but he doesn’t make it clear if he does or not. And I’m still not scared. I know, because I keep checking. But it’s still just that dead spot.
After a minute he says, “The answer is no.”
So I say, “What’s the question?”
“Whatever the question is, the answer is no.” He picks up the cigar and puffs furiously. The air all around his head fills with bluish smoke. He still won’t look at me. “What’d you come for,”
he asks, “money?”
“Partly,” I say, because I refuse to be cowardly with him.
He waits a moment, then says, “Uh-huh. Look, there’s just too much bad blood between us.”
“I know.”
“Why’d you even come out here then?”
I don’t bother to answer. I just leave. I know the answer, I just don’t bother to tell him. Because I could. That’s the answer.
To prove that I could.
On the way down the front steps with Chloe I hear Pammy’s voice again. “Jordy.” I turn around and she’s on the cold steps behind me in pajamas and bare feet. I walk back to her and stand a couple of steps down so we’re the same height, looking each other in the face. “Take me with you, Jordy.”
“I can’t, peanut. I’m sorry.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m just barely keeping my own head above water here.”
“Oh. Okay. Do me a favor, Jordy?”
“What’s that, peanut?”
“Be okay.”
“Okay,” I say. “Okay, I’ll really try. Will you do me the same favor?”
She doesn’t exactly answer. Just says, “Bye, Jordy. Bye, Chloe.”
Chloe does that parade wave again.
Then my mother comes down the stairs and grabs Pammy by the arm and spins her around and sends her running back into the house with a swat on the butt. Like Pammy was three or something. “It’s cold out here. Get in that house before you catch bronchitis again.”
My mother turns back to me. She looks at me like she’s seeing me differently. I’m out here in the bright daylight and she sees something she didn’t see before. I expect her to say, Jordan.
You’re almost a grown man now. In other words, I never learn.
I guess I should have noticed she was looking at my forehead.
“You still have that scar,” she says.
“I’ll always have that scar,” I say.
On the night of the first snow, we’re in our new place. In a real bed, with a mattress and box springs. And on a frame, not even down on the floor. With sheets. There’s a gas furnace, and it’s kind of rattly and loud, but it really makes the place warm.
There’s a window right by the bed, and we’re lying here, not quite asleep. I think we’re both lying here just enjoying this. Just feeling how great it is to have sheets, heat. A bathroom five steps away.
I look out the window and it’s snowing. Hard.
“Look, Chlo,” I say.
Her head pops up and she watches the snow for a minute.
Then she throws the covers back and runs out the back door, still in her nightshirt with her feet bare. I’m thinking maybe she’s planning on making snow angels in her nightshirt, in which case she’ll freeze. She’ll get frostbite for real. I watch out the window and she runs across the yard to the dog run and opens it and Bruno comes waddling out to greet her. Then she brings him back into our apartment.
“What are you doing, Chlo? Bruno never gets to come in the house. You know that.”
“He’ll get cold.”
“He’ll also bite me.”
“No, he won’t. Watch.” She leads Bruno by the collar over to our bed. “Bruno, this is Jordy. Be nice to Jordy. Give him your hand, Jordy.”
Reluctantly, I hold one hand out for him to sniff. He sniffs it, licks it once, then flops down on the rug beside the bed with a deep sigh. Smart dog, I think. He knows if he bites me, he’s back out in the snow.
Chloe climbs back into bed with me. Her feet are wet and freezing. I make her give them to me so I can rub them until they warm up. So she doesn’t get frostbite.
“Chlo, that dog slept outside for years before you lived
After a minute he says, “The answer is no.”
So I say, “What’s the question?”
“Whatever the question is, the answer is no.” He picks up the cigar and puffs furiously. The air all around his head fills with bluish smoke. He still won’t look at me. “What’d you come for,”
he asks, “money?”
“Partly,” I say, because I refuse to be cowardly with him.
He waits a moment, then says, “Uh-huh. Look, there’s just too much bad blood between us.”
“I know.”
“Why’d you even come out here then?”
I don’t bother to answer. I just leave. I know the answer, I just don’t bother to tell him. Because I could. That’s the answer.
To prove that I could.
On the way down the front steps with Chloe I hear Pammy’s voice again. “Jordy.” I turn around and she’s on the cold steps behind me in pajamas and bare feet. I walk back to her and stand a couple of steps down so we’re the same height, looking each other in the face. “Take me with you, Jordy.”
“I can’t, peanut. I’m sorry.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m just barely keeping my own head above water here.”
“Oh. Okay. Do me a favor, Jordy?”
“What’s that, peanut?”
“Be okay.”
“Okay,” I say. “Okay, I’ll really try. Will you do me the same favor?”
She doesn’t exactly answer. Just says, “Bye, Jordy. Bye, Chloe.”
Chloe does that parade wave again.
Then my mother comes down the stairs and grabs Pammy by the arm and spins her around and sends her running back into the house with a swat on the butt. Like Pammy was three or something. “It’s cold out here. Get in that house before you catch bronchitis again.”
My mother turns back to me. She looks at me like she’s seeing me differently. I’m out here in the bright daylight and she sees something she didn’t see before. I expect her to say, Jordan.
You’re almost a grown man now. In other words, I never learn.
I guess I should have noticed she was looking at my forehead.
“You still have that scar,” she says.
“I’ll always have that scar,” I say.
On the night of the first snow, we’re in our new place. In a real bed, with a mattress and box springs. And on a frame, not even down on the floor. With sheets. There’s a gas furnace, and it’s kind of rattly and loud, but it really makes the place warm.
There’s a window right by the bed, and we’re lying here, not quite asleep. I think we’re both lying here just enjoying this. Just feeling how great it is to have sheets, heat. A bathroom five steps away.
I look out the window and it’s snowing. Hard.
“Look, Chlo,” I say.
Her head pops up and she watches the snow for a minute.
Then she throws the covers back and runs out the back door, still in her nightshirt with her feet bare. I’m thinking maybe she’s planning on making snow angels in her nightshirt, in which case she’ll freeze. She’ll get frostbite for real. I watch out the window and she runs across the yard to the dog run and opens it and Bruno comes waddling out to greet her. Then she brings him back into our apartment.
“What are you doing, Chlo? Bruno never gets to come in the house. You know that.”
“He’ll get cold.”
“He’ll also bite me.”
“No, he won’t. Watch.” She leads Bruno by the collar over to our bed. “Bruno, this is Jordy. Be nice to Jordy. Give him your hand, Jordy.”
Reluctantly, I hold one hand out for him to sniff. He sniffs it, licks it once, then flops down on the rug beside the bed with a deep sigh. Smart dog, I think. He knows if he bites me, he’s back out in the snow.
Chloe climbs back into bed with me. Her feet are wet and freezing. I make her give them to me so I can rub them until they warm up. So she doesn’t get frostbite.
“Chlo, that dog slept outside for years before you lived
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