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river rat: You'ens.
“Really?” Brock smiled a snake swingin’ smile. “You’ens were close werncha’? Didden you’ens work together, go to school together?”
I laughed at the you’ens. Only a true central Pennsylvania redneck uses the contraction naturally, rolling it off a scrapple slickened tongue.
“You’ens?” I laughed out loud. “You will always be a Yankee if you go around sayin' that.”
Brock’s face contorted and I wondered if he’d been offended by my chuckle but then he leaned to the side and farted, right there, sitting next to a bookish man and woman sipping tea. The couple groaned together in the same tone for equal duration as if they’d sat in folding chairs in a church basement, practicing it with a voice coach in choir.
“You didn’t answer my question.” He leaned again, farting, grunting with the effort and then nodded to the woman and man. “’Scuse me.” I pitied his wife all of a sudden.
“We were close, but it was conditional.”
“What’s ‘at mean? Conditional?” Brock leaned and I started to wince, worrying he’d blast air from his ass again at the retirees next to us, but instead he stood up fast and screamed at his son. “GET THE FUCK OFF HER!”
Brock, Jr. had knocked down my daughter and was grinding her knee into the sidewalk, pushing her up against a concrete planter full of rosemary and cigarette butts. I ran to her, happy to find her laughing, grateful her scraped knees and dirty shoes were all she had to show for the scuffle.
Brock jumped ahead of me, vaulting the rosemary, chasing after his son, who blanched white as if being stalked by death’s scythe. His fist came hard against his son’s ear as his sneaker pushed hard on junior’s eight year old back. He screamed what sounded like no, no, no, not again before Brock’s hand clamped hard over the boy’s mouth. He leaned down and for a second looked like he’d bite the boy’s left ear off but then quickly picked him up and dusted him off. Together they stood close, Brock on his knee with his son pulled against him. He kissed the boy, tousled his hair and both walked back to where we were sitting. I let Liza toddle off to the other kids, shoo-ing her behind me, away from their approach.
“Sorry ‘bout that.” Brock sat down and lit a cigarette. His son stood at his shoulder, shaking and pale with waxen skin. His right cheek looked hot with the skin stretched tight over it as it puffed out. “You got somethin’ you wanna’ say to Mr. Sheaffer?”
“I’m sorry to hit your girl. We was playin’ and I got rough. It won’t never happen again.”
I started to tell him thank you and it’s okay but he dashed off to apologize and hug Liza. She hugged him back, gazing at him like he was a god and I flashed fifteen years into a dark future filled with worry over everything I ever dreamed of for her gone, turned dark.
