TRANSITION
JASON slouches down the sidewalk, his skateboard
slung over his shoulder. The school bus passes him. His chums hang out the
window, waving and yelling. He should be on the bus but walking home takes
longer.
When he reaches the field halfway
between the school and his neighborhood, he mounts the fence, sitting astride
the top rail.
The horses are back: a black
stallion and a dappled mare. In opposite corners they sample the grass grown
long in their absence.
Jason digs into the pocket of his
denim jacket for the sugar cubes he always carries in the hope the animals are
there. The paper wrappings are lint covered and worn from his weeks of fingering.
He whistles. The mare raises her
head. She ambles over, her hoofs beating a steady clump, clump, clump against
the damp earth.
Holding one hand flat, he puts an
unwrapped cube on his palm. She nuzzles it, wetting his skin.
The stallion looks up. He comes over
to check his chances for a handout. He pushes Jason with his head. The boy
gives the stallion a cube. Although he reaches to stroke the big horse, the
stallion walks away without looking back.
The mare stays, letting Jason pat
her silken hair against hard skull. She whinnies softly. He puts his cheek
against her long nose, breathing in the smell of horse flesh still damp from an
earlier shower.
Jason's street has bungalows so close
together neighbors could almost shake hands out their windows. He ducks between
the front of Mrs. Frederick's brown house and her lilac bushes. Their perfume
makes his eyes water. From his purple cage he surveys his own home across the street.
A blue Ford pick-up is in his
driveway next to the postage-stamp lawn. Its cab is angled toward the street.
The open back is positioned almost at the front door. His Uncle Tony and his
father come out with cartons, stacked three high, one on top of the other. A Dole
pineapple logo is printed on them in blue and yellow ink. Some boxes are
sealed; others are open. The two men wear jeans and white T-shirts.
"This is the last," Uncle
Tony says. "Let's roll."
His father sets the box in the truck
and looks at his watch. "Where’s that damned kid. He shoulda been home by
now."
"I can't wait," Tony says.
"I promised I'd have this baby back by 4:00." He pats the fender of
the truck.Jason's father disappears into the house. A couple of minutes later he
reappears. After shutting the door behind him, he pulls a key off a ring then
shoves it through the mail slot. Before hopping into the passenger side, he
scans the street.
Jason scratches his forehead on a
lilac branch as he ducks out of sight. He rubs the blood off. Long after the
truck is gone, he slips out of his hiding place and into his house. It's quiet.
Even quieter than it is usually is after school when he is the only one home.
The black metal CD-stack next to the
ash-filled fireplace is half empty, but not the upper or lower halves. Instead,
the slots are filled spasmodically as in full, full, empty, full, empty, empty,
empty, full. He checks which ones are gone: Dire Straights, Guns and Roses, U2
– most of the rock is missing: his father’s favorites. Left are his mother's
John Coltrane, Nina Simone, Dave Brubeck, Betty Carter.
The red Barcalounger where his
father watched TV is gone. The rug where the chair rested is a matted square.
It's cleaner than the rest of the carpet.
The desk in the corner has open
drawers. When Jason peers in, he sees only dust. The computer on the desk is in
its normal place. Taped to the screen is a note in his father's handwriting.
Jason,
783-1130
Call me,
Love, Dad
Jason crumples the note. It bounces off
the wall and lands in the wastepaper basket. No one is there to say,
"perfect shot".
Going into the kitchen, he looks
around. Nothing has changed. He opens the refrigerator, once was filled with
good things to eat. There’s only a head of lettuce, brown around the edges and
a carton of milk advertising lost children.
Taking the carton, he sniffs and
gags. He pours it down the drain, watching the little clots in the white stream
of liquid disappear.
For a long time, he stands at the
kitchen sink, looking out the window into the kitchen next door. No one is home
there either. Then he goes back into the living room and picks the note out of
the trash and puts it in his pocket, still crumpled.
He walks upstairs to his tiny room,
where he lays on his single bed and looks at the ceiling to wait for his mother
to come home.
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