Striking

by Lila Felix

  Anger, bitterness and the basest frustration I had ever felt rippled through me like electric shocks. I actually started shaking from how livid I was. Somehow I managed a calm-sounding tone though and asked, “So you’re abandoning me? You’re making me homeless?”

  My father pulled the car to a stop in front of a mid-sized log cabin-an actual log cabin. The honey colored beams of wood were neatly stack and-if I wasn’t so pissed off I would have been able to admit-stylishly designed. The log-cabin-house was two stories, three if you counted the burrowed in garage and had a huge, open wrap around porch. The porch was built on stilts on one side of the house where it reached out over the cliff and probably gave a fantastic view of the mountain range-that was if you were brave enough to walk out on it, for sure risking your life.

  “We’re giving you a second chance, Cami,” my father said sadly. “We’re doing this for you.”

  I snorted an unattractive sound and crossed my arms. A woman that looked just like my dad, only the female version obviously, stepped out onto the porch in a flannel shirt and high-waist denim skirt of the wrong color and waved. My Aunt Mallory. Her light brown hair was kind of curly as it fell in frizzy, loose spirals to her shoulders. Her clothes were well worn, her boots already muddy and her face weathered and wrinkled. She looked…. her age.

  It was a foreign concept to me.

  I bet it was driving my dad nuts!

  I glanced over at him as he stepped out of the small sedan but there was no judgment, or even professional curiosity anywhere to be seen, just a huge smile and open arms for…. for a hug? Not two-cheek kisses? No pretentious half-hug. He actually pulled his sister into a full, two-armed squeeze. Oh my god.

  My mother too.

  What was happening?

  I thought about holing up in the car, refusing to leave, handcuffing myself to the steering wheel, but something in my aunt’s happy expression pulled me out of the vehicle. Stupid mistake. I was so going to regret this.

  Outside, in the fresh outdoors, the air smelled like sweet rain and upturned dirt. The sound of sheep bleating was loud and obnoxious and way too close by. And the constant mist in the air had already ruined my hair.

  I was severely underdressed for the still ice-cold spring in well-tailored shorts and a silk tank top. Goose bumps pebbled on my bare arms and my toes were ice cold in my sandaled wedges. When I left LAX it was eighty four degrees out and perfectly sunny. Here, in redneck central, the sun was not shining, nor the gray, murky sky willing to even give a glimpse of warm light.

  “Come on now, Camdyn, don’t be a stranger,” my aunt called from the porch.

  I gave a last look at my new home, and sighed. A lone sheep moseyed over to what looked like a temporary gate and stared right at me. I stared back, desperate to show something I was still in charge. He cocked his head to the side, probably so he could size me up better and then let out a painfully loud bleat.

  I jumped back on a squeal.

  And that easily, the sheep won.

  Damn it.

  “Now come on, he won’t hurt you,” my aunt drawled in her thick southern accent.

  I obeyed, trudging past the sheep while giving him the death stare. Don’t mess with me sheep. I’ve had a very bad day.

  While my mom was surfer-girl born and raised, my dad was actually from here. And as in here , here. As in Constance, Tennessee. This was once his parents’ sheep farm, back in the day. Now his older sister ran it with her sheep farming hick husband since my dad got the hell out of dodge and escaped to greener pastures.

  The story went, dad didn’t always want to be a cosmetic surgeon for the rich and famous. Once upon a time, he had dreams of returning home with his fancy college degree and tending to those less fortunate. People like burn victims, debilitating miner casualties, grotesque farming accidents for the poverty stricken and now forcefully unemployed. But then he got an internship in LA that he could not pass up; he met my mom, knocked her up with my older sister and then realized he actually liked making money.

  Now here we are today. Dad’s lost most of his “y’alls” and taste for moonshine and I got to grow up in real, thriving civilization where we wear our clothes, not feed it buckets of leftovers.

  “Hi, Aunt Mallory,” I breathed out. She pulled me into a tight hug that I didn’t reciprocate. As if she could hug the evil out of me, she rocked me back and forth in her arms, wrapping me up in the earthy scent that was wholly Aunt Mallory while probably ruining the back of my silk tank top with her perpetually dirty fingernails.

  “Cami, just what have you gotten yourself into?” Great, she sounded like she was on the verge of tears.

  But I was still me, and I still resented being here, so in my best southern accent I exclaimed, “Just a whole heap of trouble Auntie M!”

  She released me immediately to grip my shoulders in her surprisingly strong hands. “Don’t sass me, Camdyn. You’re here to work all that depravity out of your system and I will not tolerate any of your bad manners, do you understand me?”

  The thing about Aunt Mallory was that she had scared the holy hell out of me since I could remember. The woman worked for a living. And not just like my mom, who sat behind a fifteen thousand dollar desk and made phone calls all day. No Aunt Mallory lived in dirt and animal poop and worse than that all day, every day. I’d seen her sheer sheep before. With her bare hands!

  Well, and a razor.

  But seriously? I was almost positive they made machines for that, but she preferred to do it by hand!

  And actually, I had no idea if they made mechanical assembly lines that did the sheering for you or not, but they should.

  Aunt M, also hated LA. I mean, hated it. And not just because it kidnapped her brother and turned him into a sun-cult-believer. No, she hated everything about it: the constant sunshine, the trendy people, the convenience of stores and restaurants and gas stations, the fact that most of the people could read and write and drink the water from their very own sink.

  Not that they would. I mean, that’s why someone invented bottled water after all.

  So, because of all that, instead of firing back with something even wittier, I gave a resigned, “Yes, ma’am.”

  She chucked me under the chin and then suggested her and my dad go get my bags while I said goodbye to my mom.

  “Cami, will you,“ my mom started when we were alone on the porch. She actually had to stop to compose herself. I sighed impatiently but stood my ground. I hadn’t seen my mom cry in maybe thirteen years. I honestly didn’t even think she still possessed the ability. Finally, she pulled herself together enough to say, “Cami, please try. Please try to get better.”

  I looked up at her then and wondered if she was going to tell me she loved me. I hadn’t heard those exact words since I got arrested in eighth grade for defacing the middle school fountain with my boyfriend at the time.

  We took the two statues, one girl, one boy, cut them apart with Trey’s gardeners’ ax and then laid them side by side in a compromising position. We thought we were doing them a favor, they seemed lonely. The school board thought we were too young to realize side by side could have multiple meanings.

  God, those things were heavy.

  The moment passed and mom said, “We’ll call Mallory when we land, to let you know we got home safely.”

  I resented the hitch of disappointment I felt in my chest cavity. I hated that I was hoping to hear those three stupid words. Despite everything, I knew they loved me.

  If they didn’t, they wouldn’t have forced me to Aunt Mallory’s backwoods rehabilitation farm. They wouldn’t have rushed into the emergency room the night of the accident more worried about my head than my mom’s store front.

  Obviously they loved me.

  They just never said it out loud.

  I cleared my throat, and shook out the disappointment. “Sure, mom. Whatever.”

  She patted my shoulder like the attachment-issues of a mother she was and then left me alone on the po
rch. Once she reached the rental, she stopped my aunt to have more words with her. My dad carried the Louis Vuitton set of matching luggage to the front porch and deposited them at my feet.

  I stared down at all six suitcases and wondered if I was suddenly in a parallel universe. Louis did not belong this close to sheep. He didn’t.

  “We need to get going,” my father looked back over his shoulder and it was clear he was still scared of getting trapped here. His Kenneth Cole loafers were seriously ready to sprint to the car before the mud of this place sucked him right back under.

  “Sure,” I answered. Leave me. Abandon me.

  “We’ll call,” he shrugged.

  “Yep,” I nodded.

  “Alright,” he took a step forward and gave me another awkward shoulder pat.

  Oh, parents, if only shoulder patting were the way to your child’s heart.

  “Alright,” I echoed, keeping my arms firmly crossed against my chest.

  He turned away and then called over his shoulder, “Cami, just…. please-“

  “Try,” I cut in. “I got the speech from Mom, you’re off the hook.”

  Evident relief changed his expression and he gave me an almost genuine smile. He walked over and hugged his sister one more time. I heard him make excuses for not staying and sound actually genuine when he told her he missed it here and her.

  Sure, whatever dad.

  That’s why it had been fifteen years since we’d been back here. It was because he missed the farm so much.

  And even then, it was just that one time.

  I had been young enough not to mind waking up to animal sounds in the night, trudging through three inches of mud to go anywhere or the lack of cell service. But Katie had hated it from minute one.

  Now that I was back, and older, I could see why.

  And this was now my life. Not even some extended vacation. I was stuck here until I figured out how to not be such a screw up or got a job and saved enough to escape.

  So basically I was doomed until the end of time.

  I turned away from the teary-eyed goodbyes my parents were sharing with my aunt. I’d gotten a shoulder pat. My aunt was getting full on waterworks, yet they couldn’t even stay long enough for their engine to cool down.

  I couldn’t watch anymore.

  From my vantage point on the porch I could see my Uncle Henry working the back-ho near their dilapidated barn. There was a shaggy, mangy-looking dog barking at the back end of it, jumping out of the way every time my uncle maneuvered the machine in a different direction.

  I crinkled my nose, thinking there had never been an uglier dog than that…. thing, until I saw a dozen more like him coming around the other side.

  I heard my parents’ sedan pull away, crunching down the gravel drive, but I couldn’t even make myself turn around and watch. This was utterly depressing.

  “From what I’ve heard, you brought this on yourself,” Aunt Mallory said in a gentle voice from behind me.

  “Yep,” I replied simply, plainly. That was the truth. No matter how much I wanted to deny or argue, I definitely brought this on myself.

  “We’ll straighten you out, don’t you worry that pretty little head of yours.” I could hear her smiling. She was already proud of the change she saw coming in me.

  I rolled my eyes out at the pastures of sheep.

  “There’s nothing a little solitude, a lot of hard work and a substantial amount of prayer can’t fix,” she explained firmly.

  I was momentarily stunned speechless. I heard the swinging screen door open and then crack shut. I spun around to find Aunt Mallory gone, my bags still piled at my feet and the world of hickdom still surrounding me on every side.

  She didn’t actually expect me to work, did she?

  Or pray???

  I sniffled, feeling the tears well behind my eyes. I clenched my eyes shut, not willing to give into the weak emotion. My mother abandoned me here without shedding a single tear. I would be damned before I became a leaking faucet.

  Besides, they couldn’t make me do anything. They couldn’t force me to get dirty or sweaty or…. pray.

  In tenth grade, after I organized a protest boycotting the use of a vending machine in the teachers’ lounge-when none were made available to the students… We had just as much right to type 2 Diabetes as they did-that went on for four days and grabbed local media attention, my high school guidance teacher told my parents I had an indomitable stubborn streak.

  The protest included a huge number of the student body chaining themselves to the teachers’ lounge door and interrupting-conveniently- the state standardized testing.

  I was suspended for three days after that, but didn’t have to take the tests.

  And the student body was granted a vending machine.

  Win-win.

  Except I didn’t actually drink pop, so I never used the thing anyway.

  The point was that I did have an indomitable spirit. And if nothing else I was extremely stubborn. Plus, I was used to getting what I wanted. I’d be out of this hell hole before the end of the week. And I sure as shit wasn’t about to be introduced to manual labor for the first time in my entire life.

  Chapter 4

  Stockton

  I went back to the house about five and started dinner. The Preacher’s wife, his name was really Judson Hammond, but everybody simply called him Preacher—so his wife was Preacher Wife—her name was Edith. Preacher Wife brought us a meatloaf and Willa made macaroni and cheese and cooked some cabbage down with the last of the bacon from the pig we’d slaughtered before winter hit. I’d have to send one off again soon for more meat.

  “Thanks Will. You’re the best.” I hugged her around her shoulders. She hugged me back around my waist, which was rare, Will wasn’t really a girl—girl. And she never hugged anyone. She was more like the tomboy girl—even in her late teens she retained more male friends than female and hung out at softball games more than any social event. But she never apologized.

  “It was a bad day, Stock.” She had these once in a while, I didn’t have the luxury. She was only fifteen when the fire ruined our family and as much as she tried to hide it, she still hurt just like the rest of us—probably more.

  “Just one of those days or did something happen?”

  “I hate girls—girls are so mean, and bitchy. Why can’t they just be who they are instead of spending their lives competing with one another?”

  She had a point.

  She had an excellent point.

  “I don’t know. They’re jealous. Lack of self-esteem? I couldn’t tell you. But here’s what I do know. I know you’re smart and prettier than all those other girls put together. So don’t sweat it, ok?”

  “Yeah, whatever. Let’s eat.”

  We ate and as the meal progressed, she thawed out, telling me everything about her day and school. She would likely graduate valedictorian and I couldn’t have been prouder. I had been valedictorian myself.

  “That was the driest meatloaf I’ve ever had.”

  “It was better than anything I could’ve made.” I chunked a piece of bread at her.

  “Ain’t that the God’s honest truth. I’m gonna go get ready. We’re going out to the Caller’s Creek—just to hang out.”

  “You’re going with Jesse?” I asked Will. I knew exactly who her company would be tonight. She’d been friends with Jesse since they first shared a pacifier. Plus, they both had boy names. Technically Will’s name was Willa, but no one ever called her that. And Jesse’s name was Jessica, but no one called her that either.

  “Yes, Sir.” Her calling me ‘Sir’ started the day after our father died. When I’d first heard the word slip out of her mouth it fused my position in the family in place. I accepted it with pride and trepidation, I had huge boots to fill. But, I didn’t blame her. It was the natural progression of events; I knew it and she did too.

  I cleaned up the kitchen—again—and felt almost human after I showered and cleaned up, wearing my o
nly pair of non-working jeans and a gray t-shirt under a navy blue button down shirt. I kept my hair skull trimmed, always shaved it myself. It was easier that way. Who was I kidding—it was cheaper that way. I’d taken a look at myself in the mirror while still toweling off and scoffed at the ridiculousness of my image. One of my arms was markedly stronger and defined than the other. I looked like a damned fiddler crab, or an asymmetrical bodybuilder. After two years, I finally resembled a blacksmith. And for the life of me, I couldn’t pin it as either good or bad—it just was.

  “You smell good.” Will said, reaching across the table for her purse and keys to the truck. I made her take the truck at night—I felt it was safer than the Jeep.

  “Do I usually stink?” I knew as soon as the words left my mouth that I’d just opened the door for her.

  “Well, now that you mention it…”

  “I don’t stink. I just smell like hard work.”

  “Hard work stinks.”

  “So do mouthy teenagers. Getcha ass out of here. Be careful.”

  “You be careful. No rowdy bar fights or catching skanks.”

  “Oh, skanks, I didn’t think of that. Go!”

  She flitted out the front door but not before wiggling her fingers at me, begging for cash. I’d handed her a ten, the only cash I had left. Thank God I’d remembered to pay off my tab at Mick’s, the town watering hole. I usually only drank Coke but once in a while I was driven for a shot of whiskey—just one—most of the time. I had a teenager in my care after all.

  I jumped in the Jeep and as I started her up, the electronic blaring of her pop music assaulted my adult eardrums. Whoever she was had a voice more like castrated cat than soprano and I punched the power button silencing her and the reproductive surgery in progress.

  Shriver’s house was just three miles down the road. When we were kids I’d take a four wheeler down there, picking him up for whatever trouble found us. Every Fourth of July we stuffed Black Cats into a lucky person’s mailbox and blew it up. We’d try to drown each other in the creek. He’d pushed me into Mabel Asher when I was too chicken to talk to her in the eighth grade. Even as we’d grown older, I’d moved from being the chauffeur to the designated driver since Shriver usually got hammered. And as I dropped him off he’d make the proverbial joke about him being hammered and me hammering metal. It was like clockwork.