Kermit, Texas, 1982
10 Years Old
3,552 Days Before Killing Kurtis
“You’re so pretty, Buttercup,” Daddy says to me, brushing my hair out of my eyes. “You could sit on a fence and the birds would feed you.” Not a single day has gone by in my entire ten-year-old life that Daddy hasn’t said these words, or some variation of them, to me. He’s sitting on the edge of my cot, tucking me in for the night. Momma’s already passed out on her mattress down the hall, stinking of whiskey, as usual. “You’re the prettiest little girl in the whole wide world,” Daddy coos, emphasizing each word with a fingertip pressed to my forehead. “Never, ever settle for anything but the very best in this life, Buttercup. If someone would’ve given me that advice when I was ten, maybe my life would’ve turned out a whole lot differently.”
Does that mean he regrets having me, I wonder?
Daddy must see the look of worry in my eyes because he touches my cheek tenderly and says, “But I wouldn’t change a goddamned thing, Buttercup, ’cause the Lord gave me you. And you’re all I ever need to be happier than a tornado in a trailer park.”
I smile broadly.
“You deserve nothing but the best.”
Whenever Daddy makes the “Charlie Wilber’s Daughter’s Gonna Be Somebody” speech, which is often, I know it’s my cue to fist-pump the air as a sign of unwavering solidarity and shared vision—and I never miss my cue.
“Nothing but the best for Charlie Wilber’s Daughter,” I declare.
Yes, if I’ve heard it once, I’ve heard it a thousand times from Daddy: “Just ’cause Charlie Wilber got stuck living in a trailer with a drunk, soul-sucking, good-for-nothing wife who doesn’t have an ounce of class, doesn’t mean Charlie Wilber’s Daughter’s gonna follow him to hell. No sir, Charlie Wilber’s Daughter’s gonna get herself educated and be somebody.”
Daddy used to have big plans for himself, not just for his daughter—specifically, Daddy used to dream of becoming a world-famous mini-golf-course designer. But, sadly, things just didn’t work out as planned, thanks to the limitless supply of dumbasses in the world. “I used every penny of my inheritance from dear old Uncle Ray, may he rest in peace, to buy a premium piece of land right along Route 291—you know, that long stretch in the desert?—and I was gonna build the best mini-golf experience the world has ever seen.” But thanks to the Napoleon-types at the Department of Planning who were every one of ’em as dumb as a bag of hammers and just itching to lord over someone, Daddy’s mini-golf course designs got bogged down in red tape until he finally had to face the hard truth that he wasn’t ever gonna get out of Kermit, Texas—population eight hundred forty-three.
Whenever I look sad about how Daddy’s life maybe hasn’t turned out the way he always dreamed about, he quickly reassures me it’s all in God’s plan. “If a trip around the world cost a dollar, I couldn’t get to the Oklahoma line,” he always says. “But that’s okay, Buttercup, because my biggest invention in this life is just gonna have to be you.”
Right at this part of Daddy’s story, I usually suggest that maybe it’s not too late for Daddy’s dreams to still come true? “No, Buttercup,” Daddy always replies, “when I nailed the hottest chick in Winkler County at age seventeen, right behind the eighteenth hole at Walt’s Mini-Golf, I found out the trajectory of a man’s entire life can change with one little ejaculation.” Daddy always laughs at that punch line and I join him, even though I don’t know what a trajectory is. Or an ejaculation, for that matter.
When Daddy first heard about sixteen-year-old Momma’s unexpected bun in the oven, he rejoiced, believe it or not, because he instantly realized that the tadpole inside Momma’s belly was gonna deliver him his first-ever chance at happiness—an actual family he could love and call his own and shower with expensive gifts like gold-plated watches and modems and jetpack-backpacks that make you fly through the air like an astronaut. “I figured, heck, as long as I’m gettin’ started having kids so young, I might as well have twelve and create my own army for when we get nuked by the Russians.” Daddy always laughs when he says that last part about us getting nuked by the Russians, and I laugh, too, even though, honestly, it makes me feel as scared as a cat left behind at the dog pound.
Tonight’s bedtime routine is no different than every other night. After Daddy tells me how pretty I am and reminds me how the dumbasses of the world have thwarted him at every turn, he asks me about my day, just like he always does.
“Well,” I reply, “you know that scruffy little dog that lives with Mrs. Miller and her dopey little grandson in the trailer with the rusty screen door? Well, that crazy dog got out and was runnin’ around like a squirrel in a forest fire so I gave him some water on account of it being hotter than a fur coat in Marfa today and played with him for a while.” I sigh at the warm memory—I sure do love puppies and kitties and everything furry. “But after a while,” I continue, “I heard Mrs. Miller’s dopey grandson calling to him from their trailer, so I brought the little guy to him—and, gosh, that boy sure was grateful to get his dog back.” I blush, remembering how that little boy looked at me like I was pretty as a picture. “And, Daddy, that boy said I was the prettiest girl he’d ever seen in his whole dang life.”
“Well, of course, he did,” Daddy says. “There ain’t nobody prettier than you, Buttercup.”
I let out a long sigh. I know I should be happy to have made that dopey boy’s day by bringing his dog back to him (and, even more so, by being so dang pretty), but all I can think about is how I’ve always wanted a little puppy or kitty of my own so I won’t feel so dang lonely around here all the time. But we can’t have any kind of pet on account of Momma’s allergies.
Speak of the devil, Momma shuffles into the nearby kitchenette. She’s still wearing her waitress uniform from earlier and her hair looks like it’s been through a flood in a Fizzies factory.
Momma stares at Daddy and me for a minute, leaning against the counter and not saying a word, and we stare right back. Finally, Momma yawns so big I can see clear to the inside of her panties, grabs her whiskey bottle off the counter, and pours herself a tall one. When her glass is full and almost overflowing, she grunts like a mad monkey and shuffles back to the bedroom with her drink.
When Momma’s out of sight, Daddy and I bust a gut laughing.
“Damn,” Daddy says through his laughter, “she looks like she fell out the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down.”
I bring my hands up to my mouth to stifle my laughter, but it’s no use. Daddy’s just too funny.
“And drunk as a fiddler’s bitch to boot,” Daddy adds, still laughing, and I nod like a bobblehead doll. “Your momma sure has changed since I nailed her ten years ago behind hole eighteen. Back then, she was like a pearl in a fur cushion.”
“Poor Daddy,” I say. “Momma sure did pull the old switcheroo on you.”
“Ain’t that the truth.”
“It sure is.”
“And, holy hell, can that woman complain,” Daddy says.
“That woman would complain if Jesus Christ himself came down and handed her a five-dollar bill.”
Daddy throws his head back and guffaws. “Yes, indeed, I reckon she would.”
I beam at him. Making Daddy bust a gut from laughing is my favorite thing.
When Daddy finally gathers his senses and wipes the laughing-tears from his eyes, he gazes at me like I’m a snow cone on a summer day. I know he’s thinking “we’re just two peas in a pod,” and it makes my heart sing a happy tune.
“So, what’d you read for your education today?” Daddy asks.
Since Daddy has taken it upon himself to homeschool me, I usually tear through an entire book in a day. Even though Daddy’s hardly ever around during the day to look after my education, he always makes sure to check on my progress every night at bedtime (which is more than I can say about Momma).
“Today’s book was In Cold Blood,” I answer.
Daddy’s face perks up. “Ah, Truman Capote. That’s a good one, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you know that book single-handedly created the entire ‘true-crime’ genre?”
I shake my head.
“Well, if you like that one,” Daddy says, “then let’s have you read Helter Skelter next.”
I nod enthusiastically, though I’ve never heard of that book. I like the title, though—it sounds kinda like “higgledy-piggledy.”
“I want you to walk on down to the library tomorrow and get it,” Daddy says.
“I will, Daddy.”
“You’ve always gotta keep educating yourself, Buttercup.”
I nod. “Yes, sir.”
“It’s up to you to maximize that big ol’ brain of yours—to fill it with big thinking instead of standardized, small-minded crap.”
I nod again and scrunch up my face to show him just how carefully I’m listening to what he’s telling me. “Yes, Daddy.”
“That’s why I’m homeschooling you. Because the schools are all about telling you what you can and can’t do and brainwashing you to think like everyone else. But you and me, we’re not like everyone else. How do you think I’ve learned anything of any value whatsoever?”
“You taught yourself.”
“Damn straight I did. I’ve never needed some small-minded teacher stuck in a classroom to tell me how to do something. If a teacher could invent a teleportation configuration system or design the world’s greatest mini-golf course, don’t you think that’s exactly what he’d be doing, and not sitting around in a classroom handing out multiple-choice tests?”
I nod and say, “Pfft” so Daddy knows I’m nothing like any ol’ small-minded teacher sitting in a classroom handing out multiple-choice tests.
“You can do anything you set your mind to, anything at all.”
“I sure can, Daddy.”
“Never let anyone tell you what you can and can’t do.”
“I won’t, Daddy.”
There’s a groan from the back room. “Charlie!” Momma groans. “Bring me the bottle.” Daddy rolls his eyes at me, and I roll mine back at him. Momma is our mutual cross to bear. When Daddy gets up to tend to Momma, I roll over onto my side with a huge smile on my face. I’m the luckiest girl in the world to have such a handsome and smart daddy who loves me so dang much.