Sunflower Dog Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Share Your Thoughts

  Our Southern Fried Guarantee

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  1. Take the Next Left to Salvation

  2. Never Saw It Coming

  3. Opportunity

  4. Do It for Love

  5. Friday Night in America

  6. An Itch That Needs Scratching

  7. Landings

  8. The Back Yard

  9. Leverage

  10. Pictures

  11. A New, Comfortable Spot

  12. Cowboys, Indians, and Serendipity

  13. Cash Flow Mojo

  14. A Job’s A Job

  15. Ambition, Education—Bingo!

  16. Growing Up, Growing Old, and Dying

  17. Over the Moon

  18. A Job to Do

  19. Flatheads

  20. The Future, It’s Right There

  21. And the Sunflower Dog

  Epilogue

  Author Notes and Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Share Your Thoughts

  Our Southern Fried Guarantee

  Do You Know About Our Bi-Monthly Zine?

  Also by SFK Press

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  Sunflower Dog: Dancing the Flathead Shuffle

  Copyright ©2020 by Kevin Winchester

  Published by

  Southern Fried Karma, LLC

  Atlanta, GA

  www.sfkpress.com

  Books are available in quantity for promotional or premium use. For information, email [email protected].

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information retrieval or storage system, without the prior written consent of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-1-970137-75-0

  eISBN: 978-1-970137-74-3

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2020930137

  Cover design by Olivia Croom

  Cover art: skull by TDubov

  Interior by Vinnie Kinsella

  Printed in the United States of America.

  For Ava—may the laughter in your life be exceeded only by love.

  “We’re all damaged. It’s a universal component of the human condition, like the stages of grief, déjà vu, and expired coupons.”

  –Tim Dorsey, Nuclear Jellyfish

  1

  Take the Next Left to Salvation

  When Salvador Hinson rounded the corner, he saw two men in matching suits, obviously employees of the funeral home, trying to restrain Bill’s wife. It was a struggle—Jolene was an ample woman.

  She bobbed between them, flailing her arms like a kid in a schoolyard fight. One swing connected with the usher on the right and when he stumbled, she lunged for the opening, throwing a roundhouse right at the equally ample female the men were separating her from. An unidentified arm shot from the knot of relatives behind Jolene, grabbing the back of her dress and slowing her, allowing the usher to re-grip. Sally’s first thought was to keep walking, sneak up the steps and avoid the whole mess, but the sight of the other woman dodging Jolene’s fists made him pause. Two more ushers stood between the second woman and Bill’s wife, not physically holding her but feebly stretching their arms wide as if to corral her.

  She looked to be about the same height as Jolene, a little heavier, maybe. She wore a matching outfit with the word “JUICY” stenciled across her ass in blocked blue letters. As he moved closer, Sally could see her jabbing a finger toward Bill’s wife. A few more steps and Sally heard her yelling, “Sinner” and “Heathen” with each thrust of her finger, which only caused Jolene to swing harder and wilder, the blows from her thick forearms pummeling the two ushers as she screamed, “You killed my Billy. It was you.”

  A fat baby in a wispy bleach-blonde’s arms started squalling. Finally, the usher who took one to the ear took another across the mouth and stepped up his efforts. He managed to push Bill’s wife backward and yelled, “Everybody shut up. This is a solemn occasion, damn it. The man’s dead, for God’s sake.”

  Everything stopped. The pause hung in Sally’s gut, like that moment of weightlessness when you’re on a rope swing. Instead of bolting up the steps, he froze, and that was it. Caught. Bill’s wife yelled, “Salvador Hinson, get your greedy ass over here,” and the sensation of falling rushed over him. The crowd turned as one to look at him, and his moment of escape vanished.

  “Hello, Jolene. Sorry about Bill,” Sally greeted her as he ambled closer, both hands stuffed in his pants pockets.

  “Don’t start with me, Salvador Hinson. I am not in the mood.”

  “Paying my respects, Jolene. That’s all.”

  Sally felt everyone staring at him, including the woman in the matching outfit. He rubbed the buckeye in his pocket between his thumb and forefinger.

  “You know this, this—her?” Jolene thrust her chins at the other woman.

  Sally looked at the woman, who grinned back at him. Beyond them, a steady line of people filed up the steps to the chapel, more cars pulled into the lot. Better turnout than he expected. What if it’d been him? Who would bother?

  “No, Jolene, can’t say as I do.”

  The woman stepped toward him with her meaty hand outstretched, a ring on each of her fingers. “Hi. I’m Mary, like in the Bible,” she said. “Pleased to make your acquaintance—Salvador, is it?”

  He let go of the buckeye and shook her hand. The lightness of her touch surprised him, not what he expected from a woman her size. Still, strong enough that he was caught between the two women. “Likewise. Call me Sally. Everybody does.”

  “Nice to meet you, Sally.”

  “Oh, stop that,” Jolene grumbled. “You two aren’t fooling a soul. Salvador Hinson, you know well as I do, that—that trollop is Billy’s mistress. Or was. Look at her, all painted up, wearing them rings. Pfft. A common whore, that’s what she is, and you knew about the two of them.”

  “Now Jolene, I haven’t seen nor talked to Bill in over two years.”

  “Do I look stupid, Salvador? Do I? The two of you been covering each other’s tracks for years. Now Billy’s laying in there deader than four o’clock on Tuesday, so just stop your lying, for once.”

  “Damn it. It’s been almost two years since I last talked to him, I swear.”

  “That’s right,” Mary chimed in. “Bill mentioned it during our sessions. He missed you, Sally. Really, he did.”

  Sessions? Missed him? Funny way of showing it. All those years speculating on real estate, flipping properties, hustling land deals. They’d been through a lot. Partners, best friends, Sally thought. Each knew plenty about the other, things nobody else knew. Shady business deals, hand-shake arrangements, back room promises. Then, after the real-estate bubble blew in 2007, Sally noticed a change in Bill. He didn’t talk as much, started leaving the room to take a call, acting secretive. He was up to something. There were still some deals to be had, mostly snapping up foreclosed properties (everybody and everything was shaky), but if Bill was working on something, Sally couldn’t imagine why he didn’t bring him in on it. Finally, one day when Bill had asked Sally to meet him at the Red Apple Bar & Grill, Sally decided to call him on it, demand an explanation. Instead, Bill began talking all that nonsense about finding Jesus and joining the church.

  Sally hadn’t bought it, but Bill had insisted it was genuine. “Sally,” he’d said. “Think what you want, but—”

  “I intend to.”

  “Yeah,” said Bill. “I know, but listen. I’m a couple years older than you. My diet’s for shit, I’m just saying, if I check out before you, there’s a safety deposit box Jolene doesn’t know about. Mason City Bank, Number 313. It’s yours.” He walked out the door without looking back and Sally’d not spoken with him since.

  Sally took a hit when everything went south, they both did, but he had a little put by. He was far from well-off, but Sally knew he could make it without the income. For a while. He’d take some time off, a month, two at the most, and consider options for what might be next. Two months became three, then four, and Sally drifted. Nothing held his interest, everything bored him. He rumbled around his house, room to room, felt the walls moving in closer around him. He joined a gym, but after three weeks, stopped going. Started, and stopped, a long list of hobbies, habits, and causes. He wouldn’t admit he missed Bill, missed chasing deals with him, wouldn’t admit that he was more jealous than angry. Bill was always the face of the business, Sally was better working behind the scenes—he preferred it—and without Bill out front, there wasn’t much left. He’d always thought Bill would come aro
und, that things would go back the way they were, but now the finality of it hit Sally harder than he’d expected.

  Jolene didn’t give him long to contemplate it.

  “See?” she said. “See, right there. He talked to her. During sessions. He, oh he . . .” her face grayed, her mouth gaped open for a few seconds before folding closed, her chins began quivering and tears rolled down her cheeks. After a few moments, she whispered, “He died in her arms, Sally. In her arms.”

  The usher cleared his throat and looked at his watch. “Uh, folks,” he started, “it’s almost time for the service. The minister would like a few moments with the family. Could we go inside?” He placed his hand on Jolene’s back to herd her toward the chapel. Jolene and the rest of the relatives filed by, each casting their own unique and condemning glare toward Mary and Sally as they did.

  Once the last of them passed, Mary turned to Sally. “Sally, I don’t want you to get the wrong impression. I’m forty-two years old, and never in my years have I even considered doing what she’s suggesting, especially not since I joined the church, but I forgive her for thinking as much. Would you like to sit with me during the service?”

  Sally took a long look at Mary, took it all in. He suspected there was a lie in something she said, he just needed to find out what part. He didn’t know any of the details about Bill’s death, what if Jolene was right? She seemed certain about Bill dying in Mary’s arms, and when it came to wedding vows, Bill gave love, honor, and cherish an honest shot, and to a lesser degree, in sickness and in health. History’d shown he leaned toward the plus-sized. Big women need loving, too, he always says. Said. Mary knew more than she let on, maybe she knew about the deal Bill was working.

  Sally didn’t want to admit the existential reasons that brought him to the funeral, so he convinced himself that going to the service might provide a clue about Bill’s previous silence, the lack of contact. Maybe he’d spot something, anything that might give him a clue why Bill had suddenly cut him off. Yeah, the crash had been bad, but not bad enough for Bill to start asking the baby Jesus for help, not bad enough to just drop their friendship with no explanation. And there was the question of the safety deposit box. Of course, he couldn’t lean over the casket, poke Bill a time or two and ask, “Hey asshole, do I still need to check the safety deposit box?” but he had no better starting place. He couldn’t expect any help from Jolene, either, especially not if she were right about Bill dying in Mary’s arms. Jolene didn’t know about the extra safety deposit box anyway. Mary would have to do.

  “Sure, Mary. I’ll sit with you,” he answered.

  The preacher kept the eulogy portion as short and impersonal as possible, moving quickly into a sermon that began with a vague mention of Bill’s giving up his ways of the past, how he was lost until he found the Lord. Sally drifted. Found Him? How’d that happen? MapQuest? GPS commanding, “Take the next left to salvation”? The Trinity on a milk carton? Sure, Bill had told him about his conversion, his moment of clarity, but Sally didn’t buy it.

  Finding religion. Sally thought it as much vanity-fueled superstition as anything else out there. And he’d tried his share of what was out there, especially over the past two years. Shrinks, expensive entitlement cars, slow-witted and younger women, Xanax, coke, vegetarianism, and a long list of various other “isms.” The combined weekend of aromatherapy and colonics was a total waste of time and money. Oddly soothing and slightly disgusting, but Sally’s boredom returned while eating a four-cheese quesadilla a week later. Making a deal . . . that worked. Ferreting out an opportunity, working the angles, estimating margins. Buy low, sell high, count your money. It worked for P.T. Barnum, the Rockefellers, the Carnegies, a slew of tele-evangelists and snake oil proprietors. Sally loved it, same as Bill. For most of his life, the next deal had sustained Sally, pulled him along toward . . . There it was again. Pulled him along toward what? It had left him here, his best friend—his only friend—dead, and not much else. Nothing around him seemed any more real than googled images on the computer screen and that created in him a hollow longing for the past and an anxious, confused view of the future. Those feelings followed Sally around like a stray dog he’d tossed a scrap.

  The preacher droned on, laying down a thick blanket of Baptist guilt, working into a pitch. He’d moved down from the pulpit, waving his good book in the air every so often. Bill lay behind him, ignored. When the preacher gave the altar call, Sally leaned to Mary and whispered, “Let’s go.”

  Mary’s hands rose to her jowls and tightened, causing her lips to pucker slightly as she spoke. “Oh, Sally,” she said. Sally grabbed the hock of her wrist, and quickly led her out the door toward his Lexus. She struggled to catch her breath as he helped her into the passenger seat. “But the altar call,” she huffed.

  “Next time, Mary. You look like you could use a bite to eat.”

  “But,” Mary stammered. “Well,” she glanced back toward the funeral home doors. “I do get light-headed when I don’t eat. And all the excitement with Jolene. Oh, this is nice.” She smoothed a hand across the leather dash, down the fake, burl mahogany console.

  “Thanks,” he said as they rolled out of the parking lot. Mary didn’t strike him as much different than the folks he and Bill convinced to sell their land. They kind of people who wanted to believe, who needed to believe, what someone told them. She’d tell him what he needed to know, eventually, because she’d believe she was helping. He’d make sure of that. He was never comfortable being the front person, that was all Bill, but this, this he could do.

  A few minutes past nine, James Flowers strolled out of the Mason County Detention Center, sat on the curb and thumbed Colton a text. Colton hadn’t responded to all the messages James had sent before they took his phone, but it was a new day and the sun shined bright.

  Be there in 15, Colton finally texted back.

  It had not been the best of weeks for James. Sunday evening, he dropped Brittany in front of her house and pulled away, knowing her parents waited inside. She was past curfew and at least one Smirnoff Ice past her limit. An hour later, James sat in his parents’ house with the lights off, hoping they’d stop for ice cream after church and not come home until Britt’s father, who was screaming about statutory and strangulation, had stopped banging on their front door.

  By Monday night, he’d read Britt’s text saying her parents didn’t want her to see him anymore, endured his parents’ wrath for over an hour, during which they recounted everything Brittany’s father told them over the phone. all before James stormed out with a handful of clothes and landed at Colton’s house, where he settled into their converted garage. But only for a night or two, Colton’s mom said.

  This time would be different. He’d show all of them. James had a buyer lined up for his truck on Wednesday morning and was taking the Marine Corps test again that afternoon. Third time’s a charm. Couple of months and he’d be in Afghanistan, killing towel heads, like Tour of Duty on the Xbox, instead of worrying about the curfew of a sixteen-year-old who couldn’t hold her booze, or his parents insisting he grow up. He was nineteen, for Christ’s sake, a man. How much more grown up could he be?

  After selling his truck, James took the bus to the recruitment center, took the test, and then waited for the officer to return. The Marines needed him. He was one of the few, had always been one of the few. Not every orphaned kid got adopted. Most of them slinked from foster home to foster home, but not James. Adopted young. And proud? Well, yeah. He’d not really done anything yet to be proud of, school wasn’t really his thing, not sports, not friends—but, well, that’s what the Marines were for—he’d find something there, and be damn proud to do it.

  The recruiting officer came back, shaking his head. “Hell-fire, son,” he said, “two wars on and a hundred places in the world going to shit, needing us to bail their sorry asses out. We don’t cull much, but . . . damn. Ain’t got to be that bright to run toward the bullets,” he looked at the test again, “but this? You thought about trade school?”

  The air blew out of James in a low, steady gush and the rest of that day and then Thursday kind of ran together. Thursday night, well, early Friday morning, he got popped at the bus stop in front of Dale Junior’s Whiskey River. Couple of cops saw him stumble into a middle-aged couple while trying to get on the bus. Several overnight hours at the County spa now left him on the curb, the morning heat already baking a crispy edge on his hangover.