Deep Fried and Pickled (Book One - The Rachael O'Brien Chronicles) (8 page)

AMEN

We rode through the outskirts of New Bern on narrow roads without traffic lights or stop signs for Patsy to ignore. When someone in the van shouted, “Don’t miss the turn past old man Wright’s,” my chest constricted.
What kind of party could be near old man Wright?
Noticing Patsy’s empty BJ bottle, I determined someone should stay sober enough to lead police to where the body count would be, I didn’t drink in the van and couldn’t help but fixate on the worst-case scenario.

I imagined a police report in the local paper:
Despite deep lacerations, bruises, and broken bones, Rachael O’Brien bravely led the search team through the kudzu-tangled tree line, down a steep slope into the mosquito-infested, stagnant swamp where Dr. Brown’s half-submerged cruiser van sank. The rescue team recovered the bodies of twelve unconscious girls, currently in intensive care at New Bern Medical.

The road tapered to a single lane. Patsy shouted above the music, “Where the hell is Wright’s place?” I stopped daydreaming and sincerely worried that we were lost in back country where there was a high probability of a Sasquatch sighting.

Patsy mumbled, “Shit,” and maneuvered a tight left. The reflection in my side mirror, cast a muted red glow over the hailstorm of pebbles and dirt clumps that pelted the tire wells like a salvo of BB’s.

“Damn it’s dark,” she said, easing her foot off the accelerator and fumbling with the bright beam switch. My odometer of concern rose when Patsy drove into a plowed field. Planting my feet on the floor mat, I braced myself with hands on the dash. Patsy abruptly stopped, cut the engine, and swiveled her seat backwards. In a raspy drawl she announced, “We’re here, y’all.”

As far as I could see, there were parked cars. Beyond the dirt bowl we’d parked in, floodlights illuminated a modest-sized ranch house and a prairie barn. The girls spilled out of the back of the van. I’d underestimated Billy Ray’s. Feeling intimidated I lollygagged in the front seat. “This is an impressive turnout.”

“It’s a small town. Word gets around, and everyone shows up.”

“Who is Billy Ray, anyway?”

Patsy flexed her dimples. “He’s a local we’ve grown up with. His daddy grows a fair amount of tobacco--among other crops.”

She’d baited me, and I wanted to hear more, but a familiar voice called, “Hey y’all, what took so long?”

Katie Lee stood a few feet from the van. She sipped out of a blue plastic cup with Nash at her side. Leaving the driver door open, Patsy hopped out. She zoomed in front of Katie Lee and dangled the keychain in the air. Katie Lee opened her palm and Patsy released her grip.

“You’re worse than a bitch in heat for leavin’ us without a word. I hope you delivered a litter, cause that’s the only excuse I’ll accept from the likes of you.”

Hearing Patsy, Nash blew a high-pitched whistle. Stunned by her directness, I realized I couldn’t recycle her cunning line for I am incapable of the sentence speed and inflection that she possessed as a God-given gift.

“Thanks for abandoning me,” I scolded, secretly thankful that I’d found my roommate. She slipped her arms around Patsy and me. “I’m sorry if I worried y’all. It’s just that Daddy said no Nash in the van, so I rode over with him. Patsy had the keys, and I told Jen to tell y’all to meet us at Billy Ray’s, and here we are. Don’t be mad. I didn’t mean any harm.”

Nash launched a dried cornhusk with the toe of his hiking boot. In an earthly drawl, he said, “So you’re Rachael O’Brien. Katie Lee says you’re a pretty cool roommate considerin’ you’re a Yankee n’ all.”

Receiving a compliment, as well as an insult in the same sentence, unhinged me. Having downed two BJ’s, and inhaling Patsy’s second hand hooch smoke unleashed my verbal inhibitions and I told Nash, “Blow your civil war bullshit out your ass.”

Patsy barked a chortle and offered me a cigarette. Nash wiggled the fingers of his open palm, and she sacrificed one to him. Before I asked for a match, Nash cupped his hand near my face and flicked a silver, butane lighter. I needed the night air and the nicotine fix to center myself. Hoisting my backside onto a tailgate, I listened to Patsy talk about some guy named Rex. “Lord, he’s all hat and no cattle.”

“Can you translate?” I asked.

“Rex-is-full-of-himself,” she said, moron slow. Next time, I’d remember to interpret her southern inside my head.

Katie Lee swirled the liquid in her cup. “I hear Jessie Ann Jones is claiming she’s carryin’. And Drent is the responsible party.”

Patsy puffed her cheeks and mimicked an explosion. “If they ate supper before it was dinnertime, there’s gonna be trouble.”

Nash kicked at a rock in the dirt. Neither of us struck up much conversation, and I suspected we psychoanalyzed one another forming those first, often lasting impressions. I mobilized my force field, knowing he had the capacity for the kind of trouble I didn’t want.

THE FOUR OF US MOVED away from a smoke-filled, air-current that blew across the field. A sea of sixteen-to-twenty-something-year-olds infested the property. We walked toward a muffled beat that drummed near the house and I realized my premonition about tonight was a complete miss.
Maybe I would meet someone of interest in The Bern.

“Please tell me,” I said, “that there isn’t livestock in that barn.”

With sincerity Nash said, “Are you kiddin’? Cows produce more milk when they hear music. The Rays got federal funding to put up those amps.”

Katie Lee gave his arm a shove. “Nash, stop teasin.’ Rachael is going to get the wrong impression of southerners.” Walking through double-sided sliding doors, we skirted around John Deer tractors and an assortment of giant metal attachments, like the ones I seen in Ohio cornfields, used for plowing and harvesting. Near the back, past stacked hay bails, I saw a beat up Mustang covered in dust, a torn-apart Ford Falcon, and a mint condition, Model A. Patsy led us to the center of the barn where six kegs and one garbage bag lined trash bin rested. A buff guy in a Tulane baseball cap held chew in his bottom lip while he ladled a lime-green drink from the garbage can into plastic cups.

I slid my hands into my pockets and leaned over the liquid in the can. “What’s the concoction?”

“That’s bathtub dew,” Katie Lee said. “Around here, the Ray’s are famous for distilling grain alcohol. But be careful. It goes down easy, but will seriously knock you on your ass.”

“I could use a good ass-knocking,” I said, in what I thought was a whisper.

Among other gifts, Nash had bionic ears. He raised his eyebrows and opened his mouth, but Katie Lee nudged him. “Don’t go there.”

The libation that lurked in the garbage can intrigued me, and I asked Patsy, “Are you having one?”

Patsy motioned her fingers. “Hey Bubba, two dews.” Clinking her cup to mine, she toasted, “Welcome to The Bern.”

Nash passed on the bathtub dew, so I asked, “Why aren’t you having one?”

“Dew is too sweet for my likin,’ but don’t let me stop y’all. Drink up,” he said, pinching a grin.

The bathtub dew had the kind of kick that could stimulate chest hair to sprout under a bra. I managed to sip mine without drawing extra attention to myself, but when Patsy swallowed a gulp, she puckered her face into a wince and let out the biggest holler I’d ever heard. Her yell gathered momentum, and others in the barn shouted their own hoots and yips. My ears rang, and I couldn’t help but link the yelling to a coyote howl after a fresh kill. I elbowed Katie Lee, “What’s Patsy doing?”

“Haven’t ya ever heard a rebel yell?”

Patsy slapped my back. “Let it out darlin’.”

Down here, a need to scream was considered party-etiquette, so I released my vocal cords and belted out a “Yip-yip, yeahhhh-haw.” It felt damn good.

Nash shook his head. “Nice coonhound imitation.”

Katie Lee winked. “You carried that clear outta Craven County.”

Patsy roosted on the tire wheel of a tractor, and I joined her. She pointed out who dated whom, and who had slept with whom. As far as I could tell, New Bern was an exceptionally active town, sexually speaking. I hoped it would increase my chances of meeting someone as hot as the guy in my Psych class. I didn’t tell Patsy my mission but inquired about potential availability of a few cute guys at the party. Seeing someone outside the barn she wanted to talk to, Patsy leapt off the tire. “Come on. I’ll introduce you around.”

“What about Katie Lee and Nash?”

She draped her arm around my neck. “They’ll catch up.”

With a re-fill of dew in our cups, Patsy talked to some friends about the crushing football game and then we relocated to a pair of metal fold out lounge chairs in a strip of mowed yard between the house and barn. A steady stream of introductions acquainted me with most of New Bern.

“Whatcha got on that plate?” Patsy asked someone.

“Billy Ray’s grillin,’” was the reply.

Mid sip, Patsy swatted my arm. “Come with me and say hey to one of New Bern’s finest. I guarantee you’ll never meet anyone like him.”

NOTE TO SELF

Patsy McCoy masterfully expresses the English language in ways I never dreamed possible.

Alcohol referenced as, “bathtub dew” is deceitful. It didn’t taste at all like Mr. Bubble.

Redneck yell--completely therapeutic.

Drinking in the middle of no-man’s-land eliminates the worry of getting into trouble with the law.

7

S
hag,
N
ot
A
C
arpet

I
didn’t have a reason not to go with her, but as we tromped through the high grass, Patsy’s unprovoked giggles made me think this wasn’t the best idea. Walking made me dizzy, and I wished I’d stayed in the lounge chair. Patsy stopped at the commercial-size barbecues and tapped some guy on his shoulder. Above the music, she shouted, “Hey Billy Ray, I want you to meet Rachael, Katie Lee’s roommate.”

Closing the grill cover Billy Ray turned around, and I guessed his age to be a smidge below thirty. He styled his thick hair in a ponytail and wore a small gold loop earring in his left lobe. The missing sleeves from his untucked pink-oxford showed off his T-shirt tan. I’d never seen anyone under fifty wear a bowtie before now. Below the waist, he lost all formality with turquoise plaid Bermuda shorts and drug store flip-flops.

I’d drunk a few BJ’s, two bathtub dews and inhaled waves of nicotine. On top of that, the smoke erupting from the grill stung my eyes and stirred light-headedness. I checked my feet, making sure they stayed on earth, before taking a hard look at this man. I pegged him as having been raised by a fussy mother who’d wished she’d had a girl and a father who snuck around trying to undo all the soft and delicate things his mother taught him. I pressed my fingertips to my lips to jumpstart them. “Nice to meet you, Billy Ray,” I said, motioning my hand in a loose wrist wave.

Billy Ray’s thin lips pursed, and his smile reminded me of the Joker. Reaching inside a beat up Igloo cooler, he reopened the grill and placed bright red meat patties without any visible veins of fat onto the metal grates. “You ladies hungry?”

I gripped Patsy’s arm to steady myself. “What are those?”

“Deer steaks, darlin.’ Shot the buck myself, weekend before last.”

He continued telling us the details of the two rifle shots it took to kill the buck, how long it took him to butcher and clean the animal, and how he carried the meat for ten miles back to his truck. I eat meat, but I don’t have a need to know how it gets to my plate. The conversation sent my stomach into a queasy zone.

After the animal slaughter details, awkwardness lapsed in the conversation, and I watched Billy Ray reposition his grilling spatula into his left hand so he could drain a beer with his right. With bent knees and an arched back, he made a show of aligning the bottom of his plastic cup to the starry sky. When he carelessly crunched the cup and tossed it into the thicket of trees, I was ready to leave. Unfortunately, my exit wasn’t quick enough. He slipped his fingers around mine. With a firm hold, he kissed the back of my hand, dead center, between my fingers and my wrist. I noticed his dirty fingernails, splattered with bright-colored paint. He was the last person I’d peg as an artist and figured he was more likely to detail hot rod flames on one of the cars in the barn.

Billy Ray’s donut eyes appeared glazed, and he spoke in a slur, barely recognizable as English. I turned my ear toward his mouth and strained to understand him. “It’s my sincerest pleasure to meet you, Razzle.”

I pulled back, but he continued holding my hand as though steadying me on a patch of ice. “Rachael. My name is Rachael.”

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.”