Marmalade
Tom Shepherd stood in a far corner of his parents' yard staring out at the gray winter lawn and the miniature piles of dog shit littering it, smoking his third filterless of the morning. When he moved back into his parents' house it had been determined by his mother that it was his job to keep the yard tidy and mowed. This meant bagging up the mounds of crap that poured from the ass of his mother's little yappy beast which spent its days either shitting its brains out or sleeping in his mother's lap; that, or snarling and lunging at Tom's legs, teeth bared, whenever he came within two feet of his mother.
He crushed his third butt under foot and decided to head back inside the house for a cup of coffee and a bowl of corn flakes. Moving back in with the folks was a stipulation of his parole. He'd spent the last eight years in the can, and it was either his folks' place or some lousy halfway house where every single move he made was a monitored slice of shit pie; not to mention he'd have to deal with bunking with a bunch of losers he'd spent his time in stir avoiding: perverts, rapists, pedophiles—hard boys who'd learned to enjoy ass-raping men as opposed to establishing a normal relationship on the outside. Tom was far off from any type of normal relationship. Hell, even a date with a woman was nothing more than beat-off material.
But there was no way he should be lumped in with the rape-o's as a sex offender halfway home, even though he was technically considered one of them. He stepped inside; his mother started in right away, "Tom, you need to clean up the yard today!"
At one time she'd been a good woman; a loving mother who doted on Tom; beaming with pride at every minor accomplishment, that is, until the trial and his near decade in jail.
After a year inside, the old man stroked out. The original prognosis had been full recovery; maybe a little slackness on the left side of his face, a slight slur and limp, but more or less a normal life.
No doing.
The old man defied the doctor's prognosis and spent his days in a near catatonic state. Not a day went by that his mother didn't mention it wasn't the stroke that turned the old man into a veggie, but the broken heart caused by seeing his only son in jail.
Her daily jabs made him want to snap her fleshy neck in two. "I'll get it tomorrow morning before I head out to work, Ma."
"Well, it's gotta get done, Tom. It's not going to clean up itself."
So much for coffee and corn flakes, if he stuck around the house today he'd never hear the end of scooping up turds. "Like I said, Ma, tomorrow. I've got stuff to do today."
"What? What you gotta do today?"
"Stuff, Ma. I'll be back by dinner."
He walked into the living room and his old man was in his usual spot. Sitting cozy and silent in his worn plaid recliner. The TV blared some stupid day time talk show he never would've bothered watching back when he was healthy. A TV tray was shoved against his flat, shrunken stomach; an untouched slice of wheat toast slathered in orange marmalade and a weak mug of tea sat on top of it. According to Ma, the old man hadn't said a word in seven years.
Tom patted the old man on the shoulder as he passed him on the way to the coat rack by the front door. "I'll see you later, Pop."
See ya when get back, Tommy.
What the fuck?
Tom turned slowly from the hat rack and stared at his father's supine, weathered form.
"Did ya say something, Pop?" His voice was barely above a whisper. According to Ma, the old man hadn't spoken a word in seven years.
Tommy, before you take off, would ya do me a favor? There's a Dodger's game on channel 12. If I have ta watch any more of this talk show crap I'm gonna go bug shit.
He definitely heard him that time, no doubt. Slowly Tom walked over to where his father sat and stood in front of him. He bent forward and stared into his father's watery grey eyes.
Nothing, not a flicker of recognition.
He waved his hands in front of the old man's face; no movement, no anything. Fucking acid flash back, loneliness, something was screwing with his head. All the same, he turned around and switched the channel over to the game and bolted for the front door like his ass was on fire.
Like most recently paroled ex-cons, Tom's favorite pastime was walking. Nothing more but moving one foot in front of the other under a Concentra wire free sky. As a stipulation of his probation, he wasn't allowed to go near any area where children may congregate. Schools, shopping malls, parks, pretty much every where except his parents' backyard. Bars were out of the question too. His PO performed weekly urine tests on him, and if the fat pig scooped anything in his piss, booze included, Tom was right back where he'd spent the last eight years to serve out the rest of his original fifteen year sentence.
Whoever thought getting laid was going to get him sent to prison?
Eight years for screwing a sixteen-year-old who swore up and down she was twenty-one. He was the first to admit he deserved some kind of punishment; the girl had told him—begged him, really—to stop after he finally jammed himself inside her and was jacking-hammering away. But he was loaded and horny as hell, so there wasn't a chance he was stopping just because her little virgin ass was saying no right when he was worked up and drooling.
He'd felt more than a little guilty afterward. The girl was curled up on her side moaning; her pale thin arms hugging her knees to her chest. The lower half of her body was a horror show—so much blood covering her inner thighs, her calves, a small puddle of it was pooling on the white sheets. The lower half of his body was the same tacky mess. He remembered trying to comfort her, stroking her back, rubbing her shoulders, something.
His touch made her scream and blindly swat at his rough hands.
He remembered saying, "Well, fuck off, ya cunt!"
He somehow ended up back at his place on the loveseat face down in a cold pile of his own sick, mouth dry, reeking of cigarettes and whatever was in his stomach when he threw up.
Even as he was in the shower soaping off the vaginal blood, he was thinking she must've been on the rag. When he answered the rapid-fire knocks at his apartment door, still dripping and wrapped in his ratty terry cloth robe, he hardly thought it connected to the girl with her flowing red hair and smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose who said she was a studying art history, or some faggoty thing or another.
The two cops standing at his door looked like twin Italian mob bruisers dressed up for Halloween; their huge hairy knuckles grinding into their palms. They slammed him face first into the mildew stink of his living room carpet, offering up kidney punches along with his Miranda rights. "You're being charged with rape, you piece of shit!"
One of the guinea men of peace and protection spit into his ear as they yanked him up by the handcuffs causing his collarbone to shift beneath the skin and his left shoulder blade to come loose and disconnected from the rest of his body.
Then he was staring into the white glare of flood lamps in front of a numbered white board with six other men stinking of vomit and street decay, all of them wearing numbers.
He was #3.
A booming disembodied voice told them to turn to the left, turn to the right. "#3 step forward."
He finally flashed on the face of the girl gritting her teeth, tears and terror sweat streaking her mascara, smudging her makeup. His stomach lurched into his throat; yellow bile burning his nostrils and mouth with memory.
Tom was charged, for raping a teenage girl.
The old man would sneak away from the house and come and see him. "Keep your eyes down, don't hang out with the jigs, all they're looking to do is fuck a white man." His dad was a slight man even before the stroke, but he was hard, having done time back in Belfast before he'd met Tom's mother. Three years at Crumlin road for joyriding some rich neighbor's beater; the neighbor must've had some serious pull because the old man's original sentence was ten years hard labor. Dad never explained the early release.
He loved the old man for those visits, always bringing a carton of smokes and depositing twenty bucks in his prisoner account. His dad was his best friend—hell, his only friend. Even now, out of lock up and on the street, he was just as lonely. Maybe that was why he heard his father's voice today.
It was a week after his dad spoke up the first time that Tom heard his voice again. He'd come back inside from his morning smoke and sat down in the living room on the loveseat across from the old man's chair, sipping the near solid dregs of the morning coffee. He didn't know where his mother had run off to; she didn't leave the house all that much other than to grocery shop. Both she and the mutt were gone; maybe the little shit-eater had chewed into some electrical wires and fired itself and she needed to rush it to the vet? Ah, one could always hope.
The old man was in his spot; his eyes blank, filmed over, the corners of his mouth white with dried saliva. The TV was tuned to some ridiculous program where couples screamed and yelled at one another about the paternity of their children.
Sick shit.
Why the Hell did his Mom put on this kind of stuff for the old man? Was she trying to kill him off by shrinking his brain?
He'd had enough of the show when an overweight black woman picked up her chair and tried swinging it at her stick thin boyfriend before she was restrained by the host and a bevy of black shirted security people.
"Dad, do you mind if I change this?" The question hung in the air as he shuffled over and started twisting the knobs of his parents' ancient television.
Not at all, Tommy. Your mom's the one who likes watching the jigs knock the shit out of each other.
Tom's head swiveled hard on his neck, he narrowed his eyes focusing on the old man's motionless wrinkled face.
Crazy. He was fucking crazy. He turned his attention back to the TV, mumbling: "I'm hearing shit. . . .Need to get laid, something?"
It be good for you to get a little something, son, instead of wasting all your time.
Not crazy.
Not crazy.
He heard that, every word. Tom spun on his heel and started walking towards the old man.
"You said something. . . You said something, Dad?" He stood in front of him like the week before and stared into his father's eyes. "You said something?" 5 seconds. . .10 seconds. . .30. . .
Of course I did. You think you're going bug shit or something?
He fell straight back on his ass, arms flailing, pretty sure he'd knuckled Dad across the chin. He wanted to scream. He wanted to scramble to his feet and bolt out the door. He wanted to find his mother and her little mutt, drag both of them home so they could hear his father's voice. . .
Don't be an idiot, son. Like your mother could ever hear me?
He licked his lips, swallowed hard. "Why. . .Why can't she?"
It's the blood. It's her polluted Roman blood. It's no fault of her own. Her ancestors rutted with pigs. She was beautiful woman, your mother, but her and her family. . .half breeds, worse.
"How can I hear you?" His voice was too loud, echoing through the entire house. "I mean, her family's mine and all."
But you're my son. My blood. You might not be pure, but it's enough. . .
Silence, still air, the TV tuned to static. Tom worked his tongue around the inside of his mouth.
Go ahead and ask, boy?
"How?"
I'll show you.
The world flashed, a bleeding whirlwind, grey and muddy, then turning raw and golden, blinding white.
The world resolved, he stood in front of his father. His father young, taut muscles, naked to the waist. His father seemed to glow. The world flashed to low grey skies, burning green fields soaked with blood, littered with bodies. He stood in the fields of dead, next to his father. Still young, gore streaked, snarling, two crude blades clutched in his hands as a small platoon of leather clad men and women armed with equally crude spears and blades charged. The scene lurched like a dream, his father turning away from the small army and running. . .
The world resolved around him again, back to his parents' living room. His breath came in huge bursts. He threw up staring hard into eyes that now suddenly didn't seem so vacant.
I chose to stay after the MIlesans drove us out. Fucking ginger bastards. And after they were gone, I really got to like fucking with the Christians. After them it was the English. They coulna tell their assholes from their elbows, that lot. After a while I just fucked with 'em all. Irish, English, Catholics, Protestants. . .Humans, such fucking simple creatures.
Tom's stomach lurched again. The living room felt liquid, unreal. He dry heaved.
Clean yourself up, son.
He wiped reddish-white bile from his chin with back of his hand. He couldn't focus; he needed to focus. He closed his eyes, wanting to fall asleep; wanting to wake up in his bed, sweat drenched, groping for a smoke, realizing that all this telepathic, time traveling bullshit, a dream, all a fucking dream.
It ain't that, son. Pull your shit together, I need your help.
"What the fuck are you?" His voice was raw, trembling.
Tuatha De Danann.
"What?"
Tuatha De Danann.
Gaelic.
He'd heard it coming out of his parents' mouths his entire life, his Ma even spent a couple of years trying to teach it to him. Kept telling him that it was his heritage, his true language. Ages 6-thru-8, the bitch even read him his bedtime stories in. . . . Stories . . . of . . . fairies?
"A fairy? You're fucking Tinkerbelle?" he asked.
I AM NOT FUCKING TINKERBELLE!
The force of his father's voice was like being head in the head with a brick; his brain contracting and then swelling. A trickle of blood dribbled from his nose.
All that pixie dust and wish granting is nothing more than Christian horseshit! Meant to take away our strength! Meant to take away our presence! We ruled Erie! We pulled those pieces of shit out of the caves and gave them science and art and language! And the fucking pagan Romans wipe it all away with their children's stories and songs!
Tom was doubled over on the carpet, his knees crushed to his chest, his fingers digging into his ears.
He was out of his mind.
Fucking out of his skull!
No you're not, you horse's ass. I told you I needed you, and I meant it. Now get up and listen to me.
It was the same voice when he was five, learning to ride a bike. The same voice when they were separated by bullet proof Plexiglas and he wanted to break into snotty sobs. It was calm, sturdy, commanding. He rose to his feet, wobbling like a toddler.
Good. . . This body, son, this body is almost done. It won't figure it out, though. It just keeps going.
Tom knew what was coming.
When you went away, I tried leaving this world. I tried going to Tir na n-Og. Without you here, I just didn't see no point. And when I tried to leave. . .I've been here too long. . .I'm too tied to this body, this world.
Say it. Say it. Say it. SAY IT!
I need you to take care of me, son. I need you to let me go home.
Tom's tears mixed with the blood and vomit streaking his face. He'd send him home. He'd miss him, but the motionless grey sack of skin wasn't his old man. He shuffled to love seat, picking up one of Ma's lumpy throw pillows. He gripped the edges, sucking air through his teeth, building nerve, building courage. He held the pillow out in front of him at chest level, even with the old man's drooping face.
Not like that, ya fucking idiot!
He dropped the pillow, his hands flying up to his ears again; it was more like a knife that time.
I don't want to be dying all at once. I've been in this world five thousand years, boy, I want a little time to say my goodbyes to it.
"How then?" Tom's vision was doubled, he rubbed at his eyes, the knuckles came away bloody.
Your mother, she's always feeding me that fucking marmalade of hers. Can't stand the shit. But every morning the same fucking thing. But I eat it. . . . There's rat poison down below the sink, go get it and the jam jar.
He went to the kitchen, refrigerator first, then below the sink. The box of poison was ancient, the glued seams pulling apart, threatening to burst. The picture on the front of a dead rat laid out on its back with Xs for eyes had faded from black to grey. As he pulled a tablespoon from the silverware drawer, he took a second to think about what he was doing. It was murder. It was a mercy killing, sure, but when they found the old man, when they opened him up for autopsy, when they tested his blood, they would know; they would finger the con, he would be back in stir. But maybe it was where he belonged. Maybe this world of freedom was too much for him. Maybe jail was his world.
He walked back out to the living room, setting his new home chemistry kit at his father's feet and unscrewing the top of jelly jar.
I know what you were thinkin' there, boy.
Tom stared up at his old man, expectant.
They ain't gonna think it's you. They'll think it's your Ma finally going ape after taking care of me all these years. Besides, they ain't gonna cut up an old man, they'll figure I died because I was an old man.
Tom nodded and turned his attention back to the items on the floor, carefully opening the box and dipping the spoon into the white powder.
Make sure not to spill any. . . Now put just a little more. . . make sure it's stirred up good. . .
Two weeks crawled by without the old man saying a word to him. Each day when he came downstairs after waking up, his old man would be sitting in his same spot, the marmalade-slathered toast and weak tea in front of him on the TV tray. He'd come inside from his wakeup smokes and the plates and TV tray would be put away; the only signs that his old man had eaten were tiny dabs of orange mixed in with the dried spittle at the corners of his mouth.
Two weeks of nothing. Not a single sign that his father's body was fading from the poison. All that really happened was his Ma becoming increasingly bitchy. Constantly yammering at him to clean up the yard, to start helping around the house more, particularly when it came to the old man. She started having Tom change the old man's clothes, give him his sponge bath, change his diaper.
After two weeks, he finally saw the results of the rat killer: a liquid, bloody shit. And the old man finally spoke up again as he was changing him, his eyes watering from the stink or the idea of his dad getting ready to die.
You need to add more. You need to put more in. It's not working.
And he did the next time his mother went shopping. He did it.
After a long walk, he unlocked the front door and stepped inside his parents' house expecting to see his old man in his recliner, the tube playing at top volume. What he found instead was his Ma face down on the carpet in front of the old man, his TV tray crushed beneath her weight, her little dog barking at her and running around in small circles. Tom dropped his bag of books and rushed to her side, turning her over on her back, the little dog taking nips at his hands. Her head tumbled on her neck loose and wobbly. Her eyes wide open and blind. White foam bubbled from her mouth and twin rivulets of dried blood matted and black from her nose.
You know, son, the fucking cunt gained 30 pounds while you were inside. All of it from eating that damn toast every morning. She used to be a good looking girl, your Ma. She just couldn't keep food outta her mouth.
He stared up at his old man, tears stinging his eyes.
Oh don't give me that look. You know you couldn't stand the sight of her either. Good fucking riddance is what I say.
He trailed a finger through the drying blood and shot to his feet. He wrapped his hands around the old man's brittle neck and squeezed.
The man who had spent the last one hundred and fifty years as Cullen Shepherd felt the strength and power of his new hands; the youth and dexterity of the body that used to belong to his twenty-fifth son.
He released his grip from around the neck of Tommy's new/old body and gave him a gentle slap on the cheek. The dog kept barking at him, growling, baring its teeth. Little shit machine, he kicked it across the room, bouncing it hard off the wall.
He breathed deep, filling his new lungs and coughing hard. After eight long years trapped in the same uncomfortable chair, he felt like he could use a walk; that, and maybe a little pussy—yes, the first order of business was definitely something hot and young.
-END-
