“That’s what concerns you, Darla Jo? Of all the crazy chicken canoodling spread out in front of us, you're worried about the guy's throat?”
“He sounds injured, Mike.”
“More like touched.”
“I don't want to talk about what he's touching,” Mama said in a sarcastic voice, then snorted.
“You don't need to explain nothing,” Calvin said calmly. “We all have our kinks.”
“I AM NOT A SECRET SHOEFUCKER!” Trevor screamed.
Mama gave me so much side eye I might as well be behind her.
Just then, one of the yard chickens wandered out of the other side of the closet, at the same time Josie and Alex ran in, obviously responding to Trevor's scream.
Josie looked at Trevor, then me, and announced: “I told you a long time ago that Trevor has a serious problem dealing with stress. He eats drugs, gets naked, steals chickens and falls for them. What're you on, Trevor?” Heedless of his nakedness, she marched up to him, grabbed him by the jaw, and peered into his eyes.
“I'm clean!” He yanked his head back. “I can explain... this,” he said, hands flailing.
“How in the hell did you end up in Old Doc Oglethorpe's closet making sweet, sweet love to my shoe, Trevor, covered in goo, with a chicken?” I demanded.
“Ewww. You spooged in her shoe? And dang, it's not even a good shoe!” Mike said.
“HEY!” I protested. “That's my fancy pair of shoes.”
“You need to upgrade, honey,” Mike said. “Clogs don't cut it.”
“Now you're a fashion expert?”
Josie tapped her toe while Alex gave Trevor a look of compassion, but I noticed he wasn't exactly rushing in to rescue my man.
“Explain,” Josie said, arms crossed, glaring at Trevor like she was a prison guard and she'd caught him with a sharpened spoon and a sock full of dirt.
“Can we talk about the chicken, son?” Calvin said to Trevor with a deep sincerity that made me suddenly sure my baby brother was gonna be raised right by a good, loving daddy. “I'm a little concerned.”
“A little? A little? Guy's got a fowl fetish,” Mike blustered.
“If you choke a chicken until it dies, is it 'murder most fowl?'” Joe joked, making everyone laugh.
Except Alex, who turned to me and said, “I am never helping another one of your friends extract something from a cavity again, so please tell me Trevor isn't really into fowl play.”
And with that, the room erupted.
“Let's give the poor distraught man some privacy,” Calvin said, shooing everyone out of the bedroom, to Trevor's obvious relief. “He's just been defiled by a chicken and desecrated a shoe. He don't need more judgment than the wrath of God he's already brought down upon himself.”
Trevor looked so horrified, like this was the first time it ever occurred to him that maybe God was watching.
“Someone used the last towel! And Darla stripped the bed! There weren't any clothes in here and I hid in the closet when I heard you coming because I didn't want you to see me naked and then I sat on some eggs and you opened the closet and the only thing I could cover my privates with was a shoe!” he blurted out like it was one long word.
“Privates?” Josie said with a laugh.
“GET OUT!” Calvin bellowed, the sound so foreign it was like he used one of those voice disguisers like Anonymous does when they hack someone and gloat about it in a YouTube video.
Mama looked at her husband like he had just turned into a demon. Little Cal began to cry.
“You scared the baby, Calvin.”
“I'm sorry about that, Cathy, but sometimes a man's gotta put his foot down.”
“In a size six shoe,” Mike whispered to Josie, who collapsed in laughter, but moved out of the room with everyone else.
“I like it when you yell, Calvin. Not at me, but when it's needed. Makes me feel protected.”
Calvin puffed up like a proud rooster. “You give me something worth protecting, Cathy.”
Great. I was watching my stepdaddy turn into an alpha like in one of Mama's romance novels she won in sweepstakes. Much more of this, and the handcuffs and riding crop were coming out, right?
They filed out last, leaving me with a traumatized Trevor.
“I'm sorry I ruined your big family gathering,” he said sadly.
“Ruined? Ruined? Hell, no, Trevor. You just made a story we'll be telling until we're all living in a retirement home in 2076.”
“That doesn't help.”
“Wasn't meant to help. Was meant to state the truth.”
“You know I'm not a fucker of chickens or shoes, right?”
“Of course not. You're a Darlafucker.”
“YES!”
He seemed relieved.
“Now, get dressed. Retake that shower. I'll get you a towel and some clothes.”
“I can't go out there! No way will I be able to look anyone in the eye!”
“They don't care. As long as you can take some ribbing, it'll be a funny story people can tell about Surfer Boy.”
I clamped my hands over my mouth after saying those last two words. Damn it.
“Did you start those nicknames? Surfer Boy and Asshole?”
“No,” I lied.
“Who did? Your mom?”
“Mama wouldn't do that.”
“It was Mike, wasn't it?”
“No.” I couldn't tell him it was me.
“Then who?”
“It don't matter, Trevor.” I moved to the door. He beat me to it, grabbing my wrist with an egg white covered palm. The slick made me squeal.
“It does matter.”
“No, It doesn't. Because your nickname sure as hell isn't going to be Surfer Boy any more. It's gonna be something that ends with the f-word and it won't start with Darla.”
He groaned, the sound atavistic and deep, the vibration from inside him turning into a weird laugh, almost howl-like, a wolf with a sense of humor.
And humiliated.
“Anything but Shoe or Chicken,” he gasped as I peeled myself out of his grip and slipped out the door, falling to the floor in a fit of something hysterical for a few minutes.
Until I smelled the burning.
“My sausage!” I cried out, running into the kitchen to find smoke puffing up out under the pan lid. I grabbed the top, the heat of the lid's handle searing. A potholder hanging from a hook caught my eye and I used it instead.
Josie appeared by my side with a small glass of water and poured a quarter cup or so in, making the sausage hiss.
“We can salvage it,” she said matter of factly. “Mike likes his a little burnt on the bottom, anyhow.”
The spatula became a weapon in my hands, prying the links off, rolling them over to bathe in the water a bit.
“You okay?” she muttered out of the side of her mouth.
“Sure. Why?”
“Having your entire family find Trevor cowering in a closet, desecrating a shoe, smashing chicken eggs in the middle of masturbating has to register emotionally in you, Darla. Has to.”
“What? That? I've experienced worse. Remember the gerbil, Joe's arms, and the Duck Boat Tour?”