JAC

Posted by willowweeper on November 22, 2001 at 18:57:32:

JAC

I pictured his body lying naked on the table before the medical examiner. Jac had been brought in by helicopter at night a week ago, DOA. The report in my hands shook as I read The deceased is an obese male, age approximately 45. . . Reading on, I could imagine Jac watching his own autopsy and what he would say. I'm heavy, but I'm not obese. Damn doctors don't know their ass from a hole in the ground. They got the male part right at least. I don't squat to piss. Trauma to head caused by gunshot wound. Hell. Dumb cop! But most cops are dumb. You should have seen the look on that cop's face at the roadblock when he noticed my Baretta on the seat next to me. I can shoot better than you, I told the jerk and hit the gas. I figured there was no way out, so I'd give 'em a run for their money. Shit, I'd go out with a bang, not a fuckin' whimper. Guess I damn well did.
When his dad got the news on the phone, he had commented, "We knew something like this would happen one day."
There was an ache inside I had never felt before, and I wanted to scream, "But I didn't know!"
But then, I didn't really know Jac, even though we had been together three years, married for two. I only knew what he wanted me to know. He smiled like a kid with a secret, about to reveal it to his best friend. For quite a while the secret was that he loved me. Then he grew colder, and the secret grew darker and more unspoken. He no longer looked into my eyes, but averted his, and when he kissed me on the cheek, posing, unknowingly, for his last picture, the kiss was just that, a pose, like a dutiful child being made to kiss a maiden aunt. It was a good picture of us, but I hated it. When looking at the picture, I was repulsed. In my imagination, an image of his smile being blown away by a shotgun blast haunted me.
We met in New Orleans. He was sitting in a laundromat looking like a farmer, dressed in jeans, cowboy boots, and a red plaid shirt, very neat and clean with a stocky build and a black, Colt .45 cap on his head hiding his thinning hair. While we were making small talk and doing laundry, I learned he was from up North.
In a deep, masculine voice, he said, "1 have a contract as a consultant to a concrete slab outfit. I'm helping to install some conveyors. Problem is, I can't find a decent place to live. I'll only be in town 'til the job's done."
The lodgings for a short-term stay in New Orleans were either for tourists and very expensive, or they were dives. I turned my back to him to check the dryer and could sense he was watching me. Bending over to unload the dry clothes, I wondered if he was looking at my behind. Well, why not make a try. People have to take a chance sometimes and trust someone. I didn't want to spend another evening alone in that tiny apartment.
"I'm going to the movies tonight with friends. Would you like to come along?"
He seemed a little surprised and hesitated. I was getting nervous waiting for his answer. He'd said I was one of the few friendly people he'd met in this city. Driving throughout the South, he had often met with silent stares when he stopped to ask for directions.
"Those people are really ignorant," he remarked bitterly, unaware of small town Southern attitudes toward Yankees.
He added quickly that Southern gals seemed friendly, though, if I was any example. Yes, city gals, I thought, and gals going through a divorce, like me.
Finally he answered, as if talking to himself, "Anything to do is better than sitting around in that roach-infested dump I'm stuck with."
Becoming more nervous and trying to hide it, I gave him directions.
"It's just around the corner. Gatehouse Apartments, Apartment B, upstairs." How stupid, I thought. It is dangerous to take up with strangers.
That afternoon was spent with me frantically on the phone trying to get some friends together to chaperone. Everyone was busy. Don't panic, I told myself. Finally, frustrated and rebellious, I decided to go alone with him, talking myself out of thinking he might misbehave or, worse yet, be a rapist or serial killer.
When he came to pick me up at the apartment, it was still daylight. From the window, I watched him coming up the stairs. He was using a breath spray, and I felt like a spy. Then we were face to face. He looked at me, puzzled.
Embarrassed, I blurted out, "My friends couldn't make it. Since you don't have a phone, I couldn't call. Hope it's okay." How stupid, I chided myself again silently.
I suggested a dollar flick knowing he hadn't gotten his first paycheck and was strapped. He seemed relieved. We were early and sat in the lobby waiting for the previous show to let out. I stared at the cigarette burns on the worn, red carpet. The theater smelled of dust and imitation butter, but the air-conditioning was working fine. He had bought a huge box of popcorn which we shared, unavoidably touching hands. My mouth was dry, and my Coke was drained in seconds. Jac began to warm toward me. I was 33, nine years younger than he, but had an innocent quality that made me seem even younger. I knew I was no beauty, yet could be appealing to men.
"1 should have big money soon. I'm getting a $2,000 bonus when this job is done, and I'll be making over $15 an hour as long as it takes," he explained, apparently feeling a need to impress, but succeeding only in embarrassing me. I wondered for a minute if he thought I wanted his money. But he obviously was trying to be on his best behavior, and this was a relief.
When he brought me home, he said, "I'll call you tomorrow."
He hadn't even tried for a good night kiss. Yeah, sure, I thought.
"Okay," 1 said.
He did call two days later. "Dress to the hilt," he said. "The eagle has shit."
"What?"
He laughed and explained, "I got paid, and I'm taking you out to dinner tomorrow night."
On the bus coming home from work, I was planning what to wear. I felt excited like a teenager getting ready for her first date. I'm being silly, I told myself, but I couldn't calm down. Then, the bus jolted to a stop. I looked around the fat shoulders of the black woman sitting in front of me to see that we were stopped at a railroad crossing. The guard rail was coming down. Bells began to clang. The Metairie train crossing was notorious for tying up rush hour traffic. Not only late, I would be standing him up. He had no phone. I couldn't call. Dread replaced excitement. As I sat there watching the Southern Pacific cars creep by, I felt tears welling up. I'd probably never see him again. I'm being silly again, I told myself but it was no use.
That night I thought about it and came up with a plan. 1 would drop a note of apology off at his rooming house. At least I did have his address. I wrote the note and carried it in my purse all the next day. On the way home, I got off at Pantano and began walking, checking addresses along the way. At last, there it was, a duplex badly in need of repair. Swallowing hard, I marched to the door and rang the bell.
A sickly looking man answered and gave me a suspicious look."Yeah, he lives here, why?"
I left the note, thinking the man would probably throw it away. Well, I had tried. I had blisters from walking a mile in my high heels to prove it. To hell with it.
The next Saturday, he called. We went out to a small family restaurant. Over coffee, we talked, and he revealed some of his past.
"I'm divorced, like I said. I've been married twice."
"Any kids?"
"Five kids."
I almost spewed a mouthful of coffee at him.
"Three by my first wife. We were married over fifteen years. She turned into a religious nut. She got custody. Two by my second. After she had the first kid, Jason, the doctor said she needed a rest, so I took her on a cross-country motorcycle trip. I've been riding bikes all my life. Anyway, on the trip, I got her pregnant again. Some rest."
A two time loser. I was beginning to have second thoughts. But then, I didn't have to marry the guy. He was just good company. He called every night that week. It was foolish because we were both tired from work and yet spent hours talking on the phone. We talked about all sorts of things. How he put a motor on his bicycle at age ten. The itchy suit his grandparents made him wear to mass. Sighting guns for his grandfather who was a gunsmith.
"I lived with my grandparents when I was a teenager. My mom died when I was five, and my dad remarried. My dad and step-mom couldn't handle me. After I ran away three times; they sent me to my grandfather to straighten me out. Years later, when I heard my grandfather had died, I cried like a baby. They didn't even contact me so I could go to the funeral. How'd you like that?"
We went out to dinner often. He told me he wore the Colt .45 cap to deter fights.
"Bad heart," he tapped his chest. "I have a defective valve of my right ventricle. I was born that way. So, in a fight I usually only have one punch and have to make it count. I don't like to fight."
Observing the bulge of his upper arms, I told him he could probably handle it.
"Yeah," he laughed. "I wasn't supposed to live to be twenty. I used to faint when I'd bend over to pick something up. Couldn't run. Had to use one punch. Then, when I was seventeen, they told my folks there was a specialist who could operate if they'd take me to California. I refused to go. Figured I'd die anyway. So, my dad, who's got money, got the guy off the Hope Ship. You know, the one that takes medical care to other countries, and he did the operation right there in Michigan. Maybe that's why I'm the way 1 am."
"How's that?"
"I live like there's no tomorrow. See, I never thought I had tomorrow to worry about. Guess I do, though."
The next weekend when he called he said, "God, this sure is a lousy town. My car's in the shop, and I'm stuck here in roach haven."
On impulse, I offered to visit him.
"Guess it'd be okay. The guy renting me this room is in the hospital. We'd have the place to ourselves."
He met me at the door, and we walked through a small shared living room to a back bedroom.
I sat on the bed in the sparsely furnished room, and we attempted to make small talk. This is getting boring, I thought. "It's getting dark. I should leave."
"Okay."
But I stayed. We watched some TV. It felt awkward to be talking face to face after a week of telephoning. Maybe we could catch a bus somewhere, I thought. Then, I had a much more interesting thought.
"I'd like to make love," I told him. I'd felt hollow for weeks and needed human touch, a lot of it. Whether Jac left town later on or not didn't matter right then. Maybe later 1 would want him to go, what did I know?
"Are you sure? You really change gears fast."
Always before, I had told him I needed to wait, and I meant it. Before when he tried to touch me or even to hold my hand, I told him that I would need time. He had accepted this with patience.
I liked his being off guard, even if only for a moment. He wasn't nervous, just surprised, and then, matter of factly, he took my hand and placed it on his crotch.
"I'm ready," he said with a confident grin.
I could feel this was so, and suddenly, I felt shy and a little afraid. The ceiling light seemed awfully bright.
He said, "Maybe we should wait. This is a lousy atmosphere."
"You wouldn't get evicted for having a woman here, would you?" I was stalling.
''No, it's all right. He doesn't care. I just thought it's such a crummy place and all. . . He was being thoughtful. I relaxed a bit. If I went home then, I'd feel even worse. It was dark outside. It was only a matter of time, so I decided to follow through.
I said, "I'm sure. The place doesn't matter, unless it bothers you. Can you turn off that light?"
He got up, crossed the room, and flicked the switch. It was pitch dark. We both laughed.
"Wait."
He turned the light back on. It seemed brighter than ever. I felt exposed. He looked around. This is not going very well, I thought. His maroon shirt was on a chair nearby. He picked up the chair and brought it under the ceiling light. Taking the shirt in one hand, he stepped up on the chair, reached up and draped the shirt over the light. The maroon now looked rosy red, and we could have developed film in the room. I wondered if he had been in this same situation before.
"There!"
He seemed pleased with himself. He sat down next to me on the bed and took my hand.
"You're cold," he commented.
Before I could answer, he was kissing me. I realized then that the patience he had shown had not been easy for him. His kiss was urgent and intense.
"Slow down," I whispered, feeling sorry for him that I had to say it. It was ironic. He had always known what he wanted. I was the one who wasn't sure, and yet, now I was calling the shots. He drew back and looked at me. His face looked shadowy, and I couldn't see his eyes. He smoothed my hair gently, leaving the palm of his hand against the side of my face. He has such small hands, I thought, and yet such powerful arms.
"You have soft hair."
"I'm thinking about getting it cut. I used to wear it short. In the summer, it's easier to care for short hair..."
"Shut up," he said, and he kissed me again, slowly. This time, I kissed him back. I've always wondered how movie stars get undressed so gracefully in the love scenes. Probably with careful editing. We, being real people, disengaged and stripped to bare skin as if there was an unspoken agreement to save time. Our next touch was electric. His skin was so warm and his touch so welcome that I found myself responding without hesitation. I did have a thought of whether he'd told me the truth when he said he had a vasectomy. Then, I quit thinking.
Time passed so quickly. Jac's landlord died, and, rather than have him looking for another dump, I told him to move in with me temporarily. It was cramped, but he'd be leaving soon. I tried not to think about it.
There was a hard freeze on Christmas Eve night. Pipes all over the city burst. I was without water all Christmas day. My mother had died the week before. Jac monitored my grief with sympathy, but seemed at a loss as to what he could do. He had never met her. Christmas night, we took a drive downtown. The streets were deserted, brightly colored Christmas lights reflected in puddles of water. The homeless huddled in the doorways of buildings, locked out. He rested his right hand on mine between us and drove with his left. We didn't speak, couldn't speak. We felt so low.
Finally, he said, "Maybe a drive wasn't such a good idea."
I didn't answer.
Sex was like a drug for us. We escaped the reality of our loneliness, ignoring the danger of becoming intimate so soon, grasping at life. That night, we took a bath together. In getting out of the tub, he tried to use the soap dish as a handle and pulled it off the wall. We laughed until we cried.
"I'll fix it," he said. "I have some two-ton epoxy in my tool box."
It was in the bathroom that he asked me to go with him when he had to leave. He was shaving. I liked to watch him shave.
"You know, I've made over $40,000 a year while working for concrete plants. I've managed plants. Told the owners to leave me alone, and they did. Just let me take over. We'd do fine. We could travel, and, maybe after we settle somewhere, we could buy a house."
It was assumed by us both that, when my divorce was final, our marriage was inevitable. We never felt a need to discuss it.
I wanted to go with him. Run away with him, like that fifteen-year-old gal did when he was eighteen. He had told me about it in bed the night before.
"I need to tell you something about me. I have a record. When I was eighteen, I ran away to Florida with a girl who was only fifteen. They tracked us down, brought us back, and I was charged with statutory rape by her dad."
"What ever happened to her?"
"She dumped me. I couldn't understand why. Then, years later, I learned her dad had been molesting her all that time, and she was afraid I'd find out. My dad paid her dad off, and the charges were dropped. She ended up marrying some guy. But there are other things you should know."
"I don't need to know. Now is what's important."
"But, when we ran away, I took the family car. Dad reported it stolen. That's on the record too. Then, a few years ago in Houston . . .
"You don't have to tell me all this. I trust you. I love you, no matter what."
I was tired, a little drunk and wanted to sleep. He didn't try to tell me more.
We drank every night. Jac claimed he could drink all he wanted and never act drunk unless he wanted to. He was right. He just seemed more cheerful when he drank. I could be a mean drunk, as my mother used to say. One night, I had a buzz on and told Jac I was wondering if I should go back to my husband.
"I'll have my stuff out tomorrow," he said and walked out of the room.
I went to him in tears and begged him to stay.
"It's just that I had too much to drink," I pleaded.
"It's alright. Forget it," he said.
But from then on, I watched my mouth. After New year's, his work was done in New Orleans, and we headed West, then North, towing a utility trailer full of our stuff When we lit the pass approaching Denver, it was snowing heavily.
"Don't worry. I'm used to this," Jac said. He kept both hands on the wheel except to down shift frequently. I had never seen a mountain, much less crossed one by auto in a blizzard. My fears slowly decreased and we became a team making our way together like pioneers in unmapped country.
Wherever we went, I could find work as a secretary, but Jac had problems. This really bothered him.
"If I hear I'm over qualified one more time, I'll..." But he was to hear it many more times.
Finally, we found ourselves backtracking, going South. In Albuquerque, we stayed at a trailer park north of town. He took a job as the head of maintenance in a Mexican food processing plant. I got a job at the university. I would get home exhausted and find him outside cleaning and sorting tools. There were tools all over the place, in barrels and on the ground. He had bought them for a song from a neighbor and planned to resell them. Eventually, the management issued us a warning to clean up the place. Two days later, when I got home, he was packing to leave.
"Why are you doing this?" I shouted at him.
At the door, he just said, "I'm going. Come with me or stay."
I hesitated, and he drove off leaving me standing there. I didn't see him for two days. Then he was back as if nothing had happened.

For the first time since we met our sex life was suffering. Jac enjoyed oral sex especially giving it to me. I had a lot of hesitation and would participate just to please him. Now he pressured me and I began to wonder why no matter how good the sex was, I would never have an orgasm. What was wrong with me, anyway? So, day by day, we began to draw apart.
It was the third October since we had left New Orleans. Jac had the flu and said not to bother him. He'd see a doctor if and when he was ready.
Saturday afternoon, he said, "I think I'll see a doctor now. I'd better."
He could barely breath when we walked into the emergency clinic. The nurse at the desk took one look at him and took him directly into the examining room. The people waiting stared at us.
After a long time, the doctor came out and said, "I've run some tests. He's experiencing heart failure. He should be admitted to the hospital at once. Do you have insurance?"
"He's covered as a dependent on my policy at work."
I could hardly think straight. At the hospital, a clerk took his medical history.
"Any allergies to drugs?"
"Just horse serum. It'll kill me."
"You mean antibiotics?"
"Yeah."
"Any other hospitalization other than for your heart?"
"Well, I was in a private mental hospital for a while. My ex told me if I'd get treatment, she'd think about not divorcing me."
"Did they give you a diagnosis?"
"They said I was mildly manic-depressive."
"Are you taking medication for this?"
"No."
Later, he said, "I tried to tell you, but you said you didn't want to hear it. She was just trying to get me out of the way so she could grab all she could, and I fell for it. I tried to tell you about Houston, too. They have a warrant out for my arrest for assault there. I went there to visit my daughter and her new husband. One night I came in, and he had beaten the shit out of her. I hit him over the head."
"With what?"
"A hammer."
My God, I thought. For the first time, I was afraid of him and what I had gotten myself into.
A month later, he was finally home again. When I put my head on his chest, I could hear the clicking of the new artificial valve in his heart. It was called a St. Jude's valve. He thought this was funny. He had told me that when he was a kid he and the other guys would imitate the Latin mass liturgy by softly chanting, "Omni, omni, Nabisco"during the service. It drove the priests crazy.
"I don't believe in all that stuff, 'specially after what my first wife put me through. She'd tune the radio to religious music and blast the neighborhood with it. She was nuts."
Jac quit drinking, quit smoking, and ate half as much as he used to eat. We bought a touring bike. It sat outside waiting for him to get better.
Then, his dad come to visit from Michigan. He was delighted with the weather and stayed six days. It irritated me that he talked to Jac like he was still in his teens.
"Now, Jac,.." he would begin, and a lecture would follow. I was amazed that Jac didn't tell him off
One evening, Jac had tears in his eyes, "I'm really communicating with my dad for the first time in my life." He gave a sort of strange laugh.
Jac's behavior was erratic, and he was getting very emotional. "Are you tired of my dad being here?"
I didn't answer.
"I'll explain to him and ask him to go," he said.
I breathed a sigh of relief when we watched his dad board the plane that Sunday.
"I'll mail you the pictures I took of you two," he promised with wave. A month passed, but Jac still didn't seem stable emotionally.
Carefully, I tried to talk to him, "Jac, we need to go to a mental health clinic."
"Okay," he said.
He began getting his guns out. "Let's go," he said, putting the Baretta in his belt.
I tried to be calm. "No, you can't wear a gun to the clinic. You'd scare them, and they'd have you arrested."
He seemed to be thinking. He put the gun on the bed and said, "I was going to target practice this afternoon. You drive."
On the way to the clinic, he thought he saw an old friend on the street.
"No, I guess that's not him," he decided. He seemed excited, talking rapidly. His eyes actually looked fearful when they met mine.
The clerk at the intake window said, "It may be a long wait."
Jac looked at me hopefully.
"We'll wait," I told the clerk.
I heard him sigh. A TV tuned to The Price Is Right was in the waiting room. Jac calmly read a magazine, while I watched people come on down. An hour later, the intake nurse ushered us into her office. She was around twenty-five years old.
"Now, what can I do for you?"
"That's a dangerous question," Jac winked, flirting with her. Ignoring this, she tried again, "Why are you here today?" "I guess because my wife wants me to be."
I 'd had about enough. I began trying to explain the situation to her. The young woman gave me a blank look, and then interrupted to continue questioning Jac.
Jac sat up straight like a kid called to the principal's office. His words became carefully chosen to impress her with his sanity. I was totally frustrated. Although he had agreed to come here for help, he was pretending he was perfectly alright, and she was buying it.
"I think maybe what you need is marriage counseling," she finally said to me. "We're an emergency clinic here."
I was furious.
"He wanted to wear a gun here. That doesn't strike you as an emergency?" "But I changed my mind," Jac told her.
She glanced at him and then gave me the blank look again.
"Call the satellite clinic on Monday. They can set you up with marriage counseling." On the way out, Jac asked me, "Will you go target practice with me?"
"No," I said.
When we got home, he began packing. I was getting tired, but still trying.
"Don't go. I love you," I told him. He stopped for a minute.
"No, you're holding me back.. .you're holding me back."
He loaded all his guns into the van. He took his heart medicine out of his pocket and looked at it.
"I don't need this stuff" He dropped it on the floor. "I'll be back . . before Christmas."
Then he was gone. I sat and waited. It began to get dark. Finally, I got up and turned on a light and the television.
"Seven more shopping days!" a commercial blared. I muted it and telephoned his doctor.
"He can go about three days without the heart pills. Then he'll probably have a massive heart attack."
I called the nurse at the mental health walk-in clinic.
"He didn't seem suicidal to me. I'd just wait, honey. He'll come back."
I got into bed with my clothes on. If I fall asleep, I thought, I'll still be ready for
whatever. Around 11:00, there was a knock at the door. He's forgotten his key, I thought. I opened it to a uniformed police officer.
"Good evening, ma'am. Do you know a Kenneth Jac Peterson?"
"Yes, he's my husband." "May we come in?"
A police chaplain followed him in.
"Do you have a friend or neighbor nearby who could come over?"
"Is Jac okay?"
But I knew the answer already.
"No, ma'am. He was shot and killed outside of Vaughan this evening."
"Was anyone else hurt?"
I held my breath.
"No, ma'am." I breathed out.
"What happened?"
"We thought you might tell us."
"Please, what happened near Vaughan?"
"He wouldn't show the officers his I.D. at a routine check, ran the roadblock. He went onto 1-40, up an exit ramp and was driving against traffic. The pursuing officers had to disable his vehicle. One of our officers saw he had a gun. He was shot in self-defense."
Where was he shot?"
The left side, head and shoulder."
He a heavy smoker?" the chaplain asked.
"Why?"
1 was dumbfounded by the question.
"The ash tray was really full," the cop explained, shaking his head at the irrelevancy of the question.
"If you'd like to call someone to come over, well wait. In the meantime, we'd like to take a statement from you."
I suddenly felt very tired. I told them what I knew, that I'd be all right., and they left.
I undressed and lay down feeling stunned, not able to believe that this had happened. I turned out the light but knew I wouldn't sleep. I heard a laugh. Jac's laugh. I thought I must be losing my mind. Then I felt his hands on my knees and felt his tongue finding it's way and his body between my legs. Was I mad? But somehow it was conforting, yet very confusing. As my mind raced I began to give from inside myself what I had always withheld. From the core of my womanness I gave and gave feeling pleasure I had never known. He smiled above me, not saying a word, then left me in the darkness. That was the last time I saw him, but somehow I knew his final joke was on me. He was not dead but still very much alive moving down the road, free.
Even after looking at the autopsy report and the police report, it didn't make any more sense to me than before. Two of his grown daughters came, and we scattered his ashes in the desert near a camping site he had liked. Just prior to his heart operation, I had asked him what he wanted, what sort of arrangements, if worse came to worse.
He had said, "Keep the expenses down. Those undertakers are a bunch of cons. Just cremate me."
"What should I do with the ashes?"
"Douche with them," he joked.
His daughters and I had a long talk. He had stretched the truth so many times I couldn't separate what was fact from fantasy even with their help. I don't think he could have either. In his wallet we found a outdoor photo of his second wife lying naked in a mountain stream.
"I remember he liked taking pictures," the oldest daughter commented. The thing I remember most was that he was always so proud of me. He like to brag to everyone what a good person I was. Once, he even told me he thought I was perfect. I had laughed until I saw that it hurt his feelings.
Just before his dad's visit, he smiled and remarked, "I thought you were perfect, but now I see you're almost perfect, but not quite."
I couldn't tell whether he was kidding or not. I still wonder if he would have returned home if he hadn't come across that roadblock. I'm sure he would have. Almost sure, but not quite.