Colando Hashes & Bashes

1. Auflage 2016
ISBN: 978-1-4835-7911-5
Verlag: BookBaby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 328 Seiten

An outsider visits Jackie and Steve Breeden's family farm, claiming to be kin...and Hashes & Bashes begin. Carl Edwards' high-spirited presence rocks the entire community, especially when he gets rich quick. Will this charismatic outsider earn his way into their hearts?

Autoren/Hrsg.

Colando, Pj

Leseproben

One: Bashes Begin Sparty darted from the corner of the barn, his Dalmatian dots blurring like flurrying snow. He’d been idly nosing a Daddy Long Legs, a passel of sticks that wouldn’t play. Steve’s head jerked to follow his dog, and because his arm followed the swift trajectory, Old Bessie mooed: “red alert!” Odd. Sparty seldom left Steve’s side for long when he was milking, content to supervise in quiet. Outdoors the squirrels scampered in disquieted haste, to beat the winter that always seemed to be on its way. Sparty could chase them all day. Odder yet, Sparty’s bark was neither rascal-pursuit nor guardian-like. Steve deciphered his dog’s messages as readily as Jackie understood Brandon’s baby whimpers and coos. Sparty sounded like boyhood Christmas. “Sorry, Old Bess,” Steve said with a pat to his cow’s haunch, “but I gotta go reconnoiter. Sparty is acting the scout.” Steve lifted his cap to scruff his longish hair, then resettled it, hoping the S aligned properly, his version of company best. Whoever was out there was new, not a neighbor. He may have heard tires crunch the gravel of his lane moments ago, sounds that were plausible during midday because the postman and pastor made rounds. His recently-divorced and near-thirty son, Brandon, might be home from a date, stumbling in soon to do chores. Perhaps gaming in his personal suite, their Winnebago parked between two small yellow barns. Steve was unalarmed. It was, after all, his property and his dog, both long tethered to his soul. His wife, Jackie, was cooking massive quantities of homogenized teenager-pleasing fare at what she liked to call her lively ‘hood: the local high school cafeteria. She was an ardent punster, especially when finessing self-delusion. Steve’s stride was purposeful as he crossed the threshold, yet his curiosity threatened to loft his cap into the breeze. Fall swirled the air with possibility. With winter’s frosty temps, folks bought more of his dairy’s milk, probably for vast quantities of hot cocoa and holiday baking. It was hard not to shout hurrah for health benefits sabotaged by season-sanctioned treats. “Howdy. To what do I owe the pleasure?” Steve said to the figure backlit by midmorning sun, his tone friendly yet authoritarian. Cautious, strangely calm. He’d never seen Sparty waggling about so, not even for Bran. His tongue vigorously worked the stranger’s extended palm, as if he were lapping up crumbs. “You owe the pleasure to our awesome mom,” the man boomed, and then stood after a pat to Sparty’s head. “Say what?” said Steve. He took in the Tony Lamas that trumped his functionally forlorn rubber boots, his gut struck with emotion as if kicked. A hand came forward hard and fast from a solid shaft of a man. Military posture, present and accounted for, Sir. It wasn’t a fist, though it might as well have been. Steve felt so much all at once that he felt nothing. In the eye of torpor, he couldn’t react. Though Sparty barked encouragement, Steve’s jaw clenched itself mum. His brain, his body unhitched from his command. “I sent you a registered letter announcing our connection, and you replied via email. Something about being on an RV trip, destined to visit my state. I see a newish Winnebago parked. Did you make it or not? A hella adventure, I hope.” Steve nodded, a slight gesture. The tall, well-built stranger was stringing him along, asserting without sharing much. Foreign, but formidable? Sparty didn’t think so. He moved into the guy’s handshake, casting a wary look over his shoulder to case the barnyard. There was no massively hormonal motorcycle in the lane, only a dusty Toyota whose tires seemed to sag with exhaustion. Steve shifted his stance away from the grip and noted the guy’s short sleeve shirt, so loud in its floral print it was no wonder he didn’t shiver. His never-washed jeans were crotch-creased as if they’d been worn seated for days. Not working man stock. Was that a small golden hoop glinting with the sun? From an ear lobe? Steve couldn’t speak. He was busily cataloging details in case he needed them later to report to Sheriff Terrain. Mentally counting the steps to fetch his rifle, stashed behind the milk barn fridge, his weight began to shift side-to-side, like an edgy animal in a cage, decidedly dissimilar to his typical manly calm. “Name’s Carl,” the man said, moving closer with Sparty’s orchestral bark. “Nine months ago—the time for birthing a baby—you were in my state. I was expecting a visit, but it didn’t come, so I did. I reckon I am more curious than you.” As a religious man, Steve succumbed to guilt well; as a church deacon, he excelled. The symmetry of the situation was downright contemplatable, though not now: Sparty had sniffed a welcome to Carl, the supposed brother who lived in California. Sparty, who’d not accompanied them on the Winnebago trip out west. Who said Dalmatians were dumb? Steve’s innards froze. A rumble surged in his ears, as loud as a creek breaking free of its winter ice. His arms, used to welcoming everyone, glued to his sides, manners decomposed by shame. “Hey” finally emerged from his throat, and his left hand—not his dominant right—clasped Carl’s in greeting. The handshake concealed the misgiving that was edging into his frame: Pastor Paul often said that the devil resided permanently at one’s left side, premeditating bad actions. His inexplicable gaff alarmed him. “So you’re a lefty, too,” said Carl, pumping Steve’s hand easily, then cupping it in both of his. “Looks like we have more in common than hair color and height. I’ve driven a hella long ways. Can you offer a man a place to take a leak, then a beer to replace it?” “Sure,” said Steve, and led Carl into his cozily functional barn. The sun lent an aura of warmth to the men’s movements, stride-for-stride, in step. While Steve was surprised, Sparty barked his applause. “Over there’s a john. It’s simple, but plenty clean. The Health Department sees to that or I’d lose my county health certificate.” Like I already did once, Steve grimaced as he resumed Bessie’s milking. The task’s familiarity was more welcome than Carl in the moment. Steve was flummoxed. The day, begun as mundane as most, had turned hard left. Or right as rain, high praise on a farm. An affable stranger, welcomed by his dog, couldn’t be stranger than others among their recent life storms: Ritalin Jones, the Idaho mechanic, came to mind. He’d also had s single pierced ear. “By God, it’s not a purple cow,” Carl said jovially when he emerged, refreshed from the road, with a look from Bessie to Steve. “Did your folks teach you that nonsensical rhyme?” Before Steve could answer, Carl said, “Never mind. Don’t let me sidetrack you from helping me wet my whistle. Guess I could sample your milk, but I’d prefer Corona or Coors.” Steve uncoupled Bessie from the milkers, then turned to Carl, fully surrendered to the wonder of new kin. “Beer’s cooling in the fridge over by the sinks, but you’re only going to find Pabst.” He emphasized the brand because it was his, as were the barn, the cows, the dog. Carl may have flinched abit at the assertion—the small hoop in his left earlobe jerked—so Steve added, softer in tone, “There’s also Fudgesicles in the freezer, if you prefer. But stay away from my wife’s cookie stash,” punctuating the last with a wink. “I’ve got milking chores to complete, and then I’ll join you. Shall I see you to the parlor or do you want to watch?” “I only want to stretch out in a parlor when I’m dead, looking fine in an Armani suit,” Carl said with a slow motion wink. Now Steve thrust a proper handshake, warming to a man who mingled country custom with Hollywood style. California hadn’t molded an uppity man. A man with an arm that pumped iron. The milking chores got completed in no time, no time at all, sped along by amicable, back story-oriented talk. The two men shared a six-pack of beer through the afternoon while Sparty chased squirrels and cavorted though autumn leaves. Jackie’s van churned the dusty lane like the cyclone inside a Dyson, as if she wanted the air to know her earnestness. After the mega-lunch prep of her school cafeteria job, she was hell-bent on making supper. Peeling potatoes was her therapy; she’d decided on scalloped to go with chicken-fried steak and a small salad that only she would touch. She pulled the key from the ignition as soon as the windshield nudged the...