WILLODEAN (THE CUPITOR CHRONICLES Book 1)

by Fowler Robertson

  “Sheepurrs likea kittenonce you geetergoing. 200,000 miles—eehh.” Fred said. What bothered me most of all is that I was beginning to understand alligator. He leaned on the hood, it groaned and the tires made a spewing noise. Doubts invading my head. What would the girl do? Dream it. See it. Believe it. What would Willodean adult do? Run. I was lost in my thoughts. Fred took out a pocket knife and dug dirt from his fat fingernails. I was paralyzed. For the first time in my life, I didn’t want to make a rash decision. I decided to weigh my options. One: I had $500 cash. Not much to go on. Sigh. Two: This is the only $500 car I found. Coincidence? Maybe, maybe not. Maw Sue said everything is ordained and guided by a power greater than self. Seekers have the power to see these things and act on them. Three: I could live with my parents…forever. Drive tank around like some old spinster. I felt my insides regurgitate and the house inside me shook and rumbled on its crumbling foundation. Uhhh….No. Well, I’ve ran out of options. No plan B.

  “Can you tell me about the car?”

  “OwwwyeahIwill. Heat-noairconditioner—eehh.” Fred said with a twitch.

  Strike one. My big Texas hair went into protest. Aqua Net and hair gel has no resistance against the carnage of Texas humidity. In the land of a hundred degree heat strokes, no air conditioner is a deal killer. No plan B Willodean. Live with parents forever.

  “Handlesare broketoo.” Fred said wobbling the door handle. “Extra hund-eredfifty to fixit—eehh.”

  “What?” I yelled in pitches of flat broke. “A hundred and fifty—for a door handle?”

  “Thatsa why she’s fivehundered dollarslady—she got’tah fewkinks in caseyerr hadn’t notizzed—eehh.” Somewhere between the no-air conditioner clause and the broke handle assessment, I advanced from missy to lady. “Sheesa good olecara-eehh!” He said rocking on his heels. The tips of his snakeskin boots pointed upward and then he coughed and cleared his throat with a grinding veracity that made mine scratchy. And then I caught what he said.

  “She?”

  “YeppuahShezza good olecarra.” I thought of Brutus, Miss, Flash Fannie and then glanced over at Tank.

  “So… how do I get in—her?” I looked at Fred expectant as if he’d offer up some old swamp magic. From the woods around us, I heard Jerry Reed sing AMOS MOSES, a song about an alligator hunter deep in the swamps of Louisiana. Mag and I used to sing this song with dad all the time. Fred didn’t provide magic but he did demonstrate the door dance of death, which I declared would lead to my quick, descending downfall in society. Just getting into this car was akin to climbing inside the mouth of a snapping turtle. Wait a minute. My thoughts drifted to crumb places. Didn’t I just climb a tree, save a crackle, trust a voice beyond myself, hear the tickle of the wind as it whispered in my ears, faith and 500? Inside the Dumas of Umbra, the house that ruled me, I argued silently with the forces at work there. For and against. The insecure, approval seeking Willodean worried about what other people thought, so much that she mapped out her life by the opinions of other people. You’ll look like a goon, a compulsive, back door, front door, disordered loaf of bread run-a-muck. Do you really want that? I heard Mag and her rich friends laughing at my rag-tag POS car. Blackbirds of dark thoughts flitted in and out of the house, each bringing a message of fear, negativity and people pleasing but between the gaps of flapping wings I heard hope, felt hope, believed in hope.

  “I’ll take her.” I said abruptly. The words leaped from my mouth before I even knew I said them. Fate and five hundred sealed the deal. The easy part was over. The difficult part lay ahead. Convincing Lena—queen of the kitchen sink was altogether a different story.

  “—for five hundred dollars?” Lena snapped in unbelief. The kitchen went into the dead zone until she turned the pages of the cookbook. She glanced up disturbed. “And you went alone?” Irritation shown in her blue steely eyes like sharp blades. “Haven’t I told you about that?”

  It took me all of five minutes to convince her. Miracle at best. She agreed to drive me over to pick it up but only because she was out to prove me wrong. She suspected I daydreamed it or was on the edge of sliding off the deep end again. The worst part was enduring the drive. My head twirled and spun inside the house. I was ten years old all over again. We pulled into Fred’s driveway and I felt the tension of Tanks cab turn.

  “You came here—by yourself?” She gasped. Her head spiraled in distress. The terror of the junkyard before her, a demon behind every rusty piece of metal, a horrible plot unfolding, bodies hidden in trunks and stuffed in seats—lions, tigers and bears, OH MY!

  “It’s a wonder you weren’t hacked to death.” She put tank in park. “What were you thinking driving here all alone? Do you even listen to me? I’m telling you it happens. It does. In fact, just last month, a girl went to a garage sale and it was a junk yard, just like this. Uh-huh. They found her two years later, buried underneath the smashed cars. Sure did.”

  OH. MY. GOD. My head was in revolt. My mind turmoil. Lena’s voice escalated into gruesome while her finger pointed to every suspect bush or barrel. Mag and I called this looming Lena-ology 101.It’s a class you never, ever, under any circumstances want to enroll in. It’s filled with detective disasters, mystery murders, mayhem, sex, drugs, rock-n-roll and serial killers stuffing women into suitcases. Don’t go to Mexico, she says, you’ll end up in a tater sack. Only killers live there. And for God sakes, don’t move to Alaska, because that’s where all the killers go to hide out and perfect their skills on tourists. There’s goes your dads trip to fish for Salmon. And by all means, don’t go to garage sales by yourself because that’s how they lure the women inside with luxurious antique nic-nacs. Don’t shop at Walmart pass eight, they’ll hide in your car and mug you. Don’t buy gasoline pass six or you’ll get hi-jacked. Don’t go to the mailbox without a weapon or they’ll throw you in a white van. And for Pete’s sake, never, ever, travel out of country. In fact, better yet to just stay at home in your garden. Lena thinks gardens are the safest places on earth. She got riled when I asked her about the Garden of Eden. She simply stared at me and blinked. I thought it was hilarious, myself. Her endless epilogues are dreadful, so much they linger inside the house, inside me, in their own room where they can act out their Montagues of gloom and doom, because according to Lena, the world is one blink from the apocalypse.

  Fred walked outside to the porch. Lena eyed him over and immediately went into killer overdrive. Before she could get a good rant started I jumped out of tank. “Mommm!” I said with gritted teeth. “He’s just an old man selling cars.”

  “Well.” She said piously. “It can happen.”

  I slammed the door and gave her a tired look. Lena gripped the steering wheel, scratched her ears and pursed her lips into a tight line. I think she was anticipating my murder.

  “Well, I’m still staying here until you leave.” I heard her through the window.

  “Whatever.” I growled and turned. I could feel her eyes on me. Classic Lena. She didn’t want to miss anything even if it was murder. Fred waved a slight flick of his hand and tugged on his giant buckle and made his way down the stairs in clown squeaks. I walked. He walked. Eye to eye. One step at a time. Death music played a tune inside the house, inside the looming Lena room, the kind they always play on murder shows. I walked—steadily ahead—preparing to meet my destiny. We stop inches apart and face to face. His eyes shifty and flared. His fat fingers reach inside his pocket. My breath inhaled its last wind, holding it, tasting it, feeling it—in anticipation of the knife plunge. The tinker of nickels, dimes, and quarters clinked against the steel shaft, a warning bell for deaths arrival. Fred came at me quickly, shoving the steel blade deep inside my belly button. In my gifted, cursed ears, I heard Lena’s gasp. Dying wasn’t as I expected. It didn’t hurt as much as I thought it would, and maybe because I was numb to pain, already, I’m not sure. The gut stick of the switch blade felt warm, but the slice upwards, twisting and wretched, sounded like the simple slicing of a watermelon in summer. The
blood ran freely down my stomach like the sweet and thick southern sap of my making, straight from the rebel Willow tree.

  “Herzz yogo.” Fred said handing me the long silver key.

  Well, looky here. It’s a car key. Not a switch blade, not my death calling.

  “Thank you Fred.” I turned swiftly around and glared at Lena. I gave her the ‘ole I’m alive—I’m alive expression. Fred turned and walked towards the car mumbling words I couldn’t decipher. I took this as a moment to taunt Lena and poke fun. I made stabbing motions into my chest with the long silver key of death and made morbid death jerks with my hands, tongue out, eyes rolled back. Lena didn’t have a comedic bone in her body. I could feel the inside of Tank ice over with her stare. When I was positive I had set her on edge, I turned to catch up with Fred, laughing until I almost hurt myself.

  Fred counted the money and slid the wad inside his pocket. I walked to the front of the car and froze. My eyes dilated. A cool chill erupted on my skin. The license plate read TFR 333. My heart blazed in flames of heat and memory. Childhood, stories, the significance of threes. What was it exactly?

  “Timmerforya to crankera up.” Fred said in alligator. I came back to myself not quite sure what was up but I pondered it in the house.

  “Well, alrightythen!” I said in his language laughing. I just bought a freaking car. It felt ceremonial as if I should commemorate it and then I remembered the door handle. Turns out, my first door dance was epic and celebration enough. Along with the broke door handle, the bracket that held the door open, was also broke, so in order to get in, I opened the back door, reached between the seat and the door, flipped the inside door handle and pushed the door open, then ran like the dickens to the front door to catch it before it snapped shut like a turtle. Turns out I had a ceremony after all. It took me three tries and almost losing a finger. Fred was amused. Lena was mortified. A couple of times, she rolled down the window, then quickly rolled it back up. Once I finally got inside the smell of lemons and old spice simmered in the heat of the cab. The dashboard was slick and shiny. Fred must have polished it up after I left. Nicest serial killer I ever met. Yellow foam bulged from a split on the passenger seat and the inside frame had faded several different colors. The back seat was rough but doable and some sparse roof lining was drooping. Imperfect just like me. I turned the ignition key giddy with excitement. She sputtered and moaned to life. I pressed the gas and revved her up like dad taught me.

  “Thank you Fred!” I waved out the window.

  “Goodluck thereMissy eehh!” He said rocking up on his heels. I laughed out loud. I had regressed from lady, back to missy again. Ole Fred had me pegged—advance, regress, advance, and regress—me in a nutshell. The car heaved and stuttered, hesitated once or twice, then stalled, burped a long cough and died. Lena shot me the I-told-you-so-look. That did nothing but fire me up. I gritted my teeth and tried again. I was ready to drive out of here, just drive anywhere and everywhere. Just drive. Road trip rebels. Drive.

  It took a few minutes to warm her up but when she was ready, she shot outta the drive way like a Hart boys tinker shop Chevy. Dad wasn’t going to be too thrilled I bought a Jap car, but hey, we do what we gotta do. I left Fred and Lena charred in black smoke. This little car had a mind of her own. Just like me. Just like the house inside me. All I could do was steer and hold on. Before I knew it we were at the corner of the loop and Main Street, a mile down the road.

  “Whoa there girl!” I said slamming on the brakes. “I wanna go out knowing but I’m not ready to go out juuuust yet.” I stroked the dashboard and tried to calm her. Dad said engines run better when we’re affectionate. A minute later, Lena pulls up beside me in an outrage, fuming at the bits, and foaming at the mouth. She didn’t take too kindly of me leaving her behind with a serial killer. HA. Lena’s face was apple red. She wrinkled her lips, shot me a hellfire look and gunned it. Tank’s Goodyear tires licked up road gravel and spewed it all over the place. I never saw Lena drive in such a rage. I fell into a rolling, frolicking, belly hurt of laughter. The car jutted, shook and laughed with me. At this moment, everything in the world felt right. Tears flowed mixed with spontaneous giggles. Holy Smokes. I bought a car. I bought a damn car for five hundred dollars. Forty eight hours later, after one tree climb, my life took a one eighty. Something spectacular was happening. I couldn’t explain it—but I didn’t need to. All I could think of on the drive home was faith and 500.

  A day later I volunteered to go to the store for Lena. She was out of eggs and milk. I was just glad to be able to get out of the house. The clinking of keys meant I owned something. It was all mine. Well, almost. I still had to pay Lena back. It took three door dances this time. Lena grew slant eyed watching me from the kitchen window and I could care one iota. It felt good to not care what people thought. It was new to me, and I hadn’t perfected the art, but I was working on it. I mean, I was happy with a tin can car and this itself was epic.

  The little Jap vehicle spun into the grocery store parking lot as if she owned the place, a royal crown on her rusty roof, a commanding presence. I found a parking place near the front, shifted her to park and killed the ignition. I reached to grab my wallet out of my purse and everything went crazy. That is when I learned—royalty doesn’t die. It shudders side to side like an old washing machine, agitated and jerking around. I switched the ignition key on and off. On and off. The engine would not shut off. Roaring and sputtering, moaning, shaking. A hard explosion rang out behind us in the parking lot. On instinct I dunked and covered. Jesus Christ! It’s a robbery. I waited a multitude of seconds. I glanced up from the steering wheel only to see a few startled faces looking my way. Why are people looking at me? I was confused by the situation until it dawned on me. Oh. My. God. It was her. I remember cars from the tinker shop blowing backfires. It was like a shotgun blast. I fell over laughing. I couldn’t contain the laughter spilling out of me. Her tailpipe launched a round as if she was part of the wild west. “I am shotgun Annie! Hear me roar.” Had this happened at any point earlier in my life, I would have been embarrassed to death. Mag would have crawled under the seat. Hell, who am I kidding? Mag wouldn’t have been caught dead in this rickety old car. I busted out laughing again and stroked the dashboard. Gawking eyes had finally dispersed from the scene.

  “I didn’t know you had it in you Shotgun Annie.” A namesake was born right then and there. I thought of Flash Fannie, Brutus and Miss. My heart yearned for something it didn’t have. Not fully, not yet. Something that could only come from a simple, southern sap girl with a big heart of magic and mystery. Faith and 500.

  In the months that followed, Annie taught me the simple satisfaction of having little, but enough. Content in my squander, it was sustainable and nourishing to the soul while gratitude flowed in me and of me for the small, broken things in me, and of me. The wreckage of Annie’s dingy, dented, and highly flawed body taught me about my own, the house inside me. In the process of life working its magic, mayhem, Dumas of Umbra visitations, little girl sightings and spontaneous crumb droppings, along with Annie's shotgun explosions—I was slowly changing. I noticed a multitude of things I had missed all these years, small, delicate objects in nature, signs in the sky, rain, sun, birds of the air, lilies of the field, stars of heaven. I feel more in tune with myself than ever before.

  A week after Annie, I found a job. Two weeks after that, I found a rent house. Lena Hart was astounded but still suspicious as if she expected me to crater and come back any day. I didn’t have the money to spend on furniture but I had a roof over my head and I didn’t have to live with my parents. Hallelujah! The first night in my house was so gratifying. I laid on the floor with a blanket and pillow. The rest of the house, hollow and empty, just my closet items and a wooden hope chest, and some other personal things. The electricity hadn’t been turned on yet, and I fought Lena tooth and nail, determined to stay in the house, regardless. I simply had a flashlight. I could make do. I slept by the open window listening to the n
ight sounds that took me back to the wondering tree. I thought of Bonnie McAdam’s and what she must have felt. It was thankfulness, I’m sure of it. Gratitude. I drifted off to sleep counting cricket chirps. In my dreams, I felt the winds swirl violently through the open hollows of my own house while I dreamed of moons, stars and crumbs falling.

  Upon waking up, the crumb fell into my head like a shooting star. 500 Dellmont Avenue. I lived in Pine Log all my life and never heard of this street. I started to shuck it off, but I knew better. There was something to this crumb. I was sure of it. Later that day, I paid for gas at a local store and mentioned the address to the clerk. She spouted off directions and having nothing better to do, after work, Annie and I took a road trip. We pulled up and wouldn’t you know it, sitting on the curb, at the address of 500 Dellmont was multiple towers of odds and ends, broken chairs, tables and even a couch. In front of the junk was a cardboard sign with white letters that said FREE. I snatched the sign, threw it in the back seat and sped off to the store. I called dad to come help me haul it to my house. He arrived shortly in his 80’s Ford Bronco, white and blue with silver pin stripes, Dallas Cowboy colors and appropriately named Roger, for Roger Stauback, his all-time favorite quarterback. With a hammer, nails, some glue, and a lot of pain, I had a house full of furniture. From that point onward, I never overlooked a crumb. When the house inside me began to close in—Annie and I would take a road trip. Just road trippin’ rebels cruising the highways, windows down, hot humid air, pellets of perspiration and a tragic disarray of Texas curls. I am happy. The adult want-to-die Willodean is silenced, although I feel it’s only temporary. The great sadness is still there, tucked inside the rooms of the Dumas of Umbra waiting on a moment of weakness. Knowing this, I do feel stronger now, as if I’m not entirely alone on the journey anymore, help from beyond, for me, and of me. Moment by crumb moment. That’s how I live each day. The shadows are still there, I feel their ominous prods as if they’re girding up for the final take down, to capture me, and contain me inside the awful rooms. But I will not let them. Not again. I am stronger now.