Jawbreakers

The old man loved to tell stories, and he told the same ones over and over, as if to impress them upon his grandson Pate forever. Pate never forgot the old man’s stories—how could he? One of Pate’s favorites concerned a farmer named Brown. It always came up around bedtime, following Pate’s orange, which had to be peeled, sectioned, and sugared before he would eat it. Then Pop would sit on the bedside and in a tender, soothing voice tell a story about Farmer Brown and his chickens. Until before long, thumb anchored securely in his mouth, his favorite linty blanket firmly clutched, Pate would drift off for a romp with the good horticulturalist, who incidentally looked a lot like Pop.

In his fifties, Pop stood five foot nine and weighed a hundred and sixty pounds “soaking wet.” He had silvery gray hair and wore glasses at all times, even in his sleep. They grew right out of his face and always looked slightly blurry, like shimmering water. Beginning at fourteen in the cotton mill, Pop had worked hard all his life to help support his family. Nevertheless, he graduated from the College of Pharmacy with the class of 1920.

“The others had the book learning,” he’d say to Pate. “I just knew how to fill the prescriptions faster.”

Old Mr. Million had taught him how. Pop did just about everything from opening the pharmacy at six in the morning to closing it up around ten o’clock at night. 

“When the last customer from the Bijou Theatre had passed by our window, then I could finally go home. Mr. Million hated to miss a customer, any customer.”

Once, to make a delivery, Pop had ridden his bicycle all the way to Shelbyville—some thirty miles. “Then I mailed myself a postcard to prove I’d been there.”

Pop said he met Red, so named for her long auburn hair, at the drug store, where she worked behind the counter. One day, Red was making a milk shake—the old fashioned way, shaking it by hand. 

“When I saw her doing that, I said ‘that’s the girl for me.’”

Three or four times a year, they took a trip upriver in Uncle Frank’s old black Buick.  Pate was still a baby at the time of the divorce and had lived with his father’s parents ever since then. On the way, Red sat in the back working her crossword puzzle. Uncle Frank drove, and Pop, between scorching sips of coffee from the old scotch-plaid thermos, told his stories. Pate listened.

There was a dam about halfway to Dad’s where they always stopped for lunch. While Red spread her checkered tablecloth over the wood picnic table, the men climbed the gray observation tower. At the very top, they came to the closed trapdoor and could go no further.  Only then, knees knocking, was Pate brave enough to look down.

*

Dad answered the door with his great muscles bulging from the T-shirt like cannonballs.

“Hello, son,” he grinned while hoisting Pate up to the ceiling. “How are you doing? How’s my boy?”

“Fine, Dad,” Pate said. 

He didn’t, though. He felt shaky. Dad didn’t seem to notice. He hugged Pate so hard it squeezed the breath right out of him.

“Where’s Red and Pop and Uncle Frank?”

“They’re coming. I got to go to the bathroom, Dad.”

“Sure, son. You know the way.”

For once, Pate did. Dad moved around a lot. But the neighborhoods all looked the same—old, rundown, and dangerous. Dad’s apartments all looked alike. He’d had this one for over a year now. The living room was long and narrow. Dim light seeped from a cracked ceiling fixture. A silvery floor heater stood in one corner. Pate recognized Red’s old blue couch with the stuffing now coming out of one arm.

The living room led to a red metal kitchen table and old-time sink, filled with dishes needing washing. Dad would put the canned goods they had brought on the table. Pate hurried past the old refrigerator on his way to the bathroom. The apartment’s musty, decayed smell followed him. He had seen roaches in the bathtub before, but none were in sight now. The sink looked cleaner than usual. 

Pate began to wonder about the kids. Where were they?

When he came back out, Pop and Red were sitting on the couch facing Uncle Frank and Dad in broken-down armchairs.

Pointing at Dad’s moustache, Red said, “When are you going to shave that thing off, Joe?”

“Aw Mom, don’t you think it makes me look distinguished?”

“No, I do not.”

Dad’s laughter filled the room.

From the doorway, Pate was looking at Dad’s blind eye. He knew how that had happened, knew that story by heart. When Dad was fourteen, he’d hit a sandy patch on the street and lost control of his bicycle. The bus driver couldn’t stop in time. Everyone thought Dad would die, but he didn’t, though afterward, everyone said he was never the same.

Half-blind and disappointed in life, Dad took up drinking, gambling, and generally being wild. He would come in late at night and raid the refrigerator, eating anything including cold pork and beans, he was so hungry, Red said. When Dad met Mom, he was life guarding, which made sense because he was always a great swimmer.  Pop showed Pate an old yellow newspaper clipping with a photo of Dad in a boat on the river, training a woman described as an Olympic swimming hopeful. But that hadn’t worked out. 

Nothing worked out for Dad.

After Mom divorced him, Dad moved to Cincinnati where there were plenty of skyscrapers with windows to wash. That’s what he did, working on a narrow scaffolding with a squeegee way up high. Pate wondered if Dad did that to prove something to himself. Pate couldn’t think of any other reason to climb up there.

Today, Dad still looked handsome, stood over six feet tall, with curly black hair and impressive muscles. And Pate didn’t care what Red said—Dad’s moustache did too look distinguished. 

“You’re looking well, Joe,” Uncle Frank said.

“So are you, big brother.” Dad and Uncle Frank grinned. They looked a lot alike, except for Dad’s bad eye.

“He could stand to put on a little weight, though,” Red chimed in.

“Christ, Mom. You wouldn’t be happy if I weighed four hundred pounds, would you?”

“Now, Joe, don’t take the Lord’s name in vain.”

“Okay, Mom, okay.”

“You’ll be glad to have a little extra padding this winter,” Pop told him. “I remember the time I was in France during the war—”

“Where is Leona?” Red said. She had heard that one before. “Where are the children?”

“She’s gone out to the store. She’ll be right back. Kids are all out playing.”

“Dottie too?”

Dad nodded. “Yeah, her, too. Her arm’s all right. They’re going to take off the cast next week, Doc says.” 

Noticing Pate standing in the doorway, Dad said, “Hey, Sport. C’mon over here. Look at the size of my boy. Here, make a muscle. Good.” 

When Dad pinched Pate’s arm, it hurt but Pate didn’t show it. He wanted to be tough like Dad. 

“Not bad, son. Regular chip off the old block, eh Pop?” Dad laughed.

“Joe, how is Lanny getting along?” Red asked.

“Good as new, Mom. Dentist capped his tooth so you can’t tell anything was wrong with it. I’d still like to catch the little bastard that hit him, though.”

“How about the rest of the children?” 

“They’re all right. They’re fine. What gives with you, Mom? You’re sure full of questions today for some reason.”

Red folded her hands in her lap. 

She looked nice in her new pink dress and matching shoes. With her hair bobbed short, Red seemed younger, full of pep. When Pate was just a little kid, Red had cut off her long braids. He begged her to put them back on, but she just laughed and hugged him.

“Well,” Red said, “if you would write us more often, just a line every now and then, it would help.”

“Ah.” Dad waved his hand in disgust. “You know I hate letter writing.”

“It wouldn’t hurt you to do it anyway. If you knew how much I worry sometimes—”

“Pop,” Dad interrupted her. “Will you tell Mom not to worry? Geez, we’re okay.”

“You ought to do as your mother asks,” Pop said.

Groaning dramatically, Dad reached for Pate’s shoulder and squeezed it, kneading it like dough. It hurt, but Pate hid the pain.

“I keep in touch. Don’t I call if I need something? Huh?”

“Yes, but long-distance telephone calls are expensive,” Red said, “and—”

“Okay, so I won’t call collect.”

“Joseph,” Red said, looking hurt. “You know that’s not what I mean. I want you to call us whenever you need to. You know that.”

“Yeah, I know.” 

Dad gripped Pate’s arms. “Hey, Sport, what say me and you and Uncle Frank go haul up the rest of those canned goods?”

“Sure, Dad.”

“Let’s go.”

“Joe—”

“Save it, Mom. Me and my boy are coming right back.”

The apartment was on the third floor. Pate raced Dad downstairs and won. Dad’s hug nearly squished him. Usually Pate raced his uncle, but not when Dad was around. They waited on the sidewalk for Uncle Frank. The old Buick was parked half a block away. As they walked down the sloping street, Pate noticed a beat-up old wreck with a round hole in the windshield. 

“What’s that?” he asked.

“Bullet hole. This is a hell of a neighborhood, son. A bad one.”

Pate saw that Dad was right. Bad words were written on the walls and the sidewalk. Dad and Uncle Frank ignored them. There was a school yard across the street surrounded by a chain link fence. The bottom was all busted out. They had a ball diamond, but no grass grew on the field.

“Is that where Mickey got hurt?” Uncle Frank asked.

Mickey was Leona’s son by her first marriage, which made him Pate’s slightly older half-brother, sort of.  Pate liked Mickey. Leonna’s daughter Sheila was cute and a little older than Mickey. Dad and Leonna had seven kids altogether, not counting Pate.

“Yeah, fourteen stitches worth.”

“How’d that happen?” Uncle Frank said.

Dad shrugged. “You know how kids are.”

Uncle Frank unlocked the trunk. He loved that Buick and took them all for rides. They lived down in the west end. Uncle Frank drove all the way out to Eastern Parkway and Bardstown Road. He’d stop at Cream Top for chocolate milk malts. On the way home, Pop would tell Pate stories until he fell asleep.

Grabbing the biggest, heaviest box of canned goods he could find, Pate lugged it up the hill, trying to beat the other men. By the time they caught up, he was leaning against the front door, blowing on his fingernails and buffing them on his shirt, the way he’d seen someone do in the movies.

Inside, Pate flopped on the couch and Red asked more questions.

“How’s little Phil? Last time we were here, the poor child was covered with bruises.”

“Don’t worry, Mom. I took care of the punk that did it to him. He won’t bruise anybody for a good long while.”

Red gasped. “Joseph, sometimes you don’t know your own strength.”

“Oh, but I do,” Dad laughed. 

Pate was getting hungry. He hoped Leona would bring home some barbeque again, like last time. The men could have a few beers, then—

“Look, Mom, I just gave the punk a taste of his own medicine. I don’t like my kids getting beat up, you know. The guy’s twenty years old, for chrissake.”

“Why don’t you call the law then?”

Dad made a fist. “In this neighborhood, this is the law, Mom.”

“If you’re not careful, you’re going to really hurt someone one,” Red said.

Dad grinned and shook his head. “Say, Pate, do you like the way we got the place fixed up?”

“Uh-huh.” Pate didn’t really mean it, and he knew Dad could tell.

“Like I always say, Sport. A man’s dump is his castle.”

Pate stared down at his shoes.

“How was the drive up, Pop?” Dad said.

“Same bunch of damn yokels were out as last time. This one bird must have thought he was driving up a creek bottom or something. Damn yaps have no consideration for the other guy at all. They don’t even know what consideration means.”

“Pop!”

“It’s the G.D. truth, Mom, and you know it,” Pop said.

Pate knew what G.D. meant. You weren’t supposed to say it, but sometimes Pop did.

“Not a one of them birds has got the sense to pour pee out of a boot. Why, I remember the time—”

“Are you sure Leona and the children know we were coming?” Red asked.

“Mom, like I told you—”

“Tell the truth, Joe,” Red snapped.

Dad shut up but stared at Red like he wanted to sock her. Pate found he couldn’t breathe. 

“Let the boy talk, will you?” Pop said.

“I need to know what’s going on here,” Red insisted.

Dad stared at the ceiling. At the floor. Back at the ceiling. He cleared his throat. “We’ve had a little trouble, Mom.”

“Trouble? What kind?”

“Mom—”

“You hush, Pop. Well?”

Dad couldn’t look Red in the eye. “The other day I get this summons. So, I go down to the courthouse and this smart-ass judge says, ‘Your kids miss a lot of school, don’t they?’ And I say, ‘They’re sick a lot.’ And he says, ‘Why is that?’ And I say, ‘How should I know?’ He says, ‘I understand they get hurt a lot too.’ ‘Can I help it if they fall down a lot?’ I say. That shut him up.”

“Oh God,” Red said.

“What happened?” Pop asked.

“They took them away, Pop. Took my kids away from me and put them in some Catholic Orphans Home.”

Dad tried to do some more fast explaining, but Red just wanted to know how to get there. Everyone stood up.

Dad turned to Pate. “You understand how it is, don’t you son?”

Pate nodded. Dad hugged him and walked them all out to the car. Red sat up front with Uncle Frank, Pate and Pop sat in back. Dad was waving to them as Uncle Frank drove off. Pate waved back.

Pop lit up a Camel and cracked a window to let the smoke blow away. Pate asked what was going to happen now.

“I don’t know, Pate. We’ll see,” Pop said.

Red dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief. Uncle Frank talked so quietly to her as he drove that Pate couldn’t make out what was being said.

“Tell me a story, Pop.”

Pop blew out some smoke.  “About the old rag man?”

Pate nodded.

“That bird would come down Goss Avenue singing, ‘Goddam rags. Goddam rags.’”

“Pop,” Red scolded, looking over shoulder.

“Well, that’s what it sounded like, Mom. But what he was really saying was ‘Got THEM rags.’ He’d be buying rags and stuff, see.”

“Any old junk you had?” Pate said. 

“That’s right, Pate boy,” Pop nodded. “Even if it was only a penny’s worth. We’d yell at him, ‘Hey, Swattiemacher!’”

“Fat head,” Pate said.

“Yep, in Dutch. The rag man would get so mad, he’d start throwing bolts and scraps of iron at us. Then the next time he’d make his rounds, he’d have forgotten all about us and we’d sell them back to him.”

Pate didn’t believe the rag man forgot.

Pop stubbed out his cigarette on the bottom of his shoe.

“We’d take the pennies he’d give us down to Million’s Pharmacy and buy us some jawbreakers. You put one in your mouth and the rest in your pocket, see. Three of ’em would last practically all day. You couldn’t bite into them. They were too hard. You had to have a hammer to break ’em up. You’d walk around all day with your jaw looking swollen.”

© 2025 Rick Neumayer

“Jawbreakers” was first published in Fall 1976 in The Louisville Review #1 and will appear in the forthcoming THREE FOGGY MORNINGS: Stories by Rick Neumayer. If you like this one, I’d love to hear from you.