The Flying Cutterbucks

by Kathleen M Rodgers

  Picking up the frames, a sense of foreboding returned. Then a primal fear charged through her so fast, she hit the back of the chair like she’d been electrocuted. Dropping the glasses in her lap as if they posed a physical threat, she gripped the chair’s sturdy arms as the air whooshed out of her lungs. Zia whined and backed up a few steps, tilting her head this way and that. Swallowing hard, Trudy glared at the eyeglasses and remembered bits and pieces, part of her memory as fractured as the cracked lens.

  Dub’s gold spectacles fly through the air as he crumples to the floor with a thud. His legs writhe a few seconds then stop. Hours pass. Woozy from Aunt Star’s magic drink, Trudy stumbles up the hallway from the bedroom she shares with her sister. Georgia is conked out. At the entrance to the kitchen, Trudy stops when she sees Aunt Star all red-faced and gasping for breath. Bending over, her aunt picks something up off the floor and stashes it in a pocket of her uniform, now ripped at the seam under her right armpit. As she bundles up in a parka, she sees Trudy swaying there by a kitchen chair. Her finger to her lips, Aunt Star whispers hoarsely, “Go back to bed, Lovey. You have school tomorrow.” As Trudy turns and walks sideways down the hall, she hears her aunt open the side door to go out. Cold air gushes in, and the smell of snow follows Trudy as she staggers back to bed.

  Zia nudged Trudy on the knee. She blinked, stunned by the memory. Pulling out her phone, she sent her sister a text: Was the p wearing his glasses when we dragged him out the door?

  Within seconds Georgia replied: I don’t remember. I think I squeezed my eyes shut and tried not to look.

  Trudy sent her the photo she’d taken moments ago, with the caption: Look what my secret agent dug up under the camper.

  Your secret agent? Oh, you mean Zia? Holy crap, sis! You think those were his? What were they doing under the camper?

  That’s what I’d like to know. Trudy’s thumbs flew over the screen: Maybe Aunt Star found them later and went outside to give them back, but he’d already left so — she buried them under the camper to hide evidence he’d been here. But the thought was too horrifying to voice to her sister.

  OMG, what if the perv was blind as a bat without glasses? Maybe that’s why he stumbled onto the tracks.

  Combined with a concussion and no telling how much booze was in his system. FYI, I’m sending the photo to Aunt Star.

  She may get defensive. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Must run. I’m teaching three classes this afternoon.

  Trudy glanced at Zia. “Well, here goes.” After clicking the photo, she added: Look what Zia found buried under the camper. You know anything about this? As soon as she sent the text, she deleted the photo from her camera.

  A rap at the side door startled her. Would she ever stop jumping every time someone knocked at the door that led to the carport? Her hackles up, Zia growled and raced to the door and barked at the silhouette that loomed on the other side of the sheer fabric panel covering the door’s upper window.

  Scrambling to her feet, Trudy skidded across the kitchen in her socks and peeked out. Hector stood a couple of feet back, waving a measuring tape in his right hand. Seeing his friendly face quelled some of the anxiety roiling within her since discovering the eyeglasses.

  She shushed Zia. “Calm down, girlfriend. It’s Hector. He’s our friend.” Hooking one finger through Zia’s collar, Trudy opened the door. “Hope you like dogs.”

  Hector grinned. “Clay told me about her.” He bent to scratch Zia behind her ears. “I’m a dog lover myself. Got three big rescues at home.” He glanced over his shoulder at the empty spot where the minivan usually sat. “Guess your mom’s not around by any chance? I was out this way on another job. Figured I’d drop by and get some measurements for the kitchen redo.”

  Trudy tried to ignore the slogan emblazoned on his red T-shirt that stretched across his compact chest: Make America Great Again. Good grief, Hector, too? “Um, she drove into town to take a friend to the doctor. She should be home soon. You’re welcome to come in.”

  Trudy stepped aside to let him pass.

  Hector gave a polite nod and entered the house. “It won’t take long.”

  “Take all the time you need. Zia and I are hanging out. By the way, Clay took Momma by his house the other day. She was impressed with your work. She couldn’t get over the photos y’all took of the house before you gutted it.”

  Hector looked around, sizing up the kitchen. “Glad she approved. I’m surprised Hercules behaved. Last time I stopped by there, he tried to block me from entering. He thinks he’s ferocious. I almost stepped on him, trying to get in the door.”

  Trudy laughed. “The secret, Hector, is to ply him with treats.”

  Hector stood with his hands on his hips, gazing from corner to corner. “I’ll remember that next time.” He pointed at the ceiling. “Your mom okay with me installing new lighting? I’m thinking two or three pendant lights over the new island.” He turned to look at her.

  “Hector, I’m pretty sure Momma will love whatever you do.” His overbite was adorable, his workmanship topnotch. He’d served his country as a Marine and rescued dogs, and yet she couldn’t get past the words on his T-shirt.

  Until this election, she’d never dreamed of talking politics. But the outcome had suddenly emboldened her. And she came right out and asked him, “Hector, why do you support him?” She gestured at the slogan.

  Patting his chest, Hector glanced down as if he’d forgotten what shirt he’d slipped over his head that morning before work. “Look, I’m not a big fan of everything that comes out of his mouth, but…”

  Incredulous, she interrupted him. “Hector, I don’t mean to sound rude, but I don’t understand. You’re a Latino, and yet you voted for a guy who calls Mexicans rapists and drug traffickers!”

  Hector froze. His overbite disappeared behind pursed lips. He gazed at the measuring tape in his hands. “I voted for him because he is a businessman and not a politician. He says he’s going to fix Washington and bring back jobs.” Hector pivoted and began measuring the cabinets, jotting down numbers with a stubby pencil in a mini spiral notebook.

  Trudy pulled open the refrigerator and grabbed a bottle of water. “My mom says she hasn’t seen this kind of division since the Civil Rights Movement.” She set the bottle of water on the counter and called to Zia. “C’mon, girl. We better leave Hector alone before he kicks us out.”

  As she and Zia meandered into the sunroom, Trudy gazed at the brilliant light that spilled through the new archway into the other room. Jewel had taken Hector’s advice and adorned the space with clay pots overflowing with leafy plants. Trudy’s gaze shifted to a slim row of Mexican tiles with bright swirls and geometric patterns inlaid in the seam created where the wall came down.

  Curling up at the end of the Naugahyde couch, she called out, “Hector, you’re a genius. You should run for president.” Zia jumped up beside her and plopped her head on Trudy’s lap. Now that Zia had been to the groomers, Momma said she was allowed on the furniture.

  Hector appeared in the narrow archway, the measuring tape clenched in his right fist, his ankles crossed and his shoulder braced against the wall. Crisscrossing his arms, he hooked his hands under each armpit, leaving his thumbs exposed. “That’d mean I’d have to wear a suit and tie to work.” He gestured to the mosaic design on the floor beneath the new arch. “You like it? I tried to match the new tiles to the ones your dad installed on the kitchen counters. They’re not an exact match, but I liked the idea of continuing the theme into other areas of your mom’s house.”

  Hector’s attention to detail and his thoughtfulness touched her deeply. Her heart overflowed with respect and a deep admiration for this hardworking man who acknowledged and honored her father by keeping his memory alive in tile. Yet she still couldn’t fathom how a man like Hector — a military veteran who served his country in an age when there wasn’t a draft — could support a man who dodged the draft five times and hid out during the Vietnam War…the war that took her father’s l
ife. But she also had to acknowledge that a person’s values couldn’t always be measured by a few words silkscreened on a T-shirt, no matter how offensive she or anyone else might find it.

  Her voice quivered when she spoke. “Hector…my dad would be so honored by your work. He loved this house. He poured his soul into it.”

  Nodding thoughtfully, Hector uncrossed his arms and feet and turned. “My cousin, he carried a torch for you for years.” He cocked his brow and pointed with the measuring tape. “But you did not hear that from me.”

  She smiled, her face growing hot. “What was his ex-wife like? Cinda’s mom?”

  Hector blew out a puff of air, his lips flapping together like a horse. “A gringo like you. Pretty, but a real prude. And she didn’t like me one iota.”

  “How so?”

  “’Cuz I rode Harleys and drank beer and told her to piss up a rope.”

  Trudy chuckled. “Why did you tell her that?”

  “’Cuz I defended my cousin when his daughter came out and said she was a lesbian.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Dancing with a Three-Legged Dog

  HOURS AFTER Zia uncovered the spectacles, Aunt Star still hadn’t replied to Trudy’s text. Alarmed by her aunt’s silence, Trudy knelt in front of her parents’ vintage console stereo and tried to stay busy. A sofa pillow cushioned her knees from the unforgiving tile. “Does this thing still work?” she asked, trying to keep irritation from creeping into her voice. Moments earlier, she’d removed a Navajo blanket of bright geometric designs draped across the lowslung cabinet, exposing the top for the first time in years.

  Nearby, Jewel rifled through a box of photographs propped on the coffee table. She eyed Trudy over the rim of her reading glasses. “The needle broke years ago, and I think one of the speakers is busted.” She picked up a photo, studied it, and then tossed it aside.

  “Crud. I was hoping we could listen to some old tunes while we work. I remember how you and Daddy always cranked up the stereo anytime you had friends over.”

  Jewel tilted her head thoughtfully. “Sometimes we danced, too. Long into the night after you kids were in bed and all the guests had left.”

  The longing in her mother’s voice tugged at Trudy. “Momma, you want me to find a repairman in town who might be able to fix it?”

  Her mother stared at something in the distance then shook her head. “You and your sister can fight over it after I’m gone. Sell it to a collector or one of those pickers like you see on TV.”

  Lifting the lid, Trudy inhaled the fumes of old wood and neglected electronic equipment. Her nose dripped and she reached into her pocket for a tissue. Pinching it to her nose, she stared at the needle on the record player docked in the armrest. A vinyl record covered in a fine layer of dust sat motionless on the center spindle. “Momma, there’s a record left on here.”

  Jewel blinked in Trudy’s direction. “Really? What is it?”

  Gently, Trudy lifted the record from the spindle and held it up to read: “It’s ‘Whipped Cream and Other Delights’ by Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass.” After all these years, she could still picture the sexy girl on the avocado green cover: the doe-eyed brunette with a dollop of whipped cream atop her head, licking the tip of her finger. Her bare shoulders and the swell of cleavage partially smeared in white cream gave the illusion of nudity without revealing too much.

  The weariness in Jewel’s eyes faded. Clasping her hands, she walked over to see for herself. “Shep and I practically wore that album out.”

  Sorting through old photos had left Jewel on edge. Maybe seeing the iconic album cover would lift her mother’s spirits and take Trudy’s mind off Zia’s disturbing find buried under the camper. “Here, hold this a sec.” Trudy passed her the record.

  As Jewel balanced the disc in her fingers like it was made of gold, Trudy slid a cabinet door open in the console and flipped through dozens of LPs in their original jackets. Her fingers filed past The Mamas & The Papas, The Beatles, The Doors, Joan Baez, Billie Holiday…

  And suddenly there she was, the girl covered in whipped cream. Trudy pulled the jacket from the rack. Using the console for support, she pushed herself up from the floor. “Makes you wonder what fans enjoyed more: listening to the music or eyeing the cover.”

  “It was scandalous when it first came out,” Jewel hooted, looking on. “I imagine lots of good Christians hid it when the preacher made house calls.”

  Trudy chuckled and slipped the record inside the jacket. Flipping it over, she scanned down the list of songs. “I remember most of these. Georgia and I used to listen to them over and over. We’d bop around, pretending we were on American Bandstand.”

  They took turns reading some of the titles out loud:

  “‘Taste of Honey.’”

  “‘Tangerine.’”

  “‘Whipped Cream.’”

  When Trudy got to “Love Potion No. 9,” she shimmied her shoulders and did a mock striptease.

  Her mother laughed, cupping the side of her face in one hand. “His music’s so upbeat and happy. I could use a dose of that right now.” She turned her attention back to the box of photos.

  Trudy set the album on the coffee table and reached for her smartphone. Searching the internet, she found the familiar list, made sure the volume was on high. Right before she hit play, she grinned coyly at her mother. “Hey, Momma, here’s ‘A Taste of Honey.’”

  As the sound of Latin guitars and smooth brassy trumpets and trombones filled the room, Zia peeked around the corner.

  “Come here, girl,” Trudy called, dancing clumsily in place to the saucy south-of-the-border music that wouldn’t let her sit still. Jewel sat on the edge of the sofa, tapping her feet and swaying her shoulders.

  Zia trotted into the room, her tail wagging like a metronome. Without hesitation, she reared up on her hind legs, resting her lone front paw on Trudy’s chest.

  “Look, Momma, she wants to dance.” As Trudy reached for Zia’s front paw, her two left feet and Zia’s rear legs synchronized in a herky-jerky slow dance.

  “Can you grab my phone and take a picture so I can send it to Georgia?”

  Jewel hoisted herself off the sofa, fumbled with Trudy’s phone, and snapped a couple of photos. “Tell her we’ve got a three-legged dancer in the family,” Jewel said, setting down the phone.

  After dancing with Zia, Trudy eased the dog’s front paw back onto the floor. Picking up her phone, she texted her sister a photo, checked for any new messages from Aunt Star — there were none — and then searched for another Herb Alpert tune.

  At the first brassy notes of “The Lonely Bull,” Trudy bowed ceremoniously and pretended to be a matador dressed in a fancy costume before a cheering crowd — anything to take her mind off those spectacles hidden out back.

  Clapping, Jewel said, “Play another one,” when the song ended.

  “Sure thing, Momma.” Trudy scanned the list. “Oh, I think I remember this one from The Dating Game.”

  The flirty jazzy melody of “Whipped Cream” prompted Trudy and her mother to strut. They paraded around the living room between the coffee table and sofa. Jewel twirled an imaginary baton and Trudy marched behind her playing air trumpet. Zia nosed her way between them, tail wagging, wanting to join in.

  When the music stopped, Jewel plopped onto the couch, winded. “That was fun. I should do that more often. Keep the sludge moving through my veins.”

  As Trudy began to search the playlist for a slower song, her mother held up a photo for Trudy’s inspection. “Looky here, it’s you and Preston.”

  Preston! Trudy stiffened at the sound of his name. How could two syllables represent so much disgust?

  She set her phone down and glared at the statuesque bride in the photo, a young woman of thirty in bare shoulders and lace, posed next to a tuxedoed groom a few years her senior but reeking of the spoils of success.

  “Who’s that ridiculous couple?” She made a face and crossed her two index fingers in front of her as
if she could block the image. “They scare me.”

  Jewel gazed at the photo. “I’ll say one thing. Preston threw a helluva party. He wouldn’t let me spend a dime, and there I was the mother of the bride.”

  Trudy cocked her head and rolled her eyes. “Momma, the reason he paid for everything was so he could show me off to all his highfalutin’ friends.”

  Jewel pursed her lips. “Well, could you blame him?” She glanced at the photo, and then stuck her tongue out. “Your daddy and I made pretty babies.”

  “Momma, I hardly recognize that stupid girl. I squandered my identity when I married him, and it took me years to dig out of that rut. I’d like to think I’m a lot smarter now.”

  Jewel tapped her finger on the photo. “You weren’t stupid, just impressionable.”

  Trudy bowed her head, hiding a half smile. “I burned my wedding photos years ago. You should pitch it.”

  “Or I could snip him out of the picture,” Jewel suggested. She scissored two fingers over Preston’s profile and snapped them together when she got to his crotch. “Ouch. Guess Lupi’s rubbing off on me.”

  Trudy chuckled at her mother’s warped sense of humor.

  “I read in some magazine recently where he’s been operating on wounded warriors,” Jewel continued. “Doing facial reconstructions.”

  Breathing through her nose, Trudy gazed out the picture window. “Yeah, it’s challenging to hate him when you read stuff like that. At least he has some redeeming qualities.”

  Jewel sniffed. “He never liked coming here. He always inspected his fork and knife before eating.”

  “Don’t take it personally, Momma. The man had a few idiosyncrasies.”

  “Your Aunt Star never liked him. She called him persnickety. We all tried to warn you, but you kept telling us how he made you feel like a millions bucks.”