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F2K Story

by Bonnie Roberts

The Saint Valentine's Day Massacre

J.D. couldn’t decide which he hated more, his name or the day.

He scuffed up the sidewalk, kicking snow, slowing his steps as he approached his house. He bet his parents already knew what happened in school today. They’d be waiting for him, ready to heap on more punishment. Probably they’d make him go straight to bed or clean out the garage. He hoped they didn’t make him clean the litter boxes: that would be worse than death. J.D. kicked a white mound, yelping in pain when his boot connected with the large snow-covered rock. What else could go wrong today?

J.D. eased open the front door. He’d crept halfway up the stairs when his mom called from the kitchen.

“J.D., where have you been? Did you forget we’re celebrating your grandfather’s birthday tonight?” J.D. groaned, now he knew what else could go wrong.

He slunk toward the kitchen, excuses already lining up in his brain for the fight at school, for being late, for not wanting to visit his grandfather. His nose told him that the cake his mom was frosting was chocolate, his favorite. He probably wouldn’t be allowed to have any cake, either.

“You need to light a fire under those feet, kiddo, and wash your hands and face. I need to finish frosting this cake, and your father needs to hurry up and get home!”

J.D. peeked up at his mom through his bangs; she was looking at the wall clock. The wooden-spoon hands showed the time nearing five o’clock. He started to back out of the doorway.

“Before you go…”

J.D. closed his eyes and held his breath. Here it comes, he thought.

“Want to lick the bowl?”

His eyes popped open like Jack’s from the box. What? She had to know about the fight. He forgot about keeping his head down and looked at his mom, saw her wince.

“Does it hurt much?”

“No. Does it look that bad?”

“It’s going to be a respectable shiner. Tell me what happened while you work on this spoon.” She held out a wooden spoon covered with chocolate frosting.

As J.D. grabbed the spoon, his mom grabbed his wrist, examined his hand. “You’ll need some witch hazel on those knuckles.” She continued to frost the cake. “Go on, tell me what happened.”

J.D. settled himself in a chair with the spoon. “When Mrs. Staubach left the room, Ryan and Josh started saying stuff about how today is my day, and started making kissing noises. They shoved me into Kristy McIntyre and told me to show everyone how it’s done. Kristy was real embarrassed and ran out of the room. I shoved Ryan, and he fell into Josh. When Ryan got back up he punched me, so I hit him back. All the kids started shouting. That’s when Mrs. Staubach came back into the room.” J.D. paused to lick the spoon. “Mrs. Staubach gave everybody, except for Kristy, an extra report to write. Ryan, Josh and I had to go the principal’s office.” J.D. finished the spoon at the same time he finished his story. His mom passed him the mixing bowl and wiped her hands on the kitchen towel hanging over her shoulder. J.D. swiped around the lip of the bowl with his forefinger and stuck the frosting-covered finger in his mouth.

“So what’s the report topic? The evils of fighting?”

“No, Valentine’s Day. That’s so lame!” J.D. snarled as he took a last swipe around the bowl. “Next time I’m going to get in more than one punch. Stupid Ryan and Josh. It’s all their fault!”

“John David Valentine! I figure you were provoked today, but that doesn’t excuse fighting, and I won’t have any more of it. Understand?” His mom stared at him, hands on hips.

“Yes, ma’am.” They both cocked their heads at the sound of the garage door.

“Finally! There’s your dad. Put that bowl in the sink and run some hot water in it, then run wash your face and hands. We have to hurry if we’re going to get to your granddad’s for dinner.”

By the time J.D. finished, his parents were already in the Jeep. J.D. climbed in the back and put on his seat belt.

“I hear you had some trouble in school today.” J.D. met his father’s eyes reflected in the rearview mirror.

“Yes, sir, but I didn’t start it.” J.D. stared out windshield between the two front seats, watching the house shrink as they backed out of the driveway. It was snowing again. Turning to his side window, J.D. watched the flakes streak by faster and faster as they gained speed on the interstate.

“You get teased every year. When are you going to learn to let it slide?”

“Maybe next year?”

J.D. smiled at his mom’s snort. “Remember, you’re not the only person to get ragged about your name.” His mom spoke over her left shoulder. “Go ahead, say it out loud three times fast without laughing.”

“Valerie B. Valentine, Valerie B. Valentine, Valerie B….” J.D.’s giggles had them all laughing as they rounded the last corner to the nursing home. His laughter died with the car’s engine. “Do I have to go in? All Granddad talks about is aching joints and bowel movements, and he grabs my chin and pinches my cheeks together so I feel like a fish.” J.D. hung back by the Jeep, watching his parents start up the walkway. “And he smells,” he murmured.

His mom stopped in her tracks, snow whirled and danced around her. She turned back to glare at J.D. “You stop right there, kiddo. Your grandfather is a wonderful man who has given you the moon. Do you have any idea what he’s accomplished? What he’s experienced? Have you ever really talked to him?” Snow gathered on her hair, shoulders, the cake pan in her hands. “You should be proud of him instead of whining about pinched cheeks!” She spun back around and continued up the walkway, calling over her shoulder, “Move it. Now!”

J.D.’s cheeks burned and he lowered his head. Snowflakes melted on his neck, tickled, but he didn’t feel like laughing. He trudged up the walkway, passing by his father who held open the door.

“I was thinking about that report you have to write about Valentine’s Day. Why not ask your grandfather for some ideas? You think you have a tough time with it, think about him—a Valentine born on Valentine’s Day.” J.D. hadn’t connected those dots before.

The three Valentines approached the fourth in the dining room. J.D. held his breath as he leaned into his grandfather’s hug, then braced himself for the routine cheek pinching. John Valentine held his grandson’s chin, moving it left and right, a little farther to the left.

“How does the other kid look?”

“Split lip, bloody nose.”

“I had a shiner like yours every year on Valentine’s Day from fourth grade through high school. My mother, that would be your great grandmother, used to call them her purple Valentines.” John Valentine Senior looked at his son. “I remember some purple Valentines you brought home for your mother, too.” He chuckled, while J.D.’s eyes darted between the two men.

As the foursome enjoyed birthday cake, J.D. asked for ideas about his report. His grandfather closed his eyes. J.D. thought he’d fallen asleep when his grandfather exclaimed, “I’ve got it! Let’s go to my room, and I’ll show you some articles you might use.” J.D. jumped up, positioned himself behind the wheelchair and maneuvered his grandfather down to his room.

J.D. was paging through a scrapbook when his parents walked in. “Hey, did you guys know that Granddad lived near the garage in Chicago where those gangsters were executed on Saint Valentine’s Day? His mom wouldn’t let him go outside for a week after the shooting! Isn’t that right, Granddad?” J.D looked up from the scrapbook to query his grandfather. “That was in 1929, when Granddad was my age. They called it the Saint Valentine’s Day Massacre. Al Capone fitted out a Cadillac with special armor, just like Chicago’s police cars, and that’s how his gangsters got close enough to shoot Bugs Moran’s gangsters.” J.D. turned a few more pages of the scrapbook. “Wow! Dad, look at this! Granddad was in Daytona Beach on Valentine’s Day in 1948 when NASCAR ran its first race for modified stock cars! And Granddad says that Captain James Cook was murdered in Hawaii on Valentine’s Day. You’ve heard of Captain Cook, right?”

“J.D., we have to go home now, you have school tomorrow. Put the scrapbook away and say goodnight to your grandfather.”

“Granddad said I could borrow his scrapbook for my report.” J.D. gave his grandfather a quick, hard hug. “Goodnight, Granddad, and thanks! Happy Birthday!”

J.D. crawled into the Jeep and yawned. “Mom? Can we come back and visit Granddad tomorrow? Tonight was so cool.” He closed his eyes and slept as the Jeep sped home.

F2K: an Introduction to Creative Writing teaches the basics of fiction writing. Since 1995, R.J. Hembree's free six-week course has helped thousands of writers from around the world. Writer’s Digest has selected F2K as one of the best sites for writers. F2K has three objectives: To help beginning writers learn the basic terminology of fiction writing (a good refresher for experienced writers too). Writers will also find the elements of fiction useful in non-fiction or poetry. To encourage writers to habitually write without fear. To give writers a chance to meet and develop friendships with writers from around the world. At the end of each session, F2K sponsors a short story contest. Students who post all six assignments are eligible to enter. Each mentor chooses a finalist from his/her room. The finalists' poll is open to the general public for voting. Read the past finalist stories at: http://fiction.4-writers.com/past-f2k-contest-stories.shtml