Playing Jacks

iii. Life is Like a Box of Chocolates

“Jacks!” Cheryl calls, excited.

Silence.  Everyone looks to everyone else.  Tension is thick and Sophie wonders if she should just discretely bow out of the dinner. 

Then he walks in.  Just as before, the clothes are simple and entirely irrelevant.   They only showcase the man himself: the white t-shirt straining over his developed chest and thick arms. Raking his long bangs away from his pale eyes, he rubs the back of his neck and cautiously takes in the presence of everyone in the room.

“Well, come on, come on!” Cheryl goads, shooing her overly large son into the kitchen.  “Don’t linger in doorways!  My goodness, didn’t you mother teach you any manners?”

Jacks looks down at his petite mother without a trace of humor.

No one else dares speak.  They only move once Jacks has ambled through the kitchen, his boots loud on the kitchen tiles.  With nervous, sideways glances, everyone settles into their places around the dining room table- the usually animated performance stunted.  The delicious dinner turns into something more like sand with every line of conversation.

 “So, JJ, how are things going?” Cheryl asks politely while passing a dish around the table.

“Fine.  Fine.  Got a new client . . .”

“It’s always fine with JJ, Mom.  You know that,” Jacks bites sharply, ending the conversation.

Silence.  It’s awkward and uncomfortable.

“Jeremy, did swim practice go alright?” Cheryl chirps, the cheer beginning to sound strained.

“Yeah.”

Nothing.

“You’re father’s running for Congress, Jacks,” Cheryl offers into the silence.

Jacks’ body hardens.  His eyes lift from his plate- stony and unimpressed- to meet his father’s. “Is that so?”

“What about you, Jacks?” James suddenly demands, sounding irritable. “Where have you lit this time?  Are you working?”

Jacks shrugs. “I work when I want.”  He frowns, taking in his audience. “I’m not coming home, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“No one’s worried about that,” Cheryl reassures, reaching to touch her son.

He pulls his hand away gruffly, hiding it in his lap.

Silence.

Suddenly Jacks stands up, “This was a mistake.  I’m sorry to ruin your dinner.” And he turns to leave.

Sophie stares after him, mouth open.

“Yeah, that was our personal tornado in the flesh,” Jeremy grouses. “My brother.”

Sophie presses her lips together and searches for something to say.  She has nothing. Keeping her eyes on the ground, she gathers her dishes and avoids everyone’s hurt expressions as she makes her escape; but just on the other side of the double French doors, she runs into Jacks’ stiff body.

“Excuse me,” she mutters as she tries to slide by his broad shoulders.  Jiminy Christmas, the man could be made of stone.  Tense muscles make for unyielding rock and the rude cretin doesn’t move.

“Yeah, whatever,” he huffs, starting to walk away.  He only makes it as far as the doorway. 

Glancing behind her, Sophie makes sure that the door is closed, then wandering to the sink she deposits the dishes and issues the challenge.  “You know you were being an ass.”