Page 43 of The Auction
He was wearing camos, military boots, and a green t-shirt. He had a white cowboy hat perched on his head and a beard so full, I could barely make out his face.
When he saw us standing there waiting for him, he arched his back, looked up to the sky and shouted “Chief!”
So loud and deep I could hear the chickens in the coop startle. Just like they had when they saw the coyote.
Creed nodded once.
Then the man approached us, his arms wide open.
It was funny, too, because I didn’t see Creed as a hugger.
But the two men did that thing where they slapped on each other’s backs so hard you might have thought they were trying to hurt each other.
“My brother,” Tank said, as he pulled away. “Fuck, man, you shaved your beard.”
“I was done with it,” Creed said.
Tank looked at him then, as if trying to asses him. “You are one ugly motherfucker, you know that?”
I couldn’t help it. I snorted. That probably wasn’t a very wifely sentiment, but it was true.
“A face only a woman in love could tolerate,” Tank said, turning his attention to me. “Tank Ferrell,” he said, stretching his hand toward me.
I accepted his shake, but holy moly did his hand swallow mine up and over my wrist.
“Juliette Clarke…uh, sorry. O’Mara. Still new to me.”
“I bet. I bet,” Tank said. “So what did this sonofabitch do to get you to marry him, you pretty little thing?”
“I bought her,” Creed said. “For fifty K.”
Tank tilted his head back and laughed like that was the funniest joke he’d ever heard.
It was time to play my role.
I wrapped my arm around Creed’s back and with my other hand patted his stomach while I leaned into his chest. “Oh honey, stop telling people that joke. The truth is, assoon as I looked into those dark, sharklike eyes of his, I was hooked.”
Tank laughed again even as Creed gave me a little warning squeeze.
“Come on inside,” I said. “I’ll show you to your room and let you get settled in.”
Tank walked back to his truck and pulled out his duffle bag, which I noted wasn’t overly full. So maybe this would just be a short visit. Then he pulled out a cardboard box, which I quickly realized was filled with bottles of booze. Like, six of them.
“Let’s get this party going!” he shouted.
Party indeed, I thought.
Tank was drunk.As a skunk. I’d fed him a roasted chicken, as many mashed potatoes as I thought a human could eat and half a rhubarb pie. It still didn’t matter.
He’d left the politeness of a glass behind about an hour ago and now we were sitting in my daddy’s living room, where a speck of alcohol never did cross his lips, and Tank had a whiskey bottle in one hand, while his stocking feet stretched out on the coffee table in front of him.
Creed and I sat next to each other on the old couch, (he’d ordered the new one but it wouldn’t be delivered for another few weeks), across from my dad’s old recliner.
While Creed was drinking, he wasn’t Tank drinking.
Maybe he was doing that for me? So I wouldn’t worry about what a drunk Creed might get up to in the middle of the night. Or maybe, he was thinking that someone was going to have to haul this drunk beast up to this bed.
“You know Eagle opted out?” Tank asked Creed.
