Tweak
by Carla Spataro
As D pulls up in front of Jana's trailer he can't help but notice the white siding, normally seen on grander homes, in places grander than Bay Mills. Several years ago, Jana's boyfriend (at the time) had slapped it up there and it looked nice for a while, but now streaks of mossy green mold and black mildew creep out from beneath the folds of the siding, weaving a tapestry of flora. The screen door hangs crookedly on its hinges and slams against the blue door frame when the wind blows hard across Lake Superior. Big D heaves his hulking body up and out of his dented tow-truck, his left leg in a cast just below his knee. Carefully he makes his way across the ice-crusted gravel and enters the trailer without knocking. Inside, Jana sits cross-legged at a Formica covered kitchen table, her bare thighs sticking to the vinyl seat as she shifts her weight back and forth, her eyes closed, head thrown back, tongue pressed hard against the roof of her mouth. He sits down across from her and props his bum leg up on one of the mismatched chairs clustered around the table. In the single bedroom at the back of the trailer, Jana's daughter Charlie is hunched over her seventh grade algebra assignment.
"You got here just in time," Jana says, tilting her head toward D. "Momma's just finished the last of her sparkle."
"I never seen a woman who loves her stuff quite the way you do," D says.
Jana smiles revealing imperfect teeth. "Whew! I feel much better now." She slaps the table and stands up. "This place is a shit-hole. Why I can't get that girl to pick-up after herself is beyond me."
Big D looks around. Unlike the outside, the interior of the trailer is spotless. The upholstery on the Salvation Army davenport is as clean and tight as the day it came from the factory. The stainless steel and chrome in the kitchenette gleams under dust-free fluorescent lights. There is no evidence of a twelve year old girl anywhere.
"The place don't look messy to me," D says.
"Hell. You just can't see the dirt the way I can," Jana says pulling her panties out of her crack. "Now that I'm feeling better, I'm going to go put some pants on."
D smiles. "Don't feel like you have to on my account."
"You'd like it better if I just ran around naked, wouldn't you?" Jana leans over him, her long auburn hair brushing his cheek.
"It ain't fair to tease me Jana."
"Please," she says as she walks away. "Stu will be back next week. He'll be pissed enough knowing that you were here at all. I don't need him busting up the house again."
"He make any money up there?" D says, picking at the dirty frayed edges of his cast.
"He did," Jana says from behind the closed bathroom door. "Not that he's sent any to me, that fucker."
"Oh, I hate it when a woman talks like that!" D says a little louder than he intends.
She emerges from the bathroom, dressed. "Good thing I ain't your woman," she says.
"It's just not right to talk that way with your daughter here," D says, sitting up a little straighter.
"What? You think she ain't never heard me swear?" Jana laughs as she opens the refrigerator. "Jesus D, sometimes I just don't get you."
"What's not to get?" D tugs at his flannel collar.
Jana shakes her head. "You want a beer?"
"No. I got some more deliveries to make." He pushes himself up from the table. "Speaking of which, I hate to be indelicate, but you got my money?"
Jana opens a bottle of Bud and throws the cap in the trash can under the sink.
"Seriously Jana, you still owe me from last week."
Jana stares at him hard and takes a swig of beer. He traces the lines of her body as she swallows; her pink lips clamped around the mouth of the beer bottle, the curve of her throat, the fullness of her breasts, the round, ample cushion of her hips. God he loves a woman with big hips. He needs to leave. Stu is in Alaska now, but Big D knows he is in no shape to tangle with him when he gets back.
"Jana, I want my money or, well…"
"Well what, D?" She tosses her hair behind her shoulder.
D leans forward, nearly losing his balance. "You know what I want, Jana."
"I don't have your money Duane." Jana's eyes are glittery in the fluorescent light. She is the only one who ever calls him by his given name and it makes him nervous. "Charlie needed some shit for school and hell, we got to eat. I'll pay you when Stu gets back."
"I got to insist that you pay me something." He snatches up the four small baggies he left on the kitchen table and shoves them in his pocket. "I only got your word as to when Stu is coming back. I got other customers that don't play these kind a games."
She licks her lips and sets her beer on the counter. "You like these games—otherwise you wouldn't come over here at all."
"I'm not fucking around. I want my money."
Jana looks back at the bedroom then at D. "I told you I don't got it." Her voice is quieter as she steps toward him. He knows she's going to do everything she can to weasel those bags out of his pocket. She'll rub her hands all up on his chest, push her tits up against him. If she's jonesin' bad enough she might even offer him a blow job. God forbid she should pick up a couple of extra shifts at the casino. He knows she makes good money cocktailing.
"Look, we both know we can work this out," Jana says sticking her finger under his waistband. She starts to pull him toward her but he grabs her hand.
"You know Jana, you could a had every bit of shit I cook up for free but you decided that you'd rather live in this crap heap of a trailer with Stu." He lets go of her hand, pushing it back toward her. "There ain't nothing I want except your money."
"You lousy mother-fuck-."
"Mom?" Charlie is standing in the doorway. She is tall for her age, taller than her mother and blonde like her father, a man she's never met. A man that Jana has told D, on more than one occasion, she hardly remembers.
"Hey D, how's it going?" Charlie asks.
Duane reflexively pushes his bangs back across his forehead and nods. "Uh, okay, I guess." Jana glares at him and he shoves his hands in his pockets. "How's school going?" he says.
Charlie smiles and D swallows hard. "Good," she says. She is thin and bony and looks nothing like her mother, D thinks. She is a fragile angel born from a fleshy whore.
"Everything okay Mom?" Charlie asks, filling her glass at the kitchen sink.
"Fine, honey. Me and D is just conversating," Jana says. She crosses her arms and a smile spreads across her face. "You know Charlie, D was just asking me if I knew anybody that could stay with him for a while and help him out, because of his broken leg and all."
"I was?" D leans against the chair he had been sitting in; his ankle is starting to throb. The doctor wrote him a prescription for percocet, but he's afraid to take any. The roads may get icy and if he's too stoned the other powder-monkeys will try to rip him off, just the way Jana is doing him now.
"Sure you was D," Jana says, her arm now around her daughter. She brushes the girl's hair over her shoulder. "You know, it just occurred to me that Charlie could stay with you. Tidy up that piss-pot you call a house, maybe cook you some dinner." Jana squeezes her daughter's shoulder. "My Charlie here is a great little cook."
"Mom?"
D isn't quite sure what, exactly, Jana is suggesting. He is confused and sits back down, groping his shirt pocket for a cigarette.
"Honey, go get Big D a match," Jana says, pushing Charlie back toward the kitchenette.
"I don't need her to get me a match," D says fumbling with his lighter. "What're you up to Jana? This ain't the sort of negotiating we were doing."
"Well, I'm sure you could use some help, with that bum leg of yours. In return, I could get that thing," she gestures toward his pocket. "You know that you was telling me about."
"I see," D says, inhaling.
"Charlie, don't you got some homework to finish?" Jana says.
The girl nods and Big D can see she is scared. Her mother has done some crazy shit before but this would be something new. It would serve Jana right for him to take Charlie. He wonders how much meth she's actually worth to her.
He props his leg back up on the chair. "So what exactly do you have in mind?"
Jana's smile fades as soon as Charlie closes the bedroom door. "If I let you have her, you got to promise me that you won't do nothing perverted to her."
Duane coughs, smoke pushing out his nose, making his eyes water. "What the hell are you talking about woman?"
"Well, I know she's getting to an age where she might be attractive to some kinds of men."
Duane lowers his voice. "I'm a cooker and a dealer but I ain't the one who's trying to swap my kid for some lousy crow."
"Jesus Duane, don't get so hot and bothered." Jana leans back against the counter. "It was just an idea—a way for us both to get what we want without it costing either of us anything."
"I don't remember saying that I wanted or needed a twelve-year old housekeeper."
"Look at yourself Duane," Jana says sitting down across from him. "You're a mess. You got the same damn pair of pants on the day you broke your stupid leg. When was that exactly?"
"Last week," he says.
She throws her hands up exaggeratedly in disgust. "What woman in her right mind would come near you? You used to be good-looking, now you look like a bum. It's sad really."
"How's that?" Duane says running his hand through his hair.
"You got to be one of the richest guys in town, but you don't act it—driving around in that stupid, broke-down tow truck. You ain't towed a car in how long?"
"Big fucking deal."
"Well it should be."
D shrugs.
"I seen the way you looked at Juanita Ingstrom over at the casino." Jana crosses her legs and her foot taps the air wildly. "She'd be lucky to get with a guy like you Duane. You just got to get yourself more presentable."
"Seriously, you think Juanita would be interested in me?"
Jana nods. "Hell, why not?"
"She is a sweet one," D says leaning forward. "I had a crush on her back when we was in school. I thought she was with Len Cooley these days."
Jana pops up from her seat and walks around behind D. "So what if she is?" She starts rubbing D's shoulders. "You could have her if you wanted or somebody even better." She runs her fingers through his hair and he is embarrassed that he hasn't washed it in a while. "Why you go for them big-assed Indians is beyond me," Jana says, her hands pressing his temples. "But hey, to each his own."
Duane turns around in his chair to face Jana. "Maybe it's because the one big-assed white chick I know won't have nothing to do with me."
"Fuck you."
Duane stands up, slamming his fist down on the table. "That's it, I'm going. I've had enough of your cranked-up chatter for one afternoon."
"Fine, go on. Get out."
D moves toward the door then stops. She's done it to him again. Twisted him around so that he is about to leave without getting his money. Crafty amped-up bitch.
"What?" Jana says.
Duane smiles and crosses his arms. "You owe me—so either pay me or Charlie will be leaving with me."
"Fine, take her." Jana's chin is thrust forward and D can see that she's trying to be strong and defiant, but her body sways. He knows that by now her skin is on fire with a thousand pin-pricks of electricity, her mind a swirling, tumbling cauldron of energy.
"I'm not joking. I know you think that I am, but I ain't." He takes a few hobbling steps toward the bedroom but Jana blocks his path. "I'm sick of your crap," he says and her eyelids flutter. He calls out to Charlie but his eyes never leave Jana's face. "Pack a bag girl; you're coming to stay with Uncle D for a few days."
"Uncle D?" Jana slaps his chest. "Since when are you Uncle D?"
"This was your fucked-up idea," D says folding his arms across his chest. "I'm tired of every chicken-headed cluck in this town thinking they can get over on me." Duane pokes his finger in Jana's face. "I'm the goddamned snowman, bitch. Don't you ever forget it."
Tears well up in Jana's eyes. "I'm not kidding D, she's all I got."
"You got Stu, don't you?" D pushes past Jana and knocks on the bedroom door. "Come on Charlie, I don't got all day." He turns back to Jana, dangling a half-ounce baggie in her face. He knows this is enough meth to keep her high for more than 36 hours. "It won't be so bad. At least at my place you'll have your own room."
Jana snatches the baggie from D and holds out her hand for more. D places three more baggies in her outstretched palm. "It's okay honey. It'll only be for a few days," she says. D shakes his head and she motions for more. "Maybe a week." He places two more baggies in her palm. Jana shoves the baggies into her bra and buttons her blouse up one extra button. She pushes open the door and looks back at D. To him her expression seems almost relieved.
Six bags of dope, that's what this kid is worth to Jana, he thinks. He would have given her ten.
Jana pushes open the door to the bedroom and D is close behind her. Now that she's got the stuff on her, he's prepared for more tricks. Charlie sits on the perfectly made bed, the red roses of the Victorian bedspread a sharp contrast to her white sweatpants. She has pulled her hair back into a ponytail and her school books are piled neatly in her lap.
"Did you hear what I said to you Charlie?" Jana says patting her daughter on the shoulder. "Come on now, Duane don't got all day to hang out here with us." Jana moves to the mirrored closet and retrieves a gym bag. "Let's pack you up some stuff so D can get on his way."
Charlie looks at D and then back at her mother. He can tell that she isn't afraid of him, but that she doesn't want to go with him either.
"Charlie you got to get a move on. I'm not playing around here." Jana throws the gym bag on the bed. "Come on now, pack up some stuff." Jana's voice is getting louder as Charlie remains frozen on the bed.
D leans against the open doorway, shifting his weight so that it will fall on his good leg. He wants to see how things will unfold. How much leverage can Charlie get out of saying nothing? She might be an angel, but he can see now she has resolve.
"Get up girl!" Jana reaches around and yanks her daughter up by the arm, spilling her schoolbooks onto the cheap green carpet. "You had better go get some stuff or you'll be without." She shoves Charlie toward the dresser that they both share. The girl takes a few steps then stops. Her long thin arms hang loose by her sides. She stares at her sneakers. "Fine! Fine then." Jana marches around the corner of the bed and pushes her daughter out of the way. Charlie lifts her head and looks at D but he is unable to hold her gaze and looks away.
"So you've got eight pairs of underwear, that ought to do you for a week," Jana says stuffing clothes into the bag. "Eight pairs of clean socks, two pairs of slacks, four shirts and your P.J.s." Jana brushes by D and moves into the bathroom, in a moment she is back in the bedroom shoving toiletries into the open mouth of the bag. "I'm giving you the toothpaste and the shampoo." Jana looks over at D and he wiggles his fingers in a wave. "God only knows what he's got at his place. Smells like he ain't brushed his teeth in a week."
"It's only been since yesterday morning." He smiles exaggeratedly, showing both rows of straight, slightly gray teeth. "They ain't perfect but they're better than yours." He laughs. "You keep at it the way you're going and you won't have any teeth to worry about."
Charlie turns to look at her mother as if to ask her what he means, but she says nothing.
Jana's hand flies to her chest, as if she's just remembering something. "Duane, can I have a moment alone with my daughter?"
D looks down at his fingernails. "I don't think so."
She glares at him, and he knows how badly she must want to hit him right now. It almost makes him laugh.
"Fine then. You'd better get going before I change my mind." She stoops to pick up the spilled school books, then hands them and the packed gym bag to D.
"You ain't changing your mind." He taps his chest then slings the bag over his shoulder. "Help me out here would you kid?" He holds out his free arm to Charlie. "My leg's achy from standing all this time."
"Why don't you get yourself some crutches?" Jana says as Charlie slowly moves to help D.
"Why don't you shut your crank-hole for five minutes?" He leans heavily on Charlie's shoulder. "I don't need to now anyway. Come on kid."
They move through the living room toward the door to the trailer, D leaning on Charlie and Jana right behind them both. Jana grabs Charlie's coat and flings it over her shoulders. When they reach the door, D swings it open and guides Charlie out in front of him.
"You be a good girl now!" Jana calls out over D's shoulder. "You mind D and don't make no trouble." D can see panic rising in Jana's eyes but he isn't sure if it is from watching Charlie walk away without a word or knowing that if she changes her mind he'll take back all that lovely meth. "If you need me baby, you can call me at the casino." She grabs D's shirttail as he steps gingerly down the stoop stairs.
"Please, D."
"What?" This is taking too long.
"Never mind."
D sort of half-laughs in spite of himself. "That's what I thought." He moves toward his beat-up old truck and slides the gym bag on the seat between himself and the girl. Charlie has fastened her seatbelt and has her feet propped up on the dash. D puts the truck in gear and pulls away from the trailer. Jana has not stayed outside to watch them leave. She is probably already tearing into that first baggie of sparkle, D thinks, putting an exclamation point on her already waning high.
"Look kid, I got to run some errands. Then I'll take you to my place. You can just sit here and read or something."
They are quiet as they speed along Sawmill Road. The sun is setting soft over Lake Superior, streaks of orange are partially obscured by heavy gray clouds crossing low over the water. The waves are thick and violent with the cold, pounding against the rocks lining the shore. D thinks it looks like an early snow, but keeps that to himself. Charlie picks at the hem of her sweat pants.
"So how much did you give her for me?"
"What?" D looks over at the girl.
"How much did she get? I know my mom, she didn't just let you take me out of the kindness in her heart." She looks up at him, her eyes focused in an angry squint. "She doesn't have any kindness in her heart."
D turns away from her and concentrates on the road. "I don't think you should talk about your mother that way. It's disrespectful."
Charlie snorts. "That's a good one."
"I mean it. It don't matter how bad she is, she's still your mom."
"How much did you give her?" Charlie's voice is calm, even. A flicker of queasiness rolls through D.
"I didn't give her any money."
Charlie sits up crossing her arms over her chest. "I didn't think that you gave her money. You gave her drugs, right?"
"Charlie, I…"
"Don't bother lying to me. I may be a kid but I ain't stupid." She turns and looks out the window.
"You need to know what I done, I did it to teach your mom a lesson."
"How much?" Her voice is quiet.
D is glad she isn't looking at him. "Six half-ounce bags."
"That's a lot, ain't it?"
"Yes, Charlie, it is, but I would have given her more."
* * *
D sits on a stool, his bum leg stretched out to his side, watching the roulette wheel spin, a blur of red and black and green. The tiny white ball sputters and bounces, hovers over numbers, dancing, then falls into its slot with a shallow ping. "Fourteen, black," the dealer shouts, placing a totem pole marker on the chipless number. D pushes his hands deeper into his pockets and licks his lips as the dealer clears away the mounds of chips from the table. The man next to him mutters under his breath and stubs out his cigarette. Charlie has been at his house now for ten days.
"What'cha doin', D?" Juanita Ingstrom taps D on the shoulder and he turns quickly, startled both by her voice and her touch. "You going to bet anything, or maybe just sit there all day?"
"Um, hey, Juanita. What's up?" He takes in her short fringed skirt and beaded moccasin boots, her lavender clad thighs a plump invitation in between, and stands up, leaning on the back of the padded stool.
"Oh, nothing much." She twirls her glossy black braid with her free hand and balances her cocktail tray against her hip with the other. "You look nice."
"Huh?"
Juanita leans in toward him and speaks more slowly. "You look nice. You going someplace?"
"I'm here, ain't I?"
Juanita laughs as he runs his hands across the top of his work pants which have been freshly laundered and pressed by Charlie. His flannel shirt has coordinating faux suede patches on the elbows, and the quilted ski vest he is wearing is clean for the first time since he bought it.
"Are you up?" Juanita asks.
"Up?" D says, looking down at his feet like he lost something.
She taps his shoulder. "Are you winning or losing?"
"Me? I didn't bet nothing."
"Then what are you doing here, besides staring at the roulette wheel like an idiot?"
"I was looking for Jana," D says, finally able to make eye contact. "You seen her today?" Juanita's expression changes, her lips and fingers are still.
"I heard that you were watching her kid for a bit." She lowers her voice. "Seems kinda odd to me."
"It ain't that odd," D says folding his arms across his chest. He wishes he'd combed his hair even though it is mashed beneath a thick knitted cap.
"Well it seems kind a odd to me, a grown man looking after a twelve year old girl." Juanita presses her empty tray against her chest "That seems plenty odd."
"Jesus, Juanita, it ain't like that."
"Well, I'm curious. How is it exactly?"
"Not that I owe you no explanations, but me an Jana got a deal. I gave her something that she wanted, and in return Charlie's come to stay with me for a week or so. Just to help me with cooking and cleaning and such. Because a my leg."
"I see." Juanita tosses her braid behind her shoulder.
"Think what you want. There isn't nothing weird going on."
"So you say."
"Look, you seen Jana, or what?"
"She didn't come in today or yesterday." Juanita lets her tray fall back to her hip. D thinks her eyes soften a bit, but he can't be sure in the pulsating glare of the casino. "The boss was steamed. She didn't call or nothing."
D slaps the back of the stool causing the other gamblers at the table to look over. He sees the pit boss give her a nod and Juanita nods back. "Look, I can't stand here talking to you all day." She lowers her voice and D has a hard time hearing her over the buzzing and ringing of the surrounding slot machines. "Walk with me," she says.
D hobbles along next to her, grabbing onto her elbow. "She didn't come in for two whole days? That isn't like her."
"No it isn't." Juanita shakes her head again. "I heard some of the other girls talking in the locker room. Heard them saying that Stu sent her some money and a plane ticket to Alaska."
"What?"
Juanita shrugs. "Well, have you been by her house?"
"I stopped by last week and then again today. That's why I come here. Charlie's been trying to call her for days."
Juanita pulls his elbow in close, stopping him in front of the blackjack tables. "Is everything okay with Charlie?"
D looks her in the eye for the first time. They are sweet and brown, and for a brief moment he wishes that it were summer and that the two of them were alone on the stony beach, in front of the Hiawatha Point Lighthouse, huddled close under a blanket in front of a fire.
"D, is everything okay with Charlie?"
"How the hell should I know!" he says, stepping away from Juanita. "She's fucking twelve." He pulls off his hat and runs his hand through his greasy hair. "She cooks, and cleans—hell my house has never been this clean—and then she goes off to school." He wants to pace but his cast prevents him. He leans against the back of the stool and twists his knit cap in his hands. "It was only supposed to be for a week, but Charlie says its okay, she don't mind staying a couple of extra days. She'll cook up some stew for me and put it in the freezer. She's starting to act like she don't want to go home, and I know that can't be right."
Juanita pats him on the arm. The gesture is almost comforting. "I don't know what to tell you. Seems like you may be stuck with her."
D pulls his cap back on, tight over his head, covering his ears and rubs his eyes with red fingers.
"You could call the authorities," Juanita says, a slight smile on her face.
"I gotta go," he says. "Charlie will be home from school soon."
* * *
By the time D gets home, Charlie is in the kitchen making herself a snack. Milk is on the stove for hot cocoa and the graham cracker box is on the counter next to an open jar of honey. The lights in the room seem to grow brighter as dusk falls heavy outside. An Alberta Clipper is pushing its way across Lake Superior and the threat of new snow hangs in the air like an executioner. Charlie smiles at D as he leans against the door frame and shakes the dirty salt and snow from his boot. She is almost as tall as he is, still skinny as a pole and D can't help but wonder how she has managed to be so completely different from her mother.
"You want some cocoa?" Charlie asks, stirring the pot with a wooden spoon. "I made enough for two."
"That'd be nice Charlie," D says. "Looks like we may get a whopper tonight. Maybe no school tomorrow."
"That's okay by me. I got a math test tomorrow."
D smiles as he settles himself at the kitchen table, propping his bum leg up on an adjoining chair. Charlie's school books are stacked neatly in on the table in front of her chair. Her parka hangs over the back of the chair, the pink fake fur trim around its hood the only color in the drab room. The surface of the table stretches out before D, scarred and nicked from cigarette burns and summers spent carelessly gutting fish. He can tell that Charlie has tried to smooth out the rough spots with furniture polish and homemade remedies, learned from whom, he has no idea, but it's of no use. The table is permanently damaged, fit for the wood pile, a sacrificial burning in his Franklin stove.
"A math test, huh?"
"Yep," she says scrunching up her face. "Algebra." She sets two mismatched mugs of cocoa on the table, one in front of D and then grabs the box of graham crackers and the jar of honey.
"I don't know that I can help you much with algebra," he says dipping a cracker in the hot chocolate. "I have some slight knowledge of chemistry and pharmaceuticals. And I used to think that I knew a thing or two about human behavior, but algebra? I don't know shit about algebra."
Charlie looks up from her mug. "That's okay. I don't think I'll really need to know much about chemistry until high school."
D snorts. "Let's hope you never need to know about the other."
"What? Drugs?" Charlie rolls her eyes. "You think I don't already know plenty about drugs? Please."
His cocoa turns chalky in his mouth and he sets his soggy cracker down on the table.
"Ooh, don't do that, D," Charlie says jumping up from the table. "Let me get you a plate."
"Never mind the plate," he says a little more forcefully than he intends. "What did you mean?"
"God D, you act like you aren't my mother's dealer or something." Her eyebrows come together in such a way that she seems to be channeling some future, disgruntled self—a thirty-year-old Charlie with two kids, and a deadbeat, pot-smoking husband, living in her dead mother's trailer. She folds her arms across her chest and the look vanishes. She is twelve again, willowy, tall for her age, sweet.
"Your mom's gone," D blurts out. "That's why you ain't been able to get a hold a her." Charlie sits down, deflated. She opens her mouth to speak, but then shuts it again. She stares at D and he stares back.
"I went to the casino today looking for her. I run into Juanita Ingstrom and she said she heard from some of the other girls that your mom's gone off to Alaska to be with Stu. Now I don't know for sure that this is true—but it kind a looks like maybe it is."
Charlie blinks hard but no sounds escape her. She pulls the cocoa across the table toward her and gulps it down. When she sets down the mug she is wearing a chocolate milk mustache and she laughs as tears seep from the corners of her eyes.
* * *
You know there is a rickety but secure shed on the back southeast corner of your property. You know this because you've strung makeshift power lines out to it from the house and if it weren't for these thick black wires and orange cables snaking from the house to the shed, someone passing by on the road might not even notice the wind scorched siding or the solitary blacked out window. They might think it was just an abandoned garden shed. On a bright, cloudless day in winter, with the low hanging sun casting the shed's shadow across the bleached crystalline surface of the snow, they might wish that they'd brought a camera along to take an arty photo for next year's Christmas card, but inside you know the picture is different.
Inside there are two six foot folding banquet tables that bisect the room. Against the far wall, opposite the window, there are two scratched and dented electric stoves, side by side, one tawny gold, the other avocado green, both purchased at local estate auctions. At either end of the banquet tables are industrial-sized black plastic trash containers, complete with wheels for easy mobility. Filling the can nearest the two stoves are hundreds of empty pill boxes, (which took you hours) the foil from the blister packs curled and gaping. Boxes of Sudafed, Sinutab, Advil Cold and Sinus, Actifed, Benylin, generics, brand names, anything with ephedrine or pseudoephedrine hydrochloride, ordered from online pharmacies all over the world. You can't order too much or too often from the same place, otherwise you might attract unwanted attention. (Your operation's not big enough to order directly from the manufacturer in India. When you called they laughed at you with their soft lilting voices and you hung up on them.) Other items in your shed: four cases of rubbing alcohol (Isopropyl) bought at the Sam's Club in Traverse City—a three hour drive, but a fun trip downstate you think; two cases of brake cleaner (Toluene) bought at the local Ace Hardware; two cases of engine starter (Ether) also bought at the Ace; two three-packs of drain cleaner (Sulfuric Acid—Drano is a good brand) also bought in Traverse City, on a different trip, on a different day; ten 100-pound bags of rock salt (you can also use this on the occasional towing run—hell, Dar Washburn calls you once a week in winter to come salt her walkways); three cases of road flares (Red Phosphorus) also handy on the back of the truck, all purchased at the local Meyers (no one thinks twice when you load it into your tow-truck); eight, five pound bags of lye (Sodium Hydroxide) just replenished last week at the Home Depot in Sault Ste. Marie, Canada. You took Charlie along to buy her a dress for her winter formal. (Juanita Ingstrom's nephew, Niz, short for Niswi, is taking her, not that you're all that crazy about the idea.) The teat dip (iodine) and fertilizer (anhydrous ammonia) you borrow from your second cousin Jimmy who manages a cherry orchard downstate—they also have a few milking cows and he won't ask you any questions, as long as you send him a nice generous check for his kids every Christmas. Other miscellaneous but important items all purchased at various times, on various trips: rubber tubing, paper towels, aluminum foil, plastic funnels, goggles (must protect your eyes), bio-hazard level breathing mask (must protect your lungs), cheesecloth, boxes of rubber gloves (not the kind that doctors use, the kind a maid wears, heavy, yellow, fingertips stained red) and coffee filters. The other trash can if full of them, used, crusted with the pink and yellow coatings from all that cold medicine—hundreds of them, thousands maybe. The pill packs you burn in an old metal drum on the southwest corner of the property. (Can't have an open flame to near all those fumes.) The rest of the trash you haul away in dark plastic bags in the middle of the night, sometimes dropping them in the dumpster behind the church, or the middle school—sometimes, in the summer, when the breeze is blowing cool off Lake Superior, and the sun is hot and bright, you load up the back of the tow truck and haul it all to the city dump, marveling at the sea-gulls, as they swoop and dive overhead, squawking and fighting over bits of rotted junk.
You teach Charlie how to ride the mower, once you've managed to get it fitted with the snow-blower. You need her help with the chains for the tires because of your shitty broken leg. You teach her how to ride the mower so she can keep the path clear to the shed because your shitty broken leg cannot tolerate the cold long enough to do it yourself. You warn her, beg her, threaten her—to stay the hell away from the fucking shed. Should you tell her that every time you're in there, there's a chance that the whole kit-and-caboodle will blow sky high? That sometimes, when you look down at your fucking grimy cast through your bio-hazard mask, when you see the fingertips of your gloves stained red and your head feels like a drum line is pounding out its own special rhythm just for you on the inside of your skull, that sometimes you wish you'd never started all this shit in the first place. Especially now, especially that she's here, that she's taking such good care of you. But if you hadn't started the whole shitty mess—the lying and cooking and dealing—then she'd still be home with her mother, or worse yet her mother would have traded her off to some real creep, with no morals or scruples at all. She would not be here with you getting ready for her first winter formal, not in her bedroom, just off the kitchen, which you painted lavender for her last weekend, not in there putting on lipstick for the first time with Juanita, not trying on her first pair of high heels, or twirling in front of the mirror, admiring her slim girlish body. She wouldn't be here at all.
And where would you be, really? Not much income, except in winter when it comes time to plow out everybody's driveway. Still greasy headed and fuzzy toothed, your Saturday nights spent in front of the TV, a warm six-pack of PBR going skunky on the floor next to the couch. Wishing you lived in Canada so you had an actual reason to get excited about hockey, wishing that you could afford a powerboat to go fishing in the summer, wishing that you had a woman, almost any woman to share your bed, so that you make a kid of your own.
* * *
"Don't she just look beautiful, D?" Juanita says as Charlie swishes her fancy skirt back and forth in the living room. The fabric is a shimmering gold green and has a stiff little ruffle around the edge. D marvels as it glitters in the soft light.
"She is a vision," says D, rubbing his eye with his knuckle.
Charlie laughs. "You ain't crying?"
D looks down at her. "What?"
"You ain't crying are you D?"
He snorts. "If I am it's only about how much the damn dress cost!"
"Come on now—it's worth every penny," says Juanita. "Her make-up looks good too, don't it?"
"I said she was a vision. What more do you want for Christ-sake?"
Charlie sits down on the couch and crosses her legs. Her ankles are so slim that D thinks he could possibly wrap his thumb and middle finger around them. She wags her foot up and down just like her mother. The only difference is the pointy high-heeled shoe on Charlie's foot.
Juanita seems happy to be there, and D can't believe she's actually in his house. She is wearing a fluffy, cream-colored sweat suit and raw-hide boots with tufts of fur sticking out the top. Her long black hair hangs in one thick braid down her back and D can't believe how much she looks like an Eskimo. Even her cheeks look pink in this light.
"Come on you two," Juanita says. "I want to get a picture."
Charlie rolls her eyes but stands up next to D. He's not sure where to look or what to do with his hands. He's sure that he reeks of the chemicals from the shed, but no one has said anything to him about it.
Juanita pulls a small digital camera out of her purse and smiles. "This is supposed to be a happy occasion." She backs away from them with the camera in front of her. "Or didn't anyone bother to tell you?"
D clears his throat. "Just hurry up would you. I hate getting my picture taken."
"Okay, say 'jackpot'!" Juanita says, snapping their picture.
In unison, Charlie and D both repeat 'jackpot', then look at each other and laugh. Juanita takes another picture and the double flash from the digital camera temporarily causes D to see floating red and green spots. "Okay, okay—enough with the pictures," he says groping his way toward the couch.
"Well, we'd better get going," Juanita says. D thinks she looks kind of sad, like maybe she doesn't want to go, but thinks that this is probably some kind of trick his eyes are playing on him. "Is everything okay?" he asks her.
She nods at Charlie. "I just think it's too bad that Jana ain't here to see her little girl all dressed up for her first dance is all."
D runs his hands through his hair. Charlie is frowning, shifting her weight from one high-heeled shoe to the other. "Now why'd you have to go and say something like that? Aren't you the one who said this was supposed to be a happy occasion?"
"I know, I know." Juanita looks down at her boots then over at Charlie. "I'm sorry honey, I'm just so damn mad at your mother!"
Charlie shrugs. "She called me last week and said she'd be home for Christmas."
"Well, that's just wonderful, Charlie. A real nice Christmas present for you, now isn't it?" Juanita hugs Charlie tight while D feels a knot rise in his throat. Charlie never mentioned that her mother had called.
"I guess so." Charlie pats Juanita on the back and looks at D over Juanita's shoulder.
"What do you mean, I guess so?" Juanita holds her at arms length. "Don't you miss your mom?"
"Truthfully?" she asks plopping down on the couch next to D. "Not really." She rests her head on D's shoulder and he doesn't know what to do, so he pats her arm. "D is way nicer to me than my mom ever was, seriously."
Juanita folds her arms across her chest. "Well, you might feel differently when she gets back. Come on now, we'd better go pick up Niz."
"If she ever comes back," Charlie says under her breath.
"What?" Juanita asks.
"I said, if she ever comes back."
"Charlie don't be rude, it ain't like you," D says, standing up.
"Sorry, Juanita," Charlie says pulling on her parka.
"You ain't going to wear them shoes out in the snow, are you?" D asks.
Charlie shakes her head and goes to the closet to put on her boots. D pulls Juanita aside. "I really appreciate you coming over here and helping Charlie get ready and all—and for driving her and Niz to the dance."
"Well, my sister's got her kids to watch and with your leg and all," Juanita smiles and squeezes D's arm. "You're welcome."
D smiles back at her, he can't help himself. Charlie reappears in the doorway, behind Juanita, ready to go, the heels of her shoes sticking out of her handbag. "Just so you know," he says to Juanita. "Charlie can stay here forever if she wants to."
"That's real nice a you," says Juanita. "But I'm sure Jana will have something to say about that when she gets back."
Big D shakes his head and opens the front door for Charlie and Juanita. The bug light on the porch casts an ochre shimmer over the windswept snow and Charlie and Juanita quickly fall into shadow, their breath caught for an icy moment in the arc of light. D stands in the open doorway, long after they've pulled out of the drive and onto the road. He is at loose ends and considers for a moment heading back out to the shed—but his leg aches, and he wonders if it will ever feel right again. The cast is due to come off soon but the bones are all wrong inside their fleshy casing, and he imagines that he can feel the pins holding the bones together, even though he knows this is not possible. He hobbles to the kitchen, pours the remains of his bottle of Jack Daniels into a glass and then hobbles back to the couch. On TV he must choose between network reruns, minor league Canadian hockey or a sappy movie starring Mary Tyler Moore. He sips the Jack and pulls the newly mended comforter over himself. A vision of Mary Tyler Moore in a Santa cap floats before him, and soon he is asleep. He doesn't wake when Charlie comes in a little before midnight, the outlines of a hickey poking above her scarf.
* * *
It is Christmas morning. Not the god-awful six am of his childhood Christmases, but a more reasonable nine-thirty. D sits in front of a tree that he decorated the night before, while Charlie was out at the movies with some school friends. Big D has not had a Christmas tree in his house, ever. He had forgotten the irresistible smell of pine and the magical glow of the tiny twinkling lights. He's not sure how long it's supposed to be up, but he's thinking that he may never want to take it down, that he may just leave it up forever. He's waiting for Charlie to get up, to open her presents. He hasn't bought and wrapped a Christmas present for another person except his mother since he graduated from high school. Juanita gave him some pointers, but he picked out Charlie's gifts all on his own. He images her surprise and pleasure at opening them, tearing at the shiny foil paper and the perfectly coordinated bows.
* * *
His customers are starting to complain, his production is down, and so is the quality. He shrugs at them, tells them to buy elsewhere—he's made some improvements on the tow-truck, is going to use the money he's stashed away to open a real garage. His dealing days are numbered, he tells them. They smirk and say, yeah sure, whatever, and he turns away, hoping that they are wrong.
* * *
He can hear Charlie stirring in her bedroom, but he doesn't want to rush her. He's enjoying the tree and has even hauled his mother's old turntable down from the attic. Bing Crosby is scratchily crooning White Christmas while D sticks an unfurled coat hanger down inside his cast to scratch his healing leg. The cast should be off in time for New Year's and he can't wait. He wants to take Charlie skiing.
Charlie appears in the doorway of her bedroom, her robe pulled tight, pieces of her hair stick up on the back of her head, and her face is still creased with sleep.
"D what are you doing?" she asks.
"Just sitting here, waiting for you, sleepy-head."
She shakes her head. "You must be in a coma or something. Don't you hear someone knocking on the door?"
"What?" He turns toward the front door and then he hears it. Someone is knocking. Why hasn't he heard it? The music isn't that loud. He hops up, hoping its Juanita. Behind him, Charlie plops down on the couch, and sleepily pulls the comforter up around her.
"Do you like the tree?" He asks as he moves to the door.
"It's nice," she says.
She's too sleepy still to notice the presents under the tree with her name on them D thinks as he opens the front door. A sub-zero blast of air hits D, momentarily taking his breath away. It is not Juanita standing on his doorstep, but Jana, dressed in a fancy red all-in-one snowmobile suit, her hood is pulled tight around her face.
"Who are you supposed to be, Mrs. Claus?" he says blocking her entry into the house.
"Nice to see you too, jackass," she says pushing past him. "Where's my kid? Where's my Charlie?"
D slams the door behind her. A gust of cold air follows him into the living room behind Jana. If he kills her now, just puts his hands around her neck and squeezes the life out of her, would anyone miss her?
Jana is stripping out of the top half of her suit and running toward Charlie at the same time. "Baby, my baby! How are you?"
Before D can do or say anything, Jana is covering her daughter with kisses, running her hands through her hair, stroking her cheeks.
"Merry Christmas, Charlie!" Jana stands away from her daughter. "She looks good D. You done a nice job, I guess."
D stands in the doorway to the living room watching mother and daughter. "You're welcome, I guess," he says, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.
Jana looks at him and he can see that there are tears in her eyes. Again he thinks of wrapping his hands around her neck and choking her. She cannot cry. This will be too much for Charlie. It will be too much for him. "Seriously D, she looks good. Hell, you look good!" She laughs and rubs her eyes. "Well, don't you got anything to say to your mother Charlie? Not even a Merry Christmas for me?"
"Hey Mom," Charlie says, not looking up. "You actually came back."
Jana looks at D and then back at Charlie, she is not crying anymore. "Well, what did you think—that I was going to leave you here with D for good?" She grunts. "What kind of mother do you think I am?"
Charlie pulls the comforter up around her chin; her knees are folded under the blanket. "Merry Christmas, Mom."
"Jesus, I knew you might be a little pissed, but come on Charlie, I'm your mother."
"Are you high?" Charlie asks.
Jana takes a few steps backward and bumps into the coffee table. "What?"
"You heard me," Charlie says. D sits heavily in the arm chair next to the sofa. Maybe he won't have to strangle Jana after all.
"No, I am not," Jana says blinking. "Stu and I have given it all up for the new year. No more meth, no more booze, no nothing." She crosses her arms and stares at D. "Sorry to disappoint you."
D laughs. "Isn't it a little early to be making New Year's resolutions?"
"Listen," Jana says moving toward D. "I really appreciate everything you done for Charlie, but I don't got to explain myself to the likes of you."
Half way through her mother's statement Charlie rises from the couch and goes to her room, shutting the door behind her. D pushes past Jana and tries the handle. The door is locked.
"You should a just stayed gone Jana," D says. "I can't fucking believe that you think you can just mosey on back into that girl's life like you done nothing wrong."
"Oh, listen to you. What are you now, father of the year?" Jana pokes D in the chest. "She's my fucking kid, D, not yours."
"You got a fine way of showing it, trading her to me for snow. Then you just take off and leaver her without a word."
"What?"
"How could any mother, even one as shitty as you, just take off and leave her kid behind?"
"She knew I was leaving. I called her and told her. She told me that she asked you and you said it was okay."
D looks into Jana's face and knows that she is telling the truth. "She never said nothing to me."
"Well, she's a little liar."
D grabs Jana's arms and shakes her. "Don't talk about her like that. She's just a kid. It don't matter that she didn't tell me. You should a told me. You're the mother!"
"Let go a me," Jana says. D releases her and sits down on the couch. His robe is loose and his leg itches again. It doesn't matter to him—none of this. He wants Charlie to stay, he wants to take care of her, watch her grow up, be a grand-dad to her kids, maybe leave his new service station to her, so she'll always have an income. Jana is still standing next to Charlie's bedroom door, rubbing her arms. D knows he didn't hurt her, as much as he wants to, he doesn't have it in him.
Charlie opens the door. She is dressed now in blue jeans and a sweatshirt with a Christmas moose on it. "Is it okay if I keep the clothes you bought me D?"
"You bought her clothes?" Jana says.
"No, I thought I'd let her walk around naked," D says. "Yes, of course you can keep the clothes. What would I do with them?"
"Thanks," Charlie says. She's got the duffle bag her mother sent her with slung over her shoulder and at her feet is black plastic trash bag crammed full of stuff. She looks at her mother. "Well, I guess I'm ready."
"So you're coming with me?" Jana says.
Charlie shrugs. "I'm sorry I lied to you."
D nods.
"It was a crappy thing for me to do."
"It's okay Charlie," he says. His throat is tight and his leg is on fire, it itches so badly. D turns away and sees Jana smiling in the doorway. "Fuck you," he says under his breath. Jana glares back at him. Charlie puts on her boots and coat. Jana zips up her all-in-one and grabs Charlie's bag full of stuff. D cannot look at either one of them but feels the draft of frigid air as Jana pulls open the door.
"Come on, Charlie, Stu's waiting," Jana says.
"D, the tree looks real nice," Charlie says.
D looks up at the sparkling lights and the shimmering tinsel as Charlie and her mother pull the door closed behind them. The next record in the stack falls on the turntable. Nat King Cole sings Silent Night. He rests his head against the back of the couch and closes his eyes. The sweet scent of pine swirls around him and he hums along. When the needle scratches against the end grooves of the record D stands up and rubs his eyes with the heels of hands. Slowly he walks to back door where he pulls on his boot and coat, then hobbles through the snow, out the shed.
Featured Works
Short Fiction
What I Did On My Summer Vacation by Simon Willcox, Jr.
The Opposite of Winter and
Tweak
Publishing
Philadelphia Stories
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