Hoosier Daddy

by Ann McMan

  “That’s just wrong.” Luanne shook her head full of tight curls. “They shouldn’t be allowed to compete in that condition.”

  “Well, you’d have a hard time comin’ up with a full field of contestants if you started rulin’ girls out just for fallin’ prey to them unavoidable indiscretions.”

  Luanne stared at her. “Comments like that make me wonder why you never ended up over at that House of Praise before Kenny took up with them hoppers.”

  “He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her,” Ermaline quoted. “Ain’t that right, Doc?” Doc grunted.

  “Well who in tarnation is that boy up there with them?” T-Bomb had wrangled Laura back into her seat. “He looks like he lost his last friend.”

  “That’s not a boy, that’s Casey Horton . . . the youngest girl.”

  “Girl?” T-Bomb asked. “I think you need to get your eyes checked.”

  “Nope,” Luanne insisted. “It’s Casey, all right. I think they pushed her in at the last minute—just as a placeholder in case one of the older girls came early. Like two years ago, when Jennica’s water broke during the evening gown competition.”

  “Honey.” T-Bomb was staring at Casey Horton, who was riding along with her sisters, staring grimly down at the floor of the truck bed, and clearly wishing herself anywhere but there. “If that’s the best they got, then I think Jailissa’s got this one in the bag.”

  “Well,” Grammy said. “I think she’s a fine looking young woman. Lots of girls wear their hair that short these days. And I do think her armband is . . . interesting. What kind of design is that?”

  I squinted. “I think that’s a tattoo, Grammy. It looks like concertina.”

  T-Bomb cackled again. “I think this one plays for your team, Friday.”

  “What team?” Grammy asked.

  T-Bomb leaned forward and winked at her. “You know . . . them friends of Dorothy’s.”

  “Dorothy’s?” Grammy was confused. “You mean Dorothy Hames, from over in New Harmony?”

  “I have a question,” El interrupted. “Can someone explain to me how it’s possible for three women from one family to compete in the same contest?”

  I gave her a grateful smile.

  Two more floats, a VFW drill team, and another marching band drifted by while Luanne and Ermaline took turns explaining to El the sordid history of how the Horton family had pretty much commandeered ownership of the Miss Pork Day USA crown for the last decade. Then, we heard a distant, sonorous blast—like a train whistle. All conversation stopped.

  “She’s coming,” Luanne whispered.

  “What in the world was that?” Grammy asked.

  “It’s Jailissa.”

  “Jailissa?” I asked. “Is she coming by train?”

  Luanne shook her head. She was eagerly looking down the street. “It’s Joe’s truck.” She looked at El to clarify. “She’s riding in an Outlaw 650—one of the biggest and best custom-built trucks to ever roll off the Krylon assembly line. It was a special anniversary edition we built for the auto show, and Joe won it in a company lottery.”

  “And he’s driving it in the parade?”

  “Nope, Jay’s driving it. Joe lent it to us for the day. He said a queen needed a real chariot.”

  Ermaline sighed. “That’s just beautiful.” She nudged her companion. “Ain’t it, Doc?”

  Doc shrugged.

  The train whistle sounded again. Two short blasts, then a longer report.

  “Oh. My. God.” El was staring with an open mouth as the massive truck rolled toward us. It dwarfed everything around it—including the percussion line of the Edwards County High School Marching Band, which lost its hold on their up-tempo rendition of the Rocky theme song, “Gonna Fly Now,” every time Jay blew the horn.

  Luanne got to her feet as the truck approached. Out of respect, we all followed suit.

  “That right there is poetry on wheels.” T-Bomb’s voice was dreamy.

  The truck was a cherry red, 360 horsepower, quad cab with a 6.7 liter Cummins ISB diesel engine, 22.5 inch Duelers, an extended bed, running boards, Smittybilt XRC light bar, eight-inch chrome Peterbilt exhaust stacks, a bull bar, and a Wolo Siberian Express air horn.

  To summarize all of that in plain-speak, assembly plant vernacular— it was doped.

  A printed placard on the side of the truck proudly proclaimed, Jailissa Keortge, America’s Sweetheart.

  “That thing could qualify for its own zip code,” El whispered.

  “It’s the pride of the heartland, El.” I leaned toward her. “It was made with love.”

  She met my gaze. “I think I’m finally beginning to understand that.”

  We smiled at each other. As discreetly as I could, I reached out so I could squeeze her fingers. It was hard to be this close to her and not be touching.

  “There she is.” Luanne’s voice was reverential.

  There she was, indeed. Jailissa was a sight to behold. She was standing up, perfectly proportioned and perfectly poised, wearing an elegant, emerald green, banded waist jacquard cocktail dress with an asymmetric neckline and pleating at the bodice and shoulders. She made an alluring silhouette against the chrome rear window louvers as she stood tall and proud without fuss or excessive ornament.

  Unless, of course, you counted her ninety-five-thousand-dollar undercarriage as a bauble . . .

  Jailissa’s head of thick blond hair was upswept in a netted fascinator, with loose hairs curling at the back of her neck. Everything about her hinted at class and style. She held a single, white rose in her hand. She was stunning. She smiled her perfect smile and waved at her admiring fans with an inherent grace that couldn’t be taught. She made gliding up 5th Street in the back of a pickup truck look every bit as impressive as Miss America’s inaugural walk down the famed runway in Atlantic City. Jailissa was a queen—in every sense of the word.

  “She’s gorgeous,” El said to Luanne. “Her dress is beautiful.”

  “Jay Jr. designed it for her.” Luanne wiped at a stray tear rolling down her cheek. “They teach them boys new trades in the joint. He wasn’t much for food service work or carpentry, but it turns out he’s a regular whiz with fabrics and colors. That there,” she pointed at Jailissa, “is his modification of a Vera Wang creation he saw in one of them high fashion magazines. He said dark green would be a good color for her, and she could wear it in the parade since it’s before five o’clock.”

  Jailissa was directly in front of us. She smiled brilliantly at us, then gently and perfectly tossed her long-stemmed rose to her mother.

  “Well, dern . . .” T-Bomb’s voice was shaky. “I’m about to well up over here.”

  The truck rolled past us. A man in a tight-fitting, dark blue suit trotted along behind it, taking pictures.

  “Is that Joe Sykes?” El asked.

  Luanne nodded. “He’s so proud of her. He begged and pleaded with Jay and me to have Jailissa ride in his truck.”

  “Hell,” T-Bomb quipped. “It ain’t hard to figure out why you didn’t have to sit at home for two weeks after you set off all them alarms at the plant.”

  “I thought that at first, too. But Joe explained that management forced him to exact that punishment. I only got to come back because they’re runnin’ all them extra shifts, and he didn’t have nobody to cover for me.”

  El was staring at the back of the truck. “What’s that purple thing swaying under the bumper?”

  I peered more closely at it. “It looks like a Crown Royal bag.”

  “Joe covered up his truck balls out of respect for Jailissa,” Luanne explained. “At first, Jay and I had a problem with his obsession with her, but we’ve come to understand that it’s a pure love, and when you have that, age differences don’t matter.”

  “I don’t know many men who would do a thing like that,” Ermaline agreed. “He might turn out to be her sheep in wolf’s clothing—just like my Doc, here.”

  Doc grunted.

 
; I’d had about enough local color for one day.

  I glanced down at my outfit. Especially when I’m wearing the majority of it.

  It was clear that the parade was winding down, so it seemed like a good time to make a getaway.

  “Okay.” I got to my feet. “I need to stretch my legs a bit.” I looked down at El. “Wanna walk with me? We can browse the booths and see the classic cars.”

  “I’d like that.” She stood up, too.

  “Hey? Friday?” T-Bomb asked. “Maybe you can find some other good deals on new clothes?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Why not? I think that Whistle Stop gun store has some camouflage pants on sale.” She laughed. “They’d go great with your truck.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I’ll be sure to check it out.”

  “Oh, man.” Donnie sounded exasperated. “Terri? Luke just tripped over a pile of dirty plates. He’s covered in barbecue sauce.”

  “Is he hurt?” she asked.

  “No, but he’s a total mess.”

  “Great.” T-Bomb sighed. “Findin’ a place to wash him up out here is gonna be about as easy as findin’ a Horton who ain’t packin’ more than a pretty smile.” She looked back at us. “Hey? You two didn’t happen to bring that sink along, did you?”

  Luanne and Ermaline started to chuckle.

  I scowled at her and took El by the arm.

  “What sink?” I heard Grammy ask as we walked away.

  “Two points!”

  “That’s not two points. It’s zero.”

  “It’s not zero. It’s halfway on the board.”

  “Yeah, but the other half is touching the ground.”

  “So?”

  “So it doesn’t count.”

  “Who says?”

  “The rules.”

  “What rules? That’s a complete fabrication.”

  “No, it’s not.” I waved a hand toward the board. “The only twopoint option is a bag that is halfway through the hole.”

  She glared at me. “You’re totally making that up.”

  I held out both hands. “Why would I make that up?”

  She lowered her head and looked at me over the top of her sunglasses. “Seriously?”

  “You have a dirty mind . . . anyone ever tell you that?”

  “Hey. I’m not the one standing here, making crude, sophomoric puns.”

  “El. That was not a pun. It’s a rule. A real one.”

  We were playing a cutthroat game of Baggo Cornhole, and it was clear that I was pretty much kicking El’s ass. It was also clear that she was unhappy with this outcome.

  “Fine.” She sighed. “My score is zero. You win another round. Color me so surprised.”

  I shook my head. “I had no idea you were this competitive.”

  “You’re kidding me, right? This is a news flash for you?”

  “Well. Yeah.”

  “Friday Jill. I have five siblings—all of them older than me. I had to fight to survive.”

  “You make it sound like you grew up on the Island of Dr. Moreau.”

  “It wasn’t that dissimilar.”

  “Who’s making stuff up now?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Let’s just get the bags and play another round. I want to at least break even.”

  “I could give you a handicap?” I suggested.

  El drummed her fingers against her thigh.

  “Feeling antsy?” I asked.

  She socked me on the arm. “I’m so gratified you’re enjoying this.”

  “I am, actually.”

  “You know,” she said with exaggerated patience. “I can think of all kinds of things that might never end up halfway through any holes.”

  I stared at her with an open mouth.

  “Hah. That took the wind out of your sails, didn’t it?”

  She strode off across the grassy median to retrieve our throwing bags of corn. I was still pretty much speechless when she returned. She handed me my pile of bags.

  “Okay, smartass. Give it your best shot.”

  I was staring at her. “Do I know you?”

  She looked at me with a raised eyebrow. “Of course you do. In every sense.” She smirked. “Including the biblical.”

  I had no argument with that last one. Of all the senses, it was my current favorite.

  “Right. Okay.” I hefted my corn bag. “Here goes.”

  I made a few practice heaves, and then let it fly. It hit the board and slid toward the hole.

  “Cow pie!” I exclaimed.

  “Shit,” El mumbled.

  I gave her a brilliant smile. “Exactly.”

  “Move over.” She shoved me out of the way.

  She took careful aim, wound up like she was throwing the last pitch at the bottom of an extra inning, and hurled her bag high into the air. It flew right over the board, and smashed into the back of a rather portly man standing in line at the Moose Lodge Pork Chop Hut. He turned around and stared at us, before bending over to pick up the bag and toss it back.

  “Sorry for the Screaming Eagle,” I called out to him.

  El frowned at me. “Do I even want to know what that is?”

  “Use your imagination.”

  “I think I should get a do-over . . . there was a cross wind.”

  I lifted my chin into the air to check. There wasn’t even the tiniest hint of a breeze. “Nope. Not feeling it. It’s still dry as a bone and a hundred degrees in the shade.”

  El mumbled something and moved to the side.

  I cocked an ear toward her. “I didn’t quite get that.”

  She glowered at me. “I said that man was holding about twelve plates of food.”

  I shrugged. “He’s probably heading home to catch the Cheez-It 355.”

  “The what?”

  “From the Glen?” I added.

  El was looking at me like I had two heads. “I have no idea what language you’re speaking.”

  “Watkins Glen,” I explained. “Up in your stomping ground. Ever heard of it?”

  She gave me a withering gaze. “Of course I’ve heard of it. I just have no idea what a Cheesy 350 is supposed to be.”

  I laughed. “It’s the Cheez-It 355, El. A NASCAR race.”

  “Oh.”

  “You do own a television, right?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Keep it up, Einstein. Paybacks are hell.”

  “Oh, really?” I took my place at the throwing line. “What are you gonna do? Bludgeon me with authorization cards?”

  “I thought I’d already done that.”

  “True.”

  “Okay.” I held up my burlap bag full of corn kernels and took careful aim. “Let’s take this home.”

  I gave it a good heave. The bag landed near the base of the board and slid forward to stop just below the base of the hole.

  “Blocker!” I cried. I now had two bags near the high scoring position.

  El stared at me with her hands on her hips. “Don’t get cocky. Close only counts with hand grenades and nuclear weapons.” I held up a finger. “And Baggo Cornhole.”

  “What-ever.” She took her place at the line.

  Her toss slid around both of my bags and dropped halfway into the hole.

  “Ha!” El faced me with a triumphant expression. “What do you call that one?”

  I shook my head. “Dumb luck?”

  “Hey . . .” She tagged me on the arm again. “Be as liberal with your praise as you are with your censure.”

  “Okay, okay.” I rubbed my arm. “But quit socking me. It’s going to leave a mark.”

  “Oh, please. I barely touched you.”

  I pouted.

  She gave an exasperated sigh. “What if I promise to rub it later.”

  That got my attention. “Rub it?”

  “I seem to recall that you’re partial to rubbing.”

  It was hard to argue with that. I was lost in the land of happy recollection for a few moments.

  “So?” she asked.


  I looked at her. “So?”

  She waved a hand toward the board. “So, what do you call that snazzy maneuver I just pulled off?”

  “Um . . . that’s called a hooker.”

  She smiled smugly. “I just had a hooker.”

  “I hear there’s always a first time . . .”

  She made a fist, but I danced out of her way. “My turn. Prepare to be upstaged.”

  “Give it your best shot.”

  I hefted the bag a few times and swung it back and forth in several, practice throwing motions.

  “Any time in this life would be good,” El commented.

  I looked at her. “Could we have silence in the peanut gallery, please?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” She pointed a finger at her chest. “Am I causing you to have performance anxiety?”

  I lowered my bag. “I don’t know. Are you talking about this game, or do you mean in more general terms?”

  She stared back at me. “Yes.”

  “Very helpful.”

  I turned back toward the board and took careful aim. My throw was a good one. The bag landed smack dab on top of El’s.

  “Yes!” I started to celebrate but then noticed that neither bag had dropped into the hole. They both teetered there, half in and half out. I stared at the board in disbelief. We now had a cluster of four bags near scoring position—all of them in front of, behind, or halfway through the hole.

  I was flummoxed. “This never happens.”

  “What never happens?” El walked over to stand beside me.

  “That.” I waved a hand toward the board.

  “It does look rather congested near the opening.”

  I looked at her with incredulity. “You sound like you’re reading the six o’clock news.”

  “Really?” She shrugged. “Maybe I could give that Golden Throat whosis a run for his money?”

  “I still don’t believe this.”

  “Who cares? It’s my turn again.”

  I moved so she could make her toss. It landed woefully shy of the board.”

  “Sally!” I called out.

  She glared at me. “Who?”

  “Your wimpy throw . . . it’s called a Sally.”

  “It wasn’t wimpy. I wasn’t ready yet, and it slipped out of my hand.” I shook my head. “Sorry. Those are the breaks.”