If Jack's in Love by Stephen Wetta Page A

she has her top off. “
    He was breathing heavily and sweat had beaded on his upper lip.
    I nodded ruefully. For my brother the gates of Hell had opened wide, and he was determined to take as many girls with him as possible.
    â€œLet’s go back and watch,” Dickie said.
    â€œYou don’t know what you’re getting into. If he catches you spying he’ll kill you. He’ll bite your ear. He’ll gouge out your eyes. That’s the way he fights.”
    The joy in Dickie’s eyes slowly extinguished. We stood on the street in the fly-plagued sunlight. On the shoulder of the macadam, tar was bubbling up. No breeze whatsoever disturbed the trees.
    Dickie pedaled off. I went home and sat in our back yard, without shade. Dogs approached with suffering tongues, asking me to do something to help. Our home was dark, dead. The fan blades in the window moved half a rotation whenever a rare wind passed through them. Not even thoughts of Myra could save me from my torpor.
    Mom went to the drugstore and brought back Popsicles, which we had to finish right away to keep from melting. She told me she’d come upon Mr. Gladstein in the aisles of the store and he had inquired about me.
    â€œHave you and Mr. Gladstein become friends?”
    â€œYeah, he’s a pretty nice man,” I said.
    Oddly, this was the succor I needed, to hear that Gladstein had inquired. It was good to know he was on my case. It invigorated me. If it hadn’t been Sunday I’d have gone directly to his store. I wanted to let him know Myra had slapped me.
    I went to the spigot at the rear of the house and saw my brother cutting through the yard. Lately he had developed a new way of walking, throwing back his shoulders and bouncing on his feet lightly, like a boxer. When you looked at him he jerked his eyes away, hard as ice.
    He came up to me. “You’ve been invited to a party. Next weekend. Pool party at Anya’s. They’re getting it filled this week. She told me to invite you.”
    â€œShe wants me to come?”
    â€œYou can bring a guest. But only one person. And don’t bring Dickie Pudding.”
    He strutted away, rolling his shoulders.
    I sat on the grass in a state of wonder. Anya had invited me? A girl who lived in a mansion?
    Myra, I thought. I can invite Myra.
    The next morning I was at Gladstein’s shop before it was open.
    His Continental pulled in at the top of the hill and coasted to his spot and parked. When he got out, the Yatzis dashed to where I was, yapping like sopranos.
    â€œWitcher!” He was happy to see me.
    â€œGo ahead and open up, I’ll come back later,” I told him.
    â€œNo, come in.”
    He unlocked the store. “I have to go to the safe,” he told me.
    He pushed open the door that led to the back room and closed it behind him. I heard slamming sounds and an occasional yap. Then he reappeared with a narrow wooden box clasped in front. He pulled out the display jewels and arranged them in the window, carefully examining each bauble before he placed it in position. He greeted the jewels by name. He asked them how they had slept. Air whistled through his florid nostrils whenever he breathed out.
    After he finished arranging the window he waddled to the stool behind the counter. Using a tiny key attached to a chain at his neck he leaned forward and unlocked several drawers just underneath. He pulled each drawer open and examined the accessories inside. Then he pushed them shut.
    â€œNow,” he said.
    He blinked. He didn’t seem to remember who I was.
    â€œIt’s me. Little Witcher.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œDon’t you remember Myra?”
    A dim torch seemed to light in his eyes. “The Joyner girl, yes. How is she?”
    â€œShe’s all right.”
    I had the feeling he still hadn’t come around completely. “You gave me a ring,” I reminded him, “you told me I should kiss her.”
    â€œYes.