Coke,’ the man said. He went behind the glass counter and stood with his back to Jerome.
‘I’d like something to drink.’
‘Faucet’s back here, next to the men’s room.’
‘I’m looking for a jackknife.’
The man didn’t respond.
‘A jackknife. Do you sell jackknives?’ Jerome did his best to sound casual.
The man turned to him. ‘You ain’t old enough to drive. Whatcha doin’ here?’
‘I’m in the Boy Scouts and need a pocketknife.’
‘Boy Scouts? You?’ He laughed.
‘Everybody’s got one.’
‘And you don’t.’
Jerome shook his head. His mouth was so dry it was as though he was breathing dust instead of air.
‘C’mere.’
Jerome went over to the counter.
‘I don’t sell no weapons. You get my drift?’
Jerome looked at the scissors and knives and chisels and screwdrivers displayed under the glass countertop. In the middle of all that glistening steel he saw a dull hatchet with a carved wooden handle shaped like an eagle’s head. It made him think of Indians.
‘I like that one.’
‘Three dollars.’
Jerome dug the money out of his pants pocket and laid it on the counter.
‘Thought you wanted a jackknife.’ The man took the money and slid the hatchet over to him. He turned and fumbled around in the cash register behind the counter. He’d already forgotten Jerome was there.
Jerome felt the weight of the hatchet in his hand. It was heavy for such a small thing. He ran his fingers over the fine woodcarving, over the solid polished steel. It wasn’t as sharp as a knife but it had two perfectly honed corners. He pushed his thumb into one of them. It didn’t hurt. He pushed harder, kept pushing until he felt his calloused skin break. He put his thumb in his mouth. His blood tasted like iron.
He hid the hatchet under his mattress. He slept deeply, dreamlessly. Every once in a while he took the thing out to admire its fine, light-brown woodcarving. He imagined a proud old Indian with long, lank hair who, wielding a small knife, cut thin lines in the wood, keeping at it until an eagle appeared.
It was as though the hatchet defused his murderous thoughts. The hatchet had nothing to do with death. Death was a big limp rabbit at the side of the road. The smell of rain and rotten leaves. He remembered once poking the animal in its belly with a stick to see if it was still alive. He had lifted up the hind legs, turned the head toward him. The eyes were just like dull marbles. Unseeing. He had held his hand an inch above the wooly gray fur. He didn’t dare pet it, but felt its warmth on his skin. As though not all the life had drained from the animal yet. Did rabbits have a soul? Was that what he felt?
One night, a week or two after he had bought the hatchet, Jerome woke up to the rattling of the front door. The broken pane had been boarded up. He heard pounding and shouting. His father’s deep, measured voice. ‘Let me in. You can’t forbid me to see my children.’ Even when he was crazy, his voice was still songful and fluid, almost like he was play-acting, like he didn’t really mean what he said. But his words were so ugly. ‘Filthy whore! You fucking somebody else? I wanna come in. Come on, open the door! Jerome, you there? Jerome!’
Jerome stiffened at the sound of his name. He lay on his back. Chris slept through it all. You could fire off a cannon and Chris wouldn’t wake up. Jerome thought back on that time his father came looking for him. It was summertime, late at night. The humid warmth still hung over the streets. He had hidden under the Spring Street bridge and quickly counted his earnings. He heard his father’s agitated footsteps. He always walked fast when he was crazy.
‘Goddam it, Jerome, where are you? It’s 3 a.m.. Have you lost your mind?’
The footsteps got closer. There was no escape now.
His father crouched at the bridge. ‘Come on home, Jerome. Your mother’s worried.’
Jerome stuffed the dollar bills and coins in his pockets. Looked up at his father. Daddy looked almost timid, as though he were ashamed of something. His glance glided off to one side. ‘Come on.’ It sounded like pleading. Jerome would rather have Daddy get mad than act like this, so pitiful.
‘In a minute. You go ahead.’
‘I’m your father.’
‘Yeah, I know.’
Sonny Huling laughed to himself. ‘I’m not going without you.’
Jerome ambled a distance behind his father. Later, when they got home, the man looked his son straight in the eye. His own eyes were watery and dull. He turned to his wife, Jerome’s mother, and said, ‘This little nigger is out of his mind. He is one crazy nigger.’
Jerome heard the pride that filtered through his father’s pathetic words.
‘Lemme in my goddam house!’ Daddy’s entire body thudded against the front door. Jerome was sliding out of bed before he knew it. Grabbing the hatchet from under his mattress and shooting out of the bedroom on his tiptoes, out onto the landing, his feet hardly touching the soft carpeting; how quickly and nimbly he skipped down the thirteen steps, hid silently next to the front door, just out of his father’s sight. His mind was empty. No thoughts except the deep and dark awareness of his mission. It’s better this way. Daddy has to die. He can’t come around here ever again, not ever. He can’t ever beat up on Mama again. He’ll kill her.
‘I’ll bust this door down,’ Daddy hollered. Jerome heard the thud of his footsteps on the landing. Mama charged down the stairs, her thin nightgown flapping behind her, like she had wings. She went straight for Jerome. ‘I knew it,’ she said. ‘Give it here.’ She yanked the hatchet out of his hand. ‘Oh, Jerome,’ she whispered. ‘Jerome.’ She sounded disappointed.
The door swung open. Daddy staggered inside. It looked like his head was balanced loosely atop his torso, the way it trembled and shook. ‘Is that why you made me wait so long?’ he said, pointing to the hatchet. They gray steel glimmered in the dim glow from the porch light. Mama put it behind her back.
‘You think you can get ridda me so easy, you ugly bitch?’ He roared with laughter. Mama turned and ran to the kitchen. Daddy followed her, legs wide. He had all the time in the world. From the doorway he turned and looked into the living room. Jerome tried to keep out of sight.
‘I know you’re there,’ he heard his father say. His voice sounded sober and normal. ‘Was it your idea?’
Every word Jerome knew drained from him. As though he was mute again. He heard his father laugh. ‘I knew you weren’t no wimp,’ Daddy said, mostly to himself as he opened the kitchen door. The glass rattled in its frame. The door swung shut behind him.
-
‘This is Madness’ (1970)
Knock!
