[Jo-Bird] 1024.
Heaven starts like this.
Light rain, the kind that damps all the grass down but keeps the energy in the air. Sun's still out; maybe rainbows if you're standing in the right place. Sky is blue blue blue as her daddy's eyes when he pulls the covers back from her face and manhandles her down to the kitchen--he's got her in a fireman's lift and she screeches and giggles and it's going to be a good day.
Daddy serves her eggs sunny-side up, the way Mom never does, and Mom's leaned up against the counter in her bathrobe, drinking coffee. You spill yolk on that blouse, Joanna Beth, and I'm sending you out back with a washboard, says Mom, and she's not kidding, but it won't be bad. Any case, Jo's careful. Has to be--might be the difference between life or death, Daddy tells her. And he is kidding, because nothing's going to happen to anybody.
"'S things like that make you 'Mom' and me 'Daddy,' babe." Punctuates this with a kiss. Other kids in school think kissing's gross; especially parent kisses, but Jo knows better. Nothing wrong with a kiss--just something that happens. Means love.
Mom makes like she's gonna kiss him back, then downs the last of her coffee instead. That means love, too.
"Got a call from John," says Daddy, and Mom gives him a look like, You know how many Johns there are in the damn country? and Dad amends, "Winchester. Got a two-man job lined up. Lookin' for takers."
"Two men, huh? What is it? Ghost of Marilyn Monroe?"
Daddy steals Mom's mug and starts rinsing. Mom makes like she can wash her own mug, thanks but Daddy stops her with a handful of wet and soap, tucks her hair behind her ear. Flicks some wet at Jo and she screams with delight and Mom's hollering at Daddy for the dishsoap in her ear and everyone's happy happy happy.
"Be like a camping trip. Back on Tuesday. You be a good girl--Jo-bird, you keep her in line, you hear?"
And Jo nods with some enthusiasm, even though she realized that with the screaming and the dodging she's got egg yolk down the front of her blouse and sticking in her unkempt hair, because she likes it when Daddy says things backwards like that.
"Be home in no time."
--
It's five days before they hear from John Winchester. He doesn't come in person. Phone call on the answering machine gives them the name of a hospital, and Mom makes a noise Jo's never heard a person make before, and she's talking at the cassette, hospital, what the hell are you on about, hospital. John Winchester says he's sorry, but that's it. He never comes back.
Daddy doesn't either. They show up at Greenfield General all right, and Jo misses school and Mom closes the Roadhouse, and so Jo knows it's big even before Mom stops her at the downstairs door of the hospital, doesn't let her see.
Door says Morgue.
Mom's saying, 'Goddamn it, Bill. God damn it,' over and over, like she's the cassette in their answering machine and the reel's all stuck. From the doorway, Jo sees her Mom cry and it's like tape coming up out of the cassette, unnatural.
"Mom?"
Goddamn it goddamn it goddamn it, Mom's litany goes, like it's harmless like rain, 'cept Jo knows it's not. 'You stay right there, Joanna Beth. Just--just stay right there--'
"Mommy?"
Mom looks up at her and her eyes are still whispering goddamn it goddamn it goddamn it but her mouth says, "Sometimes bad things happen, baby."
And they do. Means just that.
Doesn't mean it don't hurt. Doesn't mean they're not the worst goddamn thing in the world.
Means bad things happen, and they're gonna keep on happening, and you? Ten-year old you, in your lopsided pigtails and your corduroy jumper and the sandals that don't fit but Daddy bought you anyway 'cause you liked them so much? You have to keep on going, too.
It's a couple months out, but still fresh in Jo's mind, when she's sitting in the schoolyard with some of the other kids. Some boys, some girls; at that age, in that place, it doesn't really matter. All doing the same things and playing the same games. Girls got BB guns, sometimes the boys play tea; but everyone's seen Silverado, so mostly they just like mixing it all together. Skip the kissing parts, because they're not important.
Jo doesn't quite know why, but she objects. "Nothing's wrong with kissing."
Annie Harris makes a face like a gremlin. "You even seen your Mam and Pap do it?"
And it's like things are ripping apart. Or maybe falling into place. Too early to tell, but whatever the fallout--Jo's not that sunny-side up little girl anymore. She's ten years old and she's a woman, like her Mom. She's a fighter. She's a Keep Going-er. She's just got to say one last thing.
"My daddy, he--"
And instantly, her friends are sorry.
"--after he. My mom, when we were downstairs at the hospital, she kissed him. One last time, she kissed him." Her friends cringe. Jo's not sorry at all.
Had to wear masks, the stench was so fresh and the body was so old, time they saw him. But Mom had kissed him anyway, on his white grey red lips. 'I say kick it in the ass, you kick it in the ass. Goddamnit, Bill.'
It wasn't gross.
Meant love.
That day, Heaven goes out a little. But the hurt means love--at least a little. Means I miss you and in Mom's case, it means goddamn you.
Jo tries not to mind its company while it's around putting itself on everybody like it's family, because one day it's going to go.
It'll get gone, and time comes? It'll mean I found you.
tbc.
Light rain, the kind that damps all the grass down but keeps the energy in the air. Sun's still out; maybe rainbows if you're standing in the right place. Sky is blue blue blue as her daddy's eyes when he pulls the covers back from her face and manhandles her down to the kitchen--he's got her in a fireman's lift and she screeches and giggles and it's going to be a good day.
Daddy serves her eggs sunny-side up, the way Mom never does, and Mom's leaned up against the counter in her bathrobe, drinking coffee. You spill yolk on that blouse, Joanna Beth, and I'm sending you out back with a washboard, says Mom, and she's not kidding, but it won't be bad. Any case, Jo's careful. Has to be--might be the difference between life or death, Daddy tells her. And he is kidding, because nothing's going to happen to anybody.
"'S things like that make you 'Mom' and me 'Daddy,' babe." Punctuates this with a kiss. Other kids in school think kissing's gross; especially parent kisses, but Jo knows better. Nothing wrong with a kiss--just something that happens. Means love.
Mom makes like she's gonna kiss him back, then downs the last of her coffee instead. That means love, too.
"Got a call from John," says Daddy, and Mom gives him a look like, You know how many Johns there are in the damn country? and Dad amends, "Winchester. Got a two-man job lined up. Lookin' for takers."
"Two men, huh? What is it? Ghost of Marilyn Monroe?"
Daddy steals Mom's mug and starts rinsing. Mom makes like she can wash her own mug, thanks but Daddy stops her with a handful of wet and soap, tucks her hair behind her ear. Flicks some wet at Jo and she screams with delight and Mom's hollering at Daddy for the dishsoap in her ear and everyone's happy happy happy.
"Be like a camping trip. Back on Tuesday. You be a good girl--Jo-bird, you keep her in line, you hear?"
And Jo nods with some enthusiasm, even though she realized that with the screaming and the dodging she's got egg yolk down the front of her blouse and sticking in her unkempt hair, because she likes it when Daddy says things backwards like that.
"Be home in no time."
--
It's five days before they hear from John Winchester. He doesn't come in person. Phone call on the answering machine gives them the name of a hospital, and Mom makes a noise Jo's never heard a person make before, and she's talking at the cassette, hospital, what the hell are you on about, hospital. John Winchester says he's sorry, but that's it. He never comes back.
Daddy doesn't either. They show up at Greenfield General all right, and Jo misses school and Mom closes the Roadhouse, and so Jo knows it's big even before Mom stops her at the downstairs door of the hospital, doesn't let her see.
Door says Morgue.
Mom's saying, 'Goddamn it, Bill. God damn it,' over and over, like she's the cassette in their answering machine and the reel's all stuck. From the doorway, Jo sees her Mom cry and it's like tape coming up out of the cassette, unnatural.
"Mom?"
Goddamn it goddamn it goddamn it, Mom's litany goes, like it's harmless like rain, 'cept Jo knows it's not. 'You stay right there, Joanna Beth. Just--just stay right there--'
"Mommy?"
Mom looks up at her and her eyes are still whispering goddamn it goddamn it goddamn it but her mouth says, "Sometimes bad things happen, baby."
And they do. Means just that.
Doesn't mean it don't hurt. Doesn't mean they're not the worst goddamn thing in the world.
Means bad things happen, and they're gonna keep on happening, and you? Ten-year old you, in your lopsided pigtails and your corduroy jumper and the sandals that don't fit but Daddy bought you anyway 'cause you liked them so much? You have to keep on going, too.
It's a couple months out, but still fresh in Jo's mind, when she's sitting in the schoolyard with some of the other kids. Some boys, some girls; at that age, in that place, it doesn't really matter. All doing the same things and playing the same games. Girls got BB guns, sometimes the boys play tea; but everyone's seen Silverado, so mostly they just like mixing it all together. Skip the kissing parts, because they're not important.
Jo doesn't quite know why, but she objects. "Nothing's wrong with kissing."
Annie Harris makes a face like a gremlin. "You even seen your Mam and Pap do it?"
And it's like things are ripping apart. Or maybe falling into place. Too early to tell, but whatever the fallout--Jo's not that sunny-side up little girl anymore. She's ten years old and she's a woman, like her Mom. She's a fighter. She's a Keep Going-er. She's just got to say one last thing.
"My daddy, he--"
And instantly, her friends are sorry.
"--after he. My mom, when we were downstairs at the hospital, she kissed him. One last time, she kissed him." Her friends cringe. Jo's not sorry at all.
Had to wear masks, the stench was so fresh and the body was so old, time they saw him. But Mom had kissed him anyway, on his white grey red lips. 'I say kick it in the ass, you kick it in the ass. Goddamnit, Bill.'
It wasn't gross.
Meant love.
That day, Heaven goes out a little. But the hurt means love--at least a little. Means I miss you and in Mom's case, it means goddamn you.
Jo tries not to mind its company while it's around putting itself on everybody like it's family, because one day it's going to go.
It'll get gone, and time comes? It'll mean I found you.
tbc.