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Christopher Gronlund presents Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors. Read by me, the author, Christopher Gronlund.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

“Clyde McAllister’s Gator Village And Civil War Memorial”

            “Well a-hey!-hey!-hey! and a howdy!-howdy-do! Welcome to Clyde McAllister’s Alligator Village and Civil War Memorial!”

            Clyde McAllister was everything I imagined, a portly little guy, but beneath all the fat, you could tell there was a lot of knotted muscle for years of backbreaking work. A Korean War vet and self-proclaimed Civil War expert, he chomped on a cigar and wore a cowboy hat almost too big for his large head. His cheap suit didn’t fit quite right; the bottom half of the suit was too tight while the top half was too loose (except around his gut, where it must have been a struggle to secure). An alligator pin was attached to his lapel where most people place carnations, and his tie was patterned after a Confederate flag. He looked like he should have been selling used cars; nothing like the Inferno—more like old Gremlins and Pacers. I could almost hear him saying, “Yeah, it may have a few dings and pings, here and there, and the mileage may be high, but this car is an American classic!” He stood at a podium; behind him were curtained doors, one reading IN and the other OUT. He was a national treasure in my father’s eyes.

            “Nice meeting you, Clyde,” Dad said. “Your brother, Big Dick, told us we needed to stop by.” Dad reached out and shook Clyde’s hand. When Clyde shook back, my old man winced in pain.

            “Yep, Clyde’s the name, but my friends call me Grip!”

            Every sentence he said was an event with Clyde, loud and with purpose. It was like talking with Yosemite Sam, and I wouldn’t have been at all surprised had he produced two six-shooters, shot the floor, and floated above the ground, just like in the cartoon.

            Dad pulled his hand back, massaging it. “Grip…I can see why they call you that.”

            Clyde rolled up his sleeves, proudly displaying criss-crossed bite marks up and down his arms. “Yep! Gotta have a grip if ya wanna tame them wily beasts! Can’t tell ya how many times I’ve almost had my arms ripped clean off!”

            He wiggled his fingers—all seven of them.

            “They can have a few fingers, but I’ll be damned if I give one of them sons-a-bitches a whole arm!”            He rolled his sleeves back down, collected himself, and finally said something in a normal tone. “So y’all want the full tour?”

            “Yes,” Dad said. “There are six of us. Three adults and three children.”

            “I sees that. I may be dumber than bricks, but I can count to six!”

            “Sorry, Clyde.”

            “Grip! Call me Grip!” He messed up Dad’s hair with one of his heavy hands. “I’m just foolin’ with ya, Tex! It’s five bucks for old farts and three bucks fer the rugrats. Gimme a twenty and we’ll call it even, but y’all gotta promise to buy somethin’ before ya leave, okay?”

            Dad pulled a twenty from his wallet and handed it to Clyde. “I was planning to, Grip.”

            He slapped Dad on the back, almost knocking him to the ground. “There ya go! Me an’ you is buddies, now! Lemme find the little lady an’ we can start the tour. Bonnie!” he yelled.

            “Bonnie?” Dad said. “Bonnie and Clyde?”

            Clyde smiled. “Yeah, an’ all this time you thought we was dead!” He guffawed and went through the IN curtain. “Bonnie! Where is ya, Gator Breath?! We got a show to put on! Bonnie!”

            Clyde’s wife, Bonnie, wandered through the OUT door while shouting, “I hear ya! I hear ya! I ain’t the deaf one, you is!”

            Bonnie would have been a waitress in a dirty diner if it weren’t for her duties at the gator village. I imagined her moseying up to a table and saying, “What can I getcha, Sugar?” She was tall and skinny and popped her gum as she chewed.        

“Howdy, y’all,” she said before starting her speech. “Thanks fer visiting Clyde McAllister’s Alligator Village and Civil War Memorial. Behind this curtain lies a world unlike any you’ve ever seen.” Everything she said sounded rehearsed and stale; she definitely lacked the passion Clyde had for his job. “See ferocious gators fightin’, leapin’, and eatin’ while also learning about the Civil War,” she said. “In mere moments, we will enter. Prepare to be amazed.”

            “You ready back there, Grip?!” she yelled, startling us all.

            “Yeah, Gator Breath—I’m ready!”

            “That’s his nickname fer me,” she said. “Ain’t it just the cutest thing?” She fished a pack of cigarettes from her pocket and lit one. Mom and Aunt Margie got excited.

            “It’s okay to smoke?” Mom said.

            “Of course, hon! Ain’t no laws against it ‘round here. Ain’t nobody ever gonna tell me where I can and can’t smoke. So smoke ‘em if you got ‘em!”

            Mom and Aunt Margie lit up as Bonnie grabbed a wireless microphone from the podium.

            “This way,” she said, heading through the IN curtain. Dad readied his camera and we all followed.

            The interior of the gator village was laid out like a cheap haunted house—in ways, it was every bit as creepy! Bonnie and Clyde believed in putting black curtains to good use; the curtains made up the hallways we walked through on our way to the first exhibit. High above us, old fluorescent lighting fixtures crackled and hummed, casting a sickly, flickering green glow on things. Bonnie stopped and pointed toward a taller curtain.

            “All right!” she hollered.

            Clyde’s voiced boomed over a cheap public address system. It faded in and out, but since he was just on the other side of the curtain, when it dropped out, he was still more than audible.

            “The American gator,” he started, trying his best to sound like the narrator on a legitimate nature program. “One of Mother Nature’s fiercest of beasts. For ages, man has tried taming these monsters.”

            Dad was getting excited; he lived for this kind of thing. He knew whatever was on the other side of the curtain wouldn’t be half of what it was hyped to be, but in its own schlocky way, it would be far better than one could ever imagine.

            “Growing to lengths of over twenty feet long, with a mouth fulla razor-sharp teeth,” Clyde said, dropping in and out on the speakers, “these beasts are akin to a shark on land. Only a complete fool would dare battle one of these hurking monstrosities! Beware, my friends…beware…”

            The timing wasn’t perfect, but Bonnie wrestled with the curtain, pulling it back to reveal one of Dad’s favorite pictures he ever snapped. Clyde, still chomping on his cigar, was in a large, plastic kid’s wading pool, wearing cowboy boots, a cowboy hat, and a Tarzan suit! He stood over a gator that appeared to be sleeping. Canned jungle sounds and drum music played over the PA as Clyde yelled and rolled around in the water with the gator. He was no Australian Crocodile Hunter, but he had more charm and showmanship. Not since seeing Jack Hanna wrestling with a docile anaconda on Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom did we see a better show. The gator didn’t put up even a hint of a fight, but the way Clyde yelled and rolled around, one might expect he could die at any moment. Dad snapped picture after picture as Bonnie added to the spectacle.

            “Be careful, Clyde!” she said into the mic. “Watch out! Oh no!” She looked away, covering her eyes with both hands. “I can’t bear to watch! Tell me when it’s over!”

            Clyde rolled around with the gator, until finally prying its mouth wide open. He stuck his head between the teeth and yelled in victory, “YAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

            Bonnie looked back at us, feigning surprise. She slapped the side of her face and said, “Why look at that! Never before have I seen such a feat! Let’s give a huge round of applause for Clyde McAllister, y’all!”

            We all clapped as Bonnie reached behind the curtain and triggered canned applause over the PA system. Dad snapped one final picture before Clyde removed his head from the docile reptile’s mouth and stepped out of the pool. The gator fell right back to sleep as Clyde bowed.

            When the canned applause stopped, Bonnie closed the curtain, and in mock concern said, “Whew! That was too close for comfort! Clyde coulda lost a limb fightin’ that beast. Clyde was lucky, but in the Civil War, many Confederate soldiers weren’t. If an artillery shell didn’t rip their arms and legs from their torso, gangrene set in and they had to be amputated without the benefit of pain killers.”

Just like that, she totally shifted gears, dropping her head and sliding into a sullen voice. “There’s a lot more to this place than just fun. Not only do you get to see flying gators at Clyde McAllister’s Alligator Village and Civil War Memorial, but y’all’ll walk outta here havin’ learnt a thing or two. In the next room, y’all’ll learn about Yankee atrocities committed during the Civil War.”

She led us to a room where a large table, serving as a shoddy Civil War battle scene diorama, waited. The table was situated near a wall, below a dingy curtain where a cloudy sky was painted by clumsy hands. The battle scene had seen better days: the paint on the tiny soldiers was chipping and they were so dusty, it was hard to tell the Blue from the Gray. The figures were mounted on pegs that moved back and forth along the table, like an old tabletop hockey game from the 70s. A smooth, flat area was laid into the table, and if one looked hard enough, they could see the faded yard markings from a tabletop football game from similar times. Sagging paper maché hills and trees made from twigs rounded out the diorama. The lights dimmed and a spotlight shined upon the scene.

            “December thirty-first, eighteen sixty-two,” Bonnie said into her microphone. “It would not be a happy new year for General Braxton Bragg and his men. The new year would be rang in battlin’ that back-stabbin’ Yankee coward, Major General William Rosencrans and his men. Murfreesboro, Tennesee—site of the Stones River Slaughter.”

            Flashing red lights strobed the battlefield as canned gunfire, artillery blasts, and yelling played over the PA. The troops moved back and forth in their slots as little puffs of talcum powder “explosions” riddled the troops, covering them in more dust.

            “The battle had begun,” Bonnie said. “Attacks and retreats—both sides took heavy losses.”

            The flat section of the table began vibrating loudly and the figures standing there fell over, but still bounced around. Dad and I were hysterical, but Bonnie pushed on like a true Southern Belle, not letting our laughter get the better of her.

            “Artillery ripped through the mighty Southern Forces, but still…they fought on!”

            The table shook violently; explosions throwing painted chunks of paper maché at our unprotected faces.  Sparks flew from the ends of the soldiers’ tiny muzzleloaders, starting a tiny fire that spread quickly. Bonnie was visibly shaken—something was going wrong with the table, but like a mighty Southern soldier with a Yankee in their sights, she pushed on.

            “From December thirty-first to January second, the Confederate forces battled the Yankees fiercely. It was an ugly, ugly scene.”

            The fire consumed the tabletop—both Confederate and Union forces were engulfed by an out of control blaze! Clyde’s scarred arms poked out from behind the backdrop with a fire extinguisher. A couple short blasts saved both sides from imminent doom.

            “Headless horses…mangled bodies…mutilated mules,” Bonnie said as we watched plastic figures melt into grotesque blobs. “The countryside was littered with the carnage of 24,988 casualties. Strong, Southern soldiers died in a senseless battle with little tactical value. They died at the hands of cold-blooded Yankees. Let’s bow our heads in a moment of silence and remember these men; these Sons of Dixie.”

We bowed our heads; Dad’s face was so red from holding back laughter, it looked like it was about to explode, just like an evil Yankee taking an artillery round to the head. When we thought it was finally over, Bonnie led us through another curtain; we passed beneath a sign reading HOSPITAL. Canned moaning and screaming played over the PA. “I hope y’all haven’t eaten yet cause you are about to witness first-hand the horrors of Civil War medicine.” We were getting to the good stuff!

            We entered a room full of poorly sculpted life sized wax medics working on wax soldiers. The scene was meant to be overly gruesome; fake blood was used like house paint, covering everything. It was obvious the building’s air conditioning went out from time to time because both medics and soldiers were partially melted, making the faces of the wounded even more grotesque and pained, and the faces of those left standing even creepier.

            Large jars full of formaldehyde and body parts—fingers, hands, and organs—lined the shelves along the walls. I thought I made out a fetus in a jar near a far corner where the light didn’t reach, and thought about Little Dick. Mom and Aunt Margie were visibly shaken. I’ll admit, it was a ghastly sight; the smell of wax, musty costumes, and formaldehyde made it more sickening. Dad and I loved it, of course—it was worth the twelve hundred miles we’d traveled by that point. He snapped enough photos, he had to reload his camera. The twins, unaffected by it all, kept to themselves and their bag of marshmallows. Bonnie tried bringing us back to what she and Clyde thought was a serious, touching memorial for fallen Confederate soldiers.

            “Imagine the pain of being shot in the leg by a gutless, yellow-bellied Yankee,” she said. “Imagine that pain growing and growing as your leg swells and oozes, until finally turning yellow with gangrene. You can’t walk; all you can do is cry and drag your diseased limb through the hearty, Southern soil of your homeland.”

            It took everything Dad and I had to hold back the laughter. Patriotic music played over the moaning.

            “Finally, the battle is over,” Bonnie said. “You finally receive the medical attention you’ve been needing for weeks, had it not been for the lilly-livered Union holding you down.” She pointed to one of the wax medics sawing a soldier’s leg off. “There’s not much for a Southern doctor to do, but amputate.”

            Fake blood, remotely triggered by Clyde from somewhere nearby, spurted from the leg wound, splattering Olivia, who was looking at the scene with morbid curiosity. Elvis plugged the wound with a marshmallow and moved on. Bonnie obviously enjoyed working from the script she and Clyde probably spent months perfecting. To them, this was serious business.

            “You take it like a true-blooded Southerner as they saw through your infected leg and burn it shut with a hot iron. All you have to keep ya from passing out is a swig o’ whiskey and a strap of leather between your teeth.”

            She bowed her head as the moaning and music stopped, then paused for dramatic effect. “But still you die,” Bonnie said, hoping we understood how horrible it was fighting the North in the war. “Yer just another casualty of Yankee oppression on the South. Let’s all bow our heads in another moment of silence.”

            We all bowed again, but Dad and I couldn’t hold back this time—we laughed out loud, causing Bonnie to shoot us a cold glare. We shut up like two kids before the school’s principal and in trouble, until Bonnie finally said, “Well, enough of this sad stuff. Who wants to see more gators?!”

            Dad and I cheered, “YEAH!”

            We wandered through a curtained doorway with a sign above reading, GATOR SPLASH! Bonnie handed us all plastic garbage bags with head and armholes torn into them.

            “Y’all’ll need these,” she said, pulling one on, herself.

            We entered a room with a much larger pool than the wading pool where Clyde valiantly wrestled with the sedated gator, this pool was more like a stand-alone, backyard pool about four or five feet deep. There was an excitement in the air that we were actually going to see something exciting. Clyde stood on a ladder above the pool. In his hands were three lengths of rope with Cornish chickens tied to the ends. Bonnie triggered a drumroll over the PA and went into her spiel.

            “And now, the pride of Clyde McAllister’s Alligator Village and Civil War Memorial…won’t you all give a warm round of applause for Splashdown, the highest leapin’ gator in all the land!”

            More canned applause played over the speakers as Clyde swung one of the chickens near the surface of the water. A much more active gator than the first took a bite at it, missing by inches as Clyde jerked it away, building anticipation.

            “And now, the moment you’ve all waited fer…let’s see the gator fly!”

            Clyde lowered a chicken a few feet above the water. Dad snapped a picture right as the gator’s head poked up from the water and snatched the chicken up in a quick bite.

            “Come on, Splashdown!” Bonnie said. “You can do better than that for these kind folks! One…two…three—let’s see the gator fly!”

            This time, Clyde lowered a chicken high enough above the water that the gator’s body rose halfway from the pool, snagging the second chicken! A weak splash rolled over the edge of the pool, soaking our feet in a damp, swampy odor. Bonnie and Clyde were starting to ham it up, hoping to create some tension and excitement.

            “What’s the name of this here exhibit, Grip?” Bonnie said.

            “Gator Splash,” he said, acting surprised. “Why?”

            “Well, we aint’ seen no gators splashin’, have we, y’all?”

            Dad and I shouted “NO!” while the rest of the family looked on, bored to tears.

            “Do y’all wanna see the gator fly?!” Bonnie shouted into the microphone.

            “Yeah!” Dad and I said.

            “That don’t sound too enthused. Lemme try again: do y’all wanna see the gator fly?!”

            This time we shouted “Yeah!” a little louder, but it still wasn’t good enough for Bonnie.

            “I still can’t hear you!” she said. “That there gator’s underwater and he wants to hear y’all loud and proud. One more time: do y’all wanna see the gator fly?!”

            “YEAH!!!” Dad and I screamed at the top of our lungs.

            The canned drumroll resumed as Dad readied his camera.

            “Okay, here we go. One…two…three—let’s see the gator fly!”

            Clyde held the final chicken high in the air, and Splashdown showed us what he was made of. He came out of the water, flying through the air to the chicken, which he snapped up in his jaws before bellyflopping back into the pool, creating a sound splash that covered us all! Our cheers were joined with applause over the PA. Even Mom, Aunt Margie, and the twins clapped and howled! Dad gave me a hug. For one fleeting moment, a captive gator leaping from a stagnant pool to get a small chicken from the end of a rope brought us all together.

            “Whoo-wheee! That sure was fun, huh?!” Bonnie said. “All that’s left now is the Hall O’ Gators Gift Shop!”

She led us through another curtain, to another room. Aunt Margie began pulling her garbage bag splash suit off her heavy frame. “Lemme give ya this back.”

            “Oh, no, Hon!” Bonnie said. “You keep that. It’s a souvenir on the house! Months from now, you’ll still be able to smell the gator on them.”

            Dad and I sniffed our garbage bags. I don’t think it was so much gator odor, as much as stagnant, dirty water that was rarely changed; the gator was like a tea bag, just adding to the overall fishy odor.

            “I sure hope the Hall O’ Gators Gift Shop has a bathroom!” Mom said.

            “Nope, Ma’am,” Bonnie said, “but we has a porta-pot out back you can use.”

            Mom handed Lucky to me.

            “Hold him,” she said. “I’ll meet youse guys back in the car.”

            Mom zipped off and Aunt Margie followed.

            “I need another smoke!” she said, chasing her older sister.

            The rest of us meandered toward the gift shop. I lagged behind, checking out a room full of all kinds of gators in large tanks. Above each tank was a sign with the name of each critter and a warning: “KEEP HANDS OUT OF TANKS!”

            Dad went straight for the gift shop counter, to buy T-shirts, mugs, and anything else that would remind him he once visited Clyde McAllister’s Alligator Village and Civil War Memorial. Bonnie was joined by Clyde. The twins looked at a sandbox in the corner of the room. A sign on the wall read “FREE GOODIES FOR THE KIDS.” Beside the sandbox was a metal detector and small hand shovel.

            “What’s this?” Elvis and Olivia said.

            “That’s the relic dig!” Clyde said proudly.

            “The what?”

            “The relic dig. You use that metal detector there and it’s just like being on an old battleground, excavating for Civil War artifacts. I bet if you looked hard enough, you’d find something.”

            “Okay,” they said. They worked as a team, looking for whatever Clyde had hidden in the sandbox.

            Clyde turned his attention to Dad, who was pointing out a rubber alligator brandishing a muzzleloader to Bonnie. “Do they always talk like that?” he said. “Together, I mean.”

            “Yeah, they do,” Dad said.

            “That’s downright creepy.”

            “Yeah, it is,” Dad said, now holding the alligator in his hands.

            I was still in the HALL O’ GATORS, looking at a white alligator, wondering if it was spray painted, or came naturally without pigment. The sign beside the tank read “HONKY—RARE ALBINO GATOR.” I tapped on the glass, trying to get its attention, but it didn’t move; I wondered if it was stuffed. Tapping louder didn’t rouse the beast—something in me had to find out if it was real. I looked around and found a step stool and pole with a hook on one end (for feeding the gators chickens, I guessed). I put the stool beside the tank and climbed up. Before I could poke the gator with the pole, Lucky started putting up a fight.

            “Cut that out, or I’ll feed you to this gator,” I said. He struggled even more, until I held him tightly and stared him down. I shook Lucky, hoping to bring whatever I saw in the car out, but he just stayed still, looking like a rat.

            “I know you’re in there,” I said to him. “Come on out, or are you chicken?”

            Lucky kept staring.

            “I thought so. Don’t have the guts, huh?”

            I was hoping my taunts would bring out the demon inside Mom’s beloved Chihuahua.

            “I know what you are, you son of a bitch.”

            His eyes glowed red.

            “I knew it,” I whispered.

            His eyes continued burning and Lucky’s head spun around in a three-sixty, startling me. I didn’t know what to do; I just wanted some confirmation that I could communicate with whatever possessed Lucky, but it was too much for me to handle. I panicked, dropped Lucky into the tank, and found out that yes, the gator inside was alive…and hungry. With a quick snap of its head to the side, it swallowed Lucky in one quick bite!

            “Oh, shit!”

            I heard beeping from the gift shop; I thought there must have been an alarm in case something entered the tank, but it turned out to be the metal detector. I ran to the gift shop, the whole time looking over my shoulder for a sign of Lucky. There was none—he he was deep in the belly of Honky.

            Olivia dug a plastic skull from the sandbox. When she pulled it free, Elvis ran the metal detector across its surface. When the end of the detector went over the right temple, it beeped; there was a piece of metal in the side of the skull.

            “Looky there!” Clyde said to Dad. “Looks like yer young’uns done found a bullet in the skull of a dead Yankee. Y’all found it—y’all keep it!” he said to Elvis and Olivia. “Just another great thing about visiting Clyde McAllister’s Alligator Village and Civil War Memorial!”

            Bonnie put all the souvenirs Dad bought in two bags—he’d have plenty new additions to his collection in the den when we returned to Jersey. I wandered up beside him, wondering if talking about what happened to Lucky was a good idea. I said nothing.

            “Anything else, Hon?” Bonnie said.

            “Nah, that should do it!” Dad said. “I’d love to stay longer, but we really need to get back on the road.”

            “Well, hope y’all can make it back some day,” Clyde said. “Yer good folk.”

            “So are you,” Dad said. I could tell he didn’t want to leave, but he had no choice. “Let’s go, kids.”

             I took one last glance back at the gators as we left. I had no idea what I would tell Mom. The first words from Mom’s mouth when we got to the Inferno would be, “Where’s Lucky?” and I’d have to tell her. I walked to the car trying to figure out the best way to break the news that Lucky was swimming in stomach acids at that very moment. We got to the car, took off our “splash wear,” and got in.

* * *

Surf music plays. A male voice says:

Thank you so much for listening to Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors–it really means a lot to me.

Theme music is provided by Belgium’s best surf band, Pirato Ketchup.

And if you want to know a little bit more about me and the other things I do, check out ChristopherGronlund.com.

[Listen]

Surf music plays. A male voice says:

Christopher Gronlund presents Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors. Read by me, the author, Christopher Gronlund.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“Swelling Itching Brain”

            That morning while I was cleaning up, Dad paid for the damages caused by the station wagon from hell. He was able to catch a ride into town to get two new tires. While Dad was in town, I broke down the tents, but didn’t put them in The Inferno; there was no way I was going near that car unless the sun was up and I was accompanied by a large group of people. I finished just in time to hear Mom say, “Oh my God! Lucky!”

            For a moment, my heart raced; for an instant I thought she had found him dead and I’d no longer have to deal with him. While I wasn’t fond of the little dog, I never wanted to see him hurt, but once full-blown possession took hold, I didn’t care what it took to get him away from me…even if it meant Lucky taking his last breath. I was disappointed when I saw him squirming while Mom gently dug through the fur on the top of his head. I wandered over.

            “What’s wrong?”

            “This!” she said, holding Lucky out to me. “Look at his head!”

            There, in the center of his soft spot, was a swollen tick the size of a plump blueberry. With no skull protecting the top of his head, the tick had a shot straight to his brain.

            “This is far worse than your chiggers!”

            I wanted to say, “Why don’t you pour nail polish remover on his head and light a cigarette, then,” but I said, “What are you going to do?” instead.

            “I have to get my special tweezers from my bag and get rid of that thing, is what I’m gonna do.” She handed Lucky to me. “Don’t touch, and don’t you dare try pulling it out.”

            “Mom, can’t you get Elvis or Aunt Margie to help?” I said, but she was already gone.

            Lucky looked at me, but didn’t try biting—his mouth was closed and he looked like he was concentrating deeply. I waited for his eyes to turn red, but instead, blood vessels on the side of his head started rising beneath his skin and his eyes bulged. The blood vessels swelled and swelled and I noticed the tick was getting bigger! It grew at a steady pace, reminiscent of that carnival game where you shoot the clown’s mouth with a water gun and inflate a balloon. And just like those balloons, it was only a matter of time before the tick popped! I was able to shield my face with my hand, but I was still covered in blood when the tick finally exploded. Lucky went limp in my arms just in time for Mom’s return.

“WHAT DID YOU DO?!?!” Mom screamed. “OH MY GOD!!!” She pulled Lucky’s limp body from my hands and held him against her chest. “I TOLD YOU NOT TO TOUCH IT!!!”

“I didn’t, Mom—“

“DON’T LIE TO ME!!!” A small crowd was gathering.

“What happened?” Aunt Margie said, rushing from the only standing outhouse on site.

“Michael killed my dog is what happened!” she shouted.

“I didn’t touch him, Mom. Seriously!”

            “The evidence is all over you, Michael!” she said, pointing to the blood on my hands and splattered on my clothes. “Why did you do that when I told you not to?!”

            “Mom, I didn’t. I swear on the Bible—“

            “Don’t blaspheme! You don’t believe in the Bible,” she said.

            She was right; I didn’t, but I was trying something. I reached out to put my hand on Lucky’s floppy body, but Mom quickly smacked it away. Words would have to do the trick.

            “Lucky!” I said quickly, hoping to jar him awake. “Jesus…Jesus, Lucky! Jesus loves you, Lucky! Who’s your Buddy? Jesus is your Buddy! Jesus!” At the mention of Mom’s savior, Lucky moved!

“LUCKY?!” She hugged him like Dad hugged me after I was on fire; she didn’t want to let go.

            “See,” I said. “I told you. He’s okay.”           

            Mom dug through his fur, examining the area where the tick attached itself. A small bump had already formed where the tick was. “He’s not okay, Michael,” Mom said. “The tick’s head is probably stuck in Lucky’s brain! If it gets infected and he dies, Michael…” She stormed off.

            When Dad returned with the tires, Mom spent twenty minutes informing him how the tick—which was somehow my fault—almost killed Lucky. She reminded him Lucky would be all right if Dad stopped insisting we sleep outside, “like cavemen.” Dad rolled with the punches when it came to Mom’s bickering, but he really just wanted to get the tires on the car and hit the road; we were only an hour or so from an alligator farm, afterall. In Dad’s mind, if anything could bring us all back together, it was captive reptiles and souvenirs.

            We got into The Inferno…everyone but Mom. “This car smells like shit! I’m not getting in that car until it’s cleaned, James. Ask someone if there’s a carwash nearby.”

            “I already did—when I went into town,” he said. “We’re out of luck, though.”

It turns out there was a carwash nearby, but the water was out and the only business it saw were rural skatepunks who grinded their days away on the only friendly slab of concrete for miles.

            “Can’t believe this crap,” Mom said, getting into the car only after Dad opened the door so she didn’t have to touch it. “First my dog dies and comes back from the dead, and now I have to ride in The Shitmobile!”

            We rolled down the highway, suffering the stench of the Inferno. We rolled up all the windows, except Dad and Aunt Margie’s (now that we needed the windows up, her window was rolled down and stuck), and Dad cranked the air conditioner as cold as it would go, which was about the same temperature as it was outside.

            “If this heat and stink are gonna kill me, I’m at least smoking, damnit!” Mom said, taking a moment from checking Lucky’s molera for signs of infection and digging in her purse for a cigarette. Dad knew better than argue, and I have to admit, it was almost nice having the familiar stench of tobacco masking the smell of feces and urine from the outhouse.

            We pulled off the highway and onto the interstate. Dad hated traveling the interstates; he missed the good ol’ days when Route 66 was a major highway and not kitschy nostalgia—when the roads we traveled went through small towns instead of skirting them. Dad felt we, as Americans, lost something in that leap from winding roads, to major strips of concrete stretched across the country like long ribbons. No longer did everyday people take their shot at the American Dream on the side of the highway. The only people making money on the interstates, Dad said, were big corporations: gas companies, franchise restaurants, and motel chains.

            “I like knowing who I’m giving my money to,” he once told me, and I remember thinking it was a pretty noble ideal. “Why stop at McDonalds when you can stop at Big Billy’s Barbecue Barn? Why give your money to a huge, faceless corporation when you can give it to the guy behind the counter cooking your food? You wanna know what’s wrong with this country, Michael?” he said. I really didn’t want to know, but I knew he was going to tell me anyway. “No one makes things with their own hands anymore. No one thinks about fun anymore. All they think about is going public and making money at all costs. Then we complain no one cares anymore, but we don’t care enough to shop at the places that actually do care.”

            He really was onto something. I don’t know if it was something I noticed as I grew older, or if he really was prophetic, but in losing that love of the corny old guy who thought putting concrete, anthropomorphic hotdogs in Tarzan suits on the roof of his hotdog stand was a good idea, we lost something that made this country great. We went downhill as a nation when we stopped building fiberglass sculptures of hodags, giant artichokes, giant bees, and talking cows. Automobiles became something to simply shuttle us to and from work, and sometimes the mall. Hardly anyone packs their family into cramped cars anymore and heads off for days in search of American Adventure.

I knew somewhere in my old man’s mind, there was something bigger to those cross-country road trips than we all felt. He may not have viewed it as a pilgrimage, like I did, but I think to him, it was a way to at least appear like a normal family, come hell or high water. Packing everyone into a car and driving for a week will either bring them together, or drive them apart. I think it was a tiny victory for my dad when we got home and for one short moment, we all agreed, “That really wasn’t that bad, after all.” It may have only lasted a few moments before Mom would say, “Not that bad, except for my aching back!” and the twins wandered off to their rooms, but it meant something to Dad—and deep down—it meant something to the rest of us, too.

            I noticed Dad looking at Mom, who had fallen sound asleep in the front seat, snoring in unison with Lucky and Aunt Margie. He looked at the road, then back at Mom. He reached over and gently rubbed Lucky’s head and stoked Mom’s big arm. He then adjusted the rearview mirror and looked at the twins in the back, dozing among suitcases and sleeping bags. He smiled, knowing they were safe and sound. He looked at Aunt Margie in the rearview mirror before adjusting it and taking a look at me. He caught me watching him. I waved and he waved back before putting the mirror where it belonged and returned his attention to the interstate. In Dad’s mind, we were a functional family.

            I dozed off for a bit, but woke up just in time to see a huge sign on the side of the interstate. A cartoon alligator wearing a Confederate Civil War cap and carrying a muzzle-loading rifle stood beside this message:

            YOU’RE ONLY 10 MILES FROM CLYDE MCALLISTER’S

GATOR VILLAGE AND CIVIL WAR MEMORIAL!

GATORS – HISTORY – SOUVENIRS

            Five miles later, another sign; it was like a Burma Shave campaign—sign after sign, each playing off the one before. This sign read:

            GATOR WRESTLING – 5 MILES!

            A mile later:

GATOR SPLASH – 4 MILES!

            “Hey, everybody. Time to rise and shine!” Dad said. Mom instinctively went for her cigarettes as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes in time to see:

            CIVIL WAR RELICS – 3 MILES!

            “Goody!” she said, sarcastically.

            Aunt Margie took her seriously, though.

            “I hope they has some good ones,” she said. “Otis just loves the Civil War.”

            “I’m sure they’ll have plenty of good things, Margie,” Dad said. I knew he was picturing all the stuff he’d buy: maybe a Confederate flag with a gator silkscreened on it, or a rubber gator with a muzzle loading pop gun.

            GATOR FEEDIN’ – 2 MILES!

            That one got Dad going. Even if he wasn’t the one feeding the gators, just being there with a camera to capture it all was good enough for him!

            CIVIL WAR RE-ENACTMENT – 1 MILE!

            We were almost there! Dad could hardly contain himself when he saw the last sign:

            HALL O’ GATORS GIFTSHOP – NEXT RIGHT!

            Dad pulled the Inferno off the interstate and into the parking lot of Clyde McAllister’s Gator Village and Civil War Memorial! The building, probably once an IGA grocery store, was decorated with plenty of Confederate flags and gun-totin’ gators. Dad grabbed his camera and we all went inside

* * *

Surf music plays. A male voice says:

Thank you so much for listening to Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors–it really means a lot to me.

Theme music is provided by Belgium’s best surf band, Pirato Ketchup.

And if you want to know a little bit more about me and the other things I do, check out ChristopherGronlund.com.

[Listen]

Surf music plays. A male voice says:

Christopher Gronlund presents Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors. Read by me, the author, Christopher Gronlund.

CHAPTER TWELVE

“Midnight Run”

It was dark by the time we reached the campsite—Dad, however, didn’t let that faze him. With a small flashlight held between his teeth, he had our two old Coleman tents up and ready in no time.

            “Daddy, can we roast marshmallows?” the twins said.

            “It’s kind of late for that, guys. Maybe tomorrow, okay?”

            Elvis and Olivia wandered into their tent, forced to eat cold marshmallows. Mom was ready to sleep; she didn’t even complain about having to sleep on the ground like a wild animal, again, nor did she bring up the possibility of impending bear attacks. Maybe she was still just in a different place entirely, having met her idol, the King.            

            “Where are you sleeping tonight?” Dad said to me.

            “The tent,” I said.

            “Again?”

            “Yeah.” I think he finally realized there was something really bothering me.          He gave me a hug. “Okay. Goodnight, Buddy.”

            “Night Dad.”

            I rushed into the tent without looking back at the Inferno.

            I didn’t have any trouble falling asleep that night, but I kept waking up every hour or so, fighting with my sleeping bag. One of the times, I was awakened by a crunching sound—something was just outside the tent. There was a snap and a pop, and eerie shadows flickered on the walls of the tent like tiny demons behind a blue screen. I looked around and only saw Aunt Margie.

            I went to unzip the tent flap, but it was already open. The cool breeze coming through the opening shook me awake, and for a brief moment, I never felt more alive. The moon shined down on me; it hung in the sky like a big apple slice. I could smell the crisp air and trees—things smelled better out in the middle of nowhere; back home, everything reeked of crowds and gasoline. I inhaled deeply and smelled smoke!

            Crawling from the tent, I heard the twins whispering. They were huddled around a small campfire away from our site, just on the edge of the trees, their shadows long on the ground. The two were huddled together with their backs to me, forming a little shield to block the light from the flame. For a brief moment, a fireball floated in front of Elvis’s face until he blew it out. I decided to sneak up for a closer look.

When I got right behind them, I could hear what they were saying and see what they were doing: roasting marshmallows and quietly talking about me. They had a bag between them, and Aunt Margie’s lighter at their feet. The “fire extinguisher” from the Inferno lay beside them—they used the gas to start the fire.

            “Michael’s such a dumb dummy-head,” Olivia whispered. “Yeah,” Elvis agreed.

            Olivia’s marshmallow caught fire and she watched it burn for a moment. She pointed at it and said, “That’s Michael.” Elvis covered his mouth and giggled.

            “You two are in trouble,” I said, loud enough to wake up Dad, who was a light sleeper when camping. Maybe deep down, he too had a fear of bears and was always just on the edge of sleep, listening for something to wander into camp. I startled Olivia, who kicked her legs out, knocking the “fire extinguisher” into their campfire. Elvis tried pulling it out, but somehow ended up triggering the nozzle, sending a jet of gasoline into the flames. In an instant, the fire grew to several times its original size, burning the tall grass around them and heading for the trees!

            “You two are in big trouble! DAD!!!!” I yelled. They stood with their backs toward me, staring at the flames.

            “DAD!!!” I cried, but there was no sign of him. Then I heard Olivia, in a deep, unholy voice say, “NO, MICHAEL. YOU’RE IN BIG TROUBLE!”

            They both turned their heads—they didn’t turn their bodies, just the heads, like Lucky in the car. And just like Lucky, their eyes glowed red! Olivia held her burning marshmallow before her and Elvis reached into the fire and grabbed the extinguisher. He sprayed it through the flaming marshmallow, sending a huge fireball my way. I ducked to the right—I could smell my singed hair, but I was safe. I didn’t know what else to do, so I opened the front of my pants…and urinated!

            I peed all over the place, putting the fire out like a hose knocking the twins back with a blast. I dropped to my knees and kept peeing until I realized I was dreaming. I knew if I didn’t wake up right away, I’d wet my sleeping bag!

            I woke up to the sound of Aunt Margie’s snoring. From the other tent, Mom joined in the nighttime chorus, the two sounding like a pair of two hundred fifty pound bullfrogs calling to each other from iron lungs. The twins were talking quietly in their sleep. Even when they were in dreamland, it was like their minds worked as one—they probably shared their dreams, as well. Olivia inhaled deeply and whispered “Michael’s such a dumb dummy head,” and Elvis said, “Yeah…” Maybe I heard them talking in their sleep; perhaps that’s what triggered my nightmare.

            One thing’s for sure—sometime in the middle of the night, all the soft drinks and juices I consumed that day got the best of my bladder. I had to pee, but didn’t want to leave the tent. I thought about unzipping the opening and hanging it out the flap, but I would have been mortified if Elvis and Olivia woke up and saw me peeing. I had to go outside, but decided to hold it instead. My bladder would explode and poison my abdomen before I’d go outside, in the dark, alone with the Inferno. I tried dozing off, but my body wasn’t going to let it happen without relieving myself. I had no choice; I had to go outside and find the outhouses.

            I unzipped the tent flap and ventured out. I told myself I wouldn’t do it, but I turned and looked at the Inferno. All its chrome glimmered in the moonlight like it was smiling at me, daring me to cross its path. It was up to something. I tried making some noise as I passed Mom and Dad’s tent. I figured if I could awaken Lucky into a yapping fit, or make Mom think she was about to be mauled by a bear, there’d be enough commotion—enough people awake for a moment, at least—that I could make it to the bathroom and back with that feeling of safety that comes knowing your parents are awake. All I was greeted by were deep, rumbling snores; even Dad, the light sleeper, wasn’t waking up, no matter how many twigs I snapped beneath my feet. My best bet was running.

            I ran as fast as I could, refusing to look back. An outsider would have laughed if they knew I was running from a parked car, but their view would have changed after what happened next. I listened to my feet smacking across the gravel and dirt; the outhouses were dead ahead. I was convinced if I could make it inside to close and lock the door, all would be safe. While peeing, I’d figure out what I’d do if the car were outside the door, waiting for me. That plan went to hell, however, when I heard tires on gravel. I ran faster, but the sound got closer. Whatever was making the noise was right behind me. I turned around and the Inferno was right there!

            I was about to be smashed between the grill of Dad’s beloved station wagon and the door of the outhouse. I had this image of my last moments: getting knocked through the door, bouncing off the back wall, and falling into a swamp of feces, urine, and whatever else lurked in the bottom of smelly outhouses. I felt the car literally right on my heels and dodged to my left.

            BAM!!!

SPLASH!!!

The Infernotook out the outhouse and went hood first into the waste pit, but I was spared! I heard Mom yell, “That better not be a bear, James O’Brien!” and the entire campsite woke up. Dad was the first to the scene of the would-be slaughter. I was nursing a scraped knee and looking at the car tipped into months of waste.

            “What happened?!” Dad said.

            I lost it. “The car, Dad! I told you the car is out to get me!”

            Dad looked at the Inferno; he actually gasped at the sight.

            “How’d this happen?” he said.

            “I was going to the bathroom and it came after me.”

            “That’s ridiculous! Cars don’t just stalk people, Michael.”

            “Well this one apparently does!” I said.

            “Mikey peed his pants! Mikey’s a big baby!” I didn’t see the twins approach, but there they were, laughing and pointing at my crotch.

            I looked down. In all the commotion, my bladder decided if I wasn’t going to comply with its request, it would take care of things on its own. The front of my shorts were soaked.

            “I’m going back to the tent!” I said, stomping away. I stripped out of my underwear and shorts under the privacy of my sleeping bag, slid into fresh clothes, and threw the soiled ones away. I’d take a shower in the morning and change again, but all I could think about was sleeping.

            Back at the outhouse, Dad looked at his car hood deep in muck. The back tires were well off the ground—had the pit been deeper, the Inferno would have gone in past the windows, filling its insides with the stench of hundreds of digested, barbecued meals.

            “I must have left the emergency brake off…that’s the only explanation,” he said.

            He pulled down on the back of the car, trying to rock it back on all four wheels. A couple people helped him out and the sound of the back end slamming down woke me from a premature sleep. Dad had the back of the car planted firmly on terra firma again, but it came with a cost: both back tires blew when the back end came down. A few big guys climbed on the back bumper, providing Dad with enough weight to at least back The Inferno from the pit. He secured the emergency brake, told the campground owner he was sorry and would settle up a price in the morning, and went back to bed.

* * *

Surf music plays. A male voice says:

Thank you so much for listening to Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors–it really means a lot to me.

Theme music is provided by Belgium’s best surf band, Pirato Ketchup.

And if you want to know a little bit more about me and the other things I do, check out ChristopherGronlund.com.

[Listen]

Surf music plays. A male voice says:

Christopher Gronlund presents Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors. Read by me, the author, Christopher Gronlund.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“Graceland”

            While standing in the grass looking at the sky, chiggers ate my ankles. The itching got progressively worse throughout the night, and by morning I had practically scratched my lower legs bloody. I tried hiding it from Mom. When it came to bumps and bruises, Dad took care of us because it pained Mom too much to see her precious children in agony, but if it was something Mom could apply some old family remedy to, she took control. She came out of her tent with a cigarette in her mouth and Lucky on her shoulder, like some four-legged, genetically-deformed parrot with a rat tail.

“Morning, Michael,” she said, blowing smoke.

“Morning, Mom,” I said. The itching was unbearable.

“Something wrong?”

“Nothing. I’m fine.”

“You look uncomfortable,” she said.

I wanted to say, “I am uncomfortable. Bugs ate my legs!” but I knew better. “I’m fine.” My eyes were practically watering.

“If you say so.” She started walking away and I scratched my left leg with my right foot. Mom turned around.

“Ah-ha! I knew something was wrong with you.”

“Really, Mom. I’m fine,” I said, knowing some weird cure would follow if she had her way.

She looked at my ankles and said, “Are those chigger bites?” I was amazed she knew what they looked like, but I remembered hearing a story about how Dad took her camping once, before I was even born, and set up the tent smack dab in the middle of chigger central. The two were practically eaten alive, to hear Mom tell it.

“I think so.”

She pointed to a log near the firepit and told me, “Sit down.”

She wandered my way, digging through her purse. “Nail polish remover will stop the itching,” she said, pulling out a bottle.

“I think you mean nail polish,” I said.

“No, trust me, Michael. This will stop the itching.” She opened the bottle and poured the nail polish remover on my ankle. I can’t describe how badly it stung—she may as well have been pouring battery acid on me!

“OWW!!!” I yelled, getting Dad and Elvis’s attention. They were breaking down camp.

“Oh, maybe you were right,” Mom said. “Maybe it is nail polish—not remover—that helps.” I fought back tears as she used a free hand to find her nail polish. I hoped she had clear polish handy and not some strange greens, purples, or glittery metallics that would leave my ankles looking like sloppy graffiti. I lucked out; she had some clear polish. I held the bottle while she put the lid back on the remover. That’s when Lucky sprung into action. Mom later said it was all an accident, but I knew better; I knew he did it all on purpose.

As Mom started putting the lid on the nail polish remover, Lucky knocked the open bottle from Mom’s hands and into my lap, soaking my shorts. Then he pulled the cigarette from Mom’s mouth and dropped it on the remover! I was on fire!

“AAAAAAAAAAA!!!” I shouted. Elvis ran to the Inferno, grabbed the fire extinguisher, and came my way. He knew it was filled with gasoline, but he could pawn it off as a mistake; he could say he was trying to help me, when his goal of finally doing me in would be played out before my family’s eyes.

“NOOOOO!!!” I yelled.

Dad grabbed the extinguisher from Elvis and told him to get back; I stood up, panicking. Dad tossed the fire extinguisher to the side, tackled me, and rolled me over on my belly. He rolled me around in the dirt until the fire was out.

“See? I told you Lucky wants me dead!” I said to Dad.

“What?” Mom said when she saw I wasn’t hurt, just scared. “Michael, it was an accident.”

“That was no accident. That dog wants me dead!”

“You’re crazy. Lucky loves you—he loves all of you,” she said, as the little dog licked her cheek. Mom always saw it as a sign of affection when Lucky licked her, but she usually had something sticky and sweet on her face—Lucky was most likely mopping up after Mom’s last meal.

“Are you okay?” Dad said. He double-checked to make sure the flames were completed smothered.

“I guess so,” I said. He hugged me and didn’t let go.

After I cleaned up, changed, and we had all eaten breakfast, it was back on the road. Mom complained about the radio not working; she wanted to play Elvis tapes the whole way to Memphis. She let Dad know how disappointed she was.

“I finally get to go inside Graceland and the moment’s ruined because you couldn’t buy a car with a working radio, James.” Dad just ignored her.

“Marge, wouldn’t it be nice to be listening to the King about now?” she said.

“It sure would,” Aunt Margie said. Mom thought she’d be able to play her sister against Dad, too, until Aunt Margie said, “That’s all right, though. Jimmy didn’t know the radio was busted when he bought the car, I bet.”

Mom decided if she couldn’t listen to Elvis Presley sing, she’d force us to listen to her rendition of his tunes. She started with Blue Moon of Kentucky, in honor of the state rolling by, then she broke into Heartbreak Hotel; probably her way of letting Dad know how heartbroken she was that the radio didn’t work. We were forced to listen to her belt out Hound Dog, Viva Las Vegas, and All Shook Up. Her favorite tune was Love Me Tender; she would have sung it, too, but she felt it was blasphemy to sing a song no one could croon like the King. For hours, we were forced to listen to her sing everything from Elvis’s gold hits, to deep tracks only die-hard fans knew existed. It drove us all nuts—everyone but Mom and Elvis.

My little brother was a huge Elvis fan. He was convinced, since Mom named him after her idol and not me, that it was an obvious sign she loved him more. Whenever he heard an Elvis tune, he went nuts! I never understood it, but Rock-A-Hula-Baby was his favorite tune, and Mom loved watching him dance along to the song. She’d play it on her turntable and my little brother would dance a mix of the King’s first appearance on The Ed Sullivan Show—swiveling his chunky little hips and quivering his lip like his namesake—and a hackneyed hula dance, like a clumsy Polynesian cherub.

About an hour outside Memphis, Mom told us all to be quiet (nevermind none of us had talked for hours while she sang). She said she needed time to meditate and prepare; she was, after all, going to Graceland.

*     *     *

Mom and Aunt Margie stood at the King’s grave, bawling like huge babies. Lucky licked tears from Mom’s face as she stared at Elvis’s grave and cried.

            “It’s The King, Mary!” Aunt Margie said. “We’re standing before The King!”

            “I know, Marge. I can’t believe it myself.”

            They hugged, blubbering on like two upright sea lions.

            “I wish he was alive! Oh, Mary…how I wish he was here, still!”

            “So do I!”

            Dad had to interrupt.

            “Mary. Dear. I know this is traumatic for both of you, but you need to hide Lucky again. You can’t have him out in the open—the tour guide’s coming back this way.”

            “I know,” she said, sliding Lucky down the front of her top, between her breasts. He didn’t fight it; he was used to riding like that. “I just wanted him to see the King. I just want more time.”

            “The tour’s almost over,” Dad said.

            “Let’s do it again, then!” she said.

            Dad knew resisting her request would lead to more grief than good, so he gave in.

            “Do you think you’ll be able to handle it one more time through?” he said.

            “I think I can make it,” she said, lighting a cigarette. “Just give me a moment.”

            “Okay, we’ll do the tour one more time, but then we really have to leave.”

            Dad wandered over toward me; I was standing back from it all, still thinking about Lucky trying to set me on fire. Dad looked back at Mom and Aunt Margie.

            “Look at those two,” he said.

            “Yeah.”

            “I suppose I shouldn’t knock it. I’ve got my alligator farms, they have their King.”

            “Yeah.” I really didn’t want to talk about Mom, Aunt Margie, and some guy who died from complications on the toilet.

            “What’s wrong, Buddy?”

            I cut straight to the chase. “Lucky’s what’s wrong.”

            “What about him?”

            “Remember when I told you he was possessed?”

            “Yeah?”

            “I’m not kidding. He really is possessed, Dad. That was no accident this morning—Lucky really tried killing me. Don’t you believe me?”

“I believe you believe he’s possessed,” Dad said. “But you know me, I have to see something to believe it.”

            “You believe in God, though.” I thought I had him.

            “Yes, I do. And you don’t. So how can you believe Lucky is possessed?”

            “I don’t know. Forget it,” I said.

            “We’ll talk about it later. I better get your mother and aunt if we’re going through one more time.”

            Dad got up and went to get them while I waited. Elvis and Olivia were wandering around, eating marshmallows. I couldn’t believe Dad just blew me off. Thinking about it, maybe bringing God into the whole argument wasn’t a great tactical move on my part. And he was right: how could I believe Lucky was possessed when I didn’t believe in the very mechanics behind possession?

We lined up for the tour a second time, seeing the Living Room, Jungle Room, TV Room, and Trophy Room once more. Mom and Aunt Margie were in much better spirits, but something told me they were building up for the grave again. We all tagged along toward the back of the line, so Mom and Aunt Margie could take a little more time appreciating all the King’s things before being moved along by the guide. Lucky was riding shotgun between Mom’s breasts; he wasn’t as calm as the first time through. He started struggling. Mom patted her chest, hoping to calm him, but it made him fight even more. Mom was obviously bothering the woman in front of her. The woman turned around and said, “Shh!”

            “You shhh!” Mom whispered, struggling with her blouse.

            “Stop that! What’s the matter with you?” the woman said.

            “I have a tumor and it’s acting up!” Mom said. “Excuse me for living.”

            The woman turned back toward the group and walked a little faster. Mom struggled with Lucky, but lost the battle. He broke free from her chest’s mighty grasp and took off, up some nearby stairs. Mom chased after him and Dad just shook his head.

*     *     *

            Now, this section of the story is taken from an interview with Mom. I can’t vouch for its legitimacy, but I will say this: I believe her. I don’t know why, but stranger things happened on that trip. No one believed me most of the way to the canyon, so it wouldn’t be fair for me to believe Mom was lying. Regardless of her story’s validity, whatever was upstairs in the King’s mansion, it changed her life.

            When Mom reached the top of the stairs, a security guard held Lucky up by the throat. He caught sight of Mom.

            “You cain’t come up here, Ma’am. It’s off limits,” he said.

            “That’s my dog!”

            “Pets ain’t allowed, here. All pets must be boarded.”

            “Let go of him!”         

“Ma’am, I cain’t do that.”

            SMACK! Mom knocked him out cold with a right hook! Lucky fell to the floor, ran down the hallway, and entered a room through a partially opened door. Mom ran to the door, but stopped dead in her tracks when she heard a deep voice say, “Oh…hey there, little fella. Want some meatloaf?”

            The King!

            Mom pushed the door open and stepped inside.

            The years hadn’t been kind to the King of Rock-n-Roll. He took up most of the bed; a large blanket was tossed over him like a tarp covering a beached whale. But Mom didn’t care—she was looking at Elvis Aron Presley in the flesh, seven yearsafter his “death.”

            Lucky was on a TV tray beside the King, eating from a plate of meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and tomatoes.

            “Yer one hungry little cuss, aint’cha?” Elvis said. He still didn’t see Mom.

            “Uhm. Excuse me,” she said, getting his attention.

            “Hey, Cletus! Whatcha doin’ lettin’ people up here?!” he said. “I’ve told ya not to do that!”

            “I’m so sorry,” Mom said. “My dog got loose and I had to get him. The security guard was hurting him and wouldn’t give him back, so I hit him.”

            “Where is he?”

            “Out cold on the floor.”

            “You knocked out Cletus?” The King said.

            “Yeah.”

            He laughed. “You must be one strong woman.”

            “I guess.”

            “Can you do me a favor, then?”

            “Anything for you,” Mom said.

            “Can you roll me to my side?”

            “Of course.”

            Mom went to the far side of the bed and pushed. Between the two of them, they had Elvis on his side inside a minute.

            “Thank you, Ma’am.”

            Mom almost fainted. “I can’t believe you’re alive,” she said.

            “Yeah, but don’t go tellin’ no one.”

            “Oh, I won’t!”

            “I just wanted time alone, ya know?” he said. “It’s hard being yourself when everyone wants to see you.”

            “I understand.”

            “Can ya do me one more favor?” the King said.

            “Of course!”

            He pointed to his dresser. “Over on my dresser there’s a backscratcher. Can ya get it and work my side over a good one?”

            Mom’s big knees buckled. “Oh, I feel faint.”

            “Yeah, I have that effect on women. Just breathe, honey.”

            Mom got the backscratcher from the top of the dresser and went to work scratching the side of The King. She went back and forth with it, maneuvering through course hair on his side and back, sending Elvis into ecstasy. Mom always told Dad if Elvis were alive and wanting her, she’d leave him in a heartbeat for a night with the King. That afternoon with the backscratcher was as close as she’d ever come. She scratched him for a good five minutes. She brushed the dead skin from his bed sheets as she worked; she even reached out and touched his back with her bare hand at one point.   

When Mom finished, the King said, “That was great! Is there anything I can do in return for the favor?”

            “Can you still sing?” Mom said.

            “Like a mockingbird,” Elvis said. “What’s your name, sugar?”
            “Mary.”

            “Well, Mary…I’m guessin’ you like this tune.”

            He sang Love Me Tender, Mom’s favorite. Her knees finally gave out; she sat on the bed as he sang to her. It didn’t matter that he weighed half a ton—his voice was still gold. It didn’t crack, he didn’t miss a note…it was absolute perfection. Mom was reduced to tears.

            When Elvis finished, he said, “How was that?”

            “That was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard,” Mom said, sobbing. “Prettier than angels singing.”

            “Thank you, Ma’am.”

            Mom stared into his eyes and swears to God they would have kissed had Cletus not rushed into the room.

            “King?!” He caught sight of Mom. “Oh, there she is! I’m so sorry.”

            “Cletus, leave us alone. I’m all right,” Elvis said. “She’s not gonna tell a soul, are ya, darlin’?”

            “No.”

            Cletus left.

            “Well, I better get going,” Mom said, hoping The King would invite her to stay a bit longer.

            “It’s been a pleasure,” he said.

            “I can’t believe this. It’s like a dream.” She held up the backscratcher. “Where should I put this?”

            “Keep it.”

            “Really?!”

            “Yep. It’s all yours,” he said. “I’m gonna get me some shuteye.”

            “Would you like me to turn off the TV?”

            “No need for that,” he said. He pulled a gun from under the blanket and shot the television. “Got my remote right here,” The King said, blowing smoke from the end of the barrel.

            Mom grabbed Lucky from the TV tray and made her way to the door. “Goodbye,” she said.

            “Bye,” Elvis said. “And remember, don’t go tellin’ anyone you saw me.”

            “I won’t!”

*     *     *

 “I’m serious—I saw him! He’s alive, Marge,” Mom said, keeping her promise to the King for almost half an hour. “He gave me this backscratcher and sang Love Me Tender to me.”

            “Yer lyin’!”

            “I’m not lying,” Mom said.

            “Are too!”

            “Are not!”

            “Yes you are,” Aunt Margie said. “He’s dead! I know it’s hard to accept, especially after standing right there on his grave and all, but he’s gone Mary.”

            Mom turned around, clutching Lucky to one breast and the backscratcher to the other. She locked eyes with Aunt Margie and I’ve never seen Mom look more sincere.

            “I swear on Mama’s ashes he’s alive, Marge. I saw him with my own eyes. You know I can’t look you in the eyes and lie.”

            Aunt Margie broke down in a deep sobbing fit.

            “Oh, Lordy—yer serious! He’s alive! You hear that, kids? The King is alive!”            

Aunt Margie chanted “he’s alive!” like a mantra for nearly an hour, until we finally found a campground for the night.

* * *

Surf music plays. A male voice says:

Thank you so much for listening to Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors–it really means a lot to me.

Theme music is provided by Belgium’s best surf band, Pirato Ketchup.

And if you want to know a little bit more about me and the other things I do, check out ChristopherGronlund.com.

[Listen]

Surf music plays. A male voice says:

Christopher Gronlund presents Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors. Read by me, the author, Christopher Gronlund.

CHAPTER TEN

“Lost Down Deep in the Belly of the Earth”

            Just when I thought I was figuring things out, something came along and ruined my theory.  So it wasn’t Little Dick in the jar after all, but a little piece of Big Dick’s digestive system.  I was sure I was still right about Lucky and the Inferno, though—at least I thought so.  I wrestled with my thoughts until Lucky threw up.

            He was sitting in Mom’s lap this time and just let loose, at least giving her the courtesy of hitting the floor.  Had I been holding him, he’d have been sure to cover my legs and arms at the very least.

            “Not the carpet again,” Dad said, reminding Mom he was still less than pleased about the hole she burned with her cigarette. 

            “The carpet’s probably the problem, James” Mom said.  “There’s no telling what chemicals are in that cheap thing and I think it’s making him sick.  Have some sympathy.”  She held Lucky, wiping his face with a napkin he tried eating.  When she was done cleaning Lucky, she handed him to me.  I didn’t want to hold him, but before I could protest, she was using a handful of napkins to clean the floor.

            I stared at Lucky waiting for his eyes to turn red.  I gently shook him as he struggled to bite me—I was going to prove once and for all he was possessed, but he behaved.

            From the front seat, I heard Dad say, “Mary, please, no!” but it was too late.  She had sprayed cheap perfume all over the spot where Lucky got sick. 

Mom was into covering smells she found offensive with smells the rest of us found offensive.  She carried in her purse a cache of air fresheners, deodorants, and “fancy” perfumes (if it was more than ten dollars a bottle and sounded French, it was high-quality stuff in my mother’s eyes).  I never understood the purpose of covering up a smell instead of properly cleaning it or letting it run its course and dissipate.  Whenever any of us left the bathroom at home, Mom charged in with a can of room deodorizer; she feared the odor of our waste would spill from the bathroom and stick to the rest of the house, never letting go.  “People would think they’re walking into an outhouse when they visit if it wasn’t for me!” she’d say.  I always wondered—if she was so concerned about smells—why everything she owned, including the bottles and cans housing all her fragrances, smelled like cigarette smoke.  All her bathroom cover-up did was make it smell like one of us had taken a crap in a flowerbed.

Mom may have thought she covered up the scent of dog vomit, but the resulting smell of cheap perfume and partially digested bits of bacon from Lucky’s stomach made the rest of us want to retch.  The saving grace was, with the driver’s side front window broken from the night before, we couldn’t run the AC, so all our windows were down, taking a slight edge off the scent. 

            With the exception of Lucky emptying the contents of his stomach, we made it to Lexington, Kentucky in silence.  After skirting town, it was back on the open road and I wasn’t about to drive another couple hours without anyone trying to make the trip worthwhile.  I was convinced, if the moment was right, I could get my family to sing!  I could hear the twins stirring behind me and tell Aunt Margie was restless.  Lucky was getting hungry again and it looked like Mom wanted to chat with Dad.  It was as good a time as any.

            “Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall,” I sang.  “Ninety-nine bottles of beer…take one down, pass it around, ninety-eight bottles of beer on the wall.”

            It worked!  The twins joined in on the next round, as we went from ninety-eight bottles, to ninety-seven, but it quickly became apparent they weren’t interested in keeping the song going.  When I sang, “Ninety-seven bottles of beer on the wall…ninety-seven bottles of beer…” the twins sang, “Michael’s IQ is twenty-seven…Twenty-seven is Michael’s IQ…He is stupid—he is dumb…and looking at his face makes us spew.”  They high-fived each other and burst into hysterics.

            I continued singing, pretending they didn’t bother me.  Aunt Margie said, “I’d sing along with ya, but I ain’t no good at countin’ high.”  Dad joined in and we sang a few more rounds before Lucky decided he’d join the choir. 

            While Dad and I sang about the eighty-eighth bottle of beer on the wall, Lucky howled along like he was in pain.  Dad knew it meant something to me to have everyone sing that damn song.  He said to Mom,  “Dear, can you calm Lucky down, please?”

            “He’s just having fun!” she said.

            So Lucky sang along, growling and howling away.  Then it happened.  While Dad and I sang “Seventy-nine bottles of beer on the wall…” Lucky sang, “ROWRRROWR…DIE MICHAEL—BURN IN HELL…REEOWWRRRRRR…”    

It was clear as day—Lucky told me to die and burn in hell!  I stopped singing.

“Did you hear that?!”

“Hear what?” Mom said. 

“Lucky.  Did you hear what he said?”

“Yeah!” Elvis said, getting my hopes up.  My little brother, of all people, was about to validate all my fears and tell my family he heard Lucky threaten me!  I don’t know why I was surprised when he said, “Lucky says you’re a retard!” instead.

“Nevermind.” 

Dad knew something was wrong.  “What did you hear, bud?”

“Nothing.  You’ll think I’m crazy if I told you.”

“No I won’t,” he said.

“I just thought I heard Lucky say something.  It sounded like he was talking is all.” 

“Back in the fifties when the Today Show first started, “ Dad said, “it was hosted by a guy named Dave Garraway.  He used to get people on the show who insisted their dogs could talk.  The owners would get them all worked up, howling and carrying on.  Sometimes it sounded like the dogs said something a human would say, and the owners would get all excited.  ‘See?!  Did you hear that?!’ they’d shout—“

“It was probably just the wind, Michael” Mom interrupted.  “If we had the air conditioner on, you wouldn’t have heard a thing, but I’m forced to sweat and suffer the rest of this trip.  Trust me, if Lucky could talk, you wouldn’t be the first person he’d speak to.”  She made smoochy-lips at the little beast and said, “Isn’t that right, Lucky-Wucky.  If you could talk, you’d talk to Mama first, wouldn’t you?”  Lucky licked her lips, smearing her lipstick.  I used to wonder if the nicotine my Mom took in all day long was ingested by Lucky when he licked her, and if that could explain why the little dog was so hyper.

I looked at the rearview mirror and Dad winked at me.  “We’ll talk later, Buddy,” he said.  Indeed we would!  I knew there was no way it was the wind, the hum of the tires on the interstate, or anything like that.  It was Lucky, or whatever had taken hold of his squishy little brain, letting me know he was on to me, just as I was on to him and the Inferno.

*          *          *

We made it to Mammoth Cave National Park in record time.  Dad, of course, wanted to spend days there, wandering the woods up top and squeezing our way through the caverns and tight passages that went on for hundreds of miles beneath the earth’s surface, but we didn’t have much time.  Mom wanted to skip the cave entirely; she said, “Why the hell would I want to walk up and down in a dark, dirty hole?”  Dad reminded her it was nice and cool in the cave, and we probably wouldn’t experience cooler temperatures again until hitting the desert, at night.

“Well, if someone hadn’t knocked out the window, we’d have air conditioning,” she said.  I guess I was supposed to feel guilty. 

            We paid for our campground, and set up camp.  While the rest of us put up tents, gathered wood, and cleared the area, Mom smoked cigarettes and kept an eye out for bears.  I have to admit, camping in the Kentucky woods, even I was a little tense. 

            “Mary, we aren’t going to be killed by bears,” Dad said.  “There aren’t any bears in this part of the state.” 

            “Oh, I don’t know, Jimmy,” Aunt Margie said.  “There was a bear back home that kilt a lady hiking in the woods not far up the holler from us.  Done tore her face clean off and ate her guts, it did!”     

“Thanks for the help, Margie,” Dad said.

            “You’re welcome.”  Aunt Margie didn’t grasp the concept of sarcasm.

After camp was set up, it was off to the cave.  We took the general tour, just to get everyone underground for a bit.  Dad was right: the cave air was nice and cool—even Mom liked it.  Everything was going fine until Mom saw the sign in the visitor’s center.

“NO SMOKING”

When she saw the sign, she told Dad, “I’m not going down in that hole if I can’t smoke!  I’m going back to camp!”  All Dad needed to say to get her to take the tour was, “Okay, Mary.  When you get back to camp, remember—don’t leave food out or the bears will come.”  She was right behind us as we walked down the stairs.

            Mammoth Cave definitely deserved its name; knowing it went on for hundreds of miles beneath the earth’s surface was simply mind-boggling.  We wandered along the trail looking at stalactites, stalagmites, and columns where the two met after so many years of formation.  Being underground where it was cool, and realizing you were inside the earth was one of the greatest feelings in my thirteen years of living.            

Of course Mom didn’t see it that way.  When we had to climb stairs, she complained.  “Don’t know why we have to climb stairs just to look at some rocks that look like drapes.  If I wanted to look at drapes, I would have stayed home!”  Even though the path was paved and dry, she kept telling Dad, “If I slip and break my neck, it’ll be all your fault, James David O’Brien.”  Her only comfort was Lucky—she hid him in her blouse, riding between her breasts, so the tour guide couldn’t see him.  She refused to leave Lucky at camp for fear a bear would eat him, and no kennel was good enough for her precious dog.  Lucky stayed put, although the thought of him breaking free and running loose never left my mind.  I could see him finding his way deep into the far reaches of the cave, finding some cave animal, and breeding.  In a million years, blind cave Chihuahuas would be commonplace beneath Kentucky, wandering the cave floor with their beady little milky white eyes.  Fortunately for the sake of evolution, Lucky stayed put.

            The twins, however, didn’t.  We walked into a huge cathedral chamber, where the guide told us all to stay put as they turned out the lights to show us how dark it was in the belly of the earth.  You couldn’t see your hand in front of your face—it was total darkness.  Sometime in that total darkness, the twins slipped free.  When the lights came back on and we wandered the trail more, Mom realized they were gone.  “James, where are the twins?!”  She was in a panic. 

            Dad was visibly shaken, but remained calm.  “They have to be around here somewhere,” he said.  He walked up to the tour guide and told him the twins were gone.  The guide talked into a two-way radio and told a dispatcher there were two missing children in the cave.  The dispatcher told the guide they’d send a search crew immediately.  That wasn’t good enough for Mom—she was going nuts.  She called out their names.  “Olivia!  Elvis!  Where are you?!”  Dad rushed to her side.

            “Mary, we’ll find them.  They’ll be okay.  You need to stop worrying.”

            Mom was good at worrying, though.  If I was ten seconds late coming in from playing, she worried.  One minute late and she figured she needed to call the police and hospitals to see if I had been hit by a bus.  Ten minutes late, and she was convinced someone kidnapped me and had the police on full alert.  On the rare occasions I was an hour late, I don’t even want to think what went through her mind: probably stuff involving child-molesting clowns with shovels.  In her mind, there was more than cause for panic.  In her mind, the twins weren’t safe; they had fallen deep into the cave, perhaps to the very center of the earth!

            I was even a little nervous.  The twins made my life hell, but they were still my younger siblings.  I imagined Elvis and Olivia lost in the cave, wandering regions far off limits, places even the staff never saw.  I imagined them in places that hadn’t been seen in generations, maybe longer.  I imagined them overcome by bats, running from a swarm beating the twins back with leathery wings.  I imagined them impaled by falling stalactites, left to die and not found for millennia.

“Ma’am, you need to calm down,” the guide said to Mom.  “We have someone who will take you to the visitor’s center where you can wait.  This happens sometimes, and we’ve never lost anyone.  Your children will be safe.”

            “Don’t you dare tell me to calm down when my babies are lost in this God-forsaken place!  I’m not leaving until I see them.  If I have to crawl through those caverns myself to find them, I will!”  I’m sure I wasn’t the only one who found the thought of Mom’s wide body squeezing through the caverns—only to become stuck—humorous.  The search party came down and a female rescuer sat with us while the tour continued.  The search party went off to look for Elvis and Olivia.

            They didn’t turn anything up, though.  Mom heard one of the rescuers tell the woman sitting with us, “We’re going to have to gear up for deeper exploration.”  

            Mom lost it!  “What did you just say?!  Deeper exploration?!”

            “Please, Ma’am,” the rescuer said.  “I realize this is scary, but we’ll find your children.”

            Mom’s face went flush; she sat down.  I remember that being one of the few times growing up where I truly felt sorry for her and believed she was justified in her worrying.  She sat on the floor of the cavern, lost like a little kid.  She was thinking of her two youngest children, lost somewhere in hundreds of miles of passageways.  I wished I had never mentioned how big the cave was. 

Then Aunt Margie sat down beside her and made everything better.

            She sat beside Mom and hugged her.  “They’ll be okay, Mary.  Daryl once got lost up in the woods and I was a-scared to death, but we found him—“    

Before Mom could finish saying, “How’d you find him?” Aunt Margie interrupted with a brilliant idea.

            “Mary!  When my Daryl done wandered into the woods and got lost for days, Ol’ Buttercup got his scent and found him.  Maybe Lucky can track the twins.”

            “Yeah, Mom!” I said.  “You were holding Olivia’s hand.  Maybe he can smell it, get the scent, and track them.”

            The rescuers were shocked when Mom reached into the front of her blouse and pulled out a Chihuahua.  That had to be one of the most surreal things they ever saw; a huge woman pulling a rat-dog out from between her breasts.  She didn’t care, though.  She put the hand that held Olivia’s in Lucky’s face and said, “Smell that, Lucky?!  That’s Olivia!  Go find her, boy!  Go find her for Mama!!!”  She set Lucky down and he charged back the way we came.  We all followed, including the rescuers who were still trying to figure out where the Chihuahua came from.  Mom lagged behind, but continued shouting encouragement.

            “Thataboy, Lucky!  You find them for Mama!”  Lucky always liked the twins; proof-positive he was in cahoots with sinister forces.  He backtracked our every step, and for a moment, I thought he was just following the scent they left behind from our trip to that point, but in no time he had us back at the surface and in the Visitor’s Center.  Elvis and Olivia were eating hotdogs and marshmallows without a care in the world.

            One of the rescuers said, “Are these your child—“ but Mom shoved him out of the way and smothered the twins in a huge hug. 

            “You scared the crap out of me, you two.”  She was crying.  “I thought I lost you..”

            The twins said nothing; they seemed amazed Mom was making such a big deal of them retracing their steps and leaving the cave.  Once it sank in that the twins were safe and not lost in the center of the earth, the Mom we knew came through.  “Youse two are really lucky we’re not back home, cause it would be the sauce ladle for the both of yas!”  We were a whole family once again.

            Mom looked at Dad.  “James, I think we’ve had enough of your cave!” she said, lighting a cigarette beside a NO SMOKING sign and inhaling deeply.  Dad knew he had seen as much of Mammoth Cave as he’d be seeing that trip and quickly ushered us out of the visitor’s center before Mom’s smoke raised attention.

            Back at camp, Dad started a fire.  The twins were ecstatic—finally they would get a chance to roast marshmallows.  There was only one problem, though: they had eaten their last bag in the visitor’s center when they wandered off from the rest of us.

            “Can you take us to get more marshmallows?” they said. 

            “Guys, it’s getting kind of late,” Dad said.  “We’ll be stopping at another campground tomorrow night.  We can get some more and roast them then, okay?”

            “Okay,” they said, slipping into depression.  They went through withdrawal like heroin junkies when the school year rolled around and they weren’t allowed to eat in class.  Time away from marshmallows was worse than time away from family.  It was the one thing they truly looked forward to each and every day (aside from tormenting me).  As long as they had each other and a bag of marshmallows, it didn’t matter what was going on around them—the world could crumble and they’d be content.  That night had to be as hard a night for them as it would have been for Mom had she run out of cigarettes.

            We sat around the campfire while Dad told recycled ghost stories about escapees from insane asylums with hooks for hands sticking in car doors; about Taily-Po and other creatures.  The twins kept to themselves, sitting on a log and blowing bubbles high over the campfire (Mom still had them convinced bubbles were flammable).  They watched the heat carry them high into the treetops where they reflected a sliver of moonlight on their surfaces.  Dad told the same urban legends we heard every summer on trips—I was amazed how it seemed every state in America had a hitch-hiking ghost that wanted people to drop her off at the cemetery.  Dad loved those stories and could spend hours telling them.  They didn’t scare us, but I pretended they did, for Dad’s sake.

During a lull in the campfire stories, I thought about starting up a round of Ninety-Nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall, but knew only Dad and Lucky would sing along, and I wasn’t about to have a replay of Lucky telling me he was planning to kill me.

“I’ve got a story, Daddy,” Olivia said after Dad told us about a guy in a raincoat, some teenagers, and a bucket of pig’s blood—an old “Get out of the house now, before it’s too late!” legend.

“Is it scary?” Dad said.

            “Yeah, really scary” she said.

            “What?”

“Michael’s face!”  Elvis spewed Coca-Cola from his nose; he thought it was the pinnacle of fine comedy.

            Dad knew we had all grown tired of stories, so he resorted to another old campfire standby for our amusement: bodily functions.  He belched loudly, striking a pose like a statue of a Greek God. 

“That’s just absolutely disgusting!” Mom said, inhaling cigarette smoke at the same time she chewed a Twinkie with her mouth agape. 

Olivia tried topping Dad, but only managed a little “urp!”  Elvis, though, knew how to belch—he was built for it.  He chugged the rest of his Coke and jumped up and down, shaking his guts.  He swiveled his stomach around like a tiny, hula-dancing Buddha, then he rocked his head back, opened his mouth, and let out a belch that was probably heard for miles.  He looked at me and smiled.

Not to be outdone by my little brother at a campfire belching contest, I started slamming my Coke, but there was something wrong with it—I threw the can to the ground!  Elvis and Olivia were hysterical, and when Dad asked “What’s wrong?” and I pointed at my brother and sister and said, “They’re what’s wrong,” a bubble floated before my face.  They had poured the contents of their Wonder Bubbles in my Coke while I wasn’t looking!  I went for Elvis.

Before I could get on top of him and start throwing punches, Dad got a hold of me around the waist and held me back.  Elvis, knowing Dad had me, stepped up and mocked me.  I think he did it on purpose to teach Elvis a lesson, but Dad let go of me for an instant, just enough so I could step forward and get a good shot in on Elvis before Dad regained his hold.  While this was all happening, Lucky was lapping up my spilled Coke and liquid bubbles solution.

When Dad finally separated Elvis and me, we all heard Mom shout, “Lucky!”

Lucky stood on a log, looking at us all.  He exhaled, and a myriad bubbles popped out of his mouth.  He looked like a weird little bubble machine; like something Dad would buy on the side of the road and put in his den.

“I think it’s about time for bed,” Dad said to all of us.  Before Mom and Aunt Margie could start in about who got to keep Grandma’s ashes, I told them I’d take care of them the rest of the trip.  They shuffled off to their tents, the twins closely following Aunt Margie. 

I said goodnight to Dad after helping him put out the campfire.  I didn’t want to be inside a tent with Elvis and Olivia, but even that was better than sleeping inside, or near the Inferno.  The twins were already sleeping soundly by the time I slid into my sleeping bag.  It wasn’t long before I joined them in the land of dreams.

            I was awakened by Mom screaming.  My first thought was, “Bear!”  Maybe Mom was right, maybe bears did roam the area.  Maybe one was ripping into Mom and Dad’s tent at that very moment.  I sat still for a moment, listening for commotion.  Aunt Margie and the twins woke up and looked to me for guidance.  I heard Mom scream again and heard Dad shout, “Mary!”  I unzipped the tent and charged out in search of a tree branch, or anything else I could use to fend off a bear and save my parents.  When I got out, I saw Dad standing outside their tent with something cradled in his hands.

            “What’s wrong?” I said.

            He held out his hands, revealing a salamander.  “This woke your mother up.  It was on her face.”

            I started laughing and Dad cracked a grin.  From the tent, Mom said, “It’s not funny, youse two!”

            Dad walked to the edge of camp and set the salamander down near a rock.  The ground was wet and cool and the stars were bright and everywhere.  I stopped and looked up at the sky.

            “Don’t get that at home, huh?” Dad said.  “Too much light, but out here, you can see everything.  Wait until we get to the desert…most beautiful skies you’ll ever see.” 

I wanted to tell Dad about Lucky threatening me, but standing there was one of those special moments you don’t want to spoil by talking about anything at all; one of those moments that feels so right, you remember it the rest of your life, even though nothing remarkable happened.  Finally Dad said, “Night, Buddy,” and went back to his tent. 

“Night, Dad.”

            I don’t know how long I stood there in the wet grass, looking up at the sky, but I remember thinking about how small I was in the grand scheme of things.  I remember looking at the sky and thinking that the only big thing humans truly possess are our imaginations.  I remember thinking about so many things, until I realized how badly I was itching.

* * *

Surf music plays. A male voice says:

Thank you so much for listening to Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors–it really means a lot to me.

Theme music is provided by Belgium’s best surf band, Pirato Ketchup.

And if you want to know a little bit more about me and the other things I do, check out ChristopherGronlund.com.

[Listen]

Surf music plays. A male voice says:

Christopher Gronlund presents Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors. Read by me, the author, Christopher Gronlund.

CHAPTER NINE

“Big Dick’s Breakfast Revival”

We started the morning cleaning up broken glass from the window I broke the night before.  I don’t know why, but I picked up a piece, put it in my pocket, and still have it to this day.  Before leaving, Dad and I wandered over to the owners’ trailer and knocked on the door.  The wife opened the door and the scent of wet wildflowers gave way to bacon and eggs.

            “Howdy!” she said, obviously wide awake and ready to tackle another day.           

Dad fished his wallet from his pocket.  He pulled a twenty out and handed it to her.

            “I’m so sorry we were such a bother,” he said.  “Before leaving, I wanted to give you guys a little more for putting up with us.”

            “Hell, you ain’t gotta do that!” she said.

            “I do, though.  We kept the whole camp awake.”

            “Aw, don’t go worryin’ ‘bout that!” she said.  “That was the most excitement this place’s seen in a long, long time.”

            Just when I was starting to understand what people meant by Southern Hospitality, her husband yelled, “That them damn Yankees?!”  He poked his head out the door and looked us up and down; I thought, for some reason that he would kill us and cook us with his bacon.

            “Yep, that’s us,” Dad said.

            “You gonna stand there all mornin’ long, or come in for breakfast?” he said, surprising me.

            “We really need to get moving,” Dad said.

            “Hell, Hoss!  You ain’t goin’ far without a good breakfast.  We got plenty—get the family.“  Right before Dad was about to turn the offer down, the owner added, “It’s the least you can do for keeping the whole camp up all night with your racket.”

            He couldn’t say no to that.  They gave Dad his twenty back, even though he insisted they take it.  Dad sent me to get everyone.  When he saw Mom coming, carrying Lucky in her hands and smoking a cigarette, he said, “Dear.  You need to put that out and put Lucky in the car.”

            “With that broken window, he’ll get out,” she said, tossing her cigarette in the grass.  I walked over and snubbed it out before we had a repeat of the side of the road fire.

            The twins, who were looking forward to a marshmallow breakfast in the back of the car and not a hot meal at a stranger’s table said, “We’ll watch Lucky for you.” 

            The owner’s wife spoke up, smashing their hopes.  “It’s all right,” she said.  “He’s a cute little fella.  We don’t turn nothin’ down from the table; don’t matter if it’s man or beast.”

            “Beast is a fitting term,” Dad muttered under his breath as he held the door open for Mom.

            Introductions were made and it seemed Aunt Margie found a hillbilly home away from home, although I’m sure she missed the succulent taste of fresh squirrel for breakfast, killed and peeled that very morning.  Their names were Dick and Dixie (Dixie affectionately called her husband “Big Dick,” and it took everything for Dad and me to keep our composure).  Big Dick looked like he could break cinderblocks with his fists and bite nails in half.  Dixie was sticky and smelled like a sandbox. 

We stood around the table as Dixie set more places.  Dad told them where we were heading and why.  “That’s a big hole,” Big Dick said when Dad mentioned dumping Grandma’s ashes in the canyon.  “Best be careful you don’t go fallin’ in…would put a damper on your vacation.”  Dad chuckled, thinking Big Dick was making a joke, but he blushed when he realized Big Dick was being serious.  We sat down to eat.

            “Before we eat, I’d like you all to bow your heads in prayer,” Big Dick said.  “That’s how we do things around here.”

            Everyone bowed, except me.  Even Lucky looked down, but he wasn’t concerned with prayer—he was eyeing pieces of bacon he knew Mom would cram down his black hole of a throat once the meal started. 

            “Heavenly Father, we thank you for this meal we’re about to eat,” Big Dick said.

            I noticed Lucky writhing in Mom’s hands, struggling for freedom.  He didn’t like the prayer.

            “Please protect this family as they travel across this great country to scatter the mortal remains of one of your children in one of the prettiest places you ever created…”

            Lucky barked out loud, but Mom held his mouth shut between her thumb and forefinger.

            “And watch over Little Dick, who never made it from Dixie’s womb, but was still one of your miracles and something we’ll never forget.  Watch over him, Heavenly Father and make sure nuthin’ evil ever crosses our paths.”     

            Lucky bit Mom, startling us all!  It was no surprise when Lucky chewed a pair of shoes, furniture, or one of us, but he never bit Mom.  She looked hurt.

            “Lucky, no!” she said.  She realized she was interrupting Big Dick and said, “Sorry.”

            “No problem, Ma’am.”  He returned to his prayer.

            “Thank you for all you’ve given us, Heavenly Father.  But most of all—even more than giving us Little Dick—thank you for loving us enough to send your only son, Jesus Christ, to die on the cross for all us sinners.  We pray in Jesus’ name.  Amen.”

            With those words, Lucky started howling, his head thrown back and his tiny snout turned skyward like a wolf as he cried and yipped in doggie agony.

            “Lucky, stop!” Mom said.  She looked at Big Dick.  “I’m so sorry—he usually behaves.  I don’t know what’s getting into him.”

            “Maybe he’s been touched by the Lord,” Dixie said.  Lucky stopped baying and looked directly at her, startling everyone at the table.  They’d all see it with their own eyes—I was sure of it.  His eyes would glare red and I’d be vindicated, but before he could bark some more or show what evil lurked within, Mom gently pressed in on his molera, freezing him.  When everyone started filling their plates and Mom let go of his soft spot, Lucky looked directly at me and licked his jowls.   

            When the twins heard we were eating with Dixie and Big Dick, they returned to the Inferno for a bag of marshmallows; they shoved handfuls into their mouths, while everyone else dug into their food.  I pushed a piece of bacon around with my fork and pierced a fried egg, watching the yellow yolk spill over and consume the edge of a biscuit like the Blob.  Dad noticed I wasn’t eating.

“Not hungry?” he said.  I didn’t know if it was genuine concern about my appetite, or if it was his say of saying, “Please be polite and eat.”  I picked up a piece of bacon and took a bite.

“I’m fine, thanks.”

I was hungry, but I was more concerned and lost in my thoughts—about Lucky and about something Big Dick said during his prayer that didn’t seem to bother anyone else: the mention of “Little Dick,” the boy that never was.  I wanted to ask about him, but figured it wasn’t the best topic for breakfast. 

            “I’m sorry if the talk of Little Dick set you folks on edge,” Big Dick said with a mouthful of bacon, eggs, and biscuits and gravy.  It was like he was reading my mind.  “Dixie here carried him a little over two months, we reckon, but it wasn’t meant to be.  He’s the closest thing to a child we ever had, so we always include him in our prayers.”

            “I understand,” Dad said.  Before thinking, he added, “Have you two thought about trying again?”  Mom kicked Dad beneath the table, but talking about Little Dick seemed almost therapeutic for Dixie and Big Dick.

            “We tried,” Dixie said, “ but Big Dick, here, had an accident with a circular saw and ain’t got the goods to be siring children no more.”  Guess he wasn’t “Big Dick” after all! 

I felt bad for the Dixie and Big Dick, but it was probably for the best Little Dick didn’t make it.  No one should have to endure such a nickname throughout life.  “Big Dick,” most guys could happily live with, but “Little Dick?” Perhaps he heard the name he was destined for while still in the womb and decided to make a break while he could!

            Eating with Dixie and Big Dick was more uncomfortable than eating breakfast at home.  There, I was at least used to things: Dad talking to me, the twins talking to each other, and Mom talking with Lucky.  There was order in our dysfunction.  But eating with Dixie and Big Dick made me tense for some reason, and that tension grew when a huge Saint Bernard entered the room.  It walked right up to me and put it’s wet jowls in my lap, soaking my shorts in drool.

            “Oh, that’s Susan,” Dixie said.  “Don’t mind her.”

            “Susan.  That’s an interesting name for a dog,” Dad said.

            “Yeah, I named her after my sister,” Dixie said.  “She’s a big bitch, too!”  Gravy was collecting in the corners of Dixie’s mouth—I’m guessing she never grasped the concept of napkins. 

            I was used to Lucky being around the table, but he was always in Mom’s lap, not mine.  Susan’s head alone weighed more than several Luckys put together.  She kept drooling in my lap and I figured she wanted some food.

            “Is it okay if I give her a piece of bacon?” I said.

            “You can if you want,” Big Dick said, “but I don’t think that’s what she’s after. 

            I noticed Susan rubbing the base of her tail against the leg of the table—she was in heat!  Lucky could tell she was in heat, too—he began squirming in Mom’s hands even harder than during the prayer.  He was never neutered and the thought of nailing something thirty times his weight was too much for Mom to handle; he broke free from her grip and mounted Susan right there at the breakfast table!

            “Lucky, no!” Dad said.

            “Oh, let the little fella have his fun!” Big Dick said.  “He ain’t hurtin’ nothin’ and if his aim is true, we could end up with some of the funniest looking puppies this side of the South.”

            Mom and Dixie didn’t want to watch doggie porn while eating breakfast, though; Mom grabbed Lucky off the rear of Susan and shoved a piece of bacon in his face to get his attention.  Dixie was thinking along the same lines—she took her plate, said, “Here, Susan!” and tossed the food out the front door.  The big dog charged outside and ate bacon and eggs in the grass—Dixie kept her biscuits, though.

            “Well, that takes care of that,” Dixie said.  “Sorry ‘bout that.”

            “It’s all right,” Dad said.  He was mopping up the crumbs of his breakfast with a piece of a biscuit, already. 

            It wasn’t all right with me, though.  Before our very eyes, a dog the size of rolled up socks fornicated with a beast the size of a garbage can while we were eating breakfast, and no one but me seemed bothered by it, but me.  I had to get away, if only for a minute.  “Excuse me,” I said looking at Dixie.  “Where is your bathroom?”

            She pointed beyond the living room.  “Just go down that hall and you’ll see it on the left, sweetie.”  There was something about the way she called me sweetie, as though—in her mind—I was filling in for the son she would never have.     

I had found in my thirteen years that the only place one could truly get any privacy and be alone with their thoughts was the bathroom.  It’s that one place where no one wants your attention, that one place where you can catch your breath and engage in something universally natural.  Most times I went to the bathroom at home, I didn’t have to relieve myself…I just sat on the toilet with my pants still up and thought about things, but that morning I really had to go.  I dropped my pants, sat down, and let loose.  When I looked up, I saw Jesus.

            Dixie and Big Dick’s trailer was full of Jesus art.  Jesus on clocks, painted on wood, and Dixie was obviously a big fan of Jesus paint-by-numbers kits.  Situated on the wall directly across from the toilet—at eye level as you sat there on the throne—was one of the most bloody, pained Jesus images I ever saw!  I think it was another paint by numbers, but Dixie was obviously struck by an artistic urge while painting it, or perhaps she just needed to finish off a tube of red paint.  It was a close up of him on the cross, head cocked to the side in anguish, his eyes rolling back in his head.  Even though his eyes were rolled back and looking skyward, they stared right at me.  I leaned as far to the right as I could, then as far to the left and his eyes followed me.  There was no way I could finish crapping with Christ watching me!

            I had a thing about going to the bathroom with pictures around.  I couldn’t stand it when Mom left one of her fashion magazines on the bathroom floor at home and I’d lean forward to wipe my butt and see Brooke Shields staring up at me from the cover of Vogue, or Isabella Rossellini watching me from a Cosmopolitan.  It was bad enough having models staring at you in that most vulnerable position, but the Son of God in agony was even worse!  I closed my eyes, but just knowing the picture was there, I still couldn’t go.  All I could do was wipe and ask Dad to stop when we hit the road, so I could finish what I had started.

            When I reached for the toilet paper, all I felt was an empty cardboard roll!  Either Dixie or Big Dick—I’m guessing Big Dick—didn’t restock after their last drop.  The cabinets where I guessed they stored the toilet paper were out of immediate reach, so I rummaged through the garbage can beside the toilet, hoping to find a clean tissue.  All I found were pieces of tissue someone had blow their nose into, so I had to make it to the cabinets (I wasn’t about to call out, asking for another roll in a stranger’s house).

            I clenched my cheeks together and scuffled over to the sink with my pants down around my ankles.  When I opened the cabinet beneath the sink, I stumbled upon something that froze me in my tracks.  There, beneath the bathroom sink, was Little Dick!

            He was in a jar.  To the uninitiated, identifying the jar’s contents would have been impossible, but after years of attending sideshows with Dad, I was an expert at identifying things in jars full of murky fluid: from pickled alligator fetuses, to two-headed babies, I had seen it all.  Little Dick wasn’t that big, maybe three inches long, or so.  He was shaped more like a question mark than the usual fetal comma shape, and true, I couldn’t make out any discernable features—no eyes, little fingers, or even limbs—but with Big Dick and Dixie, a genetic mistake was bound to happen. 

The cabinet beneath the sink was a shrine to their “only son.”  There were glass, Jesus prayer candles all around the jar.  The rims of the candles were blackened by soot, a clear sign they were used regularly.  Mom owned similar candles; only she lit them before playing bingo, for luck.  It gave me the creeps, thinking about Dixie and Big Dick keeping a fetus in a jar in their bathroom.  I could see them putting a ceremonial bath mat on the floor, kneeling before the cabinet, and communing with Little Dick in a candlelit bathroom.  It was too much.  Maybe Dixie’s miscarriage occurred in that very room, maybe right in the very toilet I sat on minutes before!  Maybe that bathroom was all Little Dick ever knew.

            BANG! BANG! BANG!

            Someone was knocking on the door!  They must have somehow known I was looking at their only son! 

            “Hey, partner!” I heard Big Dick say.  “I just remembered there ain’t no buttwipe in there.”  The door opened and I saw Big Dick’s hand poke through the opening, holding a bunch of paper towels.

            “This’ll have to do.  Don’t use a mess, or the commode’ll overflow.”

            I quietly made my way back toward the toilet.  If he poked his head in and saw me looking at Little Dick—if he saw I had found their little secret—there’s no telling what he’d have done.  I’d never live it down from Mom, hearing about going through other people’s stuff, even though she was the queen of the bathroom cabinet peek, seeing what kinds of toothpastes, shaving creams, and medicines friends and relatives used. 

            “You okay?” Big Dick said.  The door started opening.

            “Fine,” I said when I got closer to the toilet.  I grabbed the paper towels from his hand and pushed the door shut.  “Thank you.” 

After sitting back down on the toilet and wiping, I went to the sink and washed my hands.  I took one last look at Little Dick in the jar before closing the cabinet doors and letting him rest in peace.

            When I made it back to the table, Dad was drinking coffee and talking with Big Dick and Dixie.  “So what other big stops you have planned ‘sides the canyon?” Big Dick said to Dad.

            “We’re going to Mammoth Cave and Graceland.”

            “Nice places,” Big Dick said, picking his teeth with his fork.  “Graceland—ya don’t say?  So you’ll be going through Arkansas on your way to the canyon, huh?” 

            “Yes,” Dad said, wondering what Big Dick was getting at.  Was he going to ask for some strange favor to make up for us keeping the campsite awake all night?  “Why?” Dad added.

            “I got a stop I think y’all’ll love: Clyde McAllister’s Gator Village and Civil War Memorial,” he said, proudly.  “My brother owns it—he’ll give you a discount if you tell him I sentcha.”

            Dad’s eyes lit up—he lived for side of the road reptile farms.  He knew he’d be able to score alligator skin belts, T-shirts with cartoon alligators on them, and maybe even get a picture of me petting one of the scaly beasts.

“Where’s your brother’s place?”

“You head west outta Memphis after hitting Graceland…hour or so down the road.  Can’t miss the signs.  You don’t wanna miss it—he’s got quite a show going.  He’s got a gator that leaps clear outta its tank and snatches broiler chickens off a stick!  Betcha don’t get to see that back home, huh?”

            “No, we sure don’t!” Dad said.  Leaping gators were far better than diving horses in my old man’s order of cheesy attractions. 

            Mom was ready to hit the road.  She looked at Dad and said, “Well, we really appreciate breakfast, but we better get moving.”  Big Dick and Dixie stood up and started heading for the door.  Dad lagged behind a moment and I noticed him slide a twenty beneath his plate. 

            When we all went out front, Lucky caught a whiff of Susan and started fighting again, but Mom wasn’t about to let him sire puppies with a “hillbilly bitch-dog,” as she put it.  She pressed the molera button and made her way to the car.  Dad stopped and stretched, arching his back in an ecstatic moment brought on by a big country breakfast.  It was so good, he let loose a loud belch.

“Excuse me!” he said, embarrassed

“No problem,” Big Dick said, patting his belly.  “Better just hope it’s indigestion and not something worse, though.”

Dad looked at him, knowing he was going to say something more. 

“I had me some stomach distress a year ago and thought it was nuthin’.  Next

thing you know, I’m flat on my back in the hospital getting my appendix cut out.”  He pulled up his shirt, revealing a scar on the right side of his gut.  “Got it in a jar under the sink in the bathroom if you wanna see it?” 

Mom heard Big Dick’s offer and piped in with, “No thank you—that’s okay!” before Dad could say “yes!” and ask if he could take a picture.  We said our final thank yous and goodbyes, climbed into the Inferno, and were on the road again.

* * *

Surf music plays. A male voice says:

Thank you so much for listening to Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors–it really means a lot to me.

Theme music is provided by Belgium’s best surf band, Pirato Ketchup.

And if you want to know a little bit more about me and the other things I do, check out ChristopherGronlund.com.

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Christopher Gronlund presents Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors. Read by me, the author, Christopher Gronlund.

CHAPTER EIGHT

“A Breath of Fresh Air”

            We drove until it started getting dark, then Dad handed me a map.

            “Hey, Buddy, see if you can find a campsite on there for us.  They should be marked.”

            I loved maps; I still do.  I’m guessing I got it from Dad.  I could sit in a room with an atlas and spend the entire day tracing routes all around the world with my fingertips and imagining what each place was like.  I could look at Italy and try finding places relatives talked about.  I could imagine whole stories about Dad’s ancestors in Ireland.  Places I might never see, I could at least look at and pretend I was there.

I looked at the map of America and saw how far we had traveled—we would have made better time had we not had so many problems.  I found the closest campsite on the map.  “There’s a place to stop about twenty-five miles ahead,” I said. 

            Mom was happy.  “Good, I’m ready for a cigarette!”

            The twins were happy, too.  “Goody!  We can roast marshmallows!”

            With the windows down to air out the smell of the burned carpet, and I rested my chin on the door and let the wind blow in my face.  Even back then, as much as my family drove me nuts, I appreciated those moments: the windows down, no one talking, and the sound of the tires racing along the pavement.  It was easy to lose yourself in the moment—even in a packed car there was a sense of isolation.  It only lasted a few minutes at most, but for those few minutes, there wasn’t a care in the world.  We made it to the campground in time to watch the sun set.

            Half the campground was full of RVs, and the rest of the area was full of four-bed canvas army tents.  Mom hated the thought of sleeping in tents, it reminded her of a time in Yellowstone when a bear decided all the sugar Mom and the twins left lying about camp was a fitting late-night snack.  The campground was torn apart, but our tent was spared.  Still, Mom couldn’t shake the thought.  Even if she had a tent pitched in the middle of Time’s Square—in her mind—a bear would somehow show up.

            “I’m not sleeping in a tent, James!” 

            “You can sleep in the car,” Dad said, “but you’re not smoking.”

            She looked at the Inferno, then the tents.  “Okay, I’ll take the tent,” she said, “but if any bears mess with me, James, you’re taking me home.”

            “I can assure you, Mary, no bears are going to mess with you.”

            He looked at me and said, “Let’s go find the owners—the rest of you wait here a sec.”

            We went to the owners’ trailer.  A husband and wife team, who were probably first cousins, sat outside under a canopy, sipping iced tea and watching a television sitting on an old card table. 

            “Howdy!  Can I help ya?” the man said.

            “Hi.  Yes,” Dad said.  “We need a couple tents for the night.

            “How many?”

            “Two should do.” 

            “That’ll be twenty-four dollars.”

Dad handed him some money and said, “Keep the change.”

            “Thank y’all,” the owner said, pointing to a pair of tents.  “Y’all take those two and have a nice evenin’.”

            His wife nudged him.

            “Oh yeah,” he added.  “With it bein’ so dry and all, we ask that you don’t start no campfires.”

            “No problem,” Dad said. 

            We walked back to the car, where the twins had a bag of marshmallows ready.

            “Daddy, can we roast marshmallows?”

            “I’m sorry, guys.  They aren’t allowing fires right now, so you’ll have to wait.  Maybe next time.”

            “Booooo!!!!”

            Dad pointed to the tents and said, “Those two are ours.”  The twins stomped off to one.

            Mom handed Aunt Margie her evening tobacco ration and said, “That should tide you over for the night.”

            “Thanky,” Aunt Margie said.  She looked around uncomfortably, before finally saying, “So who gets Maw?”

            “Huh?” Mom said.

            “Maw’s ashes.  We can’t just leave ‘em in the car.  What if someone done stealed it?”

            “No one’s stealing that ugly car,” Mom said, looking at Dad.  She wasn’t going to let him forget how much she hated the Inferno.  “I’ll take care of the ashes.”

            “I wanna keep them.”

            “They’ll be safe with me, Marge,” Mom said.

            “I want them.  You’ve had them all this time.”

            “There’s a reason for that.  Mom liked me best and she wanted me to hold onto her.”

            “Maw didn’t like you best!  She liked me best!”

            “Daddy liked you best.  Mom liked me…”

            Seeing two grown women carrying on even worse than my siblings and me was a sad sight.  Within moments, their argument was reduced to, “Did not!—Did too!”  They wouldn’t give up and I could tell it was really bothering Dad, who normally let things like that roll off his back.  He was sweating and had the same distant look he had that morning, when he was changing the tire. 

            “Shut up!” Mom said to Aunt Margie.

            “You shut up!”

            “Both of you, shut up!!!” Dad shouted. 

BEEEEEEEEEEEEEPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

            The Inferno’s horn went off and wouldn’t stop.  Dad rushed over and messed with it, but had no luck.

            BEEEEEEEEEEEEEPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

            Other campers were coming out of their tents, looking to see what the problem was.  I wandered over to see if I could help.

            BEEEEEEEEEEEEEPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

            Dad popped the hood.  People were getting annoyed; I saw the campsite’s owner standing up, looking our way.

            BEEEEEEEEEEEEEPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

            Dad ripped some wires from the engine and the beeping finally stopped.  He was dripping with sweat.

            “Sorry about that, everybody!” he said to the campground.  “I don’t know what caused that, but it won’t happen again.”  He held up the wires as proof.  “You can go back to relaxing.”

            Mom and Aunt Margie weren’t through.  Mom headed toward the Inferno.

            “What are you doin’?” Aunt Margie said.  

            “Going to the car.  I forgot something.”

            “Yer gonna get Maw’s ashes is what yer doin’.”

            “She liked me best,” Mom said.

            I cut Aunt Margie off before they started again.

            “I’m sleeping in the car, tonight.  Grandma’s ashes will be safe with me.”

            “Oh…” they both said, disappointed.  I don’t know why I said it—I didn’t really want to sleep in the car, but I wanted them to stop arguing.  I felt a need to defend Grandma, and it did beat sleeping in a tent with Elvis and Olivia and struggling to breathe while Aunt Margie smoked.

            As they headed off toward their tents, I heard Mom say, “I give you cigarettes and this is how you treat me?” 

            Before they went their separate ways, Aunt Margie said, “Maw did so like me the best.”

            “Did not…”

            “Did too…”

            They finally disappeared from view as Dad closed the hood.  He stepped back, looked at the car, and sighed.

            “I’m really beginning to regret buying this car.”

            “It’s probably just dumb luck,” I said, even though I was thinking the same thing.

            “It’s weird,” he said.

            “What?”

            “It’s almost like the car is doing things on its own.  That’s crazy, though.”

            Now was the time to tell Dad what I wanted to tell him since the rest stop.  “Speaking of crazy…can I tell you something, Dad?”

            “Sure, Buddy.  Always.”

            “I think there’s something wrong with Lucky.”

            I thought Dad was going to laugh, but he held it back, realizing I was serious.  “We all know there’s something wrong with Lucky,” he said.

            “No, I mean really wrong.”

            “Is he sick?”

            I stepped away from the car and looked around, making sure no one could hear me.  “I think Lucky’s possessed.”

            “Possessed?  Like Exorcist possessed?” he said.

            “Yeah.”

            Dad searched for words.  “He’s a mean little guy—I’ll give you that.  But I don’t know if I’d go as far as saying he’s possessed.”

            I wasn’t going to give up.  “His eyes were red,” I said.

            “Red?”

            “Yeah.  Like your jackalope’s.”

            “Look, it’s been a rough day,” Dad said.  “You probably just need some sleep—I think we all do.  Sometimes an animal’s eyes catch the light on a weird angle and they look like they’re glowing.  We’re all pretty tired.  Get some rest, Buddy.  I’m sure things will be better tomorrow.”

            “I hope so.”  Maybe Dad was right, maybe I was overreacting and just seeing things, but I was definitely going to keep a better watch over Lucky and the things he did.

            Dad said goodnight, gave me a hug, then headed off toward the tent.  I slept well that night, with two exceptions.  First, when a raccoon wandered near Mom’s tent and she screamed, thinking a bear was attacking her.  She woke the entire camp.  While the tiny raccoon was a far cry from the ten thousand pound black bear with shark’s teeth and fiery eyes my mother was convinced would emerge from the woods and strip the flesh from her bones while she dreamed deeply about Elvis, raccoons—like bears—had a penchant for finding the gooey food wrappers my Mom left scattered around camp.   I guess she figured, since bears and raccoons are distantly related, screaming bloody murder was the safest bet.  I had to laugh.

The second time I was awakened wasn’t so funny…

*          *          *

            I was in the middle of a dream about opening a box that contained the secret of life, when I woke up choking!  I jolted upright, grasping at my throat while coughing and gasping for air!  The windows were rolled up and the doors were locked.  I tried the power locks to no avail, and then tried physically unlocking the door with my finger.  The car was trying to kill me!  It didn’t finish me off on the highway earlier that day, so it was trying again, now that it had me alone!

I banged on the windows and yelled for help, but no one heard me.  I jumped to the front seat and tried the horn, but it wasn’t working since Dad disconnected it.  I was on the verge of passing out when I remembered something: Grandma!  I grabbed the urn from the passenger seat and used it to break the driver’s window, waking the camp up for the second time that evening, and bothering them for the third.  Dad rushed to the Inferno.

            “What happened?!” he shouted.

            I was hanging out the window, struggling to catch my breath and fill my lungs with fresh air.  “The windows were up and I couldn’t breathe!” I said.  “The doors were locked, too.”

            Dad looked at the car—all the doors were unlocked and the windows were down (including the one that tried killing me when Mom refused to crack her window while smoking).  He opened the driver’s side door and I got out, clutching the urn in my arms.

            “What’s that?” he said.

            “Grandma.  I used her urn to break the window.”

            He felt my forehead as Mom, Aunt Margie, and the twins came out of their tents to see what was happening.

            “What’s happening?” Mom said.

            “Nothing.  Everything’s all right,” Dad said.  “Go back to sleep.”  He checked out the car.

            “All the doors are unlocked and the windows the windows are down, Buddy.”

            “I’m not lying!” I said.  “Everything really was closed and locked up, Dad.  Don’t you believe me?”

            He struggled to pick me up and set me on the hood.  “It’s not that I don’t believe you, bud.  I know sometimes when we wake up on a trip we can forget where we are.  I’m not saying things weren’t locked—I’m just saying I have a hard time believing they were when everything’s wide open right now.”

            “I also know you wouldn’t just break a window without reason.  It could have been a bad dream.  You could have been hyperventilating.  What’s important is you’re okay now.”

            He gave me a hug and said, “How ‘bout I go get my sleeping bag and we can both sleep outside?  That sound good?”

            “Yeah.”

            “And hey—I won’t have to listen to your mother’s snoring all night!” he said, laughing.

             Dad may have been right about everything—maybe it was just a bad dream; maybe it was just a faulty window motor in the car door that got me earlier that day; and maybe Lucky’s eyes were just a strange reflection, but I wasn’t buying it.  As he went to gather his things, I looked at the Inferno and said, “I know what you are, you son of a bitch.”  I swear it growled back at me.

            Dad came back and we set up camp away from the car, beneath the stars.  Dad took my mind off the Inferno by pointing out constellations I didn’t know.  He showed me how to spot Aquarius, Cygnus, and Pegasus, and told me the mythology behind each one.  He stared at the stars and said, “You know, there was a time that’s all people had to go by.  There was a time things weren’t all plotted out on maps.”

            His eyes sparkled beneath the crescent moon—they were welling up with tears.  Dad could look at the sky and get emotional.  Staring up at the vastness of space and all the possibility of what’s out there made him feel something I wouldn’t experience until finally seeing the Grand Canyon; the feeling that there are simply things much bigger than us—so hard to fathom—that we can only stare in awe. 

If I had three wishes at that very moment they would have been, one: that the Inferno and Lucky stopped doing whatever it was they were doing and left us alone.  Two: that my family could function like a real family, if only for a few days.  And three: that Dad could have traveled back to a time when stars were maps and there was still untainted land left to explore.  That’s what he lived for. 

            We chatted about the stars a little longer until he finally dozed off, dreaming about uncharted territories, I’m sure.  I couldn’t sleep; I stayed awake and stared at the car.  I knew it was a matter of time before it did something really bad, or until my family would finally see that I wasn’t nuts in thinking it was possessed.  I only knew I wasn’t going to be near the car alone anymore.  After almost being choked to death, I didn’t even want to be in it with five other people.

            I held Grandma’s urn like a teddy bear, thankful I was able to get to it before the Inferno got to me.  There was something comforting about having Grandma with us.  No matter how frightened I was, I felt like nothing would truly be able to hurt me as long as she was around. I kissed the urn, whispered, “Thanks Grandma,” and fell fast asleep.

* * *

Surf music plays. A male voice says:

Thank you so much for listening to Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors–it really means a lot to me.

Theme music is provided by Belgium’s best surf band, Pirato Ketchup.

And if you want to know a little bit more about me and the other things I do, check out ChristopherGronlund.com.

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Surf music plays. A male voice says:

Christopher Gronlund presents Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors. Read by me, the author, Christopher Gronlund.

CHAPTER SEVEN

“Ring of Fire”

            “Doesn’t this crap car have air conditioning?” Mom said.  We weren’t even two miles from Aunt Margie’s and already she was complaining. 

            “Yes,” Dad said.  “The AC is on, dear.”

            “Why is it so hot then?” 

Dad waved his hand in front of the air conditioning vent.  “Feels fine to me.”

“Well then maybe it’s just my side,” Mom said, trying to figure out how to crank the AC so it would be colder.  She couldn’t figure out which lever controlled the temperature, so she lit a cigarette instead.

“Can I have one of those?” Aunt Margie said.  Mom pulled another cigarette from the pack, lit it using the one she just started, then passed it back to her sister.  The car filled with smoke.

“You two need to crack the windows if you’re both smoking in the car,” Dad said.  Mom ignored him—Aunt Margie looked for the window handle.  She had never been in a car with electric windows (she may have not even known they existed), so I showed her how things worked, and she cracked her window.

“Put that window back up, Marge!  It’s a million degrees outside!” Mom said.  She complained about the heat in the dead of winter, and every summer we were all constantly reminded how the heat would one day be the death of her.

“Mary, please crack your window,” Dad said.  “I don’t mind if you smoke in the car, but it’s not fair for those of us who don’t smoke to have to inhale that—“

“Not fair?!” she interrupted.  “I’ll tell you what’s not fair, James!  Packing me into a steaming hot car with shitty air conditioning and then telling me I can’t smoke.  It calms my nerves.  If we roll down the windows—even a little—I’ll melt!”  With all the makeup she plastered on her face each morning, maybe there was some truth to that statement.  The woman’s face was like a kid’s birthday cake: colorful, soft, and gooey.  I had seen her makeup run on really hot days back home—she looked like a plastic clown doll melting in a fire.  But still, I had to agree with Dad—it was not fair to expect us to inhale her smoke, just because she was uncomfortable. 

When Dad gave in and rolled Aunt Margie’s window up from the master control on the driver’s door (she thought it was magic!), I rolled my window all the way down and hung my head out, inhaling the fresh air.

“You roll that window up right now, Michael!” Mom said.  I kept my head outside, though.

“Now, young man!” she shouted. 

“No!  I can’t stand the smell of your cigarettes!” I yelled back.  Standing up to her that morning while trying to pack Elvis and Olivia had given me new-found courage, and I wasn’t going to let her win this time, either.

“I don’t care,” she said.  “A truck can come by and take your head off!  What do you think about that?  Do you want people looking at you and saying, ‘Oh, look!  There’s that little boy without the head!’  Think what they’ll say about me!”

Mom made everything about her.  Had a truck really taken my head off, she’d definitely mourn, but she would also figure out a way to turn the spotlight on herself.  I can hear it now: “I tried warning him, but he didn’t listen.  Had he only listened.  I guess I wasn’t a good mother—I guess I fell short on my responsibilities.  Oh woe is me…”  She might even evoke pity from strangers, but those who truly know her would be thinking, “He had you as a mother?  No wonder the boy stuck his head out the window to be chopped off by a passing truck.  I’d have done the same…”

Mom wasn’t about to be outdone.  “Well fine, then,” she said.  She cracked her window and flicked her ashes right into my face.  I went to pull my head back in, but couldn’t—the window had rolled up to my neck and was getting tighter!  I screamed; not just a little yell, but a blood-curdling, terrified scream…then I could scream no more. 

I couldn’t breathe—I couldn’t fill my lungs with enough air to force another cry for help.  I thought Elvis must have climbed over the seat and got hold of Dad’s master controls and rolled the window up on my neck as a joke, but I could hear Mom and Dad yelling from inside.  This was clearly serious stuff—no joke at all!

            “James, roll the window down!”  Mom was as terrified as I was.  In one way, it was reassuring because she really did care about us, but on the other hand, it scared me even more because when you’re a kid and an adult is afraid of something scaring you, you know it’s serious.

            “I’m trying!” Dad yelled.  His voice cracked in panic and I knew that was even worse than Mom losing it.  “It won’t roll down!” 

I gazed down and saw the lines on the highway racing by.  I tried taking a breath, but had no luck.  Everything started to fade in and out.  I felt Aunt Margie pulling on my legs—she thought she was helping, but it only made it harder to breathe!  I tried shouting, “Stop!” but couldn’t generate the energy.

            Dad pulled to the shoulder and eased the Inferno to a gentle stop.  The next moments of my life passed by in flashes.  I saw Mom open her door and leap from the passenger seat.  She set Lucky on the roof and came toward me.  Behind her, I saw Dad slide across the hood in slow motion, like a cop from a bad TV show racing to someone’s aid.  Then things went black. 

            During the next flash, I heard Mom shouting, “Lucky, no!” as he sat on the roof licking my ear.  He dug inside with his tongue, as though he were hoping to dig deep enough to taste brain.  I saw Dad’s face—I never saw him look more frightened in my life, not even the time the twins thought it would be funny to lay in the middle of the street like they had been run over (complete with fake blood on their heads), right as Dad came home from work.  I suppose Elvis’s uncontained laughter as Dad approached, shaking his chunky little body, could have been mistaken for convulsing at a distance.  For a brief moment, the look of horror on Dad’s face was unmatched only by the look of anger when he realized he’d been had by his two youngest children.  But I wasn’t faking a thing; I was in the process of dying right before my family’s eyes.

            When I awoke, I was lying on the side of the highway with Mom, Dad, and Aunt Margie huddled over me—the twins stayed in the back of the Inferno, no doubt disappointed to see me breathing on my own.  Lucky stood on my chest, staring.  “Are you okay, Buddy?” Dad said.  I inhaled and coughed; few things in my life were as satisfying as that breath.  Air rushed into my lungs, carrying oxygen to my head and everything came into focus.  I was alive!

            “Give him room!” Mom said as I sat up.

            “What happened?”

            Dad told me how the window rolled up on my neck and it wouldn’t go down.  Mom tried breaking the window, but had no luck; Dad stopped her repeated attempts, worried if the window broke, a shard would cut my jugular vein and not only would I be suffocating, but also bleeding to death.  The two grabbed the window on either side of my head and pulled down with all their strength, lowering the window just enough that Aunt Margie could pull my head free.

            I just knew it was the car—it was out to kill me.  First the salesman; there was just something wrong about him.  From the way he dressed, to the way he moved and talked…I was convinced there was a lot more to him than just another greasy, used car salesman out to make a quick buck, selling lemons to unsuspecting customers.  Then Lucky’s eyes glowing red.  In Lucky’s long list of ailments and strange habits, red eyes were not in his repertoire.  And finally the window rolling up on my neck—it was clear the car was out to get me!  It was all making sense.     

             Then I heard Dad say, “The motor in the door’s stuck.  Your window won’t go up or down.”  He had my door open and was messing with the window controls.  “Not an uncommon thing with electric setups like this.”  Leave it to Dad to put a dent in my theory.

            I got to my feet and now that I was all right, Mom had to say it.  “See, I told you to keep your head inside the car and you didn’t listen.  See what happens when you don’t listen, Michael?”

            I climbed into the car and scooted over behind Dad, where I sat the rest of the trip, wanting to be as far from that door as possible.

*          *           *

            A few miles down the road, I heard the twins in the back rummaging through a bag of marshmallows.  I remembered how hungry I was, now that I was no longer subjected to the sight of toothless hillbillies eating tree rodents.  Dad must have been reading my mind.

            “I sure could go for a sandwich,” he said.  “How about you, Michael?”

            “That sounds great!”

            The twins, mouths stuffed with marshmallows, said, “We’re hungry, too!”

            “I thought y’all wasn’t hungry?  There was plenty of food back at the house y’all passed on,” Aunt Margie said.

            Dad tried sparing her feelings.  “Yeah, and it all looked so good, too, Margie.  Hated passing it by, but I wasn’t hungry until we started driving again.  Something about the open road that hits your stomach, right guys?”

            “Right!” we said.

            “I shoulda brung some squirrel, or somethin’.”

            “Really is too bad you didn’t,” Dad said, holding back laughter.  He didn’t dare make eye contact with me in the rearview mirror.  If we looked at each other when one of us was about to crack up, that was it.  “I was just thinking a fried squirrel sandwich sure would hit the spot right about now, but it looks like we’re stuck with baloney.  Want to grab some sandwiches from the cooler, Michael?”

            “Sure.”  I reached back over the seat, careful not to bump my arm on Aunt Margie’s cigarette, which she held at arm’s length near Mom’s window, as though it bothered her as much as it bothered me.  Dad insisted Mom crack her window if they were going to smoke.

I grabbed a sandwich for Dad, my Mom, and me.  The ice in the cooler had melted, so the sandwiches floated around like little cellophane baloney boats.  I asked Aunt Margie if she wanted one, but she rubbed her belly and said, “Nope, I’m still full.”  I opened my sandwich and started eating around the soggy parts.

            “What about us?” the twins said.

            “Get them yourselves,” I said.  “The cooler’s back there with you.”

            They weren’t satisfied with that reply—they were out to get someone on their side and make an issue of things.

            “Mom!  Michael didn’t get us any sandwiches!”

            “Michael, get your brother and sister something to eat,” she said with a mouth full of white bread, processed meat, and mayo.  She let Lucky take a bite directly from her sandwich as she swallowed and took a drag from her cigarette.

            I fished two more sandwiches from the cooler and handed them to the twins.

            “We’re not hungry anymore!” Elvis said.

            Olivia followed up with, “Yeah, looking at your face ruined our appetite!”

            “Let’s not argue,” Dad said.

            “We’re not arguing,” the twins said.  “We’re just not hungry anymore.”

            They handed their sandwiches back to me and Olivia said, “Put these back, Dummy.”

            “You put them back!”

            They both shouted, “MOM!!!”

            Mom had had enough.  She was enjoying her sandwich, her cigarette, and her dog and was not about to let us ruin the moment. 

            “All of youse, shut up!” she bellowed.  “Don’t make me tell your father to pull this piss-poor excuse for a car over!”

            Suddenly, as if the car heard her, it veered out of control.  Dad fought the steering wheel, struggling to get the upper hand as we skidded about the interstate.  He finally regained control and pulled over.  We were all terrified, except Dad, who remained calm and collected throughout the ordeal.  He stepped from the Inferno and shook his head as he looked at the driver’s side front tire.

            “Goddamnit…”

            “Don’t swear at God, Daddy,” Olivia said.

            “I’m not swearing at God,” he said.  “I’m asking him to damn this car to hell.  There’s a big difference.”

            “What’s wrong?” Mom said, knowing full well what the problem was.

            “Flat tire.”

            “Another one?!”

            “We must have hit something in the road.”

            “Well fix it!”

            “I can’t,” he said.  “I used the spare this morning.  I’ll have to head up the road and buy a tire, somewhere.”

            He shielded his eyes from the sun with his hand, looking ahead.  “It looks like there’s an exit up a ways—I shouldn’t be too long.”

            He pulled the flat tire he changed earlier from the back of the car and carried it along the shoulder.

            “Don’t be too long,” Mom said, proving she didn’t hear a word he said.

            We watched him make his way along the highway until we didn’t see him anymore; then the twins decided to mess with me.

            “Daddy swore at God,” Olivia said to me.

            “Shut up.”

            “You shut up!” Elvis said. 

            “You’re both so stupid,” I said.  “There is no God.”

            “Mommy, Michael says there’s no God!”  Olivia started with the fake tears.

            “Don’t listen to your brother,” Mom said.  “He’s gonna go to hell if he keeps that crap talk up.”  She turned around and gave me the look.  The look was meant to intimidate us, and I’ll admit, when I was younger, I would have preferred a beating with the sauce ladle over my mother’s evil eye.

            “Michael, stop telling your brother and sister there’s no God.  You know better than that.”

            “You don’t believe in God, Michael?” Aunt Margie said.

            “No.”

            “Why not?”

            “I just don’t.”

            Aunt Margie looked at me sadly.  “That’s a cryin’ shame.”

            I actually felt guilty.  I didn’t believe in God, and I was never that crazy about Aunt Margie, but I could see she was hurt.  She tossed her cigarette out Mom’s window and said, “Well, I’m gonna get me some shut eye ‘til Jimmy gets back.”

            Mom gave me another look and said, “That’s a good idea.”

            “Yeah!” the twins said, as though it were some kind of final blow directed at me.

            I grabbed an issue of Avengers and pretended to read.  It drove my mother nuts that I didn’t believe in God.  I came from a Catholic family and there were things you just didn’t say.  “I’m an atheist,” was one of those things.  I didn’t have a problem with religion; it just wasn’t for me.  It seemed more a scare tactic the way it was wielded in my family, than a thing of beauty and eternal salvation.  To hear Mom tell it, you’d expect Jesus and God standing beside her, all threatening you with sauce ladles for your sins!  I simply didn’t believe in a divine good and I definitely didn’t believe in pure evil.  But that was all about to change.

            I heard Mom snoring and noticed she still had a lit cigarette.  I always had visions of our house burning down from her dozing off while smoking—I had a recurring dream Lucky and I were trapped in the flames, unable to escape.  I quietly poked my head over the front seat to see if I could grab her cigarette and put it out so nothing would happen.  Lucky was facing the glove compartment, but when he heard me moving over the seat, he turned his head all the way around, à la Linda Blair in The Exorcist!  His eyes glowed red. 

            I yelled out loud, opened my door, and leaped out.  A pickup truck beeped its horn—I almost stepped directly into interstate traffic.  I ran around to the side of the car and stood face to face with a fire! 

Aunt Margie’s cigarette had rolled into the dry grass and started things burning.  It wasn’t a huge fire, but it was spreading right up against the Inferno.

            “Get out of the car!” I yelled, waking everyone.  Mom and Aunt Margie panicked; they wanted to leap from the passenger’s side, but they would have jumped right into the flames.  They climbed out the driver’s side and were almost hit by a van.  The twins shot out the back and left the doorgate open, so I rummaged around for a fire extinguisher. 

Right beside the first aid kit that came with the Inferno, I found one!  I pulled the extinguisher’s pin while running around the car, pressed the release, and FOOM!!!  More flames were spreading everywhere! 

            I gave the fire extinguisher another burst and the fire spread even more.  I smelled gas—the fire extinguisher was filled with gas!  I looked at the writing on the side of the extinguisher before throwing it to the side—it said, “And whosoever was not found written in the book of life was cast into the lake of fire.  Revelation 20:15.”  A lake of fire was forming on the side of I-79, thanks to the Inferno!

            “What did you do, Michael?!” Mom shouted.  I didn’t have time to argue—I ran to the back of the station wagon, grabbed the cooler, and dumped its contents on the fire, hoping that would do the job.  I choked on thick, black smoke, but got a lucky hit—most of the fire was extinguished; those places still burning were easily put out by a few well-placed stomps with my foot. 

            “What the hell?!” Mom said, petting Lucky. 

            Aunt Margie added, “Michael, what have you done?!”

            “What have I done?!  More like what have you done, Aunt Margie?  Your cigarette started the fire.”

            I dug around and found her butt in the grass, on the edge of the charred area.  I picked it up.

            “Does this look familiar?” I said.

            “Oh, Lordy.  I didn’t mean to start a fire.”

            “You need to watch it, Marge,” Mom said.  “If that fire got up under the car’s gastank, we’d all be dead.  Can’t believe you.”

            Mom took her position as big sister by just a few minutes seriously, and deep down reveled in the moment anytime she could belittle my aunt.  Mom wouldn’t give up until she got a rise out of Aunt Margie.  “We could have been killed.”

            “I’m so sorry,” Aunt Margie said.  If she had a tail, it would have been planted firmly between her legs.  “I didn’t mean to.”

            “Well think next time,” Mom said.  “You can’t just flip a cigarette out the window or fall asleep smoking—“
            “Mom!” I shouted, pointing at the Inferno. 

            Smoke billowed from the front seat and rolled out the window.  I realized she didn’t have her cigarette—she had dropped it in the rush to escape from the car.  I held my breath and opened the door.  A small fire burned on the floorboard, melting the carpet into a sticky mass.  I grabbed an issue of Vogue and beat the flames down while Gia Carangi stared up at me from the cover.

            Aunt Margie stared at Mom, but was still too frightened of her older sister to speak up. 

            “How’d that fire start?” Mom said.

            “You and Aunt Margie need to stop smoking.” 

            “Yeah!”  Even the twins agreed with me.

            “I didn’t start a fire, Michael.”
            “Yes you did, Mom,” I felt a need to speak up for Aunt Margie, since she lacked the courage to do it herself.  “You were just yelling at Aunt Margie about flipping her cigarette out the window and starting that fire,” I said, pointing to the charred grass.  “But you started a fire inside the car!”

            “That’s different,” Mom said.  “I was rushing to get out.”

            “It doesn’t matter.  You both need to be more careful.”

            I put the cooler in the back of the car, climbed into the back seat with a comic book after the smoke cleared, and waited for Dad.  The twins climbed into the back and went to work on a fresh bag of marshmallows.  Mom and Aunt Margie got in and didn’t say a word for ten minutes.  When the silence was finally broken, it was Mom.

            “I sure could go for a cigarette about now,” she said.

            “Yeah, me too,” Aunt Margie said.

            “If you’re gonna smoke, go stand where the fire was and be careful.”  I wasn’t going to put out any more mistakes.

            They got out and stood in the charred circle.  I heard Mom say to Aunt Margie, “It’s all your fault…”

            I read two issues of X-Men, three issues of Fantastic Four, a Donald Duck comic, an issue of Spiderman, and a Detective Comics before Dad returned.  Mom and Margie were back outside, on their seventh cigarettes.  Dad carried a big bag of food, and was rolling a new tire along the shoulder with a stick, so he wouldn’t have to bend over.  As he neared the car, he sniffed the air, smelling the singed grass.

            “What happened?” he said.

            “Marge started a fire,” Mom said.

            “I wasn’t the only one.”

            “Is everyone okay?!”

            “Yeah,” Mom said.  “Marge flipped a cigarette out the window and burned down half the county.”  She pointed to the scorched circle and ruined baloney sandwiches.

            “Least I didn’t set the car on fire,“ Aunt Margie said.
            “What?!” Dad said.

            “Calm down, James.”  Mom searched for the best way to break the news.  “I wouldn’t have dropped my cigarette if Marge didn’t start this fire.  I could have burned alive in there; that car’s a deathtrap.  I had to jump out quick.  I dropped my cigarette on the floor and it burned some carpet.”

            Dad poked his head in the passenger side window and took a look.  A small circle of red carpet melted away in the fire, revealing part of the black, metal floorboard.  He looked in the back, at the twins and me.

            “Are you guys okay?”

            “We’re fine,” I said.

            “Why don’t you all stand by your aunt and mother while I get this tire on?”

            We stood outside while Dad swapped the punctured spare for the new one.  He put the spare in the back and got inside.  Mom and Aunt Margie started climbing back in with their cigarettes, but Dad said, “No more smoking in the car.”            

They stood outside and finished them, tossing the discarded butts to the ground.  When they climbed in, Dad got out, walked around to where they were standing, and snuffed out the butts with his foot, making a statement about how careless the two truly were.  He looked at the ground, shook his head, and got back in.

* * *

Surf music plays. A male voice says:

Thank you so much for listening to Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors–it really means a lot to me.

Theme music is provided by Belgium’s best surf band, Pirato Ketchup.

And if you want to know a little bit more about me and the other things I do, check out ChristopherGronlund.com.

[Listen]

Surf music plays. A male voice says:

Christopher Gronlund presents Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors. Read by me, the author, Christopher Gronlund.

CHAPTER SIX

“Fried Squirrels and ‘Buttermilk’”

            In Aunt Margie’s front yard, my cousins, Debbie and Daryl, were sitting in a bed of dandelions.  I have no idea what they were saying to each other as we drove up, but judging by their actions, I’m guessing it went something like this: Daryl popped the head of a dandelion into Debbie’s face and said, “Your Mama had a baby and its head popped off!”  Debbie grabbed a dandelion from the ground and said, “Hey, Daryl.  You can tell if someone is allergic to butter with dandelions.”  Daryl probably said, “How’s that?” and Debbie put the dandelion beneath his chin.

            “If your chin turns yellow, it means you’re allergic.”

            She rubbed a dandelion on Daryl’s chin, staining it yellow.  He laughed.  It looked like a loving situation: two siblings at play, but the truth revealed itself when Debbie grabbed a whole handful of dandelions (dirty roots and all). 

            “Now let’s see if you’re really allergic, you dirty little bastard!”

            She violently ground the mass into poor Daryl’s face—we could hear him screaming for help all the way from the car.  She shut him up with another handful, which she shoved down his throat, choking him.  Had they both been boys, my aunt could have named them Cain and Abel; Debbie was always trying to kill poor Daryl.  Dad beeped the horn to get their attention.

            My aunt burst through the screen door and saw her fighting children.  “Y’all cut that out!” she hollered as she made her way to the car.

            Aunt Margie was the hillbilly version of my Mom.  Both thought beehive hairdos were still all the rage and they didn’t quite understand polka-dotted dresses were not the most flattering thing heavy women could wear.  Aunt Margie didn’t dye her hair; it was starting to gray.  She thought dying hair was a luxury only afforded to “high-class city folk,” like Mom.  They hadn’t seen each other for awhile and the first words from my aunt’s mouth after Mom said, “How are you doing, Marge?” were, “You got a smoke?”

            “Hold Lucky,” Mom said, handed the little beast off to my aunt.  She held him at arm’s length as he struggled to spin around and bite her.  Mom fished her cigarettes from her purse, lit two, and traded one for Lucky.  Both inhaled deeply, exhaled and sighed, then finally hugged.

            “It’s good to see ya, Mary,” my aunt said.

            “Good to see you, too,” Mom said.  “How’ve you been?”

            “We’re holding our own up here—we’re holding our own.”

             Aunt Margie caught sight of the twins and me.  She rushed over for a hug and kiss.  The hugs were never all that bad, but the kisses…the woman had three teeth, and those teeth looked like hardened pieces of caramel.  Her breath smelled like grizzled animal fat and tobacco, and she exhaled smoke in my face as she tried kissing me full on the lips.  I was able to turn my head and give her my cheek, but it was still a horrible experience.

            “My, how you’ve grown!” she said, before making her way to the twins.

            She hugged them both, smothering the pair against her breasts as she squeezed with her burly arms.  “Look at you two!”  Somehow the twins were spared kisses.

            “Hi, Margie,” Dad said.  Before she could hug him, he added, “Otis around?”

            Otis was my uncle—the male version of Aunt Margie, only dumber.  He had given up a career in coal mining to focus on his alcoholism.  Aunt Margie refused to be “hitched to a bum,” and demanded he work, so he tricked her into believing selling crap on the side of a hill was a reputable job. 

            ‘He’s round back working on a fridge,” she said.  Business has been pretty good, lately.  Shoulda seen how many things we had out in the yard a couple weeks ago.”

            I couldn’t imagine the yard being more littered with junk!  Neither could Dad because we both held back laughter when we made eye contact.  I looked away and Dad said, “That’s not surprising, Margie.  I mean this is quite a location; I’m surprised you haven’t sold the whole lot.”  I tried holding my laugh in and ended up snorting, hurting my sinuses and making my eyes water.  Dad lived for making me crack up.  Anticipating more laughter, Mom pointed to Aunt Margie’s kids and said, “Michael, you remember your cousins, Debbie and Daryl, right?” 

            I didn’t remember meeting them before, but said “Yeah.  Hi, guys,” anyway.

            “Howdy,” Debbie said.  Daryl was still spitting dirt and catching his breath.

            Mom turned her attention to the twins.

            “You haven’t met,” she said.  “But these are your cousins, Debbie and Daryl.  They’re twins, just like you guys.”

            “They aren’t like us,” they said, refusing to acknowledge their presence.

            “I better get back in the house before lunch burns,” Margie said.  “I’ll holler at y’all when it’s done.”

            “Think I’ll go see what Otis is up to,” Dad said.  While he wouldn’t want to spend any length of time with my aunt and uncle, I think Dad saw them as a little piece of Americana.  Honest-to-God Appalachia!  He went around back.      

            The twins wanted nothing to do with their relatives in the hills.  “Can we wait in the car, Mom?” they said.

            “No, you can’t wait in the car!  You’re gonna come inside and help me and your aunt.”

            “If we have to…”

            Mom looked at me and said, “Michael, why don’t you hang out with Daryl until then?  Have him show you the woods.”

            I have a hard time to this day describing Daryl.  He looked like the banjo-playing kid in Deliverance, only with two black eyes from being knocked around by Debbie all the time.  He walked with a limp and spoke in a slow, clumsy manner (I later found out he once stuck his tongue out at Debbie, who kicked him in the jaw at the very moment, causing him to bite half his tongue off!).  The thought of venturing into the woods with him scared me, and I wished I had followed Dad around back to see Uncle Otis (safety in numbers).

            As I walked toward the woods, I wondered if Dad was having better luck.  He told me it went something like this:

            He wandered around back, where Uncle Otis was welding a green Kenmore door onto a white Whirlpool refrigerator.  Otis had a little fenced off work area where he toiled the day away, creating Frankenstein appliances.  His fence was constructed of wood scrap and chicken wire, and a sign reading “Git Back!” hung on the gate.  Dad waited as Otis finished his weld and realized he had company.

            “Well, hell!” he said.  “If it ain’t ol’ Jimmy!  How ya doing, boy?”  He called everyone “boy” or “girl” regardless of age.

            “Fine,” Dad said.  “How about you, Otis?”

            “Can’t complain.  You gonna come over and shake my hand, or ya too good for that?”

            Dad pointed at the “Git Back!” sign and said, “I figured you’d want me to stand back and not crowd you.”  

            Otis laughed.  “Aw, hell!  That sign’s fer the boy.  He comes back here and gets in the fridges.  Stupid cuss damn-near done suffocated ‘while back, so I put that sign up and told him I’d whip his ass a good’n if I ever caught him back here again.”

            Dad wandered in and shook Otis’s hand.

            “Wanna beer, Jimmy?”

            “It’s still a little early,” Dad said.

            “Ain’t never too early when it comes to beer!”

            Uncle Otis pulled two beers from a dirty old toilet bowl stuffed with melting ice and tossed one to Dad.  They both popped their tops, but only Otis drank.

            “What are you working on?” Dad said, trying to start a conversation.

            “Just welding an old door on this here fridge so’s I can set it out front to sell.”

            “You make good money doing this?”

            “Enough to keep an old commode fulla beers all the time,” Otis said, flipping down his welding visor.  “Lemme just finish this up right quick.  Don’t go lookin’ at it, or you’ll fry your eyes all to hell.  Stupid son of mine is damn-near blind and it ain’t all from touching himself down below, if you know what I mean?  He’d watch me weld all day long if I didn’t scare him off.”

            Otis finished up, rocked his visor back, and guzzled his beer.  He looked off in the distance, at nothing in particular.  Dad tried seeing what caught his interest, but there was nothing there.  Otis snapped back to attention and said, “So, that cousin of mine, Mary, around?”

            “Yeah,” Dad said.  “She’s in the house with her sister.”

            While Dad was reminded about the creepy twist in my family tree, I was walking the far end of the property with one of its more crooked branches: Daryl.  Their yard gave way to a large cluster of woods climbing up the side of a small mountain.  It would have been neat had Daryl not been there and had I not had the creepy feeling some toothless yokel might appear from behind a tree and begin an introduction with, “You sure got a purty mouth…” 

            “So what do you guys do around here for fun?” I said.

            “Dunno.  Ain’t much to do, ‘cept hunt an’ stuff.”

            I tried showing interest.  “That sounds cool.  I’ve never been hunting.”

            “Wanna go?”

            “Nah, we’re not staying long,” I said.  “We don’t have the time.” 

            I thought I’d be spared the hunt with my excuse, but I was wrong. 

            “Don’t take much time at all,” Daryl said, picking up a rock from a pile at the base of the tiny mountain.  Before I could ask him what he planned to do with it, he hurled it into the top of a tree—down fell a squirrel!  I was horrified and so was the squirrel; the initial hit didn’t kill it, but I could tell Daryl was used to hunting like that because he picked up a larger stone in both hands, ran over to the poor thing, and ended its life with a few savage blows to its head.  He picked it up by the tail and wandered my way.

            “Wanna learn to skin it?”

            “I’ll pass,” I said in horror.  “I think I hear my mom calling.”

            I ran all the way across the backyard—the length of a couple football fields—and  made my way around the side of the house, where I bumped into Debbie.

            “Oh, hi,” I said.

            “Howdy.” 

            She just stared at me, saying nothing.  I was hoping for some kind of ice breaker, even though I didn’t want to speak to her.  A pregnant hound dog wandered by, its breasts leaking milk that trailed behind in the dirt.

            “That your dog?” I said.

            “Yep.”

            It was like she could only speak in single words.

            “What’s her name?”

            “Buttercup,” she said.  “She’s a milkin’ hound.  You can tell by her titties.”

            I didn’t know what to say; I wanted to run all the way back to Jersey.  She wasn’t finished talking, though—perhaps she was proud she finally mastered the fine art of multiple-word sentences.  She was on a roll.

            “Wanna see my titties?” she said.

            I never loved my aunt more than when she yelled, “Y’all get in here if ya wanna eat!”  I ran faster than I’ve ever run in my life…all the way into the house with the tarpaper roof, to a table covered in an Appalachian Feast.

            My aunt set the table with paper plates—they looked used.  In the middle of the table was a green Tupperware bowl older than me, full of chunks of some kind of fried meat.  Having “been huntin’” with Daryl, I had an idea what kind of meat the bowl contained and my appetite fled from my stomach.  Each setting had a glass full of an off-colored milk.  I can only guess it came from Buttercup herself!

            “Damn, girl!” Uncle Otis said, coming in the front door.  “That squirrel sure smells good!”  I was hungry, but I was not about to allow fried squirrel and dog milk to enter my system.  For once, my family all agreed on something—when Aunt Margie looked at us and said, “Dig in!” we all replied, “We’ve eaten!”           

“Suit yerself,” Otis said.  “More chow for us!”  He looked into the living room and shouted, “You gonna eat with us, Paps?”

            I hadn’t noticed, but sitting in a rocking chair in the living room was an old man—Otis’s father. Paps was a frail husk; he looked like a discarded rag doll tossed on an old rocking chair for rustic atmosphere.  He could bathe a million times and never look clean, the result of years underground, working as a drillman in the mines.  His pores were packed with grime that would never let go. 

“You hearin’ me, Paps?” Otis said.  “Gonna eat?”

Paps said something no one but Otis seemed to understand.  When he spoke, it sounded like he was talking through a mouthful of marbles and molasses.  A rumbling rattle emitted from his chest, and he gurgled like a fancy coffee machine.  Every sentence ended in a coughing fit.  Black lung.

            “You sure, ol’ boy?  I’ll bring a plate to ya,” Otis said.  Between the heavy accent and his lung affliction, the only word I could make out from Paps was, “No.”  I guess when you can hardly breathe and it hurts to move, eating is not high on your list of priorities, even if it’s something as appetizing as fried squirrel and hound dog milk. 

I felt bad for Aunt Margie and Uncle Otis; even for Debbie and Daryl.  It’s easy to make fun of people like them, but as easy a target for ridicule as they can be, there was a sadness in that room—everyone waiting for the day Paps’s chest would percolate no more.  I remember the air in West Virginia filling my lungs on that trip; few places in my travels have I ever drawn as fresh a breath.  It seemed criminal that Paps couldn’t. 

I still hadn’t taken a seat and I was glad when Aunt Margie said, “Michael, I forgot to get the butter.  Can you go in the fridge and get it fer me?”  It gave me an excuse to stop thinking about how depressed I was becoming.

“Sure,” I said.

The fridge was one of Uncle Otis’s creations—his masterpiece.  The body was perhaps once an old, brown GE model from the late 60s or early 70s, but Uncle Otis had stripped it down, painted it with chrome spray paint, and worked it over with a steel wool pad, giving it a poorly-rendered brushed steel look.  The reason for such an effort?  The door!

Uncle Otis had found a discarded door to a genuine, honest-to-God, stainless steel gourmet kitchen refrigerator on one of his outings.  Uncle Otis had a talent for being able to fit the door from one brand of refrigerator to the body of another.  It looked like the door had seen better days, but it was clear Uncle Otis put his heart into repairing this one—he had buffed out the scratches as best he could, hammered the dents back out, and polished it, just like restoring an old car body.  That door was their prized possession, and to show their appreciation, they covered it in grease stains and passages from the Bible held in place with tacky magnets.

I opened the door; it was so heavy, it almost tipped the entire fridge over.  The interior of the refrigerator was pretty vacant, except for some raw meat in open Tupperware bowls, an empty bottle of catsup, and a waxy brick of butter I could only assume came from the same source as the milk: an old blue tick hound dog.    

When I closed the refrigerator door, I noticed a yellowed newspaper story from 1968 stuck to the door with a smiling watermelon magnet.  Reading the first two paragraphs, I finally found out how my grandfather had died, and why Mom didn’t like discussing his death.

REOPENING TOMB FOR 78 MEN

WASHINGTON (AP) – Slowly, agonizingly slowly

for the relatives of the 78 men whose bodies lie below,

the seared walls of Mountaineer Coal Co’s No. 9 mine

are cooling off.

And as steel bits chew through the West Virginia

mountain shielding the shafts and tunnels, officials

prepare the plans to enter the mine for the recovery

expedition and the first step in resuming digging.

I don’t know why I did it—perhaps it was a way, in my mind, to have a piece of the grandfather I never knew—but I took the article from the fridge and shoved it deep into my pocket.  I felt like I was stealing a lot more than just a piece of old newsprint, but I also felt I deserved it; after all, Mom and Aunt Margie had known the man—I could only wonder what he was like. 

            I brought the plate of butter to the table and set it down.

            “Y’all gonna at least sit down with us?” Uncle Otis said, taking a seat at the head of the table.  I sat down and looked at hound’s milk in a Dukes of Hazzard glass Dad kept eyeing.  The house was full of little gems in my father’s mind: plastic and glass drinkware from such silver screen classics as Smokey and the Bandit, to small screen classics like Battlestar Galactica.  Daryl, who rushed to the table only after tossing the dead squirrel in the sink (but not washing his hands), drank from a plastic Kool-Aid Man mug I know my father was looking for.  From a tacky lamp made from a conch shell my grandmother gave my aunt after a trip to Florida, to a shellacked frog dressed in tiny overalls and holding a little banjo, I knew my old man was trying to figure out the best way to buy every tacky thing they owned and get it into the Inferno without Mom noticing.

            I watched my aunt, uncle, and two cousins make short work of their lunch.  They maybe had twenty teeth between the four of them, but the teeth they did have seemed made to shred gristly squirrel meat into small enough pieces to swallow when chased to their stomachs with warm dog milk.  Watching them, I never wanted to eat again!  They wolfed everything down as though they hadn’t eaten in weeks (a distinct possibility)—they made my family’s eating habits seem the epitome of civilized behavior.

            When they were finished, Aunt Margie pointed toward the sink and said,“Ya sure y’all ain’t hungry?  It won’t take but a second to skin that critter up an’ fry it fer ya.”

            “We’re sure!” we all said in unison, like the twins.

            “What about your dog?  We have some table scraps?”  Lucky wouldn’t even touch their lunch, and he was known to dig in Mom’s flower garden and eat poop left there by neighborhood cats.

            Uncle Otis wanted us to “sit just a spell,” but Dad insisted we had a schedule to keep.  We packed Aunt Margie’s things into the back of the Inferno and the twins climbed in the back with all our belongings, not even saying goodbye to Uncle Otis or our cousins.  No one seemed to care, though; not many people felt comfortable around Olivia and Elvis. 

            Dad made one more quick trip to the back of the car as Mom said goodbye to Uncle Otis.  I saw him set a box in the back and take a quick peek inside.  He pulled out the Kool-Aid Man mug and smiled.  When Uncle Otis was done giving Mom a hug that was obviously a bit too friendly and bothered her, I saw him slide a wad of bills from his pocket and thumb through them.  Dad amazed me—he was a pro at buying things right under people’s noses, a handy talent to have when you’re married to someone like Mom, who criticized your every purchase, even though her own spending habits were questionable at best, too.  For Uncle Otis, I’m guessing it was a bigger payoff than if he sold every appliance and beat up car in the yard; I’m sure old toilets overflowed with cold beer and ice later that evening.

We piled into the Inferno while Otis shouted, “Y’all take care, now!  An’ don’t go fallin’ in that canyon, ya hear?!”

            We all shouted “Bye!” but Otis wasn’t done. 

            “An’ when you bring my old lady back, be sure to leave some room fer lunch!” Dad waved politely and put carin gear.

* * *

Surf music plays. A male voice says:

Thank you so much for listening to Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors–it really means a lot to me.

Theme music is provided by Belgium’s best surf band, Pirato Ketchup.

And if you want to know a little bit more about me and the other things I do, check out ChristopherGronlund.com.

[Listen]

Surf music plays. A male voice says:

Christopher Gronlund presents Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors. Read by me, the author, Christopher Gronlund.

CHAPTER FIVE

“The Genetic Puddle From Whence I Crawled”

            We pulled off the interstate, and soon four lane highways turned into narrow two-lane roads as we made our way into the hills.  The narrow roads gave way to a dirt road Dad turned onto and carefully navigated.  There were deep ruts and holes cut by past storms everywhere—it looked more like the practice grounds for an army artillery unit, than a trail leading up to a residence.  

            “Hey, kids!  Look up there!” Dad said, pointing at a treetop where a large bird was roosting.  “A red-tailed hawk!” 

As we chugged up the trail, careful not to fall into craters along the way, the hawk took off, annoyed by the occasional revving of the engine as Dad maneuvered the Inferno from one pothole to another.  Further up, we saw a white-tailed deer sprint toward the woods and leap into the trees to safety.

            “Isn’t that great?” Dad said.  I think I was the only one impressed.  I loved seeing all kinds of different animals on our trips: bald eagles in the Northwest, armadillos in Texas, alligators in Florida and Louisiana, roadrunners in New Mexico, and the moose we once saw in a marsh on a trip to Minnesota.  Even more common animals, like hawks and deer, were a welcome sight.  We had plenty of wildlife back home in Jersey, but right in Atlantic City—aside from some birds—all we had were rats.

            “It’s just a deer and a bird, James,” Mom said, petting Lucky.  “They’re nothing compared to Lucky.  Isn’t that right, Lucky-Boy?”  The little dog, which reminded me of one of those rats back home, vibrated with excitement.

I let Dad know I at least liked seeing animals in the wild.  “That’s cool, Dad.  Thanks for pointing out the hawk.”

Even though I had to put up with Mom and the twins, I always considered myself fortunate to have seen so much of the country by the time I was thirteen.  We really had been just about everywhere in the lower forty-eight states on Dad’s trips.  I appreciated the geography of each area, the subtle things that made each section of the country different and special.  West Virginia may get a bad rap, but it’s a gorgeous state.  The mountains roll on and on and never seem to end.  All the wildlife, the wildflowers—I thought Aunt Margie was lucky to live in such a pretty place…then I saw her house! 

The front yard was littered with old, mismatched appliances and beat-up, rusty cars, all with FOR SALE signs on them.  Suddenly a yard full of pink lawn flamingos didn’t seem so tacky.  If it was a piece of scrap metal that once drove, cleaned clothes, or kept beer cans chilled, it was for sale in Aunt Margie’s front yard. 

When I finally caught sight of the house, I was surprised it wasn’t up on blocks, like most of the cars scattered about the property.  Calling it a house is giving it too much credit—shack might even be too kind.  It looked liked a gigantic fort built from scrap lumber and tar paper by clumsy kids.  The only things giving a hint people actually lived inside was the coal bin beneath the front porch and a big TV antennae on the roof.  I’m sure one good shove would have been all it took to bring the whole place down.  It suddenly dawned on me looking at that shack on the side of the hill: I was related to Hee Haw!

Outside my immediate family, Grandma, and Aunt Margie, I didn’t know much about my relatives.  Dad’s side was pretty normal—at least this is what I’ve gathered from hearing his stories; my grandparents died before I was born.  Dad’s mother and father lived on a farm outside Topeka, Kansas and were as Whitebread America as they come: Grandma baked pies and cleaned house while Grandpa took care of the fields and talked a lot about “the good ol’ days.”  They were a tight-knit family and supported Dad’s dreams.  Dad was an only child, and even though Grandpa needed him around the farm, when Dad decided to head out and see the world, my grandparents supported him.  When his writing career never took off, they didn’t say, “See, we told you so;” they encouraged him to keep trying.  When he gave up the dream to move to New Jersey to be with Mom and sell insurance policies, they gave him money and their blessings.  Dad was pretty normal, except for one thing when he was growing up: he thought he was Superman.

He didn’t just pretend to be Superman like many kids—he was convinced that just like the genuine article, he crash landed in a field in the Midwest after his birth parents placed him in a ship and sent him light years across galaxies to the safety of Earth.  He was convinced that one day his “earth father” would take him out to the barn, show him the ship he arrived in and the spot where he crashed, and his life would never be the same again.  His mother would make a costume from the blankets from his home planet that were found in his ship, and he would leave Kansas to fight crime not just in the big city, but all over the world, making the planet safe for mankind.

Even after an episode resulting in injury, he still held on to his belief that he was Kal-El, the super kid from another planet.  When he was ten, he tied a red tablecloth around his neck and climbed out his bedroom window, onto the overhang that kept the front porch safe and dry during summer storms.  He took a few deep breaths and ran as fast as he could toward the edge, jumping with all his might before going over, throwing his arms out in front of him for even more power.  He fell like a stone—straight into the dirt below where he broke his nose, knocked out four teeth, and broke two ribs.  For most children that would be proof enough that he was powerless, but it only convinced Dad to try harder.  He was more like Wile E. Coyote than Superman.

He was convinced a stress-inducing event would bring out his super powers when puberty hit.  He tried racing trains (almost getting hit twice!), and took running leaps at the barn, convinced his powers would suddenly kick in and he’d fly over the weathervane atop the roof.  He got a lot of concussions and facial lacerations, instead.  He ordered the Charles Atlas system from a comic book, going from a ninety-seven pound weakling, to Topeka’s most perfectly developed teen, but the superpowers never came.  When he finally accepted that he was, in fact, born of terrestrial parents and was little more than a dreamer trapped in the middle of nowhere, depression set in and he decided the best way to put it to rest would be by seeing the world.  That’s when he packed his bags and went off across America to find who he really was.

I’m glad Dad was a weird kid—I think growing up convinced he was the Man of Steel drove him to think big.  Most of those big dreams never came true, but he at least gave them a try, which is more than most people can say.  While he never saved the world from evil—while he never jumped into a phone booth to change into costume and fly off to save the day—to me, he was still Superman. 

Mom’s side of the family is where the real fun begins.  Her side is chock full of everything from stage magicians, to backwater hillbillies!  The only people I really knew on my mom’s side of the family were Grandma and Aunt Margie.  I knew my grandmother very well; she came for visits a couple times a year, and even when she was traveling, she always called every Sunday to chat with Mom.  Aunt Margie came for visits now and then (either my Dad paid for her to come out East, or my grandmother paid).  I always knew Aunt Margie was—for lack of a nicer way to put it—a backwards hick, but seeing where she came from drove that point home.

Aunt Margie always reminded me of a cow—I mean that in a good way.  She had huge, brown eyes like a cow, and a kindness and calm that went to her very core; a strange, almost Zen-like aura.  Like a cow, she had a faraway look about her, always deep in thought about not much at all.  She was her father’s favorite daughter, and I always got the impression Mom was jealous, not because she wasn’t as loved as Aunt Margie, but because—in Mom’s mind—everything between her and Aunt Margie was a competition and it was the one area Mom knew Aunt Margie had an edge.  There was no denying my grandfather liked Aunt Margie better; they were very similar. 

I always wondered about my grandfather growing up.  Mom spoke of Grandpa in the past tense for as long as I can remember—all I knew about him was he died about a year before I was born.  If I asked Mom to tell me about him, she’d say, “Your grandfather was a coalminer,” as though that explained everything.

Grandma met my grandfather when she was sixteen.  By the time she was seventeen, she had given birth to fraternal twins: Mom and Aunt Margie.  I figured my grandfather had to be a special guy to have married a woman as neat as my grandmother.  Years later, I found out they were never married; in fact, they had never even lived together or spent more than an evening in each other’s company.  My grandfather was little more than a horny teenager working in a coalmine who happened to win the affections of my grandmother one evening during a chance encounter.

Some family history: my great grandfather (Grandma’s father), was a magician based out of Atlantic City (The Great Gazpacho—he thought it was a catchy name; he didn’t realize he had named himself after soup).  He trained Grandma to be his assistant and the two traveled all over the country doing their act (the first time he took Grandma to the Grand Canyon was on a drive to LA, where he was hoping for a chance to break into movies—it never worked out).  My great-grandmother died giving birth to Grandma; my great-grandfather was a single father in a time raising children was still considered “women’s work.”  On a trip to Chicago in 1945, he decided to take the “scenic route” and show my grandmother the mountains—this route took him through West Virginia, where his car broke down not too far from Clarksburg.   

While waiting around the garage to have the car repaired, my grandmother met Earl Webb, who was stopping by to say hi to his friend, Bertham, a mechanic at the shop.  I’ve only seen one picture of my grandfather, an image of him standing with a group of coalminers.  In the photo, Grandpa is standing in the center of a group of hollow-looking men leaning on shovels, all wearing head lamps like big, psychic third eyes allowing them to see in the dark.  Looking at their blank stares made me think something was taken from them, something important from deep inside them that they all missed dearly.  Grandpa, though, was smiling, his arms wrapped around the two men flanking him, both looking proud to know him and stand in his presence.  It’s an old black and white photo, but Grandpa’s ice-blue eyes shine through the monochrome image and the grit covering his face.  I was amazed a human could get so dirty: every nook and wrinkle in his face full of soot, the ridges in his knuckles black with coal dust.  I guess he cleaned up well, or Grandma didn’t mind getting dirty.

He was fascinated with my grandmother because she was from “the big city,” and she was fascinated with him because he wasn’t.  By the time the car was repaired, my great-grandfather thought it was too late to head back out on the road and decided to spend the night in town.  Grandma and Earl made plans to meet later that evening; one thing led to another, and they did everything parents tell their children not to do before marriage.  The following morning, Earl showed my grandmother where he lived and gave her a piece of coal to remember him by, but that wasn’t all he gave her.  For the next nine months, she carried around more than just the memory of Earl Webb wherever she went.

When Grandma began showing signs of the pregnancy, she knew who the father was right away.  She may have been loose that evening in West Virginia, but she was no floozy—Earl Webb was the only man she ever allowed to know her in such a manner.  As Mom and Aunt Margie grew in her belly, she could no longer contort and fit inside secret compartments in magic boxes, and not many crowds wanted to see a pregnant girl in a tight outfit keep trying.  With no assistant, my great-grandfather’s act went belly up and he turned to his weakness for making money: gambling (at least I know where my mother gets it).  He spent all his time at Garden State Park, betting on horses, and before he knew it, he was in over his head, owing money he didn’t have to people you don’t want knowing your name.  They found his body in an alley not too far from the track.

With her father gone, Grandma had no choice but take odd jobs to make ends meet.  She did everything from selling concessions on the boardwalk, to housekeeping duties at the Chalfonte-Haddon Hall Racquet Club on the fifteenth floor of the famous hotel.  She sold tickets to shows, and even tried doing her own magic act, but no one wanted to hire a woman about to bear something illegitimate.  She did everything she could to earn a buck, right up until things changed inside her and she knew something big was about to happen.

She bought a bus ticket to West Virginia, making it to Clarksburg on Christmas Eve.  As she neared town, her contractions hit hard and it was just a matter of time before babies came into the picture.  The bus driver, noticing she was in pain and about to deliver, offered help, but she gritted her teeth and told him to keep driving.  When she reached her stop, the driver offered help again, but Grandma told him it was her problem, not his.  With a smile, she let him know the sentiment was appreciated, then she stepped from the warm bus into the bitter, snowy night.  As the bus pulled away, her water broke, spilling onto the surface of Highway 50.  With a blanket slung over her left shoulder and her suitcase in her right hand, she trudged off into the woods where she and Earl Webb had their fling nine months prior, and gave birth to my mother and aunt on the very spot where they were conceived.

She didn’t rest long before cleaning them up, swaddling them in the cleaner part of the blanket where they were delivered, and taking them to Earl Webb’s house.  She crept up to the front porch, tucked Mom and Aunt Margie in an opened suitcase, then knocked on the door and ran for the tree line where she hid to make sure someone answered.  When lights came on in the house and the front door opened, she made her way back to the highway to thumb a ride out West.  I don’t know if the Webbs could even read the note she left behind, but Mom still has it:

Dear Earl Webb,

You may not remember me, but we met about nine months ago when my father’s car broke down in town and we spent the night.  That evening, you and I came together in a union that resulted in the birth of these two precious girls.  I am not abandoning them, just asking that you care for them for the time being—I have every intention to provide for them. 

Unfortunately, the line of work I’m involved with calls for a lot of traveling, and raising two girls on the road is no life for growing children.  I will mail money to contribute to their support every two weeks—please consider the included funds my contribution until I can get on my feet.  When I am in a more stable position and able to provide for them, I will return and we can discuss their future.

Sincerely,

June Mangione

P.S.  The baby on your right is named Mary Catherine, and the one on the left is Margaret Rose.

I wonder what the Webbs thought, receiving such a package on Christmas Eve; my mom and Aunt Margie sitting there like little gifts.  For all I know, they may have thought they were good eatin’.  Grandma also left a fistful of cash—probably more than the Webbs had ever seen in one place at any given time.  But most of all I wonder what Earl’s face must have looked like seeing something he gave to Grandma come full circle and return to him late one Christmas Eve. 

            Grandma stuck up to her end of the bargain, sending bi-weekly support payments when she landed a gig as a magician’s assistant in California.  She later broke off and did her own act, touring nightclubs and learning ventriloquism on the side.  Six years later, she was back on the East Coast, doing shows in Atlantic City, where she had her own place.  She was finally ready to return to West Virginia, to discuss Mom and Aunt Margie’s future with the Webbs.   

             It had to be very confusing for a six year old; the mother you never knew coming out of nowhere, to see if you wanted to go live with her in the big city.   The Webbs could hardly afford to feed one child, let alone the pair, but Aunt Margie wanted to stay in the hills.  Mom, however—even at such a young age—had decided she was destined for far better than a life in Appalachia, and was ready to leave.  She took Grandma’s last name and went off to live far from the hills.   

When you think about it, Mom’s life was actually pretty neat: born behind a bus stop in the hills, raised by hillbillies in the impressionable years, and later, a strong-willed, female magician.  Still, her childhood had to skew things somewhat; my mother was far from normal, and when you factored Dad into the equation, things became even stranger.  But no matter how weird my immediate family could be, I was about to see we were far from backwards…

* * *

Surf music plays. A male voice says:

Thank you so much for listening to Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors–it really means a lot to me.

Theme music is provided by Belgium’s best surf band, Pirato Ketchup.

And if you want to know a little bit more about me and the other things I do, check out ChristopherGronlund.com.