A big lantern casts a golden glow on his face as he stands over by the picnic table frying fish in a cast-iron skillet on the camp stove.
“Hell, I’m just teasing.” Crawdad shrugs his shoulders.
“Hey, Chipmunk, just in time to make the hushpuppies,” Daddy says in his hunky-doriest voice, which means he’s been drinking. My heart starts pumping like a motor that needs a couple quarts of oil.
Damn it all to hell
.
“I’ll get the batter,” I say, then walk over to the cooler where Teeny’s sitting with a Schlitz in her hand and a giant bag of potato chips by her side. “Excuse me, Mrs. Jenkins. Mama put the hushpuppy batter in the cooler. I need to get it out, if you don’t mind.”
“Okay, sugar.” She stands up and knocks the bag to the ground.
I bend to pick it up and she tries to help, but sloshes beer all over my back. “Shit, shit, shit!” she yells, and then grabs a handful of paper napkins and tries to wipe my shirt. She stinks of Lucky Strikes, spicy perfume, and Schlitz.
“Never mind, I’ll go put on another one.” I walk over to our tent as Billy Ray and the twins are coming out.
“What’s that smell?” Billy Ray says.
“Your mama accidentally spilled beer on me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s not your fault. I’m going to change shirts.”
“Here.” He hands me the flashlight. “I’ll wait.”
Later in the evening, I’m sitting beside the river in a droopy tent with a thin blanket wrapped around my shoulders, listening to a train whistling its going-someplace-else song.The twins are curled up beside each other in a green plaid sleeping bag, their little bellies full of fish, probably dreaming the exact same dream. Just thinking about that kind of sharing makes me feel like Old Lonesome Me. I turn on our transistor radio, and from far away in Fort Wayne, Indiana, on station WOWO, an old song plays with no static at all—a song about finding a thrill on Blueberry Hill. I love the way
hill
and
thrill
and
you
and
true
rhyme. It’s one of those tricky songs that tangle me up in the singer’s feelings.
Cackling sounds come from over by the campfire. I scoot over on my knees and look out the window. The cackler is Billy Ray’s mama, whose eyes look like watermelon seeds when she’s drunk—tiny, black, slippery. I don’t think she’s one bit pretty anymore. Her biggest beauty defect is the half-inch gap between her two front teeth.
She’s trying to get Crawdad to dance, but he’s pushing her away.
Daddy’s lying on a blanket by the campfire with his head resting on a log, crooning away.
Scooby-dooby-do, scoo-doobydooby, Scooby-dooby-do, scoo-dooby-dooby-doooooo. Strangers in the night…
. An image of the Harrisons and me stretched out in front of their fireplace flashes in my brain. I wish I could climb into that glorious picture right this minute.
I should have told Daddy that I didn’t want to go camping. I knew he shouldn’t be around alcohol. But I kept asking him about the trip every day. The reason I wanted to go on this trip is because I’m selfish. Sleeping in a tent by the Catawba with Billy Ray close by beats the hell out ofbeing at home reading my Sunday school lesson.
Scooby-dooby-do, scoo-dooby-dooby-doooooo
. Daddy’s drunken voice shuffles the notes up real bad. When he’s sober, his voice sounds famous. Daddy loves Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Rosemary Clooney, and Sammy Davis Jr. But Mama’s crazy about country music. The way she talks about Loretta Lynn, you’d think they were best friends. I imagine Mama at home, wearing her lacy lavender nightgown, clipping her toenails, watching the
Porter Wagoner Show
in peace and quiet. Sometimes when I’m bored to a frazzle, I sit at her feet and watch that dumb hillbilly program, rubbing lotion on her smooth legs and bunioned feet. Jergens is my favorite smell in the whole world. Sometimes it smells like cherries, sometimes almonds. Mama knew better than to come camping with us. She
“Hell, I’m just teasing.” Crawdad shrugs his shoulders.
“Hey, Chipmunk, just in time to make the hushpuppies,” Daddy says in his hunky-doriest voice, which means he’s been drinking. My heart starts pumping like a motor that needs a couple quarts of oil.
Damn it all to hell
.
“I’ll get the batter,” I say, then walk over to the cooler where Teeny’s sitting with a Schlitz in her hand and a giant bag of potato chips by her side. “Excuse me, Mrs. Jenkins. Mama put the hushpuppy batter in the cooler. I need to get it out, if you don’t mind.”
“Okay, sugar.” She stands up and knocks the bag to the ground.
I bend to pick it up and she tries to help, but sloshes beer all over my back. “Shit, shit, shit!” she yells, and then grabs a handful of paper napkins and tries to wipe my shirt. She stinks of Lucky Strikes, spicy perfume, and Schlitz.
“Never mind, I’ll go put on another one.” I walk over to our tent as Billy Ray and the twins are coming out.
“What’s that smell?” Billy Ray says.
“Your mama accidentally spilled beer on me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s not your fault. I’m going to change shirts.”
“Here.” He hands me the flashlight. “I’ll wait.”
Later in the evening, I’m sitting beside the river in a droopy tent with a thin blanket wrapped around my shoulders, listening to a train whistling its going-someplace-else song.The twins are curled up beside each other in a green plaid sleeping bag, their little bellies full of fish, probably dreaming the exact same dream. Just thinking about that kind of sharing makes me feel like Old Lonesome Me. I turn on our transistor radio, and from far away in Fort Wayne, Indiana, on station WOWO, an old song plays with no static at all—a song about finding a thrill on Blueberry Hill. I love the way
hill
and
thrill
and
you
and
true
rhyme. It’s one of those tricky songs that tangle me up in the singer’s feelings.
Cackling sounds come from over by the campfire. I scoot over on my knees and look out the window. The cackler is Billy Ray’s mama, whose eyes look like watermelon seeds when she’s drunk—tiny, black, slippery. I don’t think she’s one bit pretty anymore. Her biggest beauty defect is the half-inch gap between her two front teeth.
She’s trying to get Crawdad to dance, but he’s pushing her away.
Daddy’s lying on a blanket by the campfire with his head resting on a log, crooning away.
Scooby-dooby-do, scoo-doobydooby, Scooby-dooby-do, scoo-dooby-dooby-doooooo. Strangers in the night…
. An image of the Harrisons and me stretched out in front of their fireplace flashes in my brain. I wish I could climb into that glorious picture right this minute.
I should have told Daddy that I didn’t want to go camping. I knew he shouldn’t be around alcohol. But I kept asking him about the trip every day. The reason I wanted to go on this trip is because I’m selfish. Sleeping in a tent by the Catawba with Billy Ray close by beats the hell out ofbeing at home reading my Sunday school lesson.
Scooby-dooby-do, scoo-dooby-dooby-doooooo
. Daddy’s drunken voice shuffles the notes up real bad. When he’s sober, his voice sounds famous. Daddy loves Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Rosemary Clooney, and Sammy Davis Jr. But Mama’s crazy about country music. The way she talks about Loretta Lynn, you’d think they were best friends. I imagine Mama at home, wearing her lacy lavender nightgown, clipping her toenails, watching the
Porter Wagoner Show
in peace and quiet. Sometimes when I’m bored to a frazzle, I sit at her feet and watch that dumb hillbilly program, rubbing lotion on her smooth legs and bunioned feet. Jergens is my favorite smell in the whole world. Sometimes it smells like cherries, sometimes almonds. Mama knew better than to come camping with us. She
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