Jack at 6
July 14, 1950
He was sitting with his back against the rear wall of his bedroom closet, left arm stretched out and groping in the slot where he kept secret things, searching for the burlap bag. His daddy had this room when he was a boy, and probably knew about this hiding place. But it didn't matter, because he was a grownup now and didn't need to keep secrets. His fingers brushed against the string hanging from the nail and it slipped down onto the floor of the little cubby. He pressed his shoulder into the space and turned his face so he could peer into the darkness with one eye, stretched his hand and, when he felt the rough fabric, concentrated on hooking it with his longest finger. His mother's voice drifted up from the kitchen, calling him to breakfast.
November 14, 1975
He had been touching the bag with his fingertips, but suddenly he couldn't feel it. After flapping his hand around in vain, he pulled his face away to answer his mother. He noticed the closet had become crowded with boxes but he was most startled when he looked through the doorway. His plain bedroom seemed ablaze with color and clutter. Where his window should be was a white wall with a big picture of a bucking horse and a cowboy. Below it was a bed with a brightly patterned cover, and lying in the bed was a boy with a glass stick clamped between his lips staring at the ceiling. He could tell this boy was bigger than him; he looked like a third grader.
Just as he was wondering if this was a dream a woman entered the room and went to the bedside.
"Let's check that." She withdrew the glass stick from the boy's mouth, and he realized it was a thermometer.
"One hundred. You gotta little fever, honey, so you should stay in bed today." The woman left the room and returned a moment later with a small bottle and a glass of water. She unscrewed the bottle cap and shook something into her hand which she held out to the boy in the bed, palm flat. He picked the tiny tablets one at a time from her hand, put them in his mouth and chewed, then took a sip of the water.
"You want somethin ta eat?"
The boy shook his head.
"OK, I'll be in the office. Just yell if you want anything." She took the water glass from him and set it on his bedside table, then pulled the door closed behind her as she left the room.
He suddenly realized he was naked. Clothes were hanging above him, brushing his head, and he reached up to pull down a garment. The boy in the bed noticed the movement and looked right at him. He stared at Jack for a long moment but didn't seem surprised to see him.
"How come you got blue eyes now?" the boy said finally.
A question with no answer.
"You're supposed to wear clothes. How come you ain't got any this time?"
He put his hand on the shirt hanging above him. "Can I wear some a yours?"
"They're gonna be too big for you," the boy pointed out. "But there's some old clothes of mine in that basket over there."
He swiveled around and knee-walked a few feet to the wicker basket on the floor, reached in and pulled out a gray T shirt printed with a pattern of fat sheep and a pair of black shorts. He pulled them on while still sitting on the floor, then looked at the older boy expectantly, wondering what he should do next. This didn't feel like a dream, and he didn't mind that — he was happy to have someone to play with for once.
"What grade're you in?"
"First."
The boy frowned. "I thought... well, OK." He paused. "We could play this game I have; it's two guys punching each other in the head."
Not sure how that sort of game was supposed to be fun, he just nodded. The other boy climbed out of bed, went to the closet and rummaged noisily among the toys on the floor. He pulled out something that looked like two small men, one blue and one red, attached to a yellow base. They had very angular heads and square jaws and were made out of some strange material. He set them on the floor and showed him how to work the levers that made them advance and retreat and their fists fly out in the direction of the other's jaw.
"OK, this is my daddy fighting your daddy. What's your daddy's name?" demanded the boy.
"John."
"My daddy's name is Jack." He paused. "You know my name is Bobby, right?."
"Oh. I'm Johnny."
"But..." Bobby looked at him with a puzzled expression. "Well, you're a junior, then. I think my daddy is a junior, too, cause my mother said once that he has the same name as his daddy. But I never seen that grandpa."
Once he got used to working the levers, Johnny enjoyed this game — especially when he started pretending that it was him fighting his own, mean daddy. He sent a fist flying smack into the jaw of his opponent and the head popped up on the figure's extended neck.
"Knocked his block off!" shouted Bobby. They both laughed.
Just then they heard a man's voice saying Bobby's name right on the other side of the door. Bobby looked at Johnny and pointed to the underside of the bed. In an instant, Johnny sprawled out flat on his belly, elbows and knees knocking at the floorboards, and wriggled under the bed.
Bobby's father entered the room as Bobby was scrambling back into bed. Johnny felt the mattress dip above him as the man sat on the edge of it. The man's black cowboy boots were inches from his face and he studied the pattern on the leather as he listened to their conversation, one so different from any he had with his own father, who never once came to his bedside when he was sick. When the man mentioned Wyoming, Johnny suddenly smelled eggs and bacon.
-
He was lying on his stomach, staring at the heels of his father's old boots that were stored at the back of his closet. He shivered and raised his head from the floor. His room was empty but the pajamas he'd been wearing were now folded neatly on top of his bed, which was made. He quickly dressed and went down to the kitchen. His mother turned from the stove to look at him.
"Where were you?" she asked.
"Playing with a friend," he answered, as he slid onto a chair at the table.
His mother set a plate of eggs before him and smoothed some hair off his forehead. "I'm glad," she smiled.
As he ate he thought about that boy's pleasant bedroom and nice father and began to feel the glimmer of some feeling that much later he would identify as hope. His home was no longer the world -— somewhere beyond the edge of the plain there was color, and men with warm voices.
When his mother was tucking him into bed that night, he told her he wanted to change his name. "I want to be called 'Jack'."
She smiled at him and tweaked his nose. "Johnny's not grown up enough for you, then?"
"I want my own name, not Daddy's. It's too confusing," he amended, when he saw her frown.
"Alright then. Jack."