Page 89 of Cookout Carnage
TABI: Have you met Sherilyn’s wiener yet? Or has she met yours?
TRISTAN: No, Tabitha, I have yet to become acquainted with Sherilyn’s dog.
SABRINA: Ignore her, Tris. Meeting the parents tomorrow?
TRISTAN: Yeah. Sherilyn says they’re conservative, so I’ve got to be on my best behaviour. I’ll wear my smartest waistcoat.
SABRINA: It’s called a vest.
TRISTAN: Don’t you start…
* * *
Ford Bodean satat the head of the table, Lynne at the other end. Axle and Sherilyn sat one side and, filling the space opposite them, was Fender.
Six foot eight by the age of sixteen and overly fond of his mama’s home cooking, Fender Dodge Bodean had always been huge. With undiagnosed learning difficulties, his frustrations at school and himself were perceived as acting up. Labelled a dunce and a troublemaker by teachers who should have known better, Fender unconsciously grew into the role. His parents, still finding their feet with their first child, struggled to know what to do. Ford Bodean fell into the role of bad cop, but that only lasted as long as he was bigger than his son. Lynne Bodean fretted and fed the precious and gentle boy she knew and loved until he was buried under three hundred and fifty pounds of fried food.
Dropping out of school and finding acceptance with the wrong crowd, it seemed inevitable to everyone that Fender was only heading in one direction. Ironically, the lessons learnt from his father in the auto shop were what made him so good at stealing cars. But he was easily duped by people who could run faster than him when the cops inevitably showed up. So, Fender went to jail, and while Lynne Bodean sobbed, most of Rockcastle County breathed a sigh of relief.
But now he was back and shovelling burgoo into his mouth like his life depended on it.
Sherilyn stared at him, trying to imagine what Tristan would make of her oldest brother. Fender’s head was shaved and he had a tattoo across his left cheek and jaw, depicting the bones, sinew and teeth hiding under his skin. It was terrifyingly realistic. Underneath his right eye were seven tears, one for every year he’d been inside.
‘Thank you, Mama,’ he said, his voice a low rumble.
Lynne was already welling up. ‘My pleasure, honey,’ she replied, her voice cracking. ‘It’s so good to have you home.’
‘Lynnie,’ said Ford, a warning tone in his voice.
Sherilyn quietly placed her cutlery on the table, preparing for their fight and her flight. Her mother dropped her fork with a clatter and held onto Fender’s tattooed forearm as if she could restrain him. A tear ran down her cheek.
‘Why can’t I be happy now my baby’s back?’ she scolded her husband.
Fender put his giant hand over hers.
‘I don’t want you to cry no more on account of me, Mama,’ he said softly. ‘Things are gonna be different. I promise.’
‘Have you thought about what you might want to do?’ his mother asked.
‘Come back to work for me, of course,’ replied Ford. ‘What else in hell can the boy do?’
Out of the corner of her eye, Sherilyn saw a muscle in Axle’s jaw clench, his hands balled into fists on his lap.
Fender shook his head. ‘I’ll help out till I get back on my feet, but I have another plan.’
‘Like theOcean’s Elevenstupid idea that got you banged up in the first place?’ asked Ford, his cheeks colouring.
‘Pa,’ Sherilyn interjected. ‘That’s not fair.’
‘Pipe down, shortstuff. You still owe me an explanation as to where you been all afternoon. You made your mama sick with worry.’ He took his napkin off his lap and threw it on the table, directing his frustrations at his daughter. ‘You’re meant to be the one we can count on—’
‘Hey!’ interrupted Axle.
‘The one we don’t need to worry about,’ continued her father.
‘What the hell have I ever done wrong, Pa?’ said Axle, turning his chair to stare down his father.
Lynne stood and banged on the table. ‘Enough! All of you.’ She eyeballed her husband. ‘All of our children are perfect the way they are. Sherri-Lynne was just getting a present for her brother.’
