John McManus - Born on a Train - 13 Stories

Barbara ran around the store to find some shade. Cars roared past her on the highway, and a cloud of bugs surrounded her and matched her pace as fast as she could run. She felt like an overheated engine as she hid behind a fenced-in compressor bigger than her bedroom. She wished she could throw Garrett inside it and compress him, and she prayed that he would cry at what she’d said, so Rhonda and Sheila could see what a sissy he was. She hadn’t lied to him, because Thursday night at dinner Pa had said, I don’t like him any more than I liked his old man. They were eating pork chops and mashed potatoes, and Garrett was down at the pond digging worms. Pa talked with his mouth full of gravied meat. Bastard always was jealous of me, he said, on account of the rulty.

The what? asked Barbara.

The rulty. He held it against me.

What’s rulty?

Floyd rolled his eyes at her. That’s what a earl is, dipshit, he said and laughed. When Barbara hit his arm across the table, he hit hers harder. Pa watched her rub her reddened skin.

You’re probly jealous of Floyd, too, Pa said to her.

For what? she asked, surprised. She looked at Floyd, who smirked at her and stroked his greasy hair.

For the same as Coogar was. The rulty. A girl cain’t never get it.

She looked down at her food.

Floyd’s gonna get it when I die.

I don’t care, she said as Garrett came inside through the back door, his hands muddy and his fingernails brown.

He might even get it sooner, if I decide to advocate it to him.

Pa nodded as he chewed his food. Where you been? Floyd asked Garrett.

Kind.

How’s the worms today?

Clean, Garrett said. Above all, reverent.

* * *

Barbara could almost see the library over the hill from where she stood outside the store. She wasn’t any cooler in the shade, so she walked up front and watched Garrett from a distance; he was talking to her sisters. They didn’t see her. A security guard pushed Pa out the front door and thrust the ragged jeans at him. Floyd pulled Granny by the hand and Mama followed close behind. She smiled wearily at the guard, then her face reverted to the same as always, just like Rhonda’s, and Sheila’s too, a sad, blank frown. Barbara was the only one with a scowl.

The horse ain’t got no order, Rhonda cried as Barbara slowly walked to rejoin them. Mama. Mama.

Hush.

When’s it gonna get some more order?

I done told you to hush.

Rhonda tugged on Mama’s shorts. Mama, she said, it ain’t got no order. When’s it gonna get more?

Mama picked Rhonda up and shook her. She turned herself so Rhonda’s body blocked the sun, and she was shaking; she hadn’t eaten all day. She hated being called Mama, because she wasn’t Mama; her name was Mabel Watson. She looked as if her blood hurt as it raced inside her legs and through her guts, and sometimes Barbara thought that Mama wanted all her children to crawl back up inside her, to shrink until she couldn’t hear them anymore.

Mama took a deep breath and spoke softly. That ain’t a real pony, anyway, she said. It don’t matter.

Pa was walking up behind her. That’s right, he said. It’s a goddamn lie.

I didn’t say it was a lie, Mama said.

Everything in that whole store is a goddamn lie.

So is it ever gonna get any more order? said Rhonda.

No. It’s lies.

Rhonda sucked her thumb. She walked behind Sheila, who sucked hers, too.

A woman walking into the store approached Mama and smiled. What a beautiful baby, she cried.

Mama stopped to let the woman see the baby. People were always stopping to see her babies. It was the only reason anybody ever spoke to her.

What’s its name? the woman asked.

Mama with a glance deferred to Pa, who said, We don’t know right yet.

You don’t know? How old is that baby? What do you mean you don’t know?

We just can’t tell yet, Pa said, louder.

What is it that you can’t tell? she asked. Is it a boy?

Pa grunted yes.

The woman didn’t hear him, and her eyes got bigger. Oh my God, is that what you can’t tell?

Why hell, woman, of course I can tell that.

She looked embarrassed. I’m sorry.

I just don’t know if he’s gonna have to be the earl yet.

You’re gonna name him Earl?

No, Pa said, irritated to have to explain it. He might have to be earl after me, he said, if Floyd goes to prison. The woman stared at him, and Floyd nudged Pa’s shoulder to get him to be quiet. Floyd, Pa yelled, get your grubby hands off me. He turned back to the woman. All the earls have got to have the same name, he said. Otherwise it don’t work.

The woman nodded her head.

Ever single one’s been a Floyd, Pa said, all the way back to the first one, or the roll privlege wouldn’t keep on.

She nodded again, slowly, squinting at the sun. She looked nervous. As she smiled at the baby boy, he began to cry. You sweet little thing, she said to him before she hurried away. Her heel caught a snag in the pavement, and she nearly fell. She looked around herself, embarrassed; Pa was staring at her. He didn’t turn away until Floyd threatened him: I orta punch your face.

Pa laughed at him. Go on, he said.

Floyd made a fist.

Free shot. Why, I wisht to hell you’d do it. I’d turn you in quick as a greased pig.

Floyd scowled. He jerked Rhonda’s arm so that she fell from the sidewalk into his grasp, dangling there by bent shoulder, and he dragged her toward the car. Garrett followed with his imaginary gun, pointing it at Barbara and at the bright sky when he said, Pow, pow, proud of the invisible weapon he clutched with both hands to his chest. I’ll shoot everything, he said. I’m gonna shoot deer and bears and squirrels and rats and possums.

You shoot all the possums and rats you want, Pa said.

Hey Floyd, Garrett said.

Huh?

Why would you go to prison?

Ain’t nobody goin to prison.

But your pa said—

Never mind what Pa said. It don’t matter none what people say. It ain’t important.

Garrett thought about it and nodded. I wish you could shoot people, he said. Without goin to jail. Not just all those stupid squirrels and deer. I want to shoot people.

You can, Barbara said.

Floyd stopped walking right in front of Barbara and said, What’s that supposed to mean?

Garrett pointed his gun at an old woman across the parking lot. I wish I could shoot her till she was dead, he said, ahead of them already.

Pow.

Floyd’s head blocked the sun as Barbara squinted up at him. She thought about speaking. Floyd pushed her shoulders and growled, You’d better watch it. He turned away. No one else had stopped, so Floyd ran to catch up, his knife bulging in the tight back pocket of his shorts. Barbara stayed ten feet back from everyone and slowed as she approached the truck. Pa was still mad, his head red like a blown bubble. I hope you’ve learned yuns a good lesson over this, he said as he turned the ignition. The truck shook and cracked and rumbled. Granny put her hand over her mouth until the noise died and faded into the engine’s softer drone.

I’m cold, she said.

You’re what?

She placed her hands on their opposite shoulders and shivered.

Floyd handed her the jeans through the window. Here, he said. Use these.

Granny looked at them.

Go on, take it.

What am I spose to do?

Cover up.

Floyd tossed them in her lap, and she stared at them uncertainly. Go on, he said. She put her timid hands into the holes in the knees and shivered. Floyd sighed and reached through the window and pulled the legs up her arms until they reached her sleeves. Her lip quivered, and Floyd sat back down in the bed.

Pa shook his head. There’s got to be somethin bad wrong with you, old woman.