Spinning a Yarn
PeppermintParchment
Anyways. As I was sayin’, Hunter got real low after all that nonsense with his eye. Started just layin’ out in the yard, starin’ up at the sun and clouds and cryin’. He was real sad. Wouldn’t play with the girls, wouldn’t sing his stupid fluffy songs, wouldn’t even walk out to the driveway and pick up the newspaper like he used to do. I reckon losin’ one of the two things he actually liked about himself was almost too much for the little feller to handle. The only time I’d see Hunter do much of anythin’ would be when Buck come home from work. Hunter’d jump up quicker than greased lightnin’ and hide himself up and under the porch, or scurry under that broke down Kia they got out there, or go hide behind any of the girls if they happened to be wanderin’ ‘round outside. Hunter was petrified of Buck, he’d act like Old Scratch had done come knockin’ at his door anytime Buck would cross his path.
Now the girls couldn’t hardly tolerate seein’ Hunter that way. They tried to make it better. They’d wander ‘round the park, pickin’ up round rocks from the ditch or people’s yards, and bring ‘em back to their trailer and paint ‘em up real pretty like for Hunter, tryin’ to replace his eye. Sometimes I’d see them out in the yard, a little pile of rocks painted with sunsets and peace signs and plain ole eyeballs piled up beside them, each tryin’ to convince Hunter to give ’em a try. Sometimes we’d even see Hunter layin’ out there, a shiny white rock with some childish scribbles shoved into that gapin’ hole in his face. It was cute as all get out, but I don’t reckon that’s what got Hunter out of his funk.
One day Paisely plopped down out there next to Hunter, all done up in one of them Walmart princess dresses, with a Coke in one hand and one of them Fudge Rounds in the other. She ripped open that cake with her teeth and threw it down on Hunter’s outstretched legs, fire burnin’ in her eyes. They didn’t say a word. Hunter sat up, a fake rock eyeball with a sun painted on it rollin’ out of the socket, and their tea parties were born.
They was pretty simple to begin with. Paisely and Hunter would meet every day in the front yard, pass a coupla Debbie Cakes and sodas between them, talk about school and tv shows and all that simple stuff kids like. At first it seemed like it didn’t do much for the little feller, it was just somethin’ he felt obliged to do. But as the days rolled on, Hunter started to perk up, started gatherin’ old blankets from the house to drape across that old box they used as a table, started pickin’ pretty flowers that the pair would twirl into flower crowns, started waitin’ at the end of the road for the school bus drop off and hurryin’ the girls home. Hunter had a pep in his step again.
Daisy and Maisey joined ‘em in a coupla weeks. Each of them would tromp in after school, grab up a drink and a snack for the game, and off they’d hop. It damn near gave Buck and Clementine a conniption, seein’ all them snacks bein’ smuggled out of the house and given to a fluffy pony. Seemed like it made ‘em hate the little feller even more.
See, none of it was Hunter’s fault. I’d probably be pretty upset too if someone done went and plucked out one of my eyeballs. And the girls were just kids, just wanted to see their pet get better, just wanted to cheer him up. It weren’t hurtin’ nobody for them girls to have a coupla snacks and sodas after school with their fluffy pony, ‘specially when they were out there playin’ pretend instead of inside playin’ on their tablet doohickeys. I thought it was kinda cute, all of ‘em out there in old Halloween costumes, eatin’ their Starcrunch and pretendin’ to be explorin’ jungles and Jupiter and all that. Endearin’.
It burned Buck up.
He couldn’t stand it. He’d come home from work and he’d be given a shoulder colder than winter’s snap. His girls wouldn’t run up to him, yellin’ Daddy, wantin’ to be kissed and hugged and loved, wantin’ to show him their good grades or their drawins’ or none of that. Buck blamed Hunter. I tried to ‘splain to him that it ain’t got nothin’ to do with that fluffy, that kids grow out of wantin’ all that. But I’ve got six kids, and I know how it stings when your babies don’t wanna be your babies no more. It’s a heartbreak that all Daddies go through.
He’d come over after work sometimes and we’d sit on the porch. He’d about crush that beer in his hand as he looked off across the yard at Hunter and his girls, not sayin’ a word. He’d be about as red as a beet, smoke practically pourin’ out his ears, veins throbbin’ in his flabby face as he watched them kids playin’ with that fluffy. Angry as a nest of kicked hornets, ‘bout to explode with rage, mad that his kids were playin’ with a toy.
One day, as the girls were tryin’ to teach Hunter how to hula hoop, Buck threw back his beer, crushed it on the railin’, and leaned back in his rockin’ chair. He lit up a smoke.
“He’s tryin’ to take my kids.”
And I says, Who? And Buck, pretty as you can please, points that cigarette at Hunter and says “That fucker right there.” And he meant it too, spat the words out like they were poison.
Well, I damn near fell out my chair from laughin’. Buck darkened from an angry red to an enraged purple. Thought I was about to catch a fist from a 500 pound bull of a man. But he just stood up and crushed that cigarette under his work boots, ground that ash real good into the porch, hitched up his britches and stomped off to his trailer.
What do you mean? ‘Course I didn’t take him serious. Hunter is a damn fluffy pony! And not even one of them smart ones, what do they call ‘em, alicorns? He weren’t even that kind. And on top of that, Hunter didn’t even do nothin’! He was just out there doin’ his job, playin’ with the girls. Buck should have been happy with what Hunter was doin’. Well, I reckon I take that back, ‘cause ole Buck weren’t ever happy. Either way, he shouldn’t have been mad.
Yeah, I reckon Buck woulda accidentally backed his truck over Hunter one mornin’ as he left for work if he wasn’t sure it would wreck what little bit of a relationship he had left with them girls. But after that day with Hunter’s eye, I reckon he knew he couldn’t get away with even a sideways glance at that feller without it strainin’ his girl’s love for him even more. So, he bitched, and moaned, and got even more ornery, but he didn’t dare harm ‘nother hair on that ugly fluffy’s head.
D’you hear that? Sounds like thunder. I hope it don’t rain. Won’t do those girls no good if it rains. Dogs can’t follow the tracks.
‘Spose all we can do is pray.
Just a bit longer. We’re windin’ down.
Well, them tea parties continued on through the summer and rolled into the fall. Not much more to say on that, just a few kids with their Debbie cakes and Solo cups playin’ pretend with a fluffy. As the leaves changed, they’d be out there rakin’ in whatever meager leaves blowed in from the woods into an ankle-deep pile, runnin’ through it like it was a sprinkler. I caught Hunter out there one mornin’, oh, I reckon it was the endin’ of October, shiverin’ and cryin’ in that little pile of leaves. Said Buck threw him out ‘cause he climbed up on the couch.
I felt bad for the feller. 53 °F out and he was shakin’ like it was the dead of winter. I give him an old baby blanket. I was kindly ornery at Buck. Sure, Hunter was a toy, but he ain’t like a bike or a Barbie, can’t just toss him out in the cold and ‘spect him to be okay. ‘Course Hunter didn’t stay out there too long, Buck couldn’t risk his girls comin’ in off the school bus and seein’ Hunter out there cold and alone.
Anyways, I reckon Buck must’ve forgot Hunter could talk, or else he didn’t ‘spect him to, ‘cause Hunter snitched on him to his girls. I heard it all when I was outside refillin’ my birdbath, Hunter doin’ that huu huu shit and Paisely holdin’ him, all the girls gathered ‘round and huggin’ him, promisin’ they weren’t gonna let Buck do anythin’ like that to him again. Maisey, always the firecracker, that one, marched right in that house and started yellin’ at her Daddy. If there was any notion she hadn’t inherited her Daddy’s lungs it was soon knocked plumb out of the head of whoever heard ‘em goin’ at it. Paisely shoved Hunter under the porch, tryin’ to make sure ole Buck wouldn’t get a hold of him, I reckon, and joined her sister in the fray inside. Daisy, tears runnin’ down her fat face, stood in the yard. She shivered, from adrenaline or rage or maybe fear, and looked off towards them woods behind the park. Then she crawled up and under that porch with Hunter, belly down in the dirt like a worm, and sobbed harder’n than the fluffy she cradled to her side.
Sounds like that storm is gettin’ closer.
Sure you don’t wanna get out before it hits? Might be able to catch Buck or Clementine comin’ back from the search party.
Alright then.
I reckon all that just hastened on the end of whatever relationship Buck had left with his girls. He done went and made a mess of it when he yanked out Hunter’s eye, but I reckon seein’ their fluffy with the beginnin’s of frostbite on the tips of his ears was the nail in the coffin. Knew Buck couldn’t be ‘spectin’ no visit in the retirement home after that’n.
In my forty-nine years I’ve seen a lot of fallin’ outs in families. Seen ‘em stop talkin’ for years ‘cause of politics or money or bein’ done wrong. Ain’t ever seen no one dumb enough to blow up their whole family over a damn fluffy pony though. But, shit, I ain’t never seen anyone as stubborn and stupid as Buck, neither.
Well, after Buck threw another one of his hissy fits, this one culminatin’ with him pitchin’ his overflowin’ trashcan across the yard, he stomped on over here and humbled himself enough to ask me how I made up with my kids after we had us a fight.
Well shit, I ain’t had the heart to tell him that I wouldn’t be caught this side of the grave yellin’ at my family the way he did, and I knew real advice like havin’ a discussion or apologizin’ were about as good to him as a cup of water on a housefire, so I gave him the Santa Claus answer: Get ‘em a present. Whatever they want.
Yeah, he did get ‘em somethin’. Didn’t ‘spect him to. He even asked Hunter what he wanted. Can you believe that? I guess ole Buck finally figured out that that fluffy was as good as a dog or a cat to them girls, a real companion, you know? A pet, not a toy, at least to the kids. Thought he finally got somethin’ through that skull of his.
Oh, yeah. Hunter asked for a wagon. You know the type, them little red metal ones kids like, with the long black handle.
Yeah. The same one they’re findin’ tracks for around where the girls were last seen. I reckon whoever took ‘em snatched ‘em up, wagon, fluffy, girls and all. Sure is a shame.
How should I know? I don’t know how fluffy ponies think. He probably seen it on a commercial or somethin’, thought it looked fun.
Came in right handy, though. The days of them little leaf piles were over. Hunter’d take that long handle of that wagon in his mouth and he’d start pullin’ towards the woods, all three of those girls wanderin’ behind. They’d grab up armfuls of fallen leaves and pine needles from the woods over yonder and dump ‘em in the wagon, head back down the road, dump ‘em all in the yard and start it all over again. The wind’d blow and torrents of leaves would start skitterin’ down the road, looked like a picture from a magazine. Made you think maybe the park weren’t so bad afterall.
Anyways, yeah, I reckon I’m not surprised that they had the wagon with ‘em. They’d use it all the time. They’d be out there pushing each other ‘round in it, fillin’ it with toys and snacks and takin’ their tea parties on-the-go, even heard Buck raisin’ Hell one time ‘cause he caught ‘em pushin’ each other down that little hill that bottoms out at the road.
Just ‘tween you and me, I reckon that wagon is what’s gonna get the sonovabitch who done this caught.
Oh, yeah? Check that homeless camp a couple of miles from here and lemme know what you’re thinkin’ then.
Why’d they take the girls? For the food, of course.
Really? You’re workin’ for this big news company and you ain’t got the foggiest idear what I’m talkin’ ‘bout? Shit, well, that wagon was absolutely overflowin’ with canned food.
Well I can tell you why, but I reckon it’s like Hunter. Not very important in the scheme of things.
One day, about a week after all of that fightin’ ‘bout leavin’ Hunter out in the cold, the girls come home all excited. Turns out their school is havin’ a holiday food drive, and whatever student brings in the most cans of food gets one of them new game systems that’s releasin’ just in time for Christmas. Now, just like with Hunter, the Andersons didn’t have a hope of affordin’ the hottest Christmas gifts normally. But if somethin’ like this falls in their laps, they’re gonna grab it up.
They come up with a plan. All three of ‘em would collect cans, but they’d turn in the cans under only one of their names, so their points wouldn’t get split between the three of them. Pretty smart, huh? ‘Specially for some nine-year-olds.
Anyways, Buck was still clingin’ to hope, thinkin’ maybe if the gifts didn’t win his girls back, this sure would. He went and got damn near every can they had, probably ‘bout thirty of ‘em, and the girls seemed to love him again. Huggin’ him and squealin’ and sayin’ how happy they was. Buck had a new spring in his step for a coupla days. Reckon he thought he won ‘em back with a wagon and some cans of food.
The next day was a Saturday, and the girls come knockin’ on my door ‘round ‘bout 8:00 that mornin’. They had Hunter tied to that wagon with an ole gnarled rope they found, tuggin’ them cans ‘round. Asked me if I had any cans of food I could spare for their competition. ‘Course I gave ‘em a few, them odds and ends everyone’s got lyin’ ‘round, baked beans and canned carrots and the like. They gave me a big hug and moved on down the line to the next trailer.
I reckon that’s the last time I ever talked to ‘em. Last time a lot of us talked to ‘em, I reckon.
Whoa! That’un was hard enough to shake the house. I can’t recall the last time we had a thunderstorm this bad.
Reckon them dogs have lost the scent yet?
Anyways. I saw ‘em just two more times after that. That afternoon, when they come waddlin’ back down the trailer park road, them wagon wheels stickin’ in that red clay mud, Hunter strainin’ from the weight of the wagon with that old rope tired ‘round his midsection, that empty eyehole of his pourin’ that green snotty stuff down those fuzzy cheeks. Paisely and Maisey pushin’ from the back of the wagon to help him along, Daisy draggin’ another bag overflowin’ with homemade jams and boxes of saltines and cans of tuna. That wagon groanin’ and swayin’ under a pile of non-perishables. They dragged it into their yard, pantin’ despite that winter chill in the air, collapsin’ in the frosty grass.
Hunter did somethin’ weird then. Pulled out a can of peaches, braced it ‘tween them neon orange hooves, and slid that twisted up, ugly horn of his across the top. Popped that can open better than a blade coulda. And the girls. Well.
They cheered. They threw their hands up, gigglin’ like schoolgirls with a secret. I reckoned it would upset them, since they wanted them cans for a competition, but they must’ve really liked Hunter’s trick.
They rested a few minutes, then pushed that wagon of can ‘round back, to that little shed they’ve got behind the place. I reckon they must have had, oh, three hundred cans of food? Not to mention all them boxes of pasta and bags of rice and cannisters of oatmeal and the like. They had quite the rations. Almost made me wanna skip my next grocery trip and just collect from my neighbors like they did! They were a shoo-in!
I’m sorry to say that the last time I saw ‘em was this mornin’. Thought it was kindly weird, them out there ‘round 7:00 on a Sunday. What kid don’t sleep in?
Saw ‘em hookin’ Hunter up to that overflowin’ wagon. They had a huge comforter, looked like it was snatched from the back of a closet, still had stiff creases all over it, draped over that pile of cans. Figured they were tryin’ to protect it all from the rain that’s roarin’ out there right now. They threw a coupla pans on top of the pile, to weigh it down, I reckon.
They looked kindly weird. Misshapen. Like they all gained twenty pounds overnight. Clementine says a bunch of their clothes are missin’, reckons they layered up and that’s why they were so lumpy-lookin’. I can’t say I believe that. Why’d they pile up in all them clothes if they were just goin’ out to get more cans? I reckon Clementine is just confused ‘bout how much clothes them girls actually had, probably forgot ‘bout all them clothes she threw out spring cleanin’.
They each had their school backpacks on too, dinosaurs and flowers and planets all bulgin’ out from whatever they had them backpacks stuffed with. All three bags stuffed so full they couldn’t even zip, shoes and books and snack cakes poppin’ out the top. Looked like they were ready for whatever come their way.
And Hunter in the middle of it all, that old baby blankie I give him wrapped up around him like a toga, that missin’ left eye weepin’ them green globs, his jaw set and…
Well.
It sounds silly.
Alright. Glarin’. He was glarin’.
Nah. Not at me. At Buck’s trailer. I don’t know. I reckon it was a trick of the light. Fluffies are supposed to be all about hugs and love and all that, right? That’s what the commercials say. Don’t reckon they can get mad. I reckon I imagined it is all. Lookin’ back on these memories has made me make it more dramatic than it was, I reckon.
Anyways, they loaded up and took off down the driveway. Started towards the south end of the park, waddlin’ in their coats. Last glimpse I caught of them was them trompin’ down the middle of that red clay road, Hunter swishin’ that neon tail, Maisey hoppin’ along the drain ditch, Paisely holdin’ Daisy’s hand, Daisy lookin’ over her shoulder. Looked like she was cryin’.
That’s it.
Nah,really? I heard that the dogs tracked ‘em to the woods behind the park, but ain’t heard nothin’ ‘bout the wagon tracks bein’ found in the moss near the creek. I hope they ain’t out there. Them girls might be better off with a kidnapper than out in them woods.
Like I told you before, ain’t nothin’ out there but bears and God, and I know which one I reckon will find ‘em first.
Nah? I ain’t heard that. Eatonsborough Elementary wasn’t even havin’ a food drive? That’s plumb weird. I reckon someone should check again, cause I don’t see why them girls woulda lied.
Even with all that, I still reckon they got snatched. Buck was sure to teach ‘em how dangerous it was out there. None of them, even that fluffy pony, would be fool enough to go in there.
Old lady Mabel reckons I should tell my story. She’s got this cuckoo theory, says that Hunter took away the only thing Buck loved ‘cause Buck took away one of the only things he loved. Reckons that fluffy is holdin’ a grudge ’bout an eyeball he lost over a year ago. Losin’ her marbles, I reckon, loonier than a ding bat.
Nah. I ain’t told the cops any of this. I reckon it don’t matter, no how.
He was just a fluffy pony, after all.
