We once had a fat, farting, sullen Dalmatian named Annie who liked only two things in this world. The kid across the street named Greg and anything with wheels: riding mower, wagon, wheel barrow, cars. We’d often look out and see Annie sitting on the seat of the riding mower. I do believe if we’d left the keys in she would have cranked it. She’d even try to sit perched ridiculously on top of the push mower. If we left a car door open, she’d go flying in, hopping in the driver’s seat, perched behind the wheel. When she did make a car trip, we had to restrain her to keep her in the back.
Bud acquired a red MG Midget with a rag top. Can you guess where this is headed? Annie fell in love with it, thinking it was just her size. It was in really good condition, except for a dime-sized snag in the rag top just over the driver’s seat. Bud normally parked it in the garage, but he carelessly left it in the drive one night. When he came out the next morning, Annie was sitting in the driver’s seat, staring straight ahead. She wouldn’t look to the right or the left. She had wanted to get in that car so badly, she’d climbed on top and fallen through the ragtop. I heard him shrieking and wondered what catastrophe had taken place. He tore the door open trying to get at her. She ripped by him, making a beeline for the protection of the fiberglass igloo doghouse she’d never even stuck a toe in before that day. Bud kicked at her(I hope the statute of limitations has run out on cruelty to animals)but she made it in before he connected. He got a huge bruise on his shin from kicking the doghouse. Though she lived to be fourteen, she never did get to drive.
Louie’s brother and family lived directly across the dusty road from him, probably his only social contacts other than his mother. That sultry August afternoon, Mother put her seventeen-month-old, Connie, down for a nap, flanked by a pillow on each side, on the big bed in her own bedroom for a nap before scooping up her colicky newborn, Marilyn, to feed and rock. It was so hot she could hardly catch her breath. The only hope of a cooling breeze was the rocker in front of the bedroom window. The attic fan pulled a breeze through that window. Mother could her two of her older children playing in the sand under the window. Periodically, the attic fan would pull in a bit of dust and Mother had to make a decision whether she’d rather endure the occasional dust spray or call out the kids and wake the cranky baby who was just drifting off. Carefully, she eased the sleeping baby into her crib without waking her, optimistically hoping she could slip in bed next to the sleeping Connie and catch a little nap. Tiptoeing out she told Phyllis, her oldest to keep an eye on me and Bill and slipped quietly in next to Connie.
Her own breathing slowed and she was almost asleep when she got the creepy feeling someone was looking at her. She jerked awake to see Louie standing in her bedroom door, staring at her. She hopped up, horrified and furious. She squeaked hoarsely. “Louie! What are you doing in here? I’ve told you not to come in my house!” It turned out Phyllis had forgotten to latch the screen when she came back in.
“Boogereater done dead.” Louie pronounced in a monotone. Boogereater had gotten his name for obvious reasons.
Confused, Mother shooed him out angrily and latched the screen just as couple of neighbor ladies showed up at her door.
“Junior, (Boogereater’s proper name) is passed out or maybe dead! He took the gas cap off your car and sniffed. He’s laying out by your car.”
Mystified, Mother followed the women out. Sure enough the boy was lying by her car, flaccid and pale with blue lips. He sure looked dead!
Just then, Boogereater’s mama rushed up and grabbed her lifeless boy. “Somebody’s got to take him to the doctor!” She looked fiercely at Mother. “You got to take him!”
Louie interjected.”Boy’s done dead.”
Withering under the accusing eyes of the presumed dead boy’s mother. Mother offered feebly. “ I can’t go. Both my babies are asleep!”
Boogereater’s Mama stared her down, pronouncing, “It was your gas he sniffed.”
Mother has always had a gift for feeling guilty.
Boogereater’s mama glared at her. “Sally and Freddie May can watched your youngun’s. You the only one with a car. Go git your keys! I’ll put him in the car.”
Defeated, Mother went to get her purse and keys. Sally and Freddie May followed her in. As she headed out, she peaked in on her sleeping babies. Marilyn was fine, but Connie was missing.
“I can’t go. My baby’s missing! She was right here on the bed! We were taking a nap!” She wailed. “ I can’t go! My car might not even start.” Mother insisted.
“ That baby ain’t got out! Them women can find her while we’re gone.” demanded the boy’s mother, hard on her heels.
Checking the back door and finding it still latched, Mother turned on Phyllis, reading just outside the bedroom. “Did Connie slip out past you?”
“No ma’am. I’ve been sitiing here the whole time she’s got to be in the house. I’ll find her.” Phyllis was dependable.
Guilt-ridden and bullied, Mother grabbed her things and rushed to the car. Sadly for her, the car started on the first crank.
Louie watched as Mother backed out. “Boy done dead.” He pronounced.
That was the beginning of Boogereater’s gas sniffing.
Nutsrok 