St. Eubrie: Lambert Warfield, R.F.D. (part 2) (1016 hits)
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Submitted by fried-green-potatoes (View user info) at 2006-08-18 22:33:07 EDT
Project link: http://www.ubersite.com/m/91421
First installment: http://www.ubersite.com/m/91432
I drove down a two-lane highway that seemed to divide both field and fortune.
To the west was rich, chocolate-colored farmland. The earth was damp and furrowed. Each crest sported a green ribbon, the early crops. Straight lines of dark soil marched down from the blue foothills. They made a graceful turn just inches from a roadside wire fence—a bottom-line, maximum-yield, parabolic swoop plotted by capable managers of agribusiness—and then dashed back to the hills that bore them. Monster tillers huffed on the horizon as they cut into fat topsoil. Up close, they would be forest green or canary yellow, I thought. But distance had reduced the behemoths to hard angles and shades of gray: colorless, like the flea-sized men who could be seen jumping on and off their diesel hosts.
The east side of the road was a different story-- not the antiseptic sameness of corporate farming but chaos and confusion. Huge thickets of pokeweed soared overhead, a tangle of pulpy green that blocked the light. Claiming the rocky soil below were the lush ferns. They reached out every few yards with primitive, spiny arms to grab at passing tires. Hemlocks and white pines filled the gaps. Nailed to their trunks where hand-painted signs that scrawled out ads and warnings in a childish hand:
DERE PERSERVE--NO HUNTIN!!
SACRED INJUN BURIAL SITE. CALL 4 TOUR
NO HABLA SPANOL-- KEEP MOVIN PEEDRO!!!
And nailed to the biggest roadside pine was this freshly painted, two-panel offering:
TO THE ASSHOLE WHO TOOK SHOTS AT MY DERES ON SATTIDY...
...U CAN JUST KISS MY ASS!!!!
This was Lambert Warfield's farm-- what was left of it anyway. And if geography is, in fact, destiny, then Lambert's future looked pretty much fucked.
"Dude, I'm telling ya—he's crazy"
The voice called from memory. It was Lorraine, repeating the advice she had given me a few minutes earlier in the Schooner-Beacon parking lot. She rubbed her temples and drew deeply on a cigarette as she rattled off Lambert warnings, one on top of another. This mix of nicotine and Lambert Warfield memories seemed to be driving her to an early stroke.
Her words seemed odd-- a lapse into hysterics, uncharacteristic of the paper's best reporter. I had never seen Lorraine as anything except sure-footed, and cold-blooded on a story. "Ruthless, calculating bitch" was a phrase cast her way more than once-- and it preserved what little respectability the Schooner-Beacon had.
But Lambert unnerved her. And there was at least a grain of truth to her warnings. Warfield's "psychotic Burma Shave signs" had appeared just the way she said they would. I replayed the conversation in my mind, just in case there might be something to it.
She said Lambert was totally devoted to his daughter, a girl who had entered the Miss St. Eubrie Pageant each of the last four years and finished as runner-up every time. The winner was also the same every year: a raven-haired, cocoa-skinned beauty named Carmella Constanza.
"'Car-a-mel Corn'—that's what Lambert used to call her,'" Lorraine recalled. "Two years ago, that asshole walked up to Carmella after the pageant. He slid his big, hick thumb down her brown back. Then he shoved it in his mouth—just smacking on it with fat,wet lips, like he was clearing sugar and salt from his fingers after eating a popcorn ball. Know what he said? 'This here's a pageant for decent folk, senorita. We save the car-a-mel corn for the boardwalks and the freak shows.'... I shit you not."
Carmella's big brown eyes filled with tears. The insult also was heard by her two brothers, who rushed at Lambert swinging and swearing. Lambert is a big man, a giant apparently, and he didn't have much problem holding them off.
"Lambert was laughing and pounding away the whole time. You wouldn't believe the hammy fists on this hayseed!" Lorraine added. "He kept yelling, 'Yeah, boy! Poppin' me some car-a-mel corn tonight!'"
The cops arrived and pulled everyone apart. They hustled Lambert and the Constanza brothers out opposite ends of the ballroom.
"It looked like it was over...until the brothers started yelling threats at Lambert and Secessia,'" Lorraine told me.
"Sess.... What?!"
Lorraine sighed and shook her head slowly. She really didn't want to go there.
"Ok...Secessia," she started. "It's the name of a famous bell in the Civil War. The rebels rang it for every state that left the Union.... Secession... Secessia.... See, the Warfields used to be sugar planters in Mississippi before they came here. They lost their slaves and their land in Reconstruction. So they settled up here in St. Eubrie and made a second fortune. Owned everything in sight for a while, including the cops and politicians. But the Civil War shit...losing everything in Mississippi...the family couldn't let that go. That's why Lambert named his girl Secessia... his 'Southern Belle'... Get it?"
"Not really but..."
"Dude... They're batshit crazy. Pure and simple. All you really need to know."
"What was this beauty-queen girl of his doing while Lambert was fighting the Constanzas?" I asked.
"Sitting in a corner reading a Betty and Veronica comic book, I think. Secessia never gave a shit about winning the pageant. Lambert was the only one who cared.... And I wouldn't call her a beauty queen."
"Not that pretty?"
"Just ok. Tall, pale blonde with long curly hair and a weird, empty look about her ... like a poodle on sedatives."
"So what happened after the Mexicans threatened Lambert and the girl?"
"Threatening Lambert didn't matter. Hell, half the town does that on a regular basis. But his girl? Oh, Jesus! Lambert gets real squinty eyed and yells across the room, 'First fuckin' Mexican to come inside 30 yards of Secessia is gonna get ground up! Y'hearin' me?! You'll be lyin' under lettuce and cheese at the family taco feast, Peedro!'"
Lorraine turned to me. She seemed to be cataloging my features with a worried look--particularly the black hair and olive skin sporting a deep summer tan.
"Uh, Jim.... No offense but you might want to put on a hat before you go.... Or better yet, stop by the five-and-dime. Get a hat with 'God bless the U.S.A.' or some such shit. ...Better still, go redneck and get one with a Confederate flag."
The car was only a few feet from Warfield's driveway when I reached into the driver-side pocket. The baseball cap I pulled out said "Schooner-Beacon Cardinals." It would have to do.
User Reviews
Submitted by Crystle (user info) at 2006-11-01 19:23:50 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by fried-green-potatoes (user info) at 2006-08-26 10:56:10 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Thanks for the kind feedback. The elections will heat up after Labor Day, so I'll probably be running around PA and Ohio for a few weeks. This could work out as a longer-term project for me, though. I'll try to do some outlining and pick it up when the dust settles.
Submitted by matchoo (user info) at 2006-08-19 08:54:59 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
reads beatifully
Submitted by ilikesteak (user info) at 2006-08-19 01:03:49 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Nice.
Submitted by goferforhire (user info) at 2006-08-18 23:26:52 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by Maltese (user info) at 2006-08-18 22:34:27 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
ain'T goT no how whaTchamacalliT