Jack's First Year – Ma Twist's POV
Her son was six weeks old the first time he vanished. He her left nipple was suddenly cool in the night air, her right hand cupping an empty, still-pinned diaper. She prayed as usual, without faith, slumped in the rocking chair, eyes fixed on the moon. But unlike the other babies, he was warm when she felt his weight in her arms again near dawn. He disappeared like that several more times that first year, each time returning smelling faintly of whiskey and cigarettes. This child had found a guardian somewhere, and as long as he was a faithful one she could forgive him those vices.
Jack's First Year – Ennis' POV
March 1984
He'd been doing well enough until Junior came to tell him she was getting married. Cruising through the days of work and sleep and numbness. Wearing the same clothes for several days in a row to spare himself the daily shock of the closet door. Now he had to face the truth that one of his reasons for having kept Jack away was flying off. Ever heard of child support, Jack? Like he thought that could be a permanent excuse.
That night he pulled the whiskey bottle from the cabinet. Halfway through it, he opened the closet and took the shirts from the hanger for the first time since… Splayed out in the recliner with them draped on his chest, taking steady swigs. Lift, swallow, lift, swallow. Remembered Junior so tiny in his arms when the nurse handed her to him, his tears of gratitude that he had a daughter and not a son. More relief a year later when Jenny came along. Those first two years of their babyhood were the best of his marriage. He was a father, yeah. Remaking his lost family, no other males around to fuck things up.
Then Jack found him. Lift, swallow, lift, swallow, drop the empty bottle. A weight pressed on his chest, the familiar heaviness that was a prelude to tears. Raised his hands to touch the shirts, felt warm, smooth skin, palmfuls of tender flesh. Some nights they were all four in the bed, Alma nursing Jenny while he soothed Junior's sore gums, smell of milk and talcum powder, sounds of suckling, feel of fine hair and warmth rising from soft skin. He held his baby daughter close to him, smoothed his hands over her skin. Where's her diaper, her little shirt? Shifted her into the crook of his arm — what the hell?
This ain't your baby girl. Frown down at this boy infant, pale skin gleaming in the moonlight, blue eyes tracking the beam of a passing truck's headlights as it arcs across the trailer wall. Tiny arms flailing, plump legs flexing as he turns his mouth toward your chest, lips working at your shirt, seeking the center of his world, face twisting getting ready to cry when he doesn't find it. Pull the shirts around to swaddle him, put your little finger to his lips and he latches on, sucking.
At dawn he awoke with a pounding headache. Dream of a baby so real he could feel the shape of its buttocks in his hand and smell the milk on his shirt. Three more times this child came to him, always at night, when his hunger for love couldn't be satisfied by empty cloth. At each visitation the infant had grown a bit more, his dark hair thicker. Each time Ennis less drunk than before, holding this warm, vital bundle to his chest, humming as it sucked his finger.
On its final visit, the night before the wedding, the baby bit Ennis' thumb hard, pressing a tooth into his nail, worrying it. Looked into his eyes and smiled.
When he returned to the trailer the next evening after the reception, Ennis felt at peace. He took off his new suit, arranged it carefully on a hanger and returned it to the closet. Then he reached for the shirts still under the blankets, pulled them out and briefly pressed them to his face, smelling the milk. Folded them, placed them in a grocery bag. He knelt down and pushed it to the bottom of the closet, in the back next to the box of postcards. Someday, when it was time, Jack would come to him again.