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11. BISCUITS AND CRAZY: Parental Two-Fer Free-For-All Blue Plate Special.

Ileace pulls into the driveway of a modest house. I'm not sure what street this is. I know I can walk home from here if I have to. Five streets come together at a nearby intersection. Coles Boulevard ends, Dorman Drive, three others. Her Mother is there, her car, her standing, talking to a man beside a big white pickup truck, the hood up.

"Daddy!" Ileace exclaims.

Daddy? Can I handle Daddy and Mommy at the same time? Should I ask her about her 'Daddy Issues?' I do. She says, "Oh! I just said that! I knew what you were doing. Daddy used to do that when I was little. I love my Dad! You'll love my Dad."

I'm wondering if I should have availed myself of the sanctuary of the church, should have prayed that The Man forgive me my sins and let me trespass or accumulate debts, depending on what the current Lord's Prayer says. Lord must have come back and changed it from one to the other. Written in stone all over the world it's 'Forgive us our debts.' Sometime in the 1940's or 50's, apparently, property rights became more important. She's looking at me. I'm looking at 'Daddy' working on his truck. Mommy's looking at us, talking to Daddy, her lips moving, her left hand gesturing. I think she's casting a spell! I think of ducking but you can't avoid 'em once they're cast. They just come over the dashboard or around the corner and hit you anyway. Them's the rules!

"Be brave, Rounder," Ileace is saying.

I look at her. She's smiling. It's going to be okay. They'll kill me and eat me, put the leftovers out for the garbage truck on Tuesday.

She's getting out. I have to get out. I get out. My face is numb. I swallow. My mouth is dry. I'm gasping for air. I focus, inhale through my nose, out through my mouth, in again, out again. Deep breaths. Oh! Too much. Dizzy. We're walking. She's running. A hug, Daddy. Mommy. I run off across the lawns, hide in the woods for days and days until the exorcists stop looking for me. Move to Kentucky. Change my name to Harold.

Ileace turns. I love her face. She's smiling. I hear my name, full name, for the death certificate.

"Why the E.?" the deep voice is asking. Big face. Red face. Brown eyes, like Ileace's.

"I got a phone call one time," I hear myself explaining, "from a Rent-To-Own place up north, asking if I was the Gary Andrews who rented an engagement ring and then disappeared!"

They're laughing. Everyone is laughing. I run off across the lawns, hide in the...

"I told the guy, 'I didn't even know you COULD rent an engagement ring, and, I'm pretty sure, if SHE finds out about it, you CAN'T rent an engagement ring!'"

They're laughing. I see bags of cement on the floor of the open garage. 'Local Man, Found Not Floating In Ohio River'.

Her Mother is laughing, shaking her head.

"He tells tall tales!" she declares. She's smiling. Ileace is smiling. The sidewalk is crumbling beneath my feet. Red light glares from the cracks! The devil is super-gluing my cowboy boots to a large chunk of concrete. 'Settle down,' I'm telling myself. I don't listen.

The hood is up on his giant white pickup truck. He turns back to whatever he was doing. The girls start going through the garage, talking back and forth. I'm stuck where I am, 'cause of the cement shoes, super-glue, you know, devil stuff. Ileace, comes back, turns her back to me to look back. Daddy's hidden behind the hood of his truck. She leans back into me, turns her head, puts her right hand on my right cheek, reaches up, somehow, to kiss me on the left corner of my mouth!

"I'm going to put on a bra," she whispers. At once I am healed! Sweet Baby Jesus! My feet can move. And I am afflicted anew! Don't talk about your... bra... (I whisper in my head!) in shooting distance of Daddy! He has metal tools I think he can stab me with, crescent wrenches with two points on one end and a circle on the other. I hope he uses whichever end will kill me quickest!

She goes through the garage. I step over around Daddy to the front of the truck. I'm afraid if I look at her I'll stare at her... jeans... like I always do... and... Daddy. Crescent wrench. Round end, I think.

"Damned things," he says. "My Dad used to tell me about climbing in over the fender, standing on the ground beside an engine, to work on it. Now you can't get your hand down in there for all the gadgetry. Look at this! I needed to change out this battery but to get the old one out I had to remove this bar!" It's a structurally necessary bar, apparently, bolted at an angle between the fender and the firewall. "I pulled up here on the level hoping nothing flexes when I undo it!"

"Good thinking!" I say. "Yes sir," I start, "they make them to sell; not to work on. Even Chevrolet is like Rolls Royce now. If it needs maintenance you just about have to take to them."

"Eff that!" he says. "They want sixty bucks an hour to work on them!" He looks over his shoulder into the garage where the... ladies have gone. "Don't tell her I said a bad word in her driveway. She'll make me hose it down. "So... you..."

I'm afraid of where this sentence will go!
Pulldown Menu:
'So you,'
'are a drug-addicted singer in a rock n' roll band?'
'are having sexual intercourse with my daughter',
'once choked a small farm animal to death and ate its heart...'

"are Ileace's new friend," he says. "I'm glad to see her have a new friend. She hangs around here, from what I see, all the time; too damned much!" Another glance into the garage. "She goes to work. She comes home. She goes out driving. Comes home. She goes to church with her Mother. Her Mother likes it that way. I think her Mother's a..." he whispers behind his hand, "...bad influence."

"Hmmm," is all I can get out of my brain all the way down to my vocal cords, coordinate with lungs for a little exhale. Daddy might be a little TMI teller too, but I appreciate the insight into Ileace's... reality.

He's having trouble getting the bar back on, holding it in place while trying to manipulate a bolt and a... double-pointed, circle-ended crescent wrench.

He drops the bolt! "God damn...", over the shoulder glance, "...it!" he finishes. He says, "Murphy's Law: A bolt dropped will, if you're lucky, fall all the way through, but then roll under the vehicle to the furthest point from any access from the outside." He bends over looking under the truck. He's looking behind the tire. I look down, in front of the tire, and... It's right here in front!

"There it is!" I say. I reach and pick up the bolt! Hand it to him! "Howard one; Murphy zero!" I say. Did... did I get that right? Was his name Howard? I was busy having a stroke when they introduced me. Ileace was introducing me. Mother was adding the E in my name. I was losing my mind. Yes. Yes, I'm sure it was Howard. Just in time to prevent another stroke Ileace's Mother comes to the door into the house, back in the garage, and calls,

"Howard, put that stuff away and come and eat!"

"Sunday breakfast, or brunch," he says. "She likes to feed us and put us to sleep on Sunday! Keeps me from cussing the football game! Or used to. I don't live here any more."

Oh. Details of a personal nature. I can't say 'Hmm!', can't say, 'Soooo... sup wid dat?'. He goes on. "We've been separated, ever since she started going to church. I'm not a religious man! And I couldn't stand that Preacher. You went to church with them?" It's a question. I have to process it to realize that a question wants an answer.

"Yes!" I say. "I... just met Ileace... and...'
Pulldown Menu;
Have a list of eleven places I want to bite her.
Have a list of eleven places I intend to bite her.
Have a list of fifteen places...
Have a list.
'She slept on my couch and intends to...

"and she told me she had to go to church, or her Mother would call the exorcist."

He busts out laughing! I'm startled! I want to laugh. I'm afraid I'll cry if I give in to the emotion of the moment! He offers a fist bump! I take it!

"Ileace has an out-sized sense of humor!" he says, "to compensate for her Mother not having one at all! I shouldn't say that. When we were young..." he stops, starts again, "When we were young we laughed every day, all day, constantly. We found something funny in everything we did, everything we talked about. We could be in a mess, money, always something, but we could always laugh. We got so used to each other finding the funny I told her we'd get married and become a comedy team in Hollywood!"

He's chuckling, to himself. I reach, take hold of the bar, align the holes. He's putting in both the bolts. He gets nuts and washers off the windshield wiper there.

"And until Ileace was in high school..." He stops. Yes? Go on. He doesn't. He's got the bolts in place. I'm still holding the bar. He's picking up the stabbing device. He hooks the ring on the bolt at the firewall turns it a couple times, just to start it. Hooks it on the one at the fender. Turns. I let go. Stand up straight. He works. We're quiet. "Ileace had boy trouble, in high school, and then, went to college and the same boy was there and they got together again. My... wife... went nuts. She wanted me to go up there and arrest him, shoot him, tell the teacher. She came up with a new way to fix it once a week; a new way for ME to fix it. She was... obsessed. I couldn't handle it. I'd... gotten old I guess. I couldn't... find the funny any more. She couldn't either. She had a... a look on her face all the time... worried. I saw her wringing her hands even when she wasn't wringing her hands. She finally ran me off! I left and didn't know what to do with myself. I came back one Sunday and asked her if I could watch football here. I had television at my place, but... I wanted..." He doesn't finish the sentence. Then he does, saying, "...our old life back."

He stops, looks in the garage, puts his foot up on the bumper, lays his crescent wrench hand across his knee, ready to stab.

"We quit laughing. We started fighting. She accused me of not caring if Ileace went to hell. She got religion. I tried to go to church with her, thought maybe we could find a way to just let things... let Ileace figure her life out. Ileace and I talked about it. We were okay, she and I. I have complete confidence in that little girl! But my wife... just could not let it go. She worried. She cried. She argued about everything else. If I used a rag to wipe something I used the wrong rag. I raked the leaves the wrong way. I was late coming home even though I walked in that door at..." He's put his foot down on the concrete, points at the front door with his crescent wrench. He stoops under the hood, starts turning the bolts again, securing washers and nuts with a second wrench. He stands up, walks into the garage, comes back with a torque wrench, consults the owner's manual, sets the wrench, torques the bolts. Dude!

Did he say, 'Arrest him'. 'Shoot him?. 'Tell the teacher.'?

"I moved out, came back, moved out again."

This isn't fun to hear, and I can see it isn't easy to tell.

"Ileace is okay," he says, looking me in the eye. "She took it all in stride. I liked the way she'd explain her perspective on things. I'd tell her, 'Men are no damned good!' She'd laugh, say, 'You're okay Daddy'. She got her degree. Came home. Went to work for the police department."

He's talking saying other things. I'm putting 'One: Go up there and Arrest him' with 'Two: Went to work for the police department.' and coming up with 'Three: He's a cop. She's a cop?' She's a cop? She's... a cop? You're a cop? She's a cop? Cops. 'Local Man Arrested: Fourteen year old girl...' Film at eleven. Maybe she just works there. Maybe she's a secretary. I can see her in pretty suits, pants suits, skirts. Wow! Nice legs! Oops! Daddy's looking at me.

"She seems... Ileace... a little troubled," I say. "We just met a few weeks ago. We started talking but she seemed to... find fault with... everything I said."

"That's her damned..." he says loud, then quietly, "...Mother. When she starts it with me I call her Orlean."

"Orlean?" I ask.

"That's my wife's name. She's... You know she's been a whole lot better since Ileace has been here; better to me. But now... it seems like she still just worries too damned much. Things that are out of her control drive her nuts! I don't see her crying any more. She doesn't ask me to go arrest anybody!" He laughs. "But she's still not... not the woman I married."

He's gathering up his tools. He takes them in the garage. I step in that direction, stand by the bags of concrete. There are places on pegboard for everything. Everything goes back in its place. I know too much. I shouldn't know this much, this soon. Ilean... oh s--t, Ileace... is... damaged goods. Is Ileace damaged goods? This is not the time or place to give the matter clear consideration. I... wonder if the damage is... reversible. Has she... fixed it... or... am I wheedling my way into a... heartache? Howard's heartache. Irretrievably nuts.

Howard's back at the truck, picking up his owner's manual. He's giving a last look around under the hood, gives a yank on the bar, closes the hood, goes to the passenger door, puts the owners manual in the glovebox, locks the doors.

"Did she lock her car?" he asks, walks over, tries the door. It's locked. "This is the era of the 'Crime of Opportunity', he says, coming back, trying her Mother's locked door. "The opioid makers have been waging Drug War around here for the last quarter century. They've rendered a substantial strata of the society desperadoes, sneak thieves, bank robbers, murderers, convicts, and corpses." It sounds like a speech he's given lots of times.

"I know," I say. "My Mom and Dad's neighbor across the street, years ago, said his wife had gotten addicted. They had noticed she was gone. My neighbor on my right said he had to run one of his sons off, coming home all skinny and eyes sunk back in his head. Neighbor on the left... her daughter was a maternity nurse, said she delivered a lot of drug-addicted babies. I was walking by the hospital emergency room and a nurse was out there standing in a flower bed. I thought it was a strange place to be standing. I spoke to her and she told me people were hanging around out there trying to buy drugs off people as they came out. It's been happening, invisibly, all around us. People think, 'Oh it's just my kid, my wife, my friend. But it was and still is a Pandemic!" I say. "In November 2022 the Coronavirus Pandemic caught up with the Opioid Pandemic at 840,000 dead Citizens."

"God! Don't tell Orlean all that!" he says. "I know those statistics, but if she knew them she'd be out of her mind. No damned wonder she worries about Ileace. I don't. Damned kid's got more guts and brains than her Mother and me put together. She's smarter than you!" he says, laughs. "Hide and watch. She'll amaze you if you get to know her. She can think. She can take action. She knows what she's doing. I told her to move out of here, and she told me, 'Be quiet Daddy," smiled that smile, patted me on the face. I shut up. If that was the thing to do she wouldn't need me to tell her so. I love that kid!"

"Howard!" It's a voice from the darkness at the back of the garage. It sounds like Ileace. It looks like Orlean.

"We're comin'!" he says. He reaches to shake my hand. I shake his. "Thanks for the help," he's saying, going in. "A man ought to have at least three hands! Four would be better. Things go better with a little help."

Inside the house I'm breathing easier. It smells good, clean, fragrant; overly fragrant as I inhale through my nose. I take a couple deep breaths through my mouth, follow Howard through a laundry/utility room to the kitchen. They're sitting at the table, Mother at the far end, Ileace in my lavender shirt on the left. Howard sits on the right. I sit on the near end. That face. That smile. That... cop.

There's a platter in the center of the table. Ham. Bacon. Orlean... stands, takes biscuits out of the oven, turns and... dumps them on the platter!

Biscuits go off everywhere, rattling through silverware, to Ileace, to Howard, to me!

Everyone laughs!

They're hot! I set the one I caught back on the platter. They do too. Orlean sets plates on the table. Ileace takes one. She's grinning. I can't not grin back. She hands a plate across to Howard and he hands it to me. I get the impression that the Biscuit Toss isn't an accident; this is how they do it. Then they just go on like it's normal. I don't know but... Crazy times three? It could happen. I start wondering how the gravy will be served. 'Local Man, Scalded In Hot Gravy In Religious Ritual'.