John McManus - Born on a Train - 13 Stories

Like for your whole life, Floyd said.

The clerk searched below the counter for a pamphlet. He located it and scanned the pages, mumbling. Pa squinted as the clerk read aloud.

Personal wear and tear, he said carefully, is not included.

They goddamn told me it was. Pa was standing on his tiptoes, his fists on the counter, yelling loudly. They said I could plug my septic tank with it if I wanted to. Rub it in blood.

It looks like you’ve done that already.

Pa squinted his eyes. You’re startin to piss me off, he said.

We’ve got a sale on jeans this week. A pair like these is just thirteen ninety-nine.

Are you makin fun of me? Cause I’ll kick your ass. So will my boy Floyd.

Do the police know about this man you shot?

Do they know, Pa repeated. You bet your ass they know.

How long ago did it happen?

Sunday week.

I don’t remember reading about it, the clerk said.

Well, you wouldn’t, would you.

I don’t know why not. I read the papers every night.

Pa huffed loud, fast breaths. Floyd put a hand on his shoulder to calm him down and said, Don’t lose your temper. You’re doin good. Pa sniffed snot that gurgled in his nostrils. A woman on the intercom called someone to the toy department, and when the speaker clicked back off, Granny began to stutter. Everyone turned to look at her. It was a few seconds before words formed.

Tell them who you are, she said to Pa.

They don’t give a shit who I am.

Tell them.

Leave me to do the talkin.

She leaned against the counter and pressed its glass top with her withered fingers, lifting one to point at Pa. He’s the Earl of Crediton, she told the men behind the counter, slowly nodding her head.

Huh? said the clerk.

He’s the Earl of Crediton, she said again. Has been must be thirty some odd years now.

What’s that mean? asked the manager, and Pa’s face turned redder.

Has been ever since my Floyd passed, said Granny.

Will you hush about it? Pa said.

I thought you was Floyd, said the clerk, pointing at Floyd.

I am.

But you just said Floyd’s dead, he said to Granny.

She nodded. Must of been twenty years.

Pa looked like he was going to explode. Goddammit, he said, I’m Floyd. He’s Floyd, my dead Papaw was Floyd, they’re all Floyds.

Who’s all Floyds?

The earls. He pushed Granny away from the counter. That’s how it works. They’re all Floyds.

Calm down, sir.

Are you tryin to shame me front of my family?

No, sir.

I’m the Earl of Crediton. Pa turned around to Granny and said, I wish you’d quit your blabbin all the time about that. He turned back to the counter. It’s a direct descendancy all the way back to England, he told the clerk, and now here you are, tryin to shame me.

You’re from England?

No, I ain’t from England, you dipshit, I’m from Happy Valley.

Granny stepped up to the counter again and said with a shaky voice, He’s connected straight to the queen.

For once and for all, Pa shouted at her, will you hush your mouth?

I just wanted them to know.

I ain’t here to brag about my title, he yelled. I’m here to get my new pants.

The manager sighed. Floyd leaned to whisper in Pa’s ear but never got to, because the assistant manager appeared at the shelf of jewelry they faced, blocking the display. She was dragging Garrett by his collar; Barbara followed behind them. The woman held most of Garrett’s weight so that he barely even stood on his own. She stopped in front of Pa and Mama and Sheila and Rhonda and Floyd and Granny and let loose of Garrett, who nearly fell. Is this kid yours? she said with her hands on her hips.

Pa stepped forward. What’s it to you? he said.

Why don’t you answer my question.

Pa raised his voice and said in her same tone, Why don’t you answer mine.

He just, she said and paused and began again— urinated on a bunch of Barbie dolls.

Pa squinted and looked at Garrett and pointed at him. Him? he questioned the woman.

Yes, she said indignantly. Him.

What about that one? Pa said, gesturing at Barbara.

What about her?

What was she doin when it happened.

Well, I don’t know; I don’t guess she was doing anything.

Pa glared at Barbara, who shivered.

You’re gonna have to pay for what he did back there. He’s ruined a whole lot of toys.

Pa stared at the woman until she looked away.

Kevin, she said to the manager, you better come look at this.

Oh no, Pa said. No you better not. He shook a finger at the woman and then at the manager and said, You ain’t goin nowhere till I get my new pants.

The manager raised his voice for the first time. For the last time, you’re not getting any new pants.

What’s going on up here? the assistant manager asked.

You better step your fat ass back out of my business, Pa said to her.

Rhonda giggled as she sucked her thumb, and Mama kicked her with the heel of her shoe. The manager held the pants up for the assistant manager to see. This man wants to exchange these jeans for a new pair, he said. The woman lifted her eyes incredulously when she saw the rips and stains. The clerk burst out laughing.

There’s a lifetime guarantee, Pa shouted.

He shot the man that owned them, the manager explained, so now there’s a bullet hole in the leg.

I didn’t shoot nobody, Pa said. You little son of a bitch.

You said you did.

You hush up.

You just got through telling me—

Garrett, Pa yelled, take the kids outside to ride the pony.

But—

Now. Go on, git. He pushed Sheila away from his legs, and Mama nudged Rhonda. They headed for the door. Barbara was mad that Garrett was in charge of her again; she wanted to stay inside but knew she couldn’t argue when Pa’s cheeks twitched like that, when his lips were that tight.

They went outside into the heat so Rhonda could ride the pony. Barbara shuddered at the blast of heat. The pony had an out-of-order sign taped to its saddle. Put me on it, said Rhonda.

You cain’t ride it, Garrett told her.

Yes I can. My pa just said.

Look at the sign, dummy. It’s broke.

Put me on the pony, she said angrily, stomping her foot.

Cain’t you read?

Of course she can’t read, Barbara said. She’s four.

So?

The pony’s out of order, Barbara said to Rhonda, kneeling to the level of her height. Maybe next time you can ride the pony.

I’m hot, Rhonda said.

I’m hot too, said Barbara. Don’t cry.

My daddy could read when he was two years old, said Garrett. But he was smarter than all of you.

Will you shut up for once about your daddy? Barbara yelled at him. There’s a lot you don’t know nothing about.

Like what?

Like your daddy.

You can’t talk about my daddy.

I can talk about him all I want to.

Rhonda was beating her fists against the plastic of the pony’s neck. She tried to climb atop it unassisted, but she was too small; she fell on the concrete and scraped her wrist and cried. I’m gonna tell your pa you said that, Garrett said.

Tell him then, Barbara yelled. She thought his threat was pitiful, and she couldn’t look at him anymore. She took him by surprise when she pushed his chest with both her hands and yelled, Pa didn’t like your daddy any more than he likes you, and Garrett fell backwards onto the curb beside Rhonda.

He don’t like you either.

She faced Garrett again.

He don’t think you act right.

You don’t know shit, Garrett Thompson.

Your pa wasn’t never gonna buy you no soccer ball, he answered, laughing. He might of bought you a Barbie, though, if I hadn’t pissed on em all.