by Lexi George
Brand pulled his hand free. “My brother and I prefer our privacy. We want Pootie’s name on the plaque.”
“Sure, sure,” the Mayor said. Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall, Addy thought, watching him rock back on his heels. “You two joining the parade today?” he asked.
Addy glanced at Brand. A muscle in his jaw twitched. The big guy was not happy she was riding in the parade.
Last night, he had made love to her with an almost desperate urgency, his fevered caresses and husky murmurings urging her to new heights and daring. Several times during the night as they lay entwined in the aftermath of lovemaking, their heated skin damp and flushed, she sensed him struggling with something. Something she wasn’t ready for. Something she knew deep in her bones would make the hurt that much worse when he went away. The “L” word; her heart would crack wide open if he said it and left. And he would leave. He had no choice. So she shied away from it each time, distracting him with her body and her mouth.
As dawn approached, bringing with it the possibility of death by demon, panic set in. So little time . . . there was so little time. What if she died without telling him how she felt? She opened her mouth to tell him . . . and that’s when he announced she would not be going to the parade. This I cannot allow, he had said. He wanted her to stay home where it was safe, and she was determined not to be controlled by a demonic bully with B.O. Besides, she told him, he would be there to protect her. She won the argument, but there had been no time to make things right.
“We’re riding in the Goober Mobile with Pootie,” she told the mayor.
“Splendid, splendid.” He raised a plump hand in farewell as Brand dragged her toward the door. “See you there.”
They had a few minutes to spare before they were supposed to meet Pootie, so she and Brand walked up and down the parade line. Addy loved the Peanut Parade. Anything on wheels was allowed as long as it had a leguminous or patriotic theme. People on go-carts, golf carts, and riding lawn mowers, as well as bicycles, tricycles, scooters, roller skates, and skate boards thronged the streets, their rides all decked out in goober regalia. Bubbas from as far away as Namath Springs were in the parade, their vehicles proudly adorned with peanut paraphernalia or red, white, and blue trappings. In addition to a bevy of newer model trucks, Addy counted fourteen antique pickups, three tractors, an Edsel, and two Model T Fords in the parade line. Hooting and hollering, the Hannah High cheerleaders hung from the open windows of a Camaro jacked up on monster truck tires, their toned cheerleader legs waving in the air like the feelers of a giant insect. Jeannine from the Kut ’N’ Kurl had covered her Volkswagen Bug fender to fender in peanut shells, adding a red, grinning mouth across the front of the car and long eyelashes to the headlights. It was the Rose Parade on acid.
Addy directed Brand’s attention to the Mobile Bay City Rollers and the Paulsberg Biker Babes, new to the event this year. She couldn’t decide which was her favorite, Mamie Hall’s power chair with the peanut-shaped toilet mounted as the seat or the lowrider pickup truck encased in an enormous yellow, blue, and green Styrofoam likeness of a can of Roddenberry Peanut Patch green-boiled peanuts. The Purple Hoo-Hahs, Muddy’s coterie of eccentric friends, rode at the back of the parade in three convertibles festooned with banners and flags and balloons. The Hoo-Hahs had donned their signature purple hats for the occasion and a variety of purple shoes ranging in style from running shoes to slut pumps and designer flip-flops. Feather boas fluttered around their necks like plumage on a flock of exotic birds. Singing and cheering and blowing noisemakers, they draped themselves over the side of their vehicles, an older, better dressed, and more disturbing version of the Hannah cheerleaders.
Muddy was in the middle car, a purple plastic glass filled with some unidentified frosty liquid clutched in one ring-laden hand and a purple megaphone in the other. “Attention Kmart shoppers,” she shouted into the megaphone. “Attention.”
Oh, brother, the Hoo-Hahs were pickled. The Hoo-Hahs got snockered at the Peanut Festival every year, one reason they were placed at the back of the parade line. Thank goodness the chief had the good sense to assign three officers from Hannah’s meager police force to drive the bunch of rowdy old ladies. Dan Curtis drove Muddy’s car, a ten-year-old red Mercedes-Benz. Some Hoo-Hah had taken his police cap, replacing it with a downturn silk Fedora that sported a big, poofy bow. Purple ribbons fluttered from the back. Dan looked resigned. Addy thought he looked fetching.
A Hoo-Hah wearing a black and white polka dot silk hat trimmed with a purple taffeta sash leered at Brand. “Hey, baby, you know what I like,” she said.
Muddy bonked the woman on the head with her megaphone, knocking her hat askew. “That’s my niece’s boyfriend, you old cougar,” she said. “Stop drooling at him and reel that twat back in the car.”
“Hey, Miss Hixie,” Addy said to the woman Muddy had assaulted. “How you doing?”
Miss Hixie adjusted her hat. “Not near as well as you, shugah. Who’s the cheesecake?”
“This is Brand Dalvahni, Miss Hixie.”
“Hang on to that one, baby doll.” The old lady winked. “Somebody might steal him.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Addy waved at her aunt, but Muddy couldn’t see her for her hat, a flat brimmed platter-sized confection with a chiffon ruffle. “Muddy. Muddy.”
Muddy turned from conversation with the Hoo-Hah next to her. “Yes, dear?”
“Where’s Mr. C?”
Muddy waved her glass. “Down at the river with the rest of the artists. He’s got a booth this year. Already sold three Bear Bryants, two Elvises, and a Nativity scene.” She gave Brand a beetle-eyed stare from beneath the brim of her big hat. “Amasa’s an artist, you know. Wire sculpture.” She paused, as though trying to remember something. “Oh, yes, he asked me to deliver a message to you. He said trouble’s a-coming. His contrabulator’s been humming all morning.”
“Contrabulator?” Miss Hixie waggled her gray brows. “What’s that, his willy?”
Muddy whopped Miss Hixie on the head again. “Never you mind Amasa’s willy, Hixie Belle Lovelace.”
Good grief, shades of Shirley and Bessie Mae.
Addy and Brand made a tactical retreat and joined Pootie in the Goober Mobile, a 1963 Lincoln Continental convertible with suicide doors, brown leather interior, and a gleaming faux peanut shell finish. Pootie sat behind the wheel. The front seat was covered with goody bags, so Addy and Brand climbed in the back. The Goober Mobile occupied a place of honor smack dab in the middle of the parade line. People stopped by to shake Pootie’s hand and congratulate him. Pootie was one happy Grand Goober, resplendent in a brown western shirt and leather bolo tie with a big, silver “G” medallion, jeans, and snakeskin shitkickers. His mama had whipped out her glue gun, transforming his plain straw cowboy hat into a glittering masterpiece. The letters “GG” were emblazoned across the front in rhinestones. A fey miniature dancing goober adorned the back. Privately, Addy thought the dancing goober looked more like one of Mr. C’s cat turds than a peanut, but she kept it to herself. He’d topped off his outfit with a brown homemade cape trimmed in black braid that bore two big “G”s on the back.
Pootie gripped the wood-grained Lucite steering wheel. “You think folks will know I’m the Grand Goober without the peanut head?”
“Pootie, you’re driving a car that’s been painted to look like an eighteen-foot-long peanut on wheels,” Addy said. “And then there’s the hat and the cape, and the big banner on the side of the car that says ‘Goober Mobile.’ Everyone will know who you are.”
“We should be starting soon. Don’t you think we should be starting soon? Addy, see if you can tell what’s going on up ahead,” Pootie begged.
Addy scooted to the top of the backseat for a better view. She bounced a little with excitement. “The bands have cranked up, and I see movement up ahead. I think we’re fixing to start.”
The cars ahead of them moved a fraction.
Pootie gripped the wheel tighter. “Here we go
.”
Gunning his engine and tooting his horn, Pootie eased the big Lincoln forward. Addy suppressed a smile. He was a cowboy-esque Toad from Wind in the Willows, deep in the grip of motor car fever.
The parade crept across the railroad tracks and turned onto Oak Street in a merry cacophony of horn blowing, catcalls, and band music. People lined both sides of the parade route, some standing and others sitting in folding chairs and on top of coolers. Still others perched on the back of cars and pickup trucks. The crowd cheered and waved madly when they came into view.
“Quick, grab the goody bags,” Pootie said.
Addy plucked two large-size paper bags off the front seat and handed one to Brand. “You throw to the left, and I’ll throw to the right.”
“I do not understand,” Brand said. “Why do you wish me to hurl objects at these humans?” Reaching inside the bag on his lap, he removed a cellophane package. He sniffed the object in his hand, his nostrils flaring. “What do you call these little tarts?”
“It’s a MoonPie.” Addy threw another handful of goodies. “Graham cracker cookies filled with marshmallow and dipped in chocolate.”
He flapped a silver package in her direction. “And this?”
“That’s a Goo Goo Cluster. Chocolate, peanuts, caramel, and marshmallow.”
“I like chocolate.” Brand sounded wistful. “But I will abstain. I must be at my best in case the djegrali attacks.”
A finger of dread crept down her spine. The demon, she’d forgotten about the demon. Shoved it to the back of her mind, because she didn’t want to think about it. Today could be the day that she . . .
She pushed the thought aside. Deal with it, Addy, she told herself. Compartmentalize, or you’ll go bonkers.
“I appreciate the sacrifice,” she said. “You can have all the MoonPies and Goo Goo Clusters you want when we get back home, I promise. But, unless you want people coming all up in this car with you, you’d best be throwing some candy. Folks around here take their parade goodies seriously.”
They wound onto Main Street. The parade watchers lined the sidewalks four and five deep and dangled like overripe fruit from the branches of the live oak trees that shaded the store fronts. Addy recognized Ansgar’s tall, broad-shouldered form among the people milling about on the sidewalks. He towered head and shoulders above the rest of the crowd, his long, pale hair gleaming in the sun. He arms were crossed on his broad chest, his gray eyes watchful as he scanned the press of humanity milling around him. Addy waved at Evie. Girlfriend wore shorts—shorts!—and a cotton top that emphasized her curves. Girlfriend was a babe.
Evie grinned and waved at Pootie. “Hey, Grand Goober. You look mah-velous!”
Pootie gave Evie a Homecoming Queen wave, fingers pressed together and slightly cupped. “Addy, throw that girl a MoonPie.”
“Sure thing, Poot.”
Addy reached into her bag, but Brand was quicker. He beaned Ansgar in the head with a MoonPie.
“Hey, no fair,” she said. “I wanted to bop Blondy upside the head.”
Brand stared at the grocery sack in his lap. “I do not know what came over me. I had the sudden overwhelming urge to smite my brother with a pastry.”
She patted him on the arm. “Don’t worry about it, babe. Happens to me every time I get around the guy.”
She chunked another handful of candy over the side of the car and made eye contact with a man in the crowd. He gave her a death’s head grin, his purple eyes glowing with a sickly radiance. Startled, she looked back, but he was gone. Probably a trick of the light, she decided. Mr. Nasty really had her spooked. She’d be seeing purple-eyed whoozits everywhere if she wasn’t careful.
An obnoxious rumbling drew her attention to the left side of the Goober Mobile. Shep and Lenora pulled alongside them in the northbound lane.
Shep grinned and waved. “Hey, sis, what do you think of my ride?”
It was official. Shep had gone ape shit crazy. Never mind that her stick-in-the-mud big brother was breaking any number of parade rules by getting out of line and tooling down the middle of the street. Forget the fact that his girlfriend, Suzy Succubus, was drawing a buttload of attention with an outfit that consisted of a couple of yards of ribbon and nothing more. Or that a magical wind machine blew Vampire Chick’s long black hair and the ribbons of her dress behind her in a languorous stream like Isadora Duncan’s scarf.
And, yes, she was surprised to see Shep in the parade instead of standing on the sidelines as befitted a man in his somber line of work.
But, what really racked her back was his vehicle, a 1932 Ford Roadster with a steel casket welded to the chassis and sporting a set of racing slick tires. A coffin car; her brother was driving a coffin car.
“Shep, is that by any chance Granddaddy Corwin’s Roadster you’re driving?” she said.
She had to shout to be heard over the steady whump-whump-whump of the coffin car’s exhaust.
“Sure is. Ain’t it cool? I’ve been working on it for months down at Rat’s place. Surprised?”
Oh, she was surprised all right. But, that was nothing on what Bitsy was going to do when she saw that car. Bitsy was going to have a duck fit.
“See yah,” Shep said.
He squealed his tires and roared off in a cloud of smoke.
Chapter Thirty-three
The parade route ended at the top of the hill on South Main. Honking his horn, Pootie eased the Goober Mobile into a parking place under an oak tree on the west side of the square and turned off the engine. There was a bare patch in the grass where Jeb Hannah had sat before the demon picked him up and plunked him on Muddy’s front lawn. The roving statue caused quite a sensation. The story was picked up by the Associated Press. A photographer from Paulsberg was taking pictures of people in the shallow depression.
There were long lines at the inflatable moon walk and the water slide the city brought in for the festival. Parents and children swarmed around the Conecuh Sausage vendor and the snow cone machine. Folks gathered around the Goober Mobile, admiring Pootie and his ride and having their picture taken with the most successful Double G in Peanut Festival history. Pootie was on Cloud Nine.
Leaving Pootie to enjoy his big moment, Addy and Brand wandered over to the snow cone vendor. Addy was trying to work up the courage to try the new boiled peanut–flavored shaved ice when the chief’s patrol car pulled up and Bitsy and the chief got out. Bitsy was a vision of goober couture in a pale yellow linen boat-neck shell and a pair of matching cropped pants with little brown peanuts embroidered on the hem.
“Hey,” Bitsy said, waving. The temperature was in the nineties but she looked as cool and unwilted as the flowers Addy kept refrigerated at the shop. “Y’all get something to drink and meet me and Car-lee under that tree.”
Addy took Bitsy’s timely arrival as a sign from God that she was not meant to ingest a frozen dessert that tasted like peanut-y brine and dragged Brand over to a lemonade stand. They purchased two big glasses of lemonade and joined Bitsy and the chief in the shade of a huge sweet gum tree.
“Get out of the sun, you two,” Chief Davis said. “It’s hotter’n a goat’s butt in a pepper patch.”
Hard to believe her persnickety, socially nice mother was dating a good ole boy who talked about goat butts. Really, those two had about as much in common as . . . as a small-town hick florist and a sexy drop-dead-gorgeous immortal demon hunter. The universe was a strange and random place.
“Thanks.” Addy took a seat on the circular bench that surrounded the tree.
Bitsy smiled up at Brand. “Don’t you want to sit down, Mr. Dalvahni?”
“Thank you,” Brand said. “I will stand.”
He stalked to the edge of the circle of shade, his hard gaze on the people swarming around the little park. Now that the parade was over, he seemed edgy and tense. His mood was contagious. Addy thought about the guy on the street with the wide, creepy grin. Was the demon watching them? Did Brand sense it? She looked around. Parents st
ood in line with cranky children, waiting their turn on the moon walk and the water slide. People crowded around the snow cone and lemonade booths and the Conecuh Sausage guy was doing a land-office business, but she didn’t see any purple-eyed whoozits. This was silly. Brand’s stone-faced warrior routine was making her jumpy. She needed to think about something else. She needed a puzzle or a problem to gnaw on.
Like who made God or where does space end, and what comes after that? If light has a speed, does dark? What exactly is Spam made of, and why isn’t there a product called Spicken or Speef or Splamb or Spish?
Nah, she needed something truly incomprehensible and perverse to ponder so she wouldn’t think about Mr. Nasty.
Like her mother.
Sipping her drink, Addy contemplated Mama. The Bitsy she knew and loved was wound too tight. But today Mama seemed relaxed and freer. Probably had something to do with Mama saying the “F” word. Who knew how long that word had been fermenting inside Mama, swelling and growing and straining to get out? It was a miracle the woman hadn’t erupted years ago from the pressure, swear words rat-a-tat-tatting out of her mouth at machine gun speed, her size four body slamming up and down like a jackhammer.
Mama looked younger today, too. Why, saying that one “F” word had knocked ten years off her age, living proof that a person ought to indulge in a little judicious cussing now and then. In private, of course, and under the right circumstances. Profanity lost its zing if overused. If Mama had done more closet cussing last night’s unfortunate episode might not have happened, and Mama wouldn’t have forfeited her crown of perfect Southern Lady-tude.
Tragic.
“You seen Shep this morning, Mama?” Addy asked.
“No, I haven’t. I was about to ask you the same thing, Addy. I—”
Whump, wump, wump, Shep and Lenora drove up in the coffin car. People mobbed the modified Roadster, pointing and asking questions.
Bitsy leaped up. “What in heaven’s name is that?”
“It’s a coffin car, Mama,” Addy said. “Shep and Rat Godwin built it in Rat’s garage.”
