Big Jack Is Dead Read Free Page B

rug. Quietly, he made small vrooming noises with his mouth, mimicking the shifting of gears. He stopped and cocked his head, listening to his parents in the bedroom, arguing. Jack froze, clutching his favorite car as the bed springs began to squeak.
    After a short while, Big Jack came out of the bedroom in his softball uniform. He wore a team t-shirt bearing the Salvation Army logo, some stretchy pants and cleated athletic shoes. In the one-inch cleats, he walked as if he was a figure of towering proportions. They made a marching sound as he crossed the tile floor. The oval rug muffled the noise as he drew closer, dropping his gear and a pristine cap onto the couch.
    “Goin' to play some ball, boy.” Excited, he grinned down at his son with a competitive, almost maniacal grin. After tying his shoelaces, he took up the new cap, pulling it over his head snugly and looking down at his son. “Well, how do I look?”
    Jack faced up, knees folded under him. “You look good. You look like a baseball player.”
    “Softball, remember? Baseball is for pussies who gotta get paid to play.”
    “Yes, sir,” Jack said.
    Big Jack studied his son for a second. “And little kids in Peewee League. Like you in a couple of years.” Smiling uncomfortably, he reached out and pawed Jack's hair. “You're gonna whoop some ass someday like your daddy, right?”
    “Right,” Jack said, nodding and reaching out to touch the smooth aluminum bat leaning against the couch.
    “I'll bet you're gonna make a good outfielder. Fast, with good eyes.”
    “Yeah,” Jack said.
    “Maybe we can play some catch this summer. You might be big enough now.”
    Jack picked up the crumbling leather glove his father had used since high school and held it out.
    Big Jack took the glove, tucking it under one arm. “Alright. Is my cap on right?” Grinning, he knelt down a bit as Jack came close and tugged on the bill, straightening the cap.
    “It looks A-okay.”
    “Alright, Daddy's gonna go win a game.” Tapping the bat on the rug underfoot, he nodded to Jack. “You be good, boy. I'll see you later, before you go to bed.”
    Jack watched him as he snatched up his truck keys and walked out the door.
    When the truck engine died away, Ramona came shuffling out of the bedroom, dragging now. Wearing nothing but a housecoat, she made her way through the living room, taking care to step over Jack's toys on the way.
    He stood up a minute later and padded across the oval rug, carrying his favorite car in one hand. With just the two of them there, the house was quiet. In the kitchen, he hung onto the stove with his free hand.
    Ramona stood at the sink, holding a cigarette and a plastic bag, smiling at him. “Hey, baby.” Lifting the sandwich baggy, she exhaled into it. Jack could see her lips pucker through the plastic as the little bag puffed out. Lifting the cigarette to one side of the baggy, she burned a hole into it, inhaling the fumes deeply while it melted.
    The smell of burning plastic crossed the room, cloying and unpleasant. She closed her eyes, holding the baggy and smoldering cigarette in place, repeating the process several times. The tip of the cigarette made twisting, expanding holes in the baggy. Finally, her hands fell, the bag slipping to the ground like a parachute shredded by hot shrapnel. She opened her eyes and smiled, groggy but happy.
    “Come here, little Jack,” she said. “Come here, my baby.”
    He crossed the room and continued walking until he collided with her body. Ramona rocked gently, settling back against the counter. Draping one hand over his shoulder, she lifted the other to her face, taking a drag on her cigarette. Ruffling his hair with a leaden motion, she exhaled smoke down around him, the soft cloud settling over him like goose feathers after a pillow fight.
    Jack closed his eyes and buried his face against her belly where it was starting to swell with his little brother Brodie.

Chapter 2
     
    1999
     
    The last night of