The Death of Mungo Blackwell

by Lauren H Brandenburg

  With everything in her, Velveteen wanted to keep her only child by her side. She didn’t know these people. She didn’t know why some of them slept in the same room where they ate. She didn’t know why an old woman was running around outside chastising a chicken, and she didn’t know why someone would choose to live this way if they didn’t have to. Velveteen recalled the conversation she and Charlie had had while she coiffed for the evening. He had told her Stephen was a university graduate. Educated people don’t choose to live in camper vans, she had argued while squinting to place her false eyelash.

  Gideon sat on the steps of the traveling home, watching the children chase one another around the lot. He didn’t know how to play with other children, so he opted to entertain himself by eavesdropping on his mother trying to make small talk with Clover. How long have you been here? Where did you call home before Coraloo? What brings you to Coraloo? You have a lovely… home. His mother’s discomfort made him laugh. He halfway wanted to stick around and see what kind of mess she would find herself in.

  Danger plopped down beside him, his hands filthy and his bare feet even worse. “That’s Finella and Fiona – twins.” He pointed to two girls sitting with a group of teens around the fire pit. “My older brother Fife, and the weird one is Fie.” All four heads were as red as Danger’s rumpled hair.

  “I guess your mom ran out of ‘F’ names before she got to you.”

  “Mom says names are important. She didn’t want to settle because of a letter, so I’m named after a traveling preacher. The doctor couldn’t get here fast enough, so the preacher delivered me right in the middle of the market. Dad said the tip boot was full that day.”

  Gideon remembered watching shoppers at the market toss coins into the old work boot after the Blackwell performance. He shook his head; the Blackwells were definitely different. He stared at Fie, her nose stuck in a book. She didn’t look weird; she looked immersed. He wished he were at home, in his room, hidden among the cowboys, immersed in Pirates of the Cosmos.

  As Charlie had speculated, they ate dinner under the stars – roast beef, mashed potatoes, green beans, rolls, and for dessert, a blackberry cobbler prepared by Granny. Velveteen could not get her head around how such a large meal had been prepared in such a tiny kitchen. She wriggled on the wooden bench brought over from the market.

  “You’ll meet Granny later,” Stephen informed them. “She’ll be over for compliments. It’s shotgun night.”

  Velveteen slowly lowered her plastic fork. “Shotgun night?”

  “She cleans it once a week. It’s the only night it sees any action. Most of the time it’s hidden under the market counter.”

  “I will keep that in mind.” Velveteen returned to her dinner with another reason to avoid the market.

  Charlie and Stephen discussed the Kipling, while Clover and Velveteen did their best to connect the pieces of their very different lives. Velveteen fought to balance her plate of food on her lap and would have gladly wiped her greasy hands on her paper napkin had it not fallen to the ground, twice. Charlie and Stephen appeared to have hit it off with their common interest in dead authors. She watched him laugh and listen, talking more to the Blackwell than he’d ever talked to the spouses of the acquaintances. He was happy – that was what mattered, right? For him to be happy? Clover poured her another glass of the strong gingery fizzy drink – the carbonated beverage would be fine. Velveteen would detox in the morning.

  “Clover, the food is delicious, and the room is lovely –” she caught herself, realizing the room is lovely was not the appropriate compliment. “The… um… setting is lovely.” She blushed and wished she had brought her sunglasses; they were always a good place to hide. The younger Blackwells stared at her curiously and then returned to their conversation. Velveteen had rehearsed the encomium; it was what she said at every dinner party she and Charlie had ever been to. It’s what Debrett’s handbook on style and etiquette said to do; however, she had searched it – as well as her Emily Post – from cover to cover and it said nothing about camper van dining.

  Embarrassed and completely out of place, she watched as Gideon sat quietly in a lawn chair on the other side of Charlie picking at his food, and then glanced over to a group of the Blackwell children who were playing some sort of game involving two boards and a handful of beanbags. Had she made Gideon this way? Had she put him in pre-school too early? She had followed the child-rearing book to the letter. But it hadn’t worked. No matter how hard she had tried, he would decline her offers to set up play dates and refused organized sports. The point was to socialize him, to introduce him to other children at an early age so he would develop confidence in early adolescence. She wanted him to have the childhood she never had. Early education was a luxury her mother could not afford.

  Velveteen gained her composure and cleared her throat. “Gideon, Mrs Blackwell homeschools her children. Did you know that?”

  “Yes.”

  She had to be careful. She had no desire to be a homeschooling mother who made macaroni necklaces all day and dressed up like Mary Todd Lincoln to teach history. “Clover, what is Danger’s favorite subject in homeschool?”

  Danger rushed over from his game. “History! I’m an expert!”

  “On his own family,” Gideon mumbled.

  “I know all about the pygmies and the pirates.”

  “Pygmies and pirates? Well, that sounds quite intriguing.” Velveteen faked a laugh. Gideon laughed too. Velveteen eyed him curiously. He was paying attention.

  “Did you get to that part in the book, Gideon? If not, I can tell you all about them, if you want.”

  Gideon nodded. Velveteen nearly cried at the thought of her son’s classical education marred by this family’s made-up history. She was tired, a bit bloated from the meal, and her Chanel No. 5 was quickly attracting a variety of biting insects. She did not feel like taking part in the legendary Blackwell tales; however, at this point, if it would get Gideon to communicate with someone his own age, she would stay all night. She shifted uncomfortably on the bench, catching Charlie’s eye. She smiled pleasantly, honestly.

  “It’s getting late; we should go.” Charlie stood, arching his back for a quick stretch.

  Gideon tugged on Charlie’s shirtsleeve. “Dad, I need to know about the pirates.” Charlie and Velveteen stared at their antisocial son.

  “Are you coming to the market in the morning?” Stephen asked.

  “Can we, Dad?”

  “Yes!” Velveteen jumped to her feet, squishing the heels of her shoes deeper into the grass. “Yes, you can.” Even though the Blackwells were their polar opposites, to get Gideon doing something other than burying his head in his comic books must be a step in the right direction.

  “Really?” Charlie asked, before he could stop himself. They had discussed it before and the plan was clear. He would go to the market on Friday, sometimes Saturday, and list on Monday. The rest of the week he would spend at home, monitoring and shipping his sales. However, tomorrow was “Sometimes Saturday”, and he had suggested they spend the day together as a family exploring the town. She had loved the idea.

  “Of course! Why would it not be okay?” Velveteen asked as if it were normally not against her better judgment to let Gideon play with children unevaluated by the Lafayette Academy.

  “You should come too,” Clover suggested.

  Velveteen’s face went white. All the bartering, buying, and selling made her uncomfortable – not to mention that one time she had gone with Charlie to a church rummage sale. She shivered. Besides, she would need every extra minute of her days to make the small Toft house habitable. “Thank you so much for the offer, but I have quite a bit of work to do around the house.”

  “Ah, yes!” Stephen leaned back in his chair. “Quite an interesting place you have there. Mrs Toft was some kind of woman.”

  “Some kind of woman all right,” Granny grumbled, making her entrance into the circle of diners with her shotgun tucked under her left arm. “
No good, land-stealing… ” There were a few other choice words Velveteen preferred Gideon had not heard.

  “I believe you were going to tell us about the house,” Charlie added.

  “A reason for you all to visit us again.” Stephen reached over, extending his hand to Charlie.

  “Maybe next time we can return the hospitably. Dinner at the Toft house!”

  The mashed potatoes came back up in Velveteen’s throat; the ornamented camper vans drove in circles around her brain. She started to sway. But before she lost consciousness again, Danger blurted out, “Blackwells don’t associate with Tofts!”

  “And we don’t associate with pickers!” A dark, burly figure emerged from the shadows cast by the sun’s descent upon the market. The faint Scottish accent Charlie had detected in the other Blackwells was stronger and deeper with the giant of a man.

  “It’s not the time, Shug.” Stephen stood up and faced his uncle.

  “It’s how we make a living. We don’t need your kind coming in and cheapening the place, Price. We’ve worked to make it what it is. I see you on your phone. I know what you’re up to! We aren’t some barn or back alley pawnshop. Do you hear me, picker? Your kind is going to overrun the place; you just watch. Will you take less?” he mocked. “No, we won’t take less, Price.”

  “Uncle, that’s enough. Let our friends be. We’ll talk about it later.”

  A much calmer sibling ushered Shug Blackwell away from the fire.

  “Don’t mind him, Charlie. We’ve made a lot of changes over the past few years. Renovations cost us a piece. He gets hung up on it. He has his own mind about things. Anything new doesn’t sit well with him.”

  Velveteen swallowed another sip of the highly caffeinated soda. “Does that mean people too?”

  No one answered.

  “Who wants an egg?” Granny Blackwell interrupted the awkward silence, holding the jar of magenta boiled eggs Gideon had seen in the market the day before. “You can’t be a Blackwell unless you eat the eggs. Isn’t that right, Clover?”

  Clover smiled and then mouthed I’m so sorry to Velveteen.

  Granny unscrewed the lid of the jar and proceeded to pass it among the family members. Danger dug his fork inside, pulled out an egg, and took a bite. “I only like the outside, so I don’t eat the yellow part. Go on, get one.”

  Gideon shook his head. “No thanks.”

  “Aww, come on. They’re not going to hurt you.”

  “Maybe next time.”

  “I bet your mom will do it, just like my mom did!”

  Danger shoved the jar onto Velveteen’s lap, sloshing the concoction of vinegar, beet juice, and spices on her dress. Velveteen coughed at the pungent aroma. “Oh my, uh…” She coughed again. It smelled like their front yard.

  Charlie cringed, but seeing his wife’s discomfort and knowing she would force the egg down to avoid being rude, he stood up and grabbed the jar. “Who would have thought – purple eggs!” Charlie stuck his fork in the jar, pulled out an egg, and took a bite. His cheeks tightened and he forced himself to swallow.

  Velveteen watched, praying her husband wouldn’t gag himself to death.

  “Well, that’s a first.”

  The Blackwells laughed.

  Danger stood up and shouted, “He ate the egg!”

  Clover collected Velveteen’s plate from her lap. “You owe your husband big for that one,” she said under her breath. “They’re sour, horrible, taste like death, and she’s had them since Easter. She’s been trying to sell the things to the tourists.”

  “We should probably be going; it is getting late.” Velveteen attempted to wipe the pink stain off her dress.

  Clover gave Velveteen a gentle hug. “Please, don’t be a stranger.”

  Velveteen smiled. “Thank you so much for having us. It truly was a lovely evening.” She meant it, sort of. At the core of all the eccentricity, she felt unusually welcomed, but at the same time terrified by Shug Blackwell’s attack on her husband and stunned by the ritual eating of pickled eggs.

  On the short drive down the hill, Gideon leaned up between his parents. “Dad, what’s a picker?”

  Charlie made eye contact with his son in the rearview mirror. “I am, Son.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Charlie Price took a sip of his coffee and glanced into the pleading eyes of his wife.

  “Don’t go, Charlie.”

  “Last night you were practically begging me to take Gideon to the market.”

  “Who knows what that man will do to you! What if he tries to skin you alive?”

  “Skin me?” Charlie loved it when his wife plunged into the overdramatic. Most often, he eagerly anticipated what she would say next.

  “He might! Did you see the size of his arms? And what was that tattoo… a butcher knife? I bet it’s what he uses to skin his victims, and I bet he lives in the rooster! Only crazy people live in roosters, Charlie. Do you think he is crazy? Crazy people do crazy things! And what was it he called you?”

  “A picker?”

  “Yes, picker! He uses a butcher knife to skin the pickers! I don’t think you should go. It’s not safe.”

  “Sweetheart, I cannot confirm or deny whether or not Shug Blackwell is crazy. But I can tell you this – he doesn’t skin people… at least not when they’re alive.”

  Charlie waited for her next defense as he stared up at the crack in the ceiling from the comfort of their sofa. Even in the tiny house, the couch was as comfortable as it had been in their grand city home. A few patches of glue and a scrape or two remained on the walls from Velveteen’s first home renovation project, but overall, she had managed to leave the room looking open, airy, and cozy.

  Simple. In the city, even though she was not only educated in the art of design but perfectly capable, she had hired contractors and decorators to paint the walls and arrange the furniture because that’s what the acquaintances had told her wives of bankers were supposed to do. In Coraloo, she was attempting to do it herself.

  “I like what you’ve done with the room,” he told her honestly, impressed with her accomplishments.

  “Don’t change the subject!”

  “I bet you can find something to go over the couch at the market. Coraloo draws a lot of high-end decorators.”

  “I know. But extras aren’t in our budget right now.”

  Extras. He knew she was using it as an excuse. She hadn’t asked him for anything since the move. He hated that there were even things she considered extras – possibly personal items she needed but would never ask him for. Extras weren’t even a thought before The Rooning. “Do you need something? What is it? If you need something, we’ll get it. I probably have twenty items listed that could sell at any minute. Just tell me what it is. You know I’m no good at guessing.”

  “I don’t need anything, Charlie.”

  “Nail polish, those round stretchy bands you put in your hair, underwear? Do you need clothes? What is it?”

  “Underwear? Really?”

  “I don’t know what you girls call them… pan-tees. We can handle a few small extras right now. It’s been a good week. What do you need?”

  He loved the thrill of the hunt and even more when the ping, ping rang from his phone, alerting him another item had sold online. But he didn’t like being so tight, wondering how and if they could pay the next month’s rent. Still, he was determined to make this work.

  She bit her lower lip and stroked her long hair. “All right; you asked. I need your skin safely on your body.” She giggled.

  It took Charlie a minute, but he realized she was trying to change the subject. She hadn’t meant to plant the daily seed of self-doubt and fear as to whether or not he could provide for his family, but the truth of their current financial situation, the extras, had entered his head and there it would stay until he could work his way out of the mental box.

  He’d try to play back. “That’s a good thing to need; however, you should know one of the vendors had a working guillotin
e the other day. Would you rather have me skinless or headless?”

  “A guillotine! What would one even do with a guillotine?”

  “Melon slicer. We could set it on the patio and use it in the summer.”

  It wasn’t the strangest thing Charlie had seen. One time someone tried to sell him a nineteenth-century Moldavian chest once belonging to the real Professor Abraham Van Helsing of Dracula fame. As a lover of classic literature, Charlie had almost bought the thing for sheer fun until, on closer inspection of the eclectic contents, he had to inform the vendor he doubted Professor Van Helsing could have used mentholated salve to slay a vampire and whatever was in the other vial was illegal to sell on at least four continents.

  “Go with me – go with me to the market. It’s not what you think. Listen, I sold a sax last week. We’ll move the budget around a bit. We could use a day out, together. I’ll take the day off. We can stroll the shops, grab a bite to eat at Granny’s. It won’t be like the last time.”

  The last time. The church rummage sale. When they went to pay – Charlie with his arms full of brand-name kitchen appliances and a pair of bookends resembling two Shelties holding rifles – the lady taking the money was none other than Mary Beth Rogers. Velveteen had disguised her mortification behind sunglasses and a delighted smile, then she prayed that Mary Beth had no idea what was being sold at her own fundraiser. Velveteen had thought quickly. “I hope you can use these to help some poor soul, Mary Beth. Shall I have Charlie leave them here?” From that point on, Velveteen shied away from shopping with Charlie.

  “And what will Gideon do while we stroll, Charlie?”

  “He has plans with the Blackwell boy.”

  “Which one?” She laughed again at her own jest.

  Charlie smiled. “Does it matter? He wants to be with kids his age. You told him he could go, remember?” He knew what to say next. “I bet Melba would go the market.”

  “Don’t you bring her into this, Charlie Price. Besides, Melba is staying with me this morning. We have plans.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, she’s teaching me to dye my hair.”