WILLODEAN (THE CUPITOR CHRONICLES Book 1) (23 page)

In a few, Maw Sue calmly got inside the cab and cranked the engine. She revved
the motor so furious, dust flew out from underneath in little spiraled tornadoes. 
When she was sure she had our full attention she picked up the green rod of God and waylaid a slap across the dashboard. The flimsy pla
stic spatula popped and sizzled.  M
y legs might have
stung but I couldn’t feel it because they were numb from the dish rag.  Our travel bag came flying out the window, followed by smashed
sandwiches, kool-aid packets, travel maps and a
rudimentary warning.  The paddle talk landed at my feet like a
prophet blaring its red letters of fundamental truth.

YOU IDIOT

Well said paddle talk. Well said.

“Ge
t to the house.” Lena screamed.  The blue dishrag pointed
the way. Mag and I began the long, slow walk of shame. Our shoulders went slump, our lips pouted and our ears grew dull, mechanical in nature, to avoid the constant drip, drip, drip of her mouth. The walk of shame consisted of boring lectures, a long, prehistoric list of rights and wrongs, and what other people think, say or do, namesakes, genetic traits, family curses that did or did not exist and a whole slew of other jargon I tuned out centuries ago, to avoid the
paddy wagon.  B
efore it was over, dad was in as much trouble as we were. Lena drip-drip Hart said this wouldn’t have happened had the mad hatter not suggested it in the first place. It was mid-July without an air conditioner but
our house was as frigid and chilled.  P
lus we had to endure torturing silence and burnt cornbread. I went to bed early to mourn my loss of never getting a driver’s license. I listened to the mumble of the television 
through the wall.  I could have sworn I heard it call me a cracker jackass. 
I was lost in a world without vehicles when
the door opened. 

“Tell me you learned something today.”
Dad said.  He
crossed his arms and leaned against the door frame.
The dark of my room made him a talking shadow. 
Gavin Hart is a man of few words, so when he does say something, I take notice.
Did I learn something today?

“Yes, daddy, I did.” I blurted a lie. It was lame and not at all what I wanted to say. Disappointed with myself, I turned inward to the Dumas of Umbra. I ran to the NAMESAKE room. I could hear a rust
ling of spirits behind the door.  I entered and typed on
walls like biblical epistles was the words I wanted to say.

Go out knowing. Go out knowing. If you’re gonna go out—go out knowing.
 
As I read the words out loud, they spin off the walls and into my mouth.  I swallow and internalize their meaning. 

“Willodean?” I could hear dad’s voice in the distance. I wanted to scream the words and rise up in Anarchy like some militant super hero. Instead, the words swirled in my mind like a vortex of crazy eights, traveling in circles, unable to l
ocate my vocal cords. 
Maybe I don’t know squat. Maybe the universe is trying to tell me if I had went out today—I wouldn’t have known diddly-squat
. Zilch. Nero the zero. Notta. Nothing.
 I expected to see the world, tour Europe, party with the Romans, meet the whales, swim with dolphins, walk the streets of Italy, and hike the mountains and maybe camp in
the wild and observe the moon from the highest peak. 
I wante
d to see the Golden Gate Bridge and the Grand Canyon.  I wanted to yell across it and hear my own words come back to my ears. 
I wanted to catch a Marlin in the Atlantic, stare into the marvel of its eyes and then set him free, watch him swim away. I wanted to meet my dreamboat, David Cassidy of the Partridge family. A hush fell
over me and my dad’s shadow engulfed my own.  I realized I had done none of these things.  But I was a little too hard on myself, I mean, I was only ten.  Not even of legal age. 
It didn’t matter none, the magnitude of my father’s words weighted me down.

“Are you okay Willodean?” Dad was talking but I was somewhere in Italy planning my next adventure. 

“Uhhh—yeah. Dad. Sure…” 
LIAR LIAR PANTS ON FIRE.
 
I was not fine. I was far from fine.

“You and Mag need to be careful.” He said loudly and clearly. “You hear me? You’ll have us all in the dog house.” He peeked out the door. A few bangs and clangs rang out from the kitchen lair.

“Okay, dad.
I promise.” 
Liar-Liar.

“Just be careful. Yawl could have gotten seriously hurt Willodean. Seriously. Now, go to bed. Sweet dreams.”

I was already in a dream and his voice ripped me from David Cassidy’s lips like a scratchy needle on a vinyl record.
Dad turned to walk way and the door was almost closed.   

“Hey dad.”
I yelled. 
He came back in filling up the spaces of his shadow. “If I go out…” My mind stormed with adventures. “If I go out, I wanna go out knowing.”

The words lingered between us.  The glint of moon shining through the window lights up the rough features of his face.  He is locked up some place, stoic and deep thinking, as if he was waiting on
his
own words, spoken from 
my
 lips, to return to their rightful owner.  Him to me, me to him. 

“Well…” he grinned. “At least wait until you turn eighteen. Now—let me go out knowing—
you’ll go to sleep.” He winked and closed the door. 
“And I mean, right now. Goodnight.”

“Night dad.” I giggled and slipped under the covers. Today had been a life changer—rebels searching for namesakes,
discovering treasures and untold adventures, and country detours on the scathing outskirts of hell.  It was
a red letter paddle talk wordy-dird, an epic 
MD 20/20
 thrill ride. Just two girls foll
owing their wild beating heart. 

If you’re gonna go out—
at least
, go out knowing.

Shotgun Annie

Crumbs, crumbs and more crumbs. 
I was drenched in joy
like raindrops. 
Had I been blind to them all this time? Was my gift never activated until now?
 I had so many questions and no one to ask. I was alone. 
Alone.
 I still hated th
e word but it wasn’t a heavy burden anymore.  It seemed planned, meant to be.  Part of the process.  My process.  All I could think about is a rebel salute.  I was driving fifty five in Lena’s suburban and turned the corner on two wheels, okay, actually four wheels but who can blame me for being a little scared of Lena.  I didn’t want to push my luck. 
Five greenbacks burned inside my pocket waiting on fulfillment. 
Faith and 500.
 

I literally skipped inside the store, bought a coke Icee and grabbed a copy of the local Thrifty newspaper. I sat in
Lena’s suburban which was long and huge, like a tank.  From that moment on, it would have the namesake, Tank.  I laughed at my childlike mannerisms coming back to life.  I
slurped and scanned the used car section, stopping every so often to fight brain freeze. Everything is way out of my price range. 
One page left and I was low on hope.  I scanned page 33 and mid-way down on row 3 was the premonition.  I couldn’t believe it. 

1970
 Toyota, Clean. Runs good. $500.
 Call 409-867-8843.

I read it over and over again. I blinked a few times. Was this real? 
It felt
 
otherworldly. Beyond me, of me, in me, for me.
 I glanced around expecting to see 
these omnipotent forces at work.  People
came and went as usual. 
Goose bumps lined my skin and it wasn’t because of the Icee. 
I sat stunned, mystified. 
I had truly believed—but yet I didn’t believe.
 And now, it appeared in substance, in real form, in black and white, right before my eyes. 
Faith and 500
. I sat in a state of marvel at the divine. I sucked up every last drop of Icee until my head was a block of ice and the straw made that slurping sssss sound
. Good stuff like this never happened to me.
 I warbled between two worlds, skeptical and believing. 
Premonitions, crumbs, divine moments. 
I bit my lip, wrung my hands, gulped and fret. I glanced up at the pay phone and before I knew it—
my fingers dialed. 
Doubts formed in my head while
the phone rang. 
One ring. Two Rings. Three rings.
Surely this is a joke
. I waited for someone to pick up and tell me it was
a misprint and laugh in my face.  “A car for five hundred dollars, Lady?” they’d say.  I could hear the storm cloud of Lena looming over me. 
“Add an extra zero on that lady.” They’d say right before slamming the phone down. I was about to hang up when I heard a disgruntled voice.

“Hello.” I said. The noise on the other end was deep, Louisiana creole, an accent mixed with something else.
Alligator grunts, maybe?
 I could barely understand a word. He repeated
the address three times. 
I jumped in tank and headed out. The whole drive I could hear Lena’s dripping voice. “This is how vulnerable women meet serial k
illers and are never seen again Willodean. How many times have I told you?”  

He was standing in the yard when I drove up.
Row after row of old cars lined the yard in every direction.  The back pasture was full of junkers and tall weeds. 
I looked the man over from a distance, a horrible habit I learned from Lena that
for the life of me, can’t stop. 
He was about five foot tall, bald with bushy eyebrows, a pot belly and squat legs
. Ehh…I could probably outrun him.
 His stretchy white t-shirt was ready to split like an atom. His blue jeans were held up by a snakeskin belt and a huge gold plated buckle with the initials FSS. 
Uhh…It should say SOS.
 I lau
ghed under my breath.  I got out of tank and walked to what Lena Hart
said would be my
death. 

“Howwwdy madam—ehhh.” He
said politely.  He dipped his chin and
offered hi
s hand a foot to the left of me. 
It threw me off. I didn’t know what to do
.  Is he blind?  Cockeyed? Does he see me standing there but I’m here?
His right eye fluctuated to the left, and the other eye followed suit, both shifting
and staring where I wasn’t.  He leaned and tilted like a
spinning top, about to topple over.

“Hi.” I said shuffling over to meet his hand. “Willodean Hart. I called about the car.”

“Missy
…ehhh.” He said.  His thick chin bowed downward in triples.
“Freeed Sawyer, usedcar salesman Vietnamvetparttime auctioneereehh.”

What tha what?
 
In my head the double what-what sounded off.  His auctioneer part alligator, part Cajun accent was stuck on high speed gibberish. 

“Whatcan-Ido-forya-todayinterested-ina-vehicletruckcar—eehh.”

“I uh…”

“How muchyou spending? Twohundreddddd--onethousanddddd—eehh.”
He said cutting me off.  After hearing him talk, his shifty eyes were the least of his problems. 
Every sentence ended with a hook. 
Eehhh.
 

“Where is the five hundred dollar car?” I said looking around.

“Threehundredddd, fourrrrhundredddd, fivehundredddddd ehhhh.” He
said turning.  He
waddled ahead of me with a gimp on his right side. I followed him through the mowed pathway that cut a swath through the tall grass.
I smelled the pungent scent of fresh cut grass.  Warning flags of Lena went off in my head. 
Stop it. He is not a serial killer.
  
Fred’s pointy toed cowboy boots squeaked like a
clown’s shoe. 
We passed a row
of vintage cars rusty and dented, hoods up, and no motors.  If dad was here he’d rattle off what they were,
Chevy, Ford, Buick, tinker shop knowledge. Fred stopped
and leaned.  He slapped a l
arge loaf of molded bread. I gasped. Upon further inspection, it wasn’t bread but a green, four-door compact. The roof
had faded to brown splotches with rust and peeling paint. 
A rug of green fungus g
rew down the sides of the doors.  Inside the back window, a
vine sprouted and climbed and looked desperate to find its way out.  The entire car was rough,
scratches, dings and dents. Lena’s voice slithered in my ears. 
Five hundred dollars? You can’t buy a hubcap or a tire for that.