Authors: Virginia Nelson
“Tell me you have a plan.”
“I have a plan.”
“Tell me it doesn’t involve duct tape or a duck.”
Lou choked on his beer. “You are never going to let me live that down, are you?”
Braxton grinned. “Shit, no.”
“Most of the town forgets that Carnie and I used to have a thing.” Lou rubbed a hand over his mostly bald head. “I’d almost forgotten the fuck-for-a-duck story.”
“I’ll never forget that story.” Smiling, Braxton sipped his beer.
“Just because your love life is in the shitter right now, doesn’t mean you have to bring up my mistakes from days gone by.” Lou glanced at the game.
“Do you remember how that joke even went?” Braxton asked.
“Sure I do. Dying old man tells his two sons to take a dollar each, go to town and whoever comes back with the best thing wins the family farm. One son makes about five trades—apples for a chicken, chicken for a goat—ends up with a cow. The other son buys a duck. He passes a cathouse and one of the ladies offers him a fuck for his duck. He accepts and it was so good, she wants him to do it again. He agrees but only if she gives his duck back. Little while later, he is walking with his duck back home and a car hits him, killing his duck. A rich guy jumps out of the car, says, ‘please, don’t sue. I’ll give you ten thousand dollars.’ So, the boy goes home and tells his father, ‘I got a duck for a buck, a fuck for a duck, a duck for a fuck and then ten grand for a fucked-up duck.’”
Braxton chuckled, sipped his beer and studied Lou. “And that story inspired you to give Carnie a duck how?”
“Dunno. Chicks dig ducks, dude.”
“But you duct taped his beak.” Still laughing, Braxton held up two fingers and the waitress came their way with more beer.
Lou shrugged. “Seemed like a good idea at the time. Damn thing was trying to bite me.”
“Dumbass.”
“You’re lucky I like you, asshole.” Lou grinned.
“Yes, I am lucky. I’ll buy the beer. You talk. Tell me your duckless plan.”
“You’re not going to like it. You’re going to show the old biddies in this town that you care about the town…and that you’re willing to put your back into it.”
“Keep talking.”
“So, your idea is for me to sweat off my frustrations?” Swinging a hammer wasn’t really Braxton’s idea of a good time. The sun shone down on the acre of green lawns, dotted by colorful plants and circling the wraparound porch of the century home, contrasting with all the construction material currently taking up residence in the driveway.
“Community service is good for the soul. You heard how Jim Demshar is in a wheelchair now. Well, Joanne needs a ramp and we’re putting one in for her.” Lou’s easy grin as he hauled two-by-fours from the back of the pickup truck had Braxton shooting him a one-fingered salute.
“Great for the soul, hell on the back.”
Together, it wouldn’t take them long to get the ramp put together. Working side by side brought back memories of days past, building tree houses and ramps for their bikes. Soon they were bullshitting away, almost enjoying the work.
“Why her?” Lou asked.
“Lou, you know why her. Are we really going to rehash this again?”
Lou shrugged. “Abby is a great girl but…really, she isn’t interested. She’s moved on with her life.”
“Bullshit. If she has, so be it. But there’s something there.”
“So why did you leave her?”
Glaring at his friend, he grabbed another board and slotted it into place. “I was scared shitless, man. You were there. I wasn’t more than a kid myself, and how could I take care of her? She deserved better than I could ever give her. So I ran. And ran. But I never let her go. Not really.”
Lou again shrugged and passed him a fresh box of nails. “Cue the violins.”
Snorting, Braxton grabbed some nails. “She was my best friend, man. You know that. You were great and all, but it wasn’t like it was between me and Bigfoot. She knows me, she gets me. She acts like she has her stuff together, like when we were kids but…someone has to take care of her. I, well, I want a shot at that, I guess.”
“That sounds pretty cheesy.”
“Cheesy…well, fuck it. I’m cheesy, then. Lou, there has never been another woman like her. She makes me want to be a better man. She always did, even when I was a stupid kid and too scared to try. I’m not a kid anymore. I travelled, but no matter where I went, I took her with me. I wrote her. I never got the balls to call her, but I wrote her. I never forgot her. If this shot at her fails and she actually doesn’t want me, fine. But I’m not going anywhere. I won’t walk away again.”
“I can’t believe you still call her Bigfoot.” Lou smirked. “I wouldn’t give you the time of day, either, if that’s your idea of sexy talk.”
“You remember her long-ass toes. I called her Bigfoot. I had those gangly old man legs because I was a skinny little shit of a kid. She called me Knobby Knees. Dumb, but it’s me saying I remember, really.”
“Yeah, it doesn’t get cheesier than that. Why do you suppose she never wrote back?”
“Stubborn? I don’t know. I mean, that bit. I’m going to be honest. That makes me mad. She acts like she was the only injured party here but… Yes, I screwed up. Yes, I walked away and kept us from making a huge mistake by getting married too young. And I do still think it would have been a mistake. She would have hated me in a year. I was too confused to have been a decent husband to her. But she screwed up too. She could have answered me. Ignoring me for years? That was more than a little bitchy.”
Braxton hammered harder. “How many men write a woman even one love letter in their lives? I’ve written her for years. That has got to mean something.”
Lou laughed. “Means you are one romantic son of a bitch.”
Braxton glared at his buddy and then caught a face through the open window of the house.
A moment later, Mrs. Demshar came out carrying a pitcher of tea. “You boys come up here and take a little break. That sun looks hot and a nice drink and rest should cool you down.”
Obeying, Braxton bounded up the half-finished ramp and accepted a glass, frosted with condensation, from the old woman. “Thanks, Mrs. Demshar.”
“Braxton?”
“Yes, Mrs. Demshar?”
“You don’t give up on that girl.”
Mrs. Demshar hobbled back into her house, and Braxton shot a slack-jawed glance at Lou.
Lou simply grinned.
“Was that part of the plan?”
Lou shrugged. “Figured the fact you won’t shut up about her might come in handy, yeah.”
Chapter Eleven
November 23, 2004
My Bigfoot,
I was remembering our first fight today, or as close as we ever came to a real fight. You were all mad because I promised you I would go to that spring formal and I clean forgot about it, mostly because I’d started my first job and between school and working… Yeah, I knew I was dropping balls. But you showed up at my parents’ house full of fire and brimstone, ready to tear into me. I was under the car and saw your legs. Rolled out from underneath, saw your face, knew you were pissed—so I rolled right back under the car again.
I expected you to rail at me, lay into me way worse than my mother ever did, especially since I didn’t even know what I’d done to make you mad.
Do you remember what you did instead? You straddled my hips, sliding your hands up my chest. When your fingertips grazed my nipple, I thought my dick was going to burst free from my work pants. I very nearly sat up and banged my head on the car, but I must have had a lick of sense left so I rolled out, my hands on your hips to keep you in place.
You still looked pissed, but I could see the hurt underneath it. I sat up, put my dirty hand on your cheek and asked, “What did I do, baby?”
Blinking fast, the way you do when you don’t want me to cry, you said in that uppity tone you get when you’re annoyed, “The dance is tonight. I’m guessing we’re not going.”
I must have cringed. I didn’t have a good excuse for forgetting and you looked so good, white dress and hair curled. And now a big greasy trail across your dress where I’d touched you.
I couldn’t fix it—knew I couldn’t—but I stood up and asked you to wait a minute. I turned on the stereo, and no, I don’t remember what song was playing. I do remember it didn’t matter. I cleaned off my hands and took off my dirty shirt and went to you, pulling you close. “I might not remember everything as the years go by, Abs, but I’ll always remember this.”
I inhaled the scent of your hair and trailed my fingertips across your back. We rocked back and forth, just the tinny sound of that cheap old radio and the beat of our hearts.
Guess I just wanted to say I should have told you I might not always be perfect, but, baby…I’ll always remember that.
I love you.
B
Abigail realized everyone was against her within a week. If one more person came up to her and told her what a nice young man Braxton had grown up to be, she would throw up.
Sick of the barrage of townsfolk, she headed to the tool store.
No good memories came to mind when she thought back to the shop. Mr. Dean ran the store as long as she remembered and never liked her. She wasn’t good enough for his football hero son. He certainly hadn’t been shy about letting her know it when she was already heartbroken—too bad she had no spine to talk back to him at the time.
Rumor had it that her mother dumped him back in high school, but rumors in this town were unfounded as often as not, so it was hard to guess whether he just didn’t like her because of Braxton or for her mother’s sins. Either way, for years, even passing the damn store was a traumatic experience.
Marching up to it today, she wasn’t battling nerves.
She was annoyed.
“Abigail! Abigail!”
Groaning quietly, Abigail came to a halt and turned to see Manda’s mother, Nancy Watkin, hurrying down the sidewalk. She carried a covered plastic dish. “Abigail, I made you something!”
Breathless, the older woman shoved the container at Abigail and then smoothed her white hair.
“That was very sweet of you, Mrs. Wa—”
“Oh, not a word of it, dear. I remember how at the Fourth of July picnic three years ago you loved my mama’s upside-down cake so I whipped you up one. You know, if I remember correctly, Braxton always had a taste for it too. You should invite him by; offer him a bite to eat. That boy, living all by himself, needs some good home cookin’, don’t you think, dear?”
Abigail swallowed the growl that rose in her throat and resisted stomping her foot like a child. “I think he looks like he’s eating well.”
“He has grown up to be a fine figure of a man, hasn’t he? Why, I was just out the other day and he was mowing his lawn and I had to ask him if he didn’t think I was a good neighbor or what was his problem.”
“Huh?” Abigail looked at her, confused.
“He had his shirt on. If he considered me a good neighbor, the least he could do is mow with his shirt off so I could see those guns of his. That boy is built like a romance cover model, isn’t he?” Mrs. Watkin fanned herself and winked at Abigail conspiratorially.
“Uh…I…” Abigail glanced around.
“You have to have noticed, dear. Janice!” Waving her arm, she alerted one of her friends pushing a granddaughter in a stroller, to the uncomfortable conversation. “Come over here!”
“Yes, Nancy.” Janice Winters joined them on the sidewalk. Her granddaughter chewed a plastic toy and blinked up at them.
“Isn’t Braxton just a stud of a man?”
Abigail was pretty sure her face was a shade of red that would put a fire truck to shame.
“Oh, he is, isn’t he? That boy grew up nice. I mean, he was nice looking when he played football, but now? He makes that butter man look shabby,” Janice agreed.
“The butter man?” Abigail asked, not sure she wanted to know.
“You know? The one with the flowing hair?”
“Fabio?” Abigail asked.
Mrs. Watkin snapped her fingers. “That’s the one, dear. See, you can recognize a nice-looking fellow when you see one.”
Shell-shocked, Abigail wished Carnie wasn’t at work. She could use backup. She wasn’t going to make it to the tool store at this rate. “Does anyone remember he ditched me at the altar?”
“Yes, dear, of course we remember that. He was only a boy. He’s a man now and he’s back, and a smart girl would set the bait and catch her man.” With a nudge to her arm, the two women finally walked off, waving as they left.
Leaving Abigail more mad and armed with cake.
After taking a moment to compose herself, she spun on her heel and continued onward.
The bell jangled as she entered the door she’d avoided for so long. The smell of cigars and metal assaulted her nostrils, and motes of dust danced on the light slanting in the front windows. The store was split into three aisles, the center one leading to the counter behind where Braxton lounged, talking in an animated tone to an old man in a plaid shirt. Striding down the polished wood floor, Abigail plunked the cake down in front of Braxton with a glare.