First Four Pages - The Death of Jacob Johnson

Below is chapter one and the first two pages of chapter two. The opening scene introduces the main character Jacob Johnson. The scene is a flash-forward scene that the reader will return to later in the novel. The tone is cold and distant. The opening scene foreshadows the man Jacob will become. Chapter two is set in 1986 when Jacob was a boy. The scene begins in his bathroom, toggles to a flashback, then back to the bathroom. This scene of him speaking with his father establishes their relationship because later his father will die shortly before his tenth birthday.

I

He took her life with spite. The instrument of death didn’t slice flesh or rip it with the pull of a trigger. His tool ensured a deeper death. He concealed the deed, committed it to silence—the kind kept in the family, secrets protected by blood. 

Jacob Johnson, like absolute monarchs before him, did not just ascend to the throne— he took it. His province, the boardroom, not a royal court, though similar rules applied. His coronation took place in the mansion he designed on Lake Norman, thirty-two miles from uptown Charlotte. Enveloped in opulence, he was master. There would be no questions as to what happened; his word was law.

He surveyed the room he’d designed—a room accented with roses, their aroma of citrus and mint lingered while the pink walls fought to maintain tones of softness and safety. The truth of the morning’s events whispered to him until it became reality: she was gone. His eyes turned to water, but tears never fell, the lump in his throat never formed. His heart maintained its rhythm. He was safe now. 

Outside, the brilliance of the morning sun encouraged the chirps of birds and crickets. The sun’s light beamed through the bay window behind the four-poster California king, where she lay cooling. The room now illuminated with power and death. The only witnesses to the spectacle were French oil paintings whose judgement sat silent from their place on the walls.  

In the aftermath, there was no time to consider his actions. No time to mourn his loss. No regret and no reflection. It was morning; he needed to make decisions, and business continued. 

Today he became CEO of one of the southeast’s largest companies. After contacting the paramedics, he called the head of communications at Carrington Enterprises. He recounted what happened and gave instructions.

“That’s right, I want the press conference here. I am committed to the same schedule. I also do not under any circumstances want prepared remarks.”

“But, Mr. Johnson, we’ve—” 

“Two more items. First, have the lawyers check their file on Tonya Lewis. Second, there is a folder in the top drawer of my desk. The folder has the names of three that will need to be terminated immediately. They were connected to Doug Wilbanks. I verified their role in that fiasco. Prepare a press release for Tanya’s release and an email to the organization about the others.” 

“Right away, sir.” 

“Personally see to it that all of this is completed by the close of business—that’s all.”

His calls completed, he looked at her again. She appeared peaceful as if she was in a deep sleep. His concentration broke when he heard the media trucks arrive. Local and national business media sent whoever they could to cover the press conference. His personal security team, inherited from Mr. Carrington as the leader of the firm was entitled, ushered members of the media in place. They positioned the reporters outside his front door in the sixty-six-degree October afternoon.

Inside the home, the hum of news vans and the chatter of reporters getting their live shots muted the birds and crickets. 

In his closet, the size of a studio apartment, adorned with mahogany and marble, he chose not one of his tailored suits, but the only off-the-rack suit. It was the suit his mom picked for him when he took her out for a shopping day. She encouraged him to “just try it on.” He did, and to his surprise liked it.

The ten-foot-high mirror reflected the man to himself. His shoulders slumped. His face was dormant, but his eyes were steel. Jacob adjusted his tie in the mirror and saw the reflection of the wooden chessboard he received from Deacon Rose the Christmas after his father died. The paint on the board had not chipped or faded through the years even though he had used it to aid him through many of his pivotal moments. He closed his eyes, briefly, then took the elevator to the ground floor. His shoulders lower now. His face transitioned from dormant to hibernation. 

“Take it. This is your time,” the voice said to him. 

At that moment, Jacob Johnson erected his back. His face awakened and his shoulders rose. He stood symmetrical. 

Jacob walked to the front door of the main house. He opened the door, then walked to the microphones. With no notes, he looked at the assembled press and began. 

“Today, I lost two of the most important people in my life. Both will never be forgotten and always remembered in my heart.” Jacob paused. He expected his emotions to whipsaw. Instead, his feelings were stock-still. He continued. “Today we begin anew. Personally, I begin a new chapter, but also does Carrington Enterprises, and I look forward to working with our employees and shareholders to see that Mr. Carrington’s vision, his life’s work, is accomplished.”

The story of Jacob Johnson did not begin in the room of mint and citrus by the lake. The future began in the past, the year, December 6, 1986 with his father.

II

Jacob eyeballed two tablespoons of baking soda. He emptied the contents onto the stained khakis. A mix of mud and fescue stained the pants. With an assist from the bathroom spigot, a thick paste formed, allowing him to work most of the stains out. His left eye, slightly swollen, would not be as easy to hide. 

The sound of the fabric’s friction grated, off-key. As the desafinado ensued, his memory flinched. He replayed the pictures from the creek and how the whole mess started—he found himself here once again.  

He walked to the creek as the crisp December air instructed his nose to run. Wind from the east made his eyes water. The creek made winter colder. Jacob’s windbreaker and gloves were just enough to keep the situation tolerable. In his right hand, he held the mason jar he brought to catch tadpoles. He liked going to the creek and was familiar with its contours. Jacob identified two medium-sized rocks in the shallowest end of the creek. He tiptoed to them, steadied his hand, and situated the jar in the water. On cue, one tadpole went in as if it had been waiting for a new home all day. The tadpoles blended with the water’s mud. The brown mixture made it difficult to determine his success. 

The capture made him anxious to see how many he caught. He made his way back to the edge of the creek. That’s when he spotted them. Like skilled predators they used the terrain to cover themselves. He wanted to run, but the hunters, led by Mikey, rendered all routes of escape invalid. The prey stood helpless. Fear soaked his pants. Jacob was stricken with panic fit for a soldier affixing his bayonet to his rifle before a charge. He considered resistance but accepted the fists with bitter resignation.  

Back in the bathroom he conducted the ritual of humiliation he perfected. He let the pants sit in the water while he patted a cotton ball to disinfect his eye with isopropyl alcohol. A few strands of the cotton ball stuck in the wound. Lucky for him, the cut sat just below his left eyebrow, so it took a squinted eye to notice. 

He continued his checklist of items. Jacob erased the stains from the pants and dropped them in the hamper. No evidence, no conversations. He concealed the effects of the bullying most days, but even a nine-year-old’s self-examination couldn’t justify why. He was not a child deprived of love. He had two parents, toys at Christmas, and thoughtful chastising which was abnormal in his neighborhood. He understood his mother’s love in the peanut butter and jelly sandwich she placed in his lunchbox. In conversations with his father, he felt nourished, wanted, even needed. While he felt the love, he also leveraged his father’s work schedule and his mother’s adherence to her stories on ABC as a sufficient cloak. 

His toothbrush, wash cloth, and towel were the sorrowful audience yet again. He wrung out his pants then opened the bathroom door. There, on the worn tan carpet, his father, Ricky Johnson, stood before him.

“You plan to put those in the hamper?”

Jacob stood in the doorway. His shock at seeing his father suspended his motion. 

“Would you like to tell me what’s going on?” His father said.

Jacob once again had no escape. The boys at the creek had cut off his routes, and now his dad made avoidance of the conversation impossible. 

Ricky Johnson’s arms were folded. Most mechanics didn’t dress in a white shirt and slacks even if they did own the shop. But most mechanics were not Ricky Johnson. He styled himself to command respect. The boys at the shop called him “Mr. J”; it was a sign of respect. Dress shirt and slacks were his uniform in a shop mired in oil and grease. Jacob admired his dad’s fashion choices even in this moment when he wished he could be anywhere else. 

Jacob had seen his father’s expression before. Ricky’s mood was not angry it was worse. His father was even tempered and employed logic. He didn’t spare the rod, but his rod struck the mind, not the body. 

“I’ve known about the bullying. I also know it just doesn’t happen at school. Were you down by the creek?”

Jacob looked down. “Yes, sir. I didn’t start it.”

Ricky told Jacob that he had seen the shirts and pants in the hamper. He implored his son to fight back. 

“The only language a bully understands is violence. Otherwise, they will feed off your fear.” 

In the doorway of that bathroom, under the watchful eye of his audience, Jacob felt he let his father down. School came easy to him, but he consistently felt that to get all his father’s love he needed to improve with his hands. His father once asked him for a straight edge, and he froze. After an awkward silence his father said, “Hand me that ruler.” His knowledge of cars was less impressive. His father not only owned the repair shop, but he also repaired the cars. He knew car makes and models. Jacob wasn’t even sure of the kind of car his parents drove every day. In every measure he believed his dad cared about Jacob did not make the grade. He wanted his dad to take it out on him, but Ricky never did. Jacob’s eyes welled as Ricky kept going.