Evangeline (7 page)

“Hey, Soup.  Try not to be such a douche, okay?” said Caleb. 

“Too late,” said the girl with the guitar, eliciting chuckles from the group. 

Susan Weaver patted the boy’s head.  “Poor little Soupy.  Nobody loves him.”

“Jesus loves me,” Soup pouted.

“He’s the only one,” deadpanned Caleb

The friends laughed some more and continued poking fun at each other and Angeline began to relax.  With the attention off her, the girl actually found herself enjoying their good-natured banter.  In her own painful experience she’d seldom known anything but harsh words and cruel intent. 

In time her gaze found Caleb, smiling back at her through the dancing flames.  He hoisted his beer in tribute, took a pull on the bottle, then looked beyond her and the smile dropped from his face.  Angeline turned to follow his gaze. 

A red pickup was pulling onto the property. 

“Oh, shit,” muttered Soup.  “There goes the party.”

“Why can’t those jerks hang out with their own friends?” said Susan Weaver. 

Soup lifted a Styrofoam cooler.  “They don’t have any friends.”

“Yeah, but why do they have to come here?”     

“Because they’re fuckin’ ball busters, that’s why,” replied Soup, toting the cooler toward the house. 

Caleb suddenly had Angeline by the arm.  “C’mon, let’s take a walk.”

As he led Sister from the fire, she tossed a glance over her shoulder.  Two barrel-chested teens with shaved heads were emerging from the truck. 

“Who are they?” asked Angeline.

“The Browers,” he answered.  “Skinheads from up near Verdel.   Nobody you’d wanna meet, trust me.” 

Angeline followed the boy around the side of the house into a field of alfalfa that glowed in the moonlight like a pond of silver.

“Where are we going?” she asked as she trailed him through the tall grass.

Caleb drained his bottle of beer.  “Visiting some old friends,” he told her, before whipping the empty at the side of the house, shattering it against the rotted shingles.  “C’mon.  They’re over this way.”      

“Is Susan Weaver your girlfriend?” Sister awkwardly blurted out.

Subtlety was a social skill Angeline had yet to master.  But if the boy caught the drift of that ham-fisted question, he never let on-- either too drunk, too stoned or too kind to embarrass her. 

“Susan?  Nah.  I’ve known her since second grade.  We’re friends, that’s all,” he said as they pushed through more alfalfa and entered the backyard.  “Hey, my ride’s passed out in the house.  If I get your truck out of the mud, could you give me a lift home later?” 

The question caught Sister by surprise.  The prospect of spending time alone with Caleb was both thrilling and terrifying-- a combination that seized the girl’s mind.  

“It’s just a few miles from your place… over in Mineola,” Caleb added after she failed to respond.  “That okay with you?”

“Yes,” Angeline finally croaked.

“Cool,” he said, then gestured toward the unopened bottle she was carrying.  “You plan on drinking that?”

Angeline had forgotten about the beer.  With no interest in alcohol, she offered it freely.  

“Thanks,” said Caleb, before wading a few yards further and crouching in the waist high grass.  “Here they are,” he announced. 

Angeline stepped closer and found herself in a small family cemetery, overgrown by alfalfa.  Caleb rested his back against one of five weathered gravestones and said, “Meet our hosts, Angel.  The Mohr family.”  He popped the cap off his beer with the edge of a disposable lighter and took a long pull before waving the bottle toward the headstones.

“Over there is Elizabeth… who died in 1862 when she was thirty-seven.  Next to her is daughter Katie, who never made it past the age of three.  And that’s little Michael.”  Caleb was pointing to a small headstone with a lamb carved on top that had broken at the base and toppled into the grass.  “That kid never made it past his birth day… and he took mommy with him.” 

Caleb leaned from the marker he’d been sitting against.  “Must’ve sucked for Pete here.  But you gotta give him credit, man.  The dude kept going for another forty-three years.  Right up until…” he read the inscription… “December 19th, 1905.” 

Caleb swigged the beer and turned to Angeline.  “We’ve all got an expiration date, you know?  Like hamburger.  Someday they’ll carve ours in stone, too… just like the Mohrs.”  He hoisted the bottle in tribute.  “Here’s to you and the family, Pete.  Thanks for having us.” 

The boy took another drink then gazed thoughtfully around the family plot.  “Sometimes I wonder what kind of people they were, you know?  What they looked like, talked like.  How they got here.  Why they even came.”  He turned and slapped the headstone behind him.  “I’ll bet ol’ Pete was a farmer… probably used to plow all this land around here.” He glanced at Angeline.  “Your old man was a farmer, too, wasn’t he?”

“He owned a farm.  Buh-buh-but Daddy was never m-m-much for farming.  He wah-was more for fixing things.”  

“Oh, yeah?  Like what?”

“Cars and such.”

Caleb took a sip from the bottle and thought a moment.  “Tell me more about him.” 

“Well.  He wah-was always good to me.   And he liked to sing.  Muh-mmmostly songs when I wah-was young.”

“Do you remember any?”

“Some.”

“Sing me one.”

Angeline glanced away with a shy smile, shaking her head. 

“C’mon, girl.  Don’t be like that.  Let me hear those pipes,” Caleb prodded.

But Sister wasn’t much for entertaining.  Too bad, because the girl could sing.  Her voice was pleasant and remarkably clean, without a hint of the stutter that butchered everyday conversation. 

After an awkward silence Caleb realized she wasn’t changing her mind.  “Well, anyway… sounds like your dad was a good man,” he said.  “Too bad you got stuck with Deputy Douchebag, huh?”  He took another pull on the bottle then added halfheartedly, “Sorry.  I probably shouldn’t have said that.”

“That’s okay.  I don’t like him mmmuch either,” Angeline admitted.

This brought a smile to Caleb’s face.  “Well, guess he couldn’t be any worse than my old man.  Although technically he wasn’t really mine.  More like some drunken asshole who gave me his name.” 

“I’m sorry ab… ab… abow…” 

Angeline had become stuck, so Caleb skipped ahead for her.  “Don’t be sorry.  I hated that prick.  If you want to know the truth, it was a relief when he killed himself.” 

Most everyone that lived in that corner of Holt County knew the story of Dan Quinn, the man who perished at the railroad crossing in Mineola.  Some had questioned why his truck was parked on the rails when the gates came down.  After all, Mr. Quinn was from the neighborhood and knew the danger-- knew those trains ran all the time during harvest season, hauling loads from the grain elevators in Dawes County down to the Gulf.  The answer, of course, was obvious to all but the most naïve.  Even Deputy Douchebag was smart enough to know that Dan Quinn had parked on that grade to end his life against the plow of a Burlington Northern and Santa Fe locomotive.

Caleb took another swig of beer and glanced around at the tombstones.  “Anyway, what are you gonna do, huh?  When you get dealt a shit hand, you do your best with what you’ve got.  I’m sure that’s what Pete did when his wife and kids died.  He kept going, right?  That’s how I look at it, anyway.” 

He drained the rest of the bottle then hauled himself to his feet with the aid of Peter Mohr’s headstone.  “Life’s all about the passion, Angel,” he said.  “It’s like Jim Morrison said…” he paused and glanced at Sister.  “You know Morrison?”

“Does he g-g-go to Willowdale?”

“No, man… Morrison’s not... never mind.”  Caleb thrust his empty bottle toward the night sky and proclaimed in the husky growl of a dead rock n’ roller, “I don’t know what’s gonna happen, man, but I wanna have my kicks before the whole shithouse goes up in flames.”  Then he pumped his bottle in the air and shouted, “Alright, alright, alright!”

From a dark stand of trees behind the house a voice shouted back, “Fuckin’ A right!”  

A skinny silhouette stumbled from the brush, zipping his fly.  

“Soup!” Caleb shouted. 

“Quinny!” Soup shouted back.

“Soup’s a funny bastard,” Caleb said to Angeline as his drunk friend stumbled away.  “His old man and mine used to build houses together.” 

“Wah… why do you call him Soup?  Buh-because he likes soup?”

“No.  Because his last name is Campbell.”

Angeline giggled at this… and the sound was startling.

Friends, I swear to you I’d never heard my sister laugh before.  Not even a snicker.  And she looked just as shocked as I was, because the girl slapped a hand over her mouth as if she’d burped-- which immediately got Caleb laughing.

“Holy shit!” he hooted, pointing his finger at her.  “You should see the look on your face.” 

A sudden rush of heat flushed Angeline’s cheeks.  She sat there absorbing his laughter for a long moment before suddenly jumping to her feet and rushing off through the alfalfa.

“Hey, wait a second,” Caleb called after her.  “What’s wrong?”

“I want to go home,” she shouted back without turning.  

Maybe that boy was baffled by my sister’s mood swing, but I sure wasn’t.  Angeline had been the target of laughter much of her life.  Her reaction was instinctive.  Was the girl being overly sensitive?  Perhaps.  But had you spent time in Angeline’s shoes, maybe you’d understand.  

It didn’t take lon
g
to get the F-100 unstuck from the mire.  Caleb sat behind the wheel, alternately shifting the Ford-O-Matic transmission between forward and reverse, rocking the truck from its hole while five of his buddies pushed from behind. 

“I think it’s coming!” shouted one, spitting mud from his mouth.

“That’s what she said!” shouted another as the pickup lurched free. 

Caleb drove out of the hayfield and onto the oil road where Angeline was waiting.  He hopped out with the motor running and Angeline climbed in to take his place. 

“I wasn’t laughing at you, you know,” he said, holding the door open.

“I know,” she answered, sounding contrite.  “Thank you for helping m-m-me.”

He closed the door and backed away.  Angeline reached for the shifter, hesitated, then rolled the window down.  “Do you still need a ride?” she said, nearly swallowing the words.  “I’ll d-d-drive you home… if you still wah-want mmm-me to.”

Caleb considered the offer then called to his friends who were crossing the road on their way back to the Mohr’s.  

“Hey, Soup!” 

The mud-spattered boy turned. 

“I’m out of here, man,” said Caleb.  “If Meat wakes up tell him I got a ride.”  

Soup raised a hand.  “You got it, buddy.  See you Monday.” 

Caleb came around to the passenger’s side and was climbing into the cab when one of the Brower boys (those party crashin’ skinheads from Knox County) shouted from over near the fire, “Hey, Quinn.  If you’re gonna hit that thing, throw a bag over her head!”

“Bag it and tag it!” laughed the idiot beside him.  The Hitler youth tapped beer cans to toast their comedic genius.   

Caleb ignored them and climbed into the cab.  As soon as the door was shut, Angeline threw the Ford into gear and drove off through a light fog that was creeping in from the west.  The two rode in silence for a time until Caleb pulled a joint from his shirt pocket. 

“Mind if I smoke this?” 

She shook her head and Caleb tucked it between his lips.  “Listen,” he said, digging the lighter from his jeans.  “What those two idiots said back there?  Forget about it, okay?  Here’s all you need to know about the Browers.  They don’t matter.  You’re better than they are, Angel.  Dumb shits like that, the only way they feel better about their own fucked up lives is by shitting on everyone else.”

“Like B-B-Billy.”

“Exactly like Billy.” 

The boy cupped his hands over the joint and lit it with his disposable.  He took a deep breath and held it, then shoved the lighter back in his pocket.  “Listen.  There’s something you need to understand about my family-- something no one else knows, so this stays between us, alright?”  He rolled back his sleeve, exposing what looked like burn marks up and down the forearm.  “See this?  This was my old man’s idea of discipline.  He’d hold your arm over the stove and turn on the propane.  And if you pulled away, he’d cook it twice as long.”

Angeline had to turn away and Caleb rolled the sleeve down.  “If you caught him on a good day, he’d just make you drop your pants and kneel on frozen peas.  Peas and corn.  Those were Pop’s favorites.  Guess ‘cause they dug into your knees the best.”

The boy cranked down the window to clear the smoke and gazed absently at the thickening fog.  “I’m not making excuses for Billy, okay?  All my bros have done shit that can’t be excused.  But Billy always caught it the worst, and I think it messed up his head.”  Caleb took a thoughtful drag on the joint.  “This one time, when I was maybe six or seven, I watched him saw the head off the neighbor’s cat.”