Today I promised you all a deleted scene. It’s back story. Something I seem to have talent for but no one wants in the middle of some moving scene. So I save every piece because …well…because I just do. I can’t help it. Does this constitute hoarding in anyway?
So enjoy this little scrap that’s been scrapped while I loppity-lop hair today. I’ll be hoppity-hop-hopping in the blog field later this evening.
Mom lugged her Tupperware cases into the living room.
A man who had to weigh three-hundred pounds lay on the living room floor, his head propped up on an elbow. He looked at me and said, “You must be the Southern dumbbell your mom’s been talking about.” He laughed and ignored that mom could have used his help with her cases.
“Now Jim, don’t scare her off like that.” Mrs. Butz said. “Max is going to be thrilled when he sees her.”
Mr. Butz rolled into a sitting position to face us. “Where is that peckerhead, anyway?”
“He’ll be home soon. He promised. Halleluiah.”
Mom busied herself with setting up her Tupperware, oblivious to Mr. Butz. Complaining about his language would be no use. She’d make light of it or say I made it all up.
Mrs. Butz’s friends trickled in. They all shared the same vocabulary “Praise the Lord”, “Halleluiah,” “The Lord told me such and such.” Weird, but I smiled and acted like everything was normal.
The pick-up truck driver arrived halfway through mom’s demonstration and grabbed a straight chair to sit across from me. He wore black corduroy pants, a blue tee shirt, and a dark red ball cap. Dark brown curls falling out from under it. Gray pointy cowboy boots on his feet. He smelled of English Leather, motor oil, and cigarettes, even from eight feet away. Black grease in his cuticles and under his fingernails. My nose wrinkled of its own accord.
Mrs. Butz shot up and interrupting mom’s four-dozenth lift-lid-and-press demonstration and pointed at me. “Max, that’s Lila, the girl across the street.” Max grinned. “Her Mother, Babs is giving our Tupperware party. That’s her over there.” She pointed at mom, but Max neither turned his head nor refocused his grin.
Something in me lurched, I stood. “Mom, I can’t stay. I have something to do and need to go.” I did have something to do. My room needed cleaning, and my laundry needed folded and put away. Cynthia and I could go to the movies.
Mom put down the green lettuce keeper she’d been burping and frowned. “What are you talking about?”
The Tupperware passing among the women stopped, everyone’s eyes on me.
The women waited. Mom glared. Max grinned.
“Um…uh.” What I wanted to say hovered in my voice box.
Mom slammed down the lettuce keeper and walked toward me. Whatever hovered in my voice box took cover. “I’m waiting,” she said, her left brow cocked. That thing was on alert at all times, ready to rise when I crossed the line.
The women, Tupperware in their laps, looked at each other.
Max smirked. I wanted to stick my finger down my throat and gag.