Fit to Be Tied

by Debby Mayne

  I also think folks forget that I’m almost two years younger than Julius because I’m so much bigger than him. And Mama says he’s not any more mature than I am.

  So I went to the reunion, and next thing I know, I’m in trouble with the cops because Julius thinks it’s fun to light a bunch of firecrackers, all at once. Inside the barn. Who does that? Even I know better than to do something so stupid, and I know I’m not the smartest guy in Pinewood. Not even close.

  The last reunion started out boring, which is pretty much what I expect at a family social. So Julius has me hold the matches while he strings all those firecrackers together. Then he tells me to light one of them while he holds it up in front of me. Next thing I know, he’s tossing the whole wad of firecrackers toward some bales of hay that have probably been there for years, and within seconds the place explodes. Not long after that, the police are interrogating me.

  Fortunately, most people know about Julius, so I don’t have to take the whole load of blame from the family, which is a good thing. And now Mama expects me to go back for more torture?

  All I can do is keep digging my heels in about this stupid reunion and hoping Mama and Daddy will eventually give up, but that’s not likely. Mama should have been a saleslady. No one can say no to her and get away with it.

  Maybe I’ll just leave town for a while. If they can’t find me, they can’t make me go to the reunion. But then I remember when my older brother, Trey, tried that stunt, and Mama never let him live that down. My sister, Hallie, will probably get sick the morning of the reunion like she does half the time, so the only one who’ll be forced to be there is Jeremy, the baby of the family. I reckon I can just hang out with him.

  Julius and I just finished our community service the judge made us do, and actually, that wasn’t so bad. We worked with Habitat for Humanity and then spent some time over at the Community Faith Food Bank, where we sorted all the canned goods and helped put together boxes of food for people who can’t afford to feed their families. Until doing that, I never realized how hard some people have it. Now I know my family is rich compared to others who need the food bank’s services.

  But being with Julius isn’t good for me. I’m afraid his shenanigans will only get me into more trouble.

  Until the last reunion, I have always admired Julius, even though I know he’s always up to something. His mama and daddy give him everything he wants, so of course the rest of us cousins are jealous. But maybe Mama is right when she says if you don’t have to work for stuff, it doesn’t mean as much to you.

  Julius was super annoying when we were sorting food at the food bank. He tried to talk me into dumping all the canned food into one bin because he was getting tired of checking the labels. By then, I knew not to listen to him, so I just kept my head down and did as I was told. Julius, on the other hand, did what he felt like doing, so the lady in charge yanked him off sorting duty and told him to clean the restrooms. I guess you can say he went from sorting cans to cleaning cans. I let out a soft chuckle.

  I know that’s not funny, but it’s the best I can do, considering how this whole situation is so messed up. Mama doesn’t seem to understand how hard it’ll be for me with Julius and some of my other cousins. And the other people . . . well, I don’t really feel like facing them, since they probably hate me after what happened.

  I’ve already gone over to Daddy’s cousin Missy’s house and apologized. She said she accepted it, but I’m not so sure because she didn’t want me to stick around. I mean, who can blame her? If she’d been in the middle of that old barn when it exploded, she could have been killed. Good thing for me and Julius, she was by the back door, so all she had were a few cuts and bruises. And according to Mama, a case of PTSD. Apparently, loud noises still send her into a tizzy.

  “Brett, get your fanny in the kitchen right now. I need you to help set the table.”

  Mama’s voice makes my stomach hurt. I know she loves me, but she’s always been bossy. And ever since she bought that shop, she’s only gotten worse.

  “I’ll be there in a few minutes,” I holler back.

  “Get in here right now, Brett Henke,” her voice screeches. “And I mean now, young man.”

  “Coming.” I feel my shoulders sag as I slog into the kitchen, where Mama has all the plates, forks, knives, and spoons lined up for me to put in everyone’s spot. It would have been just as easy for her to put them out herself, but no, she wants to make me work.

  After I lay everything out, I see that there are a couple of extra settings. “What’s this for?”

  Mama places her hands on her hips, gives me a smug look that scares me, and grins—something that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. I am almost a foot taller than her, but even Daddy listens when she gets like this. “Missy and Foster are joining us for dinner. I thought it was time for you to clear the air with her so it won’t be so awkward when we see her at the reunion.”

  Before I catch myself, I groan. “No.”

  “Just what do you mean by that, young man?” Mama shakes her head. “You can’t say no, because I’ve already invited them.”

  “Why’d you have to do that?”

  “I’ve already told you, Brett. You have to clear the air and make sure Missy knows you’ll never do anything like that again. She deserves at least that from someone who near ’bout killed her.”

  Once again, I shudder at the very thought of what could have happened. Mama obviously doesn’t realize how traumatic that whole thing was for me. Sometimes I wonder if she thinks I’m as guilty as Julius was.

  “So what do you want me to do while she’s here?”

  Mama shrugs. “It won’t hurt for you to do a little grovelin’.” She bobs her head. “You can hold her chair, ask if she wants you to get anything for her, and make sure she’s comfortable while she’s here.”

  Daddy walks into the kitchen, gives Mama a kiss, and then turns to me. “Did your mama tell you who’s comin’ to supper?”

  Without giving me a chance to speak, Mama nods. “I certainly did, and that’s not all I told him. I said he has to do everything in his power to make Missy comfortable.”

  He casts a look in my direction as he turns to leave the kitchen. “Don’t go overboard, son, or no one will be comfortable.”

  That’s what I’m thinkin’, but one look at Mama, and I know I’ll have to go way overboard, or she won’t be happy. And there’s a sign over the mudroom on the way to the garage, reminding all of us that If Mama ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy.

  I’m totally beside myself with a combination of joy and trepidation about Bucky’s whole family coming to our house for the next reunion. I realize Bucky is excited to show off all our new stuff, including our theater room with a dozen rocking chairs that also recline, the billiards room that rarely gets used, the state-of-the-art chef’s kitchen that I’ll eventually use as soon as I have time to learn how to cook, and a swimming pool in the backyard that’s near ’bout the size of a football field. But it’s starting to get on my nerves big-time. Sure, I got caught up in the whole charade in the beginning, but the newness has worn off, and I’m not feelin’ so good about what too much money has done to us lately.

  Bucky walks up behind me and gives me a kiss on the back of the neck, startling me. “What are you doing, Bucky?”

  “I’ve been thinkin’.”

  “Don’t start doin’ too much thinkin’. I’m tapped out on all we’re doing for the reunion.”

  He rubs the back of his neck and takes a long look around. “You know how blessed we’ve been with all that money from striking oil. I think we should have everyone spend the weekend here so they can get a feel for what it’s like to be rich.”

  “No.” The word comes out before I have a chance to face him. When I do eventually look at him, he looks like someone slapped him, so I allow the urge to explain to take over. “What I mean is, it’s not good to flaunt our money.”

  He laughs. “Honey, it’s too late
for that. We’ve done flaunted our money all over the place.”

  “You know what I mean, Bucky. Some of the people in your family . . . well, they just don’t get it.”

  He rolls his eyes—something that has always bugged the heck out of me. “That’s their problem. Some folks is just too stupid to—”

  “Don’t say that.” That’s another thing he does that makes me want to smack him upside the head. “Money isn’t as important to some people as it is to you.”

  “I didn’t hear you complainin’ none when I brought you home that Mercedes.”

  True. But if he’d brought me a Buick and straightened out his attitude, I would have been just as happy. “I just don’t think we need to have anyone spend the night—at least anyone who lives in town. I’m sure they’d rather go home after it’s over and sleep in their own beds where they can be more comfortable.”

  He gives me a sideways grin. “I bet not a one of ’em has a top-of-the-line Sleep Number bed.”

  “I think it’s ridiculous that we have so many of them.” This conversation is going nowhere, so I change the subject. “So, what are you doing this afternoon?”

  He shrugs. “I thought I’d go see what’s going on at the feed store. One of the guys said he’s selling off some pigs, and I just might buy a couple of ’em.”

  “What are you going to do with a couple of pigs?”

  “Eat ’em.” He scrunches up his face and gives me a look like he thinks I’m stupid or something. “What else would you do with ’em?”

  I shudder at the image of what I originally thought when he said he might buy pigs. The very thought of pigs oinking around in our perfectly manicured backyard that we spent a boatload of money for slams me with old memories that haunt me relentlessly.

  When I first met Bucky, he told me he’d take me away from my past filled with squalor, parents who used to scream and holler at each other, saying things that would make me wash my son’s mouth out with soap if he ever said them, and wondering if or when the next meal would appear on the table. Mama and Daddy didn’t seem to mind living in a house that needed painting, dealing with a toilet that ran nonstop, and having a stove with only one working burner. Daddy used to leave every morning, saying he was going to work, but to this day, I doubt he had a job. Mama chain-smoked, so everything in our house reeked. There was nothing to be proud of where I grew up.

  My little sister, Shalimar, and brother, Henry, got involved with drugs when they were teenagers. I’m not sure what kept me straight—maybe it was the fact that I’d started sneaking around and seeing Bucky, who was out of high school when I’d barely started. We ran off to Alabama and got married shortly after I turned eighteen because Mississippi required a parent’s consent under twenty-one.

  Both my brother and sister have turned their lives around—but it wasn’t until they spent time in jail for selling illegal substances. I talked to them about how the love of Jesus could make a difference in their lives. Shalimar listened and immediately started attending church, while Henry needed another stint behind bars for the message to get through his thick skull. One of the men from our little country church started visiting Henry, who didn’t have a choice but to listen. The second time he was set free, he straightened up.

  Bucky loves Jesus, but he seems to love being rich even more, and that’s mostly what the family sees. I see much more than that. Deep down, he’s a good man with a big heart who doesn’t know how to handle his instant wealth. And when I’m being honest with myself, I admit that I’m often confused too. I mean, it’s really weird going from wondering where the money will come from to buy a loaf of bread and a jar of peanut butter to having enough money to buy the most expensive hunk of meat in the grocery store and putting it in the trunk of a car that cost more than my parents’ house.

  The person who struggles the most with being rich is our son, Julius. That boy pretty much stays in trouble, and he catches all kinds of heck from Bucky and me—behind closed doors. In front of people, it’s a different story. In my book, family sticks up for one another. Granted, Bucky’s cousins are all family, but I’m talking about immediate family—folks who all live in the same house.

  The Bucklins seem to think we let our boy get away with all kinds of stuff, and sometimes we do. But we’ve tanned his hide and threatened him with everything under the sun, and he still tests us. Half the time I’m too exhausted to deal with him, but when I’m rested, hoo-boy, you’d better watch out. He doesn’t know what happened.

  Now he’s giving us grief about going to the next reunion, which is sort of funny, since it’s going to be at our house. And that wasn’t my idea. Bucky’s grandparents, Grandpa Jay and Granny Marge, thought it would be a good way to make up for what our son did. I’m not sure they’re right, but at least if he does something bad, it’ll be at our house, and we won’t have to worry about the cops showing up like they did when he and Brett blew up the barn.

  And that’s another subject. I flew off the handle when that happened, and I caught myself blaming Brett. You’d’ve thought I said that boy was a serial killer if you’d seen Puddin’s reaction. When I even hinted that her boy might have been to blame for the explosion, she came after me, eyes blazing, nostrils flaring, fists tight enough to knock down a wall made of steel. It took her husband and one of her cousins to hold her back. And I can’t say I blame her a single solitary bit.

  “Marybeth!” Bucky’s voice echoes throughout the house. “Where are you?”

  “Same place I was last time you saw me,” I holler back.

  He appears in the doorway, grinning. “I just talked to Grandpa Jay. He says this is the reunion in the rotation that lasts a whole week.”

  “Whoever came up with that?” I shake my head. “That’s downright ridiculous.”

  “No, it’s a good bonding experience.” He gives me a serious look. “It’ll bring the family closer.”

  I’m not so sure he believes what he’s saying. It seems like he’s more interested in showing off than bonding.

  “I’m thinkin’ it might backfire if we have people here for a week.” I shake my head and fold my arms. “One overnight . . . maybe two. But not a whole week.”

  Bucky comes toward me with open arms. As soon as he touches me, that old familiar electricity sends my senses into orbit. He knows how to get his way.

  Finding orange hair ribbon when it’s the hottest color of the season is making me crazy. I’m not telling Sara this, but I should have listened to her when she said we should have bought several cases of it a couple of months ago.

  I skim the list of vendors and find one I haven’t yet called. After punching their number into my cell phone, I see an email pop up on my laptop, letting me know that I’m in luck. Our main vendor has just located a case of orange ribbon in the back of his warehouse, and it’s ours if we still want it. I don’t hesitate to claim it, but then I still place my call because one case isn’t enough.

  “Um . . . yeah, we have a bunch of it—something like six cases,” the guy says. “But the Halloween shipping season is over. Why would you want orange?” Before I have a chance to say a word, he speaks. “Tell you what. Since it’s clearly not the season for orange, I’ll let you have it for half price if you’ll take all of it. It’s not even worth putting in my catalog.”

  I mentally high-five myself. “It’s a deal.” Then his comment about Halloween pops into my head. “It is plain orange, isn’t it? I mean, there aren’t any pumpkins on it, are there?”

  “One case has Halloween designs, but the rest of it’s solid orange.” He clears his throat. “But you have to take all of it for the half-price deal. It’s a final sale too.”

  My heart sinks. We’ve already decided to only do business with companies that stand behind their merchandise. I’m not about to make the decision to back off from that without Sara’s consent. “Sorry, but I’m afraid that’s a deal breaker.”

  He mumbles something I can’t understand before he finally bl
urts, “Oh, okay. If you don’t like it, you can send it back, but you’ll have to pay shipping.”

  “Oh, absolutely.” I give him my information before hanging up. I have no idea why that company has so much orange ribbon with it being as popular as it is, but I figure it’s the break I’ve needed lately. It might not be a big thing to most people, but I’ll take whatever I can get.

  I figure that since we’re down to a two-day backlog on making the bows, and it’s a much faster process when Sara and I are both doing it together, I can work on our spreadsheet. Even after a couple of years of our business steadily increasing in volume, I still smile when I see the balance sheet. I doubt anyone else would believe how well we’re doing.

  After a half hour of being deeply immersed in numbers, I decide to leave the work for a few minutes and go get a snack. Sara and Justin are sitting at the kitchen table, hunched over it, looking at a pamphlet.

  “I didn’t hear y’all come in,” I say. “I thought y’all were going to New Orleans.”

  “We are, but Justin has to go to the shop for a little while this afternoon.”

  Justin lifts his head. “One of my clients refuses to let anyone else touch his car, and I promised someone at the shop I’d help with his hot rod first.”

  I try to see what they were so engrossed in, but Sara quickly covers it with a folder. When Justin glances away, I make a face, and she mimics me. I grin as I try to see the pamphlet. “What are y’all looking at?”

  Sara shakes her head, but Justin nudges her. “You need to tell her.”

  “Not now.”

  He lifts an eyebrow. “If you don’t, I will.”

  Sara rolls her eyes and lets out what Mama calls the millennial grunt, which is really a sigh of exasperation on steroids. “Oh, okay, I’ll tell her.”

  I open the fridge and pull out a bottle of water and reach for the bagged salad. “Tell me what?”