The One You Feed

  These stores are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are fictitious and any similarities to actual persons, locations, or events is coincidental.

  The One You Feed - 978-1-989206-26-3

  Copyright © 2019 Renee Miller

  Copyright © 2019 Unnerving

  THE ONE YOU FEED

  RENEE MILLER

  THE ONE YOU FEED

  For my mom.

  PART ONE

  Wives, be subject to your husbands, as is fitting in the Lord.

  Colossians 3:18 (NASB)

  CHAPTER 1

  April 1966

  “I ain’t no retard,” Ronny whispered.

  Already an outcast, he side-eyed the other kids, who kept their heads bent, reading their books silently. He shifted in his chair, rubbing his elbow on the scarred desktop.

  When he’d told the teacher how he saw the letters, she’d sucked her lips in and made a whistling sound. Looked like she might suck her whole face into her mouth.

  “Ronny…”

  He recoiled at her touch.

  “You’re dyslexic. I’m afraid you can’t learn with the other kids.”

  Dys—what the hell was that? He’d never heard of anything so stupid.

  Then they put him in the class with the retards, and nobody talked to the kids in the retard class but other retards. He gave his dad the note that explained his move to the retard class. Behind the woodshed, Ronny got ten lashes with the old horsewhip for being stupid. Maybe he was retarded, because only someone a few bricks short of a wall would do something to further piss his father off, like fight with the other kids and skip school.

  Ronny had done both in the few weeks since.

  He knew they called about the fight with Garrett. His chin quivered as he waited for his dad to come home.

  Warren finally came through the door and said, “I got you a job, so you can help us out round here.”

  Ronny froze.

  “Pack your shit.”

  “Why?”

  “You want a whipping, boy?”

  “No, sir.” Ronny turned to gather some clothes out of the milk crates that served as his dresser.

  His dad greeted his mother by fondling her breast and squeezing her lumpy ass before looking back. “Willie Baker is putting you to work on his farm. You’ll stay there and he’ll send your pay to us.”

  “What about me?” Ronny couldn’t see working for nothing. It didn’t sound fair.

  “What about you?”

  “I’ll need money, won’t I?”

  Warren sighed. “You’ll take what I give you, and not a cent more. You little bastards have lived off us long enough and given your mother and me nothing but aggravation.”

  “Yes, sir.” He’d have to go no matter what happened. No point in getting a beating in the deal.

  “Not that you’ll ever get anything better than farm work. Just be happy Willie’s willing to let a retard work for him.”

  No matter how many times he heard it, the word stung. He was not a retard; he knew he wasn’t. “What about school?

  “You don’t need school. Can’t learn nothing anyhow. Just get your shit so you’re ready to go. Willie’s waiting on us.” Warren turned back to his wife. “Get upstairs, Ethel, I’ve got a job for you too.”

  She giggled and heaved herself off the chair, leaving behind the permanent imprint of her ass in the stained brown velour cushion. Ronny watched them go up the small set of stairs. Each time his dad returned from the road he had to listen to the two of them going at it. Sometimes it got so bad Ronny snuck out. Sometimes he considered telling his dad about the other men, but suspected he already knew; his mother always had money and his dad never asked about it.

  He turned his mind from the memories he’d rather forget, and took his bag outside. Sitting on the tiny front porch, he watched the sun peek over the horizon behind the house across the road. Still damp from last night’s rain, the dirt on the grey siding appeared black. Dust and grime covered every house on their backstreet. The town of Beverley must have thought them too poor to care about paved roads, so they never fixed the potholes, but filled them with the gravel and sand that blew up as cars passed through.

  Donaldson Street, or Loser Lane as Garrett called it, joined the rough side of town to the main drag. People had to drive down it to get to the local arena, which made it busy through the winter and spring months. From the porch, Ronny could see the grocery store. He watched a woman unlock the doors and disappear inside.

  Just another day for the folks in Beverley. He didn’t know if that made him happy or not. Ronny only knew he wanted out.

  The only friend he’d ever had was now his enemy. Garrett had always been moody and quick to anger, but his targets had usually deserved what they got. The asshole jocks who knocked people like Ronny around, the rich pricks who liked to pretend they were superior to working class folks like Garrett; he’d always picked on kids that threw the first stone, so to speak. When he turned his aggression on others, it’d seemed almost funny. Ronny didn’t like it so much on the receiving end.

  —

  He hadn’t seen much of Garrett over the summer; he had to help at home and Garrett had been put to work at his parents’ restaurant. Ronny picked up a knurled stick from the ground next to the step, made circles in the dirt, and thought about the changes in his only friend.

  On the first day of school Garrett didn’t speak to him until the end of the day, and then only to ask if he was going straight home.

  Ronny shrugged. “The old man’s gone, so I suppose I’ll go to the tracks.”

  “You got anything to drink?”

  “A little,” Ronny said. “But only whiskey.”

  Garrett had tried whiskey the year before and turned so green Ronny was sure he’d hurl. He didn’t, but never asked to try anymore.

  Garrett tilted his chin and glared at Ronny. “You going to share or not?”

  “Sure.” Ronny didn’t want to share the small amount he had, but if it got Garrett talking again, he would. “I got some smokes too.” The old man had dropped a whole pack in the driveway before he left. “You want some?”

  “Maybe,” Garrett said. “I’ve gotta run home first and make sure Petey gets off the bus. I’ll meet you there.”

  An hour later, they met at the old railroad tracks. The rails, no longer used by trains, were covered in grass and weeds—which kids wanting to hide from adults found useful. On one side, all you could see were trees and dense brush and on the other, the poor streets of Beverley.

  Ronny’s side.

  Garrett spoke little, smoked a few cigarettes, and left without warning. Things got worse between them after that. Garrett didn’t speak unless he wanted a drink or a smoke and when they put Ronny in the retard class full-time, Garrett ignored him altogether.

  Ronny dropped the stick. He wondered why his dad didn’t send Arnie away to work. He’d graduated high school and all he did was lay around and bark orders. Who was the retard? Maybe they all were. Maybe Garrett was right.

  Footsteps sounded from inside the house. Ronny stood an instant before the door opened and his dad came out buttoning his shirt, his wiry black hair, like Ronny’s, mussed up and standing on end in spots.

  “You ready?”

  “Yeah.” He wasn’t really, but he didn’t argue with the old man if he could avoid it.

  “Let’s go then.”

  Ronny followed his dad to the truck: a 1955 Chevy Cameo that hadn’t seen a mechanic since they’d driven it away from the dealership nearly ten years ago. His dad parked the rig at the company’s lot and drove his rust bucket around town. “It’s good on gas,” he had said, “new cars were made to consume as much as possible: one of the government’s co
nspiracies to keep a man down.”

  Ronny figured they’d be poor no matter what the government did, but again, he didn’t argue. Though embarrassed to be seen in the old beast, its teal blue cab rattling and its wooden box on the back, threatening to collapse under its own weight as they drove, there was no avoiding it. He stared straight ahead while his dad turned the key. His pants stuck to the duct tape that sealed the rips in the tan leather.

  “You’ll be respectful to Willie,” Warren cautioned as they pulled out of the driveway. “None of the bullshit you try at home. You hear?”

  “Yes, sir.” Ronny stared out the window.

  “I’ll pick you up weekends I’m home. You can help your mother and me with chores, then you go back. You work hard and Willie said he’d give you a room in the house.”

  “Where will I sleep until then?”

  “In the barn until you prove yourself. Willie can’t be expected to trust a retard. He’s got daughters to worry about. You show him that you won’t hurt no one and he’ll let you in the house.”

  Ronny digested this; his stomach queasy at the thought of sleeping in a barn with the animals. He should have figured something in this arrangement would put him in his place. He watched the old houses fade as they drove north out of town, soon replaced by muddy fields with a touch of muted green here and there.

  Thirty minutes out of town, Willie’s farm was primarily a dairy farm, but he also set up vegetable stands along the highway in the summer and stocked the local grocery store with eggs. He was successful by small town standards. His house looked like a mismatched puzzle, additions and updates, different siding here and there, some rooms round, others square. To Ronny it was ugly. Big didn’t always mean better in his mind, not when it didn’t make sense.

  They pulled into a long driveway to stop before a crooked porch. Ronny’s gut tightened and a lump formed in his throat. His parents didn’t want him and though he told himself he didn’t want them either, it hurt to know they thought so little of him, they could just throw him away.

  Willie sat in a rocking chair, coffee mug in hand. He waved at Warren, not sparing a glance to Ronny.

  “Hey, Will.” His dad jumped down from the truck to shake the older man’s outstretched hand.

  Willie looked like a wild man: scraggly grey beard and long dirty hair to match. His rumpled clothes were covered in shit and he chewed a piece of hay while talking, his voice mushy, as if he had a mouthful of marbles. “Thought you wasn’t coming. Almost started chores. This him?”

  His dad sighed. “Yeah, that’s him. Can’t read or write no hell, but he’s not dumb at work; he can do what he’s told. Just needs a whipping now and then to remind him who’s boss.”

  “I don’t think we’ll be needing the whip,” Willie said. “Right, boy?”

  Ronny shook his head.

  Willie grinned to display four teeth spread out in his mouth. “S’okay, Warren, we’ll do fine. Marg has a bed ready in the loft. You prove to be okay and we’ll set a room in the house for you. I got daughters so I hafta be careful who gets a bed under my roof. Fair enough?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Willie didn’t need to worry about his daughters. Ronny had seen them at school. He didn’t want to be anywhere near the stinking pigs. He had no interest in girls anyway. The only girl that had ever been kind to him was Dana Parson and she was strange, always staring at the floor and hardly talking at all. Even then, the words were so quiet you had to listen close to catch them. She helped out with the retards in the sped shed, but she was too smart to bother with the likes of him.

  His dad got back in the truck.

  Willie stood by as Warren left, then turned to Ronny. “Well, boy, let’s get those chores done and I’ll show you the loft. Like I said, I don’t use no whip here, but I’ll send you back home sure as shit if you give me any hell.”

  “Yes, sir.” Ronny followed him to the barns at the back of the property.

  On the way, they passed a large, fenced in coral. It was muddy with a few patches of brown grass here and there. The posts were weathered and bent, and it didn’t look as though an animal had been in there for a while. “You got horses?”

  “Used to. Last one died about three months ago. Expensive bastards. I’m thinking I’ll go into pigs instead. Horses don’t pay what they cost unless you show ‘em or breed. I ain’t got time for that.”

  “Oh.” Ronny sidestepped a lone chicken wandering the yard. His shoes sloshed through mud, and probably shit, as they passed an old shed with about a dozen buckets stacked up outside, and then several cows grazing behind a wire fence. “They don’t break through that?”

  Willie glanced at the cattle. “Electrified. They try. Stupid things never seem to remember it zaps ‘em. Now and then one finds a weak spot and I’ll find her up by the house. One time, bunch of ‘em walked all the way into town. First thing we’ll do after we feed everyone is check the line. Make sure it’s all ship-shape.”

  “Okay.”

  The smell curled Ronny’s toes. Baying from the cattle in the field beyond, mingled with squawking chickens. How would he ever sleep in the middle of this racket?

  Willie could work him hard, as long as he didn’t call him a retard or yell at him. That was fine with Ronny. He’d work his fingers raw if it meant he didn’t have to face the whip again.

  CHAPTER 2

  “You lazy fucking cow.”

  Garrett cringed. His father’s normally mild Irish accent was thickened by alcohol.

  “I come home expecting my supper and yer in bed? What fuckin good are ye?”

  His mom replied, but Garrett couldn’t make out her words. Had she waited, she wouldn’t be in trouble now and Garrett could sleep.

  A loud thwack, then a thump. Garrett stared at the spots the streetlights made on blackened windows, blurred by condensation. Puddles formed in the ruts on the road below. Almost summer and still cold and wet. He vowed when he grew up, he’d live anywhere but Beverley—the shittiest town in Ontario.

  Pete whimpered and scurried across the room to climb in the bed beside Garrett.

  “Get off. If he comes up and finds you hiding in my bed like a sissy, you’re gonna get it too.”

  Pete scrambled down, holding his blanket, and ran across their little room. Garrett huffed. Their mother made Pete into a weak and useless wimp.

  Another thump, but she made no noise this time. Crying made things worse. They all learned that pretty fast.

  “Doesn’t have to hit her,” Pete grumbled. “She was only tired.”

  Though Pete’s whine grated on his nerves, Garrett took a breath and tried to be patient. Without a big brother to help him, Garrett had figured out their parents on his own. Just a couple of years ago, he was like Pete. Cried himself to sleep every time his dad had to punish her.

  “She’ll be fine tomorrow,” he said. “She’s always fine. When you’re a man, you’ll understand why Dad has to do this. A woman is supposed to keep her man happy. That’s the law.”

  “Who keeps the woman happy?” Pete asked.

  Stupid kid. “The woman doesn’t matter. A man puts a roof over her head and babies in her belly. That’s all she needs.”

  He heard footsteps on the stairs. When the door opened, light from the hall spilled into the room and fell on Garrett’s bed. Heavy breathing. Garrett smelled the whiskey.

  “Garrett, get up.”

  Cautiously, Garrett sat up in his bed. He rubbed his eyes as though the light bothered him. “What?”

  “Go see to yer mother.” He walked away, leaving Garrett to stare at an empty doorway.

  Why did he always have to clean up after them? Now he’d spend all night listening to her cry and miss school again. Another bad report and Dad would tan his hide. It didn’t matter that his parents caused him to miss so much school. His dad said real men got things done no matter what.

  “Can I come?” Pete asked.

  “No. Don’t let him hear you crying in here or I’ll be
seeing to you too. Just go to sleep.” Garrett got out of bed, walked to the door and glanced back at Pete who stared at him, tears spilling over his cheeks. God, the kid was a pussy. “She’s always okay. Promise.”

  He shut the door and walked slowly down the stairs, one hand on the rough paneled wall to steady himself. His mother lay on the main floor landing, crumpled in a heap, her shoulders shaking. The pale light from her favorite lamp, a girly thing with a pink shade and a crystal base carved to look like a bouquet of roses, shone down on her black hair. Garrett knelt next to her and touched her arm. She flinched like a wounded animal and somewhere in Garrett’s chest a twinge of pity stirred.

  “Mom, you need to get up,” he whispered.

  “Just leave me. I’ll be fine.”

  “Dad sent me. You have to get up.”

  If she didn’t move, he’d have to force her. It wouldn’t be easy. His mother was a tall woman, sturdy and strong when she put her mind to it. Garrett was only twelve and not big enough yet to force his will on anyone but Pete.

  “I’m sorry, honey.” She lifted her face. A bruise already formed on her cheek. Blood from her nose caked her chin and trailed crimson streaks down her neck. A ball formed in his throat, but he swallowed it.

  “You go on back to bed,” she said. “This isn’t your concern.”

  “Dad told me to take care of it.” He wanted to sound like a man but his voice trembled. Damn her for being so pathetic. Part of him wanted to curl up in her lap as he used to and let her hold him until morning, but he was a man now. Had to act like one.

  “All right,” she said when he didn’t leave. “Help me then.”

  Garrett took her hand. She stumbled upright, shoulders hunched and legs shaking. He tried not to, but his mind went back to the mother he loved not so long ago.

  Opal O’Brien had once been an intimidating woman. While not delicate, she carried herself like royalty. He remembered watching his mother enter a room; heads would turn to follow her path. Even now, at thirty-five, she turned heads, but these days, whispers followed their stares. Speculations about how she got this bruise or that, or why she hunched her shoulders.