Aunt Anne had spent the prize money many times over before she even entered the contest. Mother was worried about her.
“She’s always been like this,” Mother said over breakfast. “The cart before the horse.”
“Hmm hmm,” said father. He had his face in the paper, clearly not listening.
Dottie knitted her brows. “What’s that mean, Mommy? The horse car?”
“It means counting your chickens before they’re hatched,” said Eileen. She was a year older and liked to lord over her sister whenever possible.
“What if she doesn’t win?” I asked, genuinely curious. Aunt Anne, to my knowledge, had never done much of anything. In fact, other than church, she never left the house.
I must have known. I think I did, anyway. It’s such a cliché. Late nights. Straight to voicemail.
I haven’t told anyone. Not my sister, not my mom. What would they say? Tell me that they saw it right away, that they saw what kind of man I was marrying? Did they?
Holy crap. It’s raining buckets now. I couldn’t drive through this even if I wanted to.
The windows are fogging. I wonder if this looks suspicious. A rainy motel parking lot, the windows steamed solid.
The black bag over his head was bad enough, his breath moist and uncomfortably hot. Funny how he’d never noticed before just how hot the air in your lungs really was. You saw it on a winter morning, of course, the jets of steam coming from the children as they waited for the school bus. But you needed a bag over your head to really know.
Oh God. I will never see them again. I’ve been so fucking stupid.
His hands were the worst, bent beneath his weight, the links of chain cutting into his wrists as the SUV bucked and jerked over the rough road. Nobody had said a word since they had grabbed him in the parking lot, hooded him and cuffed him and shoved him into the back. He didn’t ask what it was about. He knew. He fucking knew.
Somebody in the front seat is smoking. God, I hate that.
Anger flooded him, anger at them, at the situation, at this stupid addiction. How could he possibly think this would turn out differently?
Stupid stupid stupid.
The SUV gave an especially huge lurch and for a brief second he was airborne, slamming his wrists as he came back down. He heard the rattle and bang of tools back behind the seat. Shovels.
You start out wanting so much. You start out wanting everything. Now I only want one thing.
The SUV stopped. He smelled dust, felt the heat of open sunshine on the black fabric covering his face.
Every year the prize-winning hog just gets bigger. At last year’s State Fair, he weighed over 1900 pounds. It is always the same hog, Junior. Lying next to him is Queenie, younger and a few hundred pounds smaller. Waiting in the wings, you might say, since one day Junior will die and it will be Queenie’s turn.
I squeeze Michael’s little hand.
“Am I big enough for flying yet, daddy?”
“Not yet, son. Next year, probably.”
It wasn’t a promise, exactly. Maybe I could figure a way to get him out next summer. Maybe his mother would allow that, at least.
It was a different city than the one I left in September, when the desperate final heat blanketed the roofs and buildings and filled the town with odors of diesel fuel and rotting trash. This was a crisp city, the wind cold on my cheek and wafting scents of wood smoke, coffee, baking bread.The trees along the streets and in the parks had reached their balance point and tipped into full autumn. Washington Square was suffuse with a golden light spilling through the canopy of turning leaves. I walked beneath the arch of the ancient trees, occasional gusts setting the slender branches to rattle and tumble elegant spirals of yellow and rust and startling red, the paper cup of coffee warming my glove.
I saw old Chaim sitting alone on his bench, the usual crumpled bag of birdseed strangely absent, hat pulled low over his face. I stopped and leaned down to greet him.
“Hello, Chaim.”
He looked up. “Hello, darling. Such a day as this, yes?” His eyes rounded the trees, the city, the world itself. “Autumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower. That’s Camus.”
“Where’s Moishe today? I hope he isn’t ill.”
Chaim was silent for a long time. A cheeky squirrel ran down the tree and crossed the walkway, dodging piles of leaves. He reared up and chattered at us.
“Sorry, my little friend,” said Chaim, his voice soft as sawdust. “It was Moishe’s week to bring the seeds.”
Graves Registration was a non-combatant position occupied by conscientious objectors during WW2. It was a terrible job, exposing the men to horror on an unimaginable scale. On Iwo Jima, the work was especially hard. For one, the beachhead was unsecured during most of the invasion. This meant that there was no time the men on the beach were not under fire from artillery and machine guns. Wounded men awaiting evacuation were often killed before they could be gotten aboard waiting hospital ships. Second, the scale of carnage was unprecedented. Hundreds of Marines were killed every day. But by far the worst was how the men were killed. The Japanese, pulling out all stops to cause as many casualties as possible, used weapons normally employed against armor and aircraft–high-velocity cannon and machine guns, enormous mortars, various kinds of high explosive. The damage done to the bodies was extraordinary. One war correspondent who had covered the invasions of Guadalcanal, Anzio and Normandy was appalled by what he saw. The Graves boys moved through the carnage, identifying boys so the Marines and their families would know what happened to them. For this tremendous service they were shunned, called cowards and vultures, looked on with disgust and even hatred. War makes monsters of everyone who has a hand in it, but there are many sorts of monster.
“Then go on out there and sit. You know she likes to talk about the cars goin’ by.”
“Do I have to?”
We went through this every Sunday. Gemmie would make Aunt Ethel an ice tea and tell me to go sit with the old lady on the porch. I banged out the screen door to let Gemmie know I wasn’t happy, sat down in a cane rocker next to my aunt.
Her eyes glittered at me. She raised her finger to point down at the road. A tow truck was piled with a pair of bright stock cars that looked like they’d been stepped on by a giant kid.
“You see them, Joe? Them cars?”
I nodded.
“You know what they are? Those are stock cars. You come from a stock car family.”
“Sure I know.” My dad and uncles were all nuts about watching racing. Pictures on the walls, trophies. There was even a covered car in the garage, though it had never been driven as far as I knew.
“My brothers Bob, Fonty and Tim were the greatest racers of their day. Course, I was better.” She grinned. I could see her gums. “That’s why they seldom let me race.”
“Was it fun, Auntie?”
“Fun? Yes, I suppose. But it was more than that. It was a way of living, right there on the edge. We’d pile into a truck and haul our cars all over the south. See the same people every race. We were like a family. But real competitive, too. My brother Tim more than anybody. That’s why he still holds the record.”
The tow truck pulled away in a cloud of diesel exhaust. As its roar died away, the birds began chirping again. My aunt rocked, the tiny smile still tracing her mouth.
“That true, Auntie? That you were the best?”
Her eyes were bright in that wrinkled face.”How about steal your daddy’s car keys and I’ll show you.”
Sunday Photo Fiction is a weekly challenge to write a short story based on a photo prompt, usually 100-200 words. This one is longer. I did a graphic novel about the Fabulous Flocks, a family of stock car drivers in the early days of the sport.
not so old to yet be sick of yourself
the everyday way you do things
leave them wanting, whoever they are
take in an old tom because you cannot bear
to come home to an empty house, you leave his balls on
so he sprays and sprays until you lock him out
sit in an empty house deaf to his howls
just outside the door
not so late to find someone new,
abandon all your old protection.
It will all be different this time
the only past the one you begin now
a rosary you slide around and around in your palm
the beads all exactly alike to your blind fingertips
Take comfort in this new suit of clothes
stiff with factory starch, bright with lack of history
Most disagreements boil down to simple differences of opinion or taste. Perhaps manners. When it’s over, you will remain friends.
With Ky, arguments always went too far. It was life-and-death with him, everything a struggle. Being his friend was a trying experience.
As is so often the case, this weakness was also his greatest strength. Unquestioning loyalty to friends, tenacity to the point of self-sacrifice. Sometimes you hear a mate say he would die for you, but it’s just an expression. In Ky’s case, it was true. He would never leave you, though you might sometimes wish otherwise.
An entry for Friday Fictioneers. The title comes from an East End London neighborhood where the going is tough.
