Chapter 30

All night, I expected to wake up and realize what I had been through the last couple of days was a dream. Kind of like Dallas with the who shot J.R. deal. I didn’t watch that show, of course, as I was too cool, just heard about it from my not-so-cool friends who did watch.

This was one of many things in my life that I wished could be dreamed away, but life doesn’t work that way. I was really too tired to sleep. That made no sense to me, but that’s the way I felt.

I would sleep for a while, wake up, realize he was actually dead, worry for a while then drift back to sleep.

My mother was taking this a lot better than I was. She was the one who should be all upset, but it was like Mom was prepared for it. Losing her husband hurt, of course. Mom took care of what needed to be done and drove me home. I was a wreck, crying and moaning.

After her first reaction last night, Mom had settled down. She was sad, but not hysterical. Either that or somebody slipped her some good stuff at the hospital. We came home and she cleaned up before going to bed.

I heard her cry in her bedroom while waiting for sleep to visit. Her tears joined mine. I hated to cry and wanted to stop, but couldn’t.

Even in death, the old man was messing with me. His death should not affect me this way. But all I could think about were things we didn’t do together and how we would never overcome our problems in the past.

I always thought Dad would change and some day he’d become the father I always wanted. That day wasn’t coming.

Manny had disappeared again last night. I hoped Dad dying wouldn’t send him on a trip back to Drugville. He had overstayed his welcome in that locale. I had lost my father and didn’t want to lose my only brother.

I slept in my old bed again. The Kansas City Southern trains were blowing their horns and switching all night, making noises that sounded like semis crashing outside my window. When I was young, that noise never bothered me. I must have unconciously built up a tolerance to the noise. Now it was irritating and one of the factors contributing to my sleep deprivation.

The doorbell rang early Sunday morning. I staggered downstairs, wearing only an old pair of boxers. I looked at the clock and saw that it was just after eight, way too early for anybody to visit. Mom was awake, cooking breakfast in the kitchen.

She could get by without much sleep. I don't function well without at least six hours and had not even slept half that much.

I should have let Mom get the door, but I wasn’t thinking. I swung the door open while rubbing my eyes. It was two of Mom’s buddies, wearing their Sunday best outfits. It looked like they had spent a good hour puffing up their hair to cover up the thin spots.

One of them about dropped her dish. The other one acted like seeing some younger man wearing his boxers wasn’t that big of a deal. I tried to rub away the eye boogers, but failed.

The stunned lady seemed fascinated by my drawers. I went and sat down on the couch. They followed me in, dropped off some food and talked for a few minutes. These were not two of my mother’s favorites, so they were allotted only a little time.

The heavy hitters would come later and stay as long as they wanted. As the two ladies left, the one seemed a little disappointed that I had covered up with a blanket. It was a little cool in the house, not because I was ashamed with my lack of clothing.

“Goodbye, Michael,” said the woman who had shown too much interest in my undies. “It was good to see you!”

I’m sure it was, you old bitty, I thought but didn’t say. Instead, I nodded and was grateful they were leaving. The two women waited until they got outside to giggle and talk about how Mom looked. I knew this was the beginning of an endless supply of old bags and I needed to get dressed. Mom would not appreciate it if I distracted all her buddies by prancing around in my Fruit of the Looms.

I went and put on a pair of jeans and the same shirt from yesterday. Mom would not approve of this, of course. There is something about wearing the same set of clothes two days in a row that does not meet most women’s seal of approval.

As I walked by the door, somebody knocked loudly, choosing not to use the doorbell. I opened the door, again without thinking, and wished I had never woke up. Standing on the porch were Squiggy and Mule.

“Aw crap,” I said.

“No thanks,” Squiggy said and walked in without an invite. “I already did.”

He was almost hard to recognize. His hair was actually combed and slicked back. It made his hair look almost Pee Wee Hermanish. Squiggy’s outfit looked like something he picked up at the Salvation Army. He wore a blue dress shirt that was a little too tight, a green clip-on tie that failed to reach half way down his gut, along with a pair of black slacks that were so long they dragged the ground.

Mule was dragging a little bit and was either half drunk or sporting a hangover worse than any I had ever experienced. All the hairs on his head seemed to be standing on end and pointing in different directions. His eyes were half closed and he seemed to be teetering on the edge of a collapse.

His tee shirt was on inside out and backwards, revealing the tag just below his chin. He was wearing a pair of jeans with rips on the knees. Mule wore a pair of sandals that were way too small. I never noticed before, but his feet were huge. He could use those feet and never have to worry about skis. The toes were actually hanging over the edge of the sandals by a good inch. I’d never seen such long toes and didn't want to experience them again.

They were too hairy and the nails looked like horse hooves that had not been trimmed in months.

“Uh, what are you guys doing?” I said. This would not make Mom’s day.

“We’s comin to pays our last respects,” Squiggy said. He walked in and looked around the house. “Where’s he at?”

“Who?”

“Your dad. We was gonna sign the book thingey and…”

“Squiggy’s got this thing for seein dead people,” Mule interrupted.

“I, uh, that ain’t right, Mule.”

The morning paper was on a table right next to the door. Squiggy saw it, picked it up and popped Mule over the head with it a couple of times.

“You best quit!” Mule fired back. He was awake now and didn’t like getting hit with the Sunday edition. “Or I’ll open a can a whoop-ass on your gourd.”

Squiggy looked a little disappointed.

“He ain’t here?” he said.

“No, I guess he’s at the funeral home,” I answered.

“That sucks,” Squiggy sniffed the air and started walking toward the kitchen. “I smells bacon.”

Mom had heard us talking and stuck her head out of the kitchen. She saw who the company was and the smile disappeared.

Squiggy stopped when he saw her and waved.

“Hey Momma Hunt!” he yelled. “Hows bout some bacon and grits?”

“Uh, I don’t cook grits,” Mom said, looking like she wanted a hole to hide in. “I’d rather you not call me that. Mrs. Hunt will do fine.”

“Got any eggs and bacon?”

“I didn’t cook enough. There’s some biscuits and brown gravy, I guess.”

Mom had to be hoping none of her friends would visit while Squiggy and Mule were darkening her door.

“We ain’t eatin here!” Mule protested. “Where’s your dang manners?”

“I ain’t got none when it comes to biscuits and gravy.”

Mule turned to me.

“I’m awful sorry bout your dad croakin and all,” he said. “I never did know the old dude but I’s kinda sad. It just sucks when people die, don’t it?”

I could only nod and hope this was a dream.

“You sure you don’t want no biscuits?” Squiggy asked.

“Naw, I’d probly yak it right back up, ” Mule answered.

That was something Mom would really enjoy seeing. Nothing like a good puddle of vomit first thing in the morning to get your day off on the right foot.

“What are you guys doing up so early?” I said. They should be in bed until tonight.

“We’s goin to church,” Squiggy said. There was a mirror on the wall. He stopped and checked himself out. Squiggy started nodding his head, apparently pleased with his look.

“I didn’t realize you guys went to church.”

“Ever time the doors is open,” Mule said.

“Which one do you go to?” I asked, making a mental note to never join that denomination.

“It depends,” Mule answered. “We find out which church is eatin after the service and that’s where we goes.”

That made sense.

“How do you find that out?” I know, I shouldn’t ask. But in some perverse way, this was a little fascinating.

“We’s go in and ask,” Squiggy added. “That’s why we’re out so early. Sometimes, it takes a while to figger out which church is a eatin.”

“Yeah, we also read the dead people notice in the paper,” Mule added. “We’ve figgered out if somebody’s died, the church’ll usually wanna feed the family.”

“Where are you going today?”

“Probly that Assembly of God one,” Mule said. “They usually eat on the first Sunday of the month.”

These guys had this down to a science.

“I ain’t likin that church,” Squiggy stated. “They’s always gittin Mule and me down front and a prayin for us. Like we needs it! All these old geezers are a putting their hands on us and a mumbling. The pastor’s always tryin to annoy my head.”

“Trying to what?” I said.

“He’s always a dippin some stuff outtta a bottle and wants to rub it on me head. I told em to quit last month.’

I figured out that he was trying to say the pastor was trying to anoint him. That was beyond Squiggy’s level of understanding.

“Yeah, plus they’s start yellin somethin I cain’t understand all the time,” Squiggy added. “First time they did it, they scared Mule so bad he wet hisself.”

“Ya ain’t gotta tell that,” Mule fired back. He could use some extra strength mouthwash this morning.

“I like the Baptists best,” Squiggy said. “Them women can sure cook.”

“They got the hot chicks, too,” Mule added.

“The Methodists ain’t bad, not any screamin or anything. Mule usually falls asleep as soon as his head hits the pew.”

Mule smiled. I’m sure everybody at the service enjoyed hearing him snore.

“The preacher always talks the same way. I cain’t hardly hear him. Last month, I hollered out and told em to speak up.”

“They didn’t like that much,” Mule said.

“Nobody has a service like them dang Pentecostals. They’s always a dancin and runnin around screamin and talking that jibberish like they do at the Assembly a God. I keep expectin 'em to bring out the snakes.”

“What?” I said.

“Never mind, you’d have to be there.”

Mom kept poking her head out the door, hoping it was safe to emerge with the food. She had probably cooked enough to feed an army, but I doubted Mom would be up for eating breakfast with Squiggy and Mule. I know I wasn’t.

"Where's what's her name?" I said.

"Who?" Mule asked.

"Big Uns?" Squiggy said. I nodded. He looked at Mule with a confused look on his face. Apparently he could not remember where she was misplaced.

"I think she's still a sleepin," Mule offered.

"In the back of the truck?"

"I figger."

"Why's she sleeping in the back of the truck?" I asked.

"She got to shootin shots of tequilar last night and couldn't take it," Squiggy replied.

"Yep, and Squiggy got mad at her for kickin him in the family diamonds and wouldn't wake her up."

"The family diamonds?"

"He meant the jewels," Squiggy translated. "Big Uns kicked me square in the right sack last night. It would've hurt worse but that was the nut I lost."

"Them skeeters were on her like white on rice," Mule added. Squiggy chuckled.

"Aren't you worried about her?" I said.

"Naw, Psycho can take care of herself."

"I meant the woman."

"Pyscho's a sleepin with her," Squiggy added.

"They was a spoonin last I seen 'em," Mule said.

I wasn't going to ask any more questions.

"She caught him tryin to sneak outta the bar with Helen the Ho," Mule continued. Apparently this was the explanation for her kicking him.

Squiggy apparently thought that was funny as he giggled. I never thought a blow to the privates was all that funny. I had no interest in finding out who Helen the Ho was either.

"I bout gotaway," he recalled.

Mom stuck her head out the door again. She finally must have realized they weren’t leaving until they either saw a dead body or got nourishment. Mom came walking out of the kitchen, carrying two paper plates covered with biscuits and gravy.

I heard Squiggy’s stomach growl. Mule started licking his chops. Apparently he felt like his stomach could handle food now.

Mom tried to look pleasant as she approached them, but was failing badly.

“Here you go!” she offered, and even tried to smile. Mom looked outside, hoping nobody had stopped.

"They both for me?" Squiggy asked.

"I don't think so," Mule countered, and rushed past Squiggy.

"You didn't want none."

"I do now!"

Squiggy and Mule took their plate and headed to the dining room table.

“Where are you going?” she asked, looking at them with a look of horror on her face.

Squiggy had already shoved one biscuit in his mouth. A large portion of gravy was smeared over his face.

Mule laughed.

“What’s so dern funny?” Squiggy demanded.

“Ya got gravy all over your face!” he said.

Squiggy grabbed the bottom of his clip on and used it to wipe his face. Now he had gravy on his tie, along with his face.

They started walking toward the table again.

“I asked you where you’re going?” Mom asked, much louder.

They stopped and turned around. Squiggy tried to talk, but he had injected another biscuit in his mouth and it had stopped all verbal communications. All you could hear was him smacking.

“We’s goin to the table,” Mule said.

Mom shook her head and pointed at the door. Squiggy and Mule looked at her, spent several seconds trying to figure out what she meant, then started walking toward the door.

“We gotta eat outside?” Mule asked.

The thought of this horrified my mother. Somebody might drive by!

“Go in the kitchen!” she demanded.

That seemed to make the boys happy. Heck, there might even be some eggs frying.

“You got any juice?” Squiggy asked. He had apparently swallowed the huge mass of food and was able to talk again. “I ain’t drunk none in a while and I’m a little scared that I might be gittin the scurvy.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Good, hows bout some coffee, too?”

They headed off to the kitchen. I started walking back toward the couch when the doorbell rang. This was great, I thought, my mother’s worst fear. She would be caught by her friends serving breakfast to Squiggy and Mule. Maybe she could explain it to her Baptist buddies that the stress got to her and weakened her resolve.

I walked over and opened the door again. I was getting very good at this, I decided, right before I saw who was at the doorway.

“Ugh,” I said, the same thing I thought. These certainly weren’t the Baptists I expected darkening our doorway.

Chapter 31