.“Inside he was.” He shakes his head and curses and I feel like an idiot.

  We have our own silent retreat on the way back to Pierce. Even my muscles, normally active come evening, take a break.

  Our truck rumbles down his drive and eases to a stop next to the machine shed. The moon shines bright, and in its light George’s face looks haggard.

  “Empty the truck. We’ll try again tomorrow.” He forces a smile, but his voice is tired, I think tired of me. I haven’t done one thing right.

  He heads into the house, so I grab an armload of tools and stumble into his shed. Hoses catch my feet, and I trip and drop my load with a clank. Shovels and pots litter the concrete, but I leave my mess and slam metal doors behind me.

  “Great first day on the job.” I sigh, turn, and plod toward my storm cellar. My lower back twinges as I reach down and throw open the doors.

  “Dang!”

  Eyes stare at me from inside the cellar.

  My heart races. “What are ya trying to do? Finish me off? Dang!”

  George climbs the steps and pushes by me, an old shoe box in his hands. “Left some stuff by your door. Wanted you to have this, but I can see it ain’t the time. Get to sleep. Be rapping early.”

  He hobbles out of sight. I peek my head into the blackness and then slowly walk down. “He probably loosed a snake.”

  Inside, I make myself a peanut butter sandwich, plunk onto the couch, and dream about the girl I attacked with an ax.

  I crack an eyelid, roll over, and sigh. Drifting back off, I mumble, “I’ll apologize for being such a freak.”

  “Ain’t been called a freak before. Crazy yes, but never a freak.” George’s blurred head comes into focus. “Got tired of bustin’ knuckles on the door.”

  “What—what time—”

  “It’s late. Truck’s loaded. I’ll be waitin’ in it.” George hobbles out. “Bring some heavy clothes. Later today we’ll be in the thick. Try to hurry, Jack.”

  I squint at the clock: 5 A.M. I stand and peel peanut butter sandwich off my shirt.

  I change and stagger out of my cellar. The truck’s passenger door hangs open.

  “You look awful,” George says. “All dressed for winter? I said bring it, not wear it.”

  I don’t need suggestions from George. I can dress myself, thank you very much. I climb in and slam the door.

  “Where we goin’ today?”

  “Finish up at the Archers’, move on to the neighbors.”

  “Same pla—” My cough catches me unprepared. “Same place as yesterday?” I flatten down my denim shirt, and grimace into the rearview mirror.

  Finally, I have advance warning. If Naomi’s there, today she’ll see the real me in action.

  The morning had promised sun to Pierce, but changed its mind when it came to Minnetonka. Still, heat was everywhere. Minnesota muggy.

  WCCO reports eighty-nine degrees at 8 A.M. with a shot at a hundred. George’s pickup has no air-conditioning, and I arrive at Naomi’s a stinky-pitted, nappy-haired, foul-breathed sweat ball.

  But I’m ready for Naomi. I breathe deep as George pulls up to the fountain, and summon all my Carrier charm.

  Still as a statue, bold as a lion. Still as a statue, b
old as—

  George interrupts my mantra. “Melissa loves color.” He points at the side of the garage and the line of potted hosta. “Plain green wasn’t working for her.” George pushes out of the truck, still talking. I sit for a moment, eyes closed, palms raised.

  Just one calm day. It’s all I ask.

  I exhale hard and join George behind the truck. He hasn’t stopped blabbering.

  “But that’s garbage if you ask me. Naomi’s smarter than that.”

  My shoulder jerks. “Garbage? What’s garbage?”

  “Nothin’s garbage, Jack.” He gestures toward the plants in the truck. “We’ll plant it all.”

  “No. I know about the plants. You said something was garbage!”

  George looks at me blankly, as if I’m crazy.

  You said her name, crazy coot! I throw my hands into the air and kick a tire.

  “Calm down. We’ll get ’er done.” George pats me on the back and points at the pots by the garage. “All those we—well, I, took out go in here.” He slaps the back of the truck. “These here coleus? Slam them in their place.” He hands me three plants—white, orange, and burgundy mixed with green. “Get creative. Use all we have in the truck.”

  I stare at the flowers as he walks away. “How ’bout I plant them in a straight line?”

  George attaches a hose to the spigot near the front steps and lifts his hands with a flourish. “Create! You’re an artist!”

  “An artist. Right.” I haul hosta to the truck and carry over their replacements. Sweat pours down, and I stare at the hosta holes with stinging eyes. “So maybe I did dress too warm.” I whip off my denim shirt and wipe my face with a sleeve. Sweat refills my eyes.

  “Can’t even see!” I tie a shirtsleeve around my forehead to stop the flow and wrap the rest of my shirt around my neck. The other sleeve swings down in front of me like a pendulum and knocks petals off the plants I hold. I set them down and stuff my sleeve into the front of my jeans. I pick up the smallest coleus.

  “You don’t care where I stick you?” It’s a polite plant. “Okay, Carrier. Create!” I wave my hands over my head like George had done, but I stink and lower the flower. I look off into the woods.

  “Let’s leave it to luck.” I close my eyes, take a step, and drop the plant. “You will be there!” I say triumphantly, and punctuate with a mighty body twitch. I grab another, close my eyes, step forward, and repeat the process. Grab, grope, drop, twitch. Grab, grope, drop, twitch. A bed takes shape.

  Better Homes and Gardens will call me and ask how I did it.

  I fist a plant, let it fall, and let my body rip. “And I’ll tell ’em. Grab, grope—”

  I stop, arms extended, eyes closed. My right hand grips a plant, but my left presses against something smooth and firm. I feel the something tense and relax, and I open my eyes.

  She stands so close. I feel Naomi looking at me, but I can’t take my gaze off the hand that quivers against her tanned skin; because it’s my hand that rests on her abdomen, above the Nike shorts and below the cutoff T-shirt.

  My arms stretch forward like a flower-bearing Frankenstein, but I don’t care and I watch my index finger shift against her body. Yes, it’s official—I caressed Naomi. She doesn’t seem to notice. Probably because my other four fingers tense and twitch something frightful.

  She wraps a hand around the plant and gently takes it. Her fingers touch mine. “Is this for me?”

  I nod, and my limp arms fall to my side.

  “I have something for you, too. I wanted to return this.” Naomi lifts a knife. The shaft resembles one I’d seen George fling into maples.

  “Thought it must be yours. You know, saws, axes, knives.”

  “It’s not mine.” My gaze flits up to her eyes, before falling to her waist. There, I touched her there.

  My body jerks, wild and full, not eighteen inches in front of her. There’s no hiding, and I brace and raise disgusting eyes to hers.

  She cocks her head. “What makes that happen?”

  She asked straight out. No chance to impress her now. No chance for anything if I tell her.

  I take a deep breath. “Hard to explain.”

  Naomi smiles, and I shut up.

  “Thanks for the plant.” She closes her eyes, spins around, and takes two steps.

  God, she’s beautiful.

  Naomi lifts the plant to eye level and drops it. “You will be there!” She turns back toward me. “Leave that one there, okay?”

  I nod and she walks toward me, lightly touches the denim sleeve that hangs down over my chest.

  I blink hard.

  “Better leave you to your work. Be seeing you around.” She brushes past me, and the sound of her footsteps vanishes in the distance. I can’t turn. I stand—smelly-pitted, nappy-haired, stink-breathed, sleeve-hung-over-my-crotch, knife wielder that I am, and shake my head. I drop the knife, pick up the shovel, and sink Naomi’s plant right where she wants it. Rising with a twitch, I stare at my own placements and gaze back at hers.

  “Perfect.”

  chapter sixteen

  I SPEND THE REST OF THE DAY BEHIND THAT garage. I plant and sweat and feel my head spin.

  “Come on, kid. Take some water.” For the second time in a day George’s rough hand slaps my face. “Why aren’t you drinking?” He yanks at the hose for more slack and holds the spewing end in front of me. Slumped against the garage, I reach for one of the three hoses I see but grasp only air. The world spins again.

  “Cripes.” George douses me with water, and then aims some into my mouth. I cough and sputter.

  “You’re a runner,” he says, “figured you knew better.” George unwinds my denim scarf. “Young fool.” He lays my head gently back against the wall. “Enough for today.”

  He hoists me up by the waist and throws my limp arm over his shoulder. We stagger back toward the truck. He stops and turns and scans the flower bed I created.

  “These are some darn good placements. Except that one there on the end. Don’t fit with the others.”

  Straining back to see Naomi’s plant, I roll my eyes. “Tell me about it.”

  We skip work at the neighbors’ and head home. A gallon jug rests on my lap, and every five minutes George gives it a tap.

  He talks the whole way about stuff I don’t care about and don’t want to hear right now. Like gardening. I must’ve dozed off, because when I wake he yaps about nuns.

  “I’m a big believer in wandering.” George taps my water jug. It’s empty. My arms wrap around the plastic, and I squeeze it as if it’s a friend. I turn and stare out the window.

  “Bumped into this tiny sister outside of Dublin. I was fresh off one fight and looking for another. Figured them nuns all cut from the same hand-smacking cloth. I’m surprised Catholic school left me any fingers at all.” He cracks his knuckles and I wince and press my nose into the glass.

  “So I hollered at that little woman—must’ve let her have it for five minutes.” He pauses until I peek his way.

  “Know what she said?”

  I don’t answer.

  “That’s it. Nothing. So I scream, ‘Say something, Sister!’ She shakes her head, starts to sob, and buries herself in my chest. Cried right into my heart, and I tell ya, Jack, my heart heard it, and I was scared to death. I staggered into the nearest pub. That’s where I met your dad, and it changed my life.”

  My stomach feels sick. I don’t want to vomit into my water jug, but Dad’s everywhere, and if I hear much more about him, I’ll lose it. I squeeze the jug tighter and close my eyes. My shoulder gives a huge jerk. The twitches are from him, and Old Bill is around ’cause he’s not, and the only thing he left me is alone—alone with a coot.

  The last embers of sunlight glow as we turn up our drive. I blink, and when I open my eyes, I’m in bed.

  My throat burns, and I feel my way into the kitchen for a drink. As I collapse on a chair, my gaze falls on a note resting on the kitchen table. I stretch for the paper, turn it over in
my fingers. It’s covered with erasures, but the words are legible between smudges.

  Don’t rehearse your speech. You’ll see her, and your mind will blank because she’s pretty. But that’s fine. What you say don’t matter all that much. She doesn’t care about the words, though she’ll pretend to. Look at all the dopes with wonderful women at their sides.

  “Old Bill,” I whisper.

  Nae cares about this: When she’s with you, do you make her feel special? So keep your trap shut, Jack.

  I read my name and flounder off the couch. “Jack? So this is why you adopted me. A chance to analyze poor, twitchy Sam. A little matchmaking, relationship therapy for the charity case who lives down the road.”

  The world spins as I rise, and I take some water. “No more, Coot. Had enough therapy at school.” I glance at the space that once held Dad’s picture. “What am I doing here?”

  I dress and push out into the night. It’s raining, and though my bones ache, I manage to hobble into Pierce. My pace picks up as I walk out the far side of town. Ahead, Old Bill’s farmstead looks dark. The Malibu is gone. Things haven’t changed much.

  The back door is open. I slop inside and stand dripping on hardwood.

  “Like I never left.” I whisper. A hint of heat escapes coals in the fireplace, and I add a log, stoke the flame. I press against the hearth and stare at the popping, crackling tongues.

  “Every problem I got is because of Tourette’s.”

  I lower my soaked body and stretch out on the floor.

  I wake with a divot in my side where I’d leaned against bricks. The Golden Child wails upstairs. The teakettle whistles. Old Bill’s raised voice booms from the back bedroom and there’s a strong knock on the front door.