“No, nobody’s dead. It’s good news,” Mrs. Peggot said. “You’ve got a daddy.”
“And he’s dead,” I said. Even though trying to be respectful.
“Well, no, he isn’t. Not the one I’m telling you about.”
I thought about the grave where he was buried, which had been much discussed as regards my seeing it, and I blurted out, “Lazarus isn’t real!”
She gave me a funny look. “No, not him. A new one. Now I’ve told you, so go on.”
I didn’t understand, even after I was up on the deck getting attacked by Mom’s hugs and kisses. Then Stoner came out of the house. For a split second I wondered what he would think of me having a new dad, and then I got it.
5
In the two weeks I was gone, Mom did these things:
Got married to Stoner.
Took off work for a weekend honeymoon to Luray Caverns.
Moved the furniture around.
My bedroom was the bigger one, and now according to Mom we had to swap, because it was her and Stoner versus one of me. She said we’d get a better house pretty soon because Stoner made a good living. I walked around my house that wasn’t my house while Stoner with his boots up on the coffee table paged through his American Iron, not even in a shirt, just his wifebeater. Like it’s his kingdom now and he’s got nobody to impress.
In my room that wasn’t my room, the bed was under the window where I hated it, and my action heroes were put on their shelf in the stupidest way imaginable, the reds together, greens with greens, nothing to do with their actual alliances or powers. It looked like some brainless ghost kid had been locked in here while I was gone, lining up his stuff in meaningless ways.
Also, Maggot’s and my fort had a dog in it now. Like Vandal Savage’s beard, huge and black, with hate in its eyes. It barked and flung itself at the chain link any time you got close.
School was starting in a few weeks, and for the first time ever I wanted summer over with. Who knew that was possible? Meantime, I spent all hours over at Maggot’s, telling him how lucky he was not to have parents he had to live with, Maggot being in total agreement. From his room upstairs we’d watch Stoner at the dog pen having his “sessions” with Satan. In case you thought I was being a crybaby, asshole names his dog Satan. Trains it to the path of murder using raw steak: shaking it, yanking it away, dog is going full apeshit. Stoner getting off on that.
“Mother H. Fuck, you better stay over here till that dog rips out the master’s lungs,” was Maggot’s advice, not at all needed. That was my plan for the rest of the summer. After that, my time there would be limited to the after-school hours. I assumed the Peggots would be on board.
Who was not on board was Mom. She started asking questions. Were the Peggots trying to turn me against Stoner? No trying needed, job well done by the man himself, I told Mom. She smacked me for having a smart mouth. But that was by no means the end of it. She acted like the neighbors’ opinions of her new husband mattered more than mine. Or hers either.
Finally I got mad and told her what Mrs. Peggot had said one time, about Stoner not caring if I fell off the back of his Harley and busted my brains. Mom got this wide-eyed look, and said I was not to go back over there the rest of the week. Mom was a small person, tiny really, which according to Mrs. Peggot was from Mom having me before she was done growing herself. The upshot of this being, by age ten I was catching up to her, heightwise, and had started on certain occasions to tell her, “Try and stop me.” This was one of those occasions.
This time her answer was maybe she couldn’t, but Stoner sure as hell could. And maybe that’s what she needed a husband for, if I was wondering.
We were in other words turning into a domestic shit show. I was too mad to care, but I think Mom was having her doubts. With Stoner always grilling her on why she dressed like a whore, who was she flirting with at work, where did she go afterwards, which was nowhere. He didn’t even like her going to her AA and NA meetings because it was mostly men. He passed up no occasion to remind her she was married now, so there’d be no more playing the field.
So maybe Mom’s pep talks were as much for her benefit as for mine. How lucky we were, because Stoner had a good job. Not a point to be argued in Lee County, I’ll grant you. The business he worked for was picking up, he’d be making good money, we would be safe.
This job that made Stoner the second coming of Jesus? A CDL driver. Meaning he drove a semi, with a special license so he could drive not just ordinary everyday shit around in his truck but beer. Or as Stoner called it, Product. Distribution truck driver for Anheuser-Busch. He had to pass an annual test proving he could lift and move Product weighing up to 165 pounds. All this and much more I never wanted to know, he told me while lying on the floor pressing his XMark free weights that had moved in along with certain bad smells and Satan. The weights took up most of the living room, all the more so if he was lying among them in his sweaty undershirt and leather bracelet, neck veins ready to pop, grunting on each press like he’s taking a shit. “Rotating and merchandising beverages at more than fifty customer accounts,” he says, like he’s a professor of whatever the hell. “Driving the routes to completion regardless of road conditions.”