Mary alice dixon mooning girls in shower

Bride of Wild

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

“Clementine Quackenbush, you been messing in my gun closet again?” He kicked at the crabgrass.

“No, sir.” I lie good, specially for a girl’s just turned ten.

I’d thrown them bullets of his in the trailer park trash bin while he slept off last night’s Wild Turkey. He’d been threatening Mama something awful since Fort Mill Truckers fired him three months back.

Mary alice dixon mooning girls in shower

Even with Mama bringing home her cotton mill paycheck every week, 1963 was fixing to be a piss bad year for us. Daddy’s bullets might make it a whole lot worse. Folks didn’t call him Mad Dog Quackenbush for nothing.

Daddy lived dirt-scrabble ragged all his 35 years though his hitting arm still had a young fella’s punch.

Mama and me both experienced it real regular. M