ONE AFTERNOON IN OCTOBER, JEREMY KELLOGG CAME HOME WITH A RAILROAD SPIKE PROTRUDING FROM HIS HEAD.
He seemed otherwise the same, and nothing was bleeding, so his mother tried not to get alarmed. Perhaps it wasn’t really a railroad spike, but one of these softer, wooden things you heard about. No time to ponder; she had a home-visit client at four, Mr. Corby, who could be more than difficult and hated her to be late.
“I know it must hurt,” she said.
Jeremy looked up from his video game. “It’s okay.”
“Where did it come from?”
“I dunno.”
“Okay. Back at six. Love you.”
“Right.”
She knew it was better not to bother her husband about it till after he’d eaten his dinner. But she couldn’t help it. Over pork chops and apple sauce she said, “Jeremy, tell your father what happened today at school.”
“It didn’t happen at school, Mom.”
“Then where did it happen, may I ask?”
“I don’t know. It was just like this.”
“Like what?” his father demanded.
“Look, Phil. Look at his head, in the back. Didn’t you notice?”
And Jeremy seemed to wake up. He said, “I’ve got a railroad spike in my head.”
His mother said, “These things don’t just happen, honey.”
Full of disdain, Phil said, “Railroad spike? Aren’t those from like, the Civil War?”
“I think they still use ’em. We could Google it. Right Jeremy? We could Google it, right son?”
“What, like, railroad-spike-kid’s-head?”
“No, you know. Railroad-spike-contemporary-usage.”
“That would get you what you want,” Dad said with a snort.
The spike stood out of Jeremy’s scalp three inches, its heavy offset head battered by sledgehammers, the shaft maybe an inch square. If the whole thing was eight inches long – Mrs. Kellogg’s estimate – then five more were in Jeremy’s brain.
“I simply don’t see it, Jeanne,” Dad said.
“You can’t see it? On the back of his head, toward the right a little? Sticking up back there?”
“Not our boy.”
“Don’t fight you guys.”
“It’s sticking right out of his head, Phil. Jeremy, can you point to it so Mr. Unobservant can see?”
Jeremy pointed, even tapped his finger on it.
“Nope,” Dad said. “Still don’t see it. And let’s use some logic here: if he had a railroad spike in his head, wouldn’t he be dead?”
“I’m not dead,” Jeremy said.
“Case closed,” his father said.
Jeremy raised his hand as he’d done from childhood. “Can I please be excused?”
Mrs. Kellogg said, “You didn’t finish your macaroni, Jeremy. And that’s expensive cheese Mom is using there.”
“It’s hard to eat with you guys fighting.”
“We’re not fighting,” Jeanne said.
“He’d have a headache,” Mr. Kellogg said. “At the very least he’d have a headache.”
“I don’t have a headache,” Jeremy said. “I just want to be excused.”
“Phil, the spike’s right there for all the world to see.”
Phil sighed, long-suffering husband, said, “Can we drop this?”
“As if you guys care,” Jeremy said.
“We care,” Jeanne said.
Jeremy had a check-up anyway, so Mrs. Kellogg took the opportunity to ask about the spike.
“Perfectly natural at this age,” Dr. Smidge said. He put on examination gloves and wiggled the big piece of iron delicately, tapped it with a little hammer, peered closely at the scalp around it. “Jeremy, what are you? Fifteen, right?”
“Hn.”
“Well, let me ask you. Does the railroad spike bother you?”
“I don’t know. Not really.”
“You don’t know. Not really. Well, I’d say leave well enough alone.”
“But what about the idea of having it removed?” Jeanne said.
“Well, you could. Pop it out of there with a crowbar, wait for the hole to heal. But kids generally grow past these things on their own. I’ve seen it a million times, Mrs. Kellogg. You’d be surprised.”
And in fact, Jeanne did start to notice other kids with railroad spikes in their heads, also tent pegs, those old-fashioned steel ones. It wasn’t exactly reassuring to see, but it did make her feel less alone.
Phil still wouldn’t acknowledge that anything at all was different about Jeremy, even when the boy came home from Saturday League with an axe in his face, one of those huge medieval double-edged battle weapons. Long wooden handle practically touching the ground at Jeremy’s feet and making him shuffle, the blade cleaving his features from forehead to chin, not perfectly symmetrical, but close. As with the spike still in his head, no blood.
Phil had picked the kid up downtown.
“Okay, tell me you don’t see that,” Jeanne said.
“See what?” said her husband.
“You guys,” Jeremy said. “I hate it when you fight.”
“We’re not fighting,” Jeanne said. “We’re discussing.”
“I think we’ve got worse problems than spikes and battleaxes,” Phil said. “I just checked the mail. This report card, Jeremy. Four Ds? You used to be a good student. What on earth’s going on with you?”
“Nothing.”
Phil kept after him. “Nothing, huh? You’d better do better than that, young man.”
“Oh, Dad. Back off. School is just hard. And Mr. Woods has it in for me.”
Jeanne said, “He’s a good teacher, honey.”
“If he’s such a good teacher, then why do I get Fs on all his tests?”
“Watch the attitude,” Phil said.
“I’ve got lunch ready,” Jeanne said.
Jeremy poked a bite of macerated salad around the thick steel of the axe, poked it back with the handle of his fork to where he could swallow it. He wasn’t able to chew, had to accommodate the axe handle too, his head way back, his chair at an angle to the table.
“When will it all end?” Jeanne said.
Phil had picked the kid up downtown.
“Okay, tell me you don’t see that,” Jeanne said.
“See what?” said her husband.
“You guys,” Jeremy said. “I hate it when you fight.”
“We’re not fighting,” Jeanne said. “We’re discussing.”
“I think we’ve got worse problems than spikes and battleaxes,” Phil said. “I just checked the mail. This report card, Jeremy. Four Ds? You used to be a good student. What on earth’s going on with you?”
“Nothing.”
Phil kept after him. “Nothing, huh? You’d better do better than that, young man.”
“Oh, Dad. Back off. School is just hard. And Mr. Woods has it in for me.”
Jeanne said, “He’s a good teacher, honey.”
“If he’s such a good teacher, then why do I get Fs on all his tests?”
“Watch the attitude,” Phil said.
“I’ve got lunch ready,” Jeanne said.
Jeremy poked a bite of macerated salad around the thick steel of the axe, poked it back with the handle of his fork to where he could swallow it. He wasn’t able to chew, had to accommodate the axe handle too, his head way back, his chair at an angle to the table.
“When will it all end?” Jeanne said.
The next day he came home with an arrow through his chest, pretty fletching, at least, brightly colored plastic feathers out in front of his heart, the sharp point emerging from his back. This time there was a little blood. Jeanne went for the Neosporin cream, but he wouldn’t let her put it on him. No point in going to Dr. Smidge – he’d just say it was all perfectly normal.
At dinner, Phil was determined to improve the tone. He said, “Have you found a date for the Homecoming dance?”
“What do you think?” Jeremy said.
Jeanne regarded him. The axe in his face really played up how dark his eyes were, she thought. A good-looking boy. And the axe was rather handsome in its own way. She said, “That Missy Fairchild is awfully nice.”
Phil said, “Have you even asked anyone?”
“It’s like three weeks away. And anyhow, how’m I going to find a date with a railroad spike in my head, a huge battleaxe in my face, and an arrow sticking out of my chest?”
“Other kids do it,” Phil said. “I don’t see the problem, frankly. If I didn’t go to work every time I had an axe in the face or a knife in my eyeball, how do you think we’d eat?”
“Can I be excused?”
“You didn’t eat your hamburger, honey.”
“I’m not hungry, Mom. And anyway, it’s impossible to eat a sandwich with this axe in my face.”
“Other kids manage,” Phil said.
“Well,” said Jeanne.
“You’re excused,” Phil said.
Jeremy got up, the axe handle bumping the table.
“He looks miserable,” Jeanne said.
“Who isn’t miserable at that age,” Phil replied. “I was miserable at that age. I still am miserable.”
“Still,” Jean said ignoring him. “It doesn’t seem fair. And I don’t like how the axe is blocking his binocular vision. He can hardly catch a ball any more. And he can’t wear a hat or decent sweater, either.”
“Still going on and on about the railroad spike and the arrow, huh?”
“Yes, and still on the battleaxe too, Phil Kellogg, and I’ll stay on it!”
“Quit fighting,” Jeremy said from the computer station. “It makes me sick when you fight. I’m fine in here. I’m just fine.”
JEFFREY LEWIS
Jeffrey Lewis leads a double-life, as both a comic book artist and an indie-rock musician. Jeffrey has self-published ten issues of his comic book series Fuff, and Jeffrey’s writing, illustrations, comic books and music have been featured by The Guardian, The History Channel and The New York Times (among other places)
“I’ve drawn comic books my whole life, so it wouldn’t be out of my normal range of doing things to just illustrate a scene completely literally, trying to just depict the room and the people and the scenario as the story describes. I figured I’d try something different for these illustrations, something more similar to the illustrations I’d been doing for my Sonnet Youth project; both projects are NOT comic books, they are illustrated text, so the illustrations don’t need to tell the story, the text itself is already telling the story. I did these three the same way I’d been doing the Sonnet Youth illustrations, which is to pick some central, striking image at the core of each scene and then focus so closely on it, with such a narrow viewpoint and such weird cropping that the image becomes more of an icon, an abstracted design, a logo, a hieroglyph, rather than a stand-alone storytelling device. To avoid stealing the spotlight from the text I wanted something that would be hard to decipher without reading the text, at which point a reader might think “oh, NOW I see what it is that I’m looking at.” ”
BILL ROORBACH
Bill Roorbach’s newest novels are The Remedy for Love and the bestselling Life Among Giants, both from Algonquin Books. Life Among Giants is in development at HBO for a multi-year drama series. You can buy his book, The Remedy for Love HERE.
EDITORS’ NOTE: You will also be able to find “Just Fine” in Bill Roorbach’s forthcoming collection of short stories, The Girl of the Lake, to be published by Algonquin Fall, 2016. Highly recommended!
BOOK TOUR: You can meet Bill non-digitally here:
June 19-21, Nantucket Book Festival
“I was eating alone at a good Japanese restaurant here in Maine and at the next table was a family, just Mom, Dad, teenage boy. The boy looked incredibly miserable in the manner of certain teenage boys everywhere, but something more than that, real depression. And his dad said, Sit up, and Quit pushing your food around, and Eat your salad, don’t just stare at it. And the mom said, Are you okay? Clearly the kid wasn’t okay. And the dad said, He’s fine. And the mom said, What’s wrong? And the kid said, I’m fine. And really that’s all they said or talked about for the whole meal, in an endless cycle, until the mom said, Do you want to see someone? And the dad said, he’s fine. And the boy said, I’m fine. ”