Twink was making his daily perimeter check.
Just as Maisie had taught him. That was a long time ago. He often wondered what it was like for her after she’d crossed over. Still, he'd enjoyed a good life since then. And now? Why 'twas the start of another fine, sultry day at Gwen’s little dairy farm in Riley River Valley.
Rumble, rumble. Choke. Choke. Whine. Clunk. Pop. Bang.
The ramshackle, late-fifties model sedan screeched to a rolling stop. It’s windows were open to let in what little breeze (even as hot as that bit of air was) might could ease the morning swelter.
“Must be bad brakes,” said the driver. Her newly tinted, rolled, teased, combed out, and sprayed pale blonde hair was tied up in a semi-new silk scarf. Her best Sunday frock and pumps had seen better days. She flicked her half-finished cigarette through the open window vent. It sizzled on the still dew-laden dirt road.
"What's taking you so long?" She freshened her lipstick, and jammed the tube inside her clutch purse. Not one to take life as it comes, she clicked her finger nails on the steering wheel. "What are you doing back there now? Didn't you take care that business before we packed up?"
“Quiet, Woman,” said the passenger. "The neighbors down yonder will hear us. Can’t ya make this rattle-trap stop backfiring? It's blowing our cover."
“I told you, Dawson. We can fix it once we get to Cousin Franklin’s place. And quit calling me ‘Woman’.”
“Like we’ll really make it all the way to Birmingham from down here,' he said. "You did say there’s no swamp critters up that way, right? And Franklin’s got a good air conditioner in the trailer? Can’t wait to leave this humidity behind.”
“For someone worried about us being heard, and all,” she said, “you’re awful chatty right now.”
“Hush, Blanche,” he said. He was half-turned around, and just now finished closing up the little box that was half-on and half-off the backseat, positioned for this last minute fixing. A pair of emerald eyes glared at him from the seat next to the box. She switched her tail at him.
He couldn't fool her if he tried.
Dawson picked up the box, leaving his scolding cat on the backseat. She still switched her tail. He scooted back around and leaned almost all the way out the open window.
He kissed the box, got a good foot ball grip on it, and flung it wide over the side of the hill. He targeted the softest spot he could make out from where they parked.
Success. It landed on a bush half way down the hill.
It clattered and rolled on down toward the little farmhouse.
Gwen's was a little homestead that had, before Blanche's old bomb showed up, been peacefully nestled amid a semi-circle of scrub oak, palmettos, and two graceful Magnolia trees. That little slice of heaven on earth had been alive with the music of countless country creatures.
And normally the house was indiscernible from the road. But Dawson had spotted it, and told Blanche to stop. Which she had done as best she could with her brakes almost shot.
The two magnolias reached skyward on either side of the wide front veranda. Plate-sized white blossoms wafted their perfume all the way up to Dawson's open window. The scent reminded him of his old mother.
He better not think of her now, this was hard enough.
Now, the box was gone, and he could only hope for the best.
But he said nothing more about it. Not to himself. Not to her, who hissed at him from the back seat. And certainly not to Blanche.
“What are you waiting for, Woman?” he said. He got up off his seat to pull out a kerchief, and pretended to wipe off sweat. Blew his nose too. There, that was done.
“Let ‘er rip,” he said. “Hooah. We’re on to better things. Yes we are.”
He hunched up from his seat so he could again reach his back jean pocket and stuff his hankie inside it.
Throwing caution to the wind, Blanche slammed her foot on the gas, with poor Dawson barely settled back down in his seat. With one free hand he grabbed the hand-strap on the roll bar above the side window just in time to brace himself. For the old car had come back to life with startling vigor.
They took off with a bang, a few more pops, then a decided roar.
Trails of black smoke and thick dust clouds covered their narrow escape.
The hush that had temporarily come over the crickets, birds and frogs was still palpable. It had been so, from the moment the convertible showed up. And it had remained quiet, even while the unlikely couple enacted this last little chore of theirs, before leaving Riley River Ridge with whatever hopes and dreams they could muster.
Normally ‘visitors’ don’t just happen-by this side of Okefenokee.
The quiet was like nature itself had been holding its collective breath. But finally, the usual creature-staccato chirped, then fully sang back to normal. As if to celebrate the fact that the intruders had gone.
By now, Blanche and Dawson had turned on over to the county road and were headed out toward US301. But Dawson already regretted pitching his little box like that.
Twink, not as fast as he once was, puffed up the steep incline.
“Oh, no,” said a voice. It came from inside the box, which itself continued to thump and roll down the berm.
“No, no,” said another voice. The box was gaining momentum and speed.
“Ouch, you’re crushing me.”
“You’re crushing me.”
“What’s happening?”
“Where’s Mom?”
“Dizzy.”
“Make it stop,”
The small box careened down the berm.
Until Twink put out a paw and stopped it.
Sniff. Sniff.
“What’s that?”
“Shush.”
“No, you shush.”
Bark?
Twink gently tugged on a loose strip of packing tape, half-attached to the box. He sneezed. Then he sneezed again, this time louder.
Silence from inside the box.
“Better show this to Gwen,” thought Twink.
He took a better grip with his teeth and pulled the box behind him. Fortunately home wasn’t that far now. One of the box-inhabitants repeatedly punched its sides. From inside.
Smack.
“Ouch. You just hit me.”
“Sorry. Trying to get us out of here.”
Stay tuned for Part 2 of 2, HARD KNOCKS and Soft Landings, to learn more about that mysterious box and its unhappy dwellers.
Story © by KT Fabler - more below: