Edward Lee Read Free Page B

Daddy’s Golden Delcious trees, all ‘cos a few branches had growed over the fence and were hangin’ over the Reid line. Daddy’d about had a fit. But Travis remembert that well, and when he were drivin’ the pickup ‘round, lookin’ fer a splittail ta snatch, thar she was. He recalled fairly well, Iree Reid was her name, and though she’d been a might younger last time Travis eyed her, there weren’t no foolin’ him now, not with that shiny blonde hair or them big milkers stickin’ out the front of her peached-colored halter. She were lopin’ barefoot down the Old Governor’s Bridge Road, and a’corse, bein’ the gentleman he was, Travis pulled over an’ offered her a ride home.

    “Why’s, you’re Travis Clyde Tuckton, ain;t ya!” she drawled her verbal celebration once she slid her purdy cut-offed jeaned backside inta the truck. “Why’s I remember ya from way back when.” Her purdy freckly face blushed a bit. “Don’t mind tellin’ ya now, I kinda had a fixin’ for ya.”

    “Well I gots ta be honest, Iree,” Travis admitted, “Fore I got my butt throwed inta the county poky, I hadda mighty fixin’ on you too!”

    “Ya did !”

    Travis slammed his big knuckly fist fight smack-dab inta her forehead, and her little lights went right out. then, pickup still rumblin’, he tied her up but good, gagged her, and stuffed her curvy skinny body down inta the footwell. Next thing he knowed, he was carryin’ her in like a sack of farm feed inta Grandpap’s work room, and took ta settin’ her down on the big cherrywood table Grandpap made boots on.

    “One of them dirt-eatin’ blondie Reids!” Grandpap exalted. “Good job, Travis! Now tie her down on the table and git them silly, whory clothes off her.”

    Travis saw and didn’t even have ta be tolt, ‘cos there was eye-hooks screwed inta each corner’a the table. Little Iree was still out fer the count, so Travis cut her ropes and tied her right back down to the table, on her back, and her head hangin’ over the table edge.

    “What I do next, Grandpap?”

    Grandpap tittered, stroked his whiskers, and wheeled right up ta the table. In one crabbed hand, though, he gripped the power drill, which were fitted with a 3-inch hole saw.
    “Travis, it’s sorta like anything, anything takes practice, ya know. Like Thomas down the roadside bar? that ol’ coot kin play the washboard just as pretty as you please, and Conga Powers, boy, he kin git ta pickin’ the banja like nobody’s business. Know why, son?”

    The calculative powerhouse that was Travis’ mind ticked right away. “Practice?” he guessed.

    “S’right, boy. Practice. And as far as cuttin’ open a splittail’s coconut goes, I gots a lotta practice, I kin tell ya. Me an’ yer daddy, see — and God rest his soul — we’se got ta be the best head-humpers from here ta New Orleens.”

    And with that fine testimony Grandpap squeezed the drill’s trigger, paused, then applied it to the top of Iree Reid’s purdy blond head.

    Made quite a racket, it did, an’ travis’ nose twitched at the smell’a burnin’ hair’n bone, but it weren’t another few more seconds ‘fore Grandpap set down the drill.

    “Yessir, a good ‘un,” he declared, and wheeled right up, inspectin’ his job. “See that, Travis? What I done, see, is I cut me a perfect hole in the top’a her noggin. See?”

    Travis leaned over, squinting. “Yeah, Grandpap. I see.” And he also seed the perfect circle’a bone still wedged in the hole-saw. “So what’s now?”

    “Just ya watch.”

    Travis, curious as he were, just clammed up and watched Grandpap, very adroitly now, push Iree’s blonde hair back, to show the fresh-cut hole more clear. Blood was drippin’ a little onta the floor.

    Then Grandpap picked up a knife.

    “What’cha — what’cha gonna do with that, Grandpap?”

    Watch, boy. Gotta make a slit, fer yer pecker.”

     
    Later it would occur to Travis that this made sense.