A Pair of Jacks

Like most days, Jack Bowers stopped by the baseball diamond on his way home to catch a glimpse of the boys starting a game. He never stayed to play - though it wasn’t because he didn’t want to or because he was never asked. He never stayed to play because he dared not be late for home. Jack’s granny knew exactly what time school let out and how long it took to get home.

This time of year, Jack rode his bike to school instead of taking the bus. He would just peddle faster if the game was too exciting to leave right away, or if the bases were loaded and a really great hitter was up next, he could take off across the Sexton’s pasture field. Cross country had its own dangers involved however. If Jack got so much as a speck on his school clothes he would get a switch for sure.

Jack would have loved just once to stay and play a game. He often imagined himself stepping up to bat and hitting the game-winning homerun. His teammates would lift him up in their arms and chant his name as he crossed the home plate. But Jack knew the rules and the consequences if he broke them. His day as a hero would only linger in his dreams.

Fear of what would be waiting on him if he were late was definitely a factor that led Jack home on time every day, but he also felt obligated to do it for his grandparents’ sake. After all, it wasn’t their decision to raise another child in their advancing years. It was Jack’s mother that had gone “whoring about” as his granny called it, got pregnant, and then ran away leaving her hungry, crying baby with her parents.

Jack’s grandpa still eked by a modest income at 65 tending to an acre of tobacco, two acre of silage corn, and about 25 head of beef cattle, while his granny kept the house clean, the meals hot, and the cupboards full of the benefits of a plush vegetable garden that was nothing short of a miracle. Jack felt that he had to earn his keep with his grandparents by helping wherever he could and wherever he was told.

Like so often when the game is good, Jack skidded into the driveway just in time to catch his granny peeking over her tomatoes in search of her wayward grandchild. Jack tossed his bike against the porch next to his book bag, darted into the house to change into his work clothes and was back out and headed across the field to meet his grandpa almost before the screen door could slam shut behind him. He worked beside his grandpa daily mending fence, tending cattle, cutting timber, or whatever needed to be done with a little respite being offered on Sundays. Depending on the time of the year, there were still chores that had to be done on Sundays, but for the most part, work was forbidden in the Bowers' household on the Sabbath.

Summer Sundays were the laziest of days for Jack. With a pasture of fresh grass and no need to rise early to feed the cattle, he could dream about home-runs and touchdowns until 7 a.m. Still, Sunday mornings, regardless of the season, had a stricter routine for Jack than any other day of the week.

Jack rubbed the sleep from his eyes with the heat already rising on the sunny summer Sunday. He headed straight to the shower making sure to wash his hair twice, get behind his ears, scrub his elbows, and get between his toes. Thoroughly cleaned by the numbers, he then got dressed in his only Sunday slacks, navy blue and slightly too short, a pair of hand-me-down black wingtip shoes, and a ribbed tank-top undershirt. His starchy white, long-sleeve, collared shirt; light blue and gold diagonally striped clip-on tie, and tweed jacket, remained on the hanger until after breakfast so not to get any spills on them.

By 7:30, Jack was at the table and handed a plate with two eggs over-hard, three strips of crispy bacon, and one biscuit crumbled on the plate and covered with creamy brown sawmill gravy. Jack finished his breakfast and sat quietly at the table until his grandpa finished his coffee and the Sunday Morning Press. At 8 a.m., Granny Bowers opened the worn leather-bound Bible she always brought to Sunday breakfast and began reciting verses.

“‘Get thee behind me, Satan: thou art an offence unto me: for thou savourest not the things that be of God, but those that be of men.’”

“Now who was Jesus speaking to Jack?”

“He was talking to Peter,” Jack answered with his hands flat in his lap

“That’s right, and when?”

“Right before he was crucified.”

“Very good Jack,” and his granny continued reading the chapter.

From 9 a.m. to 12 noon Jack suffered through singing hymns, praying, reciting verses, and hearing teary-eyed testimonials at the Mount Carmel Chapel (Nondenominational). Jack could withstand the stifling heat of the chapel and the polished wooden benches that he always slid out of. He could even withstand having his cheeks pinched by every woman in the congregation older than 40, but two things always kept Jack whiling away the hours until the final hymn, when church would be dismissed. He struggled through the first when Sunday school service transitioned to the sermon.

Jack couldn’t say why, but something always made him feel uncomfortable during this group prayer. All the men, including his grandpa, walked, limped, or rolled their way to the pulpit and huddled together on a knee with their hands lain on each other’s shoulders. The women bowed in their seats or took a knee in front of their bench. Without a cue, someone started off with a “dear Heavenly Father,” then like the sound of a herd of cattle that all turned to run at one time, the chapel erupted in a deafening roar of complete gibberish. The only recognizable words to Jack bounced around the room with no apparent pattern in the form of “Oh Heavenly Father,” “Dear God in Heaven,” “Oh Father,” “Oh God,” “O Lord God” until the roar finally died down to a rustle and then silence as the preacher said Amen.

The prayer rarely lasted longer than a minute, but to Jack it often seemed like a half-hour passed before the uneasy noise finally died away. When the quiet did come again, Jack had only one more uneasy feeling to get through - the preacher’s sermon. This usually only lasted about 45 minutes but on the worst days the screaming, jumping, pounding, and dancing on one foot off into the promise land could last an excruciating hour and a half before he made the call for the last hymn.

When his Sunday morning reckoning was over, Jack swapped his church clothes for an oversize pair of cargo britches, left over from his granddad’s stint in the Army, and a pair of holey sneakers. While his grandpa dozed in his rocker to hymns played over the radio and his granny read her bible in hers, Jack headed across the field to the pond with an old fishing rod in one hand, a bucket of worms in the other, and Patch the dog following at his heels. Patch was a mangy heeler that subsided with the Bowers as their cattle dog. He was the second dog Jack had known in the family, and the sixth that had been owned by his granddad. They had all been named Patch, and like the Patch before him, this Patch was Jack’s second-best friend.

“Alrighty Patch, I’m gonna get that big cat today. Ya reckon we can get Granny to cook it up for us?”

When the two reached the pond, Jack went about the usual task of preparing his rod, baiting the hook and finding his seat on the old willow stump while Patch squatted overlooking the pasture in some pressed down grass. It was Patch’s natural instinct to look after the cattle.

“Dad-burn-it, forgot to bring another rod-n-reel,” Jack said to himself. “We might have better luck with two of us. Reckon Jack’ll just have to share mine again.”

“Whata-ya-know Jacky,” another boy called out to Jack from somewhere behind him.

Jack Straw was Jack Bowers’ best friend and had been for as long as he could remember. And for as long as he could remember Jack Straw had called him Jacky. Jack always loved the name Jacky, though Jack Straw was the only person that ever called him that, probably just to avoid confusion.

“Whata-ya-know” Jack hollered back. “Ain’t even got my hook in the water yet. Reckon you’ll have to share my rod again today. I forgot to bring another one again.”

“Ah, it’s no biggie. You know I don’t pay no attention to the bobber anyway. I’m just here to kick back. Too noisy at the house.”

“Too noisy, hmpf,” Jack grunted. “Wish I had that problem. Must be nice to have all those brothers and sisters.”

“You don’t want no brothers and sisters Jacky. Believe you me; it ain’t that great, ‘specially when you’re the youngest. How would you like getting beat up by two girls every day? It’s embarrassing. I swear I’m scarred for life.”

“Why don’t you ask your mom and dad to have another kid so you have someone to beat on?”

“Well I reckon mom’s empty by now.”

“Empty?” Jack giggled.

“Yeah, she tells me just ‘bout every day how I take it all out of her.”

Jack laughed loudly. He guessed having brothers and sisters wasn’t that great after all. It sounded a little dangerous. Aside from Granny threatening a switch on occasions if he broke the rules, he never got beat up at home.

The sun had long passed its summit and began its slow decent toward the hills and Jack’s bait had long since been nibbled away, but both boys continued to talk and laugh.

“Sure is a scorcher today ain’t it Jacky.”

“Sure is.”

“Hey, whata-ya-say we go for a swim?”

“Ah, I don’t know. Granny’ll have a fit if I track anything in the house.”

“Aw, don’t worry ‘bout her. We’ll leave our stuff up here. It’s nice and hot today. You’ll be good and dry ‘fore ya get home. Bet I can beat ya to the other side.”

“Betchya can’t,” Jack said as he kicked off his shoes and stripped off his cargo britches just before running headlong into the water.

It was no contest and Jack knew it. He knew he could out swim his friend Jack Straw. The dare had only been a push to get him in the water and it worked. Jack cleared the short distance across the pond in no time well ahead of his friend.

“Looks like I win again,” Jack said throwing his arms in the air and splashing the water in front of him.

“You sure can swim Jacky, but I’m gonna catch ya one of these days.”

“In your dreams buddy.”

Both Jacks dried themselves in the warm sun while building armies of fire breathing dragons and gallant knights on horseback in the few wisps of clouds overhead. Patch continued to guard the pasture, and that big cat went uncaught.

“So, whata-ya-say we go play some Rummy,” Jack said.

“I don’t know Jacky. You know your granny don’t like me much.”

“We’ll sneak in. She won’t even know you were there. Come-on Jack”

“Well, all right.”

Sneaking into the Bowers house on a summer Sunday late afternoon wasn’t a difficult task. By 3 p.m., Granny Bowers put down her Bible and joined Grandpa Bowers in a Sunday nap. The two Jacks just eased through the creaky screen door, careful not to let it slam shut, and the great Rummy tournament was on.

“Woohoo! Looky here, the Jack of clubs!” Jack said drawing from the pile. “That makes three Jacks and Rummy.”

“Wow, three games to none. You sure are a great Rummy player Jacky. Too bad you can’t make money doin’ that.”

“Yeah, too bad ‘cause you’d owe me big time. I am the Rummy champion!” Jack regretted his exclamation realizing he had been too loud.

“Who you talking to in there?” Granny Bowers could be heard coming through the hall.

“Nobody,” Jack answered.

“Well, nobody sure is makin’ a lot of noise. Who you talkin’ to?” She said opening the door to find Jack sitting cross-legged on the floor with a deck of cards partly in his hands and partly scattered at his knees.

“What’d I tell you about that friend of yours?”

Jack said nothing. He just put his chin on his chest visibly scolded.

“I told you that’s Satan,” Granny Bowers continued. “He came and took your mamma and now he’s comin’ for you. You wanna burn in hell?”

Still Jack said nothing. “Well do ya?” She demanded.

“No Granny.”

“Then quit this foolish ‘magin’ry friend of yours and study your Bible like I told ya. Now wash up. Supper’ll be ready in a little bit.”

Jack put away his cards and got ready for supper. Jack Straw was gone.