Deep Fried and Pickled (Book One - The Rachael O'Brien Chronicles) Page 7

  Flexing his operatic aria, Billy Ray sang, “Razzle dazzle, I love your pizazzle.”

  I stood trapped between a smoking barbecue and Billy Ray drunk off his ass. Turning my head, I mouthed, “Help,” to Patsy’s backside. In my moment of need, she flirted with someone I didn’t know. My level of attraction hovered below frosty. I needed an exit strategy and settled on the tried-and-true, I have to use the bathroom. Lightly placing my free hand on Billy Ray’s arm, mostly for balance, I said, “You’ll have to excuse me, I…”

  “No excuses, Raz,” he said, leading me to a clearing. “Let’s show ‘em how it’s done.” Before I had a chance to bolt, Billy Ray slid an available arm around my waist. His other hand still held mine, and the oversized spatula.

  “Rrrrazzle,” he growled, stretching his tongue across the single r as if it had multiplied. Stiffening to a bullfighter stance, he advised, “Get your shag on.”

  I had no idea what he meant by shag. Wangling out of his grip I made my excuse. “I’m really not a carpet kind of girl.”

  Billy Ray folded into a knee bender laugh. “You’re funnier than Raid on a cockroach.” Standing back up, he created a scene by twirling the spatula over his head before he bowed. “May I have this dance?”

  Before I’d agreed, he’d positioned his feet in a one, two, three prancing step and started without me. With catcalls echoing around us, what was a girl to do? The host of this shindig paraded around. I considered construing a story about a dodgeball kneecap mishap and planned to hobble away, but Billy Ray took me for a spin before I had a chance to limp. With an audience circling, I did the only thing I could. Pretended I knew what I was doing and followed his lead.

  For a husky man, he was surprisingly light in his flip-flops. Working moves that impressed me, Billy Ray turned out to be an expert shagger. With his accent thick and the music loud, I didn’t understand a word he spoke. “So Razzle,” he asked. “U ike ew ern?” Faking comprehension I nodded and concentrated on my footwork.

  When the song ended, he led me back to the grill. After rubbing his sweaty forehead across the wrist of his spatula-hand, he flipped a piece of meat onto a paper plate. “Thanks for the shag.”

  Out of breath and a little stunned, I murmured some “Much obliged, thank you,” bullshit.

  With my arm extended, I carried the deer steak toward Patsy who sat on a nearby tree stump, enjoying a cigarette. “Why did you introduce me to Billy Ray? You could have pointed him out from a distance.”

  She stubbed out her cigarette and put the butt in her empty glass. “Razzle, no trip to New Bern is complete without meeting Billy Ray.”

  “Would you stop with the Razzle?”

  “The name suits you. Razzle O’Brien,” Patsy said, “I reckon we need another drink to wash down the steak.”

  I focused my eyes and walked toward the kegs with purpose, not wanting to look available for another shag.

  A FLURRY OF FLYING INSECTS circled the floodlights above a deck as large as the footprint of the house. Shagging with Billy Ray disrupted my inner harmony. I eyed a garden hose. I wanted to rinse the cooties Billy Ray’s meaty hands had passed to mine. Leaning against a deck rail, I held two beers while Patsy sawed at the slab of meat with a plastic knife.

  “How can you eat that?”

  “What?” Patsy asked. “It’s a steak.”

  “You know the details of how it was killed and cleaned. And did you notice Billy Ray’s hands? He had deer goo under his nails. Doesn’t that ruin your appetite?”

  A smartass reply didn’t make it out of her mouth. Raised voices began a shouting match. Patsy corked her head toward a dispute that erupted behind our backs. I turned to look, too. Yelling grew heated, and two guys closed the space between their faces. To be clear, it wasn’t the “Yee-Ha” call out I experienced earlier, but more of an, ‘I’m gonna kick your face in’ kind of shout.

  Patsy dropped her paper plate and grabbed my arm. “Oh shit,” she warned. “Its Stewart and Kent. They’re goin’ at it like ducks on a junebug.”

  Two sets of fists turned into a pile-up of bodies on top of contorted aluminum lawn furniture. Bloody faces and ripped shirts escalated into pure pandemonium. Patsy tugged my elbow and the beers sloshed. “Come with me.” She led me into the yard, away from the full-on brawl that had exploded below the deck.

  Billy Ray and two others came out of the barn holding rifles in the air. When Patsy and I heard CRACK-CRACK noises ricochet, we concentrated on running. The barn, the house, and the yard emptied as a stampede of partygoers scurried to their cars. The darkened field blazed with headlights moving in all directions. Tires grinding the dried earth drowned out the cricket chirps. Not wanting to become causalities of a stray bullet, Patsy and I stumbled across uneven ground looking for the parked van. With our arms linked, I asked, “Is firing a rifle a southern goodnight, time to go home signal?”

  “Billy Ray and his bumpkin buffoons need to keep the ammo under lock and key. Somebody could get hurt.” Skidding to a stop, she squatted between two cars. “Cover me, Raz.”

  “Patsy. Bullets are flying. This is no time to tinkle.”

  She squatted to the ground. “I’m meeting cotton. It’s safer out here than near the house. Like hell I’m trekkin’ back to use porcelain.”

  For privacy’s sake, I tried to block any view of her, but I swayed like a blowing curtain. “Damn bathtub dew,” I cursed, regretting the two cups I washed down with a few beers.

  After straightening her skirt, Patsy hooked her arm back in mine. The two of us blundered around the field for an amount of time I was unable to measure. With only a handful of cars left, I finally asked, “Where’s the van, Katie Lee, and all the girls we came with?”

  “I-don-know,” Patsy said, before she nosedived for a closer inspection of the trampled alfalfa.

  From my aerial view, I called out, “Patsy? Patsy?” I didn’t bend down to assist. If I had, we’d both have been down.

  Attempting to rouse her, I nudged my toes into her side and took to shouting her name. She garbled a marble dialect, and I worried that Katie Lee would be fretting over our disappearance. I felt a hiccup stir and swallowed against it.

  From nowhere, “Hey y’all,” floated through the night.

  Patsy rolled onto her back. Placing her hand to her forehead, she saluted. “Reporting for duty,” and released a tee-hee snicker at the wit that oozed off her tongue. Two guys I didn’t know stood by me. From the ground, Patsy spread her eyes open and looked at us through finger-hole binoculars. “Is that y’all, Mitch McCoy and Josh Jenkins?”

  The shorter of the two, an ACDC fan, wore a black T-shirt with a lightning bolt on it. He pulled his hands out of his pockets and extended one to Patsy. “It’s not ladylike to roll around in the dirt in your Sunday clothes.”

  Patsy was as pliable as taffy and Josh struggled to raise her to her feet. She fell into him and whispered, “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

  The taller of the two twitched his neck to flick bangs, the color of dried wheat bleached from the sun, out from his eyes. He mischievously smiled. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

  Patsy turned her skirt right way around while Josh brushed off dirt and grass blades from her back. “Mitch, quit flirting. This is Katie Lee’s roommate, Raz.”

  I estimated Mitch to be six feet tall. His tousled hair gleamed like the star lit sky, and his java eyes were shadowed like hidden passages in a cave. Quietly I centered my mind and had a little talk with myself. Stop thinking you want to fool around with Patsy’s brother. A roommates, friends, brother was too close a link, practically incestuous. The bathtub dew sent unholy thoughts swirling inside me regarding Mitch McCoy.

  Patsy swayed. “Have you seen Katie Lee? We need to get home.”

  Josh steadied her straight. “I hate to tell y’all, but Katie Lee and Nash drove off in the van hours ago.”

  “Are you saying we’re stranded?” I asked no one in particular.

  Mitch placed a hand
on my back. “Afraid so. But turns out you ladies got buzzards’ luck. Josh and I can take y’all home.”

  “Josh,” Patsy said, “you can’t drive. You don’t have a license.”

  He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a Velcro wallet. “Do now,” he said, handing Patsy his five-day-old State of North Carolina driver license.

  “Nice photo,” Patsy teased.

  “Come on,” Josh said, “We’ll get you damsels in distress on home.”

  With no other option, Patsy and I followed the two across the plowed field. I asked Mitch, “What time is it, anyway?”

  He turned his wrist, palm-side up and read the glow-in-the-dark hands on his watch. “Midnight. The witchin’ hour. Watch your feet,” he said and escorted my disoriented limbs in the direction of Josh’s car.

  While steadying Patsy, Josh asked, “What are ya doin’?”

  She made a show of balancing on one leg, like an ice skater before a leap. “Wait for it--wait for it,” she said, then flung her right leg forward launching her sandal into the dark until it thudded to the ground out of sight.

  “Patsy,” Josh said, “why’d you go and do that? I can’t keep ya standing if I have to help you fetch your shoe.”

  Patsy kept straying from Josh. For every step he walked forward, she took two or three backward, sideways, or any combination of the two. “The car’s ahead, not behind.” Josh instructed her. In my woozy state, it was a comfort to have Mitch, not Patsy, guiding me.

  A CARDBOARD PINE TREE dangled from the rear view mirror of the minivan Josh had borrowed from his mom. It permeated the interior with a manufactured alkaline scent that smelled nothing like Christmas. Cutting the ignition, he switched the headlights off. “As promised, I’ve delivered you safe n’ sound.”

  I swallowed hard. I hadn’t seen Katie Lee for hours and hoped that she was back at the house, otherwise, how would I get inside? Sticking our heads out the back windows, Patsy looked for any sign of her while I inhaled non-scented air.

  Patsy abruptly said, “Nope, don’t see her,” and ducked her head back inside.

  She’d hardly searched, not the kind of partner you’d choose in a scavenger hunt. Patsy had the attention span of a tick, and she couldn’t resist tussling the back of Josh’s head. “Josh Jenkins, you’ve got a head as soft as a chinchilla.”

  Josh removed her hands. “Gee Patsy, you sure know how to charm the dew off a honeysuckle.”

  “Could the van be in the garage?” I asked.

  “That thing’s a beast,” Patsy said. “It takes a spotter, and a driver to park. It could be in there, but I doubt it.”

  Staring at the front seat headrests, I felt my throat constrict and a round of hiccups ignited. I dropped my head between my knees. “Patsy, will you come with me to check the garage?”

  My voice startled her, and in a feat of slow-motion gymnastic wizardry, Patsy fell off the back seat. She attempted to catch herself by gripping the door handle on her descent to visit the floor mats. In a flawless motion, the door glided open, and she spilled onto the driveway like oatmeal--slow and lumpy.

  Mitch peered over the headrest. “Damn, there she goes all cattywampus.”

  Patsy huddled in a ball, and it took a few beats for her to flinch. I was worried until she sat up and said, “Y’all, I swallowed something with wings.”

  Being in a strange town, having witnessed a hit n’ run and uncertain of Katie Lee’s whereabouts, I wanted to cry, but my tears were stubborn and refused to spill. Wedging my shoulders between the front seats, I stretched my arms along the plastic cup holders. In between hiccups, I posed a question. “How am I going to get into the house without Katie Lee?”

  “Come on, Raz,” Mitch said. “I’ll check the garage with you.” In no position to argue my new nickname, I gave up the Razzle battle. Mitch unlatched my door and offered his hand. “Nothing exciting ever happens around here. Trust me, you’ll be fine.”

  Josh scooped Patsy back into the car. Through her open window, she shouted, “Use the side door. It’s always open.”

  When we stopped crunching gravel under our shoes, I could hear dried sea oats rustle in the still night. The detached three-car garage was a miniature version of the Brown’s brick home. A covered breezeway connected the two. My warm cheeks flushed, and I lifted my hair off my neck to let any hint of airflow cool my skin. Resting my back against the garage, I procrastinated going inside. I closed my eyes and inhaled the river perfume.

  “What are you doing?” Mitch asked.

  I kept my eyes shut and only moved my lips. “Gathering any wits available for use.”

  “While you check your eyelids for holes, I’ll just take a peek inside the garage.”

  I barely knew the Brown’s, but I liked them and wanted them to like me. If they caught me sneaking into the house without Katie Lee, there’d be questioning. Telling them the van was in a fender bender, got drunk on bathtub dew, caught a ride back from a farm field in a minivan, and lost their daughter--although I was fairly certain her whereabouts were in proximity to Nash, didn’t sound likeable. Trying to think of a positive spin on the night’s events, something soft rubbed against my leg, and a shrill scream propelled out of my lungs.

  “It’s just Bacon,” Mitch said, stroking Katie Lee’s tabby.

  “Did you see anything in there?”

  “Two new Yamaha jet skis with packaging still wrapped around the steering wheels. Dr. Brown must be prescribing lots of meds these days. I’m gonna have to talk to Katie Lee about a test drive.”

  “That’s it? No van?”

  Putting his hands on my shoulders, he squeezed lightly. “Looks like you’re the first bird back to the nest.”

  “Mitch McCoy,” Patsy shouted from the driveway, “Could we get goin’ before I turn forty?”

  He walked me under the breezeway and opened the back door, “Don’t be a stranger.”

  Seven hours in The Bern had wrecked me. I needed it to be tomorrow. Listening to my temples pound and feeling my head spin I leaned my elbows against the kitchen sink. Stretching my head under the running faucet, I gulped hard to keep the contents of my stomach from visiting my mouth.

  Above my head, a dim spotlight glowed on a shelf of eerily lifelike owls, quail, and ducks. Some had closed wings, others stretched in full flight, unfurling effulgent feather patterns. Each one perched on something from nature—wood stump, tree branch, sticks and large rocks. Even though a painting can’t capture the dimension and tactility of nature, the cruelty of a bullet and stuffing animals weighed on my heart. I’d never display dead still life in lieu of a painted picture.

  A tapping noise like a ticking clock crept up behind me. A throaty Grrrrrr, deep and low vibrated until it gathered enough momentum to wake the neighbors. Uncle and Sims, Dr. Brown’s hounds, slept indoors and probably chased squirrels when they weren’t flushing something feathery out of the thicket.

  “Shush Uncle, Shush Sims,” I whispered to quiet their serenade. My head spun, and I tasted bile on the inside of my throat. I was going to lose the contents of my stomach.

  Pursing my lips, I sealed them with my hand and darted through an open door, where I hurled into the top loading Maytag. Uncle and Sims clipped at my heels, and I was too busy holding my head between the agitator and the drum to shoo them away. The last thing I remember was closing the lid and pressing my cheek against the cool metal while two moist noses sniffed at me from behind.

  NOTE TO SELF

  Shag has nothing to do with carpeting.

  Deer Steaks--Eugh. May convert to vegetarianism.

  Katie Lee goes goo-goo-ga-ga when Nash appears. Gag worthy.

  Patsy McCoy. Have never met anyone like her, and probably never will. As for her brother. Never mind. He’s her brother.

  8

  Agitators

  Wrapped like a burrito in the arms of a green jacket, I dreamt we rode through a car wash. He was about to kiss me when Katie Lee interrupted, “Rach, you okay? I brought you w
ater.”

  Unwilling to leave the portal before the kiss, I squeezed my eyelids tight, hoping that Katie Lee would leave me alone. When I heard Dr. Brown say, “Well, lookie what we have here,” it was over. The two pulled me from dreamland, and I couldn’t get back in.

  Shoes clacked against the slate floor, and I squinted up at Mrs. Brown holding an armful of dirty towels. “Oh my Lord, Hayden, is she hurt?”

  Dr. Brown cleaned his glasses with his sweater vest then slipped them on his nose. “She’s alive, but I’m guessing she drank more than the apostles at the last supper.”

  Hearing the Brown’s discuss my condition, I decided it was best to pretend I was asleep until something warm and wet licked my left eye and brow. It tickled, in a good way, and I meekly brushed my hand into a tongue and whiskers.

  “Would you look at Uncle?” Katie Lee said.

  “Hayden,” Mrs. Brown quipped, “that’s not right. Call him over here.”

  Dr. Brown chuckled. “He won’t do her any harm.”

  I opened my eyes. In the far corner of the laundry room, Uncle and I spooned on his flannel dog bed while he dutifully washed away my party funk.

  “Did you sleep down here all night?” Mrs. Brown asked.

  It was all I could do to rest my head on Uncle. “I’m not sure.”

  Dr. Brown dug in a closet and pulled out a golf bag. He slipped an expensive bottle of Woodford Reserve bourbon into his side zipper pocket, and Mrs. Brown gave him a questioning look.

  “It’s for Husk. He won last weekend.”

  “Katie Lee,” Mrs. Brown asked, “what happened last night?”

  “We were at Billy Ray’s. Rachael drank the bathtub dew.”

  Dr. Brown’s drivers were encased beneath blue-knitted-socks. He pulled one off and inspected the wood. “The Rays still make that?” Dr. Brown asked. “I thought the sheriff closed Ray Senior’s still down.”