Old Frank and Jesus

Mr. Parker’s on the couch, reclining. He’s been there all morning, almost, trying to decide what to do.

Things haven’t gone like he’s planned. They never do.

The picture of his great-grandpa’s on the mantel looking down at him, a framed old dead gentleman with a hat and a long beard who just missed the Civil War. The picture’s fuzzy and faded, with this thing like a cloud coming up around his neck.

They didn’t have good photography back then, Mr. P. thinks. That’s why the picture looks like it does.

Out in the yard, his kids are screaming. They’re just playing, but to Mr. P. it sounds like somebody’s killing them. His wife’s gone to the beauty parlor to get her hair fixed. There’s a sick cow in his barn, but he hasn’t been down to see about her this morning. He was up all night with her, just about. She’s got something white and sticky running out from under her tail, and the vet’s already been out three times without doing her any good. He charges for his visits anyway, though, twenty-five smacks a whack.

That’s … seventy-five bucks, he thinks, and the old white stuff’s just pouring out.

Mr. P. clamps his eyes shut and rolls over on the couch, feels it up. He had cold toast four hours ago. He needs to be up and out in the cotton patch, trying to pull the last bolls off the stalks, but the bottom’s dropped out because foreign rayon’s ruined the market. He guesses that somewhere across the big pond, little Japanese girls are sewing pants together and getting off from their jobs and meeting boyfriends for drinks and movies after work, talking about their supervisors. Maybe they’re eating raw fish. They did that on Okinawa after they captured the place and everything settled down. He was on Okinawa. Mr. P. got shot on Okinawa.