Rusty Knob

by Erica Chilson

  “You didn’t fail, Royce. You didn’t.” I slump to my cot, suddenly exhausted. “Warren told me I was cutting his balls off because I wasn’t letting him do his job as the head of our family. Willa is her big brother’s responsibility now.”

  Sounding incredulous, “And you have faith in Warren?”

  “Shit, yeah!” I pause, not sure if I should tell Royce the truth. But then I realize if anyone deserves the truth, it’s him. “I pulled the trigger tonight. I pulled it, and I was confused to why it didn’t go off– confused as to why I didn’t die. So I pulled it again and again. Warren’s been protecting me from myself all this time, and I didn’t even know it. Have no fear, Royce. Willa is safe.”

  “Wynn… if you pull that shit again, I’ll shoot you myself,” Royce threatens, causing me to bark a sharp laugh.

  I’m smiling even though I shouldn’t be under the circumstances. “I’m suddenly cured– Warren Gillette, the ammo thief, inoculated me against insane, suicidal attempts. Pulling the trigger must be what sex feels like.”

  Royce’s snicker warms my skin. “I don’t know what kind of sex you’re having, kid. That’s hella explosive, blowing your brains out… Get out of the holler. Anyone who can use inoculated in a sentence doesn’t belong there. Pack your shit, pack the kids’ shit, and then go get Penny. I’ll meet you out front of my place in a few hours– say seven? I should be able to drag Bren’s ass outta bed by then.”

  “Will do, boss.” Out of nowhere, I start to get choked up. “Thanks. I… I wouldn’t be here without Warren, but I also wouldn’t be getting out of here without you. Thank you.”

  “No one deserves the life you’ve been living. But if anyone deserves better, it’s you. Get to trucking, Wynn. We got a lot of ground to cover this weekend, because y’all will be in class come Monday morning.”

  “Yes, sir,” I say into an already disconnected phone.

  “Are we moving to Uncle Royce’s?” Hayden asks, no longer pretending to sleep.

  “Not with him, no. But he’s gonna find us a real place to live.” I stand up, having no clue where to begin. “You close your eyes and pretend to sleep, okay? Keep your sissy nice and warm– comfort her.”

  I stare down at the kids lying in a bed that’s way too small, and my heart swells. No one will raise a violent hand to them ever again if I can help it. They won’t have to live under the constant strain of addiction, never knowing if they will get a smile, a scream, or a punch to the gut when they walk in the front door. This life won’t warp them until they think what is wrong is right.

  Even if I fail, I’ll only fail at the small things. Knowing my parents failed at the big things and I’m still a good human being, means even if I mess up time and again, the kids are going to be just fine.

  I shove my cellphone into my front pocket, pushing the wad of cash deeper, closer to my body and farther away from my daddy’s clutches.

  I was honestly going to kill myself tonight, ready to call it quits. Heart pounding, chest rising as I breathe rapidly, I use the high to conquer my cowardice.

  When you live in a hovel, there is no need to use the front door. “Don’t be scared. I’m only making us an escape hatch like in Marvel comics. Cover your heads with your blankie.”

  Covering my face with my forearm, I draw in a deep breath, and kick out with my exhale. The noise of splintering, dry-rotted wood is deafening, noxious dust billows around us, but the kids don’t even blink.

  “I’m glad you trust me so much,” I mutter to myself more so than to them. Laughing, I gape at how fragile this shack truly is. One well-placed kick tore out an entire section of exterior wall, proving my suspicions that there were no studs from one room to the next. The only thing holding this rat-trap together is headers and footers. I can easily back the pickup truck up to this hole and shove our shit in the back.

  “I’m getting the truck. I’ll be right back. If Papaw or Mamaw comes in here,” I glance at the heavy lock I latched on our door, “remind them how Uncle Warren said he’d burn Gillette Holler to the ground, and tell them Uncle Wynn says there isn’t a fool in all of Rusty Knob who would take them in.”

  Don’t Mind Your Elders

  The sun is just breaching the horizon as I drive down the rough, rutted path from Gillette Holler toward the town of Rusty Knob. After several hours of packing our things into the back of my pickup truck, where I had the kids scavenging the lawn for furnishings I could refurbish– if it’s in the yard dumpster, it’s fair game– we’re finally greeting a new dawn.

  I pull up front of a real house– one of those houses with siding, functioning windows, and roof that doesn’t leak. There isn’t junk piled up in the yard, except for the part cars lining the back field. The grass is cut with regularity, and there is a swing set and a sandbox among the blooming flowers. Even their driveway is graveled, and the dirt road has been oiled to keep the dust down.

  Franklin Holler.

  I don’t know what Penny’s momma was thinking, trying to hitch her daughter to a Gillette. Daddy is scum compared to this normalcy. Penny’s daddy is the town mechanic. He’s got a shop in the center of Rusty Knob, but he keeps his part cars up here yonder in the holler because of town ordinances.

  The infection runs deep is all I can figure. Penny’s momma was married young, so she thinks that’s the way of life. The Franklins have lots of mouths to feed, but they have a proper momma and daddy raising them.

  I don’t get it. I’m sure Penny would call it love when I’d call it stupidity. I wouldn’t go hitching my star to Warren, least not until he grows up some. Penny didn’t need a man until she got knocked up. Before then, she could have got herself an education and a profession. She would have carved out a real life for herself.

  I don’t have anything against becoming a momma. I just don’t believe in becoming a momma when you still need your own. Today’s a new dawn for all of us. Kids be damned, Penny is gonna live up to her potential.

  “I’ll be back in a few minutes.” I lean over to ruffle both their mops. They flash me an identical set of grins, which is why they always confused Momma. Pale, chubby cheeks pinked, they’re excited after running around the yard looking for treasures. Now they’re raring to go on their next adventure with Uncle Wynn.

  I pull the keys out of the ignition just to be safe. Hayden and Hayley are Gillettes, after all. “Read up on my homework,” I tease them, reaching over to flop The History of The United States Government textbook into their laps– they can look at the pictures of monuments they might get to see now that they left Gillette Holler.

  I get three steps up the front walk when the door swings open in welcome. Mrs. Franklin is waiting on me. No doubt she knows why I’m here, seeing as I have a tarp-draped pickup truck filled with furniture.

  Mrs. Franklin is a mamaw-looking woman: rotund, somewhere in her forties, with gray hair pulled up on top of her head. She leaves the holler to go farther than Rusty Knob. She’s one hundred times smarter than my own momma but still ignorant when it comes to the way of the world. She also bakes the world’s best apple pie. So no matter whatever nastiness she’s about to spew, I can’t be angry with her.

  “Warren said he wasn’t gonna marry my Penny,” reaches my ears before I get to the front door. “Your worthless brother is gonna abandon his children. You here to marry my Penny in his stead?”

  Instead of feeling warm and cozy over the prospect of having a family, my guts wrench so tightly I almost puke on the spot. My nuts tug up so close to my body, they try to turn themselves into lady parts.

  When I cuddle Hayden and Hayley, I get the tingles. That warm, pleasant sensation I can only assume is love. I feel it sometimes when Warren and I get to talking about important things, and he’ll chuck me on the shoulder and laugh. I feel it around Penny sometimes when she’s being a dipshit, and I always kiss her forehead while I’m basking in the glow. I get that same warmness when I lean into Jack for support, and when I chat with Royce. I crave that sensation after f
eeling cold down to my marrow since the day I was born.

  But the thought of marrying Penny and bringing my own kids into this world, leaves me with frostbite.

  “No, Mrs. Franklin. I’m not here to ask for Penny’s hand in marriage.” I feel like cow shit when the hopeful expression on her face warps into anger. “Now, listen. I’m not saying I’m not going to take care of your Penny, ma’am. I’m here to do just that. But, see here, I think of Penny as my sister, and I can’t do my brother such harm as to steal his girl. I’m here to take care of Penny until Warren can… and he will,” I promise, knowing I’ll make him.

  “You’re gonna force my baby to live in sin? I don’t think so. Penny ain’t no whore, especially not to a Gillette.”

  “Ain’t nobody ever gonna touch Penny that way besides Warren. If they tried, I’d be violent for the first time in my life, believe me. We’re gonna live right in Rusty Knob, somewhere nice. We’re both going to graduate. The baby ain’t gonna stop Penny from getting an education. She’s gonna work somewhere, and she’s gonna help me take care of the twins.” I point at the pair of faces smushed up against the driver side window– nosy brats. “When Warren’s done doing what he needs to be doing, he’s gonna come back here and do this right proper with Penny, and she’s gonna be a grown woman when he returns.”

  “Why couldn’t Penny have fallen for you, Wynn?” Mrs. Franklin asks the same question I’ve asked myself many a time.

  “Love don’t work that way,” is the only answer I can give. The truth is terrifying. I know the misery and love of family, and that’s what I feel for Penny. But I’ve never felt the emotions that are necessary between a husband and wife.

  Mrs. Franklin steps to the side, revealing a tiny, young girl with huge, brown eyes and tear-splattered cheeks. Penny’s hand is subconsciously cupping her belly, right over Warren’s baby. I can see the war raging inside my friend. She wants to go. But she’s so terrified of the unknowns, she’d rather stay where she knows what to expect.

  “Will you do this with me?” I ask, knowing she’ll get that we’re both feeling the same way.

  Gillette Holler is calling to me like a lost coonhound puppy– howling and howling a somber song of loss. Its pull is mighty strong, but the wounds are throbbing and so raw that I know better than to give into the call.

  Penny shakes her head, causing her coppery ponytail to bob up and down, making her look twelve instead of like a momma.

  Penny’s name isn’t Penelope. She was named after the cent piece because of the color of her hair. Fingertips brush tears off her freckled cheeks as she starts toward me.

  “What do you need from the house?” I hitch my thumb over my shoulder, showing there is room for Penny’s stuff in the bed of my truck.

  “Git in the truck with the children,” Mrs. Franklin orders Penny. “Everything in this house belongs to your father and me. I’ll decide what you’re taking from here, and Wynn can carry it.”

  Harsh.

  Leaning forward, I grip Penny’s arm when she loses her step. Fresh tears splatter her cheeks but she doesn’t look back. I curl her into my side, escorting her to the passenger side of my truck. Now the warm sensation returns, like I’m doing good and feeling good because of it.

  The kids press themselves to the windshield, following us as we move around the front of the truck. When I pop the door open, they almost fall out. “Nosy brats,” I grumble with affection, causing Penny to crack a smile. “Shove over. Make some room for Aunt Penny. She’s gonna read you the second Mrs. de Winter’s passage about Manderley. It’s about time Penny caught up in English class.”

  “Seriously?” Penny begins bitching immediately.

  “Seriously,” I order with a not-so gentle shove into the truck. “Hayden loves it when I read my assignments to him. He falls into the story. Hayley just likes dozing to the sound of my voice. They both loved the description of Manderley, wanting to visit.”

  “I don’t know if I wanna live with you,” Penny grumbles, hating how I’m gonna force her to reach her potential instead of sit around and rot. Her lips curve up into a grin when she sees my scowl– forever baiting me.

  “Last night, I dreamt I went to Manderley again,” I prompt as I hand Penny my worn-out copy of Rebecca.

  Penny teases me. “You’re such a girl.” She chuckles softly with the kids while she shifts them around until one is beneath each of her arms.

  “Not that horseshit again,” I warn, sick to death of Penny calling me transgender simply because I don’t have my cock in one hand and a beer can in the other.

  Reciting from memory in a pleasing lilt, Penny surprises me. “The road to Manderley lay ahead. There was no moon. The sky above our heads was inky black. But the sky on the horizon was not dark at all. It was shot with crimson, like a splash of blood. And the ashes blew toward us with the salt wind from the sea.”

  “YAY!” The kids whoop and holler, clapping and acting silly, the deep words having no impact on their tiny minds.

  Feeling warm and cozy, I press Penny’s forehead to my chest, and then I lean down to kiss the top of her head. “You’ve been doing your homework, after all,” I tease as I pull away.

  I tell Penny I’m going to go deal with her momma by quoting, “It wouldn’t make for sanity, would it, living with the devil?”

  Penny’s next words follow me up the walk, giving me new insight into why our English teacher tries so hard to get us to read the required curriculum. “I believe there is a theory that men and women emerge finer and stronger after suffering, and that to advance in this, or any world, we must endure ordeal by fire.”

  Just how Royce said a boy who knows how to use inoculated in a sentence shouldn’t live in a Holler, a girl who can recite Daphne du Maurier shouldn’t live in one, either.

  “Listen up, Mrs. Franklin,” I speak with direct frankness to the woman staring at me like I’ve grown a third head. “Penny’s stuff belongs to her, whether it’s in your home or mine. Point me in the proper direction to retrieve it.”

  “This is the way it’s done,” Penny’s momma says sheepishly as she turns to walk inside the house.

  I skirt around the woman, cutting her off. What I say next isn’t for Penny, but for her younger sisters and all of her nieces to come. “Don’t think it didn’t scar me for life, seeing my sister sob and shriek as my daddy passed her off to a man twenty years her senior, knowing what was gonna happen to her when he got her home. This is why I’m taking Penny right now, knowing she will be warm and safe and loved.”

  A wash of tears rushes over Mrs. Franklin’s eyes, but she’s too strong and bullheaded to let them fall. “I lived through it, and it’s only fair my daughter does, too. At least she loves Warren.”

  My face twists up with frustration. “See, that’s what I don’t get. You mothers do it to your own daughters. No one else is. Mr. Franklin would have kept Penny here until she finished college if you’d let him. Seems to me, if it hurt you so bad when it happened to you, you wouldn’t want to inflict such suffering on your own daughters. Just ‘cuz it’s been done, doesn’t mean it’s right. Just my take on things.”

  “Mind your elders,” is Mrs. Franklin’s lame comeback.

  “Maybe if you’d challenged your elders to think outside of their tiny world, they’d learn something.” I charge down the hallway, knowing which room Penny shares with her sisters. I look at little Molly for direction, and she points out which drawers belong to her big sister.

  I yank the drawers from the dresser, dumping their contents on Penny’s bed. “Maybe the elders don’t know what the fuck they are doing, and when we listen to them, we end up doing the wrong goddamned thing. Seeing on how you consider a young girl old enough to become her child’s elder. That’s just a thought from someone who thinks for himself.”

  Molly, taking the initiative while her mother is stunned stupid, begins gathering Penny’s things and stacking them nicely on the second patchwork blanket we made in Home Economics.


  “There is a big difference in following an ignorant person blindly to your own destruction and minding your elders. Don’t stunt your daughters to the point they can’t think for themselves, and then force them to birth children when they are still children themselves. Then force the same bullshit lies on them that your grandmothers made up because they didn’t know any better. It’s not a legacy. It’s enslaved ignorance.”

  “Wynn Gillette,” Mrs. Franklin says in warning, and Molly begins tearing shit off the walls and tossing it onto the blanket. Out of nowhere, Hannah comes out of the depths of their shared closet with a huge armful of clothing still on their hangers, and then she makes a mad dash to the front door. Kids start spilling from the woodwork, gathering Penny’s things because she deserves them.

  This generation is going to change West Virginia. Just seeing how much the Franklin kids stick together melts my frostbitten heart. It’s even defrosting Mrs. Franklin a teensy bit but pissing her off more.

  I lean forward, gathering up Penny’s blanket like a tarp. “I’m going. I’m going. I’m going.” I chant to the angry momma at my back. Whether a townie or a hillbilly from the Hollers, nobody likes being judged, especially by a seventeen-year-old boy stealing their daughter.

  _________

  The last of Penny’s things are secured in the back of my pickup. All of her family is scattered about the front yard, looking sad and worried. All but Penny’s momma, because she never followed us outside. The twins’ faces are glued to the side window again, while Penny hides beneath the hood of her sweatshirt, not able to say her goodbyes.

  “Is your daddy already at work?” I ask Jeb, Penny’s younger brother by two years.

  “Yeah,” Jeb whispers while running his hands over his freckled cheeks to remove what he considers cowardice.

  I grip Jeb’s shoulder and squeeze, but my words are directed at Penny’s four sisters as well as little Jeb. “I cried when my sister was taken, too. I was ten and Warren was sixteen, and neither one of us could stop it. Believe me, we tried. But Daddy had taken all the guns from the house knowing how we’d react. That night, we huddled up in bed together, crying. It’s okay to be sad, but you need to understand this isn’t the same thing.”