Book 4 excerpt

Book 4

 All the Queen's Horses  

Casey’s had a bit much to drink, but I couldn’t get the keys from her. Married thirty years and though she’s been gone most of them, there’s still no taking something away from her once she’s made up her mind! Kind of like that woman in Animal Farm.

We stagger along outside the bar to where my old Blazer’s parked. She’s three sheets to the wind... typical Casey.

Never the less, Queenie will be happy that her Mom’s home for her wedding at least. That after all of these years, we’ve sorted it out, put it back together. I don’t know how happy I am about it all. Casey’ll make nicey-wifey for a couple months, but then freedom and the grass is greener theory will drive her back out to the road. It’ll break my daughter’s heart again.

I try once more to get my keys back, and Casey protests, “I ain’t so fucked up, I ain’t so... oh wow ... Man I got another role. Gimmee. Gimmee the keys, Joel. I … gotta … I ain’t so fucked up I can’t... gimmee the keys...”

I try wrestling them away, but her false nails - metal tipped for coke use - dig into my arm. She thrives on hurting me ... on blood thirst. She’s like that vampire in that book Peyton Place, y’know.

I try one more time for the keys, but when her nails stop tearing my arm, her words shred my soul, “You ain’t takin’ my fuckin’ keys like you took my fuckin’ kids!”

People are walking towards us from the bar. Prying shadows prepare to take me down as a suspected wife-abuser or run of the mill mugger. We climb into the truck as quickly as she is able, considering I drank one shot of tequila to be courteous and she kindly polished off the rest of the bottle. Waste not want not … like the Ten Commandments say. Gotta love written religion!

We are speeding, and I know she’s drunk beyond belief because rather than her signature 100 mph she’s trying to be really careful and only going 85. It worries me when she slaps a hand over one of her eyes. She’s seeing double.

“Took my youth, my ass... my ass was thin. Screwed my career. You know... you know it was my kid... it was … you know I drive better when I’m …. Think I’m gonna puke … oh … My ass was so...” she rambles.

“Casey, pull over. I wanna drive. I think you need a break,” I begin, and she begins screeching like a banshee in that poem about Odysseus … the um … What’s the name? Icarus! Yeah, like that.

I am chattering nervously as she weaves in and out of lanes and just misses the guardrail again. I’m as terrified as Zeus was when the whale swallowed him in the Bible. Helluva case of indigestion that. Casey’s got one, too.

“I’ma puke... took my kids … stole my ass...”

“Watch out!” I grab the wheel and pull her back into the lane just missing the burger-joint that is inconveniently placed way too close to the sidewalk that she is attempting to drive on. She digs those coke nails into my arm screaming at the top of her lungs at cars as they pass, “Drivin’ here fucking thief. DRIVIN!”

“There’s a cop. Let me drive, Case! Watch it! WATCH!” I yank her arm across as we veer off of the highway ramp. The kids on the city bus will

thank me someday, not today … but you take what you can get.

She digs deeper, drawing more blood, and chokes out, “Sick!” I suppose it was her vomiting on my shoes that distracted me from the big rig we were driving straight into. ***