Forty-One:

FORTY-ONE:

The Crying

Jack was ten years old again, there in his backyard.

He dropped the bloodied scissors and the blades pierced the lawn in a V. Glanced away from his father. Saw the white slash left behind in the sky by the airplane.

Jack’s dad had him by the collar of his shirt. A cooking apron covered the old man’s chest; it was smeared with fingerprints of grease and barbecue sauce.

“I can’t believe it, I can’t believe it,” his father said. “You look at me when I’m talking to you. Don’t you blubber on me, boy. March yourself in that house now!”

Jack propelled through the air as a thick finger jabbed into the back of his neck. “Did you do it? DID YOU?”

In the memory, Jack couldn’t recall if he answered yes or no.

Kimba the cat ran underneath his feet and Jack almost fell again, caught by his father, who proceeded to slap him around the ears. “Did you do it? Did you do it? Jesus, boy.”

They stepped inside the house and the stench of cooked onions wrapped around them. It m