Knockout by John Jodzio Page B

suddenly overwhelm you, how any old thing can dredge up a memory that knocks the breath from your lungs.
    â€œYou want to grill up some burgers?” Ackerman asks.
    â€œSure,” I say.
    Ackerman fixes me a drink, tosses the meat on the grill. We sit on the back deck and watch the sun slide down below the horizon.
    When Ackerman clears our plates, I run to the bathroom. I shove some fancy soaps and a hair brush of Elaine’s into my pocket. While I am in there, I hear a glass shatter. Then another one. Then another. The shattering is spaced out enough that I can tell Ackerman hasn’t had an accident, that he’s doing this on purpose.
    When I get out there, he’s already got the broom out. He’s sweeping the chards into the dust pan.
    â€œYou okay?” I ask.
    â€œJust a little clumsy,” he tells me.
    W hen I leave, Ackerman follows me to my car. I move in a measured way, weighed down by all of Elaine’s curios. While I’m loading the sex chair into my trunk, that pair of Elaine’s panties I stole accidentally falls out of my jacket pocket and onto the ground. I quickly kick them under my car and turn back toward to Ackerman to see if he’s noticed. His lips have pursed and his eyes are held in a squint. He’s not looking at me, he’s gazing up at the clouds in the night sky.
    â€œWe should do this again,” he says.
    â€œDefinitely,” I say, offering a handshake. Ackerman lets my hand hang out in the air for a long time, but then he finally grabs it.
    â€œI’m a hugger,” he says, and before I can stop him Ackerman pulls me into his body, surrounds me. I squirm a little at the beginning of his hug; wonder if he can feel everything else I’vestolen from him pressing against his body, wonder if he can feel the picture of Elaine, or if maybe the dart is poking him in the thigh. He doesn’t say anything so I settle in, get comfortable, hug him back. We stand there for a long time. I don’t let go until he lets go.

THE INDOOR BABY

    F rom his bed, my husband Mitch yells for fresh air and sunlight for our son. He argues that this is child abuse; that Swayze needs to be an indoor/outdoor baby, not just an indoor one.
    â€œFor the love of God, Mona,” he tells me, “stop this now.”
    I empty out Mitch’s catheter bag. I bring him his protein shakes. I flip his body to keep the bedsores at bay. While I care for him, Mitch never fails to remind me that he used to charge enemy bunkers and root around in mountain caves, always ready to meet his maker.
    â€œOf all the crazy shit I’ve seen,” he says, “what you’re doing to Swayze is the shithouse craziest.”
    We live in an isolated area, in a rambler surrounded by a thick stand of Norway pine. Our winding driveway is washed out, treacherous even in daylight. Mitch’s parents died years ago and the only visitors we get now are my mom and James, the delivery boy from the grocery store. I’ve tried to convince Mitch that Swayze’s safer living like this, but Mitch won’t be convinced.
    â€œThis isn’t about his safety,” he yells, “it’s about your irrational fear.”
    Mitch was a ranter even before that landmine took his legs, but since then he’s gotten much worse. I usually play the role of the good wife and let him scream and gnash his teeth all he wants, but sometimes when his rant gets especially lengthy or loud I open up the Bible of indoor baby rearing, Nurture Against Nature , by the noted Swiss pediatrician and agoraphobe, Dr. Gustav Halder, and I drown Mitch out.
    â€œThe sun does not keep your baby safe,” I yell at him this morning after he won’t stop grousing. “The night sky does not help raise your child. Clean, crisp air does nothing for your baby’s well-being. Wide-open spaces do not thrust your kid on a path to become a productive member of society. You do not plant a seed in