Marc Watkins
The Lesson
A
dead jack lies high up the ditch a stone's throw from the macadam.
And from where it rests I can't be sure if a car got it or something
else. But it's dead. No fooling. There are no swarms of flies or stench,
least none I can see or smell from the road,
George pushes a wheelbarrow behind me full of copper wire we
dug out the ground earlier. The wheelbarrow's got an old concrete
wheel with a smear of asphalt near the rim from the time he pushed it
through the fresh tarred county road which creeps along the belly of
the hollow that edges our property.
"Spied us some road kill," I tell him. And he travels the distance
between us, letting the old misshapen wheel creak as it wobbles toward
me, before he'll answer. I hate the sound. There's an awfulness in the
way it creaks, kind of like the noises I heard down in the basement of
my friend's house. His parents got a washer machine, and it sounds
like a mournful church organ.
He pushes it to a stop next to me, I wince and turn my head, trying
not to show it, "Well, now," he says, narrowing his eyes on the jack,
"You thinking a car did it?"
"Tire might of thrown it a spell from the road."
George considers this, then shoots me a disappointed look,
"Thought they learned you better than that at school,"
"What?"
He points at the jack, makes note of the distance and how high the
animal rests along the upward slope of the ditch, "Only a Mac truck
could've thrown it that far. You seen or heard any big diesels?"
"Sometimes," I say, unsure, "Out at the hog farm,"
"They drive along this road?"
I know he's staring at me, but all I can do is keep my head pointed
at the cracked macadam. "No."
"Look me in the eye when you talk to me,"
I do for a moment, but it doesn't last long,
"Know what?" he says, "You're 'bout the strangest boy I've ever seen,"
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I shrug. "Ain't it strange how animals always die so close to the road?"
He walks over to the jack. It's bigger up close. Near twenty-inches
long. Fat, too. George makes me keep my distance.
"Could of been snake bit."
"Naw," he says. Then he picks up a stick and rolls the carcass.
" 'Possums can live through a rattlesnake or moccasin strike. Won't
even make 'em pause."
Once the jack is rolled over we see its torn throat and I know
right away coyotes did it, but I don't say so because it doesn't need
saying. I've learned to keep my mouth shut when something is obvious,
especially around George.
He taught me a lesson once with a willow switch when I was helping
him fix the fridge. He was on his back behind it and I was supposed
to be listening to see when the compressor kicked back on. When it
did he asked me if it was running, and I asked just where he thought
a rusted metal fridge could run to?
My backside had welts for a week. Now I know there's no place
for any creature — not even metal ones — to run to from here.
We take the jack with us. He doesn't tell me why. I stare at it the
whole way back, the creaking wheel forces my teeth together and I
grind them while I look at the 'possum. Coyotes don't kill for food, but
for fun. George's told me they're the only animal that does this, but it's
hard to believe him sometimes.
O
nce we reach the house Mom meets us. Cigarette in hand, she's
been waiting on the porch all morning. There's an old mason jar
she uses as an ashtray with about a pack and a half of smoked filters
as proof. And her face puckers once she catches sight of the dead
'possum lying stiff atop our copper.
"You, George," she says. "Just why in the hell do you bring a
diseased animal to this house on today of all days?"
George doesn't answer her. He rarely does nowadays. They tell
me Uncle George and Mom have lived together since I was born. And
they fight regularly. More so now that we might lose the house.
This is Grandfather's house, and we are guests. And I'm to
remember that, always.
Mom orders me inside to wash up after coming close to the jack.
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Marc Watkins.
Though I tell her I didn't touch it, only with my eyes, I'm still made
to scrub my hands and arms with the lava soap George keeps around
for when he's working on the truck.
There's a warm pie waiting on the kitchen table for the bank
men to gorge on when they come up. Mom's also whipped up some
fresh squash and thin cut slices of cheddar. We don't hold well with
eating crackers, so vanilla cookies will have to do. I hope the bank
men understand.
The house is older than anything I've ever seen. The same boards
on the porch Mom clean swept just this moming were laid out long
ago by Grandfather's people. I could go over every inch of the house
and describe the oddities of its age, but I'll just say this and leave it
at that: Every piece of wood in this house has a square nail hammered
into it. How often do you see a square-headed nail? I never have in
any other house I've seen.
Outside George hoses the dirt off the copper with the water hose. I
change my clothes as I'm supposed to. End up wearing a white buttoned
up number so starched I'm fearful the creases will set permanent like
how they warn you about not making faces at school less you want
your face to stay that way forever. Makes me fearful of being frozen
into one of Mom's statuettes.
On the porch Mom busies herself tidying the place for the fifth
time today while George fires his pipe and sits. He doesn't change his
clothes, doesn't have to since he's grown. He looks different than me,
hair slick back and straight in the shoulders. Me, I'm a hunchback
— as Mom says — with a thick head of curly hair no comb can master.
George says I look weird, but Mom always corrects him, calling me a
child of God instead.
The jack dangles from the edge of the porch from a noose George
crafted out of fishing line. Head pointed down while the tail creeps
along its back till it touches its ears. George'll leave the body out for
close on to a week before he dresses it for meat. A little spoil makes
for softer meat when it comes to 'possum. Every animal rots different.
If it was raccoon or porcupine we'd have to fire the meat right away or
it'd be tough enough to swell your gums by morning.
Mom finishes her cleaning, takes a seat, and steals a nervous
glance at George.
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He notices. "Keep a calm face."
"Oh, you can be sure ofthat," she says, rapping a pack of smokes
against her palm. "I only worry 'bout who he'll bring with him."
"People comfortable with money. Least that's what I understood
over the phone."
"I know what he said. I ain't slow. But I wonder about the type of
men he travels with."
"Just act white around them," he says to mom, but his eyes rest
on me.
"George," Mom says with her serious voice. "If you fuck this
I'll never forgive you." And to drive the needle into her point, she
says, "Daddy won't neither. But I'm sure she will." The 'she' being
Grandmother. "She always is forgiveful to her first born."
He shakes his head. It's not like him to be ashamed. "You'll let
it go sometime."
"Oh, I have," Mom says, straightening her back defiantly. "But you
wait and see. It'll be a cold day in July before she forgives me."
I'm not supposed to say nothing, but I tempt it. "What're ya'll
angry for?"
They're both silent. George smiles, turns from Mom then back to
me. "Just speaking of old times is all."
"Yes," Mom says, quickly. "Never you mind the conversation of
adults." She faces George but her words are for me. "There's times
folks talk without thinking."
I tum away and look at the jack. "Does a 'possum really have two?"
"Two what?" Mom says, confused.
"The boy means pecker," George says with a roll of his eyes. "He
wants to know if the Jack has a second pecker."
She reddens. "Abe, you don't dare say that 'round the bank man
and his friends."
"I won't," I say, but I think maybe I will if I end up not liking
them so much. Mom becomes friendly, running her fingers through
the curls of my hair. "Well," I say. "Do they?" Her lip quivers. It does
this before she smacks me.
George laughs. "You tell me."
So I leave the porch before Mom whips me and their talk fades to
whispering by the time I've walked to the jack. I'm told I have a good
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pair of ears, that I come to listen better than most, and this has bmng
me plenty of trouble, but I can't hear them on the porch. Though I can
tell they haven't stopped talking since I left.
The flies have come for the jack. They land around the eyes, solid
little marbles with a black core and a milky covering. I don't know why
they stay to the edges. Could be maggots can't grow in the eyes.
The jack spins on the fishing line, but there's no breeze. I don't
dare touch it. Not because I'm afraid. I just don't wanna have to wash
my hands again. Soon the jack's belly twirls so it faces me. I can't
see anything at first, but then I spy a small pouch around the groin
and two small bumps peak out from beneath a lip of skin. Now I've
seen strange stuff before. Spines on a channel catfish spearing perch.
Bulls humping each other at the rodeo. A black snake swallowing a
cottonmouth whole. But I've never seen two heads on a penis. It would
be a whole lotta fun if I had another one to play with, but that'd go
against nature. I stare at it for a long while, longer than I want to.
Only the shiny Buick speeding up the drive causes me to look
away. It's Mr. Teller, the man Mom tells us is from the bank.
He pulls to a stop in front of the house and steps out with two black
men in their twenties. Mr. Teller is fat. He looks like he eats with four
mouths. But not the other two. Both are all muscle and know it. They
show it in how they walk up to the house. I slip to the edge of the porch,
my head hidden by a line of myrtle. But still, I see.
Mr. Teller sways up the porch steps. "Howdy, Howdy," he says,
happily. He wears pleated pants held up by bulging suspenders which
look like they'll pop any minute. The other two come onto the porch
without a word. Each is dressed in jeans and wears a T-shirt. No way
is this right. If these two work at the bank it's afterhours as janitors. I
know they have no business here. So does George. He doesn't bother
greeting Mr. Teller, he just stares those two down.
Mom greets all three of them by getting up and walking gracefully
over to shake each man's hand. I'm told by my friends she's what you'd
call a looker. She wears a strapless orange sundress which shows off
her tan legs.
"Sit, sit," she says to the men. And they do. She brings out the pie
and the cheese along with a cool pitcher of ice tea. And when she sits
back down the men move their chairs near her. They look at her, but
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not at George. "I can't thank you enough for coming to see me today,"
She pours Mr. Teller a glass.
"You're most welcome, Ms, Most welcome," Mr, Teller says,
accepting the drink, "I wasn't aware your brother was joining us,"
"That some kinda problem?" George says before Mom can respond,
"Why no," Mr, Teller pauses. "Well, perhaps — "
One of the black men leans forward. "I like to conduct business
on an individual basis. One customer at a time."
George nods, "And I like to know who I'm doing business with,"
"You might could call us investors," his friend says.
"Yes," says Mr, Teller, "Both of these men have taken a peculiar
interest in your situation, Jeanette."
Mr, Teller introduces the men. Their names are Bueford and Maxey,
Bueford raises an arm of sympathy and puts it around Mom's
shoulder. "When we heard of your troubles, I was moved — "
"Powerfully moved," adds Maxey,
"Oh, my," Mom says, taken aback,
"See now," Bueford says, raising his voice till it begins to crack,
"I am no opportunist, I am, ma'am, a practicing Christian."
"Yeah," George says, "What denomination?"
Maxey shrugs, "What denomination you got? I guarantee I'm
part of it,"
"Not of my church,"
"Be surprised,"
"No," George says. He rises from his chair, "Nothing surprises
me anymore." Mom gives him a pleading look, wanting him to stay on
the porch, but he steps inside the house.
Left alone her color begins to pale,
"Alright now." Maxey shoves wedges of cheddar into his mouth,
"How much is the note?"
Mr, Teller balances a finger on his knee, "Substantial."
"Quite the predicament," Bueford looks at the uncut pie. He
moves his hand over the crust and gently rubs the surface until it
breaks. It's a gooseberry pie. Sour and tart all the way through. It's
Mom's specialty and Bueford's finger sinks into it all the way to the
knuckle. "What are we to do?" He slowly moves his finger out then
back into the pie.
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Marc Watkins"There are possibilities." Mr. Teller smiles. "Let us determine
what Ms. is amenable with before we proceed."
It's not hot out, not even humid, but Mom sweats. Mr. Teller sweats
too, but he's fat. Mom looks at each of the men, then at the broken
pie cmst.
"I have collateral."
"'Course you do." Maxey stares at her feet. She's got sandals on,
and Maxey can't help but gaze at her painted toenails.
Mom gives a shy laugh. Then she regains her focus. "There's this
load of copper out yonder. Now I know it's small, but there'll be more
along tomorrow."
Bueford is disappointed. "What we supposed to do with stolen
copper?"
"Sell it. George and my son — "
"You didn't mention any children," Maxey says to Mr. Teller.
"Abe's just my little one."
Mr. Teller ignores her and shoots Maxey a cold look. "A harmless
babe." He turns to Mom. "What is he, Jeanette, seven, eight?"
I step out from behind the myrtle. "I'm nine."
Maxey and Bueford half jump up from their seats. Mr. Teller is
amused, he laughs, but no sound comes from his mouth. His belly just
shakes. But Mom isn't happy. I come onto the porch and she grabs me,
pulling me onto her lap.
"His father around?" Maxey hasn't stopped staring at me since I
set foot on the porch.
"No."
Bueford looks at me with narrowed eyes. "You know you're a
spitting image of my nephew."
"Thanks," I say, though I don't mean it.
Mr. Teller sighs heavily. "I'm afraid I must insist we retum to
business. I believe we've a solution for you, Jeanette."
Mom's face is beaming. "You mean you'll take the copper as
payment?"
Maxey laughs. Bueford turns away.
Mr. Teller shakes his head, gravely. "No, I was thinking of the
arrangement you and I made some months ago back in town."
"Well, no." Mom releases me from her lap. "That was a one time — "
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"And now it's time to expand your arrangement." Maxey has his
hand out, rubbing Mom's shoulder.
"No, no, this isn't what we agreed." But Mom lets Maxey touch
her. "Abe, you go and see about that 'possum."
"But I haven't had any pie yet."
She raises her hand and smacks me across the jaw. Maxey smiles
when he sees my eyes tear up. I stumble off the porch. Soon after
everyone goes inside. Out in the yard all I can think of is how much
of a bitch she can be to me, making me feel a fool around company.
It's not right, I say to myself, mbbing my jaw.
I
stood right next to that 'possum till the sun stretched my shadow a
mile. It was quiet up at the house. And I couldn't help but wonder
why the blinds were now lowered in Mom's room. The swaying jack
stared at me with its dull eyes. Before long I hated it and found myself
punching it. The dead weight rang hollow through my knuckles. I
ended up swinging so hard that I done broke the fishing line and the
jack flew across the yard.
"What'd you go on and do that for?"
George had come from the house without me noticing. He didn't
have a bottle in his hand but he was drunk. Even so he still walked
sure footed through the yard and picked up the jack and dangled
it in front of me. I knew by the way he talked he was in one of his
moods. But I couldn't get away from him since Mom sent me out of
the house.
"Goddamnit, she hit me for no good reason."
He reached out and lifted my face by the jaw to see the damage.
"She had her reasons."
"Bullshit."
"Watch your mouth."
And I did. But I looked him in the eye while I was silent. Then
George looked away from me for the first time. He carried the jack
over to the shed and laid it out straight on his work bench.
"You and me, we gonna spend the afternoon together."
"I wanna go back inside."
"That what you want?" He gave me a mocking frown. "I'd of
thought you'd want that double pecker off of the jack."
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Marc WatkinsI didn't say anything because I knew he was working up to telling
me why and it'd piss him off if I said something dumb.
George took out his pocket knife and flipped open the blade. In
one motion he set the steel to the jack, jamming the blade into its groin
and slicing upwards till the penis fell loose of the flesh. He pulled the
forked thing away from the jack and twirled it between hisfingers."Yes,
sir," he said. "The bone in a 'possum's pecker can bring you luck."
"Really," I said, unimpressed. "Can it grant wishes too?"
"It can help you get what you want."
I was going to laugh but then I saw he was serious. There was a
small propane stove next to the bench George kept for dressing wild
game. He tumed it on and I watched the blue flames dance like wild
specters. Then he put a small copper potfilledwith water on the bumer
and we waited for it to boil.
"You wear this 'round your neck and good things are bound to
happen." He handed me it.
"And it'll help me get whatever it is I want?"
George was not looking at me. He was dead set on watching the
water boil. "Maybe."
He seemed tired. More so than I remember him getting eome
afternoon. I didn't hold much in what he was saying, but even so I
took to the notion of what the 'possum penis could offer and began
to think of all the things I could wish for. The fancy things the other
school kids with money got from their parents popped into my head.
But I wanted something special.
There was this girl named Lulu I was sweet on. And I wanted more
than anything to take her behind the bleachers and see her without
her clothes. Word around school was she done it with an older boy
before. So why not with me?
The water started to boil with lazy bubbles. George took the jack's
penis and dropped it into the pot. Then he stuck a wood spoon into the
water and gave it a stir like he was cooking stew. He gave me a sluggish
grin. But nothing more. He took to squinting whenever he was rolling
a thought over in his mind and his eyes looked near tight shut now.
Finally, he tumed from the pot. "Figure out what it is you want?"
"Guess so."
"Is it good?"
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"Oh, yeah." The thrill of Lulu must've been written across my face
in electric ink because George took note of my happiness.
"Don't tell me, nor anyone else what it is. Ever." He said. "Else
you'll be shit out of luck."
"What you wish for?" I asked. But then I remembered that he told
me not to say, and that meant he wouldn't ever say.
George tumed away from me and looked at the house, at the blinds
drawn across Mom's windows. "It'll come tme today. If I'm strong
enough to let your mother do what needs done."
George was strong as any man I ever seen. But now he was shaking
a little.
"George, you caught sick?"
He pushed his hands deep into his pockets and kept them there.
"Abe, you got to talk to me now. Talk to me like a man and tell me
what I should do."
Never once had George asked me what he should do. And I could
tell he meant business. This scared the hell out of me.
"But I don't understand,"
"Sure you do," he said. Then he nodded toward the house. "Saw you
nosing around. And you ain't stupid. Now tell me what I should do."
I started to back away from him toward the house. But he pulled
his hands out of his pockets like they were claws and grabbed a hold
of my shoulders. "Let me go,"
His nails squeezed into my back. "Haven't you ever wanted
something so bad you'd do anything to get it?" I tried to wiggle free,
but he had me hooked by the shoulders. "Something that meant more
to you than anything else in the world?"
"No," I said, "Nothing." And I tore loose, ripping my shirt. I put
a little distance between us so if he lunged at me again I could duck
him and make a mn at the house. His face was wrinkled up in a scowl,
and his eyes watered like he was about to cry. I knew if I didn't do
something he'd beat me, probably worse than he'd ever beaten me
before. He took a step toward me. "Wish," I blurted out. "Go on and
wish for it."
This made him stop. "That what you want me to do?"
I nodded, hoping to calm him.
George stopped shaking. His face went back to normal, and
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he shook his head. "Damn it all. You're just a boy, a foolish one
at that,"
I opened my mouth, but before the words could come out George
sprang at me like a cat and caught me by the arm.
"Wish!" I screamed. And he hit me. I hollered the word again and
he hit me harder. Before I knew it I was on the ground.
He hovered above me. "Wish?" he said with a hiss, "You spend
your life wishing and everything around you'll rot away to nothing."
Then he moved to hit me again, but stopped himself. Turning his
attention to the house, he left me with a warning, "You stay lying right
where you are, Abe. You don't get up till I come back. And you don't
go to the house. You stay here."
I couldn't feel the left side of my face except for the warm line of
blood running down my nose and cresting along my upper lip, I did
as I was told. I lied there.
George stomped through the yard, as cool and calm as he looked
when he beat me. He stopped at Mr. Teller's fancy Buick long enough
to tear the radio antenna off the trunk, I risked a little and rose up till I
was sitting Indian style. George swung the antenna through the air like
it was a genuine sword, making swishing sounds as it sliced upwards
and downwards. I got to my feet as he walked up the porch steps. And
when he entered the door I made a dead run for Mom's window.
I don't know what I was going to tell her. She wasn't one to run
from George like I was. She'd stand and face him, I tried to think what
I could say to keep her from being beat, but it was no more than a few
more steps to her open window. Just before I slammed into the siding I
managed to throw up my arms and stop myself on the window frame.
Then I threw open the blinds. And I saw.
Mom's bed was a nice queen-sized number I used to share with her
sometimes when I was younger and a storm blew loud in the spring.
But as I grew she kicked me out, calling me too big. Now there were
three people in it. Bueford on one side, Maxey on the other, and Mom
in the middle. They were all naked. Bruises ran along Mom's thighs
right up to a thick triangle of black hair. Her fleshy breasts were wet
with sweat.
If this is what a girl looks like naked, then I never want to see
Lulu again. Bueford and Maxey saw me first. They both smiled. Mom
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grabbed the covers and pulled them over herself. There was a rustling
off in the darkest comer of the room where Mom kept a rocking chair
she used to sit in and knit stuff for me. Mr. Teller was in that chair.
His pants were lowered to his knees and ballooned around his ankles.
Hisfistwas balled up over his crotch, and he tried to pull up his pants
once he saw me.
Before any of us could speak George came into the room, swinging
that car antenna like he was swattingflies.There was some blood spilt
and a lot of hollering. Mom's voice was the loudest. She kept on asking
George why now and not before, but he didn't stop to answer her.
Maxey and Bueford were the first ones out on the porch. They
only had time to put on their underpants before Mr. Teller was driven
out the door. Mr. Teller's pants were locked around his ankles and
this forced him to crawl through the house and onto the porch where
George beat him like he was hog. It wasn't till Mr. Teller was off the
porch and crawling like an army commando through the grass that
George stopped hitting him. The other two men stood next to the car.
Maxey was smoking a cigarette. Neither of them looked too worried.
But Mr. Teller's face looked like it was going to pop by the time he
reached the car. He was in such a hurry he didn't even bother pulling
up his drawers before he got inside of the car. He would of driven off
too if the other men hadn't stopped him. They made Mr. Teller pop the
tmnk and both Bueford and Maxey started to fill the back of the car
with the copper George and I had brought to the house.
I guess I'm supposed to tell you what it felt like, watching the
whole spectacle. But I didn't just watch it. I lived it. And I don't know
what to tell you.
I didn't stay in the front yard and watch the Buick drive away,
though I was told the three men did leave. Instead I walked to the side
of the house. I walked to the bench where the 'possum rested. The
kettle was frothing over when I reached the table. The smell of cooked
fat was pleasant. The flesh from the penis bone had melted off and
floated along the surface in small patches of gooey tissue. I skimmed
the surface clean with a Cypress branch. Then I saw the bone resting
along the smooth bottom of the kettle.
I didn't think about it. They all asked me that later. And I tell them
I don't remember dipping my hand into the boiling pot and grabbing the
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bone. That I don't remember screaming, but they all swear I did. Once
I had my hand around it I wouldn't let go. Not when George rushed me
into the house. Not when Mom stuck my wrist under the faucet. Not
even when the skin peeled off my hand like it was a glove.
I held onto the bone the whole time.
After I healed up a little Mom took me into town to some head
doctor who asked me why I'd stuck my hand into boiling water. I came
with the penis bone stmng around my neck just like George said and
I told that doctor a few long ones. Said I thought God might be mad at
me for touching myself. He didn't see the humor in it, or in the other
lies I told. But I was careful. I was quiet about what I'd seen that day.
And I didn't dare come out and tell him the reason I had to grab the
bone. Because even though it hasn't come tme yet, there's still a chance
for it to happen if I want it enough. Maybe.
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