Leslie and her son sat Indian-style on the floor of the kitchen, him playing UNO by himself and her listening to the cold Ohio wind rushing against the French door. With the other heater vents closed, it was the warmest spot in the house. She traced her long fingernails across the grate of the vent under the oven, where the air spewed out like a warm blanket to cover them against everything out there beyond the kitchen.
“I like that sound,” he said. “Can you do it again?”
She dragged her nails across the metal fins again.
“Again?”
“That’s enough, Little Jack,” she said. She had started calling him “Little Jack” when, as a three-year-old, he’d appeared in the living room, standing naked on the carpet with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s hoisted in his fat little arms. She had grabbed it before he could open it. Somehow, after she was sure he was down for the night, he’d gotten out of his room and into the liquor cabinet. She had had thirtysomething on the TV, waiting for Hank to come home whenever he would come home.
“Aww, please?” he said. “One more time?”
Leslie needed to talk with him, but she was tired, her heels feeling every inch of the workday.
“Little Jack, who’s this girl at school you’re making fun of?” His face fell in a way that made her think of a painting she saw once, of a fancy European boy with a pale face. A gilded brown frame that impressed her. Never mind. He wasn’t talking; in fact, he was flipping over his UNO cards, one by one. Pile to hand, flip, flip, face down on the linoleum floor. He didn’t even pretend to be occupied. “Little Jack?” she said, raising her eyebrows. “The girl?”
At the last parent-teacher conference, his first-grade teacher had told her that he was making fun of a girl for receiving free lunches. The teacher was a prim lady with a cotton candy nest of hair somewhere between blond and white, like finely whipped eggs and sugar. She had suggested Leslie sit down with her son and talk to him about “understanding.”
A gust from the long, flat valley behind the house, where the fields were empty, pushed against the door, making Leslie glad for the weather stripping.
“What girl?” Little Jack asked.
She wanted him to understand, to take the thought from her head—that he should consider others, that he should have humility, that he should be a nice boy to everyone and not just her—and keep it in his own head. She wanted him to look at her green-yellow eyes with his green-blue eyes (Hank’s genetic contribution) and see how that made sense. But he didn’t. He continued flipping the cards while staring at the floor, reminding her, this time, of Hank after another night spent with he-wouldn’t-say-who at he-said-only-one-place,-but-till-midnight?-it-had-to-be-more-places, doing—doing what? What were you doing, Hank? she thought, staring at the boy’s face.
Since Little Jack wouldn’t just do that and make her life easier, she would have to find the words. She’d just as soon go out in the yard in her socks and replace the saltlick.
“Never mind what girl,” she said. “I already know about the girl. I know what you did.”
Little Jack gazed at her quizzically.
“Yes, Little Jack,” she said. “I’m not a dummy.”
The quizzical look went away, replaced by a meek and compliant demeanor, and a faint smile. She remembered her own first days in school, her older sister showing her what to do to get her free lunch.
He flicked a card with his wrist so that it bumped to rest against the heater vent. “The girl…” she said, but she was distracted. “That card’s gonna get hot.”
“So.”
“It might melt.” The quizzical look returned, tinged with triumph. Oh, fuck, she thought.
“How’s it gonna melt?” he said. “It has to be a couple hundred—”
“Jack; listen to me.” She grabbed the card, which was indeed hot enough that she felt like sticking it onto his face. “You can’t make fun of someone for being poor. It hurts people’s feelings. I bet you you made her cry. Do you want that girl to cry, Jack? And you better not say yes.”
She wanted to tell him that if she didn’t get a raise, or find a new man soon, or if Hank ever missed another payment or two, he, too, could possibly be penciling in a check mark next to his name and “free lunch” in the lunch line register. As it was she was clothing him in her coworkers’ sons’ hand-me-downs. Last week she felt she was pushing it when the jean jacket she gave him had a rim of thread marks where she’d ripped off an anarchy patch. But she couldn’t tell him all this. “You can’t do it,” she told him. “Know what? A little understanding never hurt anyone I know.”
“I like that sound,” he said. “Can you do it again?”
She dragged her nails across the metal fins again.
“Again?”
“That’s enough, Little Jack,” she said. She had started calling him “Little Jack” when, as a three-year-old, he’d appeared in the living room, standing naked on the carpet with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s hoisted in his fat little arms. She had grabbed it before he could open it. Somehow, after she was sure he was down for the night, he’d gotten out of his room and into the liquor cabinet. She had had thirtysomething on the TV, waiting for Hank to come home whenever he would come home.
“Aww, please?” he said. “One more time?”
Leslie needed to talk with him, but she was tired, her heels feeling every inch of the workday.
“Little Jack, who’s this girl at school you’re making fun of?” His face fell in a way that made her think of a painting she saw once, of a fancy European boy with a pale face. A gilded brown frame that impressed her. Never mind. He wasn’t talking; in fact, he was flipping over his UNO cards, one by one. Pile to hand, flip, flip, face down on the linoleum floor. He didn’t even pretend to be occupied. “Little Jack?” she said, raising her eyebrows. “The girl?”
At the last parent-teacher conference, his first-grade teacher had told her that he was making fun of a girl for receiving free lunches. The teacher was a prim lady with a cotton candy nest of hair somewhere between blond and white, like finely whipped eggs and sugar. She had suggested Leslie sit down with her son and talk to him about “understanding.”
A gust from the long, flat valley behind the house, where the fields were empty, pushed against the door, making Leslie glad for the weather stripping.
“What girl?” Little Jack asked.
She wanted him to understand, to take the thought from her head—that he should consider others, that he should have humility, that he should be a nice boy to everyone and not just her—and keep it in his own head. She wanted him to look at her green-yellow eyes with his green-blue eyes (Hank’s genetic contribution) and see how that made sense. But he didn’t. He continued flipping the cards while staring at the floor, reminding her, this time, of Hank after another night spent with he-wouldn’t-say-who at he-said-only-one-place,-but-till-midnight?-it-had-to-be-more-places, doing—doing what? What were you doing, Hank? she thought, staring at the boy’s face.
Since Little Jack wouldn’t just do that and make her life easier, she would have to find the words. She’d just as soon go out in the yard in her socks and replace the saltlick.
“Never mind what girl,” she said. “I already know about the girl. I know what you did.”
Little Jack gazed at her quizzically.
“Yes, Little Jack,” she said. “I’m not a dummy.”
The quizzical look went away, replaced by a meek and compliant demeanor, and a faint smile. She remembered her own first days in school, her older sister showing her what to do to get her free lunch.
He flicked a card with his wrist so that it bumped to rest against the heater vent. “The girl…” she said, but she was distracted. “That card’s gonna get hot.”
“So.”
“It might melt.” The quizzical look returned, tinged with triumph. Oh, fuck, she thought.
“How’s it gonna melt?” he said. “It has to be a couple hundred—”
“Jack; listen to me.” She grabbed the card, which was indeed hot enough that she felt like sticking it onto his face. “You can’t make fun of someone for being poor. It hurts people’s feelings. I bet you you made her cry. Do you want that girl to cry, Jack? And you better not say yes.”
She wanted to tell him that if she didn’t get a raise, or find a new man soon, or if Hank ever missed another payment or two, he, too, could possibly be penciling in a check mark next to his name and “free lunch” in the lunch line register. As it was she was clothing him in her coworkers’ sons’ hand-me-downs. Last week she felt she was pushing it when the jean jacket she gave him had a rim of thread marks where she’d ripped off an anarchy patch. But she couldn’t tell him all this. “You can’t do it,” she told him. “Know what? A little understanding never hurt anyone I know.”
Her stomach grumbled; she hadn’t eaten anything since the ham salad sandwich she’d had for lunch, and it was already seven. She started to lift herself off the floor.
“Don’t go,” Little Jack said. “We’re still playing cards.”
“Are we?” she said, standing up.
“Yes. Come back.”
“No, it’s supper time. What do you want?”
“I don’t know,” he said, falling back with his arms flung across the floor.
“Grilled cheese and tomato soup? Poached eggs with toast? Mac and cheese?”
“I don’t care,” he said, nearly yelling.
“Well, that makes it easy. Mac and cheese it is.”
Little Jack stuck his socked feet against the heater vent. “Ow,” he said. “That’s hot.”
The milk still smelled OK, thank God. She put it on the counter, next to the sink, where she also set the Land O’ Lakes butter, the green grass and smiling squaw in the label making her wish for summer. She grabbed a ceramic bowl from the cabinet and a box of store-brand macaroni and cheese from the pantry. “If it hurts, don’t do it,” she said over her shoulder as she set them on the counter, turned on the stove, and got a pot. She heard a coyote wail from beyond the woods, and on instinct she raised her head to look out the window above the sink. She saw herself in the black mirror, and the water shining from the faucet into the pot. If Hank were here, she thought, he’d have set out his special baked chicken an hour ago. And the mashed red potatoes with the dill seasoning. Who cares? She tried hard to remember the painting of the boy she’d thought of, and where she’d seen it, when the hell that was. She remembered the boy wore the softest looking blue.
She set the pot down on the orange coil. Little Jack was in the same spot, but he was sitting up and had taken off his socks, and he was planting his feet on the vent and pulling them away again.
“What do you want to be when you grow up, Little Jack?” she asked, leaning against the counter.
Be. Who do you want to be.
“An Indian,” he answered.
“But you’re not an Indian.”
“I know. I want to be an Indian.”
“But you can’t be that, because…well, there’s already the right number of those. The exact right number. They’re accepting no more Indians.”
But her misguided logic didn’t register. Instead, he turned to her, and she couldn’t stand to look at him; she felt like a stovetop coil turning ashy gray. She could explain what she meant better if she tried, she thought, but she saw him there, wanting to be an Indian, finding it OK, somehow, to make fun of the poor girl at school.
She saw him there.
The pot started to steam.
“Why don’t you show me what you would do if you were an Indian?” she said.
After appearing to consider it, he made an “O” with his mouth, emitted a long whoop, and beat his lips with his hand, as though his mouth were a drum. She listened, then saw the water coming to boil. Tearing the top of the box, she dumped the macaroni in. She poured the cheese powder in the bowl, and then the milk. With a spoon, she scooped out a hunk of butter and whipped it in the bowl.
Little Jack got up and came over. “Is this what Indians eat?” he asked, his eyes focused on the label on the butter. She imagined they were both there, about to step from the patch of grass where the squaw kneeled and into the calm blue water.
“I bet you,” she said, “that even as we speak, there’s an old Indian chief, somewhere out there, scooping mac and cheese out of a big turtle shell with his hands, and passing it around the teepee.”
“Don’t go,” Little Jack said. “We’re still playing cards.”
“Are we?” she said, standing up.
“Yes. Come back.”
“No, it’s supper time. What do you want?”
“I don’t know,” he said, falling back with his arms flung across the floor.
“Grilled cheese and tomato soup? Poached eggs with toast? Mac and cheese?”
“I don’t care,” he said, nearly yelling.
“Well, that makes it easy. Mac and cheese it is.”
Little Jack stuck his socked feet against the heater vent. “Ow,” he said. “That’s hot.”
The milk still smelled OK, thank God. She put it on the counter, next to the sink, where she also set the Land O’ Lakes butter, the green grass and smiling squaw in the label making her wish for summer. She grabbed a ceramic bowl from the cabinet and a box of store-brand macaroni and cheese from the pantry. “If it hurts, don’t do it,” she said over her shoulder as she set them on the counter, turned on the stove, and got a pot. She heard a coyote wail from beyond the woods, and on instinct she raised her head to look out the window above the sink. She saw herself in the black mirror, and the water shining from the faucet into the pot. If Hank were here, she thought, he’d have set out his special baked chicken an hour ago. And the mashed red potatoes with the dill seasoning. Who cares? She tried hard to remember the painting of the boy she’d thought of, and where she’d seen it, when the hell that was. She remembered the boy wore the softest looking blue.
She set the pot down on the orange coil. Little Jack was in the same spot, but he was sitting up and had taken off his socks, and he was planting his feet on the vent and pulling them away again.
“What do you want to be when you grow up, Little Jack?” she asked, leaning against the counter.
Be. Who do you want to be.
“An Indian,” he answered.
“But you’re not an Indian.”
“I know. I want to be an Indian.”
“But you can’t be that, because…well, there’s already the right number of those. The exact right number. They’re accepting no more Indians.”
But her misguided logic didn’t register. Instead, he turned to her, and she couldn’t stand to look at him; she felt like a stovetop coil turning ashy gray. She could explain what she meant better if she tried, she thought, but she saw him there, wanting to be an Indian, finding it OK, somehow, to make fun of the poor girl at school.
She saw him there.
The pot started to steam.
“Why don’t you show me what you would do if you were an Indian?” she said.
After appearing to consider it, he made an “O” with his mouth, emitted a long whoop, and beat his lips with his hand, as though his mouth were a drum. She listened, then saw the water coming to boil. Tearing the top of the box, she dumped the macaroni in. She poured the cheese powder in the bowl, and then the milk. With a spoon, she scooped out a hunk of butter and whipped it in the bowl.
Little Jack got up and came over. “Is this what Indians eat?” he asked, his eyes focused on the label on the butter. She imagined they were both there, about to step from the patch of grass where the squaw kneeled and into the calm blue water.
“I bet you,” she said, “that even as we speak, there’s an old Indian chief, somewhere out there, scooping mac and cheese out of a big turtle shell with his hands, and passing it around the teepee.”
