Page 8 of Cookout Carnage
“Not really a hat guy.”
“But a costume like that needs a hat.”
“Not a costume. It’s a suit.”
“A suit like that needs a hat.” She cocks her head sideways and evaluates.
“Why don’t you go pick out a flower for my lapel?” Dinah goes up on her toes, excited. I head back to the house to see if I can find a different shirt. This shiny ebony one is joining the hat in the garbage.
The plan is to tell Tanya, then my family, and then burn the suit. A shriek cracks the air, and I fly out the back, the screen door slamming in my wake.
“What? Are you ok?”
Dinah nods but points to my back porch. “I tried to stop her. But you know there’s no talking to Squeakers when she’s got an idea.”
She’s right. There’s a lot of old wood and rotted nails under there. I need to put on a new back porch, but time keeps slipping into the sun.
“Can you run inside and get her wubby and an apple?” She nods and takes off running. There’s an old and tattered bear for when Squeakers sleeps in the house. Dinah’s back in a flash but only holding an orange. Which is nothing I asked for. I crouch down to look under the porch, and Squeakers is nestled in the back corner. My phone pops off.
“Do you want me to read those to you?”
“I’m good. Thanks for the offer.”
“I’m always here to help, and reading people’s texts gives me the best gossip.”
“I know that’s your favorite currency. Does your mom know you’re here?” She shakes her head. “I’ll tell her you’re on your way back home.”
She smiles and runs to the golf cart while yelling, “You can tell her, but that don’t make it true! Bye, Mr. Jonathan.” I turn my attention back to my phone and my pig. I’ll let her mother sort her out.
TANYA: Why aren’t you here?
TANYA: You promised to be here by now. Is this how you keep your promises? Hope it doesn’t mean you’re gonna be like this as a husband.
Reason 2652 to call this shit off.
“Squeakers, get out here. Come on.”
I turn back to my stubborn porcine life companion, and my skin flashes with a bit of warning. Squeakers is eating. She’s eating something, and I can’t see what it is.
“Stop. Hey, Squeakers! Don’t eat that.” It could be rotted wood or a dead animal. I don’t know, but I don’t think as I flatten my body to the ground and army crawl under the porch towards her.
I grunt and hiss at my damn pig. I snag something on my back, but don’t pay any mind to it. I’m singularly focused on getting to my pig. And then I see it, the last round rind of a waffle. I snag the piece from the ground and begin to crawl out backward. The pig follows the scent of cinnamon and caramel—it’s a CK waffle. Dinah’s great-aunt and grandmother developed this trade secret recipe, and there are only two women in the world who know how to make it. One of them is minding the diner, and the other should be nowhere near here.
I fix the lock on her palace of a barn. I’m not sure how the hell she picked this one. I run my fingers through my hair, picking out cobwebs. My pants are muddy as hell, and the back of my jacket and shiny shirt are thankfully torn through from a ragged nail.
I’ve got grease on my hands from fixing the gate, and I’m late for the cocktail party. I lumber towards the house and quickly wash up, changing into my church suit. It feels better. The impending sense of doom creeps back when I jump in my truck. It won’t be easy, but it will be right.
* * *
I’mforty minutes late to her parents’ house. Their house is set a little off the downtown, and they have lots of horses her father doesn’t take care of or even know what to do with.
I put my hand on my stomach as if I could literally gut-check myself. I’ve faced some scary shit in my life, but cutting Tanya loose might be the scariest. But if I’m down this rabbit hole of a new farm, new life, I don’t want to be around her. I’m tired of her telling me what I should wear or smell like. Or that she hates my pig. She’s never been kind, and I got into an endless loop of overlooking it because I didn’t have time to want something else. I don’t love her. Wow, that switch flipped fast.
The entire house smells of manufactured lavender and clover, which is offensive since I have both of those things in my greenhouse and would have provided them happily. She’s not using my flowers. She wanted all fucking fake silk sprayed with a smell and little drops of what appears to be a resin to make it look like dew or some shit. They were dyed to match her “dream scheme,” as she calls her dark purple color.
The smell is choking me a little, but I push on. Again, military, football, raised on a farm, I can handle a little bad candle smell—and this woman.
She sees me, and her face falls. She quickly moves toward me like an unhappy predator.
