Love Songs: The Wrong Note - A Collection of Short Stories

Our Neck of the Woods

For all she knew, they'd never see the likes of that again.

Newby, who was nine years old and prone to let his mind wander where angels feared to tread, stuck out his tongue and crossed his eyes.

"You are such a twit," the little girl said. "I don't care if mama says you are my brother. I still say that the whores in the bottoms birthed you."

Newby's mouth formed a perfect O.

"Whore," he whispered, like some solemn oath had been blasphemed. "You said whore."

"Well," said the little girl, "I only said it once. You, on the other hand, have managed to say it and then repeat it."

"I'm tellin' mama," he said.

"Go ahead, you tattler. But when I tell mama what you've done, you'll get double trouble," she said, letting her voice get low and exaggerating the pronunciation of the tail end of the threat.

It had the desired effect. Newby's eyes looked like dinner plates in his sockets.

Fear or dread. She could never figure out which was worst, but in her brother's case, it didn't matter. The little fart wouldn't breathe a word to anyone. She was certain.

"You have the attention span of a gnat," she said.

"Huh?"

Newby was smiling and simultaneously twisting a lock of red hair on the side of his head until the little girl thought he'd break it off in an ugly clump. She imagined it falling to the ground, fuzzing his black leather shoes like a winter sweater. The red against the black would look good, she decided.

The summer heat bore down on them, threatening to bore holes in the top of both their skulls. She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand and wondered if her cheeks were as red as Newby's. She was a natural blonde, so cherry cheeks might not be so bad, she mused. In Newby's case, they only brought out his freckles. About a gazillion of them!

Her mind wandered for an instant. She pictured the dazzling ray of white light spinning like a drill and piercing the center of her little brother's red head. Her nostrils twitched at the pungent smell of burning hair. Newby stood stick still, his eyes staring straight ahead. She heard the sizzle of brain cells frying and congealing together.

"Good," she mumbled. Maybe it would fuse whatever loose wires were flopping around in that empty head and give him some sense.

Her fist punched the spindle he called an arm.

"Whatcha' do that for? I ain't doin' nuthin."

"Let's get in the shade," she said. "There's a spring right over in the edge of them woods."

"There ain't so," said Newby.

She grabbed his hand and half-dragged, half-pulled him toward the cooler shadows of purple and gray.

"You don't know everything," she said, placing her hands on her hips and pointing to the water source nearby.

"Well, I'll be," said Newby. "You been holdin' out on me."

"I sure have," she said, cupping her hand into the liquid coolness and letting the water dribble down her chin.

Newby drank his fill and sat on a rock. His coloring was returning to normal. He looked around.

"I know where this goes," he said, pointing to a worn trail that disappeared deep into the woods.

"Newby! Wait!"

Too late. The little boy shot off like an arrow, silent and set on the path he had taken. She sighed. How so like the little turd to go off and leave her sitting on the root of the old oak. There was nothing to do but leave this little spot of coolness and make sure he didn't get lost or snake bitten or worse. Still, the shade was such a blessing that she couldn't help but linger a bit longer.