A few minutes after the shrill alarm clock rang, July was skipping down the stairs. Cherubic, formally dressed, she arrived in the living room, which betrayed the time of year with its decorum: a stately Christmas tree at the foot of a crackling hearth; the juicy odors from the kitchen intermingled with the sweet aroma of the holy dangling from the ceiling. A large spruce table squatted in the middle of the room, with six chairs around it, three of them occupied: a stout, but pretty, woman sat in one, her name was Edna. Her husband; an old, frail, but lively man, sat beside her; and opposite them sat a handsome young man named Jackson -- or Jacky -- for short. July sprinted at Jackson and jumped into his lap, wrapping her arms around him.
“Uncle Jacky!” She cried, “It’s good to see you again, where have you been?”
Jacky flushed and fumbled to produce an answer; “Well, I’ve been out on the town, I guess. Anyway, how are you, my little princess? You remember that thing we talked about last night."
July giggled. Despite her age, which was eight, she still had a childish habit of laughing whenever she did something mischievous. “Of course I remember, Uncle Jacky,” she said, and Jacky relaxed.
After some clamouring in the kitchen, Mary -- July’s mother -- came out with her husband, Rudolph, while carrying the last of the dishes. Now, with the table set, everyone sat and started ravaging the food.
“Oh, July, you’re a naughty little bugger, you are,” July's mother exploded suddenly. “Why didn't you tell Uncle Jacky your birthday falls in three days? The poor man was in furious with you then, you should really tell him these sort of things.”
“I'm sorry, Uncle Jacky, I forget. Will I get something nice?”
“Of course you will," he said, trying to be enthusiastic, "Mary, this dinner is absolutely delicious, where did you learn to cook?"
"From my mother. And now I am trying to teach July here to cook, so she'll turn out a nice wife. And of course she will -- she's so pretty, isn't she, Jacky."
Jacky choked a bit, and blushed and flushed; "Of course I do. You do know that, don't you princess?"
“Of course I do, silly, all the girls in my class say so. I’m the prettiest little girl there is in the whole wide world!”
“Of course you are,” Jackson laughed. “Anyway, how’s school?”
“Boring! This one girl, Martha, kept pulling and pulling on my pigtails, and it was so annoying. It was annoying like hell--”
“Young lady,” Mary boomed at the top her voice, “Watch your language.”
“Sorry, mother."
“Oh, come now,” said Charles, “You needn't to be so hard on the young lady. After all, she should fight back a bit, show some muscle."
Jacky was home on furlough, officially; unofficially, he was out on sick-leave due to a mental breakdown which tore him to shreds a week prior. He was a lively, cheerful man, yet there was always a note of melancholy about him, the subtle contours and expressions of his face hinted at something forlorn and forbidden. But before he could speak, Edna chipped in:
“I agree with Charles. Maybe if you weren’t so hard on the young misses, she wouldn’t have been messing about with those boys from the playground. Climbing up trees for them, going to the movies with three at once. What a disgrace! You need to show your child some freedom, my dear, or she’ll be all too eager to find it herself.”
July knew her name was the focus of the debates around her, but she didn’t care. She liked being a child, because then everybody talks about you, even screams about you, but you’re never directly concerned; you can always listen to it, but you don’t have to join in. They just ignore you while you’re the centre of attention. It’s truly marvelous.
“But girls should also be tough, like boys,” Charles was saying; “There’s plenty ‘o tough girls in the army. You would know, Jacky, wouldn’t you, you casanova. You’d know all about them, wouldn’t ya?”
Jacky cheek turned red, like molten rock. He received an injury in the war. He left not only with physical scars, but psychological ones, too. Jackson stood up, excused himself and went outside, and when he was on his sixth cigarette, Charles came out to him.
“Edna just told me about your injury. I’m sorry. I didn’t know; I didn’t mean to be insensitive.”
“Forget it,” Jacky said.
“Look, here, son. I know being shot, and shot specifically there, is horrible, even for a guy like you. Especially for a man like you. But you're the kindest and bravest man I've ever know, and you cannot let this injury bring you down. Stay strong for July, if not for anyone else. You've been her favorite, her role model since the day she was born. She loves you, Jacky.”
Without warning, Jackson shot out of his seat and sprinted across the snowy yard into his silver sedan and started off for the city. He realized he hated July. And if that little bitch spilled her guts...
As he navigated through the slippery roads, he just couldn’t get July out of his mind. So young and innocent. So beautiful. So tender: unlike the war. When he became trapped in a traffic jam, Jackson relaxed, breathed, and screamed. He felt better, and the traffic dissipated as he progressed into the more derelict part of the city, searching for dingy motels. He liked this part of town, he was attracted to the deteriorated and dilapidated. He found solace in it. He pitied it even if it couldn’t pity back, because it felt so diseased and poor, and damaged.
Jackson pulled up to “Harold’s Rooms”. The plaster tore off the walls and the windows were dirty. He went inside and walked up to the greasy, slimy slob at the reception desk, and asked if the slob could remember him; the slob could, and asked him if it was the usual, and said the girls were getting tired of him. Jackson told the slob that if they were getting paid they could shut their goddamn mouths up. The slob sighed and called someone on the phone while Jackson, teary-eyed and shaking, took a seat on a stiff chair. A few minutes later a plump, but attractive enough blonde in a shirt and short skirt walked down the stairs, and when she saw Jackson her face darkened and she sighed, saying “Not him again.” The slob at the desk started up and seized her, spitting into her face:
“If you’re getting paid, you’re gonna open your mouth only when your client tells you to, capish, bitch?”
“Yeah, okay, okay. Now get off of me. You! Come on up and let’s get it over quick, if we can get it started at all.”
They went up the stairs, which creaked, announcing them to the other residents, who all squeaked up those exact same stairs for the exact same purpose. The blonde guided Jackson up to the second, and final, tier and led him into room B27. It smelled musty and greasy. The walls were bare and torn, and the furniture sparse, all pushed against the walls, leaving a solitary couch in the middle of the room. They walked up to it and the blonde started tearing off her clothes, encouraging Jacky to follow suit. As he was fumbling with his shirt, the blonde, already bare, walked over to him and helped him; Jackson felt a warmth building up inside of him. When they were both naked, and Jacky flaccid, the blonde forced him onto the couch while she knelt and tried to get Jacky riled up.
“God,” she said, “What’s the matter with you, goddammit? Are you flitty, or what?”
“No, no,” Jackson said, flaring red with embarrassment and anger and stress; “It’s just that… the war.”
This last remark seemed to make the blonde less angry, but more embarrassed and stressed, and still red. She worked furiously now; and Jacky, feeling bad for her, started thinking of July.
“Now, there we go!” Exclaimed the blonde, feeling achieved, “Now we’re getting worked up!”
But, Jacky, unable to handle the physical feeling of pleasure -- and the mental image of shame -- broke down in a volley of tears. The blonde stood up and backed off, surprised and enraged. Then she laughed:
“God, you’re an embarrassment. Look at you, pretty boy like you, no wonder you have to go to a place like this to get a date. Well, I’m sorry you were in the war and all, but, coming in here, wasting my time like that! God, you little maggot!”
“Shut up!”
“What! Don’t you tell me what to do, Mr. Movie Star, pretty boy. And to think you were a soldier? Why, you couldn’t hit a women!” She laughed. Jackson, overwhelmed, bound upon her like a bloodhound and brought her to the ground, then he beat her until the red mist disappeared. Quaking with trepidation, he rose and dressed with haste. He forgot his jacket and undergarments and ran out of the hotel while still buttoning his shirt.
He got in the car and drove around the decrepit area of the city until dusk took reign of the sky, then he drove home. When he knocked on the door, announcing himself, he was terrified to find July was all alone.
“Mommy and poppy and my grandparents are out for some dinner. They didn’t want to leave me alone, but I assured them you’ll be back.”
“Well, I am now. Did you have supper?” She nodded. “Good, wanna watch some TV?”
“Sure.”
They watched a rendition of The Christmas Carol on CBS, and drank hot cocoa complimented with a bowl of popcorn. Jacky felt his emotions taking him over, and he turned his eyes to July -- to her bare and silky legs -- and kept them there. When she saw him looking she blushed -- she loved the attention, Uncle Jack always made her feel so special. But she was taken aback when she saw a gleam of tears in his eyes.
“Uncle Jacky,” she said, alarmed, “Are you crying? Is there something wrong with me?”
Uncle Jacky met her eyes, and choked out: “Nothing wrong with you, sweetie, it’s wrong with me.”
“Oh, why, that’s nonsense, Uncle Jacky -- you’re perfect; you’re the perfectest man I have ever met!” She sprang at him and hugged him, but Jacky said: “Get off, ow, I can’t stand it!”
“But, why, what’s-” July started but then saw what was happening.
“Oh, it’s that, Uncle Jacky, your injury from war. Would you like me to take my clothes off again.”
Jacky nodded, losing to himself, as always. Even if he put up a struggle, he always lost. He sat up on the coach with the manner of a soldier going into no man’s land. Jackson said his prayer and stripped off his pants. July was already naked and smiling, dumb and uncomprehending. Jacky almost cried as he searched for his crotch, knowing he’ll have to go through. Wait, you could turn back n--
Oh what use will it be, I’ve lied to the girl enough. Oh, what’ll she think of me when she grows up… and finds out. The hogwash I’ve fed her, and which she swallowed up, because she didn’t know any better, and because she trusted me. God, who am I?
He was sitting on the couch, his hand moving; she was sitting in his lap, he was massaging her body; he was towering over her, she was smiling up at him. Jacky started crying again, but he didn’t stop what he was doing?
“It’s okay, honey,” he said when July asked him what’s wrong; “It’s so good that it’s making me cry.”
“Gee, uncle Jacky, is this what’s it like being a doctor, sitting there and watching people stare at you? Is it really healing you Uncle Jack?”
“Yes, yes it is.”
“Well, the thing doesn’t look any less veiny or bloody, or ugly than it did before.”
“It’s a long process, baby-darling, but we’ll make it through, princess. Just please don’t tell your parents, they can’t know about my injury. Okay?”
God, he shuddered at the lies he had told her. The lollipop. Oh Jesus, may he rest in hell for his sins.
When it was done Jacky made sure July was safe in bed before he drove out into town and got piss-drunk in Clancy’s bar and beat up three tough guys until a fourth one knocked him out. He later said he got robbed by ten gangsters.
Jacky had to leave for the army in four days, but, after raping July twice more, he decided to depart on on the third day.
A few minutes before his departure he taled to July:
"Look, July, there are people in this world, people who will try to use you, to exploit you," his voice was shaking, choked with tears, "And these people -- they -- sometimes they're the ones you love most." He had plenty more to say, but it was stuck, and he couldn't handle being here anymore, so he just nodded and said it was to leave.
She was confused, but all she said before she saw Jacky the final time before his suicide, was “Okay, but how’s your injury, Uncle Jacky? Was I a good doctor?”
“Marvellous, sweetie, but I have to go now -- bye!"