Jim Dodge - Fup

She did like it when she jumped one of theirs and got to pick it up with her bill and drop it on the floor, but when one of hers was jumped she would jump too-up and down on the board with her webbed feet wildly stomping, scattering the pieces so that it was necessary to declare the game a draw and start over. Collectively, they eventually gave up.

The only exceptions to daily routine were part of a larger accord. The two primary deviations were the Friday Night Drive-In Movies and the Sunday Morning Pig Hunt.

They all enjoyed going out to the movies. The closest theater (to give it a dignity description could not bear) was the Rancho Deluxe Drive-In near Graton, some forty miles and two hours away. Fup rode in the cab, on top of the seat between them, Tiny driving, Grand-daddy Jake riding shotgun.

The first time they'd taken Fup, the plump redhead in the ticket stall had squinted into the cab of the pick-up, smacked her Juicy Fruit, and asked, "What's that?"

"A duck-a female mallard," Tiny said. "And my Granddaddy."

"That's the biggest damn duck I've ever seen."

"Yes ma'am… and we wouldn't mind paying extra for her even though the sign out there says $2 a carload."

Fup lowered her head and made a hissing/retching sound.

"No, there's no extra charge-she's part of the load. Go on in. I'll talk to the manager, and if there's any problem with codes or like that, he'll come talk to you."

Grandaddy leaned across the seat. "If there's any problem, there's two problems. You savvy?"

She sighed and smacked her gum. "I kinda figured that."

The manager, a short, dour man in a Robert Hall suit, sporting a pencil moustache that just nudged being mousy, saw Tiny looming in the driver's seat and made the mistake of choosing Grandaddy's side of the truck instead.

When Grandaddy cranked down the window, the manager peered in, confirmed Fup's presence with a glance, and demanded, "What's this duck doing in my establishment?"

"She wants to watch the movie," Tiny said amiably, cutting off his Granddaddy who was already starting to froth.

"We don't want anything unusual," the manager said firmly, if without immediate reference.

Granddaddy erupted, "Well that really narrows the shit out of your life, don't it? This happens to be a Kung Fu Attack Duck, specially bred by the Tong Society. We'd leave her home, but she's killing all the coyotes."

"That's not really true, sir," Tiny said quickly. "We found her in a posthole and raised her up. She's kinda family."

"Listen," the manager said, raising his hands in either exasperation or surrender, "we are willing to be reasonable about this but…"

"I'm not," Granddaddy snarled, grinding the two teeth that met. "If you don't go away and leave us alone to enjoy our evening at this shithole excuse of a drive-in, we will come back tomorrow night with the bed of this truck full of wild pigs and a couple of troughs full of fermented corn mash, and if that doesn't sway your intelligence we'll come back the next night and my son Tiny will tear off your arms and pound on your head with them until you get the idea."

"I'd only do that if I was really mad," Tiny assured him.

Fup tucked her head under her wing.

"I won't be threatened," the manager shrilled.

"No, you'll be hurting," Granddaddy promised. Then he added, still sharply but somewhat softer, "A duck. A duck. What possible fucking difference could it make to your stunted heart or the world at large?"

"Alright, alright," the manager relented, backing away. "But keep it in the car. And if there's anything unusual, you're out. And no refund."

There was no trouble with admission after that.

Tiny and Granddaddy Jake were both partial to Westerns, especially those featuring gunslingers against a good-hearted Marshall.

Granddaddy, who was usually pretty well into his second jar of the day, pulled hard for the outlaws and other forces of disorder, often leaning out the window to holler advice at the screen-"No, no, you dumb shits. Don't meet him on the streets… bushwhack the sum-bitch from behind a watering trough!" He was also highly critical of the gunslinger's choice of weapons, ranting to Tiny and Fup, "Goddamn why do they want to use them pistols all the time? Can't hit jackshit with 'em past 10 yards. Situation like that requires a sawed-off.10 gauge and nine or twelve sticks of dynamite. Idiots! No wonder they never win!"

Tiny quietly rooted for the Marshall.

Fup was generally indifferent to Westerns, except for seemingly arbitrary scenes when she would quack excitedly. It took Tiny and Granddaddy Jake about five months to figure out what all the scenes had in common were horses, and after discussing it they decided to buy her a colt for company when Bill Leland's mare foaled the coming spring. Tiny started roughing out drawings for a ten foot high split-rail corral when they got home that night.

Fup's favorite movies were romances, whether light and witty or murderously tragic. She watched intently from her roost on the back of the seat, occasionally tilting her head to quack in sympathy at the problems assailing love. She would not tolerate Granddaddy's derisive and consistently obscene comments, and after she'd almost torn off his ear a few times he settled for quiet mumbling. Tiny watched without comment.

Granddaddy Jake liked horror movies almost as much as Westerns. He thought they were hilarious. Tiny and Fup didn't like them at all. Tiny shut shis eyes at critical points. Fup paced the back of the seat, occasionally hissing at the monster or quacking frantically to warn an unsuspecting victim, who was usually quite innocently exploring a radioactive cave or wandering around pressing buttons in a laboratory on a lightning-streaked night.

Considering the range of their tastes, it was fortunate that the Rancho Deluxe always had a double feature. Between movies Tiny would walk across the humped asphalt to the concession stand and buy them some snacks. The order was usually the same: two pieces of beef jerky for Granddaddy to work on, eight bags of salted peanuts and two large root beers for himself, and for Fup the $2.99 Family Tub of buttered popcorn and a large orange drink. They munched away as the second movie began.

The drive-in was fun. The Sunday morning pig hunt was serious work-at least for Tiny and Fup. Since they started at dawn, Grand-daddy didn't go with them, seeing no reason to disturb his dreaming or, he claimed, show them up. He did, however, offer endless advice.

There was considerable argument among the local folks whether Fup was truly a pig-duck, a pig-duck in the sense that Boss had been a pig-dog. With her snake-necked waddle, beak working the ground like a bloodhound's nose as she weaved to cut fresh track, she looked like she was hunting. She didn't find many pigs, though, but either nosed down or blundered on enough to make it seem she knew what she was doing. To Tiny, who followed her with his.243 cradled in his arms, there was no question. When she hit fresh track she would start quacking to herself, and as the track got hotter, the volume and intensity increased. He considered it proof that she was indeed tracking and not just casting about. He was also convinced that she had an excellent nose, and though no one but Grand-daddy Jake agreed, he believed Fup could have trailed any pig she wanted. But she was after one pig in particular: Lockjaw. It was Tiny's notion that the few pigs she did nose out, while not the silent boar himself, were directly related to him, off-spring, that had a similar scent. Of course, he couldn't prove it, and that frustrated him. Granddaddy told him there was no need to prove it, that most things spoke for themselves, but to not necessarily assume he'd got the reasons right. The reasons for things, Granddaddy cautioned, were tricky.