Photo by Monty Allen on Unsplash
The last of March and she pays no mind to the honks from passing cars as she cranks at the snowblower in her Daisy Dukes and knee-high, Nancy Sinatra boots; her freshly tawnied hair a testament to her hopes for spring, with a half-hearted pledge to finally lose those extra 50 pounds.
Deputy Sam pulls his car as far into the shoulder as the snow will allow, and she stops yanking on the snowblower to watch him get out and put on his Smokey the Bear hat.
“Delilah, you’re going to catch your death.”
“Fuck that,” she laughs. “How’s tricks, Sammy?”
“Don’t call me that, now.”
“Well, aren’t we Mr. Sensitive this morning.”
“No, I don’t…..”
“Something I can do for you, Sheriff?”
“Don’t do that. You know I’m just the deputy. No, no. Just stopped to say you ought to cover up is all.”
“OK, Dad.”
Delilah pulls the cord again, and again the snowblower coughs but won’t turn over.
“You know, I was remembering something the other day,” calls Sam. “About you, that is. Do you remember what you brought to show-and-tell that one time, in the 2nd grade? Mrs. Braun, wasn’t it?”
“Bitch.”
“Yeah, anyway. Do you remember? I don’t know why, it just popped into my mind while I was scrambling myself some eggs the other morning.”
Delilah leans against the handle of the snowblower, her arm flab feeling a cold she would never cop to. “You mean Ted?”
“Yeah!” The hybrid American/Confederate flag catches Sam’s eye. It’s not as if he is seeing it for the first time, but watching it flap against the side of the double-wide makes him conjure Delilah’s daddy.
“I remember. The question is: why do you?”
“Still have those clippings? Oh, well, I guess because I read in Parade that a new movie about him’s coming out. That High School Musical fellow plays him. Efram.”
“Efron. Yeah, I got the clippings. Why?”
“No reason. Like I say, just something that come to mind while scrambling myself some eggs.”
Delilah rips at the cord, 1-2-3, and Sam sees all the beauty he remembers from an unusually hot first day of school, when a then-unfamiliar Delilah walked up to him on the playfield and wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of her hand, flicking that hand into the air and walking away.
“Surely made an impression,” he says aloud.
Delilah looks up. “What you squawking about?”
“So, how’s your daddy?”
“Dying,” she says.
“Yeah, I know that. Doing any better, though?”
Delilah cocks her head. “What you want Sammy? You going to arrest me for indecent exposure…?”
“Oh, no…..”
“If so, get on with it. Otherwise, let me get back to my chores.”
Sam holds down his hat with his right hand as he tramples through the snow. “Sorry, Del, let me do that for you.” He bends down to give the cord a hard pull, and as he does, his back freezes and spasms and Sam lets out a most unmanly yelp.
“Jesus, Sam! What the fuck?”
“Sorry! It’s just, my back….my back.” He can’t stand up straight but he lifts his head in the hope of a melting permafrost.
“For Christ’s sake, Sam. Well, shit then. Let’s get you inside.”
There it is.
Inching himself flat onto the lumpy couch, Sam tries his damnedest not to wince. Delilah takes the afghan from the back of the couch and furls it over him. Her face has softened to the one he remembers from across years of classrooms, the face she takes out when she thinks no one is watching.
She leaves and comes back with a shoebox that she lay on his stomach: “Since you was asking.”
Sam opens the box and there are the clippings he remembered, with headlines like:
ACCCUSED KILLER BUNDY
ESCAPES COLORADO PRISON
She leaves him alone to look at the yellowed newsprint. He recalls that day in show-and-tell; how the kids rolled their eyes in mock horror, snickered; how he witnessed firsthand the crystalizing of Delilah’s armor, as she preached: “Somebody’s got to thin the herd. My daddy says so!”
Sam dozes. He awakens with a start to find Big Jim standing over him, looking as though Death had already visited.
Delilah rushes in. “Sorry, Daddy. Sam hurt his back trying to get that old blower going.”
“Ain’t nothing wrong with that blower, if you know what you’re doing,” coughs Big Jim.
“Yes, Daddy.”
Big Jim peers down at Sam again, looking like he just might spit. “Best he get going, don’t ya think?”
“Yes, Daddy.”
As Big Jim trudges off, Delilah takes the afghan from Sam and folds it into fourths.
“No good babying a pulled back,” she explains. Sam inches his way off the couch.
“That’s probably good advice,” he says, noticing the clock on the wall above the television. He puts on his hat and Delilah smiles slightly and brushes his bangs from his eyes.
“Hey, Del,” he says, indicating the clock with his eyes, “you haven’t turned that yet.”
Delilah looks. “Yeah, I know.”
“Well, aren’t you afraid of missing something if you don’t have the time?”
“Hey, Gimpy,” she says, ignoring his question, “you need help back to your cruiser or what?”
“I’m good. I’m good.” Sam shuffles toward the door.
“Back to work then! We don’t pay you to lay around like a welfare whore.”
“No, that’s for sure, Del. OK, back to work!”
Sam’s almost to the door when Delilah asks: “What the hell is Daylight Savings for, anyway?” Sam turns. “I mean, what the hell we saving up for? It’s not like we can cash it all in, right?” Her look is flat and faraway.
“Oh, Del. Darned if I know.”
J. Edward Kruft received his MFA in fiction writing from Brooklyn College. He is a multiple Best Short Fictions nominee, and his stories have appeared in online and print journals, including MoonPark Review, Lunate and Truffle Magazine. He was recently named the new EIC at trampset, and for a city boy, he builds an OK bonfire. He lives with his husband, Mike, and their adopted Siberian Husky, Sasha, in NYC and Sullivan County, NY. His fiction can be found on his Web site: www.jedwardkruft.com and he can be followed on twitter: @jedwardkruft.