Welcome to Fred (The Fred Books)

by Brad Whittington

  Ralph eyed me with suspicion. “You never heard Tammy Wynette?”

  “Thankfully, no.”

  “What tapes do you have?”

  I opened my tape box. “How about Alice Cooper?”

  “Never heard of her.”

  “Him.”

  “Oh, I thought you said Alice.”

  “I did. How about Steely Dan?”

  “Never heard of him either.”

  “Them.”

  We finally compromised on Creedence Clearwater Revival. When I accidentally hit Ralph’s left foot with a hammer, I figured the time was ripe for a change of subject.

  “Say, Ralph.”

  “Yeah.”

  “How did you and Squeaky get together anyway?”

  A pause followed of such duration that I began to wonder if he had forgotten the question. As I was about to ask again, he cleared his throat. “You remember that coon dog that used ta sleep on the yellow stripe on the Warren highway?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That was her dog.”

  I waited for awhile, but that was all he said. It may have explained all as far as he was concerned, but I was shaky on the details. “Yeah, so?”

  “So, it bit me.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  Another spell of silence left me wondering. Was a coon-dog bite some kind of aphrodisiac? I gave up and asked again, “Yeah, so?”

  “So, I came limpin’ up ta her house, and Squeaky felt sorry for me and doctored my leg, and then she started lookin’ at me like, well, you know, and then I was lookin’ at her the same way, and the next thang I knowed she was wearin’ my rang.”

  He paused his hammering for a moment and looked off. “It just sorta happened. I wasn’t aimin’ ta get a girl, but all of a sudden I had one.” He glanced at me, spat in the mud, and went back to hammering.

  It didn’t sound like much of a plan to me. I didn’t even know if Becky had a dog. If she did, with my luck it would be a Doberman.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN One week before school let out, Ralph broke through my morning fog as he boarded the bus.

  “Say, doll, did you hear about last night?”

  “No.” It was an ambiguous question. I did know that last night had occurred, much like the many nights preceding it, but that was hardly news. The only difference I was aware of was that Dad received a phone call and left. I went to bed before he returned.

  “You didn’t hear about the wreck?”

  “What wreck?”

  “Old MacDonald had a flat tire on the road about a mile from his house. You know, that curve just past the oil rig?”

  “Yeah.” It was one of the hazards on my Grit route. It was a sharp turn at the bottom of a hill that was as close to a sandpit as you can get and still be a road.

  “Well, he had his car jacked up and was changin’ the back tire. Peggy and the baby was in the front seat. Parker came round the corner and plowed right into ’em. Killed Peggy and Kristen outright. Parker went through the windshield. Mac was trapped under the car for hours until they finally got ’im out. They both is in the hospital.”

  “Wow.” That explained why Dad was called. He was probably at the hospital in Silsbee. “How did you hear about it?”

  “Uncle Hurst was on call, so he was the first one there. He called Mama when he got home.” Hurst was a sheriff’s deputy and Ralph’s mother’s brother.

  “Oh.” We rode along in silence. I thought about the news and my reaction to it. It was like hearing something on TV, something happening in Bangladesh. These were people I knew. Mac and Peggy were my Sunday school teachers. Kristen frequently stared at me, in that solemn way babies do, over Peggy’s shoulder from the pew in front. I tried to make her smile without attracting attention from Dad, and had succeeded a few times. I thought I should feel something more, some kind of sorrow, but it was just news, nothing to do with me.

  “Kinda makes ya think, don’t it?” Ralph mused.

  “Yeah.” It certainly made me think. I had no idea what it made Ralph think about. I wouldn’t be kept in suspense for long.

  “Ya know, this bus could blow out a tire and go off this bridge right now,” he observed, looking out the window into Toodlum Creek as we blew past at sixty miles per hour. “We could all be dead in a second.” He switched his gaze from the creek to my face. “You and me. Just like that.”

  “Yeah.” The speculation seemed about as real to me as the possibility that the Berlin Wall would be torn down. It was nothing more than an intellectual exercise. Yes, the laws of probability could roll the dice and off we could go, over the bridge into the creek. People lived; people died. That’s how it worked.

  “The funeral is Saturday. Mac is in intensive care and probably won’t be out by then. Parker is doing OK. He was cut up somethin’ fierce and lost a lot of blood, but he’s not in too bad shape. Don’t know if he will be out or not.”

  I didn’t relish the thought of going to a funeral, but I didn’t see how I could get out of it. They were members of the church, taught Sunday school, and I was the preacher’s kid. How would that look?

  I floated the idea of skipping the funeral to Mom as the easier touch, but she nixed it without the you-have-to-ask-your-dad stay of execution. Not that I had much hope.

  Dad did the service. Mom played the organ. Heidi, Hannah, and I sat on the fifth row—far enough back not to intrude on the family but close enough to show respect. I sat there quietly in my suit, looking at two caskets, one very small. Both were closed, to my great relief.

  Peggy’s mother, father, and two sisters sat at the front on the right. The father sat rigid and expressionless, eyes red but dry. The sisters, both in their twenties, were crying quietly. Between them the mother stared vacantly ahead as if she had no idea where she was or what was happening. Or perhaps as if she had no idea how this could have happened to her baby. Other members of the family sat around them, some loudly expressing their grief.

  Sonia Walker, Parker’s wife and Peggy’s best friend, sat alone on a pew, looking as helpless as a five-year-old lost in a department store. Under the too hasty and too thick makeup, her face showed she had been crying, probably for three days, but now the mascara clotted on her lashes was dry. She clutched a twisted and knotted handkerchief that seemed in danger of ripping from the stress of her slender fingers and thick red fingernails. No other member of her family was present. Parker, like Mac, was still in the hospital, and her family held a deep-seated animosity toward the church. Nothing could move them to step across the threshold, not even the agony of one of their own.

  Ralph sat across the aisle with his family. He seemed shaken, as if still contemplating the possibility of his own sudden death. The Culpeppers were in the next row back, both Jolene and Bubba shiny-eyed. Heidi and Hannah, to either side of me, were sniffling. I felt as if I alone sat unfeeling and untouchable, a victim of a rare strain of leprosy of the soul.

  Judy Graham got up and sang “In the Sweet Bye and Bye.” Then Dad stood in front, quietly looking out over the congregation. He seemed moved but in control.

  “‘Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani? My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?’” A gasp arose from the front row, followed by a sob. Peggy’s mother suddenly seemed focused and in great pain. One of the sisters put her arm around her.

  “That’s how we feel when a tragedy like this happens. ‘God, why have You forsaken me? How could You let this happen?’ And we don’t hear an answer. We don’t hear anything but the sound of our own hearts breaking.” Dad stopped for a long pause. I could see the muscles in his jaw bulging out and his eyes grow hard and fixed. He took off his glasses, wiped them with a handkerchief, but didn’t put them back on. The mother was crying quietly but steadily; the father still resolute but eyes no longer dry.

  “Peggy Harmon MacDonald was a beautiful young woman. Beautiful to the eyes of man, but more importantly, beautiful in the eyes of God. She loved God and sought to please Him with her life. She honored h
er father and mother. She married a godly man. She bore a daughter and dedicated her to the Lord. She gave her energy to the Lord’s work, investing it in the life of her family and her community.”

  “Today we have all come here to honor the lives and memories of Peggy and Kristen. Yes, our hearts are broken and we can’t imagine what life will be without them. But for a few moments, let us honor them by recalling what life was like with them. Let us take some time to share memories of how they touched our lives.”

  Dad looked at a row of people sitting on the front pew to the left. Janet Mull, Ralph’s sister, stood up and walked unsteadily to the front.

  “When I heard Pastor Cloud wanted people to tell stories about Miss Peggy, I called and asked him if I could help.” She swallowed and continued. “Miss Peggy was very special to us high school girls. Not like a mother, not like a sister, not like a best friend, but somethin’ that was like the best of all three. There was times when I was on the verge of doin’ some things that weren’t too good, and if she hadn’t been there to talk to, I’m not so sure I wouldn’t of done ’em.” She shot a nervous glance at her parents. “I know that my life would be different right now if Miss Peggy hadn’t been there for me. Thank God she was.”

  Janet nodded quickly and darted back to her seat. Dad looked to the next person, a young woman in her twenties.

  “What I remember best about Peggy was how she treated Kristen like she was a special gift from God. She kept her in line, but she did it with such a gentle way. I know I have a time with my own, and sometimes they exasperates me. But they has the benefit of a mother that has learned how to nurture them by watching the example of Peggy Harmon. MacDonald, I mean. And there ain’t no better example.”

  One after another, people came up and talked about the impact Peggy had had on their lives, some calmly, some very emotionally. Then, as the last person on the front row sat down, Sonia Walker stood up.

  “I was Peggy’s best friend,” she said loudly. “She was all those things to me and more. I think I loved her even more than Mac did, and that’s saying a lot!” Her eyes flared from behind the clumps of mascara. “So, what kind of God would kill her?” She choked out the last words and closed her eyes, gripping the pew in front of her until her knuckles turned white. “And her baby!” she blurted out. “A baby! He killed a baby,” she cried.

  Everyone stared in stunned silence. Sonia looked at Peggy’s mother. “I’m sorry. I wish it would of been me.” She turned and jerked her purse from the pew. “She was the good one. It shoulda been me,” she pinched out in a shaky voice as she rushed out of the church.

  “Let’s pray for a second.” Dad’s voice echoed in the silence following the slam of the church door. “Heavenly Father, we ask that You surround Sonia with Your Holy Spirit. Comfort her in this time of grief, and protect her from harm. Amen.” All eyes were on Dad as he looked up from his prayer.

  “We have heard from many people whose lives were touched by Peggy MacDonald. Even Sonia, in the passion of her grief, has shown us how special Peggy was. And Sonia has shown us something else: that it hurts when someone is taken from us, especially someone as special as Peggy. Of course we feel betrayed. Death was brought into this world by the Enemy. It is natural, it is right, for us to feel pain, grief, anger, and even betrayal. It is right for us to feel outrage at the insult of death.”

  “Even God knows the pain of losing a child, the righteous anger of seeing a good person suffering the ultimate injustice of a wrongful death. Even an innocent person, as Kristen was completely innocent. He knows how we feel, for He has felt it Himself.” He paused and looked at Peggy’s family. “So, none of us should be ashamed to let our feelings out like Sonia has. No one need feel guilty for feeling or expressing anger. Let God know how you feel, even if it is against Him that you want to cry and rage. He is a big God; He can take it.”

  Dad sat down heavily, and Judy Graham sang “Precious Memories.” I sat between my weeping sisters, my head bowed, hiding behind a screen of dirty blond hair as I wondered if I had a heart of stone. All I could think about was the parting words of Twain’s Mysterious Stranger and wonder at all the pain that washed across the room like the tide coming in.

  A month later I stopped at the Walker house on my Grit route. Once again a pair of legs protruded from an F-150 pickup, but it was a different truck, an older one, and this time Old MacDonald didn’t come out of the house with tea. Parker had been out of the hospital for awhile, but it was the first time I had stopped at this house since the funeral, the first time I had seen any indication of life. I stopped next to the truck.

  “Hey, Mr. Walker. Did you want a paper?”

  The legs jerked and a curse came from under the truck. “Didn’t I tell you to call me Parker?”

  “Yes, sir.” Calling adults by their first names was difficult for me to do. “Did you want a Grit, Parker?”

  “What would I want with a paper?”

  “Uh, I don’t know. You could read it, I guess.”

  Parker crawled out from under the truck and to his feet. A large, jagged, red scar ran from the middle of his forehead across his left eye, which was covered with a black patch, down his cheek to the corner of his mouth. I flinched. It was the first time I had seen him since the wreck.

  “Kinda takes ya by surprise, don’t it, kid?” He leaned toward me. I could smell alcohol. “Give me your paper.”

  He held out a hand black with grease and oil. I gave him a Grit. He took a few sheets off the top, smearing them with grime as he cleaned his hands on them, dug out a billfold, and extracted a dollar.

  He shoved it in my hand and crawled back under the truck without another word. I looked toward the house and saw Sonia peering timidly from the door of the carport. I waved, but she didn’t wave back.

  The next time I hesitated about stopping at Parker’s, but the 300 percent tip was hard to pass up. The pickup was gone, so I knocked. Sonia pulled back the curtain and peeked at me, then opened the door. She had on the kind of thick makeup that always made me want to scrape it off with a putty knife just to see how much I would get. It ended at her jaw line, her natural skin a little lighter. Her lashes were fat with mascara around her brown eyes. Brown roots showed from beneath her shoulder-length, bleached hair.

  “Would you like a paper, Mrs. Walker?”

  She glanced apprehensively at the road, then back at me. “Sure, come in, I’ll get my purse.”

  I stepped into the cool dark cave, closing the door behind me. Sonia fumbled around inside her purse nervously.

  “You’re the preacher’s kid, ain’t ya?” She looked up. “The brick church in town. What was your name again?”

  “Mark.”

  “Right, Mark.” She pulled out a coin purse. “How much is it?”

  “Twenty-five cents.” She gave me a quarter. “Thank you.” I turned to go.

  “Do you live up next to the church, on that hill?”

  I stopped and turned back. “No, ma’am. We live on that dirt road back behind the elementary school. First house. Brick.”

  “Right, that road.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I turned to go, again.

  “Hey . . .”

  I stopped and turned back, waiting. She looked nervously around, avoiding my eyes.

  “Uh . . . so, I hear Mac teaches a Sunday school class there.” She glanced at me and quickly away.

  “Yes, ma’am. The high school class.”

  “Is he, uh . . . is he back?”

  “No, ma’am, he hasn’t come back yet. I don’t know if he’s out of the hospital or not.” I waited, but no other questions came. “Bye. Thanks.” I turned, and this time I got out of the door.

  “Bye. You’re welcome,” I heard her say quietly as it closed behind me.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN When school started up the next fall, Jolene’s assault on the Fredonian male ego continued unabated. However, by now all the available males had made their ardent assault on the Culpepper fortress. Each in turn h
ad retreated, pieced together his shattered ego, and focused his attentions on more receptive targets. By the time the homecoming dance rolled around, nobody even bothered to ask Jolene. Why volunteer to be the straight man with the whole class watching?

  If the thought had occurred to me, I might have asked her, but by then I had become accustomed to my role as Jolene’s personal eunuch. Old MacDonald’s advice notwithstanding, I didn’t relish the thought of walking in front of an oncoming log truck, even if it was an incredibly beautiful log truck. So it looked like Jolene wouldn’t be going to the homecoming dance that year, and none of the other girls were too heartbroken about it either. They were tired of watching every guy in the school flutter mindlessly around her like moths around the back porch light, getting zapped, and then limping in search of lesser lights.

  When things looked hopeless, a miracle happened. A new family moved in—a family with a male teenager who had no date to the homecoming dance. The new guy, Turner McCullough, was surprised to discover that the prettiest girl in school was still available, but he didn’t question fate. None of the other guys warned him, feeling that a date with Jolene was a rite of passage in Fred.

  Jolene did what most of the girls had done weeks before; she sewed her dress. The light in the Culpepper den could be seen late into the night as Jolene worked feverishly. In band each morning she dragged her haggard frame around the practice field. She told me of her progress while we waited for the woodwinds to get within a halftone of the same pitch while moving their feet. Of course, nothing Jolene did could be completely free from slapstick. Some of the details of what ensued eventually entered into the public domain, due to unexpected developments that Jolene didn’t orchestrate, but also didn’t fail to exploit. As Jolene’s au pair, I was privy to the more salacious details of the backstory denied to the hoi polloi.

  When the dress began to take shape, she attempted to enlist Bubba as a clotheshorse. “Fergit it!” he bellowed. He had felt the brunt of too many jokes not to suspect her motives. Besides, no self-respecting Fredonian male of sixteen could possibly consider wearing a dress, even to enable his twin sister to attend the homecoming dance.