“I once knew a fella went by ‘Sprocket,’‘’ Mrs. Tucker volunteered helpfully, “...but can’t say I’ve ever heard tell of enny Rockets? Though I certainly ain’t been everywhere and all abouts, so I wouldn’t know for sure.”
“So, Jimmy, lemme ask you,” Mr. Tucker plowed on, “With that kinda name, whereabouts y’all’s folks from enny-how?”
“Seekonk,” I quickly responded. “We’ve lived there for most of my life. Before that, a town called West Roxbury, near Boston I think.”
“Whadda ’bout your folks, son?”
My ears were getting hot. “So my dad’s from Dorchester and my mom, some place in St. Louis,” I concluded. “Oh, that’s in Missouri,” I nervously added.
“Oh,” he replied. “How ’bout what’s your background, your bloodline? You know, grandfolk, ancestors and such. Where’d they come from?”
I was getting confused. My forehead was wet and my heart was pounding. It felt like I was taking a test. Little hairs on end. Lump in my throat. Thing is, I wasn’t sure why.
“Umm, so my grandparents on my dad’s side are both from Romania, and my other grandparents on the other side, my mom’s side, came from somewhere in Russia. I get confused which is which. Anyhow, my dad told me somewhere our last name got changed from Rochestein to Rocket in order to get into America. Something like that. Ya, so I guess that’s about it,” I replied innocently.
“Oh, wow! Well, that explains it. Son, you’re a Jew Boy aint ya’s?!” Spoken with way too much emphasis on “Jew” and an awful lot of excitement. Who cares?
“I never woulda guessed it? Martha, can y’all believe Rocket’s a Jew name? Well then, no wonder y’all’s folks changed it, son?” He laughed conspiratorially. “I’d’ve done it too.”
I didn’t know what to say so I didn’t say anything. Something felt wrong. I felt uneasy and defensive. Did he mean that in a bad way?
I was almost eleven, and I’d never heard anyone called that before; maybe that’s just the way they talk in Alabama, I tried to rationalize. Then it got worse.
“You know what they say about Jews, don’t y’all, son?” I was on high alert and answered very carefully, knowing this wasn’t good.
“No, sir.” Barely audible.
“Well, son, they say, go fly a kyiiite! That’s what they say. Get it?! A kyiiite! Perdy funny if y’all ask me.” He was having a great time. I, however, was not.
His comment flew right over my head, but stung nonetheless. Why are we talking about flying a kite? (Hey, I was just a little kid.)
The only thing I was sure of was that he was making fun of me. “Just funnin,” Travis called it later.
After dinner, Travis and I were watching one last television show before it was (mercifully) time for me to go home, just talking about kid’s stuff, when I was hit with one final salvo off the front bow, this one taking on water,
“Jimmyrocket,” Travis asked, “how come you killed Christ?”
“What?”
“Christ, you know, Jesus Christ, how come you killed him?”
“What are you even talking about? I never killed anyone,” was my knee-jerk reply “and I’m not even sure who he is,” I continued. “Why’d you say that?”
“Well, maybe not you,” he went on. “But your parents, you know, your dad sure did. Or his parents. I heard the Jews killed him.”
If someone could wish themselves into a teeny-tiny hole in knotty-pine paneling and disappear, it certainly would’ve been me, but as it was, I resorted to complaining of a small headache (not such a fib) and excusing my way out the door a half hour early. Into the brisk air, and home. I sprinted.
“You’re home a bit early, Jimmyrocket.” Mom greeted me at the door with some trepidation. “How was dinner? Did you have fun dear? Are his parents nice?” And after searching my face and body language, she added, “Is everything ok?”
Before I had a chance to answer, my dad and sister each interrupted with similar inquiries.
“It was fine.” My line of vision was now glued to my shoe tops. “Everything was great. We had fun. Just got asked a funny question, that’s all.”
“A question. What’s that buddy?”
“Jimmyrocket, if someone hurt you I’m marching over there and punching them right in the nose! And I’m not kidding, JR!” Alison ‘s aggressive comment generated evil eyes from both my parents.
“No, it’s nothing like that,” I half heartedly assured her.
I turned to my father. “It’s no big deal, but like, Dad, did you kill Jesus Christ?”
My question turned inquisitive looks into faces of stone.
When my mother replied, “We need to talk, James.” No Jimmy or Jimmyrocket or even honey or son; right-off I knew this was serious.
I did not, however, tell them about the other comments; comments that sounded weirdly hurtful and probably worse. Nothing felt right. My stomach was churning like the spin-dry cycle on a Maytag washer and wouldn’t settle down. Butterflies, nothing. These were ravens. I needed to tell someone, to talk about it, but not with my parents, or my sister, or cousins for that matter, someone else. So the next day, at the pool,
I told Butchy.
I hadn’t necessarily planned on telling him. I frankly, wasn’t certain I’d tell anybody. It was hard to know exactly where to start or how to go about telling it. But this, after all, was Mashnee, where secrets are hard to keep, and friends are hard to avoid.
I told him everything.
Back then we never heard of the phrase “got your back,” we just did it. That’s what Butchy did. The hippiesh, happy-go-lucky, not-a-care-in-the-world, unflappable, fun-loving pool boy wore a transformed face of adjunct horror, once I told him what had been said.
“Jimmyrocket,” he said thoughtfully, “your instincts were spot-on. Those were mean and awful words spoken to you; they were not funny jokes, and there’s no room for that kind of prejudice here or anywhere else! You were right to tell someone. I’m glad you told me, buddy-boy.”
Butchy sounded serious. Dead serious. Mr. Easy Breezy was mad, damn mad.
