Trailer Trash(98)

His dad pushed his hands into his jean pockets and rocked on his heels, staring down at the floor. “I want you to go to school. You’ll do better if you have at least an associate’s degree.”

“I know, Dad. And I will. I’ll just do it in Iowa instead.”

“You won’t get any help from me. If you insist on throwing away your future for a kid like Cody—”

Nate put his headphones back on and tuned out his father. When they called his boarding group, he picked up his carry-on bag and got in line. His father walked away without saying good-bye.



The flight was a little over three hours long. Three hours, with the man next to him chain-smoking and the lady on the other side telling him about her grandkids. Nate smiled and nodded and tried not to think about whether or not either of his parents would ever speak to him again.

He grew nervous as they landed and taxied to the gate at O’Hare. He hadn’t seen his Aunt Cora in almost three years, but he was relieved to find he still recognized her on sight. She smiled and waved, and when he finally reached her, she hugged him warmly. She was far shorter than he remembered, and as if reading his mind, she laughed and said, “Boy, you’ve gotten tall.”

“I guess.”

Cora was several years older than his dad, with a petite build and shoulder-length blonde hair that hadn’t yet started to gray. She’d been married once, but she’d been divorced for as long as Nate could remember.

“I’m sure you’re hungry,” she said, as they waited for his bags. “What do you want for dinner? We could order pizza, or I can cook. Anything you’ve craving?”

“Fried okra and collard greens.”

She laughed. “You can take the boy out of the South, but you can’t take the South out of the boy.”

“If it’s too much trouble—”

“I haven’t cooked collard greens in years, but Army & Lou’s isn’t too far out of the way. We’ll grab some takeout.”

The restaurant smelled like heaven, and Nate’s stomach grumbled as they waited for their food. His mouth watered all the way back to Cora’s house, his lap warm from the contents of the takeout bag. Cora kept up a constant stream of chatter, pointing out landmarks. But it wasn’t until they were sitting across the kitchen table from each other, with the remains of the best Southern feast Nate had eaten in months laid out between them, that she finally said, “Okay, Nate. I know what your dad has planned for you. Now why don’t you tell me what you have planned for you.”

Nate debated, popping another piece of fried okra in his mouth and chewing it slowly. His father had said Cora was open-minded. Still . . .

“Okay,” she said. “How about you tell me about Cody.”

There was no judgment in her voice, and her expression remained open and friendly. “Really?”

“Really.”

“What did my dad say?”

She waved her hand dismissively. “Oh, I don’t know. Something about bad eggs and foolish boys and reckless decisions.” Nate’s cheeks began to burn, but Cora smiled and leaned her elbows on the table. “Did you ever hear the story of Mr. Spangler’s station wagon?”

“Who?”

“Mr. Spangler. He was our parents’ neighbor when your dad was in high school. He was friends with our parents. They lived in Bossier City at the time, not far from the base. Most of the neighborhood was Air Force families, and they all knew each other. They’d get together for cocktails or whatever. Anyway, when your dad was eighteen, he didn’t have his own car, but Mr. Spangler had this old station wagon he didn’t use much, and sometimes, he’d let your dad borrow it.”

“I think I remember him mentioning it.”

“Well, I was off at college, but your dad was a senior at Barksdale High, and the drinking age was eighteen there, of course. So for spring break, your dad asked to borrow Mr. Spangler’s car for the night. Said he and his friends were just going out for a few hours. But instead, they loaded up a bag of peanut butter sandwiches and a cooler full of beer and . . .” she leaned forward conspiratorially, grinning, “they drove to Mardi Gras for the entire week.”

Nate sat back, stunned. “No way.”

“Way.”

“But Bossier isn’t all that close to New Orleans, is it?”

“It’s about a five-hour drive.”

Nate laughed. “I take it he missed curfew.”

“By a long shot. At first, my parents were freaked. They thought he’d just gone out and not made it home, like maybe he’d wrecked the car or something. But then they found a note he’d left saying he’d be back the next weekend.”