Drowning in Gruel Read online

  Drowning in Gruel

  George Singleton

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Table of Contents

  ...

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Contents

  Runt

  Migration over Gruel

  Christmas in Gruel

  Soldiers in Gruel

  Assurance

  The Novels of Raymond Carver

  Bluffs

  The Opposite of Zero

  Polish

  Snipers

  Lickers

  Scotch and Dr Pepper

  Shirts Against Skins

  Soles in Gruel

  Recovery

  Slow Drink

  What Attracts Us to Gruel

  What If We Leave?

  John Cheever, Rest in Peace

  Acknowledgments

  A Harvest Original • Harcourt, Inc.

  Orlando Austin New York San Diego Toronto London

  Copyright © 2006 by George Singleton

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or

  transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,

  including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval

  system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Requests for permission to make copies of any part of the work should be

  mailed to the following address: Permissions Department, Harcourt, Inc.,

  6277 Sea Harbor Drive, Orlando, Florida 32887-6777.

  www.HarcourtBooks.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Singleton, George, 1958–

  Drowning in Gruel/George Singleton.—1st ed.

  p. cm.

  "A Harvest Original."

  1. South Carolina—Social life and customs—Fiction.

  2. City and town life—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3569.I5747D76 2006

  813'.6—dc22 2005017974

  ISBN-13: 978-0-15-603061-8 ISBN-10: 0-15-603061-6

  Text set in Van Dijck MT

  Designed by April Ward

  Printed in the United States of America

  First edition

  K J I H G F E D C B A

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, organizations, and

  events are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously,

  and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is

  entirely coincidental.

  In memory of River, Inky, and Nutmeg—at my feet during these stories—fearless warriors against land developers

  Contents

  Runt [>]

  Migration over Gruel [>]

  Christmas in Gruel [>]

  Soldiers in Gruel [>]

  Assurance [>]

  The Novels of Raymond Carver [>]

  Bluffs [>]

  The Opposite of Zero [>]

  Polish [>]

  Snipers [>]

  Lickers [>]

  Scotch and Dr Pepper [>]

  Shirts Against Skins [>]

  Soles in Gruel [>]

  Recovery [>]

  Slow Drink [>]

  What Attracts Us to Gruel [>]

  What If We Leave? [>]

  John Cheever, Rest in Peace [>]

  Runt

  WHEN THE STRAY, bighearted, mixed-breed female birthed twenty-four puppies all the exact size of a canned Vienna sausage, Watt Pinson made the mistake of calling up a friend of a friend who had an acquaintance at the local news station sixty miles away At this point Watt hadn't even named the dog, hadn't let her in the house. She had been circling his property for a couple weeks, and ate what scraps he set out at dusk. Sometimes she slept next to the woodpile, other times Watt found her beneath his work van or in a tamped-down section of monkey grass edging his back deck. Watt's wife, Mattie, left the back door open one Thursday evening, the dog flashed inside, and began the long process of exuding a litter of runts between the couch and wingback chair. Watt came home, saw the mess, and remarked how lucky he was to own a carpet cleaning company.

  Mattie said, "I wasn't paying attention. I left the door open while I took out the garbage. I didn't even see her around."

  "Twenty-four has to be some kind of record. Even if it isn't a record, I bet if we get one of those fancy scales that drug runners use, we'd find out that all these dogs are the same. That never happens. There's always one big pup, and one really little one that usually dies off from not getting to a teat."

  Mattie went and found an old comforter in the garage—something that a client gave them when even industrial steam cleaning couldn't get out the stains—and wrapped it around the bitch. Mattie said, "I'm tired of these yuppies driving all the way out here when they're bored with their dogs and throwing them out. Or when the dog eats upholstery."

  The Pinsons owned another ten dogs, all ex-strays, that found their way from crossroads, around woods, through haphazard trailer parks, past a Christmas tree farm, to the Pinsons' yard in Gruel, South Carolina. They'd spent five grand to have a back acre fenced off, bought upwards of seventy pounds of dry dog food a week, and employed two different veterinarians—one for spaying and neutering, the other who made yearly shot house calls.

  Watt pulled a hardback chair out of the kitchen and set it down five feet from the stray. "This dog must be Catholic or something, what with this many kids. Let's name her Sister. Like a nun, you know."

  Mattie didn't say anything about how a nun wouldn't have kids. She looked at the dog and said, "Is your name Sister? Do you want to be named Sister?" in her highest voice.

  The dog weighed not more than forty pounds, and looked mostly mottled hyena. Sister wagged her tail, raised her head, and nosed newborns toward her belly. "I need to call somebody up and see what the story is with hand-nursing these puppies. There ain't no way they'll survive otherwise."

  Then Watt called his friend Yarbo, who called his friend Brewer, who called the man at WYFF to say that there was a human interest story going on somewhere in the middle of nowhere, between the towns of Forty-Five and Cross Blood. By the time Mattie had a saucepan of milk warmed on the stove and Watt found an eyedropper and an ear syringe beneath the bathroom sink, a news crew was on its way

  There aren't twenty-four people I know who'd take a free dog apiece, Watt thought. Mattie won't take a dog to the pound, and there's no way I can take another dog. He stuck the ear syringe down to one of the all-white puppies and said, "This might make you moo instead of bark."

  Then he thought of how there was an empty burlap fertilizer sack in the garage and the Saluda River not two miles away.

  Mattie scooped up two handsful of puppies and said, "Sister looks like a calico cat. I wonder why all these dogs are either all-black or all-white. I wonder who the father was."

  Watt thought about taking a drywall bucket out back, filling it with water, and drowning one—maybe two—puppies at a time and nestling them back down in the ruined comforter after his wife went to bed each night. He said, "I don't understand the genetic makeup of people, much less dogs."

  He knew that he couldn't harm Sister's puppies, though. He'd gone out of his way, while cleaning the carpet of a near Italian restaurant on Friday nights after they closed, of shooing cockroaches instead of sucking them up into his machine. He'd driven his van on two wheels for twenty yards once while veering from a raccoon blinded in the road. There were flying squirrels in the attic and mice living in the crawl space that he couldn't harm—vermin too smart to enter the live traps he set out. He held a one-ounce puppy and eased milk into its mouth.

  "These dogs are so small I can't even tell which are m
ale and which are female. They're like kittens," Mattie said. "It won't cost much to get them fixed, at least."

  The other ten dogs—all relegated to the backyard while Sister continued her motherly functions—began barking. The cameraman and reporter pulled into the long gravel driveway, their high beams on.

  "How'd y'all find out about this?" Watt asked. He didn't open the front door more than two feet.

  The reporter was Celine Ruiz, and Watt recognized her. She appeared to be half Hispanic and half Asian, and much shorter than she appeared on the TV Sometimes at night he'd watch the eleven o'clock news before going out to a carpeted Pizza Hut, Shoney's, or Kampai of Tokyo that he had on contract some fifty miles away. Watt's clients trusted him enough to give him keys, and most of the restaurant managers said he could partake of the beer coolers, the soft drink dispensers, that he could make a pot of coffee if he cared. Watt worked from midnight until six in the morning many days, came home to take a nap, then fulfilled his residential orders between noon and five. When he got enough steady clients Mattie quit her bank telling job, learned how to operate the steamer, and came along. Mostly she moved chairs and tables from one side of a dining area to the other, then back. She drank free Sprite some nights, Dr Pepper the others. Mattie liked to take a salt or pepper shaker, sugar packets, the cayenne pepper containers from the pizza joints. "I like to live dangerously," she said more than once.

  "I'm Celine Ruiz," the reporter said. "We hear you have an amazing litter of runts on your hands here."

  She was beautiful, with long straight dark hair and almond-shaped eyes. Watt Pinson said, "I gave at the office," because he could think of nothing else.

  "This could make you famous," the cameraman said. He had his camera running. "Man, I've seen this happen before." The cameraman appeared to be an albino black man, an ex-student who studied communications in college before a professor finally said something like, "People will fear you giving their news, even the sports. And especially the weather."

  "You are Watt Pinson, right?" Celine said. "Are you the man who owns Pinson Carpet Cleaner? We got a call."

  Watt Pinson wanted to plain call his place Pinson Cleaners, but knew that PC might turn off prospective clients. He said, "Yeah, we got a dog in here with twenty-four pups. But I don't want to talk about it. We got a bunch of dogs, and some people might think we're weirdos or something." He looked at the cameraman and said, "Please turn that off I don't want that on TV"

  The albino said, "Oh, we promise not to show this part."

  Celine Ruiz slipped through the door, and held her microphone up like a torch. The albino followed. Mattie Pinson got up from the floor, an eyedropper in one hand and a black puppy in the other. She said, "Hello."

  Celine nodded. She looked back at the albino and said, "Hit that light switch behind you. I'll stand right here." She turned forty-five degrees. She backed up toward Sister and almost stepped on her front paws.

  The albino said, "Whenever you're ready."

  Celine did a countdown and said, "We're here in the den of Watt and Mattie Pinson, and it appears that a miracle has taken place between Forty-Five and Cross Blood. Twenty-four puppies were born to a stray dog that showed up in their yard not long ago." Watt Pinson looked at his wife and shrugged his shoulders. Why did he ever call up Yarbo? he thought. Why did he give up so much information? The cameraman zoomed in on Sister nursing a dozen of the puppies. Celine turned to Watt Pinson and said, "Mr. Pinson, come on in here and tell us about how all this got started."

  "I wasn't there when it got started," he said. "It's not like I'm the father." He said it in all seriousness. "This poor dog showed up at our place a couple weeks ago, but she was so skittish she wouldn't come near us. I set out food for her, you know, because that's what you do. We just named her Sister a couple hours ago. She somehow snuck in and started dropping puppies like a faulty gumball machine."

  Mattie said from off camera, "All those goddamn yuppies keep throwing dogs out their car doors, especially right after Christmas," but it got dubbed out before the piece aired on Friday's Hey, South Carolina! morning show.

  Celine said, "And what kind of dog is Sister?" Celine nodded her head up and down.

  "I'd say she's part spaniel and part Lab. Or she's part shepherd and part something else. She's part, that's all I know. She seems to be a good mother."

  Celine Ruiz turned her body toward the albino, held the microphone to her mouth, and said, "She's part. Just like the Carolinas are becoming more and more homogenized, so are our dogs." She turned back to Watt. "What're you going to do with all of these puppies, Mr. Pinson?"

  Watt Pinson raised his eyebrows. He said, "If I find the man or woman who threw Sister out here in the country, I'm going to let them know how they don't belong in the human race. As for the puppies, I ain't going to drown them or anything."

  Celine Ruiz didn't expect such an answer. She gave big eyes to the cameraman to keep his lens pointed at the litter. In the morning, she had voiced over, "So if anyone is interested in owning a miracle puppy, you might want to contact the station," even though Watt Pinson had said nothing about this option.

  Afterward, Watt only thought about how he should've made a plug for his carpet cleaning business, how difficult it was making a living in an area that didn't attract new subdivisions, businesses, restaurants, and/or clumsy, wine-spilling communioners.

  Between the next morning's weather report and a segment on the president declaring war on everyone who didn't agree with him, Celine Ruiz aired her segment. It wasn't 5:10 A.M. yet. Mattie said, "I only saw one camera in the house. I look forty pounds fatter." Mattie was a striking woman with eyes the color of an aloe plant. She weighed less than 140 pounds, and stood five-eight. "I'm hoping I look fat only because these puppies are so small."

  The Pinsons had stayed up the entire night, watching Sister, trying to interpret squeals, grunts, and shifts of position. They watched their interview again at 6:10, and by noon the item had evidently been picked up by CNN. By the puppies' four o'clock feeding Mr. Bunky Tucker, the famed agent to many of Hollywood's leading child actors, had called the house to pitch what he could do for the Pinsons.

  "I've already got you lined up to visit Humane Societies, PETA meetings, local SPCAs, and a couple of state fairs with Sister and her litter," Bunky said over the telephone. "I've done the research for you—a Saint Bernard in England gave birth to twenty-four pups, but a Saint Bernard's a purebred. And England's not America. So what we have here is a mixed-breed American dog, just like all of us are mixed-breed Americans. Listen, I got connections that you could never have, Mr. Pinson. I can get you on the Today Show and the Tonight Show, not to mention every midday show from New Orleans to Boston, from Milwaukee to Miami."

  Watt looked across the bar that divided his kitchen from his den and dining room. He said, "What? Who are you again?"

  "I know your name already," Bunky said. "Listen, good state fairs pay upwards of a couple thousand dollars for a four-hour appearance for something like what you got. People are numb to fat ladies and three-legged midgets. I can get you an advance, plus a piece of the door. I'll take care of getting your plane reservations, your hotel rooms, and your meals. I mean, wherever you go, they'll take care of your transportation." Bunky Tucker listed off every child actor he'd brought into the business, then saved again after their ruinous ways. He mentioned how he represented every parent in North America who gave birth to quintuplets and beyond. "You've seen how they bring those seven kids out every year on their birthday? I can't tell you how much money they take in in donations from people who feel sorry for them. The same thing will happen to you, I promise. You'll be opening up envelopes with all kinds of dog food cash inside."

  Watt didn't listen closely. "I don't think I'd be willing to check my dog and her twenty-four puppies in an airplane's belly, sir. Sorry about that."

  On the other end of the line Watt heard a bell ring, similar to one that a short-order cook might ding when somebody's
fried eggs and hash browns were ready for the waitress. "You're exactly right!" Bunky said. "I can see that you've thought this through better than I have. How about we get you an RV? And a driver?"

  "That would be much better," Watt said.

  "Who are you talking to?" Mattie mouthed from the den. "I need some help in here."

  "I get fifteen percent of your gross, of course. I wish I could do all of this out of the kindness of my heart—and I do have a kind heart, Mr. Pinson—but I have bills to pay, too."

  "Uh-huh. Listen, I have to get back in there and help out my wife. A couple of the runts are looking runtier and need to be hand-fed."

  The bell went off again. Watt pictured this stranger slamming down his palm out in California whenever an idea hit. "This show has to begin within the week, let me tell you. And it won't be able to go on for more than a couple months. Three at the most."

  Watt looked at Mattie and wondered what to do. "I'll have to talk this over with my wife. We have a business to run. We run it together."

  The bell didn't ring. Bunky Tucker was silent for a five-count and then said, "Do you people make upwards of three thousand dollars a day? You do a Humane Society fund-raiser at noon in Nashville and a fair in Louisville that evening. You do a state fair in Lexington the next morning and a PETA fund-raiser in Cincinnati that night. I'm talking off the top of my head, but that's part of the tour I have set up for you so far."

  Watt looked at his wife. She stroked Sister's head. He tried to figure up three grand multiplied by seven days, then by eight weeks. Minus fifteen percent. He said, "We've always wanted a lake house, or a cabin in the mountains. But I still got to talk to her. Could I give you a call back tomorrow?"

  Bunky Tucker said he'd make the call, and asked Watt to go find a calculator.

  "That was some kind of agent, manager, and publicist all wrapped up in one. He says you and I can make a lot of money off of Sister and her litter."

  Mattie didn't make eye contact with her husband. She said, "I heard you mention lake house or mountain cabin. Why would you lay out our private daydreams to a stranger?"