Jerry knew that if he agreed with her about everything without making it too obvious, kept everything smooth if delicately balanced, she'd become sleepy and get tired of picking on him.
Either that or…
'Chrissie's father saw you talkin' to her, called on the phone, and said you musta told her somethin' that made her upset. Said Chrissie was cryin'.'
'I didn't-well, maybe I did. But if I did, I didn't mean it.'
'You tryin' to get in that young bitch's britches?'
Jerry felt himself go red. 'Mom!'
'Britches bitch's.' She threw back her head and laughed at her unintentional rhyme.
Then she stopped laughing. 'I don't want trouble with the neighbors, you unershtan'?'
It was the first word she'd slurred. This could become worse.
'Yes, ma'am,' Jerry said.
She stood up unsteadily. The gin bottle she'd thrown at the wall had been empty. The one in her left hand was half empty. Not a good sign.
''Cause you don't have a father around don't mean you can go misbehavin',' his mother said.
'No, ma'am.'
She peered at him as if through the wrong end of a telescope.
'I mean, yes, ma'am.'
'It don't mean you ain't got nobody to whip your worthless ass when you need it.'
Jerry didn't know what to say. He could only nod, hoping it was the right thing to do.
It wasn't.
His mother weaved her way out of the kitchen and returned with a slender wooden switch about a yard long. It was actually a hickory switch, which seemed to dignify and make acceptable what she was about to do to him. Taught to the tune of a hickory stick… Jerry knew all the words to the venerable schoolyard tune. Spanking was simply part of disciplining a boy, in his mother's mind. Or in the mind of anyone who might inquire or in any way come to Jerry's aid.
Spare the rod…
That wasn't going to happen in the Grantland household.
'Bedroom, young man,' his mother said.
Jerry went.
'Need to learn how to hold your tongue,' his mother said behind him.
Jerry knew what to do. It took him only a few minutes before he was standing shivering, wearing only his socks. The top of one was still wet where snow had worked its way inside his boot.
His mother stared at him until he bent over the foot of the bed, his elbows on the mattress.
'I wouldn't do this if I didn't have to,' his mother said. 'If you didn't make me.'
Jerry clenched his eyes shut and waited.
The wooden switch hissed like a snake as it cut through the air.
Over and over again. After each hiss came the sharp snap of the switch whipping into the bare flesh of his buttocks and the backs of his thighs. The pain became a constant fire.
She shouldn't be doing this to me. I'm too grown up. It isn't fair. It isn't right.
Jerry knew enough not to make a sound. He'd adapted to the pain enough so that he could remain silent except for an occasional whimper that escaped on its own and didn't seem to his mother to count. Clenching his teeth hard enough to break them, he could smell the sweet reek of gin on his mother's breath as she began to labor at her task.
She spread her slippered feet farther apart to gain leverage. Jerry had to be disciplined, didn't he? Best thing for him in the long run.
The lashes with the switch began coming further apart. His mother's breath was now ragged, rasping harshly with each inhalation. She was making more noise than Jerry.
With his eyes closed, Jerry stared into the darkness inside him, waiting for it to be over.
But for the pain, it might have been happening to someone else.
Sometimes it did happen to Chrissie Keller, whose father loved her.
Jerry stayed in his room after the whipping, lying curled on his bed and listening to the rain that had begun falling and would soon melt the snow. If the temperature dropped below freezing again, there would be an icy mess outside.
For some reason he was drained of strength in his mother's presence. She could do what she wanted with him. It was…infantile, and he was ashamed.
He didn't move for several hours. The rain hadn't exactly stopped; it now sounded more like sleet.
He heard the rattle and jingle of a car with chains on it, loud enough to be in the driveway.
The car stopped. Jerry didn't bother looking out his window to see who might be driving. It would be a man he wouldn't recognize. Or worse, one that he did. A car door slammed, and he heard someone on the porch. The doorbell didn't chime, but he heard the door open.
A few minutes later his bedroom door opened and his mother stuck her head in. She had on a dress now, and her hair was combed with bangs carefully arranged on her forehead. She was wearing makeup.
'I'm going out for a while, sweetheart,' she said. 'There are leftovers in the refrigerator if you get hungry.'
Jerry didn't move. Said nothing.
After about twenty seconds he heard the front door open and close and the sound of footfalls on the porch. The car in the driveway started up, and he heard the faint jangling of its tire chains again as it backed out to the street and then drove away.
To be on the safe side, he counted slowly to a hundred before getting up and going to his mother's bedroom. The pain was still there, and he moved slowly.
The bedroom was warm, as if she might still be there with her body heat, and it smelled of rose-scented powder and spiced sachets.
When he was in front of his mother's dresser with its tall mirror, he turned his body slightly and saw that there were bloodstains on the seat of his white Jockey shorts. Red lash marks patterned the backs of his pale thighs.
He smiled at his image in the mirror and then bent low and opened the dresser's bottom drawer.
38
New York, the present
Pearl had been first to arrive and was alone in the office. A soft summer rain had begun to fall. It changed the colorful street scene outside the first-floor window from realism to impressionism. The light in the office was made soft by the wavering rain running down the glass panes. It was a light you could almost reach out and feel.
'It's insane,' Pearl's mother said over the phone.
Pearl squeezed her cell phone almost hard enough to break it. 'I thought you'd want to know. You're always so interested in my personal life, and now I'm changing my address.'
'To move in with the Yancy lizard. Not wise, Pearl.'
'It's a decision of the heart, Mom. Like when you married Dad.'
'Heart, shmart,' her mother said. 'Your father-and I still miss him dearly-and I were engaged for two years before we were married. Besides, it had all been arranged.'
'Well, I'm not married to Yancy, and anyway, marriages aren't arranged anymore. At least not in this country. We've made progress in that regard.'
'You have noticed the divorce rate, Pearl?'
'But the murder rate among spouses has fallen,' Pearl lied.
'What does Captain Quinn think of this new living arrangement you propose?'
