They pulled into the Pig’s parking lot, which was packed. So was the liquor store next door.
Shit. Billy hadn’t thought. First Friday of the month. Paycheck day and food stamp day. Easy to forget when the magic of direct deposit kept up with his VA money and settlement pay.
Billy winced at all the hate-filled bumper stickers and window decals. Strange how people could be friendly as can be, while still being hateful as hell toward most folks on the planet.
“You okay with this, Mal?” he asked, turning the key and waiting as the truck coughed and grumbled itself to sleep. Maybe they should’ve stayed home so he could clean the carburetor.
Malaya cocked her head and looked at him, almost smiling.
“I be okay, honey. So will you. Come, let us get done and get home.”
She opened the door and jumped out, landing without a sound, and started toward the store with her back straight and head held high. The setting sun sparked fire from her bracelets, spots of light dancing over the cars she walked past.
Damn. Billy couldn’t let her go in there alone.
What kind of husband would that make him?
He stepped out and caught up with Malaya easily enough. She took his hand and gave it a squeeze.
The automatic doors whooshed open and they went in. Billy’s gut clenched when the roar of a hundred conversations died. Every face turned their way, and most whipped back to something else.
He could feel their desire to stare though. Felt his anger and impatience with the home folks.
Reminded himself that most of them never got further from home than Gatlinburg or Myrtle Beach.
Miz Skeens, his old English teacher stopped on her way out, buggy loaded down with groceries.
“Hello William,” she said, beaming at him before she turned to Malaya.
“And-how-are-you, Mrs.-Holbrook?” she said, voice going up a couple-dozen decibels and slowing down to a crawl.
Malaya muttered something under her breath. Billy’d never picked up much Filipino, but it sounded like something that would start a fight.
“I am very fine, ma’am,” Malaya said, speaking softly. “Are your ears troubling you? I have a medicine—”
Billy took Malaya’s arm. “Mighty fine to see you, Miz Skeens, but we gotta get in there before the store’s wiped plumb clean.”
Miz Skeens Didn’t mean anything by it, Billy knew. She only meant to be friendly. But dang, Mal was family now, and had been here for over a year. Why couldn’t people pay attention?
They went up one aisle and down the next, Malaya driving the buggy while Billy did the reaching up and stooping down. Worcestershire sauce and Cajun rub for the venison, fish sauce and rice noodles for the palabok.
People greeted Billy, some remembered Mal. All followed him and his strange looking wife with their eyes. Billy could feel it.
But no one said anything ugly.
Billy smiled and nodded, nodded and smiled.
They were walking past the beer cooler when it happened.
“Why, hell. If it ain’t Billy and Missus Horblook!”
Dammit. Billy turned around and saw Silas Fleming and his brother Al. Both within a year or two of Billy’s own age, both dressed and acting like teenagers. T-shirts with the sleeves ripped off, faded jeans with the knees torn out, all topped with greasy mullets. A perfect pair to match the thirty-year-old blood-red Camaro that was Si’s pride and joy.
“You forget how to say Holbrook?” Billy said, stepping in front of Malaya.
“That’s how chinks say it, ain’t it?” Al said. He grinned, showing off ragged, blackened stumps instead of teeth.
“I say Holbrook,” Mal said. “I can perhaps teach you how to say correctly. And I am not Chinese, so am not a chink.”
“Damn, Al,” Si said, elbowing his younger brother. “She can talk English and everything. Didn’t know you could teach a chink—”
“Shut yer goddamn pie hole, Fleming,” Billy said, hands clenching into fists. “You treat my wife with respect, you hear me?”
“Or what,” Al said, sneering. “You’ll run off again? Just like you always done in school? Like when you went in the Air Force?”
Howard Blevins, the store manager, came hurrying over just as Billy shoved Al hard, a display of paper plates tumbling down around them.
Billy turned toward Si, fists raised, and…
Felt his knee go.
No pain, not yet.
But his right leg folded under him and Billy continued his spin all the way down.
“You boys knock that off!” Howard yelled. His face burned red as an overheated wood stove and sweat marked the pits of his white oxford shirt. “Go on, get out of here. I’ve called the police, they’ll be here in a couple of minutes. If you’re still here, I’ll press charges!”
“Sorry, Howard,” Billy said through gritted teeth, trying to pull himself up. “We’ll pay for our stuff and get gone.”
“Not you, Billy,” Howard said, grasping Billy’s hand, pulling him to his feet. “You and Malaya are more than welcome to take all the time you need. I’m talking to those two low-bred meth mouths.” He glared at the Fleming brothers.
“Hell, I hate this dump anyways,” Al said as he and Si sauntered toward the exit.
Billy thought they were sauntering pretty quickly. Probably had pockets full of packaged tooth rot and nose candy.
“I’m sorry about that,” Howard said. “Those two weren’t allowed in here already, but with the start of the month rush, I reckon no one saw ‘em come in.”
“That’s okay,” Billy said. “There’s no fixing stupid. And I’m sorry about the mess. I’ll help clean up.” He tried to put weight on his right foot. Sucked air through his teeth as he nearly fell again.
“You get yourself on home, Billy,” Howard said. “Get some ice on that knee. Better yet…”
Howard trotted down to the freezer cases, came back with a two pound bag of frozen store-brand peas.
“Here. On the house. Travis! Get over here, son!” Howard waved at a mountain-sized stock boy, a Deacons football shirt visible under his apron.
“Travis will help you out to your truck,” Howard said. “Me and your missus will take care of the groceries. Keep those peas on your knee, you hear?”
“Thanks, Howard,” Billy said as Travis pulled Billy’s arm over his shoulders. “Been a long time since All-State baseball, hasn’t it?”
Howard laughed, taking the buggy from Malaya and heading toward the checkout lanes.
“I’m a far better store manager than I ever was a shortstop. Get on home now. Me and Malaya will be out in no time.”
Billy let Travis help him out to the truck. Well, “let” wasn’t really the right word. No way he could’ve got there on his own without crutches.
They made it just as a deputy’s brown car pulled up to the store’s entrance.
“Aw, dang, Mr. Holbrook,” Travis said. “That’s a shitty thing for someone to do.”
Someone, two guesses who, had gouged Chink luver into the truck’s hood.