landscapes

Before Jack's mother was dead, she was crazy. And everyone knew. She never came out of the apartment, and she didn't like Jack to go out either. Not even to school. But they made her send him. She didn't like that, so she told Jack he was sick a lot. He didn't feel sick, but she felt his head and pronounced, Fever, putting him back to bed for the day. Sometimes, she and Jack would sit in the closet for hours. It would get unbearably hot and quiet, but then she would sing sweetly and he would fall asleep.

On his way home from school one day, Jack stopped on the corner to shoot marbles with some boys. After only a few minutes, his mother stuck her head out the window and called for him to come on home. Her voice was shrill and frantic. Jack reluctantly started home. Hey, one of the boys called, What d'ya do in the house with your mother all day? Sit in the closet and sing, he answered. The entire block shook with laughter. They called him Mama's Boy for months. He learned not to talk about his mother after that.

That wasn't the only thing they did together. On hot days when his mother was feeling brave, they would climb out onto the fire escape and look out at the city. She would point out a stranger on the street, and together they would make out a life for the person. She once pointed to a bum picking garbage out of the gutter, and said he was researching a movie role. In real life, she said, he lived in a big mansion and slept in a bed with clean sheets. His closets were overflowing with warm clothes, and he had so much food he couldn't close his cabinets. She could always do that for him. Take something sad and turn it around to make it all right.

When his mother was feeling especially bad, she would take out an old magazine that had beautiful pictures of foreign places they had never even heard of. She would talk herself and Jack into the photos, so that he could feel desert sand under his shoes or Arctic winds across his face.

He sat on the fire escape holding the magazine, thinking of her. The sorrowful sound of a train whistled in the distance. Jack looked up at the sun setting behind the buildings. On the street below, a group of boys played stickball. He watched as one boy after another cracked the ball around the neighborhood. Old men huddled on folding chairs against the buildings, reading newspapers and smoking pipes. Nosy women with kerchiefs holding back their hair hung out of windows, their elbows resting on pillows. They harassed the boys and warned them against smashing any windows. Giggly girls sat on stoops, braiding each others' hair and whispering secrets.

There was a commotion down on the street. The boys ran to the corner and pointed, laughing and shoving one another. Jack smiled and leaned over the railing, anxious to see what was causing such a stir. His face fell when he saw what the boys were laughing at. He backed up against the building as a shadow of anger passed over his face.

A familiar figure came stumbling down the sidewalk. Jack could hear him singing to himself. The boys jeered while the girls pinched their noses as he passed by. The adults shook their heads in disgust. Eww, one of the girls moaned, he peed on himself! A dark wet spot spread down the man's pant legs, but he didn't seem to notice. Jack felt a tightening in his stomach. He climbed in through the window and shut it behind him.

Within seconds, there was a pounding on Jack's door. He stood still and stared at the door, thinking that if he stayed quiet the moment would just pass him by. But the pounding was ceaseless, and he knew there was no way to avoid it.

"Come on Jack. Open up." Mrs. Riggone continued her patterned pounding: three long knocks, two short knocks, pause.

"He's down there again. On the corner." Now the knocks became more forceful and monotonous: knock knock knock knock knock, pause, knock knock knock knock knock, pause. He walked to the door and swung it open. Mrs. Riggone's chubby fist was hanging in the air. Sweat beads descended down her flushed face. Her mouth was open and her breathing was ragged. In her rush to bring him bad news, she had failed to button the middle two buttons of her house dress, and he was afraid to look at the gaping space. He focused instead on her crooked wig.

"Well?" she huffed. "Go get him before the police do."

Jack stared down at his sneakers and squeezed past Mrs. Riggone, shutting the door behind him. He took his time walking down the three flights of stairs, one foot at a time. He counted each step, finding that it calmed him. By the time he reached 72, he was at the front door.

Jack stood out on the stoop and shielded his eyes from the setting sun. The summer heat hung heavily in the air. He scanned his surroundings for the man, and saw him folded up on the ground. Old women looked at him pityingly but didn't say a word. Kids laughed and shouted and pointed. Jack walked determinedly to the crumpled heap, ignoring everyone and everything around him.

"Walter. Get up." Jack had never called his father Dad, or even Pop. It had always been Walter. His father seemed to get a kick out of it. Jack liked it better that way too. It made it easier for him to pretend that this was just some man down on his luck that he helped out now and again.

Jack struggled to lift Walter off of the street. He was rail-thin but heavy and clumsy with drink. Walter was hunched over and pitching to the left. It took all of Jack's strength to keep them both on their feet and out of the gutter.

"That's my boy!" Walter exclaimed, clapping Jack roughly on the back. Jack lugged Walter's lanky frame back to the building. He held tightly to Walter's waist with one hand and clung to the railing with the other, hoisting his father up the steps, one at a time. Walter saluted the old men and blew kisses to the old ladies like a soldier home from war. The ladies did their best to look insulted and uninterested, but enjoyed this little bit of excitement breaking up their day.

Jack sweated as he pushed and pulled and shoved his father up the steps. Walter rested heavily on Jack and seemed to fall asleep on his shoulder more than once. Jack jerked his shoulder and Walter awoke, muttering incomprehensibly.

When they finally reached the landing, Mrs. Riggone was standing in front of their door like a warden. Her fists had disappeared into the fat of her hips, and her tiny eyes scolded them. Walter found this hysterical, pointing and laughing at her.

"Oh, Mrs. Riggone! Ah ha ha ha ha ha! Oink oink, my dear." The floorboards shook as she stampeded back to her apartment and slammed the door behind her. Jack laughed begrudgingly, and Walter kissed him sloppily on the side of his head.

By the time Jack was able to push his father through the apartment door, Walter was barely conscious. He stunk of beer and sweat and piss. Jack leaned Walter up against the wall and shut the door. He tried to walk away but Walter began to slide down the wall. Jack grabbed him in time and dragged a chair over to Walter. He spread a newspaper out on the seat before plopping Walter down on top of it.

With Walter barely conscious, Jack walked into the bathroom and started a bath. He rested on the side of the tub and dipped his hands into the warm water. It felt clean and soothing. Jack closed his eyes and dreamed himself into a dark green ocean. He was surrounded by sun and fish and wind and waves. There were no people around for miles. It felt like heaven.

A heavy thud smacked Jack out of his reverie. He ran out and found Walter on the floor, snoring loudly. Jack stared vacantly at Walter. He pulled off Walter's shoes and socks, then his damp pants and underwear. He unbuttoned his shirt and was thankful Walter was not wearing an undershirt.

Walter looked so white and helpless laying naked on the floor. Jack remembered a bird with a broken wing that his mother had nursed back to health. She had had a soft spot for helpless creatures. She even fed the mouse that lived in the linen closet. He wished she were here now.

"Walter. You're too heavy. Stand up." Jack poked Walter in the gut and tried rolling him from side to side, but he wouldn't budge. He went back to the bathroom and cupped water in his hands. He dumped the water onto Walter's face, but Walter barely stirred. In desperation, Jack kneeled at Walter's feet and tickled them. He didn't want to. This felt like a game and he didn't wasn't up to playing. But it was the only sure way to wake Walter from his drunken slumber.

"Okay! Okay! Okay! I give!" Walter giggled like a child and sat bolt upright. Jack bent behind Walter and helped him to his feet. Walter draped himself over Jack, and Jack backed away. He was embarrassed to have his naked father hanging all over him.

The two stumbled into the bathroom and Walter sat down heavily in the tub, water splashing all over the bathroom floor. Jack positioned Walter's head and arms over the side of the tub, afraid that he might slip under the water and drown. Walter patted Jack's face and smiled with his eyes closed.

Jack walked out of the bathroom and kept the door open a crack. He needed to keep his ears on Walter at all times. He wasn't a mean drunk, but he was a clumsy one. When Jack was young, Walter had crawled home drunk one night and fell asleep on the couch with a lit cigarette in his mouth. Jack awoke to his mother's screams and watched her douse Walter with water as flames ate his chest. Walter needed to be treated for his burns. His mother had to go to the nervous hospital to get well. Jack had had to spend two weeks sleeping on Mrs. Riggone's couch. He didn't like to remember that time.

Jack stared at Walter's pile of pissy clothes on the floor. He looked at the bathroom door before sticking his hand in Walter's pant pocket. He produced a wad of crumpled bills, mostly tens and fives, and jammed them into his pocket.

Jack carried Walter's clothes into the bathroom and deposited them into the hamper. Walter was asleep in the tub, his head dangling over the side and his mouth gaping wide open. Jack stared at Walter, wanting to be out of that bathroom and out of that apartment. He wanted to be alone.

Jack bent down and opened the drain in the tub. The water gurgled out of the tub but Walter was unmoved. Jack draped two towels over Walter and gingerly tucked a third towel under his head. It would be safer to leave him there for the night. Jack closed the bathroom door behind him without looking back.

He walked over and opened the window. A cool breeze blew the curtains into the room. He climbed out onto the fire escape and sat there, staring down at the street. Most of the kids had been called in to dinner. The old ladies had left their perches. A few men had gathered around a card table and were playing dominoes. Warm lights glowed behind curtains. The sun had dipped behind the buildings.

Jack picked up the magazine he had abandoned earlier. He flipped to his favorite page. A large dark lake was ringed with tall green trees. The blue sky and white clouds reflected in the lake, producing two skies. An empty rowboat floated in the middle of the lake.

Jack had memorized this picture long ago. He closed his eyes and pictured himself in that boat. He imagined the water lapping gently against its side, rocking him back and forth. He breathed in the stillness.