Country Life, A Skunk, and Jaybird, Wayne McCray [free ebook novel TXT] 📗

Country Life, A Skunk, and Jaybird

1

Some people love where they live. I'm inclined to say it all depends. Few have the window view I do, that's for sure—having five large grey silos, lots of sky, and acres of farmland. I had been living in the boondocks since I became widowed and retired. I only see people when I go to town, run into the mail lady, or have packages delivered. I spend more time around stray animals, nature's largest and smallest creatures, and road kill. Death and boredom became normal. I don't have any neighbors, none close anyhow. They live miles away and I liked that.

 

Most folks don't handle isolation well. They fear it actually. I cope with solitude in my own way, by consuming whiskey flavored meals, hunting, and constant yard work. Plus, I have a parental daughter, lots of books, my music, and cable television. Mornings typically begin with a caffeine toddy of microwave Johnny Walker and Peruvian coffee. After my second cup, I soon parted the window blinds. The sunshined burned so bright I was blinded. My vision soon adjusted to the sharp light, finding a bunch of blackbirds feeding. They often show up whenever that yellow crop duster flew, spraying what it sprays, forcing grasshoppers and crickets alike to find refuge in my grass but turning it also into a buffet. Nothing bothered these hungry blackbirds except for the clanking of grain trucks that sped up and down the gravel road. The noise made them rise and fall like a black fish net being cast.

 

Soon two blue bluejays appeared, landing on the deck, bouncing about. One being brighter than the other, but both took turns flying up into the portico and by the number of times they did it I knew my wasp problem had returned. I recently knocked them down, but when it gets hot and it has been that they multiply and build nests fast, hidden from the sun. Thankfully, nature was on my side. The bluejays had a breakfast preference and I appreciated it. For now, I didn't have to worry about getting heavily dressed and having facial protection to get rid of them again.

 

High above that blazing sun played peek-a-boo with passing clouds, casting shadows that stretched and moved across my front yard. That's when something obscure caught my attention. I couldn't make it out at first, believing it to be a raccoon? Maybe a mangy mutt? But once it circled a bit and passed through the shadows and ducking behind trees, it slowly came toward the house then vanished. I cursed ehen I saw it. “Ain't this a bitch," I blurted. "I got a damn skunk under the house.”

 

Right then, I paused, thinking maybe with a little bait it could be trapped then relocated. Such an idea however had a downside. I feared getting stench showered. Poisoning was out, too. It could die anywhere, usually someplace cool and familiar, and right now underneath my house was it, and if it died there the chances of removal was highly unlikely and its decaying body would become an intolerable odor. "Shit," I said. "Fuck it! I just hope it doesn't hang around for long, but moves on, and we never meet."

 

I left my window view for the lounge chair, sitting down to check out the local news. After the weather and upcoming events, it aired unsolved burglaries taking place throughout the surrounding counties and whom were targeted most. That got my attention, but I wasn't really concerned about it because of my whereabouts. From there, I began channel surfing and spent much of the day watching television until the temperature dropped. While I waited, my front yard became less black but sugar coated, glistening in reddish-white powder, done so from all the corn haze drifting off all those fast moving grain trucks that drove past.

 

Satisfied by the time of day, I rose up to adorn some old work clothes to do more yard work. Soon thereafter, I began pruning lengthy tree branches; gathering, placing, and raking them into sizeable burn piles. I was working at a brisk pace, spreading mulch around two remarkably resilient fruit trees, spraying a diesel-herbicide mix to ward off snakes and kill all unwanted weeds growing around the propane tank, the house, and air conditioner. Then I took a lengthy break by dropping down to one knee, flicking sweat off my forehead.

 

I took a moment to look at what I hadn't done, in letting a half an acre of land go unchecked for a year. Now it was a problem. It had grown into a tiny forest and its roots system could threaten my pump house and artesian well. Moreover, I thoroughly hated the city water and refused its utility because it sucked in taste and consistency. All I know I had better bulldoze and burn it soon or face the likelihood of replacing a well pump.

 

Just as I stood up when out bounds that striped rascal, jaw-clenching a long water moccasin. It paid me little attention as it scampered to the front of the house. Right then I had forgotten how much skunks loved snakes. Still I couldn't help but ponder whether that was the same snake which slithered to safety a month ago. That sucker escaped death last time. My old legs couldn't get to and from the workshop fast enough to get diesel fuel and garden hoe. I was going to douse it, then hack it into pieces. That being said, I didn't pity its demise. However, I held a better opinion of my unwanted guest.

 

I looked up, realizing I had about an hour or so left. So I hurried to my workshop, donned protective goggles, a sombrero, adorned facially an oversize bandana, then started the lawnmower. I adjusted the cut height and speed settings so I could mow it fast and have a manicured yard before dark. Now frazzled and dusty, I caught a serious charley-horse. The leg pain was so unbearable I jumped off the lawnmower, gimping around, trying to stretch it out to bring about relief. Once it subsided, I remounted and finished up. I was ready to get indoors as fast as possible to bask in the cold air and get hydrated, so I raced to the shop.

 

Following a hot shower, I dined on two deer cheeseburgers, sweet potato french fries, two aspirin, and dandelion beer. My stomach now full I stood at the window to marvel at my work. It didn't look abandoned. Now it looked like somebody lived here. Still feeling drained, I reclined into my lounge chair and there I fell asleep.

 

My bladder woke me up. While using the bathroom, I heard the doorbell being rang repeatedly. Now who was this at my door, I thought, prompting an erratic and rushed emptying out. “Hold on Goddammit!" I hollered, "I’m a coming." A quick glance at the wall clock displayed its ungodly hour and wisdom suggested I should fist my handgun first to kindly greet whomever it was. "Who is it?" I insisted, peering through parted curtains, leaving the room dark so I could see without being seen. And there standing under the bright floodlights was of all things a plump, plain-looking, white girl. Constantly bouncing to pull and adjust her pants despite them being supported by a decorative belt. And with all her shimmying, her chest jostled uncontrollably. Just looking at them pricked my curiosity, but not enough to open the door. Instead, I talked through it.

 

I asked, “How can I help you young lady?”

 

“Sorry if I woke you,” she said apologetically. “My car broke down up on the highway and I saw your house, so I came here for some help." Now what she said made sense, but I had my doubts, finding it absurd that a white girl would walk this far to get to my house in absolute darkness and without having a cell phone.

 

“You don’t have a phone?”

 

“I do,” she punctuated. “But it’s dead.”

 

“I see. Okay, how about giving me the number?" I offered, "I’ll call who you want. Let them know that you're okay and tell them where I live, so they can pick you up. How about that?”

 

“But I don't know it by heart. It's in my phone." The flood lights soon went dark and I momentarily lost sight of her, but I heard her moving, walking away from the door. Why would she do that? The floodlights reactivated themselves. “Say Mister, I need to use it," dancing in place. "I got to go real bad.”

 

There it was? “She’s the bait," I told myself, "And you know it.” The local news had reported about a string of unsolved house burglaries and how the elderly were being victimized. I feared this was that and flung the door open and drew on her. She became pallid instantly, stumbling backwards. “Don’t shoot me mister! I hadn't done anything wrong, I only asked some help. That’s all,” but I wasn't having it and sought to know who else came with her.

 

“No one mister! No one! Just me!”

 

I pressed the gun firmly against her fat chest, to let her and her friends know that I wasn't playing, that I meant business. “Come on out. No harm, no foul," I spoke into the night. "Nobody gets hurt.”

 

Nothing but cicadas.

 

“I told you I’m all alone,” she squirmed. “Now let go of me."

 

"Stay still,” I warned her, doing likewise, while waiting for the floodlights to go dark again. Something wasn’t right, I could feel it. That's when pandemonium began. Silhouettes started dancing awkwardly in the night. “Damn that shit stank!” one barked. I stood up, which relit the floodlights, to fire within the outlines. Thunderclaps echoed.

 

The white girl crawled away frantically, squeezing her wide behind underneath my truck to avoid incoming gunfire. I threw myself through the backdoor, landing on my back as bullets ricocheted, peppering the house, and truck. From my backside I shot back through the open door, hoping to catch one in a blind advance. When nobody came, I scrambled to my feet to get to my bedroom. There, I had a twelve-gauge shotgun hidden behind the door and grabbed it. With it, I maneuvered into a blind corner just in case those sons-of-bitches favored thievery above common sense. My heart pounded hard, albeit anxious, but not so cavalier to exit my bedroom foxhole. So I sat there awhile. Suddenly, in the background, I heard a vehicle crank itself alive, disturbing the mood, before speeding off and fading into the night.

 

I slowly stood up and walked toward my bedroom door ready to blow away anyone lurking about. Thus far, the coast was clear. I gradually proceeded outdoors and found two bodies laid out. I called 9-1-1 from inside to report a crime and to do my best to describe what went down, but I got aggravated, particularly when the dispatcher stayed on one topic. “PEARLEAN! " I said emphatically, "IF YOU WANT TO KNOW WHETHER OR NOT I'M HURT OR IF ANYONE IS DEAD, BRING YOUR NARROW ASS OUT HERE AND FIND OUT FOR YOURSELF!”

 

Then I hung up.

 

Twenty minutes had past, maybe an hour, but I couldn't say before a wave of sirens and flashing lights flooded the silent night and driveway. Where I lived at, I was the law until the law showed up. Soon car doors slammed, followed by a lot of disjointed chatter from the police and medical technicians.

 

I knew for sure one of them was facedown, pleading, and bleeding all over my freshly cut lawn. I later learned he was shot in the shoulder and stomach. Fortunately, he was stabilized, put on a gurney, and taken to the nearest hospital, then airlifted to another hospital with urgent care. The other one not so much. He departed this world, body stretched out