squinting.
“ Yeah,” she said, lifting the neck of her shirt and covering her nose and mouth. “God. How can you stand it?”
The air reeked of cooked meat. When she was a kid growing up in Mississippi, her grandfather roasted whole hogs on the spit after church on Sundays. Folks would come from all around town, and the smell in the air brought her back. She need only close her eyes, and it was like she was there. But the smell on the air was the smell of what was left of the Willits family, and that was wrong.
“ Eh,” Crate said, sounding a little confused. “It’s really not all that bad a smell, I’m sorry to say.” He looked at her. “Don’t you think?”
“ I’m gonna lock up now, okay?”
“ I still remember how to let myself in, woman,” the old man said, scratching his beard. “That piece of shit staying?”
“ I think so,” she said. Crate was right. Charlie was a piece of shit, but he was a well-meaning piece of shit. And he was better company than her husband had been in years. “He isn’t admitting it, but I think he’s scared.”
“ No shit,” Crate said, tapping his long fingernails on the stock of his rifle. “We’re all scared, honey. But being scared ain’t no reason to be a fucking coward, and that’s all he ever was.”
“ I’ll be in the back, Crate.”
“ I’ll try to remember to knock,” he said, looking up at her with that look in his eyes, the one that said he was about to say something hurtful. “Don’t really want to walk in on you sucking his little yellow dick.”
“ That’s nice,” she said, deciding that defending herself wasn’t worth a whole hell of a lot. She messed around with Charlie sometimes, when both of them couldn’t really take messing around by themselves any longer; she couldn’t remember the last time Crate was interested in sex. None of them were very happy about the whole thing, but beggars could not be choosers, and sometimes you just needed to sleep beside someone other than yourself. “Try not to fall asleep out here, okay?”
“ Yeah.”
“ I’m serious,” she said. He slept out here all the time, sometimes so deeply that, upon discovering him, several of her customers had come into her store to inform her that the old dude on the porch had died. “It’s dangerous.”
“ Really now,” he said, and the look in his eyes was the look she used to see just before he would hit her. She saw the look at least five times a week now, but Creighton Mumsford hadn’t raised a hand in anger to her in nearly two decades, long before they’d stopped fucking. “How damned stupid do you think I am? Get your ass inside before I shoot you and burn you for one of those things. No one would know, Misty.”
“ Maybe you should just lie down and take a nap,” she said. With her shirt over her nose, she could still smell the burnt-hog aroma of Mark Willits and family, only mingled with the scent of her own body. Sweat and armpits and the burgeoning stench of old age. “You want me to get you a pillow?”
“ Run along,” he said, pursing his thin lips and miming fellatio with his knotty right hand. He belched into his mouth, his sunken cheeks puffing. He blew it out and made a face. “Whoo,” he said, waving at the air in front of his face. “That’s rotten.”
She closed the door and locked it, wondering how long it would be before things got worse. On the television, things were getting worse everywhere, and she’d lived long enough to know that things never really got better. The bad shit merely took time off, every so often, giving you a chance to feel like things were looking up. But they weren’t. They never were. And now, well—there would probably be no more time off for the bad shit.
She turned the sign around, letting the world know that Misty’s Food and Gas was CLOSED, by God. Not that the sign would do any good. Locals knew to come around back and bother her, and, given the current state of things, newcomers
“ Yeah,” she said, lifting the neck of her shirt and covering her nose and mouth. “God. How can you stand it?”
The air reeked of cooked meat. When she was a kid growing up in Mississippi, her grandfather roasted whole hogs on the spit after church on Sundays. Folks would come from all around town, and the smell in the air brought her back. She need only close her eyes, and it was like she was there. But the smell on the air was the smell of what was left of the Willits family, and that was wrong.
“ Eh,” Crate said, sounding a little confused. “It’s really not all that bad a smell, I’m sorry to say.” He looked at her. “Don’t you think?”
“ I’m gonna lock up now, okay?”
“ I still remember how to let myself in, woman,” the old man said, scratching his beard. “That piece of shit staying?”
“ I think so,” she said. Crate was right. Charlie was a piece of shit, but he was a well-meaning piece of shit. And he was better company than her husband had been in years. “He isn’t admitting it, but I think he’s scared.”
“ No shit,” Crate said, tapping his long fingernails on the stock of his rifle. “We’re all scared, honey. But being scared ain’t no reason to be a fucking coward, and that’s all he ever was.”
“ I’ll be in the back, Crate.”
“ I’ll try to remember to knock,” he said, looking up at her with that look in his eyes, the one that said he was about to say something hurtful. “Don’t really want to walk in on you sucking his little yellow dick.”
“ That’s nice,” she said, deciding that defending herself wasn’t worth a whole hell of a lot. She messed around with Charlie sometimes, when both of them couldn’t really take messing around by themselves any longer; she couldn’t remember the last time Crate was interested in sex. None of them were very happy about the whole thing, but beggars could not be choosers, and sometimes you just needed to sleep beside someone other than yourself. “Try not to fall asleep out here, okay?”
“ Yeah.”
“ I’m serious,” she said. He slept out here all the time, sometimes so deeply that, upon discovering him, several of her customers had come into her store to inform her that the old dude on the porch had died. “It’s dangerous.”
“ Really now,” he said, and the look in his eyes was the look she used to see just before he would hit her. She saw the look at least five times a week now, but Creighton Mumsford hadn’t raised a hand in anger to her in nearly two decades, long before they’d stopped fucking. “How damned stupid do you think I am? Get your ass inside before I shoot you and burn you for one of those things. No one would know, Misty.”
“ Maybe you should just lie down and take a nap,” she said. With her shirt over her nose, she could still smell the burnt-hog aroma of Mark Willits and family, only mingled with the scent of her own body. Sweat and armpits and the burgeoning stench of old age. “You want me to get you a pillow?”
“ Run along,” he said, pursing his thin lips and miming fellatio with his knotty right hand. He belched into his mouth, his sunken cheeks puffing. He blew it out and made a face. “Whoo,” he said, waving at the air in front of his face. “That’s rotten.”
She closed the door and locked it, wondering how long it would be before things got worse. On the television, things were getting worse everywhere, and she’d lived long enough to know that things never really got better. The bad shit merely took time off, every so often, giving you a chance to feel like things were looking up. But they weren’t. They never were. And now, well—there would probably be no more time off for the bad shit.
She turned the sign around, letting the world know that Misty’s Food and Gas was CLOSED, by God. Not that the sign would do any good. Locals knew to come around back and bother her, and, given the current state of things, newcomers
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