I only saw Jules again on the 21st of November 1954. I left my body before the ambulance came. I never really thought about what Heaven might look like. Probably bouncing on clouds, reading as much as you want, doing whatever you want. Doing everything you probably couldn’t do down there. But whatever I did imagine, it probably wasn’t this. Souls drift at their own pace, gliding more like it. No one thinks, only remembers. Regrets and the good times, everything there was. Once you’ve been up here for a while, we start to remember tiny details. Like when that person tripped you over, or your first fistfight. And then you start living, if that’s the word, on them. Sometimes people go on imagining how different their lives would’ve been without a mistake.
I know what my mistake was. It was the books.
I don’t know where I lived before it was Michigan. I know I wasn’t born in Michigan, but I don’t exactly know where it was. I moved to Michigan when I was three, in 1941. I also don’t know who my guardian was before Jules. Jules had short-cropped brown hair, and glasses that where held on the tip of her nose. I used to think she glued them there, because even though they were always on the verge of falling off, they never did. I always had the urge to raise them, but I never did, thankfully. She’d probably starve me for the night if I did. She said I had to learn manners. But I liked Jules. She had a room, and she said only if I was good I was allowed to go in. It wasn’t her bedroom, no, because I’ve been in there loads of times, when I couldn’t get to sleep. The special room was her library. I was eight when I first went there. She said that morning, when I was throwing a tantrum, that if I stopped crying, then at 6 o’clock that night she’d let me in her library. I stopped crying instantly and went to school. I was incredibly excited that night. I had finished all my homework and everything by 6 and I sat sensibly on the sofa. But because of Jules’s half hour lecture (“Jeb, if you rip the smallest rip, smaller than an ant that’s gone in a machine that contracts your size, then you’re not allowed in again …”), so I only went in at half past. Still, I got hooked. Mistake number one.
Jules said I was meant to be a writer. She encouraged me to write as much as I could. Jules was a teacher, and we didn’t have much land on us, so money was a problem. But Jules didn’t let that get to me. Jules died when I was 14, in 1952. And then I had some man whose name I didn’t even know. He was a drunken pig. If I were lucky, he’d lock himself up in Jules’s room and drink himself silly. But if I was unlucky, well, let’s just say his belt and I have gotten to know each other quite well. Take one look at my back and you’d know that.
Wanting to be a writer was the second big mistake in my life. Boys are meant to be farmers, not writers!
Clive Lair didn’t have any trouble at conveying that message. It only happened when I was nine, when I was proudly telling everyone I was gonna be an author when I was older. I wish I hadn’t said that.
“Hello Jebby,” he’d spit every morning. He’d taunt me all day, him and his cheering group. I was twelve when I first started getting beaten. It happened after school. And soon, it began getting bloodier. It was terrible, and when I was fourteen, sometimes, if I was getting punched after school, then when I got home that man would have another go at me. I met Ebb when I was thirteen. Lots of the boys had left school by now, all helping in their Pa’s farms. But we don’t have a farm, so I didn’t leave. Miss Charlotte said God Bless that, ‘cause she said I could write well. Miss Charlotte is one of the teachers at school. I liked her till I was nine. When I was twelve she apparently “recognised the knack I had for writing.” I didn’t know what “knack” meant, though. She started calling me in after class so she could give me extra lessons. And then Clive started giving me a harder time. It made me wonder how long ago Miss Charlotte was at school. Obviously she was ancient; otherwise she should’ve known that it wouldn’t help your social stand by calling in a student for private lessons.
“Teachers pet,” Clive called me. That, or “dung”.
Ever since Jules left I’d been literally living in her library. The other guardian never went in there, saying, “books creep me out”. Another difference between him and I. It was only when Jules died I began thinking about my Ma and Pa. Jules was Ma’s best friend, she said she knew more about Ma than her own mother probably did. Jules said Ma and Pa died in a hit-and-run. I wondered about my Ma and Pa. I didn’t have even one picture of them. No painting, nothing. I like to imagine that they are perfect. My Ma, with green, green eyes, like mine, and fiery red flowing hair. And my Pa, I’d look like him the most. The same, short brown cropped hair and handsome nose. Maybe he had the same twitch in his mouth when he fibs, like I do. But I don’t know anything about them. Just their names, Jared and Carmela. I like the name Carmela. It reminds me of the word “caramel”. When I was really good, sometimes on Sunday Jules would take me to the carnival to get me a caramel apple. Sometimes if I’m extra good, Jules lets me have some caramel on it’s own. But only if I’m extra good, ‘cause they’re expensive, Jules says. I love caramel, it’s sweet and sticky and even when you’ve swallowed it the tasted lingers, bouncing off and on your taste buds. I hope my Ma was sweet like caramel.
When I was sixteen Miss Charlotte started talking to me about university. She said that I’d really have to study hard to get into a good university. She said she’d apply for some, some good ones that were abroad.
And then, one day she didn’t come, Miss Charlotte.
“Is Jebby missing his Charlotte? Oh no! Now he won’t be teachers pet anymore! How sad! Well, Jebby,” Clive held his head close to me. “Something tells me she ain’t never coming back!” And he and his prossie team sniggered. Clive left school when we were thirteen. He went to work on his Pa’s farm. But some days, he still took the liberty of meeting me after school. Obviously someone told him that Miss Charlotte was absent.
Slap! from Clive. He punched me, before I could even realize what was happening. I collapsed onto the floor. Kick, kick! from his gang and him. At one point they kicked my head. I could taste blood in my mouth. They all sniggered again and left. It took a while for me to get up. I opened my mouth and spewed blood. I got up, and trudged home, kicking stones.
As I walked home, I prayed that he wouldn’t be there, the man. But as I opened the door, the heavy scent of smoke filled the air, and I knew he was in.
And there he was, cigar in one hand, beer in the other.
“Where’ve you bin?” he said, holding his face close to mine. His breath stank of beer. He was sickeningly drunk.
“Nowhere,” I said. “Just out.”
“‘Just out’ doesn’t cut it!’” he said. I shrugged. Another mistake. He put his cigar down and beer. I should’ve seen it coming, I could’ve run, but I stayed still and let myself be his punching bag. I don’t know why, it was just instinctive.
Blood tricked down my nose.
Finally, I had enough. But he didn’t. I reached for the knife.
“Planning to stab me, eh?” he said, pulling me back in a headlock. “I’ll show you to try an-“
“I’m not gonna stab you!”
He paused for a bit, confused.
“Oh, I get it,” he snarled. “You’re done with life, eh?” He paused again, waiting for me to say something. I didn’t.
He pinched my cheeks so hard the blood came again inside my mouth.
“Ah, do whatever ya want with that, for all I care.” And he left.
I stood outside the house, knife in hand. And I stabbed myself, just as Miss Charlotte came jogging to my house waving a paper and saying “Jeb! Jeb! You’ve been accepted into a college in New Yor-!” Miss Charlotte screamed when she saw me.
I collapsed, as blood poured out of my chest.
I don’t know if I regret that action or not. Sometimes I think New York wouldn’t have been any better, sometimes I think it would’ve. I hate regrets. I remember thinking, in that split second, if I’d recognise Ma or Pa or even Jules if I saw them. I probably would, but here everyone just glides along. There’s no chance to look for someone. I wish.
