Read Online Creola's Moonbeam by Milam McGraw Propst - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Milam McGraw Propst
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all right to invite the boy. The boss man shouted loudly up to the rooftop. The nasty nose-picker replied. He was the child’s adult cousin. He immediately gave his enthusiastic, “I reckon.”
Our children charged out of the kitchen door, ready to go.
“Where’s the kid, Mom?” asked Butlar.
The boy was relieving himself on an outdoor bench. As he zipped his fly, he challenged, “Over here, but what’s it to you, asswipe?”
The two boys bristled. Mary Catherine looked at me and rolled her eyes.
Somehow — it’s a blur — I got everyone loaded into the station wagon and headed out to the children’s favorite playground-restaurant. I repeated to myself, “This will be fine, it’s a kind thing to do. This will be fine; it’s a kind thing to do. This will be fine, it’s a kind thing to do.” All the while, I kept my eyes fixed on the rearview mirror and focused firmly on our guest. Like a mother lion, I knew instinctively, to fear for my own.
My second mistake was in going to an establishment with a playground. We ordered our breakfast and sat down at a picnic table to eat. The meal lasted maybe four minutes. On an up note, the boy’s table manners made the Newberry offspring appear almost Victorian in demeanor.
I gathered the trash and mopped up the spilled orange juice.
“You’re messy,” Butlar told our guest.
“Eat my dust, butthead,” replied the urchin.
“Don’t even think about it,” I warned Butlar, who looked at the boy with lethal intent. ”Go play.”
The two boys leapt over tables and chairs en route to the play area. “Last one there’s a fart face,” said a young male voice sounding oddly like my darling son.
Another mother glared at me. I blanched. “Sorry, we’re just real excited.”
Mary Catherine rolled her eyes and followed the boys at a discreet distance. Sitting back down, I sipped my coffee. Okay, I can see them. Besides, what can happen? It’s a fenced-in area with safe equipment and several of us adults are watching .
For the moment, the boys seemed to be playing together in a civilized manner. Mary Catherine was swinging quietly. The coffee was pretty good for fast food.
Not twenty seconds passed. “ Maamaa, ” shouted an unfamiliar voice.
I, along with all the other grownups, made a mad dash toward the sounds of distress. I found Butlar pulling our guest off of a pleading child.
“Good for you, Butlar,” I said with sincere gratitude and pride. I took the arm of the roofer’s child and commanded him to apologize to his hysterical victim.
“Hell no, ma’am,” he snarled.
In a voice that came from the deep dark depths of my anger, I gritted my teeth and strengthened my hold on his arm. “Oh, yes, little boy, yes, you will.”
His red hair on end, he steadied his feet. “I ain’t gonna.”
“You are, too, gonna.” I held him in a death grip in front of the sniffling child.
“Ain’t.”
Mary Catherine tugged on my sweatshirt. “Mom, our kid spit on that little boy.”
“Any clue why?”
“Our kid said ‘the jerk is talking weird.’”
“Weird?”
“I think he could be talking French or something.”
Our guest snorted. “Yeah, it was foreign talk, all right!” The boy tried to break free of my grasp. “Let me at him! He’s a weirdo!”
I pointed to our car. Emphasizing each word and all but spitting out my teeth, I commanded, “ Go ! All three of you, get in the car ! And do it now!”
They obeyed.
I couldn’t drive home fast enough. Not a single word was spoken. Once there, my two children scattered to far reaches of our neighborhood, where they remained for the duration of the day’s roofing job. I watched as the small sociopath bragged about “taking care of the foreign dude” to his grown cousin, the skinny man, who puffed up proudly.
There must have been something harmful in the family’s water supply.
Later that night, Mary Catherine slyly asked if any more roofer kids were coming to play the
Our children charged out of the kitchen door, ready to go.
“Where’s the kid, Mom?” asked Butlar.
The boy was relieving himself on an outdoor bench. As he zipped his fly, he challenged, “Over here, but what’s it to you, asswipe?”
The two boys bristled. Mary Catherine looked at me and rolled her eyes.
Somehow — it’s a blur — I got everyone loaded into the station wagon and headed out to the children’s favorite playground-restaurant. I repeated to myself, “This will be fine, it’s a kind thing to do. This will be fine; it’s a kind thing to do. This will be fine, it’s a kind thing to do.” All the while, I kept my eyes fixed on the rearview mirror and focused firmly on our guest. Like a mother lion, I knew instinctively, to fear for my own.
My second mistake was in going to an establishment with a playground. We ordered our breakfast and sat down at a picnic table to eat. The meal lasted maybe four minutes. On an up note, the boy’s table manners made the Newberry offspring appear almost Victorian in demeanor.
I gathered the trash and mopped up the spilled orange juice.
“You’re messy,” Butlar told our guest.
“Eat my dust, butthead,” replied the urchin.
“Don’t even think about it,” I warned Butlar, who looked at the boy with lethal intent. ”Go play.”
The two boys leapt over tables and chairs en route to the play area. “Last one there’s a fart face,” said a young male voice sounding oddly like my darling son.
Another mother glared at me. I blanched. “Sorry, we’re just real excited.”
Mary Catherine rolled her eyes and followed the boys at a discreet distance. Sitting back down, I sipped my coffee. Okay, I can see them. Besides, what can happen? It’s a fenced-in area with safe equipment and several of us adults are watching .
For the moment, the boys seemed to be playing together in a civilized manner. Mary Catherine was swinging quietly. The coffee was pretty good for fast food.
Not twenty seconds passed. “ Maamaa, ” shouted an unfamiliar voice.
I, along with all the other grownups, made a mad dash toward the sounds of distress. I found Butlar pulling our guest off of a pleading child.
“Good for you, Butlar,” I said with sincere gratitude and pride. I took the arm of the roofer’s child and commanded him to apologize to his hysterical victim.
“Hell no, ma’am,” he snarled.
In a voice that came from the deep dark depths of my anger, I gritted my teeth and strengthened my hold on his arm. “Oh, yes, little boy, yes, you will.”
His red hair on end, he steadied his feet. “I ain’t gonna.”
“You are, too, gonna.” I held him in a death grip in front of the sniffling child.
“Ain’t.”
Mary Catherine tugged on my sweatshirt. “Mom, our kid spit on that little boy.”
“Any clue why?”
“Our kid said ‘the jerk is talking weird.’”
“Weird?”
“I think he could be talking French or something.”
Our guest snorted. “Yeah, it was foreign talk, all right!” The boy tried to break free of my grasp. “Let me at him! He’s a weirdo!”
I pointed to our car. Emphasizing each word and all but spitting out my teeth, I commanded, “ Go ! All three of you, get in the car ! And do it now!”
They obeyed.
I couldn’t drive home fast enough. Not a single word was spoken. Once there, my two children scattered to far reaches of our neighborhood, where they remained for the duration of the day’s roofing job. I watched as the small sociopath bragged about “taking care of the foreign dude” to his grown cousin, the skinny man, who puffed up proudly.
There must have been something harmful in the family’s water supply.
Later that night, Mary Catherine slyly asked if any more roofer kids were coming to play the
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