Ripped To Shreds

by Jeanne Glidewell

  "Go on with your story, son," Rip prompted Willie. He'd call the boy "son" since the day Cora had given birth to him.

  Willie cleared his throat a couple of times and appeared slightly embarrassed as he continued. "So, you see, I started siphoning gas out of Mom's car every few days and pouring it into Mr. Wilson's gas tank after dark. I know where he hides his spare house and truck keys under a rock by his garage. He started doing that last year after he locked himself out of his house with his key ring lying inside on the kitchen counter."

  "And your trickery is the thanks he gets for trusting you enough to show you where he hides his keys," Cora broke in to remark.

  "Come on, Mom. He knows I'd never steal his truck or go into his house uninvited. And please don't interrupt me again. It's uncouth and inconsiderate." His barb hit home as Cora grimaced and Rip and I did our best not to chuckle at the way Willie had thrown his mother's reprimand back in her face.

  "So, back to what I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted." This time neither of us could squelch a snicker, but we got control of our amusement quickly as Willie went on with his tale. "After a few days of adding gas to his tank, Mr. Wilson was ecstatic about the increase in mileage he was getting due to what he thought was the addition of the new addictive."

  "And, meanwhile," Cora said. "I was wondering why I was having to fill up my tank nearly every other day. I even made an appointment with the service department at Sheridan Motors, which I later had to cancel when I discovered the true reason for the car's sudden reduction in fuel mileage."

  "Sorry about that," Willie said with an ornery smirk before turning back to his Uncle Rip. "So then he started boasting about averaging thirty-two miles to the gallon, and encouraging all the old guys he has coffee with every morning at the cafe to add the additive to their tanks too. That's when I knew I had him right where I wanted him. Knowing Mr. Wilson has a fondness for gambling, I told him I didn't think there was any way in hell–"

  "William Michael!" Cora spat out in dismay. "Watch your mouth! You shooting for another week without your phone?"

  "Oh, sorry. I meant to say I told him there was no way in the world he could continue to get that kind of mileage once the truck got accustomed to having the additive added to the fuel. Sure enough, he said, 'Wanna bet?' So I bet him one hundred and twenty-five dollars he couldn't average over twenty-five miles a gallon before his Chevy had gone through the next full tank of gas."

  "Uh-oh," Rip said with a snort of laughter. "I can see where this is going."

  Willie smiled and continued. "So after we made the bet, I started sneaking over to Mr. Wilson's house again after he'd gone to bed and began siphoning gas out of his truck every night and putting it back in Mom's car. Not a lot each time, you see. Just enough that he began getting agitated that his fuel gauge was dropping a lot faster than he thought it should."

  At this point everyone was laughing. Even Cora couldn't contain her amusement and was chuckling right along with us. "Too smart for his own good. And mine!"

  "And people wonder why I call my nephew 'Slick Willie'. I'm impressed by your ingenuity, son, despite the fact it was a sneaky thing to do to the poor guy. So what happened next?" Rip asked after he managed to stop chuckling.

  "As usual, Mom ruined everything."

  "It's in the job description of 'mother', darling," Cora replied.

  Willie rolled his eyes dramatically. "Mr. Wilson would have made good on the bet, I'm sure. But Mom started getting suspicious when suddenly she could drive forever without her gas gauge ever dropping."

  "I'd also been smelling gasoline fumes in the garage," Cora added. "I guess it's hard not to spill a few drops when you're pouring gas into a fuel tank using a gas can."

  "Yes, it's tough to do, Mom. I spilled very little under the circumstances." Willie beamed with pride. "So, to make a long story short, I had to apologize to Mr. Wilson and admit to pulling a prank on him. He wasn't upset about it either. In fact, he thought it was really funny and was considering trying the same trick on old Mr. Dudley who lives across the street from him. And that, Uncle Rip, is why I'm grounded from my phone. Cruel and unusual punishment, don't you think?"

  Before Rip could reply to Willie's question, Cora said, "You're lucky I didn't ground you from using your phone for a month, you little rascal."

  From the warm look Cora exchanged with her son, it was evident they had a close and loving bond. Then Cora turned to us. "But I did cave in and agree to get him a pair of those silly-looking sneakers for his upcoming birthday."

  "They're 'kicks', Mom, not 'sneakers'. But I really do appreciate you buying them for me." Willie then turned his attention back toward us, and with a grin he said, "See? Mom's not nearly as mean as everybody says she is."

  Willie hollered when Cora's purse walloped him in the back of the head. He hadn't even seen it coming.

  Chapter 4

  "Already?" Rip asked. "Didn't you just do laundry a couple of days ago?"

  "It's been four days, actually. And I'd appreciate not having to go up to the laundry room as often if you'd be thoughtful enough to stop using towels showering and quit changing into clean clothes," I replied in jest.

  "Trust me, darling. You wouldn't appreciate my 'thoughtfulness' for very long. You'd be begging me to take a shower after the trailer began to smell as if there were a decaying possum in one of the trailer's under-carriage compartments."

  We shared a laugh before I hoisted up my full laundry basket and stepped outside to trudge up to the far end of the campground where the laundry room was connected to the shower houses. To be fair, Rip had offered to drive me. But I had no desire to appear as if I were too old and decrepit to make it there on my own, even if it meant risking life and limb with only an over-priced can of pepper spray to protect me. And, of course, a half bottle of Shout. If nothing else, whoever discovered my body could use it to remove the blood stains from my clothes before donating them to Goodwill.

  Before I stepped off our concrete patio, I reached for my belt to ensure that the pepper spray, my lame excuse for a weapon, was secure in its new leather case. At my request, Rip had trimmed down an old gun holster he no longer needed to create a carrier for the spray container. It worked splendidly, and I was rather proud of my own resourcefulness. Even Rip seemed impressed with my clever idea.

  Wanting to cover the space between our trailer and the laundry facility as rapidly as I was able, I walked briskly down the gravel road between rows of full hookup RV sites. I wanted to spend as little time as possible on the imaginary buffet table, you understand. I wasn't keen on spending two hours of my day on such a boring endeavor to begin with, but I knew if I put it off one more day I'd have to haul two baskets to the laundry facility tomorrow. Besides, I had nothing else to do with my time that day.

  For many years we had lived in a brick ranch home in Rockport, Texas, and I never thought of doing laundry as an undesirable chore. I could toss a load in the washing machine and stay busy accomplishing another task, or reading a cozy mystery on our screened-in porch, until it was time to move the load to the dryer. Very little time or effort was needed.

  But since we'd become full-time RVers a few years ago, laundry had taken on a whole new significance. We couldn't afford one of those fancy-schmancy RV's that came with a washer/dryer combo, and if you can believe it, occasionally a fireplace as well. Hauling dirty clothes to the campground's laundry room and waiting while they washed and dried was a dull and time-consuming task. It was one of the few aspects of living in our beloved Chartreuse Caboose that didn't agree with me. Laundry and cooking in a child's Magic Chef-sized kitchen were my only major complaints. Otherwise, I loved the freedom of the road and not being tied down to a house full of material items that had no real significance in our lives. Simplifying our lifestyle had actually enhanced it.

  I came out of my reverie in a split second when I heard something rustling in the woods no more than twenty yards from my location, which was fifteen or so step
s from the laundry room door. I covered the distance in five steps, all taken in the span of two-and-a-half seconds, and then slammed the door behind me. I immediately turned toward the window to see if I could spot what might have made the racket at the edge of the forest. Nothing out of the norm could be seen as I scanned the tree line through the glass pane. The undulating waves of my racing heart were beginning to ebb when I had the bejeezus scared out of me again, as an unexpected high-pitched female voice from just inches behind my ear startled me. "Are you all right, ma'am? You look spooked."

  Breathing heavily, I felt my heart's rhythm soar, more from fear than exertion. As soon as I could catch my breath, I assured her I was fine.

  "I thought I heard a wild animal near the tree line, but it was most likely just my mind playing tricks on me," I explained, feeling flushed. To ease my embarrassment, I joked. "Just an overactive imagination of a silly old lady, I guess."

  She smiled and told me she had also heard odd noises emanating from the woods as she was walking to the laundry room. I flinched when she added, "But I have no intention of paying twenty bucks for a useless can of pepper spray. The owners carry it in the office only to take advantage of anxious customers who are too foolish to realize it would serve no purpose should they be attacked by a cougar, bear, or even charged by a moose."

  "Oh, my goodness! Charged by a moose?" I instinctively pulled my jacket around my waist to hide my pepper-spray holster.

  "Yes. They are huge animals, you know, and have been known to charge people when they feel threatened or someone gets between them and their offspring. Of course, just like with bears and cougars, pepper spray would only further antagonize them."

  "Swell. Good to know."

  Without formally introducing ourselves, we began to exchange small talk as we both concentrated on sorting out our piles of towels and soiled clothing. I marveled at the swanky pantsuit and exquisite diamond ring the woman wore to do laundry. In contrast, I wore an old stained and tattered sweat suit I'd picked up for a quarter at a flea market over a decade ago. It wasn't stained or tattered when I'd first purchased it, mind you, or I'd have tried to bargain the seller down to a dime.

  Although she seemed like a pleasant enough woman, my laundry room companion's manner was a little hoity-toity for my taste. But chatting with her was not only a way to while away the time, it was also very illuminating.

  "I just arrived yesterday and haven't had time to shop for a few things I forgot to pack. Can you believe that wicked witch in the office charged me five bucks for this single-load box of detergent?" The striking woman shook her head in obvious disgust as she spoke.

  Even though Bea Whetstone wasn't my favorite person by any means, I considered replying that I thought "wicked witch" was a little too harsh a description of the campground owner, but then thought better of it. I wasn't in the mood for a confrontation that morning and "wicked witch" wasn't really that much of an exaggeration.

  "I know how you feel. I've had to pay a king's ransom for a couple of necessary items in the store myself. Mrs. Whetstone doesn't seem to be a very personable hostess, especially considering she owns a business that requires a person to be as accommodating as possible and to interact with customers on a continual basis. But maybe she's just had a tough go of it recently."

  "'Not very personable' is an understatement if I ever heard one," the tall, willowy brunette said. She appeared to be about the same age as the woman she was bashing. They were both in their mid-forties or so I'd guess. "At least Boonie is amicable, friendly, and has a laid-back personality. How he can stand being married to Bea is beyond me."

  "Have you stayed here before?" I asked, curious about the familiarity she seemed to have with the area and the park owners.

  "No. It's my first time in Wyoming." The annoyed woman with long, wavy dark-brown locks appeared to have formed strong opinions of the Whetstones having just arrived the previous day, but I didn't feel inclined to comment further on the touchy topic. I was happy when she changed the subject, and said, "I'm from Illinois. Chicago, to be exact. I live on the right side of the tracks, I might add."

  "I gathered that. You wear nicer clothes to do laundry than I do to attend weddings."

  "I'm sure you're a lot more comfortable than me, though. Even in clothes that look like they were pilfered from a sleeping hobo. I wish I felt comfortable going out in public in rags. No offense intended." I started to protest at her description of my outfit. How could I not take offense at a remark like that? Yes, the clothes I was wearing were old, and perhaps a bit shabby, but insinuating they were rags and akin to a hobo's wardrobe was insulting. Before I could respond heatedly to her rudeness, she asked in a friendly voice, "So, where do you call home?"

  I hesitated for a moment before deciding I was in no mood to squabble with a stranger about the condition of my outfit, and would rather ignore her offensive remarks and answer her question about my hometown. "Rockport, Texas. It's a quaint little coastal town just north of Corpus Christi. A small drinking village with a fishing problem, they like to say."

  "Sounds delightful," the woman said with a smile, after a polite chuckle in response to my play on words.

  We worked quietly side-by-side for a few minutes before the other lady began to converse again. While we were seated in cheap plastic chairs at a folding table across from a half dozen commercial dryers, she commented on her plans for the remainder of the day. "I'm not looking forward to having to unhook the car by myself, but I need to go to town to pick up a few necessary items. I want to buy some laundry detergent for one, so I don't get gouged in the park's store again."

  "Can't your husband unhook the car, or at least assist you?"

  "No, unfortunately my husband passed about six months ago. This is the first time I've taken the RV on a trip by myself since his death. I just needed to get away for a couple of weeks, you see."

  She sounded fed up more than emotionally upset, but I immediately felt sorry for her. Other than her hair, I thought she bore a strong physical resemblance to Bea Whetstone but didn't think she'd appreciate me telling her that. Bea's short mop of strawberry-blond hair was the only real feature that set them apart. Both tanned ladies had admirable physiques and were even a tad taller than my five feet, eight inches.

  "Yes, of course. I'm so sorry for your loss, and I can understand why you needed to get away for a spell. It must be a tough adjustment for you, and I sincerely wish you the best. As for your car, I'm certain my husband would be happy to assist you, or unhook it himself. Currently he's doing nothing more than making sure the couch in our trailer doesn't levitate off the floor on its own accord." I attempted a little humor to lighten the exchange. I hated to volunteer my husband in situations like this, but felt sorry for this widowed lady, despite the disrespectful way she'd referred to my clothing. I couldn't imagine life without Rip and didn't want to ever have to experience it. My goal was to die before he did, but I was realistic enough to know that God might have different plans.

  The slender lady smiled in response to my offer, and after declining it, she related a humorous anecdote about a vacation she and her late husband had once taken to the Black Hills in South Dakota. She told me that one evening while in Deadwood she'd asked him if he'd mind unhooking the car so they could go out for supper even though they were just staying in that RV park overnight. "He replied to me in his usual delightful joking manner, 'But of course, my dear Jan. You know I always go where I'm towed'."

  I laughed at the quip her husband had made and vowed to myself to remember the story long enough to share it with Rip. I started to respond, but a loud shout outside startled us both. We ran to the window and saw Bea Whetstone standing outside the office with a six-shooter in her hand. Our eyes immediately shifted in the direction the silver-handled, gold-barreled gun was aimed and both gasped when we saw a large black bear and a young cub standing on the edge of a gravel road between the campground and the tree line. I immediately thought the approaching bears had to have
been behind the creepy rustling noise I'd heard just before arriving at the laundry room. I swallowed hard, knowing if I'd been just a few minutes later, I might have come face-to-face with the imposing creatures.

  The sun glinting off the gun's gold-plated barrel reflected on Bea's face, illuminating her determined expression. She appeared tense, but resolute.

  Bea's bellow had stopped the two bears in their path. What I presumed was the cub's mama stood up on her back legs and tucked her young one behind her in an obvious attempt to protect her offspring from harm. Within seconds, twenty or more people had exited their units and gathered to see what was causing the disturbance. Several took their cell phones out and began videoing or taking photos of the incident, no doubt anxious to share with their family and friends the excitement of observing a mama bear and cub in the campground.

  Jan, my fellow laundry room inhabitant, and I stepped outside the door just far enough that we could watch the events taking place outside with the other onlookers. We stood motionless as the mama bear, sensing danger, took several cautious steps backward, maneuvering her cub into the safety of the forest as she retreated. She was clearly more afraid of humans than we were of her. Therefore, we were all stunned when Bea emptied her weapon, discharging all six cartridges, and dropped the female bear just as she was about to disappear inside the tree line. The large bear took a couple of shallow breaths before her body stilled. She'd died almost instantly, for which I was relieved. I can't stand to watch any living creature suffer.

  It seemed as if every person viewing the scene screamed in unison at their dismay of the unnecessary carnage they'd just witnessed. Naturally, I had no desire to be approached by the massive bear, which now laid lifeless on the ground, or any other wild animal, for that manner. But I was appalled that Bea shot and killed the bear when it was evident that, rather than adopting a threatening posture, the sow was in the process of retreating.