Lucky Jack!

From Lucky Jack!: I led Jack into the Yellow Wheel Saloon . . . . He grunted and then made some eerie m and n sounds. . . . I pulled Jack to the bar, cleared my throat, and said, “I beg your pardon, sir, but I have just arrived in the city from London, England, with my distant cousin, Ludwig, who cannot speak English. He actually cannot speak at all. In a bombing raid some ten years ago, in Dresden, he was shocked and deafened. . . . I was wondering, my good man, whether you would give us bottles of that famous beverage we hear so much about. I believe its full name is Coca Cola. I would gladly pay for them, but you see I have only British currency and the banks are not open.” The matinee prize was exactly what Jack waited for—a glorious full-size blazing red-and-chrome Schwinn bike. . . . Jack began going through his tickets. Not the first one. He dropped it to the floor. Or the second or the third, but when he saw the number 1127 on the fourth ticket, he let out a piercing shout. “I got it! That’s my number!” In an instant he was scampering across the kneecaps of the boys and girls to his left. . . .”Here it is,” Jack cried, “my ticket!” Mother smiled, rolled her eyes, and said. . . .”Since we are talking of polio and monkeys in the same breath, I’ll tell you something that might surprise you. . . . On a hill above Oakland, in the Municipal Hospital for Contagious Diseases, there are research labs in the basement, and there are many monkeys used in experiments. . . . On the floors above the labs are hundreds of boys and girls with various types of the disease. Children who can’t breathe on their own are kept alive in iron lung machines. . . . For many children hospitalization lasts for months.” “What and I gonna do?” he shouted. “This isn’t happening. I’m sorry! I’m sorry I didn’t put more gas in the tank. I thought there would be enough.” He appeared to be incoherent, but I suddenly knew what he meant. On that Sunday, seemingly ages ago, when I walked to the house holding Sarah and Susan, Jack’s mom lifted the toddler, Bobby. Then I remember that she put him down and clutched her side. “John,” she called. “Something happened.” Satan’s everywhere, watching. He’s in the closet when we play spin-the-bottle (Coke bottles spin best), and in the dark closet full of coats, umbrellas, and boots. Abby, or Jane, or Becky giggled between summer coats, with pockets of forgotten small change and dry, broken cigarettes. So you have to find her, the lucky one, among empty, winter hangers ringing a jazzy tune, find her and then try to kiss her in the dark. Find her lips and kiss her before you passed out from excitement or lack of oxygen. That’s what Jack wanted! And then he’d burst out of the closet into the shaded light, gasping for air while awe-struck eyes followed his twisting dance steps. On the mantelpiece was Jane’s pink earring. As my eyes became accustomed to the dark, the earring began to glow a little, and then more, like the evening star. If I am to dream let it be a dream of today, a dream of faces: Jack’s laughter; Big Hank’s sad eyes; Jane’s smile just before she whispered, “Cyril”; and mother’s face tilted to present her good ear. That would be good. That would be very good.