brother, Mike, was a thief. Stole from the neighbors. Stole a car once. Never amounted to shit. On his third divorce.
Wayne can hear breathing on the other side of the coveralls. He listens as the thief unscrews the lid of the jar. Goddamn it. One of his kids! The thief tips the jar and some change comes out. Not much. Just a little. Wayne reaches out and puts his hand on the coveralls hanging in front of him. Karen has to wash them by hand, because of all the dirt and chemicals and shit. They’re so heavy they’d screw up the washing machine.
The thief is going through the change. Dropping the pennies and nickels and dimes back in. Probably taking two or three quarters, just what Wayne would expect, just what he would do. Wayne counts to three. All he has to do is pull those coveralls aside.
He counts to three again. The thief screws the lid back on the jar.
The thief pushes the jar back into the closet. Wayne squeezes his eyes tight. One of his kids is a sociopath. Now. Do it now. Caught you, you goddamn thief.
But Wayne just sits curled up on the floor of his closet in the dark, behind his coveralls. He can’t do it. He hears the feet pad across the room again. Out the door. Wayne’s head falls to his knees. When it’s quiet again, he reaches for the other beer.
The closet is three feet by five feet. The whole house is just nine hundred square feet. It’s set on a fifty-by-sixty-foot plot of grass and dandelions, across from a vacant lot, in a neighborhood of postwar clapboards and cottages. The house cost $44,000. The interest rate is 13 percent. The father works rotating shifts at a dying aluminum plant—day, swing, graveyard—for $9.45 an hour, and he comes home so tired, so greasy, so black with soot and sweat that he’s unrecognizable, and yet, every day he gets up to do it again. He sits in that closet with a beer, his head between his knees.
In the hallway, the thief burns with shame, the quarters two hot circles of mourning in my palm.
Can a Corn
KEN TOOK dialysis Tuesdays and Thursdays. It fell to Tommy after his mom passed to check his stepdad out of the Pine Lodge Correctional Facility. Drop him at the hospital. Take him back three hours later.
Ken groaned as he climbed up the truck. —Whatcha got there, Tom?
Tommy looked over the back seat. —Pole and tackle.
—You goin’ fishin’ this weekend?
—I ain’t skydivin’.
Ken stared out his window. —You stop me by a store?
There was a downtown grocery sold Lotto, fortified wines, and forties. Ken hopped out. Tommy spun radio stations until Ken came back with a can a corn.
—Oh, no you ain’t, Ken.
—So got-damn tired, Tom. Can’t sit on that blood machine today.
—You’d rather die?
—I’d rather fish.
—No way, Ken.
He drove toward Sacred Heart. But when Tommy stopped at a red light Ken reached back, got the pole, and jumped out. Fine, Tommy thought. Die. I don’t care. The old man walked toward the Spokane River. Tommy pulled up next to him, reached over, and popped the passenger door.
—Get in the damn truck, Ken.
Ken ignored him.
—That pole ain’t even geared.
Ken walked, facing away.
Tommy drove alongside for another block. —Get in the truck, Ken.
Ken turned down a one-way. Tommy couldn’t follow.
Fine. Stupid bastard. Tommy went back to work, but the only thing in the pit was a brake job on some old lady’s Lincoln: six hundred in repairs on a shit-bucket worth three. Right. Pissed, Tommy gave the Lincoln to Miguel and drove back downtown.
He parked, got his tackle box from the truck, and walked back along the river. Found his stepfather under a bridge, dry pole next to him.
Tommy gave him hook and weight.
Ken’s gray fingers shook.
—Give it here. Tommy weighted and hooked the line. He pulled a can opener from the tackle box and opened Ken’s corn. Carefully, Tommy pushed the steel hook into the corn’s paper skin until, with a tiny spurt, it gave way.
He handed the old man back the
Wayne can hear breathing on the other side of the coveralls. He listens as the thief unscrews the lid of the jar. Goddamn it. One of his kids! The thief tips the jar and some change comes out. Not much. Just a little. Wayne reaches out and puts his hand on the coveralls hanging in front of him. Karen has to wash them by hand, because of all the dirt and chemicals and shit. They’re so heavy they’d screw up the washing machine.
The thief is going through the change. Dropping the pennies and nickels and dimes back in. Probably taking two or three quarters, just what Wayne would expect, just what he would do. Wayne counts to three. All he has to do is pull those coveralls aside.
He counts to three again. The thief screws the lid back on the jar.
The thief pushes the jar back into the closet. Wayne squeezes his eyes tight. One of his kids is a sociopath. Now. Do it now. Caught you, you goddamn thief.
But Wayne just sits curled up on the floor of his closet in the dark, behind his coveralls. He can’t do it. He hears the feet pad across the room again. Out the door. Wayne’s head falls to his knees. When it’s quiet again, he reaches for the other beer.
The closet is three feet by five feet. The whole house is just nine hundred square feet. It’s set on a fifty-by-sixty-foot plot of grass and dandelions, across from a vacant lot, in a neighborhood of postwar clapboards and cottages. The house cost $44,000. The interest rate is 13 percent. The father works rotating shifts at a dying aluminum plant—day, swing, graveyard—for $9.45 an hour, and he comes home so tired, so greasy, so black with soot and sweat that he’s unrecognizable, and yet, every day he gets up to do it again. He sits in that closet with a beer, his head between his knees.
In the hallway, the thief burns with shame, the quarters two hot circles of mourning in my palm.
Can a Corn
KEN TOOK dialysis Tuesdays and Thursdays. It fell to Tommy after his mom passed to check his stepdad out of the Pine Lodge Correctional Facility. Drop him at the hospital. Take him back three hours later.
Ken groaned as he climbed up the truck. —Whatcha got there, Tom?
Tommy looked over the back seat. —Pole and tackle.
—You goin’ fishin’ this weekend?
—I ain’t skydivin’.
Ken stared out his window. —You stop me by a store?
There was a downtown grocery sold Lotto, fortified wines, and forties. Ken hopped out. Tommy spun radio stations until Ken came back with a can a corn.
—Oh, no you ain’t, Ken.
—So got-damn tired, Tom. Can’t sit on that blood machine today.
—You’d rather die?
—I’d rather fish.
—No way, Ken.
He drove toward Sacred Heart. But when Tommy stopped at a red light Ken reached back, got the pole, and jumped out. Fine, Tommy thought. Die. I don’t care. The old man walked toward the Spokane River. Tommy pulled up next to him, reached over, and popped the passenger door.
—Get in the damn truck, Ken.
Ken ignored him.
—That pole ain’t even geared.
Ken walked, facing away.
Tommy drove alongside for another block. —Get in the truck, Ken.
Ken turned down a one-way. Tommy couldn’t follow.
Fine. Stupid bastard. Tommy went back to work, but the only thing in the pit was a brake job on some old lady’s Lincoln: six hundred in repairs on a shit-bucket worth three. Right. Pissed, Tommy gave the Lincoln to Miguel and drove back downtown.
He parked, got his tackle box from the truck, and walked back along the river. Found his stepfather under a bridge, dry pole next to him.
Tommy gave him hook and weight.
Ken’s gray fingers shook.
—Give it here. Tommy weighted and hooked the line. He pulled a can opener from the tackle box and opened Ken’s corn. Carefully, Tommy pushed the steel hook into the corn’s paper skin until, with a tiny spurt, it gave way.
He handed the old man back the
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