Read Online Michaela Thompson - Florida Panhandle 01 - Hurricane Season by Michaela Thompson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Michaela Thompson
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old man’s fourteen-year-old bird dog, scratched and broke wind.
Dominating the room was a console-model television set, the first ever in St. Elmo when the four Calhoun boys had given it to their parents two years ago. Since the nearest broadcasting station was a hundred miles away in Tallahassee, the set rarely picked up anything but snow despite the tallest antenna money could buy. This didn’t prevent the Calhouns from having it turned on all day long and, the sound a bare murmur, it was on now.
The old man’s voice was bumpy with phlegm, and spittle gathered at the corners of his mouth as he spoke. The boys sprawled on the uncomfortable furniture, all looking as if they were listening to something they had heard before.
Purvis, the baby at age twenty-six, finally interrupted. “Daddy,” he said, speaking loudly and slowly, “we’ve said if we find out who done it they’ll be sorry. But what else can we do?”
Old Man Calhoun’s sparse gray hair stuck out featherlike from the top of his head. He blinked at Purvis, looking like a baby bird. “I don’t give a good goddamn—” he began, but Bo waved his hand, saying in a low voice, “Don’t bother him about it, Purv.”
Bo, the second son, was the unofficial leader of the younger Calhouns. Sonny, the eldest, was too soft, Lester too dumb, and Purvis too young for the position. Bo was the only one the old man would shut up for. Although the room fell silent, Bo seemed disinclined to continue. He was, in fact, more distracted than he usually was at Calhoun family meetings.
Before the old man got his breath back, Bo’s wife Sue Nell entered the room and said, “Miss Myrna wants to know do you-all want coffee.”
Sue Nell had always been more than any of the Calhouns, including the old man, could handle. Quirky and given to sulks, she had alienated the more conventional wives of the other Calhoun sons, who retaliated by telling each other she was cruel to her three children, although there was no evidence of this. She and Miss Myrna got along only marginally, Sue Nell pretending no interest in the Daughters of the American Confederacy. Her offer of coffee was an uncommon occurrence. She looked bad today, her skin the color of curdled milk.
“I’ll drink a cup, sugar,” said the old man, and Sonny, Lester, and Purvis nodded assent. She looked at Bo. “Do you want some, William?”
“Sure, honey,” he said, not looking at her.
When she left the room, Lester said, “How come it is she called you William?”
Bo shrugged. “It’s my name.”
“Yes, but—” Lester began, but Old Man Calhoun evidently felt he had yielded the floor long enough.
“What I say,” he began, “is that nobody blows up a Calhoun’s still and gets away with it. Don’t you boys have a bit of pride? If my daddy had saw that, he would’ve pumped every ass in the county full of buckshot. But you boys—you boys let the time go by, and—”
Sue Nell reentered, carrying mugs on a tray. “Help yourself, William,” snickered Lester in an undertone. Sue Nell glared at him, her eyes poisonous. The mugs rattled when she set the tray on the coffee table, startling Deacon and sending him, toenails clicking, down the hall. Somewhere in the house a phone rang once.
“Daddy,” Bo said distinctly, “I will promise you this. We’ll get even. Take my word that we’re working on it. Will you do that for me?”
“I be goddamn,” started the old man, but subsided when Sue Nell handed him his coffee.
He slurped at it, attention distracted. Sue Nell sat on the arm of a chair while the Calhoun sons talked among themselves.
“I been in touch with Elmore,” said Sonny.
“What’d he say?” asked Purvis.
“Well. ” Sonny put sugar and cream in his coffee. “He didn’t say a whole lot, but looks to me like he ain’t hurting while we’re out of business. He says he’s cutting back, but I tell you the truth. I think he’s getting liquor somewhere else.”
Lester
Dominating the room was a console-model television set, the first ever in St. Elmo when the four Calhoun boys had given it to their parents two years ago. Since the nearest broadcasting station was a hundred miles away in Tallahassee, the set rarely picked up anything but snow despite the tallest antenna money could buy. This didn’t prevent the Calhouns from having it turned on all day long and, the sound a bare murmur, it was on now.
The old man’s voice was bumpy with phlegm, and spittle gathered at the corners of his mouth as he spoke. The boys sprawled on the uncomfortable furniture, all looking as if they were listening to something they had heard before.
Purvis, the baby at age twenty-six, finally interrupted. “Daddy,” he said, speaking loudly and slowly, “we’ve said if we find out who done it they’ll be sorry. But what else can we do?”
Old Man Calhoun’s sparse gray hair stuck out featherlike from the top of his head. He blinked at Purvis, looking like a baby bird. “I don’t give a good goddamn—” he began, but Bo waved his hand, saying in a low voice, “Don’t bother him about it, Purv.”
Bo, the second son, was the unofficial leader of the younger Calhouns. Sonny, the eldest, was too soft, Lester too dumb, and Purvis too young for the position. Bo was the only one the old man would shut up for. Although the room fell silent, Bo seemed disinclined to continue. He was, in fact, more distracted than he usually was at Calhoun family meetings.
Before the old man got his breath back, Bo’s wife Sue Nell entered the room and said, “Miss Myrna wants to know do you-all want coffee.”
Sue Nell had always been more than any of the Calhouns, including the old man, could handle. Quirky and given to sulks, she had alienated the more conventional wives of the other Calhoun sons, who retaliated by telling each other she was cruel to her three children, although there was no evidence of this. She and Miss Myrna got along only marginally, Sue Nell pretending no interest in the Daughters of the American Confederacy. Her offer of coffee was an uncommon occurrence. She looked bad today, her skin the color of curdled milk.
“I’ll drink a cup, sugar,” said the old man, and Sonny, Lester, and Purvis nodded assent. She looked at Bo. “Do you want some, William?”
“Sure, honey,” he said, not looking at her.
When she left the room, Lester said, “How come it is she called you William?”
Bo shrugged. “It’s my name.”
“Yes, but—” Lester began, but Old Man Calhoun evidently felt he had yielded the floor long enough.
“What I say,” he began, “is that nobody blows up a Calhoun’s still and gets away with it. Don’t you boys have a bit of pride? If my daddy had saw that, he would’ve pumped every ass in the county full of buckshot. But you boys—you boys let the time go by, and—”
Sue Nell reentered, carrying mugs on a tray. “Help yourself, William,” snickered Lester in an undertone. Sue Nell glared at him, her eyes poisonous. The mugs rattled when she set the tray on the coffee table, startling Deacon and sending him, toenails clicking, down the hall. Somewhere in the house a phone rang once.
“Daddy,” Bo said distinctly, “I will promise you this. We’ll get even. Take my word that we’re working on it. Will you do that for me?”
“I be goddamn,” started the old man, but subsided when Sue Nell handed him his coffee.
He slurped at it, attention distracted. Sue Nell sat on the arm of a chair while the Calhoun sons talked among themselves.
“I been in touch with Elmore,” said Sonny.
“What’d he say?” asked Purvis.
“Well. ” Sonny put sugar and cream in his coffee. “He didn’t say a whole lot, but looks to me like he ain’t hurting while we’re out of business. He says he’s cutting back, but I tell you the truth. I think he’s getting liquor somewhere else.”
Lester
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