Nobody Can Say It's You

43

Dougal Orner was seething. He'd broken a banjo string. He set the instrument aside.

He wanted to push his fist right through a wall. And the more the thought about Chandra and Berth, the madder he got.

He gritted his teeth, kicked the dog that lay in his path, and cursed under his breath. That Chandra was nothing but a slut. A worthless whore. Why he'd wasted so much time and money on her was a mystery.

She was an ingrate, Dougal mused. His mother had warned him not to fall for the charms of a loose girl. Chandra was nothing but Blue Ridge white trash. She'd never amount to nothin' and give him about two dozen squallin' brats, Estill told her son.

Yet, Dougal could not help but be attracted to the beautiful vixen. She was charming. She was funny. She was good company. And she had no qualms about doing it anywhere. Few inhibitions made Chandra the best girlfriend a fellow could have.

In the back of his pickup, in the seat of his pickup, in the barn, in a meadow, in broad daylight, or under the silvery moon, Chandra was always ready. He knew her reputation, but he had faith in himself.

Dougal Orner knew a lot about a lot of things. After all, he'd been reading his mother's sacred book since he was little. Dougal set his sights on Chandra, and through a little magic of his own, he'd won her.

That is until Berth Carlisle came into the picture. Six-foot-three, solid muscle, and a brand new heavy-duty midnight 4x4 with chrome wheels and dual exhausts. Berth Carlisle was any girl's dream.

He was back in circulation, too, since Cristin DeSpain dumped him two weeks ago for Fox Fairchild. Chandra had jumped on Berth like stink on a skunk. After the first couple of dates, Berth belonged to Chandra. If Cristin was white rice, Chandra was jambalaya. Hot, spicy, and a titillation for the taste buds.

And Berth had moved in on Dougal's turf.

Just like that.

They were probably laughing at him right this minute, Dougal decided.

Nothing to do but go into the woods and make a little black magic. Dougal grabbed the sacred book and stomped off into the forest.

***

Margaret-Dean Angeline was Berth Carlisle's mother. She was 39 years old. Life had been good to Margaret-Dean, but the fact that she was facing 40 was no laughing matter. She wondered if Floyd would still find her attractive when the wrinkles around her eyes were no longer faint little laugh lines but deeply gouged ravines that made her skin look like crinkled parchment. He'd made enough money. Floyd could have his pick of the litter, anytime, and leave Margaret-Dean high and dry.

She fussed with the table arrangements. This pig-picking was not something Margaret-Dean wanted any part of, but Floyd had insisted that it would be a good thing for his father. Berth seemed sold on the idea, too, so there was nothing for Margaret-Dean to do but plaster a smile on her face and make the two Carlisle men in her life happy.

"Oh, poot 'n' bother," Margaret-Dean muttered under her breath.

Here was Frieda Kline. For some reason, just the sight of that woman set Margaret-Dean's teeth on edge. Somebody had told Margaret-Dean that Frieda was thinking about selling her little home and retiring to Florida.

Let the gators chew on her grisly old carcass, thought Margaret-Dean. Good-bye and good riddance.

But she hadn't gone to Florida. At least not yet.

Frieda wore a flowery dress cinched at the waist. It made her hips look a mile wide. The hem was too short, and the dress fell just above her knees. Her dimply knees. Margaret-Dean wondered if Frieda thought all that dimpled blubber looked cute. Her woven sandals were two sizes too small, and her fat, red toenails hung over the front ends of them like red hot sausages on display at a meat counter.

Margaret-Dean felt the heat rise under her shirt collar. She knew her neck was as red as a geranium, but there was nothing she could do about it. When her blood pressure skyrocketed like this, the red neck was going to be there. She couldn't control it. Couldn't help it.

But to Frieda, that red neck was like a red cape to a raging bull. Frieda pounced on Margaret-Dean.

"Maw-grit," Frieda said, "your table looks a little skimpy, honey. I hope you 'n' Floyd don't send us home hungry after we come all this way."

Margaret-Dean looked across the spread. The table groaned under the weight of all the dishes. There was enough food to feed an army.

"Frieda," Margaret-Dean said, "why don't you go see if Minnie needs some help with the dishes."

"Aw, shaw," said Frieda, "Minnie's a big girl. Let her slop at the water trough 'n' make a big mess. I don't wanna get my dress wet. I'm gonna go see Rex, the birthday boy. Rexie! I declare, Maw-grit, if Floyd don't look more like Rex the older he gets! Like father, like son! Rexie! Rexie!"

"Oh, poot 'n' bother," Margaret-Dean muttered under her breath. "Too good to get dishpan hands! Shoot! Too good to do any real work."

Frieda wandered off toward Rex. Floyd's daddy was smiling like a Cheshire cat. He loved to be the center of attention, and since Frieda's husband had died three years ago, Rex seemed to be right in the center of Frieda's crosshairs.

Too bad her house hadn't sold, Margaret-Dean brooded. Now she had a whole afternoon of Frieda the Piranha to look forward to.

She looked over at Frieda and Rex. Rex was practically drooling. It was disgusting. The man was almost 80 years old.

"Hey, good lookin'," Frieda said. "Wanna go make out in the back seat of the old Buick. Floyd won't mind. I'm sure him and Frieda have been busy back there plenty of times in the last coupla' years."

Though if I'm honest," she said, "I'd rather have my toenails burned off with acid than lay down within 20 miles of where Rex and his floozy have been rollin' in the hay. I'll skedaddle back home in a jiff and tousle the sheets with you, honey."

"You're too hard on Frieda, Margaret-Dean," Floyd said. "Look at him. I ain't seen Daddy this happy since Mama passed."

Margaret-Dean walked up.

"Floyd," Margaret-Dean said, "your father was never that happy when your mama was alive!"

"What say we leave the old folks be 'n' start servin' that pig," said Floyd. "Looks like most everybody's here."