Chapter 2
"Just lay it over there!" Jesse barked. "Jesus Christ, you'd think I was asking you to do brain surgery. Put it, no, not like that, here, just watch what I do!"
Jesse Vanderhorn always spoke to his son that way. He barked at him. Carl worked in his father's grocery store and after Carl's testing showed a slight disability in his learning skills, Jesse lost patience with the young man and became more difficult to please.
"Okay, dad, I can do it now." Carl said.
"Be careful, don't make a mess with it. That's it, just lay the, no, no, no!" Jesse grabbed the plastic wrap from Carl's hands and told him to wash up for lunch. He wrapped the block of cheddar then came to the front of the store.
"What can I get for you today, Mrs. Simmons?" Jesse asked the customer.
"Have you got some elbow macaroni?" the little old lady said. "I want the small kind, Jesse, not that big kind."
"Right over here, Mrs. Simmons." Jesse led her down aisle three to get the box of macaroni. He bent over backward for customers, showing them every kindness, but to his own family, Jesse was a tyrant.
"What else for you, Mrs. Simmons?"
"I need some milk."
"Right over here. You stay, I'll get it for you. Two percent, Mrs. Simmons?" he yelled from the cooler.
"Yes, I want the two. I don't want that watery stuff, Jesse. I don't like that watery kind."
Carl worked in back cutting cheese and preparing cold cut platters. He seldom came out front, more because Jesse didn't want the embarrassment than a lack of desire. Carl worked every day at Vanderhorn's grocery. His mother, Alice, usually helped him with the duties but this day she was seeing the eye doctor.
Carl watched Mrs. Simmons from the pass through. He spied on all the customers that way. It was his way of mingling with the rest of the world. He'd stand back from the small opening and take quick glances to the front. Once he saw a young kid put a candy bar in his pocket but Carl didn't tell his father. Jesse would have called the police and Carl couldn't see the point.
Mrs. Simmons paid for her order then left. Jesse was quick to open the door and warmly tell her to come again. His reputation around town was one of good standing. Jesse Vanderhorn, they'd say. What a pleasant man. What a saint.
Carl sliced the roast beef thin then rolled it into cylinders and arranged them on the lettuce bed covering the aluminum tray. He'd sometimes stick decorative toothpicks through the meat rolls to hold them together but Jesse always had to rearrange them. He was rarely satisfied with Carl's efforts, no matter how good.
"Carl!" the old man yelled. "Come out here!" Carl came to the pass through and looked out. Jesse was holding up a broken pickle jar.
"Get the mop and clear away this mess." he ordered. The young man did as he was told.
The heavy mop bucket squeaked noisily when Carl rolled it to the aisle. He'd meant to spray WD-40 on the metal wheels but kept forgetting. The pickle juice was everywhere and Carl gave a sigh making up his mind where to begin. First, he picked up the pickles and, for lack of anyplace else to put them, slipped them into his apron pocket. Next, he took out a rag and wiped the splashing's off the other jars. When a jar of pickles smashes to the floor it sprays the juice all over the other goods. It seemed the logical way to clean, from the top down, but Jesse found fault and told him to mop first, and again, Carl did what he was told.
"There's my little darling." Jesse said, speaking to Miranda as she came into the store.
"Hi, Mr. Vanderhorn." she said.
"Jesse! Jesse!" the old man smiled. "What can I get for you today, missy?" Carl turned around and looked at Miranda. Her long silky hair flowed past her shoulders and her tiny frame and feminine curves made his knees weak and his heart nervous.
"Just some milk, Mr. Vanderhorn." she said.
"What am I gonna have to do to get you to call me Jesse?" he asked with a grin. "Hey, it ain't every day I ask a pretty young girl to call me by my first name." But it was. Jesse Vanderhorn flirted with all the young customer's, especially Miranda. He liked her. She was always sweet and always respectful. When she came in, he made it a point to wait on her. Miranda wasn't like some of the girls. Some would call him old man and make fun of his bald head, but Miranda always showed class.
"Now, Mr. Vanderhorn, what would your wife think if I were to start calling you by your first name?" she joked. "Mrs. Vanderhorn wouldn't let me come in and shop anymore, then where would I get my milk and eggs?"
"Never you mind about the misses, you darling sweet girl." he said. "You just leave that to me. What else can I get for you?" he asked.
"Nothing, thanks."
"Who's that?" Miranda asked, seeing Carl on the aisle with the mop.
"He's nobody, just a helper. You need tea?"
"No, not today, thanks. I don't remember ever seeing him before, has he worked here long?"
"Ya, long time. Carl works in back."
"He's kind of cute." Miranda said.
"You think so, eh, Carl, come over here. You come meet Miss Miranda Saunderson." Jesse yelled. Carl felt like Jesse had just nailed a sign to his back reading, Ox at work, Don't feed the animals. His heart jumped into his throat then fell to his stomach and before Jesse had the chance to order him over a second time, Carl disappeared to the back.
"What's the matter with him?" Miranda asked.
"Nothing's the matter, Carl's just shy. Two twenty nine." Jesse said, ringing her order.
Miranda thanked the old man then gave her regards for Mrs. Vanderhorn before leaving. Jesse ran to hold the door for her then ran to the back room once the store was vacant.
"Why'd you run like that?" he yelled at his son. "You looked stupid running away like that. The lady don't bite, you know. You were rude to the girl, Carl. What's the matter with you?"
"I don't know."
"What's the matter, girls scare you, Carl?" Carl shrugged. "Aaaah! What's a father gonna do with a son like you? Put that tray away before it goes bad. I can't afford wasting good cuts that way. I ain't made of money you know. Go on, put it in the cooler."
"It's not " Carl started to tell Jesse he hadn't finished but the old man refused back talk.
"Ah, ah, ah, never mind the lip. You just do what I tell ya!" Jesse went to wait on his customers leaving Carl to follow out his orders.
Carl was a handsome young man, tall, slender, dark brown hair with unusual hazel eyes. They had yellow flecks of color surrounding his pupils and his mother always told him the angels had dusted them giving him great vision. Carl liked his mother. She was kind and loving, but sometime even Alice made him feel awkward. She would never intentionally hurt Carl's feelings but in all her pampering and fussing, sometimes made him feel like a child and not a lull grown man.
It was a Catch 22 life for him at the store. Had Jesse seen the unfinished platter in the cooler, Carl would have gotten a lecture on cheating the customers out of their fair share, and if he got caught disobeying his father's orders, he'd hear the one about fatherly respect and how a child owe's that. Carl made sure his father was busy with customers before finishing the tray and putting it in the cooler.
He thought about the beautiful lady Jesse wanted him to meet and how she was the loveliest thing he'd ever set eyes on. He'd seen Miranda in the store a number of times but each time he kept well hidden in the back spying at her from the safety of his pass through window. From the moment he first lay eyes on Miranda, Carl felt something exciting in his soul. He wanted to be near her, to feel her hair and touch her smooth soft skin, but he would never assume such a fantasy could come true, but at least now he knew her name. He thought it was the most beautiful name he'd ever heard.
Carl never dated. He dropped out of school in the ninth grade and never experienced what it was like to kiss a woman. His only experience was speculation from seeing movies and watching it on the big screen.
Alice often dwelled on the improbability of having grandchildren. She knew how it was for Carl. He was awkward. His social skills were seriously lacking because he kept himself cooped up all day away from others. He never practiced speech with strangers. Carl was the sort of timid soul who would wander a city street completely lost before he'd ask directions. He didn't want the risk involved in dealing with people. What if they laughed at him, or worse, ignored him? Alice tried to resolve herself to the fact that Carl was an undesirable but at times she would sit and cry feeling the deep sense of loss.
Jesse, on the other hand, clung to the belief his son was a freak. Carl was an embarrassment to the family. An odd ball, clumsy and stupid. The boy showed no common sense, as far as he could tell, and between the two parents, Carl was made to feel different from the jest of the world. He felt like the odd man out, awkward, clumsy, and undesirable.
Carl saw the mop resting against the wall by the back room door and remembered the aisle still needed mopping, but before he could pick it up and start back, Jesse was yelling for him to take care of it.
Alice came back from the doctor right as Jesse was getting ready to slap the boy and when she saw her husband's hand raised, let out a cry.
"Don't you dare!" she shouted. "What is going on here?"
"Never mind, what." Jesse barked. "He's got it coming." Jesse lowered his hand but Alice wanted an explanation.
"For what?" she insisted. "What terrible thing did Carl do now?" she said, mocking Jesse's sense of terrible happenings.
"Aaah, never mind, just forget it." Jesse stormed off. Alice putdown her coat then came to the boy.
"What happened, Carl?" she asked, stroking his hair. Carl was glad to, see his mother but why did she have to stroke him as if he were a wounded puppy, he thought. If Jesse had slapped him, he could have taken it. She didn't have to treat him like a helpless victim.
"Nothing, ma, dad got upset because of the pickle juice, that's all."
"What pickle juice?" she asked. Carl explained .about the broken jar and as he related it, Alice's eyes grew cold and angry.
"Never mind, Carl, you stay back here. I want to have a word with your father." She stormed from the back room to the register where Jesse was counting the days receipts.
"What's the matter with you?" she snapped at Jesse. "How come you use the boy?"
"What are you talking about, use? I don't use Carl, he uses us." Jesse believed that about his son. Part of him wanted to think the boy was incapable and therefore dependent on them yet the other half of his reasoning was thinking Carl wanted a free ride.
"You smash a jar of pickles and the boy has to clean it up? What kind of arrangement is that?" Alice questioned.
"It's his job!" Jesse barked.
"Since when? Since when is it Carl's job to clean up after you?"
"Oh, Mama-mia, Alice, what? The boy can't mop pickles now, what? It's Carl's job to keep this store clean, you know that. When the pickles break, it's his job to take care of it. For Christ sake, if I can't use him to mop up around here, what the hell good is he?"
"His job is making platters, Jesse, you know damn right well, Carl makes the platters. You break pickles, you clean them up. No more do I want my son mopping up pickles."
"Your son? I'm the boys father, for Christ sake. What, he can't help an old man now?"
"Oh, don't give me that old man stuff, Jesse, it's worn out. You're not too old to go to Flannery's Bar. You're not too old to chase Marilyn Arnelli around the stinking pool table. I don't wanna hear from old no more. Carl don't mop the pickles, that's all I gotta say."
"I'll tell you, Alice, maybe Carl needs a new job, eh? Maybe working at the store ain't such a good idea. He can't, mop, he can't clean. He can't be trusted to make platters the way he should. I think maybe you should find your son another job. Something special for his kind. How about we get him a job sweeping the sidewalks, or maybe he could carry birdseed to the feeders the city puts out.
I think he could be trusted with that. I don't wanna argue about this no more, the boy isn't pulling his load around here. He needs to be in a special place where he can be with his kind."
"What, his kind? We're his kind!"
"No!" Jesse yelled, pointing a finger to Alice's face. "We're his parents that's all we are. His kind lives in institutions, they don't work in grocery stores!"
Carl listened as his parents argued. It wasn't the first time he'd heard it. They did it once a week if they did it at all. Carl understood what they were saying. The testing he took showed slight disability in learning, that didn't mean he hadn't learned. He was a full functioning male with intelligence and pride, feelings and desires. He wasn't unaware how his behavior affected Alive and Jesse, just too timid to make a change in it.
When he attempted to think on his own, Jesse squashed the effort, sitting his mental abilities were too lacking for initiative. When he gave in to his father and let the old man brow beat him, Alice was there to lick his wounds. She didn't stand up for him. She didn't say, Jesse, let the boy think for himself, he's capable. Alice just tried to smooth his hurts. Even now as she stood toe to toe over the pickle issue, it wasn't clear what she wanted.
Was she saying, Carl doesn't mop pickles because he's the platter boy, capable of producing quality meat trays for the customers and if it's a janitor you want hire unskilled labor, or was she saying, hey, you don't make my poor, helpless baby clean up your mess, as a matter of principal because he's a poor helpless baby?
Whatever the issue, Carl was sick of hearing them argue. It never changed anything. Jesse still made him feel like a bumbling doofus and Alice came around licking his wounds. When would they let him grow into his manhood, he wondered. When will Jesse and Alice begin to see him as a full grown man?
"Don't you ever say that to me, Jesse Vanderhorn, never! There's nothing wrong with Carl that a kind word from you wouldn't cure."
"Oh, sure, now it's my fault he's an idiot." Jesse shouted.
"The, boy is no idiot, he's just slow. There's a big difference in the two, Jesse, you of all people should know that."
"What is that supposed to mean, Alice?"
"Never mind, what! You just don't make Carl mop broken pickles, that's all I gotta say." Alice stormed into the back room to be with Carl but he'd left the mop resting against the butcher block and the door to the alley wide open. He was gone.
Carl ran down Attison Boulevard toward the shore. He had to get away from the shouting. Another minute and he'd have exploded. His long lags looked like hinged sticks and he didn't stop running until reaching Atlantic Highway.
Walking along the peaceful ocean front had a soothing effect on Carl. The gentle crashing of high tide waves set his ears to ringing and he loved the smell of salted air and the whispering flutters of seagull's wings.
It was cold by the shoreline and Carl had run out without his jacket, but he forged ahead up the long stretch of private beach, tucking his hands into his pockets and nestling his chin to his collar bone. He wondered if other families fought this way. The yelling; the anger? Did other father's hate their son's as much as Jesse hated him, and did other mother's suffocate with kindness the way Alice buried him with hers?
The more Carl thought about his life, the angrier he felt. It wasn't the pickles. Carl didn't mind helping out and keeping the store ship-shape. He was a Vanderhorn too. His reputation was on the line just as Jesse's. It was the way Jesse went about it. It was his degrading tone and demanding demeanor Carl had trouble understanding. It wasn't necessary to shout. He could hear, he wasn't deaf or dumb. Why couldn't Jesse inform him that a jar broke on isle two? Why was it always an order instead of a revelation? And, Alice. She meant well, but her coddling left him frustrated. To just shove it aside would seem rude but at times that's what he yearned to do. Carl wanted to shove the both of them aside, but didn't know how.
He roamed the cold shoreline trying to calm himself but the anger welled inside like hot lava must churn in the bowels of the earth. He needed to release the burning and the only way he knew how was to physically lash out. Carl never directed his anger toward people. He was sensible enough to recognize the division between the people who hurt and the innocent public. He took his anger out on himself by bashing rocks to his legs or hitting his fist to a concrete wall until the blood ran off his elbow.
"Hey you?" A voice yelled. "This is private beach here. You're not supposed to be here." Carl turned around and saw a middle-aged man in bathing trunks quickly approaching. His mouth was moving, but in his anger, Carl couldn't make out the words.
"I'll have to ask you not to walk on this section of the beach anymore." the man said. "I pay good money for this beach and part of the reason is because it's private. Hey, are you listening to me?" the man shouted. •
"What, I'm sorry." Carl said. He finally realized the man was speaking to him.
"I said get off this beach."
"Why?" Carl asked.
"I told you why, are you, retarded? Don't come around here anymore, this is private beach. If I see you here again I'll call the police." When the man turned around, Carl watched him walk off in a huff. What had he done wrong, he wondered? And since when had the ocean become private property? Carl became confused. His family's arguing drove him off and now a stranger was driving him from the one place he found solitude. Carl began to scream as loud as he could. His mouth opened; his knees bent, and he let out a shrill that could be heard a mile up the beach. The man turned to look and when he saw Carl screaming; ran toward his house to call the police.
For thirty seconds Carl let off steam and when his scream finished, he felt better. It was easier than punching stone and much more tolerable than pounding his shin with a rock.
He walked to the road then had a seat on the bus bench. Carl watched the traffic passing, the shiny new cars zipping from light to light, passing, honking, rushing nowhere in particular. He felt a sense of calm in having no place to go, but Carl had to go somewhere. Everyone needed to be somewhere.
He thought about staying on the bus bench but reasoned the driver's would get angry having to stop then his refusing to board. He thought about going to the library but his card was home in his wallet, and besides, he'd already read every book they had.
Finally, Carl concluded there was only one place he could go. He started toward Attison with a heavy heart and when he came to the alley, stopped to take a deep breath before going on. The grocery store was just a few doors down and he hoped Jesse and Alice were through arguing. It would push him over the edge to hear their shouting now. He came to the back door and took another deep breath. When he stepped inside, Alice was in the back room. She was checking the meat platters for the morning pick-ups, seeing to it he had done them correctly.
"Carl!" she said, tears in her eyes, running to hug her baby boy. "Where did you go, I was so worried?"
"Nowhere, ma, I just went out."
"Out, where out? You could have been hurt, Carl. You shouldn't just go out without telling me. I worry so much. Are you alright?"
"Ma, stop worrying about me, okay?" Carl said, hoping Alice might listen to his meaning.
"How can a mother do that, Carl?" she said, hugging her boy.