counted as a roof and she was just getting ready.
“That ain’t what your old man said when I ran eighty yards against Clemmonsville.” Mr. Hucks pulled off his white beard and threw it onto a big tractor tire. He started unbuttoning the front of the red suit, revealing a dingy white undershirt. “Ain’t what he said when I pitched a no-hitter against Sandy Bluff.” A small boy stared in horror at the stripped-down Santa before releasing a shrill scream and burying his face in his mother’s coat. “No sir, me and Mr. Bo had a fine time that night. Yeah, Mr. Bo was quite the baseball fan.”
“You are not in high school, Mr. Hucks,” she said. “You are not playing ball but serving the public and you are dismissed. If Mr. Poole were here he’d tell you the same.”
“If Mr. Bo were here, he’d say, ‘Well, Beef’”—he paused and spat off to the side—“‘let’s us ride out into the county and see what we can find to drink.’” People laughed nervously and then things got even quieter than before.
“You are a filthy, lying man who cannot even support his family.” Everyone waited, expecting him to hit her or to pull up all those poinsettias, tell all those sniffling children to shut up, something, but he just stood and watched her walk away. When she got to the car, she turned back to the crowd; by then Misty and I had crept up near the office of Goodyear so we’d be near Mr. Rhodes in case a fight broke out. I saw a flash of green and knew she had a pack of Salems in her hand.
Old Merle was red in the face like at school when he gotcalled on, and mothers were dragging their children away so they wouldn’t see Santa Claus weave off to his old beat-up Chevrolet without taking their Christmas orders. He beckoned for Merle to follow but it was like Merle hadn’t even noticed, just stood there kicking the side of that tire and making the poinsettias shake. His hair was just as slick and dirty-looking as it had been at school the day before, when he won the fifty-yard dash, and he was wearing those same black jeans, way too short, that he wore nearly every day of the fifth grade. It was like he didn’t even see his daddy there waving to him, and we knew Merle was just waiting and hoping that somebody would say something so he could beat that person up.
“Now, dear people of Fulton,” Mrs. Poole announced, her mouth like a tight fuchsia line. “I am going to get the REAL Santa Claus. Mr. Landell?” He opened her door and off they went. Within two hours, she was back with a big fat Santa Claus from the Clemmonsville mall, who spent the next week taking orders and giving away candy and reminding everyone that Christmas was to celebrate Jesus’ birth and not to get all carried away with a Big Wheel or Barbie or such. If he forgot to say all of that, Mrs. Poole was there often enough to remind him. Misty’s daddy said he couldn’t wait for Christmas to come and go, he was so tired of dealing with her.
Nobody in fifth grade mentioned Merle’s daddy getting fired, but who would’ve? Merle said he kept a switchblade in his scratched-up mock-leather boot, and since he was a Hucks, nobody had a reason to doubt it. “My old man should’ve punched the shit out of that bitch,” he finally said, and all the boys in class nodded in agreement. They knew better than to disagree. Merle had been caught drinking a beer up in a tree on the school yard the year before, and we had heard many times how Dexter Hucks had put a firecracker up a cat’s butt and blown it to bits. I used to go to great pains to keep my own cat from roaming outof the yard, fearful of what would happen if he wound up on the wrong side of the kudzu.
It was still pouring down rain when I went out on the upstairs sleeping porch and tuned my radio to the local station so that I could hear Mrs. Poole’s advertisement. The rain misted through the screen mesh as I sat on the glider, my knees pulled up to my chest. There was one
“That ain’t what your old man said when I ran eighty yards against Clemmonsville.” Mr. Hucks pulled off his white beard and threw it onto a big tractor tire. He started unbuttoning the front of the red suit, revealing a dingy white undershirt. “Ain’t what he said when I pitched a no-hitter against Sandy Bluff.” A small boy stared in horror at the stripped-down Santa before releasing a shrill scream and burying his face in his mother’s coat. “No sir, me and Mr. Bo had a fine time that night. Yeah, Mr. Bo was quite the baseball fan.”
“You are not in high school, Mr. Hucks,” she said. “You are not playing ball but serving the public and you are dismissed. If Mr. Poole were here he’d tell you the same.”
“If Mr. Bo were here, he’d say, ‘Well, Beef’”—he paused and spat off to the side—“‘let’s us ride out into the county and see what we can find to drink.’” People laughed nervously and then things got even quieter than before.
“You are a filthy, lying man who cannot even support his family.” Everyone waited, expecting him to hit her or to pull up all those poinsettias, tell all those sniffling children to shut up, something, but he just stood and watched her walk away. When she got to the car, she turned back to the crowd; by then Misty and I had crept up near the office of Goodyear so we’d be near Mr. Rhodes in case a fight broke out. I saw a flash of green and knew she had a pack of Salems in her hand.
Old Merle was red in the face like at school when he gotcalled on, and mothers were dragging their children away so they wouldn’t see Santa Claus weave off to his old beat-up Chevrolet without taking their Christmas orders. He beckoned for Merle to follow but it was like Merle hadn’t even noticed, just stood there kicking the side of that tire and making the poinsettias shake. His hair was just as slick and dirty-looking as it had been at school the day before, when he won the fifty-yard dash, and he was wearing those same black jeans, way too short, that he wore nearly every day of the fifth grade. It was like he didn’t even see his daddy there waving to him, and we knew Merle was just waiting and hoping that somebody would say something so he could beat that person up.
“Now, dear people of Fulton,” Mrs. Poole announced, her mouth like a tight fuchsia line. “I am going to get the REAL Santa Claus. Mr. Landell?” He opened her door and off they went. Within two hours, she was back with a big fat Santa Claus from the Clemmonsville mall, who spent the next week taking orders and giving away candy and reminding everyone that Christmas was to celebrate Jesus’ birth and not to get all carried away with a Big Wheel or Barbie or such. If he forgot to say all of that, Mrs. Poole was there often enough to remind him. Misty’s daddy said he couldn’t wait for Christmas to come and go, he was so tired of dealing with her.
Nobody in fifth grade mentioned Merle’s daddy getting fired, but who would’ve? Merle said he kept a switchblade in his scratched-up mock-leather boot, and since he was a Hucks, nobody had a reason to doubt it. “My old man should’ve punched the shit out of that bitch,” he finally said, and all the boys in class nodded in agreement. They knew better than to disagree. Merle had been caught drinking a beer up in a tree on the school yard the year before, and we had heard many times how Dexter Hucks had put a firecracker up a cat’s butt and blown it to bits. I used to go to great pains to keep my own cat from roaming outof the yard, fearful of what would happen if he wound up on the wrong side of the kudzu.
It was still pouring down rain when I went out on the upstairs sleeping porch and tuned my radio to the local station so that I could hear Mrs. Poole’s advertisement. The rain misted through the screen mesh as I sat on the glider, my knees pulled up to my chest. There was one
Similar Books
![Flynn, Joyee - My Feisty Kitten [Purrfect Mates 7] (Siren Publishing Ménage Amour ManLove)](https://fs.dianahicksbooks.com/627719/thumbs/152x264/flynn-joyee-my-feisty-kitten-purrfect-mates-7-siren-publishing-menage-amour-manlove.jpg)
