Things were silent as cars pulled up to the gravesite. Old boxing buddies, hockey buddies, Jerry, Angel and Jack added up to about twelve. But they were there, and Bobby would have appreciated it.
The fact that Bobby was dead was tough to bear for all of them; He had been a great fighter, a great player, but more importantly a great brother. He was loyal only to the things he believed in most, and ended up dying for one of them, the one whose arm was in a sling and whose shoulder was bandaged up.
Jack Mercer had not come from a happy home. He was born in Lansing, Michigan to a crack head mom and a deadbeat dad. He had one older brother, Damen. When his dad would get drunk or his mom would bring home guys to fuck for trades, Damen was the one who made sure Jack didn't know. But he knew. It's hard to hide from an eight year old the bruises on your arms and back you took for him, and even harder to hide the bloody knuckles that made it stop. But, Damen made it work.
Until one day down the road, Damen received a knock on the door telling him that he'd stolen a car to get Jack to school on time and that he would have to go to prison for a very long time. Ten year old Jackie said he'd be okay, that he was big enough now to sock his dad one if he tried anything. Damen didn't believe him, but said Jack was right anyway.
Three nights later, Jack's dad came home only to discover that he didn't like the way Jack was sitting at the kitchen table, attempting to do his homework. Jack's father broke his arm in two places, and turned his face black and blue before Jack managed to get out of the way. He went over to the neighbor's house and she called an ambulance, making sure that Jack's dad wasn't going to come after him. Her name was Marie Townsend. She had a boy just a little older than Jack. Gregory had a hot temper, and asked Jack if he wanted him to kick Jack's dad's ass. Marie told him no, and that the police would take care of it.
But the police didn't take care of it. They sent Jack back home, patched up and defenseless. They told him he shouldn't try so many stunts on a skateboard.
That Saturday, after seeing Jack at the end of his driveway playing a dollar store guitar, Gregory gave him a tip. He told Jack the next time his father wanted to touch him that he should hit him with a baseball bat. Gregory was big; he played ice hockey and got into a lot of fights around the neighborhood. Jack trusted him.
That same night, Jack's dad was on his usual drunk rampage, looking for anything and everything that was convenient to unleash his anger on. Jack just so happened to be in his room, reading for school. There was a baseball bat under his bed. Still, it was unexpected when he was thrown against the opposite wall and kicked until he couldn't breathe. He crawled for the weapon, taking a series of light kicks to do it.
When he stood up, his father actually laughed. What was a little fairy like him going to do with a baseball bat? Hit him? No, Jack was going to put the baseball bat down like a good little boy and take what he got like a man. But the boy wouldn't let go of his protection.
As soon as he saw a fist coming for him, Jack swung. In that second, he found something in him, some deep primal anger that a ten year old shouldn't have or use. But he did. And once he swung, he couldn't stop, even after his father had dropped to the floor, his face a bloody and broken mess. Jack stopped only when he was out of breath, his chest heaving, those tiny lungs burning after taking such a rough bout.
He looked down, in shock. There was blood on his hands, on his carpet, even on his bedspread. How had that happened? His father had told him to the bat down, so why didn't he? Now look what had happened; he was going to get his ass beat for sure.
Grabbing only what clothes he could stuff in his backpack and a jacket, Jack ran out of the house, down the road, and as far as his legs would carry him from his father and his hands.
Eventually, the cops picked him up. He didn't have any idea where he was, so he just stopped answering the police mans questions. They put him in foster care, but soon case workers and foster parents found that he had a violent streak, almost to the point of being bipolar. And so he was rejected, again and again, until there was no place left for him to go. He was failing in school, and it didn't help that his friends were rejects and degenerates like him.
Then Evelyn Mercer took him in. He had stayed at her house many times from the time he was ten till he was fifteen, when she adopted him. And, even though they did butt heads, she knew how to handle him. She had three other sons, all adopted, and they were coming from the same places Jack had run from, so they knew what he was going through.
And so Jack had settled in to the Mercer house as a part of the family. His brothers gave him a hard time because of his loneliness, called him a fag and teased him about his love for music. He shared a passion for hockey with Bobby, and in general Bobby seemed to look out for him.
But, just like everything else, it changed. Bobby left, Angel joined the Marines after he graduated, and Jerry got married and went into investing. Jack stayed in school, making average grades and generally keeping it out of trouble. Then, out of the blue, He woke up to a hard knock on the door that told him his mother had been shot while buying a turkey for Thanksgiving. The sweetest, most generous woman in the world had been taken down by a group of mindless thugs out for vengeance. They took it in blood; hers, his own, and Bobby's. Angel and Jerry had made sure there wouldn't be anymore killing, but they wouldn't tell him how. Jack didn't care, to be honest, he just wanted his life back. Jeremiah wanted him to move in with his family, and Jack wanted to stay in the house with Angel and Sofi. After many nights of fighting, Jack finally won out. He went drinking often; sometimes with Angel but mostly alone, just to escape the scenes replaying in his head. The bartenders for the most part indulged him, but a few wouldn't serve him without ID, no matter who he was or what had recently happened to his family.
One night in particular, Jack found that the alcohol wasn't helping.
"Aren't you Jack Mercer?" the woman sitting next to him asked. She was young, older than he was, so maybe around Angel's age.
"Who's asking?" He looked at her with dazed eyes. She was pretty, but that might have been the four pints of alcohol talking. She smiled.
"One of my friends has you in her English class. She says you're smart, but you need to learn to take off the headphones."
"Aren't all teachers supposed to say stuff like that?"
The woman shook her head. "Not really. But I've read some of your stuff, and for what it's worth, you are pretty good. Very dark poetry, but it comes from a good place."
"When you see some of the stuff I've seen, you'll write dark poetry too."
"I heard you're brother Bobby just died."
Jack nodded, taking another drink of his Corona.
"He was a good guy. Won us the hockey championship four years in a row in high school."
"You went to high school with Bobby?"
She nodded. "I didn't really know him, but I knew of him. Anybody with two ears, tits, or a loud mouth knew about Bobby Mercer. I think he holds the school record for longest period of out of school suspension."
"Twenty seven days." They said together. Jack smiled.
"Let me buy you a drink. Danny, whatever the kid wants, give it to him."
"You know technically, that's illegal." Jack pointed out, accepting a shot of whiskey. The woman shrugged.
"Alright, I'm headed home. I've got papers to grade, and that in itself can sober a person up. I'll see you tomorrow Danny." The woman sighed, sliding off of her barstool so she could put on her coat.
"Hey, take this punk home." The bartender pointed to Jack.
"What?" Jack looked at him like he was delusional.
"It's nearly midnight, you've been here since nine, and I know you don't plan on driving your sorry ass home, so I won't be the one to let you walk and get smashed by a car. Evelyn and Bobby didn't die so you could too." He took Jack's shot glass and half empty bottle away. Jack groaned, slowly standing up and putting on his coat. He was tall, almost six foot two. He was skinny though, built like a fighter, or someone who just didn't worry too much about eating.
"This is the car you drive?" Jack stared for a minute as the S2000 in front of him. The woman nodded, unlocking her door and getting in.
"Holy shit. You can't take this to my neighborhood; you'll get shot in the head."
"I'd like to see them try." She smiled a smile that he'd seen on Jeremiah once or twice, like they looked innocent until you pressed your face against the glass. She reached over and pushed his door open, looking up at him.
"We might have to bend you in half to fit you though."
He laughed, the drunken loudness of it amplified by the silence and the snow around them.
"So what do you teach?" Jack asked, looking out he window and holding his hands against the heater.
"Freshman English. Most of my students are complete idiots, but it's against the rules to throw things at kid's heads."
Jack smiled. She was a pretty cool English teacher, not like the hag's he always got; a step away from falling into their grave or in desperate need of a good fuck.
"Tell me where to turn, Mercer, or they'll haul me off for kidnapping."
Jack pointed to a street on his right, half lit up by street lights. At this time of the year, most of them were out. They'd replace the bulbs when it got warmer.
"Stop right here." He said suddenly, in front of a house with a whole new and unpainted front; it was too cold to do it now, the paint would freeze before it got on the brush.
"Thanks for the ride. You've got a nice car."
"That's what everyone tells me. I'll see you tomorrow."
Jack started to walk up the driveway lazily, swaying a little bit as he stepped around a pile of snow.
"Hey Jack." The woman called, leaning out of the window to talk to him.
"Yeah?" He spun around, nearly falling again.
"Come here a minute." She waved him back over.
"What?"
"My name's Sara. Call me sometime." She held out a piece of paper with a phone number on it. He looked at it for a moment, letting his brain register what was happening. Hot older woman, taught at his school, giving him a number. He was drunk. She was probably drunk. This would all look better in the morning, if he could remember any of it. H nodded, putting the number in his pocket. She smiled and sped off, turning the corner hard so her back end fishtailed.
The house was dark when he opened the door, stumbling up the stairs partially because he couldn't see and partially because he couldn't walk straight. However, no noise came from Angel's door, and after a few minutes of leaning against walls, Jack managed to get into his room without hurting himself. He kicked off his shoes, and in he process knocked his guitar over, but if he bent down to pick it up, he might not make it to his bed.
Miraculously, he stripped off his clothes and crawled under the covers, only hitting his arm against the wall once. The bed was really comfortable; more comfortable than normal. Jack discovered that while he was thinking of what had just happened, he became more and more tired until finally he just dropped into darkness...