Carolina Drama

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“I’m not sure if there’s a point to this story

But I’m going to tell it again

So many other people try to tell the tale

Not one of them knows the end”

Well,

Mama kept her parties to herself like all the rest of her fears. Water jugs filled the shelves in our cellar, making the wooden slats sag from the weight. Just waiting for a big storm to take our poor old house down.

A stool sat by our leaky sink, plaster peeled off in big patches like a mangy dog, waiting for mama to come sit and do the dishes. Curly brown hair falling in her face as she scrubbed, glancing up and out the window toward the still dirt road. Waiting for the preacher to come tell her about some folks who needed a babysitter or a cook, just some work to tide her over when our funds got low.

I knew about her parties. She’d ditch her cutoffs and sleeveless button-downs in exchange for that green velvet dress that showed too much of her back. I knew she’d be going far away from here. Hamburger steak or chicken fries or indian tacos left in the microwave, safe from gnats. “Be good,” she’d whisper, snatching the ten dollars I offered her for gas. And then she was out in the front yard, dropping down into the driver’s seat of a rusted Camaro that belonged to my daddy when he was a teenager.

All I got of him is that rusted old car and the hammer in the back seat. The engine hummed and thought about starting for a good long minute before it roared and rattled to life. Then, she was gone. Off to parties where Camaro keys get dropped in hats and husbands and wives took turns peeling off those long, slim emerald green straps. Selfish and greedy for even more skin. My mama, with her curly brown hair falling in her face as she lapped up some wife’s cunt while shoved full from behind. I didn’t care. It didn’t bother me much.

Pacing around the house, trying to distract my brain with TV and picking at a chicken fry. There was nothing on. My mother, beautiful and smart, couldn’t cook for shit. So I stretched out on the couch and let my urges took over like some blood-thickening disease. My thumbs slipped into the band of my jeans and I shoved them down my thighs. Knowing I was hard, knowing what I was thinking about. I didn’t care for the thoughts I had but I accepted them a long time ago. Could almost be natural. I was a young man, living in a house with a woman, and taking care of her the best I knew how. Shit happens.

My fingers drifted through my thick pubic hair as I stared up at the ceiling fan shaking with motion and how it caused the light to blur. Letting the damn thing blind me. In my head, it was all my mother.

Brown curls frizzing and pinned on the top of her head. Her ear pressed against that old pink phone, her eyes narrowing with gossip and laughing until she was blushed and shaking. Bending to grab a beer from our sunburnt fridge. The dimples on either side of her spine. How she’d take off at a dead run from the bathroom naked, hands holding her tits when she’d forgotten to grab the towels off the line. I’d shield my eyes, act impatient. Peak at her wrapping up in her comforter and promise her I’d grab the towels.

I thought about crawling into that comforter, peeling my mother’s hands away from her bits and tasting every fucking inch of that milky skin. I tugged my cock thinking of the sounds she’d make as I sank my cock in between her swollen cunt lips, how her tits would shake as I fucked her on that old bed. I thought of pulling her shorts down while she did dishes and making her grab hold of the counter while I mounted her.

Of wrapping my arms around her and sinking deep into her, humping her while she giggled and groaned. Fuck. I came thinking of my mother’s cunt clenched around my cock. My cum dripped down my sides and made a mad dash for the couch, I caught it with my hand and wiped it on my jeans.

Well,

Headlights shone through the red towel tacked over my window. The clock said it was around three and I believed it, I rolled over and away from the lights. My whole room had a soft red glow.

A deep, male voice joined mama’s as the car doors slammed and soon they were on the porch, smothered laughs with sloppy kisses as keys jingled and shoved into the wooden door, and then they were inside and very, very loud. Mama was giggling, as she fumbled with the chain on the door, and then both of them drunken stumbling to her room.

I could have smothered myself with that pillow, pressing it to my face to drown out the creaking and grunting.

When I woke up the house was silent. Mama’s door was wide open. Inside, the two of them were naked, tangled in white sheets underneath a ceiling fan whirring as fast as it could go. He snored. Mama curled up away from him, cold.

Quilts were stacked at the end of her bed, I unfolded one and covered her before I grabbed my shoes and headed off to work. Off to weld all day in the heat. They pay me well enough. I’m saving for land and lumber, just like everybody else.

I got notebooks supertoto yeni giriş lined with pages of smeared blue ink of the house I’ll build mama. One with an actual porch instead of a concrete slab to chain smoke on when her seasonal-sads hit, where her miserable guests stumble out and piss into a rose bush that’s gone to thorn. A small little place with a chimney and a pile of firewood. Mama can plant those pretty purple flowers that hang heavy like grapes.

My hands weld and my mind wanders through woods I haven’t yet laid eyes on. Soon, the trailer I’d been working on all day is done. It’s an early day. Joey flags me down as I try to pull out of the gravel parking lot, a grin across his face as he leans over into my car. His breath smells like rot and tobacco, backed by the cologne that’s melting with his body odor under the coveralls. He loves this car, offers me a pretty penny every year come tax refund time. I expect him to give me shit but he produces a card instead. Neat, black, with a name in white. Call that man, Joey insists, he saw what you did on the Fergon’s lot and he’ll pay you a shit ton. Call him. Shit, teach me how to melt that shit together and I’ll call the bastard.

I take it and toss it into my passenger seat with my empty lunch box. Driving the speed limit, low and slow all the way home to see the man, the blanket hog who snores, is still here. Stretched out on the couch with a hand buried down his pants. Beer cans lined up in front of the couch. A few knocked over, making stains on the carpet.

Mama was in the kitchen making biscuits, a cloud of flour dusting her hair, and she looked just as happy as she could be. So I didn’t question the redneck on our couch. Instead, I grab the phone on the table and pretended to dodge the floury kiss mama plants on my temple and duck into my room with the spiral cord stretched under the door and I dial the number on the black card. It takes twenty minutes. Butter sizzled in a pan on the stove and I can smell it from here. I’m offered a pile of money for four weeks’ work by a raspy throated man who calls it “cash” and he calls me “son” and I can hear his lighter flicker every four and a half minutes. I accept.

Well,

I don’t tell mama about the money, I keep it to myself like the rest of my fears. Like the permanent redneck ass-print indenting itself into our couch by the day. It’s been a week. He is still here and he’s still drinking beer and lining them up. The money is not this man’s business. My mama is not that man’s business, but he stays like she is.

Mama has started referring to him as her boyfriend and I spend every night with a face full of pillow while they fuck like rabbits. We eat buttermilk biscuits and roast and beans with cornbread and fried potatoes and chicken fries. Each of them made just as good as she can cook them, none of them forgotten on the stove. Abandoned for phone calls or toenail paint.

We haven’t eaten leftovers since he’s gotten here. I like the leftovers. Warming a little bit of everything up while the sun sets through that kitchen window and playing Red Headed Stranger on the CD player you gotta kick to get to work most days. Mama telling me about her day. About the preacher, about cleaning, about a church lady’s kids who don’t act like no church lady’s kids, about something that needs fixing, and promising her I’d fix it and I always do. Grab the hammer from the back of my old man’s car and go do what he shoulda been here to do.

I let my eyes linger too long on mama’s back pocket as her butt shakes when she whisks. When I look away my eyes catch the boyfriend’s and he makes a face I don’t reciprocate or acknowledge. He gets more aggressive with the affection, dialing it up to an eleven with neck kisses and groping at the kitchen table during supper while I choke down a fajita and swallow my sweet tea in three big gulps. Later, the thumping is so loud no pillow is gonna drown it out and I even hear mama giggle about being a little quieter. I swallow drowsy aspirin and clench my eyes shut until I’m not here anymore and I dream of that kitchen table, the window, mama, and the radio.

Well,

The preacher comes to visit mama which always makes her feel better. At the moment, she’s not feeling down but he comes anyway and I’m hoping he can talk some sense into her.

The boyfriend has lived here two weeks, his groping has gotten rougher but I make myself scarce, working on my little secret project and knowing that he’ll be gone by month’s end. Mama was level-headed but sometimes it got whacked off, that’s what she said. She’d go years doing just what she needed to but every once in a while something would come out of left field and just knock her head off her shoulders and she’d roll around in the dirt for a while. She blames it on her daddy, he was a tramp and an arsonist.

The preacher pulled up and like always, ran his hand along with that rusted Camaro, whistling as he went. He nodded at me as I headed out. supertoto giriş The work is hard involving more climbing and heat than I’m used to. I strip off and let the sun do its worst while the sparks lick my chest.

When I come home I’m ready to pour the tea pitcher over my head but when I pull into the drive I see the cement slab is occupied a few months too early. She’s in full jeans and a tank top, twisting from side to side looking at the hills we can see for miles out here. Cigarette in hand and it looks far from the first of the day. Mama has stopped smiling.

Well,

The phone rings off the hook day and night and the boyfriend insists on answering it only to hang up. We both look at our plates, that shameful way people do when your debts are exposed to them. Creditors calling your girlfriend’s house two weeks in.. I ate my food slower, asking mama about her day. Even when he interjects to let me know he fucked my mama on the table and how they spent the afternoon cleaning up shards of glass from the lime pickle jar shattering.

On one of his hushed phone conversations, mama leans over and tells me the boyfriend was mean to the preacher. Told him there was no use for him coming out anymore. Insinuated certain things. How it just wasn’t right is all, you don’t say that about a man of God. Shame evens the score.

I ask mama if she’s been thinking about what pie she’ll make on Sunday even though she forgot last time. She smiles. Peach. Which is my favorite and she sticks to it even when the boyfriend announces he doesn’t like pie, he’s a cake man. Cake men don’t belong in this little house. You could blow it over with an ill thought. This house is for towels turned into curtains and radios and leftover night and dominos and gin rummy and opening up the back door when it rains. Cakes are made for birthdays. Not for dessert, you fucking redneck.

When I scrape my plate, he grabs mama and shoves his mouth against hers and she can’t get her breath, both her hands on his chest. I grip my butterknife tighter and think about how much force it would take to send dull cutlery through his throat.What? You don’t wanna kiss me no more? He’s grinning like that can’t possibly be the issue. Mama takes deep gulps of air, Just surprised me is all.

The phone rings again and his shit-eating grin is gone and he’s off with the phone, carrying it into the bathroom to whisper. I don’t know a lot of things. Don’t believe I was put on this earth to think a lot of things like some men, but I do know I’ll never pay a dime to this man’s debtors. As far as I know, he doesn’t have a job. Unless someone’s paying him to paperweight our couch with his fat ass.

There’s an urge in me to scrape my knuckles along with that bathroom door with its peeling paint and to listen to his I’ll have it next week beg only to interrupt by telling him just that. I won’t be paying your debts. You ain’t no kin to me. You’re nothing to me. But mama is stretching out her freckled arms and grabbing the recipe canister to skim for a pie recipe. The muscles in her back show under her tan skin and they are so, so delicate. Like a bird.

Another urge takes over and I walk to the little back bedroom, roll underneath my comforter and tug myself thinking of my hand as her warm mouth. How soft and lovely she’d look down there on her knees taking care of me. Her pink tongue against my balls, hand tight around my cock, her thumb rolling over my tip. I curl my toes when I cum, jerking a bit as the leftover spills out of me before falling off to sleep much too early.

Well,

The preacher comes again because he’s never been any good at listening to anything besides the Lord’s word. His car is still here when I pull back in. Sweaty and grease-splotched from work. So I circle the house and park by the big oak. Put my favorite cassette in and follow the harmonica into a different time where trains chugged along wooden bridges and outlaws worked on riverboats until there was nothing but an urgent clicking.

The damn radio sounds like it’s trying to hack up my tape. It’s over. Flip to side B. The sun sunk behind the trees and that preacher’s car was still here. It’s not like mama’s nerves will let her go into the church in town. People stare and talk too much. It’s nice of the preacher to tramp down these old, dirty roads to deliver deliverance right to our door. I believe in respecting privacy when it comes to matters of nerves and God. But listen, I was hungry. My stomach thought my throat had been cut so I pull the keys and head up.

Mama meets me on the slab. Her hands holding her elbows and her knees shaking like a man hornet nest. My arm slipped around mama’s waist and I kiss her forehead. She buried that pretty face in my arm. Oh, baby. We’re in a whole mess of trouble. Once the wooden door is open, the smell hits me in the face. Copper and yeast.

Well,

His words come out in a stutter, in triplicate. Baby, baby, baby, look I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Between supertoto güvenilirmi your boy and the damn preacher wanting you I get so damn jealous. I can’t help it. How am I ‘spose to help it? The only two men I shouldn’t have to worry about are looking up your skirt. The boyfriend was begging and pleading and turning my stomach upside down.

Mama is real smart and I doubt, with my whole heart, that she didn’t know about the sludge of thoughts running inside my head when I’d hold onto her just a little too long. But mama only holds her hand up and shakes her head.

Wedged between the couch and the coffee table, lay the preacher’s body. Bleeding from his crushed, egg head. Eyes open toward the One he served and a frozen arm draped near my cum stains. My old man’s hammer lay just beyond the puddle of blood with bits and pieces of the preacher on its rusted steel.

My stomach feels like rusted steel like it might become too heavy and crush my bones and drop right on the floor. The phone rings and the wail the boyfriend makes is animalistic and despite the body, he storms off to tell the debtors it’ll be another week, another day. There’s been a death in the house.

When he’s out of sight, mama bends over the preacher and reached into the wedge of the couch cushions, and pulls out an envelope filled with hundred dollar bills. Your daddy brought us this. He’s done it before. Makes, no, made sure we kept the house. And when her voice chokes, I grab her and pull her to me. And she whispers how sorry she is. How the boyfriend caught the preacher between her legs, they’d gotten carried away, sometimes they did. How she wasn’t sorry for getting carried away when it led to me but this time.. She was. The boyfriend had come back from his beer run early and pulled the preacher, your daddy, off. How he must have seen it from the window and grabbed that hammer from the back porch where I’d been fixing a screen window that had been letting in far too many mosquitos.

When the boyfriend comes back, he snatches mama out of my arms and wraps her in his, whispering apologies in her hair. Despite herself, mama relaxes into him. A little bird who always needs comfort. Too sensitive for this goddamn earth. Mama is a smart lady. We are in a whole mess of trouble.

Well,

We bury daddy under my favorite oak tree. Where he can watch the wild sunflowers spring up in early summer and see the rolling hills for miles. I tell him when mama and the boyfriend have already headed back to the house that we won’t be here long. That I wish I could bury him on our new land. So I could visit him every day, keep the weeds from mingling with the rocks that mark his grave.

Magpies and robins will keep him company out here on this dead, dry land. And maybe, no offense, thank you for the money that kept us in this shit shack, but maybe this was your purgatory, old man. An eternity of your earthly body rotting away out here, like mama on her cement slab. Maybe it was just your turn.

Mama was due for her turn, I’d found land up in the mountains with the most beautiful green you’d ever seen. A creek made sure of it. That same hammer would help build a cabin so beautiful, mama could work away at her quilts and her knitted blankets and make cheese and wine and salsa to her heart’s content. And someday, maybe, she’d let me take her in my arms when those seasonal-sads hit and she’d let me whisper real gentle in her ear about how loved she is, about how much she’d be missed if she was to give in and sink below the muddy water. Cause I didn’t just have those awful thoughts by themselves, I had a lot of love in my heart and it was just beating like crazy for mama and nobody else. So I went home to her. Leaving daddy behind like he left me behind.

The boyfriend never shut the door while he fucked mama. He wanted me to hear. I walked right past, right to that hammer, and returned it to my daddy’s car. My mama’s knees were spread and she rubbed his back, asking him to hurry.

Well,

Hot, never-ending days follow and I get my peach pie and I listen to the boyfriend talk about the cakes his grandma made and I think about how a tree can be rotten for so long before it falls. Holds out until it’s rotted right down to the roots and then timber. His roots are rotten. It’s time to fall.

Right on schedule, the phone rings and rings and rings until his ears turn red and he jerks it off the ringer only to smash it back down. He catches the smile that washes across my face like a tide.

When I finish my milk, he glances at me for a real long time before shifting his weight to his elbows on the table. Our kitchen table. My fingers grab hold of the edges like I’ll dump the son of a bitch over backward but I wait and he grins, asks me, Aint you a little too old to be living with your mama? Mama comes to my defense with a kiss on the top of my head and some speech about how without me she’d be living in a tent and I hate that this fucker, this leech, is making her air out her dirty laundry. It’s no business of his. Our money is not his business.I just thought, he says. The boy would like a place of his own. A place he could get some action away from his mama’s ears but who am I? I don’t know shit. With kids these days you never can tell but when I was his age..

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