WILLODEAN (THE CUPITOR CHRONICLES Book 1)

by Fowler Robertson

  In reality, I knew neither of them. Lena didn’t agree with the steel rod up my back regardless of who it belonged to. Me or the little girl. My words left her dumbfounded as she leaned against the kitchen sink for support and gathering her ammo. She glared at me for what seemed like eternity and in her eyes, I saw my birth pains, my rebellious waywardness. She blinked, turned around and vented her frustrations on the helpless dishes. Again.

  “Mom.” My voice milder in tone. Subdued. Respectful. It couldn’t be easy being my mother. She did her best to raise me. A part of me, more than I wanted to admit, really loved her, deeply, and so desperately wanted that love in return even though we were canyons apart. “I’ll pay you back the five hundred dollars as soon as I get a job.”

  Lena kept her back to me, no words but her hands screamed and scoured the aluminum pan. “It’s time, mom. It is. Branson is over and done. I need to move on.” Saying it out loud was like coughing up stones lodged in my throat. It shook me to the core. I stared into the Mt. Everest of my mother’s back. On the other side of the mountain, she tormented the devil out of the china, baptizing, dunking and drowning its sins. I sulked and prepared for plan B, although I didn’t have one. Luckily, fate stepped in. Faith and 500.

  Fifteen minutes, thirty six seconds and twenty eight tortured dishes later, I’m speeding down the road in Lena’s burgundy suburban with five hundred dollars in my pocket and a heart swelling with hope. It felt like the beginning of something. What—I didn’t know but I could feel it. Even the dark house inside me, the one that threatened to destroy me was muted and held back by small hands and a shield of faith and five hundred dollars. The horizon of unknown expectations thrilled me. I rolled down the window to let the air in. I wanted to feel it on my skin, blowing my hair back. Maw Sue’s words drifted. Look for the crumbs Willodean. I smiled at the thought. My hands guided the steering wheel at three and eleven. I glanced at them and suddenly they looked small and fragile, childlike. The delightful crumb of nostalgic fell upon my tongue and dissolved into a magnificent morsel of memory, so outrageous, so joyful, all I could do was grip the steering wheel and hold on for the ride.

  Road Trip Rebels

  Mag and I were bored to death. Someone should have warned us that trouble always follows boredom. We heard a loud banging coming from the tinker shop and went to investigate. The tinker shop was behind Papa Hart’s house and built from tin siding and metal poles, basically a torture chamber for cars, machinery and dillydallying. Tools, hoses and metal contraptions made for tearing stuff up hung on prongs, some strapped from ceiling to floor, on shelves and strewn on the floor, under cabinets and tucked under boards. Three wood carts on wheels were stacked three deep with nuts, bolts, fragments, screws, plastic fittings, you name it—it was there. Those Hart boys were drawn inside the tinker shop by a cosmic force that only affects the male population and females have yet to comprehend it. It even had its own monster, a fire breathing, spitting welding monster that could magically transform metal into workable pieces of art. This metallic, fire breathing power congregated men to gather in groups and find things to take apart, only to put it back together again. Darndest thing you ever saw. For fun they’d take an object apart, then hit it with blunt objects, twist it, bend it, mold it, or stick it inside strange contraptions, or worse than that, burn it with the rod—the ominous fire spitting monster—and nothing was the same after monster got ahold of you. It could be a good thing or a bad thing.

  Inside the boundaries of the tinker shop men cursed like sailors, spit like dragons, drank like fish and pissed on tree stumps. Whatever magic it had was something powerful because those Hart boys could roll in a simple box of metal parts and three days later, roll out a Chevy.

  Mag and I arrived to find dad meticulously detailing what appeared to be a small motor, a lawn mower maybe. In the corner, Papa Hart was bent over monster as if he was wrangling him in a stronghold, clutching him by his slim iron neck and training him to spit and breathe fire on a metal plate that was held in a vice on the tinker table. When the monster spit correctly, the whole area was lit up like fireworks. I was mesmerized by the blue and yellow sparks that shot out from the tip of monster’s mouth. I felt the power of the monster knock me over until my vision was blurred.

  “How many times do I have to tell you not to look at the light?” Dad shouted. It wasn’t monster that shoved me, it was dad. His voice was loud over the buzzing. I looked away for a second but couldn’t help glancing back at the flames that leaped like fire dancers across the concrete floor.

  “How many times do I have to tell you?” dad spat, “It will cause permanent eye damage. I’ve told you a thousand times.”

  “But—I.”

  “But nothing.” He said wiping his greasy hands on a frayed rag. “I mean it.” He gave us a stern look and pointed towards the yard. Mag ran outside and mounted the iron horse which was actually an old anvil nailed to an oil covered tree stump.

  “Well, what are we supposed to do? We're bored.”

  “I don’t care what you do as long as it ain’t in here.” Dad said. “Be like Columbus. Go discover something.” He pointed across the yard as if the Pacific Ocean was across the ditch. Monster’s buzzing stopped. Papa Hart lifted his face shield. “Hand me the clamp, son, it’s in that bucket.” He pointed towards a tin can overflowing with metal objects and plastic fittings.

  “Which one? Small or large.”

  “That’s it, middle one, right there.” Papa Hart said. Dad tossed him the clamp and he fastened it to the vice with a few twists and turns and then fired up monster again. Why couldn’t females train monsters and tear stuff up? Whatever power the tinker shop had, it was immune to females. Dad mumbled something or another and when I looked up, he was giving me the you-still-here-look. Mag was off the horse and chasing a grasshopper.

  “Now yawl run along I said. Explore the world.” Dad threw up his hands and then hit the motor three times with his block hammer.

  “How am I supposed to do that, I’m ten. And Columbus had a boat.” Monster hissed and drowned out my words and it was probably a good thing considering I was mouthy. I figured I’d get one of dad’s quotes. Among most of them, his favorite was “If you’re gonna go out—go out knowing.”

  He said it all the time as if it was the give-all answer to every question. It didn’t make a lick of sense if you think about it, which I did, repeatedly, overly obsessively, until it drove me mad. I finally asked him about it. That was the wrong thing to do. Lord, I got all sorts of man grunts, strange tinker shop talk about a man’s brain, how it works when metal hits metal, or tires spin, or rubber hits asphalt, how wood intercepts with nails and a whole host of nonsense I could never understand.

  “Go. I’ve done told you two to find something to do. It can’t be that hard.” Dad said more sternly than before. He pointed across the yard with his hammer. “Now go see the world. Use your imagination. Do stuff. Explore. Know stuff. Learn stuff. You know—if you go out, go out knowing.” And there it was—James Dean wisdom. Rules for the rebel road. His words didn’t work at all on me, I was still bored. Still wondering what to do, how to explore, when there wasn’t nothing to explore, and Mag and I didn’t have magic tinker shop shit. We stood there twiddling our thumbs like two blind men, running into trees and tripping over stuff. Almost bored to death.

  “For Pete’s sake.” Dad said fed up. He pointed to the shade tree in our front yard. “Just go get in Brutus. He’ll take you around the world and back.” My eyes lit up like the blue blaze tips of monster’s spit. Brutus was dad’s 1969 prized Chevy truck.

  The Webster dictionary defines the word trouble as: to put into confused motion; to disturb; to agitate. But it should have said; Willodean Hart and Maggie Storm Hart. That definition spoke volumes.

  “Whoa!” Mag yelled. “Watch the dog!” She slammed her side into the door. I spun the wheel around and slammed on the brakes, swerving to a halt just in time.

  “Stupid dog.” I yelled out
the window. “You could have been run over.”

  I popped the clutch, hit the pedal and glared at the dog as I sped off. We’d been exploring the world in Brutus for about an hour when dad showed up to ruin our fun. He just walked directly in front of us. What tha heck. I was topping sixty on the speedometer. A lead foot is genetic in dad’s family tree and he was known as the mad hatter of the driving world, along with his three brothers. They perfected their lineage of speed demons and outlaw traits at the dirt track on weekends.

  “Daaaad!” Mag yelled in warning. With nothing else to do, I held the brakes and hoped for good tread. Lord, if I ran over my own dad, I’d never get a driver’s license. Thankfully, Brutus could stop on a dime and boil smoke from his tires at the same time. Dad emerged unscathed.

  “Did you explore the world?” He slapped the hood and peered into the window.

  I just glared at him and my tone turned snarky. “Well, I hope you realize you were almost road kill. I was going wide open.”

  He laughed and nodded his head in approval. “Wide open, huh. Brutus is a beast. How ‘bout ya’ll take a break. I need to make a river run.”

  “Awww…” I sighed. “We were having fun.” Dad gave me a smirk.

  “I’ll be back in within the hour. Just go cool off.”

  I opened the door and slumped out. Boredom set in my bones before my feet hit the ground. My shoulders rolled inward and my bottom lip hung below my chin. A river run meant one thing in Pine Log. Dad was out of beer and the town was dry as a Baptist pulpit on Monday. If one was to acquire spirits they had to drive clean across the Flats river bridge, fifteen miles one way. Mag and I sulked and hoped he felt bad by just the sight of us. Dad turned the key, Brutus snarled and blew out thick smoke from his tailpipes.

  “You better not get a ticket Mister.” I said. I tried to give him the eyebrow look that Lena perfected to a tee, but I didn’t get that particular gene so it ended up looking like I had an eye twitch. Dad gave me inquisitive glare as if I wasn’t supposed to know this startling speeding indiscretion. Oh, I knew alright. This knowing gave me the ability to go into the OH SHIT! A COP IS ON MY ASS mode of speech dad was infamous for. I’d heard it plenty of times.

  “Why, no, officer, sir…” I said mimicking dad’s voice. “I had no idea I was going sixty eight in a forty five. This old truck can’t go that fast.” My face attempted to mirror his fake shock expressions and mad hatter nervous eye twitch.

  “I don’t remember it quite like that.” Dad said gruffly. I continued acting out his transgressions, a long sigh, a glare into the rearview mirror, lip bite, light cigarette, inhale three long drags, bang fist on steering wheel, long drag, puff of smoke, fist bang on dashboard and finally the infamous double whaaaat word analogy used in every Oh—shit incident in the red, white and blue state of Texas. Born here—bred here—said here.

  “Whaaat? Really, officer—that fast? This old truck? Whaaat? Really?” There it is. The What? What? Guilty folks say it when their caught red handed but they try to get out of it.

  “I REAAALLY don’t remember it that way.” Dad said with a starched look. He adjusted his mirror and put Brutus into reverse. “I’ll be back in a bit. You girls stay out of trouble.” He said backing out the driveway. That was an understatement.

  “Don’t speed.” I yelled. Dad ignored me and gunned it, leaving us to smell Brutus’ rubber. “He better pick up more than one bottle of MD 20/20. That’s all I got to say.” I was appalled at his lack of memory. How could he forget a whopping speeding ticket that sent Lena Hart into a hissy cat fit that led to slamming cabinets, burnt cornbread, a torched chicken and punishing silence? I know exactly what happened. I was there. I remember it like yesterday.

  I had my feet propped up on the case of beer he just purchased at Clark’s liquor store. Lying next to it was a paper sack with mom’s favorite wine, MD 2020. I was curious how it got its name, so I asked dad.

  “Well, it’s like this.” The mad hatter said. He flew past trees, cars, big 18 wheelers, houses, signs, cows. Everything was a streak of color. “MD right there on the label” he pointed out, “stands for Mad Dog. A glass or two is fine,” he said lighting another cigarette, “Whoo…but if you drink too much you can lose your mind like them mad dogs, the ones your uncle has, the kind he fed gun powder to make ‘em mean and crazy as all get out, you know?” I nodded.

  “And when you lose your mind, you lose your 20/20 vision. And when that happens….” He hesitated. “Well…let’s just say it’s pretty powerful stuff.”

  I felt a gravitational pull of the earth press my shoulders against the door while dad turned the corner on two wheels. My fear is that the door will fly open and I’ll fall out and no one would ever miss me. He gunned it on the straightway forcing my head to pop against the seat and up-right myself. I only half believed what he said about the MD 20/20 stuff. Then a blare of sirens went off in my head. I couldn’t imagine being any more wretched in the mind than I already was, so I took note to stay the hell away from MD 20/20. But that didn’t matter, the sirens still rang out.

  “Well—sonofabitch!” Dad yelled suddenly. He was giving the rear view mirror a go-to-hell look. I turned around to see who he was condemning to hell and the rear end of Brutus looked like the disco lights at the skating rink. Turns out, those sirens weren’t in my head after all. They were after dad. The mad hatter turned mad, and madder still. He spouted off a few split infinitives involving God, Jesus and piles and more piles and then let off the gas and pulled over. Uh-oh. This was his third ticket in a year because I kept count. Suddenly, I understood everything. Aha! The MD 20/20 was simply a potion to erase Lena Hart’s memory of the mad hatter getting a speeding ticket. Dad’s infamous quote of go out knowing didn’t apply to Lena. He didn’t want Lena Hart to go out knowing—nothing at all. Especially when it involved speeding tickets. I was beginning to learn a thing or two about dad.

  “What are we going to do now?” Mag whined. I watch dad disappear over the hill. I shrugged my shoulders at Mag and walked up the driveway. She followed me. “What are we going to do Willodean?” She hopped and skipped in front of me, behind me, beside me, around me, revolving like some irritating planet.

  “I don’t know Maggie.” I snipped. “I’m thinking.” Mom was at the green stamp store hoarding up kitchen items with Aunt Marlene and God knows, that might takes days. I had no idea what we could do. I heard a squeal behind us a distance away. I turned to see Maw Sue at her mailbox across the road. “The Ranchero.” I whispered.

  “What?” Mag said loud and curious. She was bending down on the grass with her hands cupped. She opened them to peek inside and a large cricket jumped out making a daring escape.

  “Just come on.” I said. I grabbed her by the shirt tail and we headed towards the garage behind Maw Sue’s place.

  The Ranchero was the only clear option to eliminate boredom. When I say clear, I’m really, really, really stretching things. There is nothing transparent about it. The vehicles color is two shades of vomit, brown and beige. The Ford Ranchero is the ambiguous statement of all automobiles. It was male. It was female. The advertisements in dad’s car magazines said, More than a car! More than a truck! When I read it the first time, I was like, “Well, shit fire Mr. Ford. What the hell is it then?” The mere invention signifies that Henry Ford at one time or another, no doubt suffered a severe personality crisis or an identity crux.

  We climbed inside the cab. It smelled new, as it should since Maw Sue took care of her vehicles. The Ranchero was our ticket to travel. Alleviate boredom. Explore, travel the world, as dad says. The next step was obvious. Dad said every automobile should have a namesake. We had Brutus, of course, a fair name considering the abuse dad puts him through. And then there’s Lena’s four door Ford galaxy named Miss. Just M-I-S-S. Plain and simple. Dad said it had to have a dainty name like a girl fart, a soft poot, barely audible. Lena gave him the eye, as always, but the name stuck. When dad drives her, she transforms into a loud gaseous fart
heard for miles. It’s like a scary, blue streak of gas that continues on and on. Dad said he’s just blowing the soot out, which is mandatory for all knuckle busters, in accordance with Motor Madness Magazine. Dad’s lead foot and eccentric auto knowledge drove Lena crazy, which led to accusatory tree pointing, enraged screaming fits, beer can crushing, MD 20/20 drinking, belching, burnt cornbread, door slams, rebel flags flying, the world blows up, God Save the Queen…the end. That was pretty much the just of it. I took it a step further and believed that I damn well better have my driving skills down pat and maintenance scheduled regularly or my life will be in the shitter. I wasted no time. I was going to practice in any vehicle I could get into. After forty miles in the wilderness, cutting corners and narrowly missing a sand lizard, Mag and I finally agreed upon a name. Flash Fannie. Flash being the male gender and Fannie being the female gender. Fannie the dashboard dame. Flash the testosterone tachometer. It was perfect. For the long trip, we brought a travel bag with essentials, extra clothing so we could ditch the patchwork pedal pushers once we arrived in Africa. The mere thought of natives seeing us dressed in patches was embarrassing. For snacks, peanut butter sandwiches and two packages of Kool-Aid, just in case we got stranded in France or Iberia and couldn’t read the menus. And last but most important, our paddle talk, a red plastic doohickey, similar to a ping pong paddle, except it had a flip note pad attached with red letters and messages. And since our home, honored silence with a crown and scepter, the paddle talk was the communication device of the century. It allowed us to talk and never say a word. In essence, we beat the system, kind of like screwing the government, which according to dad was as good as it gets. Unfortunately, the device was limited in vocabulary. Of course, one never knows when the phrase HOT TO TROT, WANNA PARTY or GET LOST might come in handy to the occupants of the car idling next to you at the red light. Mag and I had a notepad and marker in the back seat and wrote our own messages, like hey shit head or ass wipe. We taped the notes to the paddle talk and held it up to strangers in the next lane. Our parents were clueless to the shenanigans.