John Locke - Box

“Are you really that stupid?” Darrell says.

“What do you mean?”

“That’s a doll, not a baby. And there is no fuckin’ Maisie.”

“Right. I know that. I’m just sayin’, me and Renfro can keep pretendin’ to be husband and wife, with a baby. If it helps. So what do you want me to do?”

“Let me think on it a minute and call you back.”

Cletus Renfro.

If you’re out in the middle of nowhere, thirty miles north, east, or west of Clayton, Kentucky, and happen upon an old, beat-up motor home, and the fumes coming out of it suggest someone inside might be conducting illegal, non-agrarian chemical experiments, you’ve likely stumbled on Darrell Lake’s mobile crystal meth lab. And if you’re dumb enough to get close enough to holler the name Cletus Renfro, it won’t be one person shooting at you, it’ll be two.

Because Larry and Tulie Renfro named both their twins Cletus.

Not that they looked the slightest bit alike, one being a girl and all.

The problem was the parents were told by the ultrasound lady at the hospital that Tulie was going to have a boy. Larry and Tulie fought like cats and dogs over the name. Larry was fond of Clem, Tulie wanted Brutus.

Their arguments went far beyond the type you’d find in civil homes. By the time Larry and Tulie compromised by taking three letters from each name, to arrive at Cletus, only three teeth remained attached to Tulie’s gums, and Larry had lost all feeling on his left side.

It was Larry by day with his fists, Tulie by night with her frying pan, and they surely would’ve killed each other had it not been for Social Services who threatened for the first time in Wilford County history to take someone’s children before they were even born!

Even so, theirs was an uneasy truce. So incendiary was this issue of names, when Tulie popped out the second child, Larry said, “Fuck it. Name that one Cletus, too.”

“But it’s a girl,” the doctor said.

“I don’t give a shit,” Tulie said. “They’ll both be Cletus, and they can work it out on their own.”

Growing up, it didn’t matter to the twins what they were called. But their first grade teacher insisted the girl have her own identity, so the female Cletus said, “Call me Renfro.”

And that was that.

Renfro Renfro?

Why not?

But the kids at school called her Cletus anyway, and that’s what stuck. Except that Cletus continues to call his sister Renfro, which pleases her. Of course, when she’s pissed at him, she pushes his buttons by calling him Renfro, which makes for classic, and interesting, arguments.

Cletus and Renfro toss the fake baby in the trunk and climb in the car to avail themselves of the air conditioning.

Only to find it’s broken again.

He starts the car up.

“What’re you doin’?” she asks.

“Darrell said Dr. Box is courtin’ a woman, Faith Hemphill. Figured we’d drive to her house and stake it out.”

“And you’re goin’ there now?”

“I thought I would. If we roll down the windows we’ll get some air circulatin’.”

“And you’re just gonna head on over there right now.”

“That’s right. You got a problem with that?”

“Can you see out the front window at all?”

He looks.

He can’t.

The hood’s still up.

She laughs.

“Shut up, Renfro!” he says.

“You shut up, Renfro!” she snaps back.

Dr. Gideon Box.

I’m at Faith Hemphill’s, counting the misrepresentations.

First, she lives in a ranch house, not on a ranch. There’s a lot of acreage surrounding her house, fields, scrub pine…but none of it belongs to her.

Including the ranch house.

She rents.

So the first misrepresentation is there’s no ranch. And the house itself is old and dilapidated. When I crossed the front yard to the porch a few minutes ago, a two-headed cat climbed out from under the car port to meet me, which I took to be a bad sign.

The second misrepresentation is Faith is larger than her photos indicated.

Much larger.

To put the size differential into perspective, if the Faith in the photos is a penny, the Faith I’m staring at is the piggy bank it goes in. This is a large woman. She could use sheep for tampons.

The third misrepresentation is she’s half-again older than she claimed.

That, or she’s had a helluva rough life.

On the other hand, she’s pleasant-looking, and seems nice. I won’t pretend she’d transition smoothly into the Manhattan club scene, but I don’t hang in those circles anyway, so that’s not an issue.

For me.

Having said that, I could fit in with that bunch if I wanted to, and Faith could not.

I’m sitting in her cramped den, drinking home-made lemonade, squinting hard, trying to recognize her from the photos on her profile page.

She’s not the same woman.

Period.

We’re making small talk.

“Nice watch,” she says.

“Thanks. Nice…” I look around, trying to find something to compliment. And come up with, “Nice taste you have. In watches.”

“Why, thank you!” she says. “What is it? A Timex?”

“Piaget Altiplano.”

“Is that Italian?”

“Swiss.”

“I love Swiss cheese,” she says.

“Who doesn’t?”

She sees me eyeing her and says, “I may be a little curvier than you expected.”

No shit? A little curvier? You think?

“Those pictures were taken a few months ago, and I’ve put on a couple of pounds since then. But I can lose them back, stay the same, or put on some more weight, if it suits you.”

I look at her and think I’ve figured out where all the lost pounds go from other people’s diets. In the same way elephants have been known to travel many miles in order to die at the elephant graveyard, lost pounds find their way to Faith Hemphill’s ass.

My smart ass remarks aside, I don’t mind her being heavier than she advertised, and I don’t mind her lying about the photos. I don’t care that she embellished her lifestyle by claiming to live on a ranch. The fact I’ve been in her home a half hour and no one’s tried to hang me yet is enough to keep me content.

“What was it that attracted you to my profile on the dating site?” she says.

The truth? Her web name.

Horny Hottie.

But what I say is, “You seemed interesting.”

“In what way?”

I start to say something about her ranch, and horses, then realize ninety percent of her profile might be a lie. So I say, “Tell me about your saddle business.”

“Well, aren’t you the eager beaver!” she says.

“Huh?”

“If you want to see my horses, just say so, silly man!”

“You have horses?”

She winks.

“Where are they?”

“You know where!” she says.

I’m confused. Does this mean she doesn’t have horses? Or she does, but they’re somewhere else?

She says, “The horses I’m referrin’ to can be found right where you’d expect.”

“Which is where, exactly?”

“In my bedroom, of course!”

I raise an eyebrow. Could “horses” be a euphemism for something sexual? And do I want to do something sexual with this older, plus-sized saddle-maker?

I think about Trudy. If I knew for certain she wanted me, I wouldn’t even consider entering this woman’s bedroom. I suppose I could call Trudy and ask her if she wants me, but that would be rude to Faith.

“Ready to see my horses, cowboy?” Faith says, adjusting her bosoms.

I still can’t imagine what she means.

Horses?

In the bedroom?

Weird.

Then again, I suppose it can’t hurt to at least find out what she’s talking about.