by James Ross
“You need to take up a safer sport before you kill yourself, Owen.”
The boy’s energy oozed out of his pores. “I w . . . . w . . . . w . . . . was just havin’ s . . . . s . . . . s . . . . ome fun.”
“I know that boys will be boys, but use your head a little.” The young woman looked at the blood that was dripping from her son’s face. “Git on in here and let me clean you up. Dad’s gonna be home any minute.”
Chapter Four
To say that the Purler family put the fun in “dysfunctional” would be accurate. As a child Owen, Jr. didn’t know any better. He was busy being a little boy. At times he wondered why his dad was always away from home, but it was explained that the life of an over-the-road trucker demanded the absence. For the most part, Rayelene raised her son by herself. Owen, Sr. appeared on the scene once in a while, but little Owen didn’t remember too much about him until the summer he turned twelve.
“Look at you! Git yore li’l butt in here,” Rayelene shouted through the screen door. Owen was busy placing his skateboard on the designated nail in the family’s one-car, detached garage.
The young boy with short, light brown hair held the back of his wrist up to his chin in an attempt to stop the blood flow. Sunlight had made the freckles pop out across his nose and under his eyes. “I . . . I . . . I . . . I’ve been practicin’ th . . . th . . . th . . . that move.”
“And it doesn’t look like you perfected it yet,” Rayelene said as she opened the door with wet washcloth in hand. “If you’re not careful, one of these days you’re gonna knock a few teeth out or chip the front ones.” She applied the damp towel to her son’s chin.
“Th . . . th . . . th . . . then I can g . . . g . . . g . . . get caps like Johnny Sh . . . Sh . . . Sh . . . Shaw did,” Owen blurted as if cosmetic porcelain signaled upcoming manhood and toughness.
“And you’re too young for that. I don’t want my precious baby to ruin his beautiful teeth.” Rayelene pressed the side of his head to her bosom and hugged her son.
“M . . . M . . . M . . . Mom!” Owen stammered as he pulled away. “I d . . . d . . . d . . . don’t need all of th . . . th . . . th . . . that lovey-dovey stuff.”
“I don’t want my baby to git hurt,” Rayelene said as she crossed the kitchen, reached into a drawer and grabbed a Band-Aid. “Now come here and let me fix you up.” With a final swipe across the chin with a hand towel she dried his superficial wound. “This will help it to stop bleeding.” Rayelene placed the Band-Aid over the scrape.
“Th . . . th . . . th . . . there’s dad!” Owen yelled as he eyed the red Peterbilt cab. Owen, Sr. pulled the vehicle onto the gravel driveway, veered right and parked alongside the exterior wall of the garage. He stopped the truck on a patch of oil that soaked the construction-grade rocks. The twelve-year-old burst through the screen door and raced toward the man he only saw a couple of nights twice a month. With the exuberance of a child he hugged the father he barely knew.
“What did you do to your chin?” Owen Sr. asked as he returned the affection, took a step and stumbled awkwardly.
“Have you been drinkin’ again?” Rayelene shouted through the screen door as she witnessed the exchange. That son-of-a-bitch sees his son a few nights a month and he comes home drunk.
“You know how it is,” Owen, Sr. slurred. “I had to make a couple of stops to say hi to the guys.” He reached down and rubbed his hand over his son’s head. “Let me take a look at that battle scar.”
Owen closed his eyes and stuck his chin up and out. “It l . . . l . . . l . . looks worse th . . . th . . . th . . . than it is.” Owen, Sr. bent over and took a blurry-eyed look at his son’s chin. As he leaned forward his unbalanced equilibrium caused him to sway. He fell against his son, pushing him against the wheel and front fender.
“Ow! Wh . . . Wh . . . Wh . . . What are you doin’?” The weight of the older man pinned the boy against the truck.
“Nada!” Rayelene yelled as she roared out the screen door and hurried across the driveway to help her son. “Git off of him before you hurt him worse than he already is!” She shoved her husband to the side. The impact sent him sprawling on the grass in front of the parked vehicle. Her housecoat opened revealing brief panties and bare breasts.
“PBR you look as good as the first night we met.” Owen, Sr. laughed and smiled a devilish grin. Rayelene realized that her housecoat had opened and pulled it shut. “Mmm. Mmm. Mmm.”
“And any chance that you had for it tonight you left on the bar stool!” Rayelene ran around the back of the garage, turned on the outside faucet, grabbed the nozzle-end of the garden hose and sprayed a stream of water on her drunken husband. “Maybe that will wake yore drunk ass up a little. If it doesn’t then maybe it will wash that stinkin’ smell of beer out of yore mouth!”
She trained the spray gun on her husband’s head and gave him a good dousing.
“Aargh! PBR, stop!”
Rayelene gazed at the pathetic sight as her husband rolled over time and again in the grass. “Come on, Owen. It looks like we’re gonna go out for pizza.” She and her son headed for the house. “Again!” The tension in her clenched jaws rifled through her head. Rayelene glanced over her shoulder and muttered, “Nada, he’s your son.”
“If you hadn’t got pregnant then none of this would be happenin’.”
Chapter Five
It was as if nothing happened the next morning. Owen, Sr. was up early. Even at the crack of dawn he had almost twelve hours of sleep. He sat at a makeshift breakfast bar that he had built out of the wall to replace the kitchen table. Rayelene always thought that it was more to remind her husband of the tavern than for functional family use in the kitchen.
“Where is that boy of mine?” Owen, Sr. asked as he sipped on a cup of black coffee.
“He was so looking forward to bein’ with you last night,” Rayelene growled as she slammed a drawer shut. “And you ruined it.” She tied the belt tighter around her waist so that the familiar housecoat, her most comfortable piece of clothing, wouldn’t reveal anything too suggestive.
“Ah, well, we’ll have the rest of the weekend together,” Owen, Sr. said.
“What do you have planned?”
“To get his ass up out of bed real soon.” Owen, Sr. winced as the hot coffee hit his tongue. “We’ve got work to do.”
“You know he’ll want to play.”
“And we’ll do some of that after we get our chores done.”
Rayelene scooted a stool up to the breakfast bar and sat opposite her husband. She worked in the Parks and Recreation Department at city hall and placed a piece of their promotional literature on the table. “Summer is just around the corner.”
“So, what’s new?”
“I was thinkin’ about things that Owen could do.”
“Cut grass. Make some money. Help his ole man out a little.” Owen, Sr. blew into his cup as the steam filtered skyward. “With the price of gas I don’t know if we’re gonna be able to keep runnin’ the fleet.”
Rayelene scooted the flyer toward her husband. “I was thinkin’ that maybe we could git him involved in some summer activities.” She raised her leg so that her foot was on the stool and her knee was at the level of her chin. Then she pulled an emery board out of her housecoat pocket and started filing her toenails. If there was anything that Rayelene took care of more than her son, it was her toenails. She always made sure that they were groomed and filed and polished with a glossy coat of fashionable lacquer. On her left foot was a gold-plated anklet. It sat under a four-leaf clover that was tattooed just above the inside of her ankle.
“We ain’t got the money for all of this,” Owen, Sr. said adamantly after examining the flyer. Rayelene reached into a box of chocolate covered cherries and picked up several trying to decide which one to take. She started each day with her favorite delicacy. “Dammit, PBR! Don’t finger all of those after playing with your feet!”
Rayelene quickly pulled her hand back and defended her posi
tion. “I thought that we could expose him to somethin’ that he normally wouldn’t git a chance to do.”
“Golf?” Owen, Sr. blurted. “That’s a rich boy’s game. We ain’t got the money.”
“The lessons are practically free. Our city fathers worked out an agreement with Prairie Winds Golf Course. Anybody livin’ in our city limits gits to take advantage of the reduced rates for the summer.” Rayelene grabbed a chocolate she was eyeing and popped it into her mouth.
“That’s just like anything else. They offer it to you for peanuts and then they hit you up for the big bucks.” Owen, Sr. got up, shook his head and walked to the coffee maker. He poured himself a refill and assumed his position at the breakfast bar.
“I was thinkin’ . . .”
“There you go thinkin’ again PBR!” Owen, Sr. wadded the flyer up and threw it toward a black plastic trash bag that lay on the floor in the corner. “If ya want somethin’ to think about then think about how we’re gonna pay the bills around here!” He got up and walked to the sink. “Golf costs money! You gotta pay for clubs and balls and greens fees on the course!” He paused. “And you’re tryin’ to tell me that the lessons are free? That’s just the start of it.”
Rayelene paused as she savored the taste of her breakfast. “Sorry to bring it up.” Her attention was directed back to her toenails. “I thought that . . .”
“What did I just say about your thoughts?”
Chapter Six
“Come on, boy. We’ve got things to git done,” Owen, Sr. said seconds after his son entered the kitchen. It was early. Owen’s hair was sticking out in several directions. He reached up, crooked his right forefinger and rubbed his right eye.
“Wh . . . Wh . . . Wh . . . What’s for breakfast, Mom?”
“You need to stop that,” his father said.
“Wh . . . Wh . . . Wh . . . What?”
“Nada! Leave him alone!” Rayelene yelled. Every time she raised her voice a sharp pain shot through her temples. She reached up with both hands and applied pressure to the sides of her head with each palm.
“That damn stuttering,” Owen, Sr. said.
Owen went across the kitchen, reached for the box of Fruit Loops that Rayelene had placed on the counter and continued to the refrigerator for the milk.
“You know what the doctor said,” Rayelene cooed coolly as she defended her son. “It’s anxiety. And you’re not helpin’ things this mornin’.”
“It’s about time that he grows out of it,” Owen, Sr. said. “If you got somethin’ to say, then say it.”
Owen looked down at his bowl of cereal and aimlessly stirred the concoction, petrified to speak. “He will in time,” Rayelene said, “but puttin’ pressure on him isn’t gonna git him to relax.” She placed her arm around Owen’s shoulder and gave him a hug.
Nada got up from the breakfast bar. “I can’t stand to listen to it anymore.” He sideswiped the trash bag that was lying on the floor and continued to the door. “I’ll be outside. When you get done come on out and help.”
“Wh . . . Wh . . . Wh . . . What do you n . . . n . . . n . . . need to have done?”
“Some service work on my cab,” he said over his shoulder as the screen door slammed shut and he stepped into the breezeway.
“Don’t worry about things,” Rayelene said to her son as she squeezed him tight to her body. “He loves you more than you can ever imagine.”
Owen concentrated on his cereal. If his open mouth focused on food he wouldn’t have to experience another embarrassing moment.
Chapter Seven
As an owner-operator, Nada always made it a point to take special care of his pride and joy. The Peterbilt cab was equipped with the most modern conveniences. That was important to him because it seemed like every waking hour was spent in the truck, unless he was in some tavern sloshing down the suds. The truck had a fire-engine red fiberglass body, Caterpillar engine, Bridgestone tires and a fuel tank that could hold well over a hundred gallons of gas. But the feature that he loved most was the double bunk option that allowed him comfortable sleep over the road.
Dressed in blue jeans and a plaid flannel shirt that he let hang out to cover the paunch that had grown from the beer drinking, Owen, Sr. was busy squirting grease into the fittings and bushings when Owen joined him. The lad stood and watched. Owen, Sr. had a portable air compressor that would spray all of the dust away from the fittings as well as a grease gun to lubricate the area. In his rear pocket hung a rag to catch any excess. “Are you ready to learn somethin’ today?”
Owen shrugged his shoulders.
Owen, Sr. continued with the task at hand. “It’s important to do all of this so I can make this thing last longer.” He wiped up an overflow of grease off of a fitting and caught it before it hit the ground. “You don’t want to see your ole man wind up in the poor house, do you?”
Owen shook his head.
“What’s wrong . . . a cat got your tongue?” Owen, Sr. looked over his shoulder at his son standing on the gravel. He could see the trepidation in Owen. “Hey I’m sorry for gettin’ on you in there.” He jumped down from the bumper, wiped his hand on his jeans and rubbed his son’s head. “Make sure you wet that hair down a little before you go out in public. You don’t want other people to see it stickin’ out every which way.” Owen grinned, his blue eyes sparkling against his tanned face. “You want to play catch, don’t ya?”
Owen bit his lower lip and nodded his head. “Y . . . Y . . . Y . . . You bet.”
Owen, Sr. smiled. “We’ll do that later today. Let me check on the brakes and git the fifth wheel greased.”
Rayelene bounced out the door in a one-piece swimsuit, the bottom covered by a pair of cut-off jeans. “While you two are working on that, I’m going to git the pool ready.” In the back yard was a three-foot deep, above-ground pool covered by a tarp.
“D . . . D . . . D . . . Dad said that he w . . . w . . . w . . . was going to finish gr . . . gr . . . gr . . . greasing the tr . . . tr . . . tr . . . truck and then we were g . . . g . . . g . . . going to run errands.”
“I’m glad that you two have a plan.” Rayelene loosened the tightener off of the vinyl-coated cable that had secured the cover throughout the winter.
Owen, Sr. was on his back underneath the engine and yelled at his wife. “Is it too early for a beer?”
Chapter Eight
“Aargh! M . . . M . . . M . . . Mom! Help!” Owen yelled. He had gone into the house to wet down his hair after kicking off his shoes at the back door.
Rayelene scurried down the steps from the makeshift deck around the pool and into the kitchen. “What’s wrong?”
Owen was sitting on the floor holding his foot. A trail of blood traveled from the trash bag to the boy. “I s . . . s . . . s . . . sliced my foot.”
“How?” Rayelene stooped to look at the cut that stretched from the underside of the big toe across the bottom of Owen’s foot.
“I st . . . st . . . st . . . stepped on the tr . . . tr . . . tr . . . trash bag.” The pain was bringing tears to Owen’s eyes.
The sight of the blood streaming out of her son’s foot made Rayelene want to throw up. “That’s a lot bigger wound than yesterday afternoon!” She hurried to the kitchen sink, wet a washcloth and hurried back to Owen. “We’re gonna to need more than a Band-Aid.” She wrapped the cloth around his foot and applied pressure. “What did you step on?”
“Th . . . Th . . . Th . . . The bag.”
“I know, but what was in there to cause a cut like this?”
Rayelene rummaged through the trash bag with her other hand and located the culprit. A long-neck beer bottle was broken in half, its jagged edge inviting trouble. “Nada!”
Owen winced as the moisture from the damp cloth cleaned the slice. He gritted his teeth. “H . . . H . . . H . . . Has it st . . . st . . . st . . . stopped bleeding yet?”
Rayelene shook her head negatively. “I think that this one is gonna need stitches.” She took the washrag off o
f Owen’s foot and peered at the damage.
“What happened?” Owen, Sr. asked as he entered the kitchen.
“He stepped on one of your broken beer bottles! You need to stop drinkin’ that stuff!”
“It was in the trash.”
“Yeah and he stepped on the bag that was layin’ on the floor.”
“Why didn’t you put the bag in the garbage can?”
“Dammit, Nada! You’re missin’ the point! You’re the one that broke the bottle in the first place.”
“How bad is it?”
“Bad enough to take him to the hospital.” Rayelene pulled the washcloth back for her husband to see the wound.
“We haven’t got the money for that,” he answered.
“Insurance will cover it,” Rayelene countered.
“Not with the deductible we have.” Owen, Sr. left the kitchen and continued to the hall closet. A few seconds later he returned with Rayelene’s sewing kit. He placed it on the breakfast bar. “Sew him up.”
“Nada!” Rayelene was aghast. “I’m not going to sew my own son’s foot together!”
“Yes you are.” Owen, Sr. went to the refrigerator, opened the freezer door and grabbed a handful of ice cubes. He opened a drawer and grabbed a Ziploc bag. “This will take the swelling down.”
Owen’s eyes got as wide as oysters in a half shell. “D . . . D . . . D . . . Dad, what are you d . . . d . . . d . . . doing?”
“It’ll only hurt for a second.” Owen, Sr. brushed his wife’s hand away from the foot. “This will numb it a little so that you won’t feel the needle as much.”
Rayelene stepped back and placed her hand on her hips. “Are you out of your mind? We need to git him to the emergency room.”
Impatiently Owen, Sr. looked at his wife. “Grab a needle and some white thread. It’s the same thing that some ER doctor would do.” He helped his son up from the floor and set him on the breakfast bar.
“Nada!”
“You heard me! Hurry up. We’ve got a lot to do today.”