Kind of Kin by Rilla Askew

trying to take care of her baby sister while her daddy was off on one of his tears . . . oh, he would try, she would know he was trying, he’d hold off a while, months even, and Sweet would start to hope—until Daddy would come stalking into the kitchen some evening and tilt up the unplugged percolator with the spout in his mouth and pour the cold coffee down his throat, or he’d grab the Tabasco bottle off the table, shake the burning red sauce straight onto his tongue, and then she would know that the thirst was back on him. She would know, even as a little girl of seven and eight and ten, that her daddy was getting ready to drink again. And he would. The next night, or the next, he’d start trashing the front room again, or he’d be . . . hush! Quit. Don’t think of it. That was a long time ago.
    Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking. I need to eat something, Sweet told herself. I need to check on the boys. It was three fifteen already. They would be home from school. She stopped to get gas at a QuikTrip in Muskogee, bought a Diet Dr Pepper and a Slim Jim at the counter before heading to the pay phone in the back. She ripped the plastic wrapper off the jerky with her teeth as she walked, ate quickly while she plugged in the quarters. She prayed that she might at least get home before her husband did so he wouldn’t know she’d gone off and left Mr. Bledsoe alone. The phone rang eight times before her own voice answered telling her she’d reached the Kirkendalls, who couldn’t come to the phone right now, but please. Leave. A message. God, she sounded like she was talking to a two-year-old. She had to change that greeting.
    â€œCarl? Hi, honey.” She paused. Maybe he was in the bathroom. “Dustin? It’s Aunt Sweet. One of y’all pick up the phone.” She plucked back the pull tab on the pop can, took a long swig. “I, um, I had to run some errands, but I’ll be there pretty quick. Fix yourselves a sandwich, okay? There’s some Oreos in the jar, you can have two apiece, no more.” She waited. Maybe they were outside playing? “Go back and check on Mr. Bledsoe when you get in, see if he needs a drink or anything. And, Carl, if Daddy calls, tell him I’ll call him later. I forgot my phone. All right. Y’all be good. Hear me? Don’t forget to check on Mr. Bledsoe. I’ll be there afterwhile.” Reluctantly she hung up. She had a bad feeling.
    The feeling unfurled from that tight bud of worry into dark full-blooming dread as she drove south. By the time she turned off the highway in Cedar, she wasn’t a bit surprised to see an ambulance pulling out of her driveway, red lights rotating, and the preacher standing in her carport looking dazed and excited, with the boys skulking next to him, both of them scuffed-up looking and scared. But the bad feeling had started an hour ago: Why was the ambulance just now leaving? And why wasn’t it using its siren? And why was it going so slow?

Tuesday |
February 19, 2008 | 5:30 P.M.
    Cattlemen’s Steakhouse | Oklahoma City
    â€œW ell, now,
looka here, little lady,” Monica Moorehouse drawled in bitter imitation. “Looks
to me like you’re sittin’ in some mighty high cotton in this here picture, ma’am. ”
    â€œShittin’,” Charlie said.
    â€œI beg your pardon?”
    â€œI believe the term of art is ‘shitting in high
cotton.’ ” Her husband gouged a slug out of his porterhouse.
    â€œGood God, that’s worse!”
    â€œOh, I’m sure he said sittin’, babe.” Charlie poured out more A-1. “Dennis Langley wouldn’t use
profanity in the presence of a lady. I’ll guarantee ya. Ma’am. ”
    â€œOh shut up.” She took a bite of her naked baked
potato, no butter, no sour cream, no tastier than warm cardboard, really. At
least the steak was good. When Charlie suggested they drive