Stories
Graveyard of the Atlantic
It’s the secret dream of a certain kind of man to have his face on a series of billboards along Highway 17 heading towards the sea, and in the case of Paradise Dave–the current one, not the original–each billboard is a big, flat lie about the color and size of his teeth. The real Paradise Dave, the father, was just as much of a son-of-a-bitch as his own son, but he had strong, bright teeth at least and would look you in the eye when he screwed you over.
Good Things Take Time
Larry Sheckler walked out of the funeral home carrying the urn that held his sister’s ashes. It was an awkward receptacle—a little too big to palm with one hand, but small enough that using both felt uncomfortable. Like when stairs are the wrong height and you can’t decide whether to take them two at a time or one. He was the last living Sheckler in Covington. At least that he knew of. Both his parents were gone, and now his sister. Neither he nor she had any children. No uncles or aunts. No cousins. Not even any pets. Just Larry. All alone.
The Heckler
Abby believes it's funny to pratfall while pregnant. Holding a glass of Coke in maternity jeans, she moves into the living room. She walks only a few steps before she yells, “GRENADE!” and hurls herself onto the floor. She thinks it's funny to do this, and I grit my teeth every time. The couch plays an integral part as it blocks my view of the pillows she has placed on the ground. The rug is stained and hardened from liters of corn syrup. If I tell her to stop the slapstick routine, she’ll cry and I can’t listen to a pregnant lady cry anymore this year.
Kenforth's Baptism
My brother Kenforth's second baptism occurred on a sunny spring morning when the air was warm but the creek still cold, and it wouldn't have happened at all if he had just trusted me. “There is no money in Pentecostals,” is what I said, my exact words. “Nor Baptists either. Don’t waste our time.”
Bila
It is after we try the charts with the stars, the timeouts, the “ignore and isolate” strategy, that we tell Sila about our other son, Bila. Bila, we say, is our first son. He’s your brother. My brother? Yes. He lives in the backyard now. In the hedges. And he can never come inside. Why can’t he come inside, Sila wants to know. Well honey, we say, he was so bad, just a bad boy. We made him sleep outside until he straightened up.
The Last Detail
It started with the grass clippings. I’d just finished mowing the front yard. True, the rows lacked the zigzag symmetry of the adjacent lawns, and the edges were a bit on the shaggy side—I hadn’t yet invested in one of those trimmer gizmos—but I was nonetheless pleased with my accomplishment.