Scary Rednecks & Other Inbred Horrors (17 page)

Enid opened the screen halfway and stepped aside so Adam could enter.
 
He sucked in the fresh Tennessee air before he accepted the invitation, then crossed the threshold.
 
If this had been two years ago, he never would have stepped foot inside the place.
 
The recession had hit him hard, however.
 
With his company going belly-up, and the divorce, and his present boss on his ass to make his quota, he had little choice.

It wasn’t so much that everything was dirty.
 
It was just that a film seemed to be coating the furniture, the walls and the floor.
 

To his left were the two boys, who sat watching Goldberg slam The Blue Flame again and again on the wrestling ring mat.
 
Not boys, really.
 
They were thirty-three year old twins, who in their simple-minded enthusiasm grinned toothlessly at their favorite sport.
 
The remnants of homemade pork rinds lay scattered along their three hundred pound, overall-covered frames, and littered the carpet at their booted feet.

Enid indicated he should sit in a low-backed chair by the plastic covered window.
 
He sat and sank deeply into the old cushions.
 
On his first visit, he’d discovered it was the Grandmother’s Chair, but the old woman spent most of her time in bed.
 
The exception was Wednesday, when she’d come shuffling out in an old robe.
 

She reminded him of a gnarled tree — thin, but tough enough to have weathered innumerable seasons.
 
She’d touched him and felt his muscles, commenting on how poorly fed he was.
 
He guessed that since she’d lived through the Depression, being well fed was an important thing in her life.
 
He’d always felt a little on the scrawny side though, and her clucking had made him feel like the one hundred and fifty-pound man he was.
  

But this family seemed determined to change it.
 
He could have sworn he’d gained thirty pounds in the last few days.
 
They were forever feeding him and offering him drinks.
 
He’d even eaten the pickled pig’s feet and chicken beaks offered up in an un-appetizing bowl of brine.
 
After all, he needed the commission more than his pride.
 
The pecan pie was the best, though.
 
Yesterday, to the extreme happiness of the mother, he’d eaten an entire pie.

“Mr. Connors.
 
It’s so nice that you found the time to come back to us.”

“Mrs. Wheaton, of course I returned.
 
You told me your husband was returning today and how keen you both were on the Term Life policies for your family.
 
If there is anything that’s important, it’s providing for the survivors in the event of unfortunate death.
 
I can’t tell you the times where folks felt everything was going okay and they had too many credit cards and... ”

“We don’t own any credit cards, Mr. Connors.”

“Still,” he continued without hesitation, “It would certainly help finances if... ”

“What the fuck is
goin
’ on here and who the hell is this man!”

The figure that stood the door was not the patriarchal presence he expected.
 
The intimidating shadow and deep voice revealed a man that had to tip-toe to reach five feet, but wore his machismo upon his tanned and wrinkled face like a matador.

Adam stood quickly, his briefcase slipping to the floor.
 
The twins jumped up and ran over to their father.
 
They surrounded him, hopping from foot to foot in childish glee.

“
Da
, you bring us presents?
 
Did
ya
, huh?”

The father glared at his two sons momentarily, then smiled.

“In the truck boys.
 
Bring in
Da’s
things and there’s something special for
ya
in the cage.”
 
When the boys scampered out the door, Mr. Wheaton returned his attention to Adam and his face reverted to what appeared to be a comfortable sneer.
 
“Now you!
 
What the fuck are
ya
doin
’ here?
 
If it’s my Mable you’re after, you’re
gonna
have a fight on your hands.”
 
The last he punctuated by drawing a long fish knife from his hip.

The smaller man went into a crouch, the tip of the knife steady — deadly.

“Sir!
 
Sir!
 
I am not after your Mable, I’m here to... ”

“What do
ya
mean you’re not after my Mable?
 
Ain’t
she good enough for
ya
!”

“Well, yes.
 
Of course.
 
I mean no.
 
I mean, I’m here for insurance, Sir.”

“You’re
gonna
need insurance after I’m done with
ya
,” screamed the smaller man launching himself across the living room.

“Henry!
 
Stop this now.
 
Poor Mr. Connor is here for dinner.”

Henry sat on the insurance man’s chest, the tip of the knife quivering at the pale throat.
 
He turned to see his wife in the kitchen door, her hands covered with brown and white feathers.
 
His mask of rage smoothed into a broad smile.

“Why didn’t you say so before?” he asked, standing up and sheathing the knife.
 
He reached down and helped up the insurance man.
 
“Sorry about that, Mister.
 
Welcome to our home.”

Adam stood shakily and tried to catch his breath.
 
His hands went absently to straighten his mussed suit, but his eyes were still locked on the knife at Henry Wheaton’s hip.
 
Adam’s brain screamed for him to run, but his legs refused the commands.
 
The dire need for a commission still held him in a tight grip.

“Pleased to meet
ya
, Mister,” said Henry proffering a small strong hand.

Adam felt himself accepting and squeezed a weak reply to the iron grip of the smaller man.
 
With the handshake, however, his fear seeped away and he smiled.
 
It was just a misunderstanding. Maybe he could still unload the insurance — and if he did, he’d shove it down his boss’s throat.

“Pleased to meet you too, Mr. Wheaton,” he said, trying hard to control the quavering in his voice.

“So Mable says you’re here for dinner,” said Henry, looking Adam up and down.
 
“You’re a little thin, though.”
 
He turned to his wife.
 
“You been
feedin
’ him, Honey?”

Mable smiled proudly.
 
“Sure have.
 
He’s been here everyday
sellin
’ us insurance.
 
But I’ve been
makin
’ sure he’s been
eatin
’.
 
It’s all that unhealthy big city
livin
’ I say.”

Henry nodded once.
 
“Good.
 
Good.
 
Bring me the jug and get on back to the kitchen.”

Henry sat on the couch.
 
Picking up a few loose pork rinds, he shoved them into his mouth.
 
His gaze went to the television and he grinned as Goldberg threw The Blue Flame into the second row of the screaming crowd.
 
When Goldberg shot his victory sign, Henry joined in, the middle fingers of his hands rising toward the ceiling.
 
As the man laughed, rind residue shot out and onto the coffee table where they landed among magazines and spit cups.

The boys exploded through the door, whooping and hollering.
 
Each carried a metal Coleman cooler and the stench of fish swirled into the room.
 
Sitting atop each cooler was a small metal birdcage containing a beautiful multi-colored parrot.

“Ma, Ma,” said the one on the left.
 
“
Looky
what
Da
got us.
 
We got us parrots.”

Henry watched his boys run into the kitchen, the look of fatherly pride unmistakable.
 
He glanced over at Adam and winked.

“
Gonna
teach them
them
to talk,” he said.

Adam wondered who was going to teach whom.
 
He took a moment to collect his thoughts and cleared his throat.
 
He grabbed the briefcase where it had slipped to the floor and propped it on his knees.
 
He dialed the combination, flipped it open, grabbed several documents and closed it.
 
Placing the documents on the top of his laptop desk, he began his spiel.

“Now, as you know, Mr. Wheaton, I have been concerned with your family.
 
Your wife and I,” said Adam, gulping, “have developed a comprehensive plan in the event of virtually any untimely disaster.”

He paused to make sure he had the man’s attention and waited while Enid handed her father an earthenware jug.
 
The man uncorked it with his teeth and took a long swig.
 
When he finished, he whistled long and slow.
 

“They call this concoction
The Sweetness
.
 
My cousin makes it and it’s the best, damned shine you’ll ever taste.
 
Here,” he said proffering the jug, “Try some.”

“Maybe later, Sir.
 
As I was saying, your house is insured and covered in the event of fire, flood, earthquake, tornado and of course the special consideration your wife insisted on...
er
... demonic possession.
 
And I can guarantee that we have provided your family with the best rates available in today’s tumultuous market.”

Henry nodded for Adam to continue.

“Tuesday, I returned and we initiated a comprehensive plan for your truck and the John Deere out back.
 
So if anything happens to them, all you need to do is call me and I will take care of everything.
 
I pride myself on individual service and... ”

“Okay.
 
Okay,” said Henry, his eyes glazing over a bit with the words.
 
“Tell
ya
what, Mr. Connor.
 
Let’s talk about that after dinner.
 
I’m hungry as a bear after a winter snooze and I need something to fill my gut.”

Adam stared blankly for a few seconds then nodded slowly.
 
It appeared he was going to get fed again.

They had been eating for three hours.
 
Well, he’d really done the eating.
 
The rest of the Wheaton’s had merely picked a bit, seeming more concerned with his health.
 
Henry had just returned from a fishing trip down to the Florida panhandle and had brought back four hundred pounds of amberjack.
 
Mable had begun to pickle it right away and offered a bowl for Adam to taste.
 
He had to admit, it was very good and contained some unique seasoning.
 
He’d also forced himself to eat some of the pork rinds they were so proud of, as well as half a pecan pie and four boysenberry muffins.

His stomach felt distended and all he really wanted to do was lie down and take a nap.
 
They must have noticed and had made him a pot of coffee.
 
The bitter dark taste of chicory made it an exotic counterpart to his usual early morning vanilla java.
 
The caffeine also spiked his brain awake. He was looking forward to concluding the deal.

The aroma of turkey was making its rounds through the house, and even though he was full to bursting, it teased his taste buds until his mouth watered.
 
It took little effort for them to entice him to the dinner table.
 
The spread was incredible.
 
It was everything one would expect at a Thanksgiving and more: Mashed potatoes and gravy, fried okra, pickled fish and pig’s feet, boysenberry jelly, pickles, corn on the cob, plates of butter, dressing, cornbread and an immense turkey.

The boys gnawed on their roasted parrots, holding them daintily with pinkies extended.
 
They’d explained to Adam that their
Da
liked them to eat them because it made the boys talk better.
 
Adam had nodded, somehow knowing that that would be the reason.