Thirteen Dollars, Four Fridays

Chapter Two

Wishful Shopping

Focusing on his assignment, Jacyn stood at the kitchen sink, shoulder to shoulder with his sister.

He was choosing to see the confrontation as nothing more than the usual Thanksgiving fight. Mix it with the typical senior married couple (sixty-five years of marriage taken down by an argument at Thanksgiving dinner) and you’ve got a good chance for a separation. He doubted they’d fully divorce.

“Maybe they’ll just hang around, right?”

He needed to focus on the good, find it first. He hadn’t paid attention to the questioning voice for remembering his unopened bottle of Crown Royal Black. Frank looked to be out for the night; the bottle was safe in Ceryn’s car with his joints. Jacyn had a full supply of treats for after the night’s festivities. These things happen at Thanksgiving dinners all the time. An argument breaks out; someone throws a drink or a fist. Or maybe they just flick their wrist and person break something. “I’m good,” he said. “I’m so fucking good, Cee Cee.” His head hurts. Different types of pain run around in his head. He’s lucky he’s here. Cee Cee would be a wreck if she had to go through this alone. “When are you going to pop out a kid, sis?” And the pain, wanting all his attention, didn’t like that. He’s hoping Cee Cee says something to take his mind off it. Something stupid, like —

“What the fuck am I gonna do with a kid now, Jace?” Cee Cee says, giving him good and funny in one breath. His world is clearing. He hands her a plate to rinse.

“Jacyn, come get these plates,” Jacyn hears Gwendolyn say. Her voice sends an electric charge through his body, forcing it to jump; he catches hold of the sink to keep from falling. Dishwater splashes on his shirt and the pains are dancing in his head. “And what y’all in here babbling about?”. He dries his hands and, ignoring the pain, turns around with his eyes staring at the hardwood floor. Looking Gwendolyn in the face is asking too much of a body already suffering an unnatural pain.

“N-n-nothing,” he says, slipping and falling over his words, “just wondering how bad the Lions are getting whooped today.” He hears Ceryn drop something on the counter; he stops walking. He sees Gwendolyn’s shoes and holds his arms out. “I t-tell Ce-ch-che-cer, I hoping eventual they get a coach to a-a-a victory.” Miss Janice appears in his mind, wearing her fitting black dress that stops just before her knees with a slit along the side… She’s talking about football and threats; her words coming in a drone. The image of her is blurring and he’s dying to see her again. Her words paralyze him head to toe. He hears a fork scraping China, plates shattering. He feels steel pierce his flesh.

There was screaming. It sounded too high-pitched to come from his mouth. Ceryn is loud, real loud, saying, “Jace what — Jesus-fucking-Christ!”

“Girl you better watch your mouth in my FUCKING HOUSE!” The woman in front of him says.

Jacyn was able to move again. He grabs his wrist. Ceryn drags him back to the kitchen counter. She throws a towel over his left hand, going around the handle sticking out of the top. She goes around the four prongs sticking out the bottom and he gets sick. Grabbing the counter with his right hand, groaning in pain…

“Ce… she…”

“No, no, no,” the woman says. Jacyn shuts his eyes and turns his head away. “Janice and I told you and that fool in there, the next time you bring up football you’d get a fork in ya.”

“Get this shit out of me,” he’s saying.

“We don’t know if you’ll bleed out,” Ceryn says, closing his left hand in her hands. “Now let’s get the fuck out of here.”

“You both speak in such a foul manner,” the woman says. She’s better off just a woman. Less work on his brain. “And the day isn’t over yet.”

“Fuck today and fuck you!” Jacyn says. The words seem fitting for what the woman did, whoever she is.

“I told you what would happen, son.”

Jacyn looked Ceryn in the eyes as they moved as one pushing past her. He kept them on her as they passed an old couple in the dining room. Well, he assumed there was a couple. An old lady was going off on what had to be her husband. Ceryn let go of his hand. He opened his eyes and saw she was at the front door twisting the knob. He counted a dozen turns before she yelled for help. A set of twins sat on the living room floor, watching the Macy’s parade on television. A woman sat on the couch crying. A man, probably her husband, sat on the couch beside her, consoling her. The man got up and joined Ceryn at the front door. More back and forth with the doorknob, add in the man banging on the door, and no progress is made. The door remained still and unblemished.

“911,” Ceryn said. “Calls always get through, and the fire department can get through this door easy,”

“Tried it,” the man said. “Emma and I haven’t gotten through.”

“Bless you, girl,” Jacyn heard Miss Janice say, “looking after your brother the way you do,”. She appeared on his left side; sexy in her style of simplicity. His heartbeat growing in rhythm upon seeing the tip of her black stiletto pumps against the floor, his eyes followed the thigh-high black nylons leading to the black dress curving along a voluptuous sculpture. A masterpiece only the creator could imagine; breasts spilling out the top of her dress, red lips, deep brown eyes. A look no woman could compete with. A woman worth sacrificing years of marriage. A woman to die for. Miss Janice put his injured hand in hers. Her touch warm, soothing his pain until all his pain was gone. “You’ve got to believe everything is working to his plan. You can do that for me, right, Jacyn?”

“We interrupt this replay of the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade with horrific news,” Jacyn hears an anchorwoman say on television. “First responders across Birmingham and surrounding cities are responding to…”

The crying woman grabbed the remote and turned up the volume. The man was standing behind the twins, who were fixed on the screen, shaking their heads, upset. Multiple IED attacks; civilians either dead at the scenes or dead-on-arrival. “The work of a madman’s cult,” the anchorwoman said, describing the ongoing events. Jacyn didn’t feel the labeling matched the circumstances.

No way one guy caused all this, he thought.

“No!” the girl twin said. The twists and bows, and dress, gave it away. She stood up and began stomping.

“Put it back!” her brother said. Short cut, clothes one would find at the Boys section of any clothing store.“We don’t want to watch that! Change it back!” His voice dragged like a needle across vinyl.

“There’s nothing we can do about it, baby,” the woman told them through tears. “And you’ve watched the parade all day.”

Both fixated on the screen, stomping, protested in a low scratching drone, “PUT IT BACK RIGHT-FUCKING NOOWWW!”

“Hey!” the man said, unafraid of children that sound possessed. “Don’t you ever disrespect your mom like that again!” The twins kept on as if they hadn’t heard a word. “Goddamnit I know you hear me.” Still no acknowledgment. Either they busted their own ear drums, or they simply didn’t give a shit and weren’t afraid to show. Jacyn was betting on the latter. The man crouched and swung the twins around. They weren’t twins anymore — not in the way the man was a man. Their faces were blackened, marked with bumps patches of exposed meat and peeling flesh, eye sockets of bleeding reddened flesh with white pupils in the middle of a gray iris. Jacyn shut his eyes and turned away before the picture fully developed. The man started repeating his words. Before he finished Jacyn heard growling from things God didn’t intend to create. They were easier thought of as just things. The man only had time to gasp before one of the (kids. They’re still kids) things bit into him. Then there was gurgling that made Jacyn believe the second thing joined in on the feast. Not far from the gurgling, the woman started screaming.

“We want to watch the parade,” the boy twin said, growling as he did. “Not some fucking news story about a bunch of dead dickweeds!” Then he rejoined his sister in digging into flesh; ripping meat apart and slurping blood. There was dry heaving, a wet cracking, and then liquid, trickling… “We want to watch the parade. NOW!” the boy was chewing between his words. Jacyn heard squishing, more liquid trickling until it became a heavy spilling. He pressed the side of his head.

“The human mind, at its best, is weak when confronted with trauma.”

Too much was going on to place the voice or ignore it. This could all be a bad trip, Jacyn thought. Yeah. Miss Janice brought the wrong batch of brownies. We’re all on our own bad trip. That’s why my hand isn’t bleeding anymore and doesn’t hurt, and why Miss Janice looks better than life. There’s a woman vomiting and some things in the living room; there was a guy but maybe he left. There’s an old married couple sitting in the dining room. The man is resting from drinking too much, and his wife is pissed about it, but she’s still sitting next to him, going on about all the women he’s flirted with; and one he fathered a child with. There’s another woman in the kitchen, but I’ll leave it there. Cee Cee is finding us a way out of here. The safest, most obvious, scenario.

“Or hole,” the voice responded. “The safest and most obvious hole! How about you follow me in, follow me down? Follow me to the bottom of this motherfucker, why don’t cha? Follow me to —

“Anyone request medical assistance?” a human voice said. It was coming from the front porch. “Someone inside call for medical assistance?” Jacyn turned towards the front door. His sister stood against the far wall; her shoes rooted beneath the baseboard. She was flinching. Wait, not flinching. It was a unique seizure. Right arm breaking and bone cracking and popping through the flesh and her mouth was open. She drew her arm back and it fell limp. Her head was hanging; her chest swelled and sunk; her legs were trembling. She was laughing.

Miss Janice, statuesque in her walk, stepped in between them.

Wasn’t she wearing stockings earlier? Noticing Janice’s legs was an unintentional act. Turning and noticing the feasting and vomiting woman in the living room was another. Janice turned his head back to her.

She was his everything. A distraction from every thing going on. Nothing made sense, except that she was his, and he, hers. He was longing to worship at her throne. She required it; she was worthy of his devotion. He was her willing servant, unmatched by any former or possible worshipper. He did fall to his knees, grateful to her for creating and occupying this space of time with him.

“Jacyn,” he heard a woman, a stranger, say, “do you want to open the door?”