by Billie Dale
Hendrix, Hendrix, Hendrix.
His thumb traces my soft nipple and I snap. Smacking away his hands and biting his lip. He flops on his back, panting breaths. “Thank God. Did that feel as gross to you as it did to me?”
“Like making out with the brother I don’t have? Yes.”
“I’ve wanted this; you for years, Samantha. But nothing was hot about that.” He shivers. “I couldn’t even get fully hard.”
Holy shit. If he was only sporting a semi, he’d have torn me in two. Eww, eww, eww, no, can’t think about his dumbstick.
He stands next to the bed, strips down to his boxers, and fumbles with the sheets before tumbling on the mattress. “Come on, let’s sleep on it and see what daylight brings.”
Morning after brought more than a mouth tasting of ass and a hangover. “Hendrix, if we agreed us together is vomit inducing, why is your dumbstick knocking at my door?”
“I’m a twenty-six-year-old man just waking up and I have to piss. Plus, he thought he was getting lucky last night until my brain cockblocked him.”
“We’re still in agreement about...” I wave a hand between us, “...This— ”
“Being gross, wrong, and nauseatingly inbred?” he interrupts and I nod. “Totally.”
MAYBE I’M REMEMBERING better than him because his offer to give us another go sends bile up my throat. He can’t still be carrying a flame for me after our awkward time together. “Really? Give us a try?” I close the distance between us, swaying my hips, blinking my eyes, making a total fool of myself because I can’t be seductive on my best day, but to prove a point I’ll try.
He stares at the swing of my swagger, following the line up to my breasts. I lay my palms on the firm curves of his chest, rubbing the softness of his T-shirt between my thumb and index finger. “This what you want?” My hands climb over his shoulders into the length of his hair. Cocoa and ink, mixed with the silkiness of his blond strands, and the lean stretch of his muscles pressing against my soft parts has me wishing I could want him. But the ick thickening my throat says nothing will ever become of Hendrix Carmichael and me. I use my grip to bring his face down, aligning his forehead with mine.
Why hasn’t he stopped me yet? Oh no, he’s changed his mind.
My thoughts spin as our noses touch and his clear blues blur. I slick my lips, tasting his breath as I inch closer.
Forty-Nine
MAZRIC
CURRY RIDES SHOTGUN, oohing and marveling over the farmland outside his window. Waving amber wheat, green-painted ground with gapped rows between peeking brown through the short growth. Urban city life can’t hold a candle to the countryside of Seven Mile Forge. After over eight years gone, I’d forgotten how serene my hometown is.
Ma said they took the fences down when Home Vittles moved to Lexington but the enormous gleaming silos shine in the sun. Rising high in the sky, you see them for miles before you reach the split driveway.
Gravel crunches under the tires. The old farmhouse sits with a fresh coat of paint, new windows, and Adirondack chairs replace the old nylon lawn chairs on the porch, but it’s not much different than the day I left.
Hurt and angry, I tore out of here and never looked back. I’m not the same man I was, but damn if those emotions and the broken look in Sammy’s eyes don’t send me reeling back through the years.
Beyond the screen door the kitchen smells of sweet brown sugar and cinnamon. Curry beelines for Mom’s cake dish, shoving the fat roll between his lips. Mouth full, he mumbles, “You grew up here?”
“Since I was ten,” I answer, noticing despite the money the farm has made, nothing inside has changed. The seventies mahogany brown paneling still lines the living room and gold, green, and white grease-stained wallpaper climbs the kitchen walls. Cracks split the linoleum and on my path through, in search of life, the floor creaks. I holler up the stairs but no one answers. The only few added items I see are the flat-screen above the fireplace and the fancy Lay-Z-Boy recliner next to the new sofa.
“Damn your momma’s a fine cook. I’d be a hippo if I stayed in this house for long.” He’s two fisting the rolls, alternating chomps. His head tilts left then right. “Hey, a pony wearing a skirt just walked out of that barn over there.”
Ma said Princess Piggle the Second passed away, and I had to stop myself from flying home the minute I heard. Sammy loved that pig. The first PGP’s death sent her into a deep depression for weeks. My heart hurt for her. I’ve lost track of the times my fingers itched to call, ears yearned to hear her voice, and my brain rattled with memories. Mom slips me bits and pieces, but when I broach the subject of Sam’s daughter she changes topics. I don’t even know the girl’s name.
I slap Curry’s shoulder, shoving him out the screen door. “Let’s check it out.”
Not only is the tiny horse wearing a tutu, her brown mane’s twisted in braids with beads at the end, and her coat glitters. Her hooves clop on the barn floor as she trots to greet us. She nudges at my pockets, sniffs my hands, not finding what she’s searching for she lifts her nose smelling the sweetness wafting off Curry. A chuckling snuffle wiggles her lips and she dances sideways, shoving her head in his crotch. The girliest scream shrieks from beside me as his eyes open wide and terror paints his face. He scrambles to climb a stack of hay in the corner, begging me to keep her away. His voice reaches octaves higher than if someone ripped off his balls. I grab a lead off the wall, hooking it to her harness, and try to drag her away. Clucking my tongue and pulling but despite her short stature she’s strong as, well...a horse.
“You’re doing it wrong,” a tiny voice calls. My mind travels back sixteen years, as my head whips to the sound, seeing a shadowed figure moving out of the dark end of the barn. The sun halos a head full of spiraling black hair, and when she stomps toward us, I lose the ability to swallow.
She yanks the rope from my hand, snapping her fingers. Palm extended she leads the horse away with a sugar cube on her palm, “Come on, Princess Ponygirl. I think you scared Curry James.”
“Pshaw, girl, you crazy. I was just checking the handiwork of the wood beams is all.” Curry climbs from his safety perch as she locks the animal in a stall.
Dressed in jeans, a tulle skirt to match Princess Ponygirl, and an ACDC tee, she cocks a dark brow at my friend. Mud stains her knees and the closer she gets the more I notice. Grease surrounds her short fingernails and she smells like hay and fresh cut grass. Her hair’s wild around her face and when the sun hits her eyes, they remind me of maple syrup.
She eyes me from shoes to hat. “Oh, it’s you. Figured you’d show up some day. Come on, Mom’s back at the house.”
“We were in there. No one’s home. How do you know who we are?” I respond, jogging to follow her.
“Not Granny’s house. My house. Gran’s got pics of you all over the house. Mom stares at your exploits in the tabloids. And who doesn’t know who Curry James is?”
Curry puffs out his chest, swallowing her comment with his ego. “You both need work though. Old age, worn-out muscles, and forgetting the younger generation wants to steal your thunder makes you lax. You’d both benefit from my basketball camp.”
“Did we just get schooled by a six-year-old?” Curry grumbles, ignoring my chortling snort.
She stops, whips her head around, and cocks a hand on her hip. “I’m eight.” The sun lightens her brown eyes. “I lost the genetic lottery in the height department, but my markers show promise.” Her rounded face is the spitting image of her mother, but those eyes spark niggles in the back of my brain. “Come on, use those long legs for something other than standing under the basket.”
Curry’s lips split in a wide toothy grin. “I like her.”
The walk takes twenty minutes. My wide strides catch up with ease and Curry follows close behind. “So Princess Ponygirl, huh?”
“Yep. Couldn’t watch Momma lose another pig so when PGP II died, I asked for a horse instead. We call her PPG.”
“Both Glitter Pigs wer
e awesome. PGP II spent tons of days back here at the pond with us.” I attempt small talk.
“Granny told me.” She’s blunt and sounds so much like her mother did at her age, it’s screwing with my head. “Since your injury a few years ago, your shot’s been off. Mom and me worked the new equation but she refused to email you. Favoring your right foot is stealing the accuracy. I can help you while you’re here.”
“You as good with math as your ma?”
“Better. I don’t have her eidetic mind but I’m great with every subject.”
“Hey, kid, what’s your name?” Curry calls, and I realize I never asked.
“I’ll tell you later. First let me go get Mom.”
She leads us along a dirt path winding to the clearing Sam and I spent our last summer in. Instead of grass and trees, a large cabin fills in the opening. Burnish logs locked together at the corners, windows dot the walls, and a small porch cutout dips in.
Sammy Lee stands nose to nose with Hendrix. My hands fist at my sides seeing her fingers in his hair and lips inches from a kiss. They are frozen in an erotic stare down. We’re too far away to hear what they’re whispering and they’re too indulged to notice our approach.
I watch Sam rise on her toes at the same time Hendrix recoils; covering her face with his palm he pushes her away. Shaking out his arms and legs as though he’s working through a bad case of the willies. Sam’s low ponytail dips to her waist with her head tipped back, and the barrel of her laugh carries on the breeze, sending a chill down my spine.
“You’ll never get past the screen door if you don’t wipe that look off your face,” Sam’s daughter advises. I ask what she means. “Squirreled, angry eyes. Pinched mouth, wrinkled brow, stiff shoulders and if it were possible, your glower would glow green. You’ve got jealous written all over you. Nothing’s going on between Ma and Uncle Hendi.”
“Uncle? You call Hendrix your uncle?” I ask.
“Yep,” she pops the P. “What else would I call him? I mean we’ve got no shared DNA, but he’s been around as long as I can remember.”
Curiosity blocks the gut twists stiffening my posture, because if Hendrix isn’t her father then who is?
“Lil Miss is right, man. Chill. Winning her requires finesse, like releasing a foul shot. Relax, breathe, and play it loose.” Curry nudges me forward.
“Curry James giving romance tips referencing free throws? You’ve got the worst stats in the league from the line. I can help you too, but first let’s stop feeding the mosquitoes and get this reunion over with.”
She bounces up the steps, yanks open the screen door, and leads us inside. We enter the living room but the open floor plan leads my eyes to Sammy standing in the kitchen.
“Momma, my father is here to see you,” the little girl announces.
The glass held to Sam’s mouth slips from her hands, shattering on the floor as the water in her mouth sprays from her lips. She hacks and coughs unable to speak.
“Well shit,” Curry groans. I’ve lost the ability to talk and forgotten how to breathe. A repressed memory pushes at my forehead, knocking against my skull. Sam’s words spoken through the phone confirming knowledge I already had but refused to accept. My last night of drunken blackness, where I left the truth fester, because I wasn’t ready to acknowledge my suspicions.
Her eyes, her lips, her hair. She’s a beautiful combination of Sam and me. A secret kept for almost nine fucking years.
Fifty
SAMANTHA
I CAN’T CATCH MY BREATH. My soaked shirt strangles me and glass surrounds my feet. If my eyes open any farther, they’ll fall out of my face.
“M-M-Mazzy Jae, what did you say?” She bopped in the house like she does every day. Only this time my dream rode on her heels, but with a few words from her mouth it becomes a nightmare.
She sinks her teeth into an apple. “My father. He’s here,” she says matter-of-factly, spewing juice from her bite.
When I sat in that arena, he still looked like my Mazric, however the perplexed man taking up too much space in my living room is anything but. Broader shoulders, bigger chest, and bulging biceps where his arms cross his chest. His youthful pudgy cheeks leaned to a rugged ticking jaw covered with stubble darker than his hair. Tiny lines frame his honey, whiskey-colored orbs I see every time I look at my daughter.
“I-I, w-wha...” I stutter, dumbed by her claim.
“I know, Mom. I’ve known for a year. Last Christmas Uncle Hendi gave me a chemistry kit. I did a blind test. The readings wouldn’t hold up in court. but I share too many genetic markers with Granny Carrie and a lot with Pappy. I could only get all this hair from you, but I noticed similarities between me and the younger pictures of him. Granny has this photo of you two around my age. I morphed it together with my computer, and do you know what it made?” She doesn’t wait for a response. “Me.”
Speechless, I stare unblinking at my too smart child. Watching her set the apple on the table, she crosses to stand in front of Mazric. “Hello. I’m Mazilynn Jae. Everyone calls me Mazzy Jae. Another piece of the puzzle I put together is I’m named after you. Not a big leap from Mazric Jason to Mazzy Jae. I heard Granny use your full name on the phone, which started my quest for parentage.” Her hand extends waiting.
Hendrix steps from the bathroom. Water dripping down his chest and a towel riding low on his hips, his gaze travels from me to Mazzy to the towering man behind Mazric before landing on his former friend.
“And the hits keep coming,” his friend mummers.
“Uncle Hendi, you remember my dad, right?” Mazzy cheers. Hendrix’s jaw drops, his pink skin warm from the shower pales as Mazric shoves around my daughter.
His fist flies at the same time he roars, “You knew, you sonuvabitch!” Hendrix’s head flings sideways from the impact, blood spraying from his lips. Mazric rears back for another knuckle busting punch. but his friend traps his arms in a bear hug hold. Hendrix holds his jaw, shaking his head he vanishes behind his bedroom door.
“Get off me,” Mazric shouts, busting out of his grip. “I’m outta here.” He storms off hitting the door with such force it bangs on the wall of the porch.
I move to follow but a large hand on my forearm stops me. “Let him cool off and process,” Curry advises.
“Mama, I’m sorry,” Mazzy small voice trembles. Tears fill my eyes and my need to explain clogs my throat.
I cocoon her in my embrace. “You did nothing wrong, baby girl. Let us adults deal, then I promise you and I will have a nice long talk.”
Hendrix returns dressed and nursing his lip, which is three times larger and split down the middle. He offers a handshake. “Curry James?”
Mazric’s teammate. The larger than life man, whose head reaches near my ceiling, is the starting center for the Arkansas Prospectors. He glances between Hendrix and me. “You’re those two singers from the internet.” I cock a wondering brow, unsure what he’s talking about. “This chick I dated used to be a video junkie. She showed me you guys performing, going on and on about wanting to audition for some movie ‘The Amazing Hendrix Carmichael’ was writing the music for. You wrote the jingles for a few of my commercials.”
What? I don’t understand the words coming out of his mouth.
Mazzy holds her phone in front of my face. On the screen through a smoky haze I see me and Hendrix on the stage at Jukebox Jake’s performing karaoke. An entire catalog lines up below the one she’s showing. The originator of the clips reads MJGPPG and the user photo is Mazzy’s pony. She answers my unasked questions, “I had Asia record them on the nights she was there. The views are off the charts and it helps Uncle Hendi. He got offered a record contract from them.”
Jesus, she’s a walking Wikipedia with a fuse. A short vat of information hitting with the impact of a bomb.
“We will talk about all of this later, but right now I have a few truths to tell. Curry, you good hanging out here with Mazzy and Hendrix for a bit?” I pocket my phone with a shaking hand, ste
pping to the door.
“Sure. Not that it’s any of my business, but Mazric is a great guy and would’ve done the right thing.”
“That’s exactly why I didn’t tell him. It’s a long story; Hendrix can fill in most of the blanks. Mazzy Jae, I’ll text you when I want you to come to the house. Stay. Here.”
I could whiz up to the house on the quad, but I figure Mazric deserves the minutes I take to walk, however, those cluster of seconds is all he’s getting.
Fifty-One
MAZRIC
MY HEART POUNDS A FURIOUS beat against my rib cage as I push my legs in a sprint. The moment I jumped from the porch I took off. Racing to escape, running to the person I know I won’t pummel with my fist and who will finally be honest. My ankle wobbles with each stomp as the injured tendons protest my punishing pace.
Mom’s car sits crackling with heat in front of the house. I leap up the steps, charging through the door. “Mazilynn is...” I pant. “Mine?” The smile falls from her face as I drop to my knees, struggling to fill my lungs.
Pappy rises from his chair, dragging me up by the collar of my shirt he flops me in his vacated seat. “’Bout damn time. Sit and let your momma talk.” He stands at the counter with his arms crossed staring me down.
Mom scurries out of the room, returning a minute later with her arms loaded. She drops three leather bound books on the table, each with Mazzy Jae scripted on the front. Next, she sets up a laptop, clicking open a file labeled the same. The screen fills with videos, all dated, from the last eight years. “We documented everything. Sammy thought you might want to see Mazzy grow. The videos document the big milestones. Those top two books hold pictures and the bottom is the journal she keeps.”
My hands tremble flipping the pages. Enough pictures if fanned I’d see her grow in real time. A furious confused rage clouds my brain. I pound my fist on the table. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
