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Show Go Love/155 "Thank you, Joey-I'll never forget," or some such. She never forgave O W.'s old man that one thing-whipping my butt for picking tulips, not even on the day of his funeral, when O.W. wept over his old man's casket. "She's pretty," he says. "A little heavy on the make-up, but pretty." The white horse nickers and the sound of cars on the highway fades in. I'm entirely here, on the Love Wins All bench with my father. I was best man in his wedding I'm adopted. He's quite for a second, the hickory swishing a little in the hot breeze It's a moment we've come to in life, no hiding from this. I fear him. I love him, the way he danced a silly jig with the fleur de lis on his head so we all laughed til we cried. My father. "Pretty?" Traceleen's Camaro revs into the lot "We'll go ahead with the viewing." She's walking toward us, my sister. She walks across the lot and sees us, blue daylight on her face. The words pretty and viewing twist. Trace's car shimmers. Pretty? I've always wanted a Camaro, the kind Kelvin Knight used to drive with his feet while sitting atop his T-tops, blaring Aerosmith, jumping the railroad track, cutting the Tastee-Freeze loop That's Lonoke-people want Camaros, the throaty pipes and windows that leak dope smoke and incense and graveyard makeouts. Car wrecks on prom night, moans behind bucket seats. That's where I'm coming from, Lonoke goddamn Arkansas, where your Mama ends up tended by somebody named Shurl and people go around burning at the heart root for a Camaro, pray to Jesus, God and Holy Ghost for the jet black Z-28 with swivel seats, a cassette player and Jensen coaxal speakers. Lord God in heaven, goose it, sound the double glass |
