Hick - Andrea Portes [17]
And maybe something about the look on my face or the shoveling of rump roast or the quickness of courses and asking for seconds, maybe something about the two pieces of pie and wanting three, maybe something about the quiet around the table when I look up and see the schoolteacher staring down, furrowing a line between her brow, makes for a knock on my front door the next day.
That little schoolteacher with paper skin comes walking over, through the weeds and up our rickety steps, framing herself in the front door, with a worried look on her forehead and a bag of Tupperware weighing down her spindly pencil arm.
It was not the best time to make a house-call.
In fact, maybe just never make a house-call next time.
This is what happened. There was the little problem of Tammy being out all night the night before, no explanation, no nothing, just not back at noon the next day and mind your own business, don’t ask questions. That was the first part.
The second part was that, as the hours dragged by from night into late night into early morning into the next goddamn day and still nothing cocksucker, my dad went from having a shot of Jack to pass the time to having a shot of Jack to take the edge off to having a shot to calm his nerves and then another to calm the fuck down and Jesus Christ where the fuck is my wife and where the fuck is your goddamn mother and then the bottle gets empty and then the bottle gets thrown and the dad is sitting on the stairs with his head in his hands sobbing. Sobbing.
And that’s when the knock comes.
it’s not the police with a sad, tragic but earnest report about the whereabouts of my mama. it’s not Uncle Nipper and Aunt Gina stumbling in with Tammy in tow, talking about it was a rough night and you should have been there you’d never believe it. In fact, it’s got nothing to do with Tammy at all.
It is, instead, a paper-thin spindle of a thing with skin the color of glue, standing squint-eyed in the doorway.
My dad peeks through the side window, jolts and cleans up his act, throwing back his shoulders and taking his place with a casual cowboy lean before opening the door. You better just prepare yourself to answer doors in my house.
She stands there, the schoolteacher, she stands there, looking up at him, big and gruff and mean and tall and leaning in like the Marlboro man. She stands there, stammering, looking up at him, up all night and smelling of whiskey and looking like he’s itching for a fight, just give him a reason. She stands there, the schoolteacher, no bigger than a thimble, in her scuffed-up Buster Brown shoes.
“Um. Hello. Um. My name is Miss Crisp. I teach at Luli’s school and, well, we had dinner the other night, last night, We had a wonderful time, really, and so, well, I thought I’d bring Luli some leftovers, just in case she—”
And then he kisses her.
That’s right. My dad grabs Miss Crisp by the waist, pulls her off her feet and kisses her on the mouth for ten seconds straight, with her legs dangling from his forearm.
The bag of Tupperware falls to the floor, forget about the Tupperware, no one’s thinking about that now. Now it’s just my dad whisking the little brown-haired wisp of a schoolteacher off her feet when she went to a school with no vowels and no men, that’s for damn sure, that’s the way they want it.
Now it’s just him setting her back down on the ground, easy, still looking into her eyes, her backing up, stunned, flummoxed, dizzy. Now it’s just her composing herself, smoothing down her sweater, backing up, backing up, flustered and blushing, turning around, stymied, making her way, barely, down the steps, through the weeds and back home.
Now it’s just him looking after her, my dad, looking after her, smiling to himself and shaking his head, following her with his eyes all the way down the steps and up the dirt road. He laughs