Daddy had a belt in the closet – alligator skin. Daddy killed that gator well before I was born, and what happened to the rest of him, well, I don’t know, but about 40 inches of his tail found themselves hanging in that closet, no less cold and scaly than the day he died.

Daddy loved that belt. Coming to think on it now, it’s odd that he loved it so, considering as I don’t think I ever saw him wear it. He did love it though. I remember, as a child, anytime someone new came to the house, he told that story, that story about shooting that gator straight between the eyes, POP. Boy, how we used to jump. We used to jump every time.

A lot of people don’t understand when I say that the beltings were bad, but not so bad as the getting of the belt. Getting it was half the punishment. The shame of it. The anticipation, like Christ carrying the cross, that’s how it felt. Oh yes, Daddy had a belt in that closet – alligator skin – and every time he needed it, we’d have to go get it. “You know,” he’d say, walking in on us boys, staring at whatever domestic destruction we’d wrought this time.  

I was about six or seven the first time I saw the belt. Jackson must’ve been nine, and Kellen about fourteen. We lived in a small two-story house with a basement. We all slept in the same room across the hall from the master bed, which slept my parents, Bobby and Jean. I don’t remember hearing the vase hit the floor, but I sure as hell remember the footsteps. 

When you walked in the door to my parent’s bedroom, the first thing you noticed was that it was too big for the house. There was a ten-foot corridor where Mama’s closet was. Mama’s closet was strictly forbidden. In the front of the bedroom was a great big bookcase where Daddy kept all his old treasures- shell casings from hunting trips, worn down hammers from the workshop, old confederate regalia from the handful of times he’d left Northern Florida. And there, just beyond the bookcase, was the closet.

I suppose you could say that this closet door was unassuming, soft brown Pine with a little brass knob on the left. But that door knew things, horrible things. The door knew me, and it knew why I was coming. Some sons go to their father’s closet to borrow ties — not us. Daddy didn’t own any ties. 

The day we broke the vase, we really didn’t mean to. We’d just been playing a game in the basement we called “Skip Ball”. Jackson and I had invented it ourselves. Kellen heard us playing and came down. He came down the stairs mid-volley and nearly got smashed in the face. 

“What the hell is going on?”

“We’re playing a new game!” I yelled, with a youthful exuberance despised by all who had gone through puberty. Kellen was older now; he didn’t like playing games anymore. 

“Oh ya? What y’all call this one? Something stupid like ‘Flooky ball’ again?” Kellen always liked teasing us while we played. He seemed to prefer that to having fun. 

“No, Kellen,” Jackson emphasized, “The name of the game is ‘skip ball,’ and we’re having a great time without you, so why don’t you just mind your own damn business.” Jackson always looked a little uneasy when he tried using curse words. He started experimenting with “crap” when he was nine. That got him the belt real quick. He eased his way into “damn” and “hell” after his tenth birthday – so far Daddy hasn’t said anything – but I get the feeling he might try out “shit” soon. I worry.

“Oh ya? And what are the rules for this one?” Kellen always raised his eyebrows when he asked us about the rules. He always knew we wouldn’t be able to explain them right. Then, he’d cross-examine us about them, and we’d stand there like chumps, baffled by the rules of our own creation. 

“You know what, Kellen?” Jackson pursed his lips. “If you think you’re so smart, why don’t you just watch, and see if you can figure it out for yourself.” 

Kellen, having his intelligence challenged, could not say no, so Jackson grabbed the ball, and we took our positions. Jackson served it with a clean bounce on the floor that ran up the left wall, careened off the ceiling and missed the goal by two feet. I abandoned my goal and sped after the ball, as did Jackson, and I got it just a moment before him. Before he could get back in goal, I sent a shot off the left wall with a perfect bounce between the tape. Whenever I scored, I did a little hip shimmy and box step. Jackson gathered up the ball, and we got ready to play again.

“Well, wait a minute, I want to play,” Kellen hollered as he skipped down the rest of the steps. Jackson and I looked at each other, surprised, but agreed and scratched our heads, trying to figure out how to set it up for three people.

We made a goal for Kellen on the wall opposite the staircase and moved our own goals slightly further away from his, to make a little more space. The rules of the game were the same, but the gameplay was different, faster, more violent. The ball would sing and crash, whipping around the basement. Sweat dripped as we ran and slid and dove after it. 

One of Kellen’s shots sent the ball up the staircase, and the three of us flew up after it. We ran up those steps, trying to get ahead of each other, but, as we squeezed our way through the door up to the first floor landing, one of us tripped, and we all tumbled together. Jackson wound up on top, and he stepped over us, trying to get the ball as it bounced through the foyer. Kellen grabbed his ankle. I rolled out from the bottom and tried to sneak my way up to the ball, but Jackson’s flailing hand knocked me over, I lost balance, and we landed in a tangleon the entrance way table that displayed mom’s favorite vase. Crash. Shatter. 

Silence. 

We each stood there, staring at what was once a vase and now was not, hearing the footsteps before the shoes hit the ground. We could’ve run, but there would have been no use. The top step creaked under Daddy’s right foot, and the next one curdled under his left. He didn’t say anything until he reached the bottom step. We each stood with our heads down as he inspected the room. He motioned his head to the left, and we began our solemn march up to his closet. We didn’t have to, but we always went together. 

The beating was bad, and we each cried out a lot more than we expected to. I couldn’t sit still for a week after. Kellen and Jackson had to wear long sleeves to school for the rest of the month. For whatever reason, though, after Daddy went upstairs, we couldn’t help but laugh. We must have laughed for an hour straight, rolling over one another, roaring, giggling, crying. After all the laughing was done, Kellen went upstairs, grabbed the ball, and came back down. We started playing again. This time, though, we remembered to close the door behind us. 

~ 

I think Daddy always thought we’d stay in Florida after high school. Kellen did, until Maybelle Price got pregnant. Jackson and Daddy got into a fight over the clothes he wore, and, one morning, I found a note under my door: 

Moving to New York to become a Sculptor. 

– JL 

That he sculpted was surprising, that he left was not.

I was the only one home when Mama died. I was the only one home who watched Daddy watch her die. He didn’t cry, and she died slowly.

After Mama died, I started helping Daddy in the shop. I was never much good at carpentry, but I learned the basics. He mostly needed me for the uncomfortable labor – sawing, sanding, smoothing. I didn’t get behind a chisel until I’d been working for him for six months, and, even then, it was only to pry open a can of beans. 

Daddy’s carpentry shop was pretty small. It was only three rooms; there was a small display room, a large workshop where I worked 10 hours a day preparing materials, and his small office in the back, where he handled the business things he felt a son needn’t learn.

The office was surrounded on all sides by magnificently carved bookcases from his youth. They were carved from California Redwoods, hard wood only a strong and skilled carpenter can shape well. His desk was plain by comparison. It was carved from soft pine and the dark brown highlights in the light wood went well with the bookcases, but there was nothing in my father’s office so coveted as his lamp.

Jackson carved it for an eighth grade woodshop project. There was no prize for it, but it was so good that Mr. Goodwin decided to give him $100 anyways. “Talent should be rewarded,” he said. Jackson’s design was spectacular, to be fair. Jackson built a shade for it out of wood. It was folded in once at the bottom and once at the top. The ornamentation was marvelous. Inside of the wooden chamber, Jackson carefully placed mirrors so that the light would spread out across an entire desk from the one small bulb trapped inside. My father was not usually one to offer praise, but I never saw him smile so much as he did the first time he pulled the string and Jackson’s light came on. My project, the following year, earned a B+.

After that bit of ugliness with Maybelle Price, Kellen met a woman in Charlotte who supported him through school, I’ve been told. He’s an accountant, and she’s a high school teacher. Her name is Linda. They live in Los Angeles now.

They sent me a postcard from the west coast. The sunny beaches looked lovely. I’ve dreamed about moving, but, after Daddy got sick, I couldn’t even afford the plane ticket to their wedding. I tried carving something special as a gift, a pretty jewelry box for Linda I thought would be nice. Daddy supervised while I worked, but even his glaucoma couldn’t hide his disappointment. I tried to send them a bottle of champagne instead, but I think it was only sparkling wine. 

A copy of the New York Times art section arrived last Friday, which was odd, considering we don’t subscribe. Jackson’s name was on the cover, “Southern Sculptor Dazzles at SoHo Exhibition.” I tried reading it out loud to Daddy, but he scoffed and turned away. I kept on reading because I knew he was still listening. I had to describe Jackson’s pieces to Daddy since he was losing his sight. There were chairs and tables and lamps and shelves: he had done things with carpentry that I could never have even imagined.  I couldn’t tell, but I thought I saw Daddy smile.

A lot of folks around here thought Jackson had spent his life trying to get out of Florida. I suppose I did too. But I think it may have been more complicated than that. Jackson loved Florida, that’s why, on the last page of the article, there was a picture of Jackson, standing upright, wearing a wooden alligator shaped belt buckle. It was carved in Florida Oak.  

I brought that newspaper down to the construction site the next day to show the other guys what my brother was up to. Most of them knew my family from the neighborhood and were excited to hear about Jackson and were glad to know he’d made it. I wasn’t used to lifting so many bricks yet, and my back was sore, but I was still proud of Jackson. They all wanted to know if he’d be coming down soon, but I didn’t know – the newspaper was the first I’d heard from him since he left. We exchanged some more platitudes and they walked off to the bar. I went home separately. 

It nearly broke Daddy’s heart when I had to sell the carpentry shop. After his eyesight started to go, I had to take over the bulk of the work. His loyal customers kept coming for a while out of courtesy, but I wasn’t my father, and, eventually, they started taking their business elsewhere, quietly at first, so we wouldn’t notice. 

~

I get home from work usually about six, and I make dinner for my father. I serve him in his bedroom under the watchful eyes of that closet. I put him to bed around 7. I don’t have many friends these days, but I spend most nights reading Jackson and Kellen’s old books and learning how to make new drinks. Sometimes I think about becoming a bartender, but I’m not sure if I could handle parting with the drinks after they’re made. This week I’ve been learning bourbon. I’ve got the Manhattan down pretty good; all of my customers say so at least. Next week, I think I’ll start on gin. 

There isn’t much light, but sometimes I’ll read in the basement if I can. I don’t remember when we stopped playing, but the tape is still on the wall, and some of the balls crawl around the floor from time to time. I’d throw them around more, but I’m worried I’ll disturb Daddy while he sleeps. Sometimes I remember the belt, but there’s no one left to laugh about it with, and something about a memory changes when you’re alone. 

Daddy died on a Thursday, and we decided to have the funeral on Saturday. Kellen and Jackson were both coming down to read the will. 

Friday felt strange – it was the first time I’d ever been in the house alone. I walked through the empty halls, trying to decide if my memories were good ones or bad ones before I bumped into our entranceway table and heard a weird jingling. I’d never noticed before, but Mama hadn’t replaced the vase. I opened up the drawer and found all of the broken pieces inside. Seeing them there, in a pile, I was overcome by an emotion whose name I never learned. I pulled the drawer all the way out and carried it downstairs. I found some heavy strength wood glue in the cupboard and started putting the pieces back together. 

I’d been working about an hour trying just to match the pieces up with one another before I heard the top stair creak. I set the pieces down and looked up to find Kellen making his way downstairs. We hugged at the bottom and said nothing. I sat down and got back to work. He looked around at the old room with the old tape, then he looked at me, and he sat down too. He joined in, and we started gluing pieces together and talking. It was nice. 

Linda had two kids, both boys apparently. They were wild, he told me. He showed me pictures; they looked just like him. I asked about accounting, and he sighed. He asked about me, and I shrugged. After we were both getting tired, I went up to make us some Tom Collins’ while Kellen stretched out next to the nearly finished vase. 

In the kitchen, at my bar, sat a strange looking man with tattoos on his hands and rips in his jeans. He turned to me with his small green eyes, and I could tell he was struggling to hold back tears. I took Jackson in my arms, and we cried a while together. After a few minutes, Kellen came up to join us. 

After we cried, one of us started laughing, cautiously at first, but then, slowly, we all joined in, and then we were roaring. We reminisced and chatted, chatted and reminisced, and I made drinks. We went downstairs and Jackson saw the work we’d been doing on the vase. We were about fifty percent done, but we were having trouble with the smaller bits – neither of us could figure out how they fit. Jackson sat down with us and got to work. 

“This drink is incredible, how’d you learn to make it?” Kellen asked.

“Yeah, this is better than anything I’ve had in New York. What’s in it?” said Jackson.

“It’s like Daddy always said, ‘secret to any good drink, is a shitload of booze.’” We all laughed, and I thought about bartending again. 

We must have fallen asleep because the lawyer let himself in. He woke us up coming down the stairs to inform us that it was time to read the will. We went upstairs with him to discuss in the kitchen, each of us careful not to knock over the nearly-finished vase on our way up. 

The will reading was long. Jackson got all of Daddy’s tools, Kellen got the silverware and the furniture, and I was supposed to get some money, but most had already been spent. The lawyer droned on for a while longer about selling the house and splitting the last of the belongings. I’d tuned him out for a little bit and was daydreaming again. The final part of the ordeal was a list of personal effects that Daddy wanted each of us to have. 

After the lawyer left, we each said our goodbyes. Kellen left first, telling me I should move out to Los Angeles and start new. He said he’d help me get started. Jackson left after, saying about the same. I closed the door and turned around. The house was as silent as an odor. I went up to my room and looked around at the things my life had assembled. Mostly clothes, some bed sheets, a few empty bottles. I grabbed my coat and went into Daddy’s room. The closet seemed small. I opened it up, surprised to find the belt still hanging, just as it had been all those years ago. I thought about the alligator and I thought about Daddy and I thought about the hunted and the hunter. I thought about lots of things. I reached out and touched the leather. It was cold and scaly — the hairs on my arms stood up. I ran my fingers up to the buckle. As I slipped it off the hanger and pulled it through my belt loops I realized, I was an orphan. I latched the buckle, and it felt good.