Free Big Jack Is Dead by Harvey Smith Page B

window to his left. His father sat at the head of the small table, facing the window, and Brodie sat in front of the window, opposite his father. Jack's mother placed all the food on the table and sat down across from him at her husband's right hand, with her back to the kitchen. Big Jack bowed his head once everyone was seated. The entire family sat in silence. No one ever actually prayed, but when Big Jack thought enough time had passed, he opened his eyes and reached for the nearest platter of food. This was the signal that told everyone else it was okay to move again.
    Jack was always ravenous and the food smelled good. Eight fried pork chops were piled on a plate at the center of the table. Beneath them, a stack of folded paper towels soaked up grease. Loaded with butter and salt, an enormous bowl of mashed potatoes sat next to the meat. Closest to Jack, there was a Tupperware bowl filled with dark gravy. A straw basket containing a mound of hot biscuits was shrouded by a dishtowel. Lastly, a small bowl of Del Monte canned spinach sat near one end of the table near Brodie. The kids both dipped out a small helping of spinach at their mother's insistence and heaped their plates with the other foods.
    Just as Jack was about to take his first bite, his father interrupted. Chewing, he said the words slowly. “Well, boy…your teacher just called and talked to your momma for a while. She says you've been up there at the school acting like a little son of a bitch.”
    Jack felt his guts go cold. He lifted his fork, but let it fall. He gazed down at his food.
    “Not now,” Ramona said softly.
    “Why not? He don't give a fuck…look at him.” When Jack closed his eyes, his father shouted at him, “Look at me!”
    Jack looked up sharply, unsure of how to act. To make eye contact with his father usually invited further hostility, but he could not ignore the command.
    “I don't know why you can't go down there, sit in your fucking chair and keep your goddamn mouth shut instead of cutting up and acting fucking cute all the time.”
    Jack looked down at his food again. “Yes, sir,” he said. Brodie ate quietly, studying him with glassy blue eyes.
    “After dinner,” Big Jack said, “I want you to go into my closet and get down a belt.”
    A long thin whimper escaped from Jack's mouth. “Noooo.” The boy said it so quietly that the words could barely be heard.
    “Don't fucking whine!” His father fixed him with a hard glare, scrutinizing Jack with one eye cocked open wider than the other. “Do not fucking cry at my table. Eat your goddamn dinner.” Big Jack was done talking and dug into another pork chop, cutting off a quarter of it with his fork then stuffing the meat into his mouth.
    Jack ate slowly, picking at his food. His skin was cold and his stomach was sick. He felt like curling into a ball, but continued to eat, forcing the food down.
    Without warning, his mother hissed at him, “Eat some spinach.” He flinched as he looked up at her.
    Big Jack didn't mess around. He sliced up the remainder of his pork chops into double-sized bites and poured some ketchup out onto his plate. He went through six biscuits, a cup of gravy, three pork chops and three helpings of mashed potatoes. Several times, he covered the entire meal with blizzards of salt, re-applying more gravy and salt once he'd eaten away the top layer. He used his fork like a weapon, spearing a couple of triangular wedges of pork chop at once, dunking the meat into the thick pool of ketchup then angling the entire mass into his wide-open mouth, rotating it until it fit.
    When his food was gone, Jack stood up. Everyone else watched him in silence. His father and mother smoked. His stomach cramped as he walked to their bedroom. In the closet, he took down a belt with the word JACK etched into the leather. Crying softly, he draped the belt over the foot of the bed and bent over the ratty, queen-sized mattress. He buried his face in the cigarette-burned