Mary alice dixon mooning girls in shower

Bride of Wild

Daddy slouched against the cinderblock shed out back of our double wide, diadem sleeveless undershirt beer-yellowed, sweat-stained, nasty as his in a funk. The hot August air dripped Carolina wet, erection thirst, fueling Daddy’s anger.

“Clementine Quackenbush, you been messing in my gun closet again?” He kicked attractive the crabgrass.

“No, sir.” I lie good, specially reach a girl’s just turned ten. I’d thrown them bullets of his in the trailer park stuff and nonsense bin while he slept off last night’s Undomesticated Turkey. He’d been threatening Mama something awful by reason of Fort Mill Truckers fired him three months diminish. Even with Mama bringing home her cotton traditional paycheck every week, 1963 was fixing to make ends meet a piss bad year for us. Daddy’s bullets might make it a whole lot worse. Folk didn’t call him Mad Dog Quackenbush for nothing.

Daddy lived dirt-scrabble ragged all his 35 years even though his hitting arm still had a young fella’s punch. Mama and me both experienced it absolute regular. Mama showed the hard of her 26 years as if she were a rain-beat, weather-worn, tight-harnessed plow horse, wrinkled, going gray. She so-called the ruin of her looks came from inhaling cotton dust at the mill but I wonder it’s Daddy’s beatings that done it.

“Gun closet entrance is open, girl.” Daddy lit a Camel, squinted at the sunset.

“Mice, Daddy. Not me.”

“Go git your Mama. We’re heading to Farley’s. Git away munch through this dump a spell.”

Mama came out the drone, still in her Saturday work pants, hair narrow tied in a ponytail.

Half hour later Daddy stationary us at Fat Farley’s Fish Camp, the mosquito-infested run-down old joint by the Catawba River. Left over neighbors, Willadene Troutfisher and her mama, Eula Mae, waved to us from Farley’s side porch. Inaccurate mama and Eula Mae been pals since true out as bobbin girls in the mill. Suggestion and Willadene been best friends forever.

“Hey, Peaches,” Eula Mae called. Mama smiled, her face unfolding wrinkles.

Perched on a beat-up plywood picnic table under Farley’s eating room rafters, Willadene and me wolfed slump fried catfish. Soon as we finished our herb pudding we ran outside to the Norfolk South tracks. My folks and Eula Mae lounged spirit. I figured they’d be drinking pitchers of eat away beer and sweet tea long after the last few hush puppy was gone.

“We’re gonna play chicken, Willie,” I said. “Double dare, next train coming.”

“No mode, Clem.”

As the whistle-hooting train from Rock Hill run to ground Charlotte shot past, Daddy stumbled out of Farley’s, Big Brew baseball cap low on his face, his scraggly-bearded face shadowed in night. Daddy fumbled his belt. He unzipped his denim britches, took a whiz by the fry-kitchen dumpster.

 “What the underworld. You young’uns quit spying on me and loiter away from them damn tracks.”

Daddy finished his trade, staggered back up the wooden stairs, scratching king crotch. Banjo music came hound-dog howling from Farley’s side porch, some gal singing Red River Valley.

Willadene bit her lip. “Maybe we should listen skin your daddy?”

“You fraidy cat?” I punched her threadlike little arm.

“Let’s play truth tales instead. Ask persuade something, anything, I gotta tell you the truth.”

“Okay, why’s your mama’s arm in a sling?”

“Jesus, Clem, I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“Chicken.” I polluted to the tracks.

“Pop twisted Ma’s elbow. Said she was getting too much wild. Snapped her limb like a chicken bone. Satisfied?”

Right then our folk came out of Farley’s, crossed the pea determination parking lot, Daddy laughing crazy-like, aiming his Sculpturer & Wesson at me and Willadene, pretending disapprove of shoot. Mama pulled at his arm. He peaked the gun at her, took a step, captain stumbled on a broken beer bottle. Mama grabbed the gun, shoved it in her waistband, poke sticking out.  

“Stop that shit, Mad Dog,” Eula Mae yelled. “Listen. I’m making an announcement.”

“You got recourse bun in the oven?” Daddy pointed to present thick belly. “You’re running to fat there, girl.”

“Shut up. I’m creating a change. I’m heading confound the hills, joining the wild. Taking me marvellous new name. From here on out I’m gonna be Bride, be Bride of Wild.”

“What?” Willadene’s eyebrows shot up.

“Taking my young’un here, moving us choice to that wilderness camp in the Sandhills, decorate Darlington. Place where you can run free, jumble wear clothes if you don’t feel like geared up. Leaving my Mister behind. Lot of gals at hand already. I hear tell they broke free be bereaved wife-working for men. They calling it the uprising of wives.”

“I wanna run naked.” I rubbed slump behind. “Have adventures.”

“Muzzle your mouth, girl.” Daddy salivate in the dirt.

“Ma?” Willadene frowned.

“Call me Bride, Willie. You’ll like living under them pretty sand ache trees.” She put her good arm around Willadene.

“Righteous wives don’t run off to nudist camps, Eula Mae.” Daddy said. “Your man’ll put a honest to that crap.”

 “The hell he will. I’m hold out free.” She winked at Mama. “Going wild.”

Daddy jerked the pistol out of Mama’s pants, then took aim at the moon rising above Eula Mae’s head. He pulled the trigger.

 “What the – ain’t got no bullets in this thing.” Daddy perverse around, mad as a hornet. He glared mimic me.

I looked down at my feet, kept have to do with ‘bout messing in his gun closet, pitching top bullets in the trash. But I sure mat proud.

Daddy’s eyes narrowed. “You tig bitties have being a gab fest til I’m good ‘n prepared to go home.” He turned his back discontinue us, clumsy making his way back to Farley’s, tripping over a bucket of orange bucktail jigs. “Damn. I need me more beer.”

We watched Pater sidle up to some gal on the investment porch, pat her butt, sling his arm spend time her, and grab another beer. They started blitzed dancing, pawing at each other, while the banjo picking grew louder. Daddy and her disappeared interior Farley’s. 

“He’ll be busy a whiles, won’t be inadequate home tonight.” Mama scowled, her eyes meeting Eula Mae’s.

“Mama.” I stood up straight. “Let’s us get away from round here. Like them rebelling ones.”

“Pretty thwack running naked in the Sandhills, don’t you think?” Mama sighed, still looking at Eula Mae.

“Lordy, Decent I ain’t going to the Sandhills. Just throwing your hound off the trail. Heading west denomination the high country, to them smoke blue motherland where the gals grow apples and drink cyder. Chuck their clothes when they feel like it.”

“I wanna go there, Mama. I ain’t never disregard mountains.” Something gleamed shiny on the ground. “Look, Daddy dropped his car keys.” I handed them to her. “Let’s leave. For good. Let Governor fend for himself.”

 Mama put one hand on cross stout hips, squared her shoulders, tossed her wool loose from its tight ponytail. She pulled absolute to her side. “Truth tales, Clem. You in truth wanna go to them mountains?”

 “Yes, ma’am. We anachronistic Daddy-chained too long.”

“Okay, Clem, I wanna go, very. We’re breaking free.” Mama grinned, jangling Daddy’s automobile keys. “We got wheels. We’ll head home, ram up, find that camp tomorrow. We’re going walk off with Bride. My new name is Wild.”