It was a simple painting; a watercolor of a bouquet of yellow, blue, and red flowers resting in a purple vase. I figured it ran about fifteen dollars — expensive for motel art at a dilapidated motel, but inexpensive (cheap, really) in quality. It leaned against the wall, beside the TV stand. Had I not seen the bunny ears tangled on the floor by the bed, I would have guessed someone crept into the room last night and sat it there. Upon closer examination, I saw the hanging wire had snapped in two, but I couldn’t place it’s position on the wall, let alone when it had fallen during the night. It couldn’t have been quietly.
I looked around the room to see what else I had missed. The ugly decor, the flocked wallpaper, the vomit-stained carpet, the semen-soaked comforter — it all looked unsettling and unfamiliar. I couldn’t remember if the sink had that chip in the porcelain yesterday, or if that was my first room. I hadn’t seen that hole in the wall last night. Was the ink pen chewed on yesterday? Was it me who chewed on it? Or did it come pre-chewed?
The paranoia hadn’t worn off yet.
There was a nail in the wall above the television, small black Philips head. The wire did not have enough slack for me to twist the ends together and replace.
The front office said, “This is the first I’ve heard of a painting falling off the walls here — they’re usually nailed in pretty tight. I’ll fix it for you this afternoon.”
I had the receiver on the cradle for less than a split second when the phone rang. It was Moe.
“We’ve got your car on the lift right now,” he promised. “It looks like you blew the timing belt. Shit are you lucky this is a rental. But that brings me to some bad news: we don’t have a new one lying around. We’ll order a new one today and we’ll have it in by Wednesday. Hopefully. ‘Til then, you’re gonna hafta find yourself something to do ’round here. Or get yourself a ride to Mobile.”
There was a smudge of something — blood? shit? vomit? mold? — on the wall above the bed. I saw that yesterday, but now it looked distinctly horse-shaped.
“Shit! Wednesday! You’re fucking kidding me!” My boss was inconsolable. “You’ve spent three days in that shithole, sitting on your ass and doing nothing. And now you’re going to spend three more. Jesus Christ. I bet you’re loving this. Remember, you are NOT there for a mini vacation. You have a job to do, whether you fucking like it or not.”
The air conditioning sprang to life, like a dragon awakened upon molestation of its gold-hoard. I stared at it, ignoring my boss shouting warnings and obscenities at me from the phone.
The summer before my senior year in high school, I showed up to my SATs with an hour to kill. I decided to spend that time with a few acquaintances of mine, including the physics teacher, self-medicating any anxiousness I felt with some herbal repose. It was only one hit, but it was enough to send me into paranoia — a side affect I hadn’t yet experienced. As soon as the proctor said “begin,” the air conditioning kicked in and cool air came tumbling out from the air vent in the wall above my head. Panic rose in my chest as I pictured mycotoxic fumes pouring into the room as lab-coated scientists observed our reactions and subsequent test scores from the room next door.
I blinked and the A/C went dead. Heat, not mycotoxins, came crashing down from the ceiling.
“I’ll take a look at that, too.” The front office promised.
Having no place to go but no place to stay either, I decided to go for a walk. The heat was inescapable either way; at least by walking I’d hold back the paranoia.
I had no plans to end up anywhere when I began walking, but I wound up in town. I crossed the street to avoid both Maw’s Diner and Natalie’s flower shop. That put me in the parking lot of Rusty’s IGA.
Inside, Bill Hutto Jr. was tacking a sheet of paper to the community billboard. “I don’t clock in for another two hours and I’m not supposed to do this,” he said, “but I’m gonna anyway.” He stood back and admired his work. “I made that myself — mom’ll be proud.”
This FRIDAY!!!!
SING UP TODAY — $10 per vehicle!
CACHE PRIZE OF $1000 DOLLARS
(Sponsered by Mr. Owen T. McClure of McClure Real Estate)
Beer — $3; Non-ALCIHOLIC Drinks – $$FREE!!!$$
CALL BILL HUTTO JR. for more information!
I wondered.
At the bottom of the flier were pre-cut flaps with Bill Jr.’s name and phone number printed in his handwriting.
“I’ve almost got my car fixed. It’ll run, I’ll tell you. Skip’s bringing my Charger — my old one. Russell’s got his Mustang in the mix. Hope other people show up too.” He smiled. “It’s a thing ’round here. There ain’t much to do so we drive our cars into mud. I got some stories for you if you’re ever interested. One time –”
From the grocery store came a bizarre, high-pitched trilling sound that wouldn’t have been a human voice save for knowing English in a thick Southern accent: Biiiiiiiiill wudjacumtothefront doooooosk foraminitthank yoooooooou.
Bill Jr. paled. “Shit, that’s Rusty. I ain’t supposed to be here until 1 o’clock.” As he skipped away. “Hope you get your car fixed. I wouldn’t wanna be stuck ’round here.”
He got around the corner just as his father pulled into the parking lot. Hutto pulled his cruiser into the handicapped spot right by the front sliding doors. He snorted and hawked a glistening wad of tobacco onto the sidewalk. “My boy come ’round here?” He spotted the flier, lifted his sunglasses and squinted at it. “Well, he spelt his damn name right at least.” To me, he asked, “You still here?”
“Well, I wouldn’t put too much past Moe. He knows what he’s talkin’ ’bout when it comes to cars. Sorry you’re gonna miss your deadline, though. But hell, it ain’t like no one’s gonna fix that hurricane damage any time soon.” Hutto pointed to a pack of cigarettes behind the teen-aged clerk and leaned on the counter. “Hell, when the last big storm came the whole county didn’t have power for a week. ‘Cept for them damn McClures of course — no, no sweetheart — not the menthols. Thank you.” He winked at the clerk, who couldn’t have been much older than Corrine. “Well, shit. Since you ain’t goin’ no wheres, I’ll send Bill Jr. to pick you up for the barbecue tonight at our house. Don’t tell me you city people don’t eat ribs.”
Guffaw.
Biiiiiiiiill wudjacumtothefront doooooooosk youfatpieceashiiiiiiiit…..
“Oh sweet Jesus have mercy.” Hutto closed his eyes. “Hope he wouldn’t see me, fuckin’ — pardon me — filthy sonofabitch.”
Biiiiiiiill dontmakemetellyou twiiiiiiiice….
“Goddamnit.”
“Chief! What the hell you doin’ in my store?” The skinny man with a wispy mustache approached Hutto with open arms. Hutto stuck out one and the Rusty Cullen resigned to shaking his hand. “Saw your boy in here — told him not to show up before 1 o’clock.”
“He’s hanging signs for that stupid mudbog. He thinks he’ll have his car ready by then — been saying that for six months now.” Hutto took a seat in a well-worn office chair as Rusty Cullen sat behind his desk. “That’s all they’ve been talking about for weeks now — that and, you mind? Thanks — the Alabama Auburn game on Saturday.” He lit a cigarette. “Thinkin’ he’s gonna get two bettin’ pools goin’ in the same weekend.”
“I got fifty on Auburn, three on your boy there.” Rusty laughed and kicked his legs up on the desk. “No offense, but I don’t think your boy could put his bike chain back on the right way.” He laughed again. Hutto stared at him coldly, and Rusty shrank back. “Money’s tight, that’s all.”
“The hell it is — you run a grocery store. Everyone needs groceries.” Smoke ebbed out from between his chapped lips. “Ain’t no need for cops.” He looked out of the mirrored glass window over the store. “Well, shit. The devil walks amongst us.”
Rusty sat up and looked. For a silent moment, they watched Melissa Hudson pacing herself through the aisles, plucking canned goods, boxed dinners, and powdered juice mixes off the shelves. Passersby in the store took their turns either staring at her or avoiding her completely. One woman jerked her cart 180-degrees and fled to the next aisle. If Melissa Hudson noticed, she didn’t show it.
“A buck is a buck,” Rusty observed, creaking back in his office chair. “You hear anything more?”
“‘Nah, ain’t heard much more yet. Skip’ll tell me what he knows tonight. CarolAnn has known about it for a week — it’ll be all she can talk about.” He adjusted his gut over his belt. “They must have known somebody to get that house. Had they gone to McClure Real Estate, they would have never known about it.”
“That house has been empty for years.”
“I know that.” Hutto rolled his eyes. “They must have known the previous owners. There weren’t any signs outside and it wasn’t on the market. Got to have been a private sell.”
“McClure would know.”
“He should but he don’t.” Hutto shrugged his shoulders and snubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray. “I gotta go. Still need ribs and barbecue sauce.”
“Aisles eight and twelve,” Rusty said.
I got my groceries: bottled water, junk food, a better toothbrush. I used the business credit card and walked out of the grocery store with two plastic bags full of useless crap. I had enough for the week; I knew I’d have to prepare.
Hutto spat on the ground again. “You ain’t gonna walk home with that shit, are you? Well, damn. I’ll drive you. Again.”
I happened to look at Bill Jr.’s flier tacked to the bulletin board. Two phone number flaps had been ripped from it already.
“Bet it ain’t this hot where you’re from,” Hutto remarked. “New York an’ all. Must be freakin’ you out.” A 400-square-foot apartment in Manhattan can be both a pressure cooker in July and a walk-in freezer in February. I thought about the air conditioning in my motel room. “Sun’s healthy for you. I bet you don’t see it too often there. All those buildings blocking it.”
He pulled up to my motel room. “Bill Jr.’ll get you after his shift ends. I invited the Arnolds. We’ll see if J. Matthew shows up — you’ll have to meet him before you leave.” He snickered. “Should be interesting.”
There was a note on the door, from the front desk. Sorry, I couldn’t fix the a/c today. Will have the part tomorrow. –Mgmt. PS: I hung the picture.
Hutto’s cruiser peeled away again, as if he were in a race to get out of the parking lot before I could get into the room.
The mouth of hell belched at me when the door swung open. I stumbled and slumped against the wall to keep from passing out. Jacking the windows open and leaving the door ajar almost helped cool it down.
On the wall, above the television, hung another painting — an tangerine sunset behind a black barn, patches of snow like clouds peppering the farmland. It looked less cheery than the first one. Maybe it was the darker paint hues, or maybe the overall orangeness reminded me of the heat. I stared at it, considered it, named it “Sunset Over Barn.” I opened my laptop.
I had a full page written when the front desk manager came to my room to take a better look at the air conditioning unit. He studied the dials and frowned. “Looks to be a short in the wiring,” he said. “I can give it a temporary fix for now, but I’ll need to work more on it tomorrow. You want to change rooms or something?” He pulled out a roll of electrical tape and began taping the exposed wires together.
Five minutes later, a welcome relief of cool air came ebbing up from the unit. Within ten, the knocking returned to the wall behind the television. In rhythmic, almost sensual, thuds the vibrations rattled the painting and the bunny ears.
I slammed my laptop shut. I couldn’t stop myself but in a split second I was at the neighboring cabin door, banging loudly, trying to drown out the noise with just the blunt end of my fist. This was my second time admonishing neighbors in my lifetime. My junior year at Columbia was filled with fitful sleep as the occupants of the dorm next to mine refused to keep their sexual activities below a reasonable volume. Two weeks before the end of the semester I bravely confronted the couple, with the help of a pepper spray canister behind my back. The male opened the door, eyed me, then lurched forward to spray pre-digested vodka all over me and the hallway. His girlfriend, a greasy-haired transfer from Sarah Lawrence, pulled down her skirt and left in a huff — possibly offended that her paramour needed that much Stoli just to fuck her. Cleaning crew arrived and found out both of them had failed out last term, kicked them out for the remaining term. I slept well for the last two weeks after that.
The noise continued on, and I went back to my room to call the front office. The wire on the new painting snapped as I stormed in and the painting crashed to the floor, the bunny ears becoming casualties for the second time that day. As if startled, the banging ended.
I called the front office anyway.
“I’m sorry. We’re having some maintenance done in some of the rooms. You’re probably hearing one of our guys putting up a new headboard. I can call down there and tell them to keep it down if you want, but…it’s the middle of the day. That’s when they have to work. They can’t just stop because they happen to annoy…oh never mind. I’ll take care of it. Sorry.”
The painting’s wire had snapped in two, and the frame was separating in the top right corner. I placed it against the opposite wall, next to my bed, so it couldn’t be hurt again.
I got a shower.
An obnoxious honking woke me up from another strange, pot-dream. Headlights beamed in through the windows; the sun was almost gone and insects were starting to scream. In the car outside the cabin, Bill Hutto Jr. waved at me from the inside of a dirty brown Caprice.
He leaned over and opened the door for me from the inside. “Sorry, handle’s broke,” he admitted, his cheeks pink. “This is my mom’s car. Been meaning to fix this for her for a while. Got caught up with my new car.”
Bill Jr. didn’t drive like his father. He was careful, cautious; even painstakingly delicate in his turns and acceleration. “It’s my mom’s only car,” he explained. “She don’t want nothin’ to happen to it. An’ I don’t blame her; we cain’t afford a new one and all.”
I recognized that tone of voice. Could that be genuine honesty?
He drove five miles under the speed limit, too. “My dad says I drive like his memaw. Well, I ain’t never gettin’ a ticket. He’s got too many cop friends, and he’s told them all to ticket me if they see me goin’ so much as a mile over. Well, I showed ‘em.”
He smiled fondly, thinking. “I bet you feel real weird being dragged around this town like this. Everyone fussin’ over you like you some third cousin or whathaveyou.” He laughed. “Well, at least you get to meet everyone. Not that there’s a lot of everyone here. We all know each other; have always knowed each other. Grew up together. Know each other’s bee’s wax. But that’s ok, no one here minds. We’re all good people ’round here.”
I thought about the Hudsons. I pictured the conversation James and Melissa Hudson were having over dinner, their pork chops and apple sauce. I pictured them asking their three children about their day at school. I wondered if any “good people” came up in their conversation. And if they did, I pictured them trying to warn their children about such “good people.”
“Speaking of which,” Bill Jr. interrupted himself mid-sentence during a conversation I didn’t know we were having. “I wonder what Corrine is going to do when she sees Russell at the house tonight. She’s gonna shit, I just know it.” He chuckled. “You know they was dating up until not to long ago? They had a bad break up. The whole town knew about it, talked about it.” He twisted his mouth in a somewhat ironic smile. “That’s the bad thing about this town, too. We all know each other’s bee’s wax a little too much. But that’s ok — no one knows the details. ‘Cept for me.” He nodded grimly. “You wanna hear?”
They met in eighth grade gym class, but didn’t start going out until sophomore year. They took driver’s ed together, learning to drive in a Malibu. While the driver’s ed teacher coached a mousy brunette in the front, Russell and Corrine spoke quietly to each other in the back. Russell placed his hand on her uncovered thigh and slid his fingers under the cuff of her shorts; Corrine kept her expression blank, staring straight ahead.
In the week of their driver’s training, Corrine and Russell moved from basic finger-banging to hand-holding (occasionally with the same hands). The day they got their graduation certificates, Russell pulled up to the school in his pickup truck and threw open the door for her. “You wanna go get coffee?”
They had coffee at Maw’s. Corrine sat, quietly stirring her coffee with a swizzle stick while Russell rattled on about his new Mustang that he wanted to race. “It’s only a four-cylinder, but I’m gonna drop a 5.0 in it. That shit’s gonna purr like — ah, fuck purrin’ — that shit’s gonna growl like a panther. You know if your brother’ll help me? My dad can get the engine from Mobile so we ain’t gotta wait on Moe to call it in.” He went on and on about his aspirations for cars. “I hear your brother got a Charger. How’s that run, you know?”
“Beats me,” she admitted. “He don’t talk ’bout it too much. Daddy’ll get mad. He –”
“Yeah, I mighta known your daddy wouldn’t like him talkin’ ’bout no cars.” Russell banged his spoon against his coffee cup to signal the waitress. “Can I get a slice of cheesecake, please?”
Corrine may have been bored with this talk of cars, but too shy to change the conversation. He noticed her boredom and changed it for her: “So, you in Mrs. Odom’s science class?”
“Yeah.”
“You like it?”
“Yeah, I guess…do you?”
“Hell no. Woman’s a bitch. Failed me the first semester, tol’ me I’d have to take summer classes to make it up.” He laughed. “You shoulda seen the look on her face when my mom went in there to yell at her. ‘My boy had better not fail your class!’ she said. ‘But Mrs. McClure, he’s been absent 9 times this semester and you only get 6.’ Mom said, ‘I do NOT recall signing any documents that said this and I will have your job if you made my son, a minor, fail this class.’ She passed me with a D. Miserable fucking bitch. Hated her goddamn class anyway. Useta called her ol’ Miss Scrotum. Doubt she’d know what that even is.” He sneered and leaned back. “You did good in that class?”
“Um…I guesso.”
“What’d you get?”
“A ‘B’, a low one.” Corrine had in fact gotten a low ‘A’. Mrs. Odom had written A pleasure and a positive influence in class on Corrine’s grade report.
“Well shit. But you’re one of them smart people. Smart people are always doing well in class.”
“She once told me I needed to work harder on my labs,” she supplied. “I told her she needed to stop raggin’ on me. I knew what I needed to do.”
He scoffed. “You did? Really?”
“Yeah.” Corrine looked away.
“It’s ok. You’re smart. Smart people have it so easy.” He reached across the table and took her hand. “Hey, you wanna help me with my science homework?”
Laurie walked with the dessert. She paused to look at Corrine before setting the piece of pie on the table between them.
Fifteen minutes later, they were parked in the field near the abandoned fire tower, the two of them rolling around in the bed on an old army blanket. He convinced her they didn’t need a rubber — the first time didn’t count, her body would be too shocked to know what to do with the sperm anyway. Three minutes later, Russell rolled off her and began shoving his shirt into the waistband of his jeans. “Your brother know how to replace timing belts?”
“He never officially called her his girlfriend. They fought about that a lot. Corrine wanted him to say it, but he told her they weren’t boyfriend and girlfriend ’til he took her to his momma and said he wanted to marry her someday. He met our mom and dad. Mom’d make him macaroni and cheese and he’d complain about it being from the box. My dad would try to talk to him about Mr. McClure’s business, but Russell don’t know shit about business anyway. Most of the time when he was over, he’d try to get me to show him the Charger, but I said no. Corrine would just sit there at the table, glaring at her dinner or at me whenever the subject came up. They fought all the time. They fought more than mom and dad ever did. Maybe watchin’ ‘em fight all those years was good practice for Corrine.
“Then came the last muddin’ and burnin’.”
Corrine resisted taking the Charger out up until that afternoon. Russell had pressed her with false promises: “I’ll take you to Mobile for the weekend,” and “I’ll let you drive my truck” just weren’t working. Finally, just as he dropped her off he found a new promise: “If you take the Charger out tonight, I’ll take you to my momma. I’ll tell her I wanna marry you. We’ll get married on Valentine’s Day. Momma’ll be so happy that she and daddy’ll pay for everything. You can wear her dress.”
Corrine approached Bill Jr. as soon as he got home from work.
“The Charger? Shit! That’s my baby! I ain’t gonna let no one borrow that.” He frowned. “Besides which, you cain’t drive a stick.”
“It ain’t me that wants to borrow it, Bill — it’s Russell.”
“Fuck! Ain’t he got a Mustang of his own?”
“Please, Bill? He promised he’d marry me if I took the car. I didn’t wanna steal it from you, so I had to ask. Please?”
“Marry you?” Bill Jr. laughed. “You think that scrawny little twit’s gonna marry you? And if he does, you think he’ll make a good husband to do? The way he tomcats around like he does? The way he yells at you and calls you names?”
“He won’t do that once we get married. We need to be settled. Then everything’ll fall into place. This tomcatting and yelling — that’s all teenager shit. It ain’t what husbands and wives do.”
“Yeah? Explain momma and daddy.”
She raised her chin. “It ain’t what good husbands and wives do.”
He sighed. “You’re something else, you know? You really think you have something with this punk?”
“I’ll find out.” She lifted her hand, palm up, fingers wiggling.
He took his keys off the carabiner on his belt-hoop.
“Well, you know what happened then. Russell crashed my Charger. Rather than let daddy know she was out drinking and doing other things, I took the blame for it. Saved Skip’s job too. Couldn’t do anything about Russell and Corrine, though. Saw that comin’ from a mile a way.”
“What do you mean, pay for it?”
“Daddy took it up to Moe’s. It’s sitting in his junkyard and Bill Jr. cain’t afford to get it out anytime soon.”
“And that’s my problem?”
“You’re the one who wanted to fucking take it!”
“Ain’t my fault that car was a piece of shit — tell your brother he needed a stronger axle.”
“You drove it, you wrecked it, you should pay for it.”
“I ain’t gon’ do that!”
“Russell!”
“I said, no! And that’s final.” He paced back and forth in the driveway, his hands on his hips. “Shit. And now we ain’t got a place to race no more ’cause of Skip. My dad finds out about that crazy old coot he’ll take away my truck too. And goddamn it, I need that for Auburn….”
“Auburn!” Corrine exploded. “You said you wasn’t goin’.”
“The fuck did I say that?”
“You promised me. You swore up and down that you wouldn’t go away to college — said we’d move to Mobile and get jobs there.”
“The fuck did I say that?”
“The other night.” She blushed. “After we was done…you know. At the fire tower.”
He threw back his head and laughed. “That was you? Shee-it. Thought that was Laney Dawson I swore that to.”
Corrine balled her hands up and flung herself at him. “You asshole! You swore you wasn’t gonna see her no more! You swore it!”
“I fuckin’ lied about that too. Git offa me, you skanky-ass slut. Git!” He grabbed her wrists and grappled with her, finally shoving her away. “Bet you thought we was gonna get married, too. Oh, you did? Well, you’re even dummer than we all thought. No, I ain’t gonna marry you — thought never popped into mind. Think my momma and daddy want me to marry some white-trash cunt who lives in a trailer? Good god. Think of the retard babies we’d make.”
Corrine reared her head back and spat at him, darting a perfect bullseye on his mouth. He let out a grunt and began pounding on her, the skin of his knuckles breaking before he thought to stop. She rolled in the dirt, sobbing, bleeding from her lip and nose as he marched back to his pickup. He threw one last verbal grenade over his shoulder — “White-trash cunt!” he repeated — before he drove off in a cloud of red dust.
Shill dropped Bill Jr. off at home fifteen minutes later. Corrine was on the front stoop, eyes red, face swollen.
“What the hell?” he asked.
She shrugged. “Nothing.”
“Did you ask about getting the Charger out?”
She looked at him, stood up, and reached for the door. “Fuck your Charger.”
He sat slumped in the seat, neck bent, eyes low. “I shoulda kicked his ass. I shoulda kicked his ass every doggon’ time I saw him. I should be kickin’ his ass tonight. But I didn’t. I haven’t. I won’t. His daddy’s a powerful guy. Best I can do is beat him in the mudbog — which is now on his daddy’s property.” He grinned through his shame. “I might even name the Mustang Corrine. Sounds poetic, Corinne gettin’ her revenge by beatin’ him back.” He chuckled. “Aw hell. I don’t know what I’m talkin’ ’bout. Everyone’s here.”
The minute the car doors open my senses were assailed by the smoky scent of burning coal. Smoke rose from the back of the trailer, along with loud country music and laughter. There were five cars in the driveway beside the Caprice: Bill Jr.’s Mustang with it’s hood open and its rims on cinderblocks; Hutto’s cruiser; a maroon Excursion with MCCLURE on the license plate; Laurie Arnold’s black Escort; and a blue Celebrity that I took to be the Cullens. As we walked around the trailer, I could hear the sounds of splashing and giggling.
“Well, you two just made it!” Arlene Hutto was in a red-checked apron and holding a plate of BBQ ribs. “Plenty for all — help yourself.”
Shill and Bill Jr. greeted each other, while the Aesthetic Society waved their hellos to me. Hutto was at the grill, while the adults were at the picnic table, leaning over their plates. The younger kids were in the above ground pool, riding whatever inflatable animal they could cram into it. I didn’t recognize three of the kids — two twin girls, one boy — but guessed from their scrawny, big-headedness that they were Cullens.
“Trip! Trip!” Janet Cullen hollered. “Stop forcing Susan’s head under the water!”
I was right.
The older kids were sitting in old lawn chairs, talking quietly or fiddling with hand-held video game systems. Russell McClure leaned back in a teal chair, his long legs propped up against the nearest pine tree.
No sign of Corrine. I looked at Bill Jr., who shrugged.
“Y’all get yourself something to eat — the Wilkins’ are gonna miss dinner but will be here later.” Arlene handed me a plate. “Hope you’re hungry!”
I was, and somewhere in the slop of grease and calories I found butter beans, mashed potatoes and gravy, and buttered bread. Hutto slapped three ribs on my plate when I walked by. “Eat up, but we got more. Don’t want no left overs.”
And the adults sat around the picnic table and chatted while the children played out of earshot. Occasionally a child would raise his or her arm, call to their parents to announce some victory, and the parents would nod at them approvingly. “That’s great, sweethearts,” Janet Cullen said to her daughters, Susan and Abigale, when they demonstrated their underwater cartwheels. “Now play nicely with everyone while momma and daddy talk to the grown ups.”
“Like you’ll find any of those here,” Arlene muttered, and the women laughed. Hutto raised an eyebrow at her, and she looked away.
“Sorry to hear about J. Matthew, Laurie,” he said, taking a healthy bite of a rib. “You gonna take him to the doctor?”
“This weekend, yes. If we cain’t get his fever down.” Laurie smiled, but it was clear she was embarrassed. “He’s just been having a rough time and all. With all the work and stuff. It’s a very stressful time for everyone, I’m sure. I mean, we…”
Dell McClure cleared her throat and pointed with her fork. “Laurie…?”
Laurie’s jaw dropped when she turned around. “Oh my lord — Christian! Christian! No, no! We do not eat dirt! Nasty! Stop that!” She got up from her seat and rushed over to her son, who had another handful of dirt going toward his mouth.
“So that’s what she feeds him,” Owen T. McClure said, impassively chewing his bread and butter. “Wonder where the boy puts it all.”
The others snickered quietly, even Dell McClure as she put her hand on her husband’s purple sleeve.
Of all the men I had ever seen, McClure was by far the most profound. He dressed the part of a wealthy real estate mogul from the South. A big guy, McClure dressed from head to toe in purple — right down to his purple socks and Stetson. The way he saw it, he was the richest man in the county, quite possibly the state. He could wear whatever color he wanted to and no one would say anything to him. He dressed his wife in diamonds and sapphires; he drove an expensive vehicle that he payed outright for. He sent his two eldest sons, Hunter and Chase, to Auburn. He built a racetrack for his youngest son at his request. If he wanted to wear purple, he could.
“Pardon me,” Laurie said as she returned to her seat. “Now, what was I saying?”
Pastor and Mrs. Wilkins arrived, childless, after Arlene and Laurie cleared the table. They carried two six packs of domestic beer with them — Hutto greeted the clergyman a little harder than normal.
“Y’all get out of that pool,” Arlene chided the children. “Mosquitos are comin’ out.” She meant the bugs the size of rats floating around the trees. “Y’all get changed and y’all can have some Popsickles.”
The children tumbled out of the pool and ran for the trailer. Pastor Don passed out the cans of beer. McClure held up two fingers and Pastor Don gave him a second. “Hey — boy!” he called to his son. “Think fast!” He pitched the can and Russell caught it. “I still got my throwin’ arm! Y’all see that spiral?”
“You sure he can have one?” Pastor Don asked. “I mean…with…” He looked at Hutto.
Hutto shrugged and popped the top of his can. “Like I give a shit how a man raises his boy.” He looked at Bill Jr. “Not that you get any.”
“That’s the problem with kids today,” Rusty Cullen said. “You cain’t teach them to respect beer. In Europe, they drink when they’re still in the womb. The womb.”
“Oh?” Hutto said. “You noticed this when you went to Europe? For the Navy?”
“Well.” Rusty blushed. “I noticed a lot of sh–stuff over there.”
“Well, damn. Listen to this, Pastor Don. Our boys at sea are learnin’ European culture. About time they taught sailors to do something other than shower with their backs to the wall.” Guffaw.
“Now, I’m just sayin’ in Europe things are different. Alcohol is a well-respected delicacy. That’s all.”
“Well, shit — listen to Mr. Sophisticate from Europe!” Hutto howled. “All hoity-toity and all. Actin’ like he ain’t never lynched a coon in his life.” Everyone except for Rusty rolled with laughter.
“Speaking of which,” McClure interrupted. “You heard anything about…that family yet?”
Hutto turned to Shill. “You tell him what you told me, Skip.”
Shill rolled his eyes and sat his beer down. He looked like he was about to recite something for the umpteenth time that day. “Ok. My mom baked a casserole to take over to the Hudson’s house. We both went over together. We asked them about the house and where they were from, and why they came to Bottom Hill. James Hudson — the man — lost his job in Mississippi. He found work in Mobile and has to commute twice a month. Melissa is a stay at home mom, but she’s taking online classes to study medical transcription. They didn’t really say how they got their house — said a friend helped them get it.”
“Bullshit,” McClure said. “I’ve been wanting to buy that house for five years now and it was simply not on the market. And goddamn it, it would have made Hunter and Mandy a nice place to live had those spooks hadn’t walked in and took’d it. Who the fuck do they think they are? Sorry, Pastor.”
Pastor Don opened his mouth to speak, but Hutto cut him off. “Thinks just ain’t what they used to be, Owen. When I was a kid, no one would even think to move to Bottom Hill if they weren’t good people. Now we got violence and drugs and sex and loud jungle music thanks to them. What the hell you going to do?” He turned to Pastor Don. “What does the Bible say to do?”
I lost Pastor Don’s carefully prepared “love thy neighbor” speech when out of the corner of my eye, Russell got up from his lawn chair and sneaked around the other side of the trailer.
“…but you’re right about one thing. They’re bringing all that garbage to our kids. No wonder they’re not as good as we were when we were kids.” Pastor Don sighed and swallowed the last of his beer. “But we love them. We have to love them. God says too. But he don’t say we gotta like them.”
“Isn’t one of the children in school with CarolAnn?” EmmaGrace Wilkins asked.
“Oh, yeah. One sec — CarolAnn! CarolAnn, could you come out here for a moment sweetheart?” CarolAnn came bounding outside and threw her arms around her father’s neck. “Attagirl. Now, tell Pastor Don what you told me. About the new boy in your class.”
CarolAnn took a deep breath. “Well, Miss Salisbury made us all stand up and sing the welcome to him. His name was Jeremy. No one wanted to stand up and sing and Miss Salisbury said, ‘What’s wrong? Why won’t you sing the song?’ And Bradley Wilde said, ‘I ain’t gonna sing to no nigger!’ And Miss Salisbury made him sit inside for recess while the rest of us went out to play. Oh, an Jeremy has a puppy at his house named Tiny — he’s a little Dash Hound. Momma, I want to get a Dash Hound so I can name it Hot Dog!”
“Ok, ok — that’s enough. We’ll talk about that later.” Hutto sat her down. “Go inside, momma will get you a Popsickle.” CarolAnn took off. “Y’see that, Owen? If I were that boy’s momma, I’d be in there in a heartbeat. They’re punishing our kids for standing up for themselves. ”
“She didn’t punish him for that.” CarolAnn was suddenly at my side. We were all startled. “She punished him for saying the N-word.”
“CarolAnn, go inside.” Hutto commanded.
“That’s a bad word,” CarolAnn whispered to me, just before slinking up the patio and back inside the house.
“Teachers these days,” Arlene remarked. “They think they can get away with everything because they see our children more than we do.”
“Tell me about it.” Dell McClure exclaimed, rolling her head along with her eyes. Russell McClure slunk back to his seat, his face red and unreadable. His mother started, perplexed she never saw him leave. “And where were you, mister?”
“I had to take a leak,” he responded.
Accidentally, our eyes met. “What the fuck you lookin’ at?”
