CHAPTER 24 IRON JACK
IRON JACK
Idon’t mind that Greta has sent me into the lion’s den with her family. I recognize the alpha. Sherman Pickle. He’s still back in the kitchen.
I’ve been around Merrick and Diesel long enough now to know all the places Sherman has stuck his sniffing nose.
He bought the Leaky Skull when their permits got denied and Merrick and Diesel were thrown in jail. He gave the deed back to them, so I figure he did them a solid by exposing small-town politics for what they were.
But when the cops showed up during our raid on the Kin, I knew he was more formidable than I expected. He has connections. Big ones.
And his hold on his family is absolute, other than the deserters, Merrick and Diesel.
He’s got Greta, that’s for sure. She dropped everything to go to Miami at his bidding.
I’m not sure if he’ll try to separate us. His aggressive knife work on the onion says he knows and he’s unhappy.
The living room is the easy place to be, away from his brooding. Greta’s parents sit next to Caden, who is petting the puppy. The baby starts to fuss, so Camryn takes her.
I ease onto an arm chair, close enough to talk but far enough away that I can safely be ignored if they prefer that.
But Greta’s mother turns to me straight away. “I don’t think Greta got to finish the introductions. I’m Fran. This is Martin.”
Martin stretches his arms out on the back of the sofa, watching me like he’s trying to figure out my intentions. I don’t blame him.
It’s Max who speaks up, perched on the arm of the sofa near his wife and baby. “Did I hear you were in L.A. for a while? I’ve been there for over a decade now.”
“Yeah,” I say, realizing everyone has stopped talking to listen. “I fought on the MMA circuit for a few years.”
Max nods. “I know a lot of fighters. I used to work out at Colt McClure’s gym. I wonder if we crossed paths.”
That would be wild. “It’s called Buster’s Gym, right?”
The puppy breaks loose from Caden and dashes over to Max. He picks him up. “That’s the one. Buster retired, though, a ways back.”
“I think I knew that.” I glance around the room. Everyone’s still watching us. “I didn’t go to that gym often, but I remember they have a back room where they do minor fights. Small bleachers. Alley entrance.”
Max releases the wiggling puppy to run across everyone’s laps back to Caden. “Yeah, that’s where his wife got her start, Jo. Known as ‘The Hurricane’ when she was fighting.”
“Never met her, I don’t think.” It’s time to choose my words carefully. “I was a light heavyweight.”
“That’s a good class. Colt and the fighters and I all worked out together. I did bodybuilding for a while.”
“Still could, if he wanted,” Camryn chimes in.
I recognize the muscle beneath his sweater. Max is stacked. “But you own a deli?” I ask.
“Yeah. It mostly runs itself.”
Greta comes to the door. “Max,” she says. “Sherman needs you.”
She looks different, paler, like Sherman said something that upset her.
I want to pulverize him.
But he’s family.
Greta takes a seat in another armchair next to mine. Her smile is brief and unconvincing. She’s rattled. I’m not sure what I can do about it in front of her parents and kid.
Caden comes over to sit at her feet. “No Switch time?”
She ruffles his hair. “After dinner.”
“Who is this man?”
She glances at me. “His name is Jack.”
“Are you going to marry him next?”
She opens her mouth, frozen. “Uh—”
Rory stands up abruptly. “How about some Pickle Stax?”
Caden leaps to his feet. “Yes! Yes! I’ll get it out!” He pulls a box from a drawer beneath the coffee table and sets it in the center.
I glance over at Greta. She’s biting her lip and casts a quick, concerned glance at me. “It’s our form of Jenga, you know the stacking game.”
“Sounds fun.” I try to give her a reassuring smile. “What makes it pickled?”
Caden opens the top flaps of the box. “There’s all these things you have to do written on the side of some of the blocks,” he says. “If you pull a block with instructions, you have to do what it says.”
If a kid is playing, it can’t be anything too untoward. “What’s the worst block you can draw?” I ask him as Rory leans forward to help him pull the tower of blocks out.
“Kiss the person closest to you,” Caden says. “That’s the worst!” He closes his eyes and sticks his tongue out like he’s dead.
“It won’t always be the worst, pal,” I tell him.
“Yes it will! It will always be the worst!” The puppy runs in front of him, and he picks it up.
“Should we wait for Max?” Camryn asks as Rory pulls the packaging away, revealing the tower of blocks.
“He can jump in when he gets here,” Mack says. “The first couple of rounds are no big deal anyway.”
I guess we’re doing this.
“Caden, you can go first,” Rory says. “Then we’ll go clockwise from you.”
“I better not get the kissing one.” Caden sets down the puppy, lunging forward so quickly that Greta holds out her hands as if she can stop him from knocking the tower over on the first turn.
But he’s young and agile, and easily plops down on the rug in front of the coffee table, poking at center pieces until he finds one that moves easily.
“No cheating,” Greta warns.
“I’m deciding!” Caden pulls the block out and reads the words written in green Sharpie on the side. “Pat your head and rub your stomach at the same time,” he reads. “Man, I can’t ever do that one!”
“You have to try or you take two more turns,” Greta warns.
“Okay, okay.” Caden sets the block on top of the tower and climbs to his feet, putting one hand on his head and the other on his belly, then decides to switch hands.
His tongue sticks out as he concentrates, patting both places, then circling both, and finally managing to briefly get both actions at once.
The room erupts in cheers. “Way to go, Caden!” Fran says. “Nice work.”
“Your turn, Grandma,” he says.
Fran leans forward to take out a block from one side. The layer above shifts slightly, but nothing wavers. It’s early.
She reads her block. “Tell one embarrassing fact about yourself.” She laughs. “I feel like I always get this one.”
“Good thing you have lots of embarrassing facts!” Caden says.
Fran pats his knee. “Okay, when I was your age,” she says to her grandson, “I once threw up in class because at lunch I ate three chocolate puddings I sneaked from home.”
“Gross!” Caden cries. “Right on your desk?”
“Right on my desk,” Fran says. “Messed up my math test.”
“Math tests deserve that,” Caden says.
“Probably so,” Fran says, setting her piece on top of the tower. “Martin?”
The older man grunts as he scoots forward on the sofa to find a piece.
He pulls one quickly, causing blocks above and below his to angle out.
Several people suck in a breath. “Okay,” he says, peering over his glasses at the block.
“Run around the table, squawking like a chicken.” He sighs. “Who invented this game again?”
“Pat,” several people say simultaneously, and I wonder who they are referring to.
Greta sees the question on my face. “Sherman’s wife,” she says. “She died when the boys were teens.”
“She was a great lady,” Fran says. “Always full of life and fun.”
Unlike her husband, I think, but keep it to myself.
“Why is it called Pickle Stax?” I ask. “I haven’t seen anything pickle related.”
“Oh, just wait,” Camryn says. “There will be plenty.” She passes baby Esme to Rory. “In fact, I should go get the Pickle Stax jars. I almost forgot.”
“I hope Jack gets the spicy pickle block!” Caden says. “I bet smoke will shoot right out of his ears.”
Now I get it. “We’ll see about that,” I tell him.
“It’s a rite of passage,” Mack says. “Every Pickle-adjacent family member must endure the spicy pickle before being officially ushered into the clan.”
“I like it,” I say. I’m not worried.
Camryn returns with a box of long toothpicks and three jars of pickles with different colored lids, green, orange, and red. It doesn’t take a college degree to know which one is the spiciest.
“Okay, whose turn is it?” Camryn asks.
Martin hasn’t done his chicken dance, but it’s been so long since his turn that nobody calls him out on it. I’m certainly not going to do it.
“Me,” Rory says. She pulls a block. “Whew. Blank.”
“Show it to us to prove it!” Caden says.
Rory shows all four sides.
“Boring!” he proclaims as she places it on the top of the stack. “Next!”
“Oh, it’s me,” Greta says. She moves to the floor in front of the table and examines the wonky blocks left by her father. She pushes at one, making the levels above wobble alarmingly. But she persists, pulling it out.
“Does it have instructions?” Caden asks.
She aims it toward him.
“The kiss one!” He collapses back on the sofa.
She glances back at me, and I wonder if I’m going to be the recipient. But then she stands and circles the table, planting a soft kiss on Esme’s head. “You’re the best,” she tells the baby.
“Gross!” Caden says.
“Watch out, or I’ll get you, too!” Greta says.
Caden covers his face with a pillow.
I guess it’s me now. Maybe I’ll get lucky and it will be blank.
Greta stacks her block on top, and I kneel in front of the tower. I’m more nervous than I should be. It’s too early for the stack to fall easily. I would have to really botch it for that to happen.
I spot a block already inching its way out and poke it until it is far enough out to grab.
“Don’t knock it down with those huge hands!” Caden says.
I pull out the wooden piece. It has words, but I’m not sure what they mean. “Experimental pickle?”
Camryn reaches for the green pickle jar. “You get to try one of the test-kitchen pickles,” she says. “We never know what it’s going to be. Sweet. Spicy. Weird.” She stabs one with a toothpick. “You get to find out.”
Caden bounces up and down on the cushion, waiting for me to take the pickle.
I accept it, the juice dripping on my finger. I could lick that and get an idea of what I’m in for, but I don’t. We’re here for a game, and I have to prove that I am, indeed, game.
“All right,” I say. “Let’s see what pickle we’ve got here.” I chomp down heartily on the end of it and break off a large bite.
My vision goes white for a second. I’m not sure what I’m eating, but it may have set off a nuclear bomb. My mouth disappears, like whatever is in it isn’t meant to be there and it’s winked out of existence.
And then, like an aftershock, the heat blasts out, searing my taste buds like a blow torch.
I realize the silence around me isn’t actually silent but wiped out by my overwrought senses. Caden is hollering, off the sofa, jumping up and down. Greta is mouthing words at me, but I can’t hear them.
Camryn thrusts a glass of milk at me and takes the rest of the pickle away.
Then the sound suddenly turns back on.
“Drink the milk, Jack!” I hear everyone saying.
I manage to swallow the pickle without any more chewing and tilt the glass of milk at my face, not totally sure where my lips are anymore.
I sense it dribbling into my chin, but the cool, creamy liquid turns everything down a notch, and now I can think beyond the shock of whatever I just put in my mouth.
Greta comes in with a napkin, dabbing at my face. “It looks like that was a real ringer,” she says. “I hope you’re okay.”
The alarm bells in my head slowly muffle. “What was in that?”
Max arrives from the kitchen. “A new variety of ghost pepper,” he says. “It hasn’t been formally put on the Scoville Scale of heat, but it’s probably up there with the Carolina Reaper. Maybe close to pepper spray?”
“Max Pickle!” Grammy says, coming up behind him. “Who gave that poor man the new pickle without trying it first?”
Max throws up his hands. “Those are the rules of Pickle Stax!”
Grammy hands me a piece of cheese. “Milk is good. Cheese is better once you’ve rinsed. Good gracious, these kids were born in a barn.”
“A pickle deli,” Martin says. “Which isn’t much better.”
Grammy turns to him. “Martin Alexander Packwood, you watch your mouth.”
Caden’s mouth falls open. “Grandpa! She used your middle name! You’re in tru-u-u-u-ble!”
“That’s right.” Grammy picks up the green lid jar. “Nobody else will be eating experimental pickles today!”
“There’s only one experimental pickle block,” Camryn says.
“And the block goes right back into play.” Grammy huffs and takes off with the jar. “That poor man. Poor, poor man.”
“I’m all right, Grammy,” I call after her. But my mouth is still only half functional. I bite into the cheese. It does ease the burn.
“You okay, Jack?” Greta says. “I didn’t expect you to get hit with that.”
“I think it’s hilarious,” I say. “And you found my weak spot.” I stick out my tongue.
She laughs at that. “Good to know you have an Achilles’ heel.”
“That’s not a heel, Mom,” Caden says. “That’s his tongue!”
Everyone gets a good laugh as Greta’s cheeks go pink.
I lean close to her. “I didn’t know you could still blush.” I’m rewarded when her face deepens to magenta.
The turns continue. Max has to sing his favorite jingle from a commercial.
Camryn turns in circles until she’s dizzy.
Mack has to act like an animal until somebody guesses what he is.
Rory has to demonstrate a dance she learned as a kid.
She chooses the water sprinkler. Caden joins her, making everyone laugh.
It’s good, wholesome fun, the kind I’ve never been around. I like it, even as Sherman lurks in the doorway and doesn’t join in.
I catch him watching me.
“Dad, you have to take at least one turn if you’re going to be out here,” Max says. “That’s the deal. Mom’s rules.”
The mention of his wife softens the man. I see it in how his shoulders drop. I feel my first connection with him, having to carry on the traditions started by someone he no doubt loved deeply. I know that feeling, taking on all of my parents’ roles at the club.
He leans forward and decisively plucks a block from the tower. It doesn’t so much as shudder.
“What did you get, Uncle Sherman?” Caden asks.
Sherman turns it around. The words are large enough to read across the room. “Pickle joke.”
“No fair,” Camryn cries. “He knows them all! It’s too easy.”
And for the first time this evening, I see the gray-haired man smile. “What do you call a presidential pickle?” he asks.
The rest of the crew calls out, “A big dill!”
“What do you call a half-priced pickle?”
“A great dill!”
“What are little dills always doing to annoy their mothers?”
“Leaving the pickle lid a-jar!”
“Who’s our favorite singer?”
“Bob Dill-an!”
“And what station is he always on?”
“Vlasic rock!”
By this time, most everyone is dissolving into laughter.
“I’ve done my turn,” Sherman says, dropping the piece on top of the stack.
“Good,” Grammy says. “Because soup’s on!”
Everyone is jovial as we move to the dining room, which has a long table that would seat twice as many as are here. Greta seems more relaxed now that the game is over, and takes me by the hand to choose our chairs.
Mack slaps me on the back, and everyone talks about my conquering the terrible new inedible pickle and saving the others from that fate.
I think I’m starting to fit in here.