Let the Dead Bury the Dead by Joan King

Author:Joan King
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: world war ii, ptsd, wwii, gypsy, oklahoma, gypsies, moonshine, moonshiner, batan, batan death march
Publisher: Beating Windward Press

We drove back to Parker’s tarpapered shack. No one seemed to be around. No smoke rose from the chimney. Daddy stopped by an old gate and the last remains of a crumpled fence. On the front porch, two mongrels lounged on a rotting sofa. They raised their heads. Daddy drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and stared at them.

“I’ll go knock,” Miss Redding said.

“Wait,” he said. “Somebody knows we’re here. Curtain moved.” He honked the horn. When no one came outside, he rolled down his window to lean out the truck. “Parker! George Parker!”

“Obviously, he’s more obstreperous than I am,” she said.

To keep from giggling, I clamped my hand over my mouth.

“Here’s what we’re going to do. We’ll both get out and go as far as the front of the pickup,” he said. “But if I tell you to get back in here, you’ll do it.”

Miss Redding huffed at him.

“You’ll do it,” Daddy said. “Now, if any of the Parkers have the nerve to come out, you say what’s on your mind, then we leave.”

“I plan to tell him to get his children under control.”

“Whatever.”

He frowned at me and told me to stay put. I waited a few seconds, then scooted over to the driver’s side to listen through his open window.

“Parker,” he called as he and Miss Redding walked around to the front.

The stubby-eared dog crawled off the sofa to stretch while a sad-faced hound arched his back like a coon’s. Daddy told Miss Redding to get behind him. She’d barely moved when the mongrels sprang from the porch.

“Get in the truck,” he yelled.

He faced the charging dogs until he heard her door creak open, then he turned and sprinted for his side of the pickup. He lunged at the stock racks. The sad-faced hound hurtled past my window and locked its jaws on my father’s boot. Daddy grabbed a wood slat an arm’s length above his head to pull himself higher. He groaned. The hound seemed determined to tear off my father’s leg and carry it away. Daddy’s ramblings last night about dogs and bones hadn’t faded from my imagination.

With the weight of the dog straining his arms, Daddy’s body sagged within reach of the second mongrel. He lashed at the stubby-eared mutt, using his free foot to keep it away. The cab thundered overhead.

“Get out of here,” Miss Redding shouted.

She stood on the running board to pound her fists on the top of the pickup. Instead of obeying, the stubby-eared dog stormed around the corner of the pickup, scaring Miss Redding back inside.

“Does your father have a hammer or something I can use for a weapon?”

She needed her paddle. As far as I knew, my father didn’t own one. But she’d lured one of the dogs away from him. With the stubby-eared dog slobbering on Miss Redding’s window, he had one less mongrel to fight off. He was able to kick the sad-faced hound on the nose. It yelped. When it turned loose of his boot, Daddy jumped over the top of the racks.

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