Cousin (A selection from the My Kin collection) Read online

Cousin

  (A selection from the upcoming ebook My Kin)

  By

  Lisa Giles

  * * * * *

  PUBLISHED BY:

  Cousin

  Copyright © 2012 by Lisa Giles

  Thank you for downloading this free eBook. Please feel to share it with your friends.

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  Big wheels keep on turnin’

  carrying me home to see my kin

  singing songs about the southland

  I miss ole Bamy once again

  and I think its a sin, yes.

  —Ed King, Gary Rossington, Ronnie Van Zant

  Cousin

  The man with the round red face dabbed at his forehead with a wilted handkerchief and took another raspy breath. Using his hand to shield the sun from his eyes, he looked up at my grandfather, who stood a full foot taller than him and seemed oblivious to the September heat. The sun hammered down and it wasn’t even noon yet. A light breeze blew, gaining warmth from the black asphalt until it felt like the air coming off a hair dryer, providing no relief to anyone. Brightly colored triangle flags were strung carelessly above the car lot and made snapping sounds against the stifling wind. Shade was nowhere to be found. All around me were used cars, chrome brightly gleaming in the Alabama sun, windshields emblazoned with neon words: “AM/FM Radio!” “No Down Payment!” “Cold Air!” That last one, on a baby blue Thunderbird, really caught my attention, but my grandfather remained focused on the pale green Pontiac.

  “Mr. Carnes, how ‘bout you and me —gasp— step inside the office and talk about helping you —gasp— drive away in this car today?” Another swipe across the forehead, as the flushed man motioned toward a white trailer sitting on cinderblocks. Faded red words painted on the front read “Earl’s Used Cars — Let’s Make A Deal!” A small air conditioner stuck out the front window, sputtering and struggling, with a dingy plastic bucket underneath to catch a constant drip that fell from the half-frozen coils.

  My grandfather pushed his hat back a little and looked down at the man. “Not unless you’re planning on coming down on that price.”

  The man’s round shoulders fell a little. “Now, Mr. Carnes —gasp— you know I cain’t go no lower on a fine automobile like this ‘un. Now for what you’re wantin’ to spend, I’d be glad to show you a real nice Ford.”

  He sneered. “I don’t want no dang Ford. I came here for that Pontiac.” With that statement, he pulled his keys out of his pocket, stuck out his hand and said, “Thank you for your time, Randy.” I figured Earl was inside, enjoying that little bit of air conditioning.

  I ran to keep up with my grandfather’s long strides, then we got into his old silver Buick. As I rolled down my window, I saw Randy still standing there, lumpy and sweaty, watching us drive away.

  I propped my feet on the dash, pushing against the taped-up glove box, so my legs wouldn’t stick to the vinyl seat. I shifted so my face was out the window for some relief. The Buick didn’t have cold air. In fact, it had no air at all. Some days the car wouldn’t start. Granddaddy would piddle with it, clanging things and cursing, bloodying his knuckles against one thing or another, then slam the hood hard as he could. Next day, for no reason at all, it would start.

  Grandma hated the Buick. She said there was no point at all in going to the Beauty Barn every week if her hair was going to be droopy from the heat by the time she got home. We both knew she wasn’t going to stop getting her hair done, but it helped her feel like she was building her case for getting a new car. One thing we all agreed on: We hated the Buick.

  When we got home, Grandma was in the kitchen frying chicken. The house smelled like grease, but in a very good way. I poured myself a glass of tea and offered to help. The kitchen was unbearably hot and the air was motionless in there. It was suffocating, like being wrapped too tightly in a wool blanket. I don’t know how my grandma could stand it. Lines of sweat had left little white trails through her Merle Norman fairy pink blush, but thanks to Aqua Net her hair still sat up high and proud, in a silvery swirled poof on top of her head, like cotton candy. She ran me out of the kitchen, so I went to my room.

  I had won a little blue diary, complete with lock and key, for selling four cases of Bicentennial cups for my school. The Bicentennial was a big deal that year, and everybody seemed to want those cups, white plastic with a shiny silver Liberty Bell that read “1776 — 1976.” I didn’t really get what all the fuss was about, but either way, I was happy to have my diary. It seemed pretty exciting to have a place to put all my secret thoughts and feelings.

  I fell on my stomach onto the bed and opened it with the little gold key I kept around my neck on a green ribbon. Flipping through the few pages I’d written in so far, I felt a little frustrated with the boring words. Turns out, an eight-year-old doesn’t really have that many secret thoughts and feelings. Just as I was about to write the disappointing news that we still didn’t have a car with air conditioning, and the good news that we were having fried chicken for supper, I heard the front screen door creak open , then slap shut. Someone was here. I hurriedly locked the diary and ran to the front room.

  Before I got halfway down the hall, I heard my cousin, Wayne, talking to my grandfather. Wayne was what my mom called a “character,” and when she was around, she covered my ears a lot when he talked. But she wasn’t here today, and that meant I might get to hear something really good. Maybe even something good enough to put in my diary.

  When I walked into the living room, Wayne and Granddaddy were looking out the front window. Wayne turned around quickly when I came in and said “Hey little girl!”

  He was about six feet five inches tall and barely 160 pounds. The sleeves of his t-shirt had been ripped off and his bony arms stuck out from the frayed edges like pale sticks. A faded tattoo of a black dog was on his pitiful bicep. Underneath it said “Henry.” Far as I knew, Wayne had never even had a dog named Henry. His Adam’s apple jutted out in a menacing sort of way, and he always had the beginnings of a beard on his face. His eyes were round and almost black, which made them seem weasely. He usually wore an old greasy looking ball cap that he probably got for free. He smelled like Marlboros even though I never saw him smoke. He wore heavy brown boots no matter what time of year it was, and his wallet had a chain that draped from his back pocket to his front. I never asked what was on the other end of that chain, but I was sure it was some kind of weapon.

  Wayne’s older brother, Ronnie, was a hometown hero and Wayne never could seem to outgrow his brother’s shadow. When Ronnie was only twenty years old, he got a really big job for some oriental novelty company. He drove all over the state of Alabama and parts of Mississippi selling things like stink bombs and fake vomit to dollar stores. One day, as he was sitting in his car outside a Walmart in Mobile, a man asked him for directions somewhere. When Ronnie rolled down his window, the man pulled out a knife and forced his way into the car, drove out to middle of nowhere and stole Ronnie’s money. He took the car too, but not before stabbing Ronnie two times and leaving him for dead. The story goes that Ronnie left a trail of blood for two miles as he crawled along the highway until he found help. The novelty company paid him a big settlement and Ronnie bought 5 acres and brand new double wide on the edge of town. They started eating steak for dinner, even on weeknights. He bought a new pickup truck and a Chrysler for Charlotte, his wife. Then she got her stomach stapled and lost a bunch of weight and left him for an eye doctor in the next town. Ronnie never got remarried, but five years later he’s still considered something of a legend. We hardly ever saw Ronnie since he got
famous, which sort of added to the fascination.

  Wayne always seemed to be on the verge of some great business venture and would grandly proclaim that “it’s gonna make us ALL a whole helluva lotta money.” I never knew the details of these business ideas, but I had a good feeling that Wayne wasn’t living an honest life. When I saw the brand new Thunderbird he had parked on the street in front of the house, I was pretty sure of it. That’s what he and Granddaddy were eyeballing through the window when I walked in, and Wayne pulled out a set of keys and handed them to my grandfather, Mr. “I — don’t — want — no — dang — Ford.” Granddaddy’s eyes lit up for a split second as he held the keys, dangling from a bright orange Panama City keychain. Then he shook his head and gave a halfhearted, “Naw, Wayne, I ain’t gonna take this.”

  For the first time, I noticed Wayne had a nervous look on his face. He sort of pushed my granddaddy’s hand away. “You just think about it while I go to the bathroom.” Wayne headed down the hall, shouting “Woo—wee, Aunt Kathleen, that chicken shore smells good!” as he went.

  I stood there, watching Granddaddy’s face as he stared at the keys, unmoving. Torn. Then the sound of a car door slam turned us both to the window. It was a police car. Two young police officers approached the front door, but didn’t have a chance to knock before the screen door was opened for them. They looked uneasy.

  One finally spoke up. “Mr. Carnes, is Wayne here? We see his car outside…” His voice sort of trailed off, like he didn’t know what he was supposed to say next. Granddaddy looked sideways down the hall. “What’s this about? Is he in trouble?”

  This time the other policeman, who looked about 18 years old, handed my grandfather a piece of paper. “Sir, an illegal substance, quite a bit of it actually, was found on the truck Wayne was driving.”

  “What truck?” Granddaddy asked. It was a reasonable question to me. After all, a Thunderbird is definitely not a truck.

  “Sir, he’s been driving a rig some for Mr. Palmer, over at the trucking line, you know making deliveries and such.”

  My grandfather didn’t respond. I stood way back, listening to the sound of grease sizzling in the kitchen. Grandma had her police scanner on loud, oblivious that she was missing the biggest news in town right in her own living room.

  The policeman cleared his throat, breaking the silence in the room. “Um, ahh, is he here, sir? Wayne? These are serious charges, Mr. Carnes.”

  About that time, I heard the toilet flush down the hall, then the sound of air freshener being sprayed. Wayne called out as he came back up the long narrow hallway “Aunt Kathleen, I cain’t wait to eat that chicken!”

  When he walked into the living room and saw the police, he stopped. He dropped his head back, looked at the ceiling and said “Aw, HELL.”

  The two officers went to him, and almost apologetically, politely handcuffed him. One patted him down while the other read him his rights from a piece of paper he kept in his hat. They pulled out Wayne’s wallet, then drew the other end of the long chain from his front pocket. To my surprise, there was only a pocket watch attached to that end. It made me feel bad, like I had always misjudged him somehow, even though he was going to jail. I looked at Wayne and he winked at me, but I could tell he was scared. I felt scared too, but wasn’t sure why.

  Wayne said “I’m sorry” to my grandfather as they took him out the front door. We watched them put him in the back of the police car. Suddenly, one of the officers ran back up to the house. “Mr. Carnes, I’m gonna need those keys. Uh, to the Thunderbird, you know. Wayne said you have ‘em. We’re gonna have to put it in the impound, you understand.”

  Granddaddy pulled the keys from his front pocket, giving them a final look before handing them over. A few minutes later, a tow truck came and hooked up the shiny new car, as the whole neighborhood watched from their front yards. Women fanned themselves with aprons, and men held beer cans dripping with condensation. Children sprayed water hoses at each other. The heat wouldn’t keep anyone from missing this. Tonight’s dinner table conversations would be “why couldn’t he have been more like his brother?”

  Later, my grandmother would be on the phone for hours, telling and retelling the story a thousand times as if she witnessed the whole event as it unfolded in her living room. Though the story grew more embellished with each telling, she always ended with the same line, “We all know Wayne was framed.”

  My grandfather didn’t go outside. He watched it all from inside the screen door. When the tow truck rounded the corner out of sight, he sighed loudly.

  “Well.” He looked down at me. His eyes were tired and sad.

  I didn’t know what to say.

  “Well,” he said again. “Shoot.”

  Then he clapped a hand on my shoulder and squeezed it. “Let’s go eat.”

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