{"id":2085,"date":"2022-09-25T19:30:36","date_gmt":"2022-09-25T23:30:36","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/thepetigrureview.com\/?page_id=2085"},"modified":"2022-09-25T19:30:36","modified_gmt":"2022-09-25T23:30:36","slug":"mary-alice-dixon","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/thepetigrureview.com\/?page_id=2085","title":{"rendered":"Mary Alice Dixon"},"content":{"rendered":"\n
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Bride of Wild<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Daddy slouched against the cinderblock shed out back of our double wide, his sleeveless undershirt beer-yellowed, sweat-stained, nasty as his temper. The hot August air dripped Carolina wet, building thirst, fueling Daddy\u2019s anger.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cClementine Quackenbush, you been messing in my gun closet again?\u201d He kicked at the crabgrass.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo, sir.\u201d I lie good, specially for a girl\u2019s just turned ten. I\u2019d thrown them bullets of his in the trailer park trash bin while he slept off last night\u2019s Wild Turkey. He\u2019d been threatening Mama something awful since Fort Mill Truckers fired him three months back. Even with Mama bringing home her cotton mill paycheck every week, 1963 was fixing to be a piss bad year for us. Daddy\u2019s bullets might make it a whole lot worse. Folks didn\u2019t call him Mad Dog Quackenbush for nothing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Daddy lived dirt-scrabble ragged all his 35 years though his hitting arm still had a young fella\u2019s punch. Mama and me both experienced it real regular. Mama showed the hard of her 26 years as if she were a rain-beat, weather-worn, tight-harnessed plow horse, wrinkled, going gray. She claimed the ruin of her looks came from breathing cotton dust at the mill but I reckon it\u2019s Daddy\u2019s beatings that done it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGun closet door is open, girl.\u201d Daddy lit a Camel, squinted at the sunset.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMice, Daddy. Not me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGo git your Mama. We\u2019re heading to Farley\u2019s. Git away from this dump a spell.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mama came out the trailer, still in her Saturday work pants, hair tight tied in a ponytail.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Half hour later Daddy parked us at Fat Farley\u2019s Fish Camp, the mosquito-infested run-down old joint by the Catawba River. Our neighbors, Willadene Troutfisher and her mama, Eula Mae, waved to us from Farley\u2019s side porch. My mama and Eula Mae been pals since starting out as bobbin girls in the mill. Me and Willadene been best friends forever.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHey, Peaches,\u201d Eula Mae called. Mama smiled, her face unfolding wrinkles.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Perched on a beat-up plywood picnic table under Farley\u2019s eating room rafters, Willadene and me wolfed down fried catfish. Soon as we finished our banana pudding we ran outside to the Norfolk Southern tracks. My folks and Eula Mae lounged inside. I figured they\u2019d be drinking pitchers of warm beer and sweet tea long after the last hush puppy was gone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe\u2019re gonna play chicken, Willie,\u201d I said. \u201cDouble dare, next train coming.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo way, Clem.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

As the whistle-hooting train from Rock Hill to Charlotte shot past, Daddy stumbled out of Farley\u2019s, Big Brew baseball cap low on his forehead, his scraggly-bearded face shadowed in night. Daddy fumbled his belt. He unzipped his denim britches, took a whiz by the fry-kitchen dumpster.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u201cWhat the hell. You young\u2019uns quit spying on me and git away from them damn tracks.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Daddy finished his business, staggered back up the wooden stairs, scratching his crotch. Banjo music came hound-dog howling from Farley\u2019s side porch, some gal singing Red River Valley<\/em>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Willadene bit her lip. \u201cMaybe we should listen to your daddy?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou fraidy cat?\u201d I punched her skinny little arm.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cLet\u2019s play truth tales instead. Ask me something, anything, I gotta tell you the truth.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOkay, why\u2019s your mama\u2019s arm in a sling?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cJesus, Clem, I don\u2019t wanna talk about it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cChicken.\u201d I pointed to the tracks.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cPop twisted Ma\u2019s elbow. Said she was getting too much wild. Snapped her arm like a chicken bone. Satisfied?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Right then our folks came out of Farley\u2019s, crossed the pea gravel parking lot, Daddy laughing crazy-like, aiming his Smith & Wesson at me and Willadene, pretending to shoot. Mama pulled at his arm. He pointed the gun at her, took a step, and stumbled on a broken beer bottle. Mama grabbed the gun, shoved it in her waistband, butt sticking out.\u00a0\u00a0<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cStop that shit, Mad Dog,\u201d Eula Mae yelled. \u201cListen. I\u2019m making an announcement.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou got another bun in the oven?\u201d Daddy pointed to her thick belly. \u201cYou\u2019re running to fat there, girl.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cShut up. I\u2019m creating a change. I\u2019m heading for the hills, joining the wild. Taking me a new name. From here on out I\u2019m gonna be Bride, be Bride of Wild.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat?\u201d Willadene\u2019s eyebrows shot up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cTaking my young\u2019un here, moving us out to that wilderness camp in the Sandhills, round Darlington. Place where you can run free, not wear clothes if you don\u2019t feel like it. Leaving my Mister behind. Lot of gals there already. I hear tell they broke free from wife-working for men. They calling it the rebellion of wives.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI wanna run naked.\u201d I rubbed my behind. \u201cHave adventures.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMuzzle your mouth, girl.\u201d Daddy spit in the dirt.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMa?\u201d Willadene frowned.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cCall me Bride, Willie. You\u2019ll like living under them pretty sand pine trees.\u201d She put her good arm around Willadene.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cRighteous wives don\u2019t run off to nudist camps, Eula Mae.\u201d Daddy said. \u201cYour man\u2019ll put a stop to that crap.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u201cThe hell he will. I\u2019m going free.\u201d She winked at Mama. \u201cGoing wild.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Daddy jerked the pistol out of Mama\u2019s pants, then took aim at the moon rising above Eula Mae\u2019s head. He pulled the trigger.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u201cWhat the \u2013 ain\u2019t got no bullets in this thing.\u201d Daddy twisted around, mad as a hornet. He glared at me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I looked down at my feet, kept quiet \u2018bout messing in his gun closet, pitching his bullets in the trash. But I sure felt proud.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Daddy\u2019s eyes narrowed. \u201cYou tig bitties have yourselves a gab fest til I\u2019m good \u2018n ready to go home.\u201d He turned his back on us, clumsy making his way back to Farley\u2019s, tripping over a bucket of orange bucktail jigs. \u201cDamn. I need me more beer.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We watched Daddy sidle up to some gal on the side porch, pat her butt, sling his arm around her, and grab another beer. They started drunk dancing, pawing at each other, while the banjo picking grew louder. Daddy and her disappeared inside Farley\u2019s.\u00a0<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe\u2019ll be busy a whiles, won\u2019t be wanting home tonight.\u201d Mama scowled, her eyes meeting Eula Mae\u2019s.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMama.\u201d I stood up straight. \u201cLet\u2019s us escape from round here. Like them rebelling ones.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cPretty hot running naked in the Sandhills, don\u2019t you think?\u201d Mama sighed, still looking at Eula Mae.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cLordy, Peaches I ain\u2019t going to the Sandhills. Just throwing your hound off the trail. Heading west to the high country, to them smoke blue mountains where the gals grow apples and drink cider. Chuck their clothes when they feel like it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI wanna go there, Mama. I ain\u2019t never seen mountains.\u201d Something gleamed shiny on the ground. \u201cLook, Daddy dropped his car keys.\u201d I handed them to her. \u201cLet\u2019s leave. For good. Let Daddy fend for himself.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0Mama put one hand on her stout hips, squared her shoulders, tossed her hair loose from its tight ponytail. She pulled me to her side. \u201cTruth tales, Clem. You really wanna go to them mountains?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u201cYes, ma\u2019am. We been Daddy-chained too long.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOkay, Clem, I wanna go, too. We\u2019re breaking free.\u201d Mama grinned, jangling Daddy\u2019s car keys. \u201cWe got wheels. We\u2019ll head home, pack up, find that camp tomorrow. We\u2019re going with Bride. My new name is Wild.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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Mary Alice Dixon<\/strong> is a member of SC Writers Association and a former professor of architectural history. She lives in Charlotte, NC, where she is a longtime hospice volunteer. Mary Alice is a Pushcart nominee, Pinesong Award winner, finalist for the 2021 Broad River Review Rash Award in Poetry and finalist for the 2022 LIT\/south Award in Fiction. Her work is in numerous publications, including Belmont Story Review, Broad River Review, Capsule Stories, County Lines, Kakalak, Main Street Rag, moonShine review, North Dakota Quarterly, Northern Appalachia Review, Stonecoast Review, and three Personal Story Publishing Project anthologies. Mary Alice grew up playing in Carolina red clay and running wild at fish camps by the river.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n

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