Chapter 21
I swear to God, if I see one more cornhusk doll, I’m going to lose my fucking mind. I don’t know why the hell Pete’s little hellhound daughter insists on leaving them at my doorstep, but I’ve had enough. It’s bordering on harassment.
This morning’s offering, as with yestermorning's—and the other thirteen mornings I’ve spent stuck in this stupid shithole of a village—is decorated in a dress made of festive leaves.
Reds and oranges and beautiful shades of brown.
For hair, the little girl must have cut another tuft of fur from her pet calico, Kitty the Cat, and used tree sap to secure it.
If I get one single smidge of sap on my fingers, I’ll struggle for days.
It’s happened a few times, and it’s a real pain in my ass each time.
Ladonna claims her homemade soap is strong enough to stop sap dead in its tracks, but she’s clearly missed the mark.
The child, whose name escapes me, is sweet enough, probably, but she scares the ever-loving shit out of me.
The first night I was here, I woke to the sound of a creak.
When I opened my eyes, she was standing directly over me, holding her damn cornhusk doll with what I’m assuming was meant to be the doll’s neck in her fist. She held the doll inches from my face, clenched her fist so tightly the skin on her knuckles went white, and she growled out, “You’re my boyfriend now,” before shoving the doll directly into my chest. “I like the wildflowers that grow down by the creek. I really like red, but I don’t like yellow too much.
The purple ones are pretty.” She pushed down harder on the doll.
“And there better be some orange ones too.” Then she whirled on her heel, marched out, and let the door slam shut behind her.
I don’t know if I’ve ever felt more unsafe in my life, but I must admit, I admire her gumption.
Luckily, there will be no mid-morning flower hunt today, as I picked a bunch for her yesterday.
I want to call Bubba. I’d do anything to hear his voice.
When we got here, Johnny’s other brother, Barrett, met us in the dirt driveway.
Before I even stepped out of the pickup, she was whispering something into his ear, and the next thing I knew, Barrett opened my door, placed me on the ground, then sped away in the dead of night. I haven’t seen him since.
It’s the only vehicle these hillbillies own, so it makes the possibility of escape by grand theft auto impossible.
Ladonna said Barrett was on a mission, and he’d be back soon, and assured me he'll take me into town to call Bubba when he returns. Sure. She also said Bubba and Johnny would be right behind us when we left, but here we are, and here they’re not.
The cabin they’re keeping me in isn’t bad for what it is.
A prison cell. A small room, devoid of life and love, filled instead with a wall that’s covered in drawings, all done by my not-so-secret admirer.
Walking onto the Boyd’s property is like walking onto the set of Green Acres, all modestly dressed ladies and men in overalls chewing on sour dock stems. It’s not that I don’t like the place or people, I just miss my boyfriends terribly, and I need to see them.
Outside, a cock crows or meows or barks, doing whatever the hell roosters do, and I know if I don’t go outside to socialize, one of the backwoods versions of The Osmonds, sans charm and Mormonism, will send the little she-beast my way again. The little one terrifies me. It’s kind of awesome.
Sighing, I rise from my terribly uncomfortable mattress and stand, raising my arms well above my head, stretching and yawning loudly, reaching up-up-up until I’m standing on my tiptoes.
Holding a breath, I center myself, trying to blink open my mind’s eye the way my online psychic buddy, Brendon, used to instruct.
It’s no use. Barbara won’t fucking talk to me, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t tap into my psychic sight.
Not having Barbara here to guide me—and having no Bubba or Johnny here to love me—I finally understand what Real Housewives of New York City alum Kelly Killoren Bensimon meant when she sobbed that she was alone on Scary Island with no friends.
Dunsberry may not be an island, but it might as well be, entrance difficult, escape impossible, and I have no friends either.
As I leave my shack, I pause long enough to grab the stupid fucking wildflowers the wild child demanded of me, and I open the front door, which I don’t even think is a real door.
It doesn’t reach all the way to the ground, so there’s a big crack at the bottom, big enough that an adult could stick their whole arm through.
It’s made masturbating to the memory of Bubba and Johnny virtually impossible, because the little demon spawn tends to peek in when I least expect it.
She’s not there right now, thank God, but who knows how long it will be before her disturbing eye peeks in through the gap again? When will enough be enough?
Opening the door, I’m visually accosted by the unrepentant sunlight, scorching my retinas, probably. Without Bubba, I have neither health, dental, or vision insurance, so if my eyes go bad, I won’t even be able to have them treated. I bet there isn’t even an optometrist within a fifty-mile radius.
I miss my boyfriends terribly, and if they just come find me, I’ll be the best version of me possible. I won’t hurt Johnny’s feelings on purpose again. I won’t ever talk back to Bubba, because he knows what’s best for me, even when I’m not ready to see it myself.
Johnny’s family is working the farm in clothing farmers would wear, so I look like an absolute slut in my neon-purple crop top, booty shorts, and thigh-high boots.
The shirt and shorts were in the hamper at home, before we left.
Apparently, Pete took the time to grab the whole hamper so I would have clothes once we got here.
Ladonna was kind enough not to wash Johnny or Bubba’s shirts, so at least I have those, but they’re starting to lose their scent.
The boots I’m wearing don’t belong to me, and I only found them after I went snooping through Ladonna’s house yesterday, bored out of my fucking mind, hoping she would have something that piqued my interest. Mission accomplished, and I bet she’s gonna be really mad about me stealing them, but if she starts crying about how much she loves her boots and wants them back, I’m going to remind her that I love my boyfriends, and I want them back too.
I’ll inform her we can’t always get what we want, and that the law of the land is finders keepers, losers weepers.
Ladonna is sitting on the porch swing as I slowly shuffle across the field.
She has Satan’s Minion beside her, and both she and the child are shelling peas.
I didn’t even know that was a thing before getting stuck here.
I just assumed they were like little beans that grew under dirt.
Of course, I’ve never seen a bean being harvested either, so maybe it’s not a root vegetable either.
Either way, there they are, cracking pea pods, Ladonna singing some dumb-ass song, lamenting, “Rye whiskey, rye whiskey, rye whiskey, I cry,” like a lunatic before adding that if I don’t give her rye whiskey, she’ll live ‘til she dies.
We’ve got a goddamn lush on our hands. Fabulous.
“Mr. Ezra,” the little one squeaks, jumping up from the swing and rushing down the porch steps, snatching the flowers out of my hand. “Best boyfriend ever.”
“Your only boyfriend ever,” Ladonna reminds her.
“I’m not comfortable with this,” I tell her. “In the slightest.” I flick a hand in her direction. “Look at her. She looks like she could be my daughter.”
Ladonna arches an eyebrow. “Like you before you got smarter?”
I gape at her, because how the fuck does this hillbilly icon know Hilary Duff’s Mature? “The fuck did you just say to me?”
She blinks at me, then stares down at the child.
“I’m really sorry about his potty mouth, sugar.
” Ladonna smiles at me as I climb the three stairs leading up to the porch.
Her smile is wide as it is terrifying. Maybe less terrifying than it ought to be, considering she’s holding me captive, but she’s never done anything downright cruel to me.
Sure, she makes me do menial tasks like picking blackberries from the bushes out back or scrounging together enough squash from the garden for family supper—a family event I’ve yet to attend.
They invite me, of course, but I don’t know these people, and I have no desire to change that.
Well, maybe I could get to know the wives, because they seem kind of sweet.
Regardless, my initial point stands. Ladonna isn’t cruel or abusive, she’s just an absolute prick for kidnapping me and keeping me from her son for reasons that are still TBD.
I mean, I’m not asking for her to lay out her grand plan or anything, I just need to know when I’ll see them again, and when I’ll get to go home.
“Good morning, sweetie,” she greets me, her voice warm and kind.
“There is nothing good about this morning.”
She just brushes the comment off with an amused nod. “Sure, there is. The sun is still shining in the sky, Pete put a brisket in the smoker for family supper tonight, and Maybelline is helping with my morning chores. What isn’t good about this morning?”
“Maybelline?” I growl, balling my hand into a fist. “Are you holding out on me? Multiple times, Momma Ladonna. Multiple times, I have asked you if you had makeup I could borrow, after you literally kidnapped me and left all mine at the house, along with my boyfriends.”
The little girl blinks at me like I’m stupid. “I’m Maybelline.”
“You’re the spawn of Satan,” I correct, tapping the tip of her nose gently.
She looks up at Ladonna. “Mamaw? Who is Satan?”
Ladonna just shrugs. “Beats the hell out of me.”