For once Thanksgiving turned out to be an historically accurate representation of its roots as opposed to abiding by the typical colonial-normative bullshit. Instead of everyone putting on pilgrim hats and Indian headdresses and circle jerking around a horn ‘o plenty, the wife and I started a war with the neighbors. Or they started one with us, truth be told. Either way there’d been plenty of static bubblin’ away under the surface without anyone bein’ fully cognizant of the situation until it came to a head. And boy did it. Turkey was outstanding though, and Uncle Dave and I enjoyed them leftovers for a good three days before I burned Lloyd McNeil’s woodshop down to the ground and slowly marinated his coyote-wife in lysergic acid. Sent her right off to Syd Barrett-ville on a bike with a bell. Ding-a-ling, bitch. You don’t never call my wife a whore, see?
I know, that’s a lot to unpack. And no; I have not lost sight of the fact that this whole chronicle is supposed to be about Bandini. But there’s a lot involved in this here tale. Might even have to call it an epic by the time it gets wrapped up. So just be patient and pay attention, ‘cause things are about to go a bit south of certifiable.
Not a whole lot mixes well with the bean hooch, especially grudges. And Agnes McNiel had apparently been carryin’ one around since last Christmas. Turns out, what DOES mix well with bean hooch is tomato juice, worcestershire, chili powder, a bit of cumin, salt, pepper, and a stick of extra crispy bacon as a stir stick. And Agnes was into her third glass before we even got around to us talkin’ about me shootin’ her boy. It was Lloyd who brought it up, and he only meant to smooth things over. No one had even expected them to show up, but they came sure enough, most likely so that Lloyd could set things straight and we could all get on with our lives. But his wife was pretty shit-faced and we hadn’t even sat down to eat. Folks were all millin’ around the living room and den when Lloyd walked up and put his hand on my shoulder.
“Ollie, I understand you lost your job there at the school ’cause of what happened. I just want to tell you I know you were actin’ outta concern for our boy, and you did the right thing. Slug may have gone in his foot, but them coyotes were gonna tear him to pieces. He’ll get off them crutches in a few weeks, and that was a tough shot. So.”
It was the first and only time anyone had acknowledged my good intentions, or my marksmanship skills, so I was ok with it. Lloyd and shook hands and thought we had put a full stop to this incident. But then Agnes let out a harumph, and shit went sour.
“Well it’s too bad LorETTA had to ruin the Christmas pageant last year the way you ruined our boy’s future. Not to mention our shot at state this year. ”
The room got real quiet as she set her glass down on the side table just as hard as you please and got to eyeballin’ the Wife for some reason. Charlotte jumped in, much to her own regret.
“Now what are you on about Agnes? Loretta ain’t never been nothing but kind to this entire town and everyone in it. You better just sit back down and let Ollie fix you another drink.”
“You ALL know what I’m on about. She RUINED last year’s pageant with her little STUNT!”
Charlotte had stepped between them, put her hands on Agnes’ shoulders and was backin’ her away from the Wife, but this here wildcat was off and runnin’, and then Becka Patchek had to chime in with an untimely question that just wreaked of her ill mannered upbringin’.
“What happened at the pageant last year? I was home sick with the flu.”
“She mortified us, Becka. MORTIFIED us! The whole town. Count yourself lucky that you weren’t there to see it. Last act…you know how it always goes; We do Jingle Bell Rock with the men takin’ vocal duties stage right…then it gets to the, “Now the Jingle Hop has begun”, line…and the lights come up…stage left…to show us ladies there singin’…with our…with our reindeer horns on and our hands folded up all…all cute, like little reindeer hooves in front of us. And then we all hop forward together while we sing that…that line. But then LorETTA doesn’t follow the SCRIPT, and she steps out of line and puts her hands up above her damn head and …gyrates …GYRATES …her hips like she’s some kinda STRIPPER and…and she ruined twenty five years of Mud Creek Christmas tradition, right there! With all the children watchin’!”
The Wife tried to push around Charlotte and apologize, sayin’, “It was just a bit of fun Agnes. I didn’t mean any harm. I was just trying to break up the monotony of-”
“YOU RUINED CHRISTMAS WITH YOUR LITTLE WHORE DANCE!”
Charlotte pushed her hard, ass first, back into her seat. The ice clinked in her empty glass. The only other sound in the room was the uneasy squeak of crutches, as Lloyd’s boy maintained his balance while everyone else seemed to be losin’ theirs.
Smitty got up and took Charlotte by the elbow, pullin’ her back from that pressure cooker of bitterness and pique that was sitting in our armchair. Agnes just gritted her teeth, shook her head side to side, and let them home perm curls vibrate in accordance to the resonant frequency of her long pent up rage. It was time for me to step in and calm things down so that we could sit down and enjoy some gawdamned turkey and dressing before things got completely out of hand.
“Now Agnes, you heard Loretta. She didn’t mean nothin’. And it didn’t ruin Christmas or anything else. Ain’t no one even filed a complaint about this incident until today. Let’s just fill up that glass and get some food in your belly before things get ugly.”
“She’s just jealous that her belly don’t look anything like Loretta’s. I mean, how could it after squeezin’ out nine of them kids?”
That Becka sure coulda used some etiquette classes growin’ up. Or at least one less glass of bean hooch on this particular Thursday. Too late now for either. Girls were all three sheets to the wind and the claws had come out.
“You weren’t home sick with the flu last Christmas Becka. You were hung over like you always are. You wanna talk to me about how many kids I got? At least none of mine look like cross-eyed little cavemen thanks to their mama gettin’ drunk all nine months they was inside her!”
OK, that was harsh. But it was also true. Them Patchek kids coulda all passed for something dug outta the wooly mammoth-filled permafrost up in Siberia. And they were thick as hell. One even lost half a finger in a belt sander last year. But it sure touched a nerve and Becka was up and out of her chair. Uncle Dave stepped in this time to try and make peace.
“Whoa whoa WHOA ladies; I think we oughta all just move to different rooms, maybe get some fresh air before this goes any further. Pa, you wanna give me a hand here?”
“Hell no.This is just gettin’ good.”
Since Owen wasn’t going to lend a hand I led the Wife outta there and into the kitchen while Uncle Dave tried to deal with everyone else. Just as I was about to say somethin’ reassuring, Agnes’ voice came booming out from the den.
“You know who dances like whores, Lloyd? WHORES DANCE LIKE WHORES! And LorETTA danced like a WHORE! AND THAT MAN SHOT OUR BOY!”
“I GOTTA NAME YOU KNOW? I’M NOT JUST YOUR BOY OR LLOYD’S BOY GODDAMNIT! WHY CAN”T ANYBODY EVER CALL ME BY MY NAME?”
“DON’T YOU EVER TAKE THE NAME OF THE LORD IN VAIN! YOU HEAR ME, BOY?”
“WOULD YOU ALL KINDLY JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP AND LET US TRY TO ENJOY THIS HERE GODDMANED THANKSGIVING?”
I rushed back out to find everyone crowded into the den and in each others’ faces. Owen was slappin’ his thigh and laughing so hard he couldn’t breathe. Pearl looked to be in shock. Lloyd’s boy was hoverin’ over Agnes like he was gonna take a swing at her with his crutches, and Uncle Dave was palms up pleading with everyone to just be cool so that we could sit down and have some turkey. Things were tense. It was Lloyd who finally broke the ice.
“C’mon son. Get your brothers and sisters and let’s just get on home then. Agnes; Get in the truck. If you can walk.”
Lyle Patchek spoke up for the first time all day, sayin’, “Guess we’ll be doin’ the same.”
Agnes swam and wrestled her way out of that chair and staggered out to the idling truck, muttering about whores, half-wits and state championships. Eight of nine kids were piled in the bed. Lloyd and his boy were in the cab. Everyone looked mighty hungry and more than a little shook up.
“We ain’t goin’ nowhere, are we hon?”, Charlotte asked Smitty.
“You fuckin’ kidding me? Let’s eat.”