The Flying Cutterbucks

by Kathleen M Rodgers

  He blinked and kept a straight face. “The election?”

  Nodding, she scribbled her signature on the display and removed her card. “Yeah.”

  He handed her a receipt as a young woman started bagging her groceries in plastic bags. “A lady came through my line about an hour ago all jubilant and stuff,” he volunteered, keeping his voice low. “She bought meat trays from the deli, a bunch of helium balloons, a bag of paper horns, wine, beer, margarita mix; you name it, even a donkey piñata.”

  Trudy flinched. “That poor piñata. It’ll take a beating for sure.”

  The hint of a chuckle escaped his lips. “I wonder what she’ll fill it with?”

  “No telling,” Trudy laughed as they exchanged glances and the void in his eyes lifted.

  “You take care,” he told her as she tipped the female bagger, grabbed the plastic bags by their handles, and headed for the exit.

  Aunt Star was right: misery loves company.

  As the electronic doors swooshed open, she came upon a young Latina mother pushing a shopping cart with one hand and struggling with a bouncing toddler in the other. A baby carrier with a squalling infant was strapped to the front of the cart. The toddler broke free of his mother’s grip and scampered away, giggling in his escape. In that instant, the frantic mother let go of the shopping cart and started screaming hysterically in Spanish to the young boy who laughed and kept running, darting in and out of parked cars in a game of hide and seek. The shopping cart with the baby began to roll sideways into the parking lot.

  With bags swinging from both hands, Trudy dashed forward, hollering, “I’ve got your baby.” Seconds before the cart careened into an oncoming car pulling into a slot, Trudy yanked hold of the handle and wheeled it around. Gasping for breath, she peeked into the carrier. A pair of big brown eyes with cow lashes gaped back at her, a tiny purple bow clipped to a headful of black hair. The baby had stopped crying, but her tiny fist batted the air. “Hello, little one,” Trudy cooed, her eyes blurry as she stared at the helpless infant.

  By the time the young mother grabbed her toddler and rushed back, her tan face was streaked with tears. “Gracias,” she said, keeping her eyes downcast as she propped the toddler on one hip and grabbed the cart with her free hand and pushed it toward an older model sedan.

  “Would you like me to help you to your car?” Trudy called after her, but the woman kept moving and never looked back.

  As Trudy headed to her own car, she found herself haunted by the look in the young woman’s eyes: a look of utter fear and distrust. The woman never spoke one word of English, and she kept her head down the whole time. Given the outcome of the election, Trudy couldn’t blame her.

  Before she fired up the engine, she scrolled through Facebook. A post from Lupi popped up in her newsfeed. “I feel violated. How could anyone vote for this asshat?” Someone named Cassandra from Los Angeles replied, “This whole thing feels orchestrated. Like a collective rape.” Trudy’s heart plunged when she read Georgia’s comment in the thread: “This is an affront to anyone who’s ever had to fight off a monster.”

  Resting her forehead on the steering wheel, Trudy breathed deeply, then sat up, checked to make sure she was strapped in, and backed out of the parking slot.

  Five minutes later, she motored down Santa Fe Way before she headed south at the bend in the road where it converged with North Main. American flags lined both sides of Main Street for Veterans Day coming up. A few blocks later, she slowed down as she approached the intersection of Main and Fourth Street. While she waited at a red light, her gut twisted as she glared over the steering wheel at the side of Gold’s Department Store, a two-story tan structure which sat directly to her right on the opposite side of the crosswalk. Ugly black swastikas covered the side of the building.

  When the light turned green, she crept forward and caught another glimpse of the storefront smeared in more black swastikas. Two Pardon Police SUVs were parked out front and crime tape warned people to stay back. She looked for Clay but didn’t see him. He’d probably been there and left. A KOB TV news van from Albuquerque had parked by the curb where a TV reporter was interviewing someone on camera. The department store had been in business for decades and was considered high end. When Trudy was in high school, she remembered meeting the store’s founder, a Holocaust survivor, and one of the biggest philanthropists in Pardon. The store’s owner had never forgotten one of his liberators was a soldier from Pardon.

  At the next intersection, she cut right and drove past the old two-story post office with its light brown and orange tile roof and wide marble steps leading up to a series of tall archways. The building was magnificent for a town the size of Pardon, and she acknowledged its grandeur while she grappled with the fact that someone had defaced another building in town with symbols of terror and intimidation.

  Two blocks later, she took a right at La Casita Street and slowed down as she passed by Our Lady of Assumption Church, tapping her brake to admire its thick tan walls and twin bell towers, each topped by a cross. Her gaze drifted to the third cross, stationed directly over the main entrance. Each time Clay went to Mass, he entered through those imposing wooden doors. It was so natural for him to believe, to cling to the faith of his childhood.

  Easing her foot on the gas, she approached the schoolyard and rolled down the window to listen to the chatter of children at play. Girls and boys, mostly Hispanic, were bundled in winter wraps even though the November sun blazed high overhead. A little boy running a stick along the chain link fence stopped and looked in her direction. Fifty years ago, that might’ve been Clay, stopping to stare at a flashy sports car cruising by.

  She waved at the boy but he didn’t wave back. Could she blame him? She left before he alerted the nuns or whoever ran the school that some strange lady was sitting in her car, maybe waiting to shoot up the school. When Trudy was his age, her biggest fear at school was pooping her pants or getting sent to the principal’s office. But as she drove away, she realized the boy looked sad or even worried. Maybe his dog died. Maybe his family life was in shambles. But what if it was something else, something dark and ominous brought on due to the election? What if his mother had come from Mexico looking for a better life? She could be a student, a professor, a doctor, an accountant, a plumber — she could be anybody — and now her biggest fear was getting sent back. What would happen to the boy?

  For the first time in her life, Trudy felt bewildered and betrayed by her own countrymen. Is this how many of the Vietnam veterans felt after returning from war to an ungrateful nation? And yet, she’d read in the news where many of those same veterans, along with other hardworking people, voted for a man who treats women as sex objects and who only seems to care about himself. How could so many good people place their trust in such a man?

  The whole thing scared her, and her mind drifted back to the swastikas painted on Gold’s Department Store. As she zigzagged down a few more streets, passing a variety of bungalows, some with big porches and others with simple stoops, she imagined Nazi storm troopers decked out in WWII style helmets and uniforms parading up and down the streets of Pardon and the rest of America, ripping people from their homes and tossing them like trash into the back of military cargo trucks.

  Back on Seven Mile Road, she passed a corpulent young woman walking along the shoulder against traffic, pushing a bicycle with a wire basket mounted on the handlebars. The road was flat, but the woman plodded along like she was pushing the bike uphill. She couldn’t be more than eighteen to twenty, pasty with long stringy hair, a red tank top and black tights, and so grotesquely disproportioned, Trudy’s throat swelled with compassion. The woman’s small head and narrow shoulders sat on top a body with globs of flesh that hung from her upper arms and skirted her hips like a puffy tutu. The woman grew smaller in her rearview mirror before she disappeared from sight.

  If Nazis ruled the world today, Trudy thought with a shudder, they’d destroy a gal like that. They’d shoot her on the spot, conf
iscate her bike, and kick her into the weeds for vultures to feed on.

  Passing the grain elevators to her left, Trudy jumped when her phone rang, the ringer amplified through the Camaro’s audio system. Georgia’s name lit up on the dashboard display. As Trudy pressed the control button on her steering wheel, Georgia’s comment on Lupi’s Facebook post earlier burned in her mind. “Hey, sis, what’s up?”

  “Can you talk a sec? I’m on my lunchbreak.” Georgia sounded down.

  “Sure. I’m just out running errands.” Trudy flicked on her blinker and moved into the left lane to avoid hitting a tractor that had pulled onto the highway.

  Her sister’s voice gushed out of the speakers like a hot blast of wind. “First, how’s the remodeling project going?”

  “Good. Hector taped everything off with sheets of plastic before he gave Momma a sledgehammer and let her take the first strike. She barely made a dent, but she had fun and told him she was taking her frustrations out on the wall. Then Hector picked up an ax and dust started flying. Those plastic sheets are for show. Dust is like water: it finds its way in, through every crack and crevice.”

  “I can’t wait to see it,” Georgia said. “Mom should’ve done this years ago. Maybe Hector can sweet-talk her into updating the kitchen and baths.”

  “He’s already on it,” Trudy replied. “For some reason, hearing it from a man carries more weight than from one of us. So what’s up?”

  Georgia sighed. “I need to vent. I was scrolling through the news earlier and saw where a fight broke out at an elementary school outside of Atlanta. A group of white kids started taunting a group of Hispanics during recess, telling them to go back to Mexico and or some bullshit. Then some black kids stepped in to defend the Mexicans and all hell broke loose — bloody noses and black eyes. Girls yanking hair out.”

  “Jeez, even the kids are turning on each other,” Trudy said, glancing in her side mirror before moving back into the right lane.

  “The principal, who happens to be black, gathered the kids up in the auditorium. They had a come-to-Jesus talk. He said it’s the first time his students have ever seen him cry.”

  “That’s so sad, sis. Stuff’s happening here in Pardon, too. Someone spray-painted swastikas all over the front and side of Gold’s Department Store. I drove by there a few minutes ago.”

  “That’s disgusting,” Georgia snapped. “What’s happening to our country? Daddy would be heartbroken.”

  “Or pissed!” Trudy said.

  Keeping her eyes on the road, she imagined a map of the United States, similar to ones she’d seen in social studies textbooks in grade school. But instead of symbols depicting farms and cities dotting the land, she saw something else, something so disturbing she interrupted Georgia to tell her about it. After she explained about the map, she added, “Instead of smokestacks depicting factories and industries in various states, I see little chimneys cropping up around the country.”

  “Chimneys?” her sister said.

  Trudy shifted in her seat. She took her left hand off the steering wheel to rub the back of her neck. “Yes, Georgia, crematoriums. Like the ones used in Nazi Germany.”

  “Oh my God, sis. Now I’m gettin’ paranoid. Maybe all that dust is playing havoc with your head.”

  As the Camaro rolled past Drake’s Salvage Yard on her left, Trudy glanced over in time to see the sun glint off the old propeller on the front of the building.

  CHAPTER 18

  News from the Turquoise Phone

  HECTOR WASN’T back from lunch when Trudy pulled the Camaro beside the minivan under the carport and cut the engine. It was nice to park in that spot again after she’d tossed old bicycles with flat tires and boxes of junk that had sat there for years, some of it left over from her mother’s cleaning business. Slinging her purse over her shoulder, she unfolded herself from the car, grabbed the bags from the trunk, and hurried toward the side door. She was anxious to tell her mother about the swastikas at Gold’s Department Store.

  Inserting the key, she nudged the door with one foot and pushed it open with her hip. As she went to lug in the groceries, she called out, “Momma, you won’t believe…” Halfway through the door, she froze. White dust had settled on every surface she’d spent weeks cleaning.

  Her mother leaned against the wall next to the red desk, the elongated telephone cord wrapped around her frail form like a cocoon, as if she’d stood in place after answering the house phone and turned herself around and around like a jewelry box ballerina. Her head bent at an odd angle, she held the receiver against her right ear and nodded to someone on the other end as if the caller could see her. Her purple knit cap puddled at her feet where she’d flung it off at some point.

  Jewel’s eyes were wild and huge as she signaled for Trudy to come closer. Trudy shoved the bags onto the counter and dropped her purse and rushed over. Bending to retrieve her mother’s knit cap, she shook the dust off and noticed Stranger to the Ground splayed open face down on the desk, now layered in a chalky film.

  “Who is it?” she mouthed, fidgeting with the cap.

  Jewel’s mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. She closed her eyes a couple of times but said nothing.

  Swallowing hard, Trudy held her breath, expecting bad news. Had something happened to Aunt Star? Maybe she’d suffered a stroke, her disappointment in the election too much to bear? Surely Georgia was okay; Trudy had talked to her not five minutes ago. Maybe Uncle Manifred had finally croaked, not quite making it to his hundredth birthday in a few weeks.

  At last Jewel uttered, “I’ll be here. You can also reach me on my cellphone, day or night.” After she rattled off the number, she said into the phone, “Thank you for the news. Bye now.” As she went to hang up, she noticed how she’d wrapped herself in the cord. She stared at the receiver in her hand then up at the base.

  “Momma, is everything okay?” Setting the knit cap on the desk, Trudy took the receiver from her mother’s hand and began to unravel the coils from around her torso and over her head.

  Nodding, her mother blinked a couple of times but didn’t make a peep while Trudy freed her from the cord. As Trudy placed the receiver back on the base, her mother gripped the edge of the desk for support. “I’d just turned off the TV and was on my way to the sunroom to read when the phone rang.” With stiff jerky movements, Jewel reached for the conquistador and plopped down.

  Trudy glanced around, her throat parched. The room felt still and she thought she might choke on sheetrock dust. “Who was that on the phone?” she coughed, hovering over her mother.

  Jewel tapped her fingers on the scrolled ends of the armrests. She took a deep breath and sighed. “A casualty officer from the Missing Persons Branch at the Air Force Personnel Center in San Antonio.” She paused as her eyes darted about the room.

  Casualty officer thrummed in Trudy’s ears. “What did he say?”

  Jewel’s lips quivered, along with her hands. “It was a woman. Colonel Washington, I didn’t catch her first name.” Jewel tapped the balls of her feet up and down on the terra-cotta floor, her gold-sequined slippers tamping the dust into caked powder. “It’s been years since I’ve heard from them. Years!”

  “And what did she say, this lady colonel?” Trudy leaned closer, pulling her hair to one side, then the other. Her heart hurt.

  “Some Vietnamese farmer led a team of investigators to a remote crash site…” Jewel halted midsentence and bent over in the chair, crossing both arms over the back of her head, reminding Trudy of an airline passenger bracing for impact. After a few seconds, Jewel straightened, took a deep breath, her words choppy as she continued. “On the side of a hill in the middle of the jungle…near the place where they think your dad’s plane went missing.” She blinked up at Trudy in disbelief. “They found a few bone fragments along with some pieces of metal…” her voice trailed off.

  Trudy’s throat closed up. She couldn’t breathe. Scrambling to the sink, she opened the window, poured a glass of tap water
, and drank. Cool air rushed in from outside along with a memory…

  One night while polishing his black flight boots, Daddy looked up when Trudy ambled into the master bedroom. He motioned for her to come closer. “I’m gonna tell you something I haven’t told the others.” He dipped the end of an old T-shirt wrapped around his finger and swirled it around in a tin of black paste. Applying the cloth to the toe of one boot, he worked in a circular motion. “I have orders to Vietnam. Since you’re the oldest, I’m counting on you to help your mother and look after your brother and sister while I’m gone.” Vietnam, that’s all it took. Trudy had squeezed her eyes shut as if she could expel the word that had slipped through her ears. “No, Daddy, not Vietnam,” her voice cracked before she turned and bolted straight for his open closet…to hide her face from him.

  Her mother cleared her throat, drawing Trudy back to the present. “They’ll run a DNA test and see if it matches the samples they collected from us years ago.”

  Trudy stared out the window, her vision blurry. “What about Daddy’s backseater, Lieutenant Miller? Did the colonel say anything about him?”

  “No, and I didn’t ask. I wasn’t thinking too clearly.”

  “Didn’t you used to correspond with his mother? He was so young, I recall.”

  “For years,” Jewel sighed. “Until she died of cancer…that poor woman left this world never knowing what happened to her son. Just like your Grandma Cutterbuck.”

  As Trudy went to set her glass in the sink, a sound from the other room caused her to jerk her head around — a sound of something soft crashing to the floor.

  Her mother twisted in the big armchair. She’d heard it, too. “What was that?”

  Particles of white powder swirled ghostlike through the narrow archway leading from the sunroom into the kitchen. Had a chunk of drywall detached itself from a board where Hector had been working, or was it something else?

  Her mother bolted out of the chair, her fingers steepled under her chin. “Shep?” Her voice trilled in the silence that followed.