I stuff the note into my pocket, toss the teeth to the bottom of the locker where they land among other junk: a ball of worn socks, used pencils, empty potato chip snack bags.
I turn my head and see Mr. Jensen, the janitor, standing at the far end of the bustling hallway. He’s leaning on a push broom, watching me. I ignore the old bastard and slam my locker shut.
In homeroom I pull the note from my pocket and read it while Ms. Gilley monologues about Ho Chi Minh.
It’s only one word:
BLOODSUCKER
I raise an eyebrow, then fold the note back the way it was and return it to my pocket.
I WORRY.
So, yeah, I’m a worrier, I guess. Nick always said so. Used to make fun of me about it.
When Jake was born, oh boy, I worried. I worried a lot. Afraid he’d have too much of his father in him. Or not enough.
Because, truly, what would be better for the boy?
More him? Or more me?
I’d rather not answer that.
Now, while he sits across from me eating spaghetti and meatballs, I stare at this damned note he brought home. He acts like he’s not watching me, but I know he is, so I try to keep my face neutral, focus on inhaling the smoke of my cigarette. Focus on keeping my hands from shaking with fear.
I set the note down, look at him. “You think it’s a kid?”
Jake chews, thinks. He has Nick’s strong chin, thistle-thick hair, bright blue eyes. And complexion, of course. White as snow, my boy. I can almost trace the thin blue veins beneath his cheeks, riding down the inside of his neck toward his heart.
“No. I don’t think so.”
“Okay.”
“I mean, it’s not a kid’s handwriting. Plus, none of them know. If they did…” He shakes his head, laughs. “It’d be chaos.”
I nod because I’m in full agreement. Which makes me worry even more because it must have been an adult who did this, who infiltrated my son’s school, put novelty teeth on his locker. Left a note for him to read.
Asshole.
“Jake, you remember the time your father took you hunting?”
Jake forks in more spaghetti, but his eyes look down. The memory, I realize, is not a happy one.
“Mm-hmm,” he hums, still chewing.
I wish Nick were here and hate myself for wishing it. He’s my son, after all. Even if I’m flawed, or uncertain at times, I love him more than anything. Love him more than I ever thought was possible.
What really stirs my guts, what makes me reach for another cigarette to drive away this feeling of worthlessness, is knowing Jake wishes the same thing I do.
That his father was here.
THE YEAR BEFORE HE DIED, when I was around eight years old, I guess, my dad and I went on a trip. Just the two of us.
We drove for what felt like days, but in hindsight I realize it was only about eight hours. Sundown to sunup. Across the state line. I slept some, but excitement kept me awake.
He told me we’d be hunting.
My father didn’t like sleeping away from home. He had the basement in our house, and a root cellar at the large cabin we owned deep in the woods. Both had coffins.
“But this is a special trip,” he said. “And the car will do just fine.”
We have a big truck. A Suburban. That night, we parked it in an underground parking lot. The back seats are always folded down, the windows tinted, so we slept in the rear. Me in a sleeping bag, my father on the thin carpet, on his back, hands folded neatly over his stomach.
I watched him for a while, his handsome face, his thick black hair. He turned and saw me, smiled. His eyes, ice-blue like mine, danced. “Go to sleep, Jake.”
I closed my eyes and slept the rest of the day.
When he woke me, I was hungry and had to pee, and told him as much. He laughed and said he knew a place where both problems could be solved.
We went up the stairs to the street. There were shops and restaurants, people walking, cars rolling past. It was dark, of course, but not late.
He pointed to a diner a block away. The windows were bright white, and people were seated in red booths. Waitstaff bustled. My stomach grumbled and he took my hand as we crossed the street.
I used the diner’s bathroom, washed my hands, and returned to see my father chatting up a waitress. I knew he was handsome, my dad, and women were always interested in him. My mother was always teasing him about how women “swooned as he passed them by.”
