Cold Night

His father served it up on the big plates their mother had bought on sale, the ones that had lasted for years and never got chipped or cracked, even when he or Tom dropped them while washing and cleaning. The coffee smelled good. He saw that his father had put a coffee cup in front of his own plate for him. That had never happened before. Tom was looking at him strangely, but he was smiling, and the strangeness was there only because he was younger and didn't know what was happening.

'Can I have coffee, too, Pop?' Tom asked his father.

'Just sit and shut it,' the old man said, but he was smiling even though his hands shook a little on the bacon skillet.

'Damn!' he suddenly blurted out as the skillet tipped back and a dip of bacon grease caught him on the knuckles. Reflexively, he dropped the skillet, and half the bacon slid off to land sizzling on top of the stove. 'Goddamn!' he said, holding his hand to his side and at the same time trying to fork the bacon slices back onto the pan. 'Got to keep your mind on what you're doing all the time,' he said, and then he finally had all the bacon back in place, the heat turned down, and he ran some cold water over his hand and swore once more, though softer.

'Hope you boys are hungry,' he said, though he didn't look at Tom. He was looking at Jack. 'You hungry?' Pop asked again. Jack nodded, and something passed between them. What it was he didn't know, but suddenly he was afraid again, as he hadn't been since he had come home.

But then they were eating waffles, and bacon saved from the ruins of the grease, and he was drinking coffee with his old man and he was happy. He was wearing one of his clean shirts, from his own bureau, and a pair of clean chinos, and his Sunday shoes, and his father was bending over his plate and putting more on it as soon as it was empty.

'Must be hungry,' his father said, and he even filled his coffee cup again when it was empty, though the strong-tasting stuff had gone down hard.

'Hurry up now,' Pop said, 'we got to leave soon.'

'Where to?' Tom asked, but Pop turned to him and said, 'Not you. You stay here and clean your brother's room. Me and him's got to go out.'

Once more, fear took hold of him, but his father reached his big hand over and put it on top of his own and he said softly, 'Don't you ever worry again.' He took his hand away, suddenly self-conscious, and there was that slight tremble in it again and he got up from the table.

'I'll get the coats,' he said.

They went out into the sunshine, and the day was warm and the trees smelled like they should when spring is coming. There were still patches of March snow in the corners, out away from the sun, but the sun was getting high and by the end of the day all the snow would disappear. By the smell of the world they would see no more snow this year. He had never smelled spring like this before, and suddenly it was all through him, in his arms and legs, and he turned to his father.

'Can we go to a ball game soon, Pop?'

His father looked down, from far away. He looked through him for a moment, and then he heard. His mouth smiled and then he laughed.

'Sure. How 'bout opening day at Yankee Stadium?'

'Could we?'

'You bet.' And then his father held his hand, very tight, and opened the car door for him and closed it after him.

They drove through the new spring, with the windows down, and then they came to a place that looked familiar, but not the same. He knew he had seen it before, but he knew that this wasn't the way he had seen it; it looked similar, and yet it was different. Nothing was where it was supposed to be, the doors, the windows, but they were the same kinds of doors and windows and the brick was the same color and there was the same kind of green moss between the cracks in the bricks. They parked the car and there was a long ramp leading down, and his father smiled and they walked down it and opened a swinging door and went in.

It was bright inside, and there were people and there was noise. He saw a few men with cameras and large coats. His father pushed his head gently down and made him walk through. His father kept his head down, too. He started to protest but his father hushed him and soon the men and some of the noise were behind them.

'Stand here,' his father said softly. They stopped by a bulletin board, large and rectangular. Next to it was a water fountain. He saw the men with the cameras down the hallway. They were all looking away from him, toward the outside ramp and the door leading in. He turned the other way and saw a desk down at the other end. It looked empty, though there were voices off to the right, around a corner. He saw someone's hand reach for a telephone on the desk as it rang, but he only saw the arm and then his father was speaking to him.

'Be very quiet,' his father said. His father's hand was on his shoulder, rubbing in a circle, gently, like a massage, but his eyes were out toward the ramp. He looked that way, too. There was a sudden flurry of activity and then someone was coming down the ramp outside, a group of people, and the noise level began to rise.

He saw the door open and then there was shouting and the men with the cameras started to take pictures. There were bright flashes. He couldn't see anyone, only a dense mass moving slowly down the hallway toward them. His father was gripping his shoulder, but still gently. Then he let go, though his body was still pressed next to him. The mass got closer and spread out, thinning; there were people shouting, 'No more! No more questions now!' and then the group was upon them and passing. Two men walked briskly past, looking straight ahead to the desk at the other end of the hall. Behind them were two other men, one of them holding the other by the arm. The other man had his head down but he raised it slightly when he was just by them. The man seemed to sense something. He turned and looked and then Jack saw who it was and his mouth opened to cry out. But then his father was pushing him back. His father said, 'Now,' and then he stepped forward, deliberately and carefully, and there was something in his hand and he held it up to the man's head and the man tried to twist down and away but his father pulled the trigger. There was a red flash and the man's head exploded, and then Jack was screaming, 'Uncle Martin! Uncle Martin!' as the man slid to the floor and his father turned to him and held him tight as other hands reached for them.

There was an insistent buzzing sound, and then the scene receded from him and turned white. The buzz became a ringing sound. He groaned and opened his eyes. He was in his bed, in his undershirt and pants. It was stuffy in the room and he felt as if the heat had been turned up. There was sweat on the sheets where they stuck to his arms. There was no light but the red pulse of the digital alarm clock which threw a low crimson shadow against the telephone.

He rolled into a sitting position and pulled the ringing phone off its cradle.

His hand did not grip it well, and the phone fell, catching the edge of the bed. He fumbled it into his hand and put it to his ear.

Someone said, 'Jack?'

'Yes.'

'I'm sorry, I didn't think you'd be asleep.'

It was her voice, Ginny's voice.

'What time is it?' he said, not looking at the digital clock.

'I thought you'd be up. It's about ten.'

'I was tired.' He waited for her to say something but she didn't.

'You called me,' he said finally.

'Yes. I wanted to ask you something.'

He waited.

Her voice was hesitant. 'I'm leaving in a couple of days, and I wanted to know if I could stop by for those things I left.'

Her voice went away from him. And then suddenly she was with him. He saw her there, on the bed, her hair framing her white face, her eyes unfocused, staring up at him, her mouth open, little whispers of panicky breath coming from her, her arms around him, pulling, pulling, trying, finally trying, both of them trying. .

'Sure,' he said.

'I. . just don't think we would've worked it out.'

'Impotence and frigidity aren't a very good combination. .' He added quickly, 'I'm sorry I said that. I know you tried.'