Dad's bent up in a pile on the ground.
I would go over and see if he's all right, but that will just embarrass him. A mid-life crisis is what I figure. That reasonable man rode my sister's pink bicycle off the porch and the only thing that makes sense to me is that it was a mid-life crisis. He landed good, it was a three feet drop off, but the shift of his weight made him topple right over. He isn't moving now, but I think that's just so the neighbors won't see him as they walk by.
I have business to do, that being to write a letter to my cousin. Joe is his name and he lives in Thurston, 45 minutes away. I step over Dad and pretend I don't notice him as I head into the house.
"Go" is all I hear when I close the door and I take off as fast as I can. I tear through the kitchen with my boots still on, pieces of mud flying in the air in back of me. Can't make the turn into the living room, run into the kitchen table, bounce off it, still running for all I've got. I look back and see that crazy face of my mother looking ghostly on top of her black clothes, her teeth in a crazy grin, rope in her hands. I run. She runs faster. I leap over the sofa; she dives in the air. I'm knocked to the ground from full flight. She's on top of me quicker than I can see her, and the rope and her hands are just dancing in the air. Before I know it, my wrists and ankles are tied in a bunch like any good old calf.
"Run faster next time," she says and walks away.
Mom is serious about everything she does, and she practices just the same. Ever since she lost to Jerry Folca last year in team penning, it's been hell around the house.
"8-02-03" I write, after I wiggle to the coffee table and knock down the pencil and pad I set on it earlier. I'm careful not to spill the pile of pieces of my toy robot that's up there. All the pieces come rolling down anyway. Someone took it apart and I haven't had time to put it all together yet. I try not to breathe, because one can breathe in a mouthful of dust, lying there with a cheek against the carpet. Seems like we've all been swallowing dirt lately.
My hands are so far away from my body I have to make the letters big so I can see them, but I write on.
I was going to write more but my paper disappeared under a lot of pounds of dog. It's Wilfred, and he's been spending time with Sis. His pink bonnet is on his head and a pearl necklace, fake of course, droops off his neck like his long ears. He looks at me with those big sorry eyes, and I want to help him. But I think he understands. It's tough to know how to help others when you're all tied up tight. "Oh Wiiiilllfreeed." At the sound of her voice he puts his head down. It's good for Sis to have her fun playing and all, but you just can't be messing with his pride like that. He's a beagle.
Since I can't get free on my own, which I don't think is even possible after Mom goat-ties you up tight like that, someone always comes around and lets me loose at 4 o'clock because that's chore time. A lot of times it takes a few people to unwind all that twine. Be wary in the morning lest it be a long day. That's a proverb. Farming hasn't been real good of late. And you can tell. Things are different than a couple of years ago. Mom doesn't go to the opera anymore, but spends a lot of time going through coupons. Ever since the milk price dropped Dad is always fixing things just for them to break in a couple of days again. He never buys beer anymore, but Sis and me still get a candy bar when he goes to town. No one will play with Sis. At the playground once I heard Cynthia Taylor's mom say when she didn't know I was behind her that we were white trash. Of course, no one dared to play with Sis anyway. She's a bit rough. It's Wilfred's cross to bear.
A couple days later I'm sitting on top the haybine and Dad's underneath it with tools. I have my pad of paper next to me and a bucket of wrenches. I'm looking out over the farm and see a bunch of cows sitting together on the side hill. "Dad, when is the milk price going to go back up?" I hear a few clicks and tinks of metal and a small curse.
"Five-eighths."
"What?"
"Give me a five-eights wrench, Boy." I dig in the bucket and hold one close to my face so I can see the numbers. I drop it off the side of the roof and an arm shoots out from underneath the machine and grabs it from the air. Didn't even touch the ground. "In a jig," he says. "It will when it will."
"If it will."
"Thirteen-sixteenths."
I look in the bucket and then shake it up a little. "Aint any."
"Don't much matter. There's sine that'll save a man quicker than that." It goes kind of quiet for a while and I just kind of sit there thinking.
"The teacher at school says "sine" aint a real word. Said if you mean to say "something," you have to say it."
"Functionality, Son."
I whisper the word to myself. It's a big one. I flick away a grasshopper that was crawling all over my paper.
"Dad?"
"That's me."
"Does it ever get you afraid? The milk price, I mean." It's quite for a little bit again. I think he might have forgot the question. I can here him grunt as he shifts the way he's laying under there. Then there's a creaking, like his tools are back working.
"Sometimes I get scared that I don't have the vim and verve to handle it all these days. That it has taken too much out of me and I don't have the juice I used to. That's all."
"Dad?"
"Yeah."
"I locked up the bicycle."
"You're a good son."
"I know."
He crawls out from under the haybine and stands up. There's something in his mouth and he smiles. He spits out a nut. Thirteen-sixteenths.
It's August 8th, 2003 and it's a big day. First we all go to church. It's alright. Except that we get there too early and have to wait outside until the collection plate is already passed. Now there's a family picnic up at our pond. Joe is going to be there, and his parents too. Also our grandparents, and neighbors, and a few odds and ends of the relation. And who else might show up. You just can never tell.
Our family has to get at the pond first, since it is our pond and it's only a bit up the road from us. We get the fire going and make sure whoever enjoyed the site last but wasn't supposed to didn't leave any beer cans or 4-wheeler tracks under the pavilion. It isn't long before people start rolling in and the place is plain covered with folks, many that I don't know. I swear strangers stop in just for a free meal and something to do on a Sunday. I think that's cool.
Joe and his family are the last to arrive. He runs over and stuffs a handful of small tubes in my one pocket and a lighter in the other. I hand him a burlap bag. "Why you want a dead woodchuck hide?" I ask him. "I mean, the guts will be gone. That's the good part."
"To you it's doesn't seem like anything special since you live in the country. To a towney here, it's pretty sweet. Could be fun." He looks around and smiles big. "This could be fun."
"Appreciate it. Can't do it without you."
A hand grabs the back of my neck.
"Hi, Wilfred!" It's my grandma. She shakes me from her firm grip like she means it. I'm pretty sure she didn't notice anything peculiar since she didn't even notice my name isn't Wilfred. She is a nice enough lady as long as your thinking didn't fight with hers.
The men all sit under the big maple tree talking about the Bills and taxes and TV shows. It's obvious who my father, the ol' farmer, is. They all came in shorts, but he is the one with bright white legs that didn't get no sun under those working man's jeans. Mom is walking around the pond with her sister Jackie. She's wringing a piece of baling twine in her hands like she does sometimes to relax. She too catches the eye with her black turtleneck and black jeans on this warm occasion. I can't remember when she took up such a sad color, but it wasn't that long ago.
A white van with a big "3" on its sides comes bumbling into the driveway. Out pops Eagle Johnson from the evening news. Joe and me wink at each other as he slips through the crowd. Eagle Johnson is striding up in big steps with his hair all slicked back and his gray suit so stiff that it doesn't bend when he walks: it snaps. He snaps too, at the cameraman who's waddling behind him with a whole mess of wires and stuff on him. I rush out to Eagle while everyone else whispers real low among themselves and try to pretend like they're not talking about him.
"Where are they?" he says as he's striding at me. "I have to get to a two-headed pig up in Eerie County before sunset."
"Well now, Sir. What be your pleasure?" I say.
"Someone called me and said there was a pair of Siamese twins. Where are they, because I have got to be heading out shortly."
"You might be mistaken, Sir. You probably, well...oh I know. I must have said 'I aim to please my kins' and you thought something different. Well, that's ok. I'm going to forgive you. But listen, there is something you got to see." I motion him to lean in closer. He does a little. "This place...haunted." I whisper the last word and make it sound scary. "You have to see it for yourself!"
"What? Haunted? Is this a joke?" He rubs his hair back.
"No sir! Just follow me."
I lead him into the cluster of people. Everyone stares at him from above their Styrofoam plates, though grandma, standing there under the tree, tries less harder to not look obvious as she squints and strains her head at him through her big-eyed glasses. His cameraman lags back behind and puts his hands on his knees when he gets to us. I think he might collapse in the grass being so winded, but he doesn't. We just stand there. Eagle Johnson doesn't look like he believed me as he stands there, looking all sour, and he is just about to start back to the van when red and pulpy liquid falls from the maple tree. It does not land innocently in the grass underneath it like it was supposed to, but blood and inside stuff spills into the top of Grandma's big cotton-candy hair and runs down her face. "Holy Spank!" I yell, with more believability than I had planned. Everyone drops their plates and jaws and those who were standing close to Grandma aren't in a split second. I look at Eagle Johnson's expression but don't like what I see. He isn't fazed.
Just then our ghost comes out from behind the tree. "Oh my Gosh! Not a ghost!" I yell, and try to look out of the corner of my eye to see if the camera is rolling. I thought for sure Eagle Johnson would want to do a story about our pond and we'd be rich because then we would be real famous. It wouldn't matter if the milk price never rose again. We'd be back to normal and we'd be happy. We'd be on TV. Mom could hire someone to practice on.
The ghost waddles out in between people, he stands only a few feet high, and is pretty long. He's in a white sheet of course, because that's how ghosts look. It's a little pink from when Mom washed it with her underwear on mistake. I back away fast as I can when it gets close, trying to seem like I am scared for my life. The cameraman is filming its movements but Eagle Johnson just smirks. Suddenly the ghost barked at me and meandered over to where the woodchuck guts had spilled.
This couldn't have gone any worse. We need a big finale.
While everyone all watches Wilfred lick up woodchuck insides I take the small tubes out of my pockets. I spot Joe leaning against the tree and give him a look that means "distract." He stands up straight and looks from one side to another, trying to figure out what to do. I can see he's panicking. He's looks at me helpless. Finally he just sticks his hand down his throat and starts to gag. Everyone is taken by all the colors that come up. I light the tubes and toss them behind me into the pond, real careful, making sure no one will notice. I wait for what seems like hours, knowing this will be my last chance to prove to Eagle that this place was haunted and for us to make some money off it. Once he sees the spirits rising out of the water like they will he can't help but to believe it and the story is ours. But it takes a long time. I pace around. It takes a real long time. I pull hard on my hair, and some does come out, and I bite my nails, and I wait, and I hope.
Suddenly there's an explosion with noise and light. Colors are flying everywhere. The sky is lit up in sparks and the firecrackers shoot off from the shore of the pond. Everyone hits the dirt as a spinning disk, called "Madame in Bliss" on the package, shoots through the air screaming loud. My dad ducks but my grandma does not. The disk sticks in her hair beehive and makes a low grinding noise and smoke as it can't spin no more. She stands there, with her hands on her hip, staring at me as the saucer is still whining.
All I wanted was for us to get a story on TV and get some money so we could be happy. But I failed. I don't suspect that there will be any candy bars and operas tomorrow. I failed bad and what's worse, this will take a while to clean up.
"This is enough," says Eagle Johnson. I don't even say anything. He starts to walk away with his cameraman trying to keep up with him.
"It's been a real time," says Joe's father.
Dad takes out his jackknife and stabs a pear slice off his plate. "There's always sine happening at this place," he says, chuckling.
Eagle Johnson stops walking. He looks surprised, finally. Or at least like he's thinking. "What did you say?"
"I said it can be pretty crazy here." With Dad saying it, it looks like Eagle Johnson might actually believe me. My palms start to sweat.
"No, before that. That was some honest backwoods diction. I was always planning to do a piece on the culture of a low socioeconomic living. Troy, get the camera rolling." The cameraman sighs and turns around. "So I assume you are all involved in agriculture?"
The teacher said "sine" aint in the Webster Book, but that don't mean we don't all know what it means. Not sure what the big deal is. I almost stand up and say "functionality!"
The cameraman jerks up his shoulder so he can get the equipment settled better. Chords hang off him like they were twine off an old, rotten bale. He flips a switch from somewhere in the tangled mess and the machine makes a low whistling sound for a quick moment. There is a click as he pops the black plastic off the lens.
My father stands up. "Sir, I'd appreciate it if you'd kindly remove that camera from my face."
"This is great," says Eagle. The camera sweeps over all of us, even poor Grandma. "Look at these simple folk!"
Dad is not appreciating this. He bites on hard to the pear and keeps the blade gripped in his teeth after he swallows. I know that he won't use the knife on this man because it would be too easy and not fair, and so does he. He slips it back into his pocket slowly. He takes a big breath.
"Sir, this is the last time. We don't take kindly to people intruding on us like this. I'm gonna warn you this—"
"This is Primetime, Baby!" Eagle doesn't stop.
It's obvious when Dad had too much. The vein under his ear pops out and he starts shaking like he can't help it. He takes a step closer and I think he might actually hit him. Looking back, I think Eagle Johnson would have wished he would. What came next put quite a stain on his career.
"Honey!" My dad yells. Then he looks at Johnson. "Go."
I cringed because I saw her coming before anyone else did, and Joe moved out of the way because he heard the stories. She was coming along the pond just like lightning and she put her shoulder into Eagle Johnson so fast and so hard that he was still trying to finish his sentence while he was up flying through the air. The piece of balling twine she had with her got around his ankles and wrists like nothing Jerry Folca had ever seen before. The whole place wanted to help. Joe pulled a wad of grass from the ground and stuffed it between his jaws. Grandma was bent down rubbing her bloody hair all up in his face and Sis was tying a tutu around his waist. Aunts and Uncles and friends and strangers all stood over him, making sure he wasn't going to go nowhere. He was wiggling around trying to scream and we were all laughing. The camera showed Dad, Mom, me and Sis, and Wilfred with our arms around each other and Eagle Johnson flopping around like a crazy 'ol calf.
The milk price didn't change after that day, but I'd say we all did. No one rode off the porch in a pink bike and no one else ever got goat-tied (unless you asked first). Mom put on a white shirt the next day. She hadn't gone to the opera yet, but she said that was okay. We spent a lot more time up at the pond, enjoying things. I never forgot that day, or all those people up there. Now I always say "many hands make light work," and then someone else would say "of Eagle Johnson," and we'd all laugh. If we ever needed another laugh we get out the tape about the farm family with a low socioeconomic background. It was primetime.