eyes and crying, and when Jordan told his wife to take Aldo to the bathroom and clean him up, she obeyed. Jordan sat next to Jenna on her bed and she sat up straight. Jordan wasn’t a big man, but he was “wiry strong”—the veins in his biceps always pronounced—and when he got to a certain point you didn’t question him, didn’t hold back, gave him what he wanted.
“Jenna,” he said. “No bullshit, did your grandpa touch you?”
She shook her head slowly, her eyes huge silver dollars. “No, Daddy.”
“Not ever?”
“Never.”
He took her hand in his.
“Look at me,” he said. She already was looking at him, but she appeared to try to focus even harder. Breath came through Jordan’s nose, and it was clear he was controlling his voice to stay even and calm. “Now listen,” he continued. “You’re gonna tell me what I want to know, and you’re not gonna go having a hissy fit, understand?”
She nodded.
“Tell me why you cry some mornings. Tell me who’s taking your happy.”
“I’m scared.”
“Tell me anyway.”
Her bottom lip trembled, but she didn’t burst into tears.
“It’s the bad man,” she said.
“What do you mean, the bad man? Tell me now, Jenna, it’s important.”
She scrunched up her face for a moment but somehow managed to hold on.
“He comes at night,” she said, “when I’m half asleep. He puts his hands on my shoulders and steals my breath.”
Jordan was seeing nothing but deep, bright red, but he made sure to keep his voice aqua.
“What do you mean, he steals your breath?”
“You’re gonna be mad.”
“I’m already mad, but not at you. Tell me.”
“Can I whisper it?”
“Sure.”
She reached and put her arms around her father’s shoulders, her exhalations hot in his ear.
“He’s creepy and mean and he wears a hat and a striped tuxedo, like the ones the clowns wear at the circus. He has white gloves with finger bones painted on them, and a tattoo on his face shaped like a pair of glasses cut in half, just over one eye with a black chain going down to his jaw like Germans wear in cartoons. He has bright green eyes, and rotten brown teeth, and his breath stinks like Cheetohs and fish.”
She pulled off Jordan’s shoulder and looked at him with quiet sincerity.
“Then he puts his lips over mine and sucks in my breath. Steals my happy. Breathes back into me what’s stinky and sad. After that he leaves doing that tango dance by himself like we see all the time on Dancing with the Stars. ”
Jordan had let her go and had the tip of his thumb in his mouth, biting down on it despite the cliché. It wasn’t all that hard to decipher, at least most of the juicy parts. Aldo had had a construction site accident back in the seventies, when the abrasive wheel on a chop saw burst apart while he’d been cutting through some steel channel. It opened the right side of his face and left a scar going from the eye to the jaw—hence the monocle tattoo. The Cheetoh breath was actually Nacho Cheese Doritos, those that Jordan had been sneaking to his father for more than a month as a kind of reward treat, and the fish aftertaste came from those disgusting canned sardines he’d grown fond of. The rotted brown teeth were the dentures he kept rolling around in there, and the sound of the straw sucking the milk down at dinner had kicked off the memory, plain and simple. The son of a bitch.
Jordan took her in his arms and whispered back to her,
“It’s all right now, hon. Daddy will take care of it.”
He stayed guard in Aldo’s room all that night, eyes slitted and red in the dark, listening to his father roll around, moan nonsense, and make just about every disgusting gassy sound a body was capable of. Jordan was lucky he didn’t kill him. Ann Marie had been right: they’d have to get Jenna professional help after the weekend. Fuckin’-A, she’d probably be on someone’s couch clear through to her thirties now, and it was all Jordan’s fault.
“Jenna,” he said. “No bullshit, did your grandpa touch you?”
She shook her head slowly, her eyes huge silver dollars. “No, Daddy.”
“Not ever?”
“Never.”
He took her hand in his.
“Look at me,” he said. She already was looking at him, but she appeared to try to focus even harder. Breath came through Jordan’s nose, and it was clear he was controlling his voice to stay even and calm. “Now listen,” he continued. “You’re gonna tell me what I want to know, and you’re not gonna go having a hissy fit, understand?”
She nodded.
“Tell me why you cry some mornings. Tell me who’s taking your happy.”
“I’m scared.”
“Tell me anyway.”
Her bottom lip trembled, but she didn’t burst into tears.
“It’s the bad man,” she said.
“What do you mean, the bad man? Tell me now, Jenna, it’s important.”
She scrunched up her face for a moment but somehow managed to hold on.
“He comes at night,” she said, “when I’m half asleep. He puts his hands on my shoulders and steals my breath.”
Jordan was seeing nothing but deep, bright red, but he made sure to keep his voice aqua.
“What do you mean, he steals your breath?”
“You’re gonna be mad.”
“I’m already mad, but not at you. Tell me.”
“Can I whisper it?”
“Sure.”
She reached and put her arms around her father’s shoulders, her exhalations hot in his ear.
“He’s creepy and mean and he wears a hat and a striped tuxedo, like the ones the clowns wear at the circus. He has white gloves with finger bones painted on them, and a tattoo on his face shaped like a pair of glasses cut in half, just over one eye with a black chain going down to his jaw like Germans wear in cartoons. He has bright green eyes, and rotten brown teeth, and his breath stinks like Cheetohs and fish.”
She pulled off Jordan’s shoulder and looked at him with quiet sincerity.
“Then he puts his lips over mine and sucks in my breath. Steals my happy. Breathes back into me what’s stinky and sad. After that he leaves doing that tango dance by himself like we see all the time on Dancing with the Stars. ”
Jordan had let her go and had the tip of his thumb in his mouth, biting down on it despite the cliché. It wasn’t all that hard to decipher, at least most of the juicy parts. Aldo had had a construction site accident back in the seventies, when the abrasive wheel on a chop saw burst apart while he’d been cutting through some steel channel. It opened the right side of his face and left a scar going from the eye to the jaw—hence the monocle tattoo. The Cheetoh breath was actually Nacho Cheese Doritos, those that Jordan had been sneaking to his father for more than a month as a kind of reward treat, and the fish aftertaste came from those disgusting canned sardines he’d grown fond of. The rotted brown teeth were the dentures he kept rolling around in there, and the sound of the straw sucking the milk down at dinner had kicked off the memory, plain and simple. The son of a bitch.
Jordan took her in his arms and whispered back to her,
“It’s all right now, hon. Daddy will take care of it.”
He stayed guard in Aldo’s room all that night, eyes slitted and red in the dark, listening to his father roll around, moan nonsense, and make just about every disgusting gassy sound a body was capable of. Jordan was lucky he didn’t kill him. Ann Marie had been right: they’d have to get Jenna professional help after the weekend. Fuckin’-A, she’d probably be on someone’s couch clear through to her thirties now, and it was all Jordan’s fault.
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