Wicked Temper by Randy Thornhorn

Author:Randy Thornhorn [Thornhorn, Randy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2014-01-10T06:00:00+00:00

STEP 10

Morning was hot, crackling hot.

Tizzy lay on her back, both legs propped over her head against a porch post. Where were her hobgoblins, she wondered? As hot as it was this morning, Tizzy's blood was not being stirred in their kettle. At the moment, she felt none of the simmering troubles or hobgoblin doubts about her soul or her savior that plagued her most days. The only fear Tizzy felt at this moment was a fear of falling. She was trying not to let that happen. Because, if she did fall asleep right here, right now, she would be found buried in maple seed whirlygigs . It was a game. When her spirit moved (and this morning it moved slowly), Tizzy would toss a winged maple seed up at her toes then watch it twirl back down. Usually, the warm breeze would carry the whirly off the front porch, into the yard. But not always. A few pods kept landing on her nose or neck or around her bellybutton. She did not brush them off. That would spoil the game. Tizzy wanted to bury herself in whirlys before Matthew returned. It felt good, in a way, to want something for no good reason at all. It was a silly game, for no good reason at all. She had a ways to go and she was trying not to drift off to sleep before her whirlygig desires were met. These desires almost roused her lazy blood troublers. But not quite. It was too datgum hot for that.

Matthew was down checking on the car. Button was around, somewhere. But who knew where that somewhere might be? Maybe the odd little child was crouched beneath Tizzy at this very moment, under the porch, poking her dirty button nose into Tizzy's beezwax. Tizzy did not care. It was much too sultry for such nonsense. Her sleepy head had even stopped seeing bits of last night's half-raw chicken. She could hardly remember the peppercorns in the blood on her supper plate. The kitchen ceiling had leaked and the linoleum had been wet. But right now she did not care about any of that anymore. Not really. Not too much. Tizzy just wished Matthew would hurry on back so she would have someone to talk to, to keep her hobgoblins away. She yawned again. Right now, Lord help her, she was just a sinpot of wanton sloth. What would her Preacher-Daddy say if he could see her now? What would he tell Robert Lloyd Nottingham about such a wanton daughter?

And how could that daughter explain to a Preacher-Daddy that she had slept in complete bliss last night, in this strange stranger's house. She had slept more restfully and peacefully than any night she could remember. Under an eiderdown comforter and blankets Tizzy snoozed and dwelt along a deep honeyed river. In a long and meandering dream, her sweet mother stayed by her side. “Honeygirl,” her mama sang, “You are so rare, so fine and refined.”

Somewhere in the early morning hours Tizzy stirred for a moment.

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