Hick (6 page)

That little schoolteacher with paper skin comes walking over, through the weeds and up our rickety steps, framing herself in the front door, with a worried look on her forehead and a bag of Tupperware weighing down her spindly pencil arm.

It was not the best time to make a house-call.

In fact, maybe just never make a house-call next time.

This is what happened. There was the little problem of Tammy being out all night the night before, no explanation, no nothing, just not back at noon the next day and mind your own business, don’t ask questions. That was the first part.

The second part was that, as the hours dragged by from night into late night into early morning into the next goddamn day and still nothing cocksucker, my dad went from having a shot of Jack to pass the time to having a shot of Jack to take the edge off to having a shot to calm his nerves and then another to calm the fuck down and Jesus Christ where the fuck is my wife and where the fuck is your goddamn mother and then the bottle gets empty and then the
bottle gets thrown and the dad is sitting on the stairs with his head in his hands sobbing. Sobbing.

And that’s when the knock comes.

it’s not the police with a sad, tragic but earnest report about the whereabouts of my mama. it’s not Uncle Nipper and Aunt Gina stumbling in with Tammy in tow, talking about it was a rough night and you should have been there you’d never believe it. In fact, it’s got nothing to do with Tammy at all.

It is, instead, a paper-thin spindle of a thing with skin the color of glue, standing squint-eyed in the doorway.

My dad peeks through the side window, jolts and cleans up his act, throwing back his shoulders and taking his place with a casual cowboy lean before opening the door. You better just prepare yourself to answer doors in my house.

She stands there, the schoolteacher, she stands there, looking up at him, big and gruff and mean and tall and leaning in like the Marlboro man. She stands there, stammering, looking up at him, up all night and smelling of whiskey and looking like he’s itching for a fight, just give him a reason. She stands there, the schoolteacher, no bigger than a thimble, in her scuffed-up Buster Brown shoes.

“Um. Hello. Um. My name is Miss Crisp. I teach at Luli’s school and, well, we had dinner the other night, last night, We had a wonderful time, really, and so, well, I thought I’d bring Luli some leftovers, just in case she—”

And then he kisses her.

That’s right. My dad grabs Miss Crisp by the waist, pulls her off her feet and kisses her on the mouth for ten seconds straight, with her legs dangling from his forearm.

The bag of Tupperware falls to the floor, forget about the Tupperware, no one’s thinking about that now. Now it’s just my dad whisking the little brown-haired wisp of a schoolteacher off her feet when she went to a school with no vowels and no men, that’s for damn sure, that’s the way they want it.

Now it’s just him setting her back down on the ground, easy, still looking into her eyes, her backing up, stunned, flummoxed, dizzy. Now it’s just her composing herself, smoothing down her sweater, backing up, backing up, flustered and blushing, turning around, stymied, making her way, barely, down the steps, through the weeds and back home.

Now it’s just him looking after her, my dad, looking after her, smiling to himself and shaking his head, following her with his eyes all the way down the steps and up the dirt road. He laughs out loud, my dad, making his way backwards up the stairs into the bedroom. He chuckles to himself, over and over, my dad, before falling into bed with his clothes on, snickering himself to sleep and throwing back the night.

I grab the Tupperware and thank God and all twelve apostles for the marshmallow Jell-O, mashed potatoes and fancy bread with no slices. I say a prayer that this’ll mark a brand new phase of my life, of my dad and Miss Crisp and rump roast with carrots or peas, you take your pick.

I make a promise to the ceiling and the upstairs beyond that I will do whatever it takes, be good and never swear, if this could be my new day dawning, with corn on the cob and pumpkin pie and my dad laughing silly up the stairs. I won’t lie or cheat or swear or steal, I promise.

But the schoolteacher never comes back. She never comes back and never says another word about two kinds of pie or rump roast or kisses on the porch that sweep you off your feet.

But she does one nice thing that I’ll never talk back to. From that day on, every morning, when I look in my desk, there it is. it’s a tiny little brown paper bag and inside is grapes and a grainy kind of food, God knows what, and not one but two, two Fred Flint-stone vitamins for dessert. that’s the candy part.

And I don’t know if it’s the way my daddy swept her off her feet or the way I can’t seem to get an F, but that little schoolteacher, with skin the color of paper, takes me back from being the full bad person I’m meant to be. She puts a light on in the attic and keeps it on, just barely.

But, boy, you should’ve seen her blush. That paper turned red all right.

Once I get to Vegas I’m gonna find someone to make my legs dangle.

Sometime deep into the night I am awakened from my grassy slumber by the sound of something streaming steadily beside me, up a ways in the ditch. I sit up and squint blindly into the dark. Much to my surprise or fear or wondering if it’s just a late night vision, I see a woman there, standing upright in the moonlight. Her skirt is jacked up above her hips and her legs spread, pissing straight down like a man, miraculous in her accuracy. Her high heels are dug into the dirt and she seems, at that moment, to be some kind of superhero, able to leap tall buildings in a single bound, or at least to stand straight upright and piss boy-style.

She’s pretty, not so much from some glossy, made-up, magazine-like imitation but in that way that has something to do with knowing or feeling or having been up to no good. Like trouble. She has that same blond Doris Day flip like my mama, only with a little more roots and a lot more hairspray. She doesn’t see me. She just stands there pissing casual over the night.

I watch her with a weird little thrill that she doesn’t see me but I see her, till I remember my predicament and have a vision of her driving away, leaving me behind, without a trace. And that would not do.

“Jesus, lady, you trying to piss on my head?”

She starts, not exactly a jump, but I know I surprised her, which seems not easy to do, judging from the look on her face when she spots me in the dirt. She sighs through her lips, almost like a pout and a sigh met on the dance floor and went for a whirl.

“Holy fucker, kid, you could give someone a heart attack yelping out from the ditch like that.”

“That was not a yelp, and anyways, you bout pissed on my head.” “Sorry, I didn’t see ya.” She susses me out. “What the hell ya doing out here anyways? You oughta be in bed.”

“I am in bed.”

“You some kinda runaway or something?”

She takes a cigarette out of her purse and lights it, throwing the match down and squishing it into the ground with the front of her heel. I take note that, within her peeing extravaganza, she didn’t seem to bother with any kind of panties.

“How can you pee standing up like that?”

“Whattaya mean?”

“I mean, don’t you have to squat a little? I always have to squat a little.”

“Naw. Not if you’re smart. You just find where the hill goes down, move your feet out the way and shoot.”

After that, we just sort of stare at each other. There’s something about her I like. Something familiar, like she’s just leaning through this life and not caring too much about the walls falling down
around her. She doesn’t seem like the kind of person that would tell you to sit up straight or wash your mouth out with soap or scold you for elbows on the table. She looks like what I want to look like.

“So, you gonna tell me why you’re out here or are you trying to be mysterious?”

“I got in a fight.”

“Oh.” She nods. “Boyfriend?”

“Naw. Just some guy picked me up on the side of the road. He seemed all right but then he kind of got crazy and I just looked at him and said, ‘Let me out,’ and he tried to make me stay, begged me actually, but finally I just opened the door and got out.”

“Well. Good for you. that’s smart.” She takes a drag. “You’re smart. that’s the kinda thing happens all the time. Think someone’s okay and then they start to act real nutso and turn into some snoring shitbag and next thing you know you’re tied to the bathtub.”

I stare at her, in awe, like she’s some highway angel sent down from heaven to school me in the ways of shitbags and nutsos and snoring in the dark.

She shakes her head, private, taking the last drag off her cigarette. She drops the cherry into the ground and snuffs it out by windshield wiping the front of her heel. She doesn’t seem to remember I’m still there.

She sighs and looks back at her car. it’s a bright white LeBaron and propped up in the passenger seat is a giant, stuffed, yellow-and-white bunny rabbit. it’s just sitting there, looking out like it’s waiting for the burger girl to roller-skate over and hand over a tray of fries. it’s a human-size bunny rabbit with big black button eyes and a broken-off piece of thread where the nose is supposed to be. It
must be at least six feet tall and there’s something kind of sinister about it. You get the feeling it’s just itching to hurl itself over to the driver’s side and drive right off.

I look back over to my newfound angel, hoping for an explanation, but she’s half-way back to the car by now. Soon as she gets to the driver’s side, she opens the door and says, “Well, kid. Good luck. Stay straight. See ya around.”

She gets in and starts the engine.

Well, this is not how I imagined it. What sort of lady would just drive off into the night leaving some kid face down in the dirt? Her sort, I guess.

“Hey, lady . . . wait up!”

I get up fast as I can and run up to the driver’s side window, cracked open. She just sits there, dome light on, putting on lipstick in the rearview mirror like she’s got a date with the road. The bunny stares straight ahead, plotting into the windshield through his black button eyes.

“Look, lady, I know you don’t know me and a pretty lady like you probably never does a favor for anyone, probably never has to, what with having the world on a string and whatnot . . .”

She looks up from her lipstick.

“Whattaya want, kid?”

“Umm . . . wull . . .I wanna come with you, I guess. I want a ride.”

“Well, as you can see, I’ve got company.” She gestures towards the bunny, taking out her compact and powdering her nose. The bunny stands his ground.

“Please.”

I make a face like the last dog left at the pound. I feel about two feet tall but I am not about to spend the rest of the night in the brambles.

“Hmph.” She looks me up and down, weighing the pros and cons of having a tagalong. “Where you headed?”

“Las Vegas.”

She clicks her compact closed and looks at me.

“Well, what a coincidence, so am I.”

She smiles and all the sudden there’s this glow around her, like a halo or a hidden lamp, like she could block out the moon.

“Get in. But just to warn you, I ain’t giving any handouts.”

“That’s okay. I got my own . . . just a sec.” I run back to collect my worldly belongings, yelling over the motor, “I got plenty of money, so don’t worry, that’s the last thing you gotta worry about.” I look at the bunny rabbit in the passenger seat, waiting for some kind of cue. She stretches out back, unlatching the back-door lock. I throw my bag in and sit down proud, like I’m expecting her to throw me a bone.

“Look, kid, lesson number one.”

I slam the door.

“You can’ go around telling people stuff like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like about money, and having plenty of it. That just marks you right there, understand?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Don’t forget it. Hey, you like Patsy Cline?”

“Who?”

“Patsy Cline? Heard of her? Yes? No? Well, whatever, you better
learn to like her cause that’s all you’re gonna be hearing from here to Las Vegas.”

“Great.”

“I’ll teach you the words if you want. You can croon along. Won’t mean nothing to you, though. Nothing means nothing until you get your heart broke.”

We glide away into the night, leaving my little home away from home to the crickets and the ants. I lean back and listen to some song about seven lonely days making one lonely week. I press my head sideways against the window, looking up at the black sky and the bunny ears in front of me, wondering what and who will break my heart.

So, what’s your name, kid?” She says it out the corner of her mouth, lighting a cigarette, squinting down at the car lighter.

“Luli.”

“Luli?” She eyes me sideways, figuring I’m making it up.

“Yup.”

“What kind of a name is that?”

“I don’t know.”

I feel shy next to her prettiness. she’s got that look like there’s a spotlight framing her, backing her up and keeping the evil spirits at bay. Like in those black-and-white movies when the soldier wakes up in the hospital after fighting the Germans and there all the sudden is this white-dressed dreamboat turning the world from dirt to ice cream with a flip of her hair. I wouldn’t call her cute. And not beautiful, either. Just pretty. Real pretty. Easy on the eyes.

“Well, I’ll tell you what kind of name it is. Strange. It’s a strange name.” She ashes out the window. “And I’d be willing to bet you’re
a strange kid. Strange name, strange kid. It follows. Not your fault. No fault of yours. Just stands to reason that that’s what ends up happening. that’s why you gotta be careful. There’s this couple in Memphis that named their kid Mickey Mouse. Mickey Mouse. Can you believe it? They had ten kids, so the last one, they just threw up their hands and said, ‘Okay, Mickey Mouse. that’s your name. Good luck.’”

“Wull, what’s your name?”

“Glenda.”

There’s a moment of silence cause I can’t think of nothing smart.