LEBANON
I hate packing, even for small trips. I always forget something simple: a toothbrush, belts, underwear. Alice did it best. Knew what I needed before I did. That was useful. I guess I miss that. I limit myself to just one or two more beers before I hit the road to find the girl.
I just need one day’s worth of things so hopefully I don’t mess that up. Sitting in the same pair of boxers for two days going back and forth to Tennessee is not my idea of fun. Losing a day of business isn’t fun either, but the check I got from Jackson will help. I’ll give whatever’s leftover to the hospital and hopefully that’ll shut them up for a while until Sara dies.
Pounding on the front door interrupts my process. Damn it. I’m gonna forget the underwear. I just know it.
Jackson stands on my porch. I let him in, and I close the door. Turning to ask him why he’s here this time of night, he shoves me against the living room wall with the whole force of his body, a cinder-block wall of muscle and pressure suffocating me. A picture of Alice, the girl and me clatters to the floor.
“Sonofabitch!” he yells.
He puts his forearm against my windpipe and pushes into me harder and harder. I can’t breathe. I try pushing his elbow up. It doesn’t budge. The muscles in my face pulse and throb. My eyes meet his and witness his dark joy at my pain. I almost want to congratulate him. Jackson finally found the balls to do something he’s wanted to do, in this case it’s probably to kill me, but at least he seems to be going for it with gusto.
I don’t quite plan on going to meet my Maker today. I kick his right knee and he buckles; his arm gives a little and I dodge to my left.
“This is the second time today you’ve tried to kick my ass,” I accuse, but I’m laughing at him.
Hunched over, taking in deep breaths. Jackson mumbles something.
“What?”
“Thorolese Myllstone! I met Syrus’s mother and she had an interesting story. Turns out Syrus was hit seven times, not once. I didn’t kill him, you did!”
What does he want me to do? What does he want me to say? It’s not like he didn’t hurt the boy, too. So he didn’t deal the death blow, but I wouldn’t have had to if he just kept it together. Now he comes at me with this? When I need to find the girl? When I need to make sure my legacy is kept intact?
“I finished the job you were too chickenshit to finish, you self-righteous asshole!”
He lunges again, but his wounded knee prevents him from reaching me.
“You want me to cry for you? If I didn’t take him out, he would’ve gone back and told everyone what you did...and then what? You would’ve gone to jail. I went instead of both of us going. My story was already told. Sara saw to that. And what’s another black man behind bars? At least I gave you the chance to make something of yourself. You should thank me. I killed him for you, for the people who looked up to you—right or wrong. So all this whining about your damn conscience, your wasted potential, you can take that somewhere else.”
“It only happened ’cause I was taking up for you that night. He called Sara a drunk, called you a piece of shit.”
“So the hell what? Sara was a drunk, still is! I got called a piece of shit all the time. That day wasn’t any different. I didn’t ask for your help, but you gotta come out all big and bad trying to prove you’re a hero, the church boy your daddy would’ve been proud of.”
Jackson’s breath slows, and he finally stands upright. “Thirty years, man. I lived with this for thirty years,” he growls.
“And you still managed to get a family and a church and everybody acting like you the damn king. You’re welcome.”
“You don’t feel bad about anything you’ve done? None of it?”
“Yeah, I feel bad. I feel bad you got all this shit handed to you. You had a mom who didn’t beat your ass for just existing. You knew your daddy. You had a nice home, food in your belly and you still managed to almost fuck it up! Then I come to your rescue and you’re still ungrateful as hell!”
“Go to hell, Lebanon.”
“Fuck you, Jackson.”
He turns around, lumbers to the door and slams it shut. I return to the bedroom and look at my throat in the mirror. It’s red and swollen. It hurts to swallow, but this isn’t anything I can’t get through. I finish packing.
I got about a seven-or eight-hour drive before I get to Naomi’s house. The girl’s got to be headed there. Good memories for her. I was born in Tennessee and lived there until Sara moved us back to Chicago when I was about two or three years old.
Last time I stepped foot in Tennessee, Naomi died. Before that, when Alice tried to leave me. She came back though. Alice saw me standing on that porch and all the words she probably set up in her head vanished, just like the courage that got her to the house.
Naomi was always stronger than her daughter, but I never knew where she got it. I never bothered to ask and she hated me so I doubt she would have ever talked to me about it. If she had the strength, she’d probably have killed me. She put up more of a fuss about me being there than Alice. She was a tough ole bird. I’ll give her that. A pain in the ass, but tough. The girl is a lot like her.
Won’t do much good thinking about all this now. I’ll be on the road in a few hours. I’ll get the girl and be back by early Tuesday. I can start my life a different way. Not the way I planned, but you roll with the punches. You live your life and you remember to pack goddamn underwear for a road trip to find your prodigal daughter.