The Cussin Dance
by
Patricia Straight
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2012 by Patricia Straight
Cover Image courtesy of Mac Miller and Dreamstime.com
Cover by Joleene Naylor
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The Cussin Dance
“Where does all that meanness come from,” Carl Glidden wondered as he walked across the parking lot to his truck. He glanced behind him to make sure that his wife, Sally was still following him. She had a talent for wandering off and he was in no mood to go chasing after her.
As usual, she took her own sweet time getting into the truck. Then she played around with the seat belt while Carl waited. His patience was wearing thin. When he finally heard the seat belt snap, he glanced at her without saying a word. She still had smudges of key lime pie on her chin and her Dale Earnhart tee-shirt showed traces of dried catsup from the hot dog she had for lunch. She was a mess but he knew she didn’t care. Sally didn’t care about anything and some days, she made Carl so angry that he couldn’t even speak. Today was one of those days. Unfortunately, using the silent treatment on Sally to let her know you are angry always takes awhile.
She looked content as she glanced back at the shopping center. He knew she loved going shopping and probably wished they could go every day instead of twice a month. It wasn’t that she bought anything, she just liked to look. She spent most of the morning, sitting in a brown canvas swing with a canopy. Customers were allowed to try it out and she almost fell asleep swinging back and forth. But Carl couldn’t buy it. They wanted $100 for the thing and he didn’t have that kind of money.
“That swing was great, wasn’t it?” Sally asked. Carl didn’t answer. That should have been her first inkling that he was miffed about something. It should have been, but it wasn’t. She just frowned at him, probably wondering if his hearing was going bad.
Carl turned off Route 80 and took the back roads. It was a short cut but the unpaved road was a rough ride. Sally hunched herself against the door as Carl hit one rut after another. The old pickup bounced and rattled kicking up a cloud of dust in its wake. After one bounce that caused her head to graze the roof, she looked at Carl.
“What’s got your under drawers in a twist this time,” she muttered as she lit a cigarette and tossed the match out the window. Again, he didn’t answer.
“Carl, hold up,” she yelled. “You missed a hole. Back up.” Then she laughed, hoping that maybe he would too. He didn’t laugh. The only sound in the truck was Sally’s laughter which sounded an awful lot like a goose cackling. Many times she cackled so hard that she ended up with the hiccups.
“Can’t this bucket of bolts go any faster,” Sally asked between cackles. She seemed determined to make him say something.
Carl continued to ignore her. Then with a jerk of the steering wheel and a stomp on the brake pedal, he pulled in front of their old house. He didn’t crack a smile as he stepped around to the passenger side of the truck. Then he took Sally’s arm and led her to the house.
“What about the groceries, you dumb hic. You can’t leave them in the hot sun.”
“I’ll take care of it,” he mumbled.
Sally looked up at the house and grinned. The old place needed a coat of paint and Carl talked about doing it every spring. Then it would get too hot and he would put it off for another year. “The first day of spring is next Wednesday. Ain’t it time for you to talk about painting the house?”
“The first day of spring is Tuesday and I just might do it this year,” he mumbled, pulling open the screen door.