Spinning a Yarn
PeppermintParchment
Well, ah, I ain’t never been interviewed before. I reckon the front porch is as good a spot as any. Here, I’ll give you the good chair, just don’t lean back too far, you’ll knock your head plumb on the railin’.
Want a beer?
Yeah, I reckon you can’t do much drinkin’ on the job. Mind if I have one?
Kelsey, bring Daddy a beer!
Ah, thank you baby, now get on in there and help your Momma with the supper.
Naw, you know you can’t play outside right now, not until we know what’s going on.
Love you too, baby.
What did you say your name was? Danny Vanderbilt, huh? And who do you work for?
Naw, I ain’t heard of them. I don’t listen to the news much.
Naw, I ain’t objectin’ to the interview. Just givin’ you my opinion. That’s what this is, right? I can’t imagine this is hard hittin’ news. Kids go missin’ every day.
Sure, I can tell you everythin’ I know, some of what I can guess, and a Hell of a lot of what I don’t know.
Where do I start?
Yeah. Alright.
Well, the Andersons moved into the park, oh…eight or nine years ago. Had their whole lives crumpled down in the back of an ‘08 Chevy, and I mean crumpled down. Not a box or bag in sight, just a big ole heap of clothes and kitchen plates and pressboard furniture and one of them box tvs, all of it rattlin’ around with crushed-up beer cans in the bed. At the top of the heap they had a baby crib, flung in all haphazard and gettin’ right cozy with a dirty air conditioner. If I was a literary man, I might be inclined to call how they treated that baby crib somethin’ like foreshadowin’. But I ain’t. Sometimes stuff happens and you gotta get your stuff and scramble. That’s how it is sometimes.
I reckon that the Andersons must have had to skedaddle right quick, and they just grabbed it all up and got out of Dodge. Ain’t nobody live here if they got any other choice.
All I mean is, well Hell, look around! Old trailers, neighbors all in spittin’ distance, so many stray cats that it smells like nothin’ but cat piss in the summer, all clustered around a pitted dirt road. Naw, ain’t nobody who wants to live here. But it’s cheap, and it’s a roof, and for some people, like me and the Andersons, shit, that’s enough.
Anyways, the Andersons. Well, when they first moved here, Clementine Anderson was as swelled up as three-day old roadkill. Pregnant as can be, I ain’t never seen a pregnant belly so big on a woman, and I got six kids! I reckoned she must be carryin’ around a full-grown man or a horse or somethin’ in there. But if I was shocked by Mrs. Anderson, imagine my surprise when ole Buck Anderson slid out of that driver’s seat. Lord have Mercy, I coulda swore I heard them Chevy shocks sigh in relief. Now I know I gotta gut on me, and I know we grow ‘em big ‘round here, Tennessee ain’t exactly known for health food and yoga, but believe me when I tell you that Buck Anderson was the biggest bastard this side of the grave. Belly down to his knees, like he had on a fleshy apron or somethin’.
The only thing that could possibly be bigger than Buck’s ole belly was his asshole, and that’s because Buck was entirely an asshole. Never have I met a man so angry to be kickin’ around on God’s green Earth!
You’d catch him outside having a fit if the postman had the audacity to put the package on the bottom step instead of the porch, find him hitchin’ up his pants and cursin’ if he had to check his tire pressure, hear him callin’ down the thunder if one of them poor stray kitties was snoozin’ in his driveway. Feller even felt like he owned the road in front of his trailer, sometimes you’d hear him hollerin’ if some of the park boys kicked up too much dust as they raced by on their bikes, Buck out there a-rantin’ and a-cussin’ about some dirt getting’ on that ole rust bucket he called a truck. Shit. Buck was always madder than a wet hen no matter the occasion. I actually felt bad for little Clementine, thought she musta been one of them sad girls who love a man who make them feel like shit on a shoe.
Until I heard their first fight. I declare Clementine could shout down that bellerin’ man! She’d take whatever Buck dished out and she’d serve it back hot and steamin’, yessir, had a mouth on her that was suited more for a sailor than for a pregnant woman fit to pop. And Buck’d come out, slammin’ that ole screen door, kickin’ at the dirt or the trash cans or anythin’ else he could take that temper out on. Sometimes he’d come out over here, have a drink and a smoke with me and bitch about whatever it was this time, Clementine didn’t wash his work pants, Clementine left the truck on empty, Clementine bought Coors Lite instead of Coors and don’t she know a workin’ man wants to come home and have a real beer, not any of that fruity Lite stuff, blah, blah, blah. I reckon he must have liked it, though. Reckon he must have liked a woman who wouldn’t take his shit layin’ down.
Naw, I don’t think he hit her. Buck was an angry bastard, but he wasn’t a woman beater. You think I’d share my Buds and Marlboros with a fuckin’ wife beater? I’d shoot him just as soon as I seen him. He’d cuss and shout and turn the color of a mid-summer sunburn once he got goin’, but I ain’t never seen him raise a hand against any of his girls. Never even saw him hit that ugly-as-sin fluffy pony they had, and he hated that little feller.
Oh, sure, they had a fluffy pony. Well, I didn’t reckon it was important to bring up. We’re talking about some missin’ kids, after all, can’t imagine one of them fluffies has anythin’ to do with all that.
If you wanna know, sure, but let me go back. I gotta spin my yarn how I see fit.
Can you hand me the lighter on the rail there? Thanks. Don’t reckon you want a smoke?
Don’t blame ya. Bad for the lungs. Don’t reckon it matters for me though, my lungs are all shot to shit from the factory, anyways.
Oh, I work in a tire factory. Hard work, but it pays the bills. Barely, anyways.
As I was sayin’. Well, I reckon Clementine must have popped in, oh, July? They’d barely got that baby crib in the house before me and Buck was helpin’ to load her back in the truck, her kickin’ and cryin’ and grittin’ what teeth she had left, and Buck cussin’ and shovin’ his tools out of the back seat, both of ‘em actin’ surprised that a baby was comin’, like they never heard of such a thing. Buck got her all settled, even propped her neck up on the diaper bag, then crammed himself behind that Chevy wheel and tore on out of there like the devil was on his tail, kickin’ up that red clay dirt all over their yard.
Didn’t hear nothin’ for a day or two. Reckoned Clementine must be laborin’ long and hard, or else she done had that baby and they were soakin’ up all that new baby feelin’s. You got any kids? Ah, so you ain’t got no idea what I’m talkin’ ‘bout. Nothin’ can make a man feel so big but so small like puttin’ a baby in his hands and tellin’ him that it’s his. I reckoned, maybe Buck done had himself a metamorphosis or an epiphany or somethin’ else mystical like that.
Naw, what Buck had was triplets. Triplets! Can you imagine? Three babies on a HVAC man’s salary? Shit, Buck was having himself a mental breakdown.
Yeah, they had themselves three little girls. Maisey, Daisy, and Paisely. Ain’t that cute? I’m sure Clementine was behind that one, I don’t think Buck had that kind of creativity in him. Shoot, he was probably in so much shock he wouldn’t have minded if Clementine named ‘em Rock, Paper, and Scissors.
Anyways, Buck called me up, asked me if I had any baby cribs he could borrow, and wouldn’t you know it, I had to deliver ‘em and set ‘em up. Shit, can’t blame him though, he and Clementine done looked like they got hit by a freight train. Three babies! Never did get them cribs back, now I’ve had a think on it.
Of course, whenever Clementine felt up to it, the whole park turned out to see ‘em. We don’t get much interestin’ stuff goin’ on ‘round here, so a set of triplets was like the Loch Ness monster swimmin’ up the drain ditch. Old Lady Mabel set up a BBQ and the whole park came out.
Now, Buck was an ugly bastard, and Clementine wasn’t too much easier on the eyes, but they sure made some pretty babies. Real easy to tell apart too. Maisey had brown hair like her Daddy, Daisy was blonde like her Momma, and Paisely was the red head. They sounded like one of them jokes, you know the ones, “a blonde, a brunette, and a red head all walk into a bar, har har”.
Them babies got passed all around the party, had them fat little cheeks pinched, got kissed all over by old ladies with cigarette on their breath, bounced on bony knees, got cuddled up into all kinds of beards. Ain’t many people who don’t wanna love on a cute baby, ‘specially ‘round here. Babies are hope that things can change, you know? We all thought that maybe ole Buck would turn it around, stop yellin’ at cats and kids and Clementine and keepin’ the whole park up with his hissy fits. Shit, we had a better chance of Santa Claus showin’ up to that party with a bowl of coleslaw and a twelve pack, we just didn’t know it yet.
Now at first it did seem like Buck had changed. It’s hard to hoot and holler when you’ve got three newborns piled up in a single-wide. For the first eight months or so Buck and Clementine just shuffled around, babies strapped to Buck’s wide back or slung across his chest, Clementine staggerin’ behind with a diaper bag that was half her weight. Shit, Buck even made an attempt to get healthy, I’d catch him out for a walk at 4:00, 5:00 in the mornin’, whichever of his fussy babies that had woken him cradled in his arms. Usually it was Paisley. You know what they say about red heads, huh? Temperamental. He’d make his way ‘round the park, huffin’ and wheezin’, clouds of his breath followin’ behind him in the cold night air, lookin’ for all the world like an ole coal train on the most depressin’ track. “I wanna see ‘em graduate” is all he’d say, all defiant and embarrassed, like he reckoned it was shameful to wanna see your babies all grown up.
Anyways, Buck tried to change. Hand on the Holy word, I think he did. But, shit, bein’ a dad is tough, ‘specially when you’re the only one bringin’ in the money. He cracked under all that pressure.
Is there any other day of the year worse for a man than Valentine’s Day? No matter what you do it don’t ever seem to be enough for the wife. Flowers, chocolates, a nice dinner, a massage, none of it is enough repayment for the endless cycles of laundry, the groceries, the childrearing. Can’t win for losin’. But the Good Lord help the man that forgets! And I’ll be damned if Buck didn’t forget.
Clementine made sure the whole trailer park knew exactly how sorry Buck was that Valentine’s night in ‘37. She waited all day for a surprise, maybe a breakfast in bed, maybe a spa day at noon, maybe a late dinner at that new French place on Main, maybe a night of rose petals and candles and an oil massage. Woe be unto Buck, who didn’t notice his steak was cut into the shape of a heart and who didn’t question their Tiramisu dessert, who didn’t notice Clementine’s new haircut or her freshly shaved legs, and who fell asleep on the couch with little Daisy in his arms.
Yes, it’s important. It’s my interview, you just listen. You want me to quit talkin’?
I’ll get to the damn fluffy pony in a minute. But I don’t reckon he matters no how. Shoot, you city folks are always in a hurry.
As I was sayin’, Clementine kicked off around 10:30. Done sounded like a foghorn bellowin’ over the park, such was her fury. “You bastard, you good-for-nothin’, you pig, I spend all year cookin’ and cleanin’ and raisin’ these babies an’ you can’t even bother to bring me some flowers!” And Buck right in there, shootin’ back, “You bitch, you harpy, I work all day every day and come home to frozen dinners and bitchin’!” And over it all three babies wailing with lungs they definitely inherited from their Daddy. Here come the slam of the door, the kicked trash cans, wild cats runnin’ from the ruckus.
Buck was back, as nasty and angry as ever.
Not much more to say on that. Buck and Clementine were like cats and dogs again, a-fussin’ and a-cussin’ each other every other night, Clementine out in the yard yankin’ off her apron and screamin’ she’s gonna take the kids and leave, Buck sayin’ she ain’t never worked a day in her life and she ain’t goin’ nowhere, slammin’ the ashtray against the rickety wood porch and watchin’ it roll, three pairs of tiny lungs bellowin’ from inside the house.
This went on a few years. Ain’t much more to it, just a husband and wife havin’ some words, each threatenin’ to leave, but each stayin’, needin’ each other and not wantin’ to risk losin’ custody of them babies in there. I reckon they loved each other. Maybe not right, and maybe not fair, but stubbornly loyal and loyally stubborn.
Yeah. I reckon they loved each other, if for no other reason than the other gave them their girls.
Here’s where your fluffy pony comes in. We might need to move this inside, though. The skeeters get bad here around sundown.
Mind the gap, that board fell out and we haven’t got ‘round to replacin’ it. You can leave your suitcase outside, ain’t no one gonna bother it.
Well, if you insist.
Here, have this seat, it’ll let you feel the air conditioner better. Naw Roxie, naw, get down girl! Roxie, down!
Sorry about that, you know how dogs can get.
Naw, I don’t know, just a stray. Looks like she’s got some Pit in her or somethin’. Sweet as peach pie, ain’t she?
You comfortable? Want me to continue?
Yeah, the fluffy pony. Alright.
Well, them girls was about five or six. Not out of diapers too long, startin’ to lose that waddlin’ toddler chubbiness, growin’ into their personalities. Maisey, the brown haired one, she was shapin’ up to be a tomboy and a troublemaker. You could always find her outside, slappin’ wet red clay into mud pies, chasin’ her sisters with worms in her hands, throwin’ rocks at mailboxes. She loved baseball, and would follow the older boys around in the park, chasin’ stray balls and carryin’ batter’s mitts. Daisy was more reserved, she’d stretch out in the sun with a book and read the day away, fat finger pressed to the page and followin’ along while she read. She loved science, and loved watchin’ the bugs crawl through her blonde hair as she laid in the grass. Daisy was always my favorite. Paisely was the perkiest thing you’d ever see. She’d find videos on her tablet doohickey and follow along, teachin’ herself how to do cartwheels and splits and dancin’, red hair a-flyin’. Always swore she’d be a ballerina or a gymnast.
I think Paisely was the one that brought home the fluffy pony. Or maybe Maisey? That makes more sense, since Maisey was the one that would be more likely to be crawlin’ up and under porches and explorin’ dens in the woods and all that. Either way, one of them girls dragged in one of them fluffy ponies.
The girls swear they found it under a porch, that Paisely or Maisey found it when they heard it chirpin’ and cryin’ and shimmied themselves in a gap in the flimsy porch lattice under Old Lady Mabel’s home and yanked out the ugliest fluffy pony on God’s green Earth. I reckon the Momma must have abandoned it out of shame, cause the little feller done looked like he’d been beat with every branch on the ugly tree.
Hell yeah, he was that ugly, poor bastard. He was the color of that green you find on off-brand camouflage, you know the type, that kind that fellers buy their nephews when they ain’t got no idea what to buy ‘em for Christmas. Not bad by itself, you know, a nice, natural color. ‘Cept the bastard had a neon orange mane, eye seerin’, with the hooves to match.
But the worse part had to be the horn. It was all black and shriveled and twisted, pointed down towards his left eye. How do I describe it? Have you ever seen some kittens a coupla days after they’re born, when they still got them umbilical cords attached, but they’re all shriveled up and stiff and twisted, ‘bout ready to fall off? The fluffy had a horn like that, ‘cept his weren’t ever gonna fall off. Ugly as all get out.
Well shoot, that didn’t stop them girls. They brought that ugly little thing into the house and made a coupla of puppy dog eyes at their Momma and Daddy, and they had them a pet. I reckon it’s because it was close to Christmas. Fluffies was one of the hot gifts that year, and Clementine and Buck had not a hope in the world to afford one, but here was a foal that had fallen into their laps. Sure, he was as unsightly as a shithouse, and ‘bout smelled like one, too, but he was free, and made their girls happy, so he got a pass.
The girls named him Hunter, on account of the camo green and the huntin’ vest orange. Pretty cute, and made his horrid color combination a bit more palatable.
Buck, well, I don’t reckon he ever took to Hunter. Clementine didn’t seem too fond either, but Buck seemed to despise him. Sure, the fluffy was free, but his milk weren’t and his peepads weren’t. Little feller was too small to feed himself or use a litterbox, so the girls would take turns passin’ him to the peepad, cleanin’ his potty accidents, and feedin’ him kitten milk from one of them little bottles that come from baby doll sets. Even with all that, Hunter stretched an already threadbare budget even thinner, and Buck would always bitch about the pony when he’d wander over to my porch.
“I wished they brought in a fuckin’ cat. A thousand cats ‘round here and the girls drag in one of them talkin’ shitrats. At least a cat would catch the mice,” he’d bitch, and flick a cigarette on my porch. Bastard knew I hated that. Always grab a beer “for the road” before he walked the ten feet between our trailers. Same ole Buck.
Well, a bit of time passed and Hunter finally opened his eyes, started walkin’ and talkin’ and didn’t need the girls so much. Of course, he loved to follow them around, bein’ a child’s toy and all that. Them girls had a ball with him. I reckon Buck and Clementine reckoned that the triplets would lose interest in Hunter after a few months, move on to dollhouses or video games or somethin’, and they’d be able to toss Hunter out with their KFC bones and Mountain Dew cans one night. Naw.
Hunter was each of those little girl’s best friend, the unicorn seemed to know exactly what each of them needed. I’d come home from work and Hunter and Daisy would be out there in the front yard, Daisy pickin’ through the blades of grass for lady bugs and caterpillars, Hunter right behind, carryin’ a bug catcher’s bucket in his mouth and a net shoved in his fluff. They’d set up the bucket in the sun and have a hoot drawin’ their specimens on a little sketchbook Daisy carried ‘round.
In the mornin’s and the afternoons you could see Hunter out there helpin’ Paisely out with her gymnastics, pushin’ down on her shoulders to help her get a better split, bringin’ her strips of plastic bags to wave around like them color guard flags, rollin’ around in a squat somersault. It was Paisely that started the tea parties.
I’ll tell you about it in a minute. First, I gotta tell you about Hunter’s eye.
Yeah. Probably the most important part. If you reckon the fluffy pony is involved, anyways.
Now, I knowed I done said that Hunter was as ugly as a wet sewer rat, but that ain’t all true. Hunter did have a nice set of peepers. Honest to God, that fluffy had pupils that were shaped like stars! Now this in itself was quite a sight, but Hunter’s eyes were also like the Good Lord twirled up a rainbow and put it in there. Naw, I ain’t exaggeratin’, that fluffy had rainbow eyes! Bet you there weren’t a color on this earth that wasn’t swirlin’ ‘round in there. Pretty as can be. I reckon them eyes must have been God’s apology to the little feller for makin’ him so damn unsightly. Gave him somethin’ to be proud of.
And Hunter sure was proud of them eyes. Even though Hunter was just a fluffy, he wasn’t entirely stupid. He knowed he was ugly, and if he forgot, Ole Buck was sure to remind him. Couldn’t nobody say nothin’ to get him down about them eyes, though. I reckon no one even tried, since it’d be such a bold-faced lie.
Anyways, yeah, Maisey made that poor feller lose one of them pretty eyes.
See, whereas Paisely and Daisy were happy stayin’ close to home, playin’ with Hunter in the front yard, Maisey loved nothin’ more than to drag that fluffy all ‘round the woods. I reckon she musta been scared to go out yonder alone, and used Hunter as a companion to stave off the fear.
‘Course there weren’t really nothin’ out there that could hurt ‘em, Buck made sure they stayed in that little strip of woods between the park and the road. Now them woods behind the trailer park, that’s a different story. Them woods back up to the Smokies, wander too far in and you’ve got thousands of miles of untouched mountain range to contend with. Ain’t nothin’ out there but God and bears, and I reckon them bears will help you find God right quick. But none of that matters no how, ‘cause Maisey and Hunter weren’t fool enough to go in there.
Now there’s three versions of the story. In Maisey’s it’s all her fault. I’m inclined to believe her, ‘cause whoever heard of a child takin’ on the blame for somethin’ they ain’t done? Maisey says they were wanderin’ through the woods, tryin’ to sneak up on a rabbit, an’ she accidentally pulled back a branch and let go and it done popped Hunter in his left eye. If you asked Hunter, his remainin’ eye’d get all watery an’ he’d tell you how he accidentally run into a prickly branch and that done it. If you ask Buck, he’d puff up and get all blustery and tell you how he had to do it.
Well how am I ‘spose to know? I can tell you what I seen, but I can’t tell you for sure. You can go ask Buck about it, but I reckon he’s more worried about his girls than how a fluffy pony lost its eye damn near a year ago.
I was out in the yard pushin’ the mower ‘round when I heard some screamin’. You know how them fluffies are, where they got that high pitched screeeein’ thing they do when they’re upset. Ear-splittin’, I could hear Hunter screechin’ all the way from the woods. And here come Maisey stumblin’ out of the thicket, tears pourin’ down her little face, Hunter bundled up in her arms like a baby doll. He’s cryin’ too, pawin’ at his face with those orange hooves, doin’ that huu huu shit they like to do. Blood all over. People come pourin’ out of their houses, everybody thinkin’ there’s a hurt kid or somethin’, grumblin’ ‘bout leavin’ their armchairs when they see it’s just a fluffy. But Maisey keeps comin’ stumblin’ ‘cross that drain ditch, yellin’ for help. Ain’t nobody make a move to help her, ‘cause Buck come thunderin’ out that house and yellin’ at everyone who was standin’ out there and just watchin’ his daughter. Paisely and Daisy come out and start cryin’ too, seein’ all the blood and not knowin’ what’s goin’ on.
Maisey’s cryin’, tryin’ to shove Hunter into Buck’s arms, and Buck’s tryin’ to hold back Daisy and Paisely cause they’re tryin’ to grab up Hunter. Three little girls cryin’, Hunter screein’, and Buck roarin’ over it all, tryin’ to wrangle it all in. Buck grabs up Hunter from Maisey’s arms, and I see the fluffy for just a second, his left eye all bloodshot and leakin’ blood and tears, but still there. It looked like all the blood was pourin’ from his snout, I reckon. Figured he just got a good whack ‘cross the nose from a branch in the woods. Figured his eye would be okay after a coupla days.
But I can’t reckon that’s true. Next time I seen Hunter, he was missin’ that left eye. Old Lady Mabel reckons that Buck just plucked Hunter’s eye out, that he didn’t want to mess with a vet or antibiotics or keepin’ it clean, that he didn’t have the time, money, or gumption. Maybe wantin’ to knock Hunter down a peg, make him lose somethin’ he liked ‘bout himself. Maybe so. For the next hour or so the park was filled with the sounds of that fluffy shriekin’, and those little girls cryin’ and beggin’ their Daddy not to kill Hunter, and Clementine slammin’ pots and pans ‘cause she couldn’t stand there bein’ a fight she wasn’t a part of. Then Buck let out a bellow and it all stopped, nothin’ but the sound of that fluffy gaggin’ and cryin’ every now and then. We didn’t see none of them for a coupla days.
Next time I seen ‘em, Hunter had an empty, swollen socket where his left eye used to be, and Paisely had an idea to cheer him up.
I don’t know. I reckon I saw that he still had his eyeball.
I reckon it does kindly contradict what Maisey and Hunter said. Maybe.
Listen buddy, you ain’t gonna disrespect me in my own house. I ain’t ever seen Buck raise his hand against that fluffy. Sometimes a man has gotta do hard stuff for his family, t’ain’t a bit abusive to take out that fluffy’s eyeball if the alternative is that fluffy dyin’ of infection or somethin’. You think we got money for veterinarians ‘round here? We ain’t even got money to get that weird mole on my wife’s shoulder checked out, ain’t nobody here that can afford no eye surgery for a damn fluffy pony.
Yeah. Well. Apology accepted.