Full Metal Jhacket Full Metal Jhacket Matthew Derby University of Michigan Press Ann Arbor Copyright © 2015 by Matthew Derby All rights reserved This book may not be reproduced, in whole or in part, including illustrations, in any form (beyond that copying permitted by Sections 107 and 108 of the U.S. Copyright Law and except by reviewers for the public press), without written permission from the publisher. Published in the United States of America by the University of Michigan Press Manufactured in the United States of America 2018 2017 2016 2015 4 3 2 1 DOI: http://dx.doi.org/10.3998/tfcp.13240730.0001.001 ISBN 978-0-472-03615-8 (paper : alk. paper) ISBN 978-0-472-12096-3 (e-book) For William Derby Contents Acknowledgments ix 1. January in December 1 2. Dokken 18 3. The Snipe 29 4. Full Metal Jhacket 46 5. The Past, Uncorrected 68 6. Thirty Years of Prosperity for Every Fifteen Years of 79 Hard Work 7. Yeti 93 8. How the Rebels Took Port Harcourt 102 9. Heightmap of Her Countenance 117 10. KraftMark 127 11. Walden Galleria Prayer 138 Books in the Series 145 Acknowledgments “January in December” originally appeared in ; “The Snipe” originally Guernica appeared as a JR Van Sant Chapbook Series selection; “Dokken” and “Heightmap of Her Countenance” originally appeared in ; “Full Metal Unstuck Jhacket” originally appeared in ; “The Past, Uncorrected” origi- The Collagist nally appeared in ; “Thirty Years of Prosperity for Every Fif- Caketrain Journal teen Years of Hard Work” originally appeared in ; “Yeti” The Columbia Journal originally appeared in Ben Marcus’s ; “How The Rebels Took Port Smallwork Harcourt” originally appeared in ; “KraftMark” originally The Columbia Journal appeared in anthology; and “Walden Galleria Prayer” The Apocalypse Reader originally appeared in anthology. The Book of Uncommon Prayer ix 1 January in December Church was bunk. Scarves were bunk. The cold was bunk. Robert Fancer’s grandfather, the man he was wheeling back from afternoon service in a crappy chair, was massively bunk. There wasn’t a word for the level of bunk Fancer’s grandfather was. Especially when the wheels of the chair were coated in brown gritty slush, like they were just then, on the way back from the church, and the grandfather was trying to tell him shortcuts that didn’t even exist anymore, places that had been bricked up years before or fenced in or protected by loud dogs, and his grandfather smelled and was losing his mind and he apologized even though he didn’t mean to apologize, even when he was trying to do the opposite of apologizing underneath the apology. “If you had turned down that alley, we’d be home by now,” he said, pound- ing his fists against his thighs. “That wasn’t an alley. That was a newsstand.” “I’m sorry about that, Robert. But if there was an alley there, and there should be, we would be home.” Before, Fancer’s mother had taken care of everything—the catheter, the vinyl sheets, the runny bowels—all of the horrible things that happened to Fancer’s grandfather in the course of a day. She executed these tasks with such precision that they attained a transparency. It was only through the yellowed lens of her death that Fancer saw how profound her influence was over the apartment, how much discord had been held back by her fierce, silent vig- ilance. She was dead and he could no longer pay for the Pakistani nurse to come, the one with the fantasy name he couldn’t even pronounce whose voice was thin and sweet, always on the verge of song. She would come once in the morning and again in the afternoon and when she came the second time her voice was always lower, as if weighted down. Fancer missed the nurse. He felt a pitted longing for the wind she carried through the house, the brief flurry that stirred the still, dim rooms, sheets snapping and halving under the direc- tion of her sure hands as she stood next to his grandfather’s bed. Fancer wanted to ask her where she had learned to do these things with such dispassion, under 1 MATTHEW DERBY what circumstances she had happened into this part of the world tending to the small brown apartment he shared with his grandfather, which seemed a profound disgrace. He wanted most of all to hear the voice, to drape it over himself like a shawl, but he could barely muster speech in the presence of the nurse, and so he never asked, just left the money in an envelope on the small table by the front door and waited for her to leave. Then he got fired from the supermarket for crashing a delivery truck packed with snack cakes and his grandfather’s pension was barely enough for them to keep hold of the apart- ment. He called the agency that sent the nurse, asking for a temporary exten- sion of credit, but they did not do credit, they were a cash-only establishment. Fancer and his grandfather made it back to the apartment building. Fancer bent down and hefted the old man, who weighed less than a stick, onto his back. This was the only way they could get up the stairs because the chair would wobble when he tried to lug it up backwards and Fancer worried some- thing would break or that he’d lose his grip on the rubber handles and his grandfather would tumble down the long narrow flight, his bones snapping like kindling. “You’re good for doing this, for making sure I get to mass,” Fancer’s grand- father said, clinging to him with feathery arms. “I’m very thankful. Do I seem thankful to you?” “Yes.” “I want to make sure you know I am thankful. I was never thankful, not to your mother or to your grandmother before her. They both died resenting me. I know it.” “They did not. It’s fine.” “That’s nice of you, Robert. But I can tell. I can feel it. I can feel them look- ing down from heaven. I can feel the pressure of their eyes above me, bearing down.” Fancer carried his grandfather into the apartment, laid him out on the special bed, covered him in a crocheted afghan, and turned on the news. The first story involved a group of nuns who had been raped and murdered by soldiers in El Salvador. Father Gregory had mentioned the women in his homily. He told the congregation to turn their anger into prayer because the sentiment would multiply like the loaves and fishes and spread out into the world inthe form of peace. After the story about the nuns the news anchors talked about the hostages in Iran, a warehouse full of abused cats that had been discovered in White Plains, a new advance in heart medicine, and the Dallas Cowboys. The male anchor made a joke about the Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders at the expense 2 Full Metal Jhacket of the female anchor. The female anchor laughed, concealing a grimace, and the news ended. “Why didn’t they mention the election? When does the election happen?” Fancer’s grandfather asked, clicking laboriously through the channels, which were mostly jagged bands of static. The wand worked only intermittently and only when you rolled the batteries back and forth while clicking. Mostly they kept it on the same station and hoped. “Grand-dad, come on. Already happened.” The grandfather stopped clicking. “You’re serious.” “Yes. You saw it.” “Who won?” “Come on, Grand-dad. Reagan won. You know this.” “Oh, god. I hate this head. It won’t work.” The grandfather blinked and scrubbed a veinous hand over his scalp, smacking with his elbow a Tupperware bowl full of unpopped and half-popped corn kernels left over from the day before. Fancer knelt on the floor and began picking the oily kernels out of thecarpet pile. “I’m sorry, Robert. About the mess I’ve made. Not just there, the mess on the floor. I mean the mess inside me. I hate when that happens, when Iforget.” “It’s fine.” “But I really am sorry. You can’t understand what it’s like. I have these huge holes in my head where all of the memory goes. Like down a drain. Do you understand?” Fancer paused, crouched on his elbows and knees. “Stop apologizing, please.” “But I want you to know. My life is going away, slowly, down these holes.” “Please stop. That’s what happens. There’s nothing to apologize for.” “Don’t let your life fall away from you like this. It’s pathetic.” “Stop it.” “When you’re done with that, could you bend the TV over this way more? That yellow spot—the reflection from the hall light—is making it hard to see.” Fancer moved the television for his grandfather. On the program there was a detective investigating an assassination. He wore a thick moustache and rubbed his chin vigorously, pointing with his free hand at a crumbling apart- ment building across the street. It looked like Fancer’s neighborhood, but no building he recognized specifically. “How much longer do I have to stay awake today?” 3 MATTHEW DERBY “You don’t have to stay awake.” “Be good and bring me some of the drink.” “When it gets to commercials,” Fancer said, but he went to the kitchen any- way because he knew he wouldn’t be able to bear sitting through the detec- tive program while his grandfather stewed in the special bed.