June 2009

The more Hunter spoke the more his revulsion seemed to fester like an infected wound. “Sorta makes me wonder about you, boy. Her spendin’ all that time with you — encouragin’ you to keep drawing all those stupid little pictures. I wonder what happens to a girly looking boy who spends all his time with a whore. I wonder if it makes that boy go a little bit funny.”

Thomas looked away, and Hunter kicked him again.

“How ’bout it, boy? That whore make you go all funny on your old man? Hell, I bet she did. I bet it’s why you spend all your time talking to a scarecrow and playing with little birdies. I imagine you’ll be wearing dresses soon too. You gonna start wearing dresses, boy?”

“No sir.”

Hunter squatted down into a catcher’s stance; his voice was low and intense. “You damn well better not boy. I swear to the Almighty Himself, you better not. Because ten years old or not, I catch you in a dress and I’ll kick you out this house just like I did that whore of a mother of yours. You understand me?”

“Yes sir.”

Hunter stood to his feet, lifted his cap and wiped his brow again. “Good. Now I want you to get started on supper early today. You won’t be having any, but I got Earl coming over and we plan to do some celebrating tonight. Earl’s little boy just made captain of his football team. Lucky bastard, that Earl. Now there’s something to be proud of.” He snorted again, spit a wad of yellow into the sink, then called over his shoulder as he walked out of the kitchen. “Get supper started.” He did not notice the three crows perched and watching from the kitchen windowsill.

~*~

6 p.m. Dinner was cooked and eaten. Thomas stood on a small stool to scrub the dishes and pans in the kitchen sink. Hunter and Earl sat slack and slovenly at the dinner table, their bellies full, bloated, and peeking through the bottoms of their shirts. A third of a bottle of Jim Beam, two half empty whiskey glasses, and beer bottles gripped tight in the meaty palms of both men were all that remained on the table.

Earl had spoken of nothing but his son’s accomplishments on the football field during the meal, and it continued — intensified and embellished now — during drinking time.

Hunter listened with a paradoxical awe and envy. He called to his son by the sink. “You hearing this, boy?”

Thomas kept his back to the pair and his hands in the suds — seemingly hopeful his obedient labor would excuse him from a response.

Hunter drained the whiskey in his glass then sipped his beer. He belched, felt the familiar disgust threaten to raise the whiskey and beer back up his throat, then waved his hand at the sink as though shooing away a fly. “Look at what I been dealt, Earl. Christ, from the back you’d think I had a daughter. Reckon he ain’t even fit to be a place kicker.”

Earl snickered. He was a big man in clothes. But one only needed to look for more than a few seconds to see that the majority of that bulk was indeed fat and no muscle. Still, it did not stop him from a gait that swayed both shoulders like a cowboy — arms outstretched and to the side as though carrying heavy buckets of water, far too ‘muscular’ to lie parallel to his torso.

“What do you do, Thomas?” Earl asked.

“Tell him, boy,” Hunter said. “Answer our guest.”

Thomas replied without turning around. His voice was soft. “I like to draw.”

Hunter belched again. “He likes to draw, Earl. And that’s all he does — doesn’t even bring home good grades. Hell, maybe I could stomach it if he was fittin’ to be a doctor some day, but this one just draws. Tell ‘em what else you do, boy.”

Thomas finished scrubbing a pot then started drying it.

“I’ll tell you what he does, Earl — plays in my cornfields with a scarecrow. Can’t make any friends in school so he plays with a lump of straw all day. Feeds the crows too. Feeds ‘em with food from my cupboard. You believe that? I got a scarecrow that don’t scare shit, all because of my son.”

Earl finished his beer then asked, “That true, Thomas?”

Hunter answered. “Sure as shit it’s true. He’s out there every chance he gets. Even caught him sneaking out of bed a few times to go out there and do whatever the hell he does with those winged rats and that stupid straw friend of his.”

Hunter stood and fetched two fresh beers from the refrigerator. He sat back down and handed one to Earl. “Used to draw pictures for him didn’t ya, boy?”

Earl gave Hunter a funny look.

“That’s right,” Hunter said. “He’d draw pictures for him — used to hang ‘em up all over the damn thing. I put a stop to that though.”

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