Marissa Peloso
Marissa Peloso is fueled by coffee and a love for art. Her stories seek to blend raw emotion and poetic language. This year, she completes a communications and creative writing dual degree at Roger Williams University.
Nicotine Sky
by Marissa Peloso
鈥淪he passed away around five-thirty this evening.鈥
The social worker鈥檚 words are light and soft against Jack鈥檚 ear, the phone a heavy rock upon his shoulder. She continues without pause. 鈥淚鈥檓 sorry to be the one to tell you this. Please take a minute if you need.鈥
Jack wants to tell the social worker that he hasn鈥檛 spoken to Kelly in years. And, that in his lifetime, he鈥檚 been in the same room as Kelly only twice: once at a party his senior year of college, then six years ago in a lawyer鈥檚 office. That was when he signed the papers. After that, it was just a matter of writing her name on a check every month, licking the stamp, and putting the envelope in the mailbox. He didn鈥檛 know Kelly 鈥 not really.
鈥淚鈥檓 fine,鈥 he says. 鈥淚s this about George?鈥
鈥淵es, I鈥檓 calling about the boy,鈥 the woman says, all business. He isn鈥檛 upset, so she doesn鈥檛 need to tiptoe. 鈥淥ur records indicate he鈥檚 your son. Kelly Anderson left no will, and there鈥檚 no immediate family other than yourself.鈥
He sucks in a breath of air like it鈥檚 smoke. 鈥淚s he hurt?鈥
鈥淣o, no. Well 鈥 he was in the backseat when it happened. Saw the whole thing. But no, he鈥檚 not injured.鈥
Jack stares at the ceiling. It鈥檚 popcorn paint, mottled like a disease. 鈥淪o he鈥檚 got nowhere to go?鈥
鈥淣o, sir. That鈥檚 why I鈥檝e called you. I understand you haven鈥檛 been actively involved in the child鈥檚 life 鈥斺
鈥淕eorge鈥檚,鈥 Jack interrupts. He doesn鈥檛 know why it makes him angry. 鈥淕eorge鈥檚 life.鈥
鈥淵es, of course,鈥 the social worker corrects. 鈥淣ormally the standard procedure is to keep George in our care while we conduct an inspection of your living situation. However, with an overload of casework 鈥 you understand.鈥
Jack pictures the foster home they鈥檇 put George in, imagining the nasty caretakers from Annie. The idea makes him nauseous. 鈥淲hen can you bring him here?鈥
The next afternoon, George is on his doorstep. He holds a small duffel bag, the little pale blue ones they make for kids. There鈥檚 a plastic fire truck in one hand, the red paint faded pink.
鈥淗i there,鈥 Jack says. The social worker looms above the boy, hands clamped around her clipboard, a hawk with navy-painted talons. 鈥淚t鈥檚 鈥 it鈥檚 nice to meet you.鈥
George is looking at the concrete steps, curly blonde hair covering his face from view. Already, Jack has nothing more to say.
鈥淒o you remember who I said you鈥檙e meeting today?鈥 The social worker is leaning down, face-level with George, like he cannot understand her unless she鈥檚 two inches from his ear. 鈥淭his is your dad.鈥
The word sounds like a curse to Jack, and he almost flinches. George doesn鈥檛 react and just watches his shoes. Dirt-streaked sneakers, the sole cracked. One sock is blue and the other is plaid.
When no one speaks, the social worker straightens. 鈥淲hy don鈥檛 we go inside? I hear there鈥檚 a nice TV.鈥
The TV has rabbit-ears and a screen the size of an Easy-Bake Oven. Jack leads both George and the social worker inside, to an apartment cleaned with bleach-water and an old rag. The living room and kitchen are molded into one, with a dumpy couch and rusted stove only half a foot apart. The social worker eyes the refrigerator as though afraid a rat is going to scuttle out into the open.
It鈥檚 quiet, so Jack clears his throat. 鈥淭hat鈥檚 a cool fire truck,鈥 he tells the boy, pointing.
George looks down at the toy, like he鈥檚 forgotten it鈥檚 in his hand. 鈥淎 wheel is broken.鈥
鈥淚t鈥檚 okay. We鈥檒l get hot glue to fix it.鈥 Jack didn鈥檛 even know if that would work. He鈥檇 never played with toy fire trucks growing up. George wasn鈥檛 looking at the TV, just down at his shoes again. In here, the mismatched socks don鈥檛 seem so out of place.
鈥淗ow about you show us his room?鈥 the social worker asks, but it really isn鈥檛 a question.
The bedroom is more like a closet. Jack put a twin-sized mattress from an old friend鈥檚 apartment down on two wooden pallets, then covered it with a blue blanket. An overturned crate serves as a nightstand; Jack put his own bedroom lamp there, in case George was afraid of the dark. There鈥檚 only one window, but it overlooks the treetops.
The social worker is scribbling onto her clipboard. George steps up to the window, peering out, his free hand pressed against the smudged glass.
鈥淲ait 鈥榯il you see it at sunset,鈥 Jack tells him, over the sounds of pen against board. Stepping around the social worker, Jack leans over George and points outside, but he鈥檚 moved too quickly and George visibly shrinks back. It makes Jack think of the neighbor鈥檚 rescue dog, years ago when he was little, who would scamper away 鈥 shaking and cowering in the corner 鈥 if you rolled up a newspaper.
鈥淪orry,鈥 Jack says hastily, and for some reason, there鈥檚 a lump forming in his throat. George is still looking out the window, shoulders hunched up to his ears. Behind them, the social worker is clicking at her phone, balancing it against the clipboard, oblivious. Jack keeps his voice quiet and points again, slowly this time and not too close. 鈥淭he trees will turn red. It鈥檚 really cool. We鈥檒l come back later and see.鈥
They leave George in the bedroom and step into the kitchen-living room. The social worker flips through her notes, acrylic nails clicking across paper, not looking up when she speaks. 鈥淲ell, I have to tell you, the space is a bit small. But as long as you keep it clean, it shouldn鈥檛 be a problem.鈥
Jack says nothing. She ticks off boxes in her notes, one by one, with flourish. 鈥淜eep toxic substances in hard to reach places. Trim the blinds鈥 strings to six inches above the windowsill. Keep electrical cords hidden. Always keep an ear out when he鈥檚 bathing. Do you know the heimlich maneuver? CPR?鈥
鈥淵es.鈥 He doesn鈥檛, but he imagines it can鈥檛 be too hard to figure out.
The social worker flips the page and eyes Jack, just for a second, then looks back at the clipboard. 鈥淎ny substance abuse issues we should be aware of?鈥
鈥淣辞.鈥
鈥淒o you drink alcohol? Smoke tobacco?鈥
He grinds his teeth. 鈥淣ot anymore, no.鈥
The social worker turns the clipboard toward him, holding out the pen so he can sign the papers. 鈥淟et鈥檚 keep it that way.鈥
Jack takes the clipboard. He speaks when he knows he shouldn鈥檛, and his words come out hot. 鈥淵ou asked Kelly all those questions? When George was born and she took him home from the hospital?鈥
The blue talons are frozen mid-air, and the pinched face is about to close in on itself. 鈥淚 don鈥檛 understand what you mean,鈥 she says. 鈥淭hese are required questions for any parent of a child in our system鈥斺
鈥淵eah, okay, I get it.鈥 As he signs, the edges of the white paper are burning black. 鈥淚鈥檒l see you in five days.鈥
When the social worker leaves, Jack returns to the closet-bedroom. George is sitting on the mattress, heels propped against the wood pallet, knees curled to his chest. He stares out the window, eyes blank as a sheet of paper. The fire truck lies next to him on the blanket. Now Jack can see the broken wheel, slanted up toward the ceiling like a crooked limb.
鈥淲hat do you want for dinner?鈥 he asks, hands shoved in his pockets. 鈥淪oup, mac and cheese, peanut butter and jelly, um鈥斺
鈥淚 don鈥檛 know,鈥 George says.
They eat mac and cheese, the boxed kind with powdered, bright orange flavoring. There is no dining table so they sit on the couch, and Jack puts on a kids TV channel. George holds the bowl of pasta with both hands, carefully, so he doesn鈥檛 drop it. He takes small sips of juice from the glass, slowly, so he doesn鈥檛 spill.
鈥淚t鈥檚 okay if you get the couch dirty,鈥 Jack tells him. His tongue feels like sandpaper, and it鈥檚 hard to get the words out. 鈥淚t鈥檚 old anyway. I don鈥檛 mind.鈥
After dinner, Jack shows him the red treetops outside. George presses his nose flat against the window and watches the trees catch fire in the dying sunlight. 鈥淐ool, right?鈥 Jack says, but George doesn鈥檛 respond. His eyes are wide, glowing from the reds and oranges and yellows, like autumn is swallowing summer within minutes and he has never seen the seasons change before.
The sleeve of George鈥檚 yellow rain jacket has slipped down, and Jack sees four pink, round scars on the skin of the boy鈥檚 wrist. Each scar is the size of a dime. George has spread his fingers across the windowpane, the hands of a giant looming above burning smudges of trees. Jack looks at the warped skin and tries to swallow, but there鈥檚 nothing there.
Once the red has muted itself to grey, Jack helps George unpack. There are only two t-shirts, one pair of jeans, one sweatshirt, and two pairs of underwear. They refold the clothes and tuck them inside the nightstand crate. 鈥淵ou don鈥檛 have another pair of socks?鈥 Jack asks.
George shakes his head. He鈥檚 holding the fire truck again.
鈥淥kay. Well I have extra, and you can borrow mine.鈥
When Jack runs the bath, he tries to get the water just right. He takes his showers cold, to save on gas, but now he wants it to steam. George places the fire truck down just outside the bathroom door, like it鈥檚 not allowed inside.
鈥淵ou can bring it in, if you want,鈥 Jack says. George looks at him, eyes wide, the faucet bubbling between them. It was like he suggested eating cake for breakfast. 鈥淥r not, it鈥檚 okay. You don鈥檛 have to.鈥
Jack stays to help George get in the tub. When he holds George鈥檚 arms, skinny with knobby elbows, he sees more dime-sized scars on his back. Two on the shoulder blade, one halfway down the spine. There鈥檚 acid at the base of Jack鈥檚 throat. His hand shakes when he twists off the faucet. 鈥淚鈥檒l be right outside if you need me,鈥 he tells George, the words burning his tongue.
He leaves the bathroom door cracked and returns to the living room. He sits on the couch and grinds the heels of his hands into his eyes, until pink dots and spinning purple lines brighten against the black. He can see Kelly, too, behind his eyelids 鈥 twenty and blonde, wearing a green UVM crewneck. A cigarette between her lips.
Jack remembers now. She offered him a line of coke that night, and when he said no she offered to show him her dorm room. Drunk and stupid. He didn鈥檛 know she鈥檇 gotten pregnant until a year later, when the lawyer called. Kelly wanted child support checks. But no one would let him see George, even when Jack came to sign the papers. The ratty Beatles concert t-shirt Kelly wore, with a ketchup stain on George Harrison鈥檚 forehead, was the only explanation he got for the boy鈥檚 name. Instead of looking him in the eye, Kelly hid behind a screen of smoke.
Later, when Jack tucks George into bed, he asks if George wants the light on.
George is quiet for a moment, but he says no, thank you.
鈥淎re you sure?鈥 Jack watches him. 鈥淚 don鈥檛 mind.鈥
鈥淲ell,鈥 George says. 鈥淥kay, please.鈥
Jack pauses at the door, looking back inside before he shuts it. George鈥檚 face is half-shadow and half-red, the lamp a hazy orange glow on the nightstand. The fire truck leans against the wooden crate, inches from George鈥檚 nose because he鈥檚 curled onto his side, one arm tucked under the flat pillow. In the lamplight, the fire truck鈥檚 faded paint glows a brilliant red. The crooked wheel is cast in shadow, and the toy appears unbroken, new.
鈥淲e鈥檒l glue the wheel tomorrow,鈥 Jack says, hand on the doorknob, chest squeezing tight on his lungs. 鈥淥kay, bud?鈥
鈥淥kay,鈥 George says.
Jack waits an hour before calling the social worker. He sits on the back porch, knees to his chest in the darkness, the sound of crickets and cicadas thrumming the air. The phone is cradled between his shoulder and ear.
鈥淚s something wrong?鈥 The social worker asks, when Jack tells her who he is. 鈥淒id something happen with George?鈥
He keeps his eyes shut, rocking back and forth on the porch steps like he鈥檚 about to be sick. 鈥淲hat caused the accident?鈥
鈥淪ir, my office hours start tomorrow morning at eight o鈥檆lock if you have 鈥斺
鈥淵ou don鈥檛 understand,鈥 Jack says. 鈥淚 need to know why she crashed the car. Was it her fault?鈥
The phone is quiet. His ears fill with the hum of cicadas, until his skull feels ready to split between his brows. The social worker鈥檚 voice is slow, like her words are pushing through a layer of syrup. 鈥淚 can only tell you what we know from the news report. The car accident did involve a drunk driver.鈥
He doesn鈥檛 need to ask which driver it was. His lungs are on fire inside him, bursting with something like cigarette smoke that burns from the inside out. If he screams into the darkness, he thinks his mouth will taste of blood.
鈥淪he shouldn鈥檛 have been a mom,鈥 Jack says. His voice is pinched, escaping lips that aren鈥檛 his own and speaking to someone who isn鈥檛 there. 鈥淪he shouldn鈥檛 have been a mom.鈥
But what did Jack know about being a dad?
Later, when his lungs are hollow and his arms feel ready to loosen from their sockets, Jack stands outside George鈥檚 bedroom door. He wants to look inside, to see if he鈥檚 sleeping. Maybe he wants to see the dime-sized scars on his arm again, just to make himself swallow more guilt. But Jack doesn鈥檛 want to wake him, and if he swallows more guilt, he might drown.
Instead, he lies down outside the bedroom door. Jack curls into himself, shoulder digging into the hardwood flooring. He doesn鈥檛 know how to be a dad. But this is okay, he thinks. Jack knows how to try.
He closes his eyes and dreams of a fire truck with a broken wheel. He dreams of blonde hair and lipstick-stained teeth, a little boy folding in on himself, a skin ashtray. Then he dreams of autumn being set on fire, flaming red treetops exhaling cigarette smoke. A nicotine sky.