White Trash in the Snow Chapters THIRTEEN and FOURTEEN

WHITE TRASH IN THE SNOW

 by Allison

This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to real persons is strictly coincidence.  I wrote this for fun, and nothing would make me happier than to hear from Friday to Friday that you are finding some enjoyment in reading the adventures of my fictional characters, the Saplin family.  Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.  All rights reserved.

Previous  chapters:

Chapter One 
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapters Five and Six
Chapters Seven and Eight
Chapters Nine and Ten

Chapters Eleven and Twelve

CHAPTER   THIRTEEN

From her very earliest memories, Cristol carried a mental picture of her mom being home every day. Cristol was very young when her mother ran for town council in their small, rural town. Rachael Saplin's first election day victory was, for little Cristol, a life changing event. From her current perspective, Cristol could see that it wasn’t really such a big deal, but that didn’t erase the memory of how it felt at the time.

Four-year-old Cristol hated the nights when her mommy had to “go to work.” The child adored her mommy and followed Rachael around while she got ready to go to “Mommy’s meetings.”  Cristol watched as Rachael loosely pinned her hair up on her head and put on makeup. When Rachael described a certain pair of shoes or piece of jewelry, little Cristol would run and find them in her mommy’s closet and in the pretty wooden jewelry box on Mommy’s dresser. It was a game – “Can you find mommy’s black shoes with the gold buckles? Can you find the necklace with the little pearl?”

Cristol would beam when Rachael praised her – “Yes, those are the pair! Good girl. Cristol is so smart. Oh! And that’s the right necklace. Thank-you Honey. Cristol is a big help to Mommy.” Then Rachael would tell Cristol and Field to “be good for Daddy,” give baby Maple a kiss, and head out the door. 

Cristol would run to the front window and watch the car until it disappeared out of sight. On those nights, Cristol missed having her mommy tuck her in and read a story to her. Tad would read to her, but it wasn’t the same; his voice didn’t sound like Cinderella’s fairy godmother no matter how hard he tried. After he gave Cristol a hug good night and left the room, Cristol would usually cry herself to sleep. She loved her daddy but she wanted her mommy.

For a while, after Cristol had said her “now I lay me down to sleep” prayer with her mother or father, she made a special request. “Please God, send me a magic wand.” Her parents thought it was cute, until one night Tad asked what she would do with it. “I’m going to make Mommy's job disappear. Then she can stay home and play with me!”

The magic wand didn’t show up, and the town council position led to bigger things. When Cristol was eight, her mother put so much energy and time into running for mayor that Field and Cristol felt not only ignored but in the way. In retrospect, Cristol believes that is when everything started to slide out of control. Her parents fought more and talked less, her brother picked on her a lot, and she, herself, began to overeat.

Cristol envied Field when he started Middle School and his world opened up. He and his friends seemed to be doing exciting, dangerous, cool things and once in a while, if she promised not to tell on them, they let her tag along. She loved being included when they were shooting hoops, and she would do almost anything to get to go camping and riding snowmobiles with her brother and his friends. Field was very different from Cristol. He was a likeable natural leader, he was popular, he was smart. Other kids followed him with something close to worship. His venturing was often dangerous and some escapades bordered on - or were – illegal, yet that only made him more of a legend among teen Azzles.

Field introduced his sister to an assortment of vices. At thirteen she lit up her first cigarette when he offered it to her. It was Field who showed her how to use a bong, and gave her her first swig of vodka. There were some things her brother tried that even she disagreed with, like doing crystal meth and using OxyContin. His addictions became well known and Cristol promised herself that she was going to be more careful than he had been. She vowed to make better choices.

Cristol was the only girl allowed to go along with Field and his friends on that Halloween when they climbed over the fence at the transportation lot and damaged forty school buses. Inebriated and high on excitement, she had flirted heavily with Wrangler Strauss throughout the evening. She felt rebellious, grownup, sexy, and independent. It was a heady mix. Wrangler was experienced, he was ready to make a move. But as it turned out, it was Wrangler’s friend JJ that she took home with her.

That night she crossed the Rubicon. Later she told Sparkler she had no regrets. “It was, like, totally awesome,” she said, “If my parents knew they would, you know… kill me. But, hey, if I’m old enough to be left alone for the weekend then I’m old enough to make adult choices. Like sleeping with JJ.”

“Yup, they gave you the house to yourself, well, to you and Field. They couldn’t have really thought he’d stay home. Give me a break. And they probably knew what you’d do.”

“No, not my parents,” Cristol said. “They are pretty trusting. My mom always says, 'Don’t do what your father and I did’. Like that’s gonna hold us back. Ha!”

“Your mom admits they did it in high school?”

“No, not exactly. Mom and Dad eloped and Field came seven months later. She says he came early. So what we aren’t supposed to do is elope, but what she’s really saying is don’t get pregnant and have to elope. It’s weird, but we know what she’s saying even though she doesn’t say it.”

“That’s weird.”

“My family is fucked up,” Cristol sighed. “But as long as they continue to go away on weekends, I can deal with that.”

Sparkler nodded. “You are so lucky.”

Azzolla’s new school psychologist could have correctly guessed how the valley kids were spending their long summer nights - drugs, sex and booze. The eldest Saplin daughter’s trifecta of misbehavior was no different than that of other bored, rebellious Azzlles coming of age in a community of inbred ignorance. There were generally two types of teens in Azzolla, those dreaming of “someday” when they could escape to “someplace else” and those who wanted to be an improved version of their own parents. Field was one of the former and Cristol one of the latter.

In Cristol’s projections of “someday“ she and Wrangler had their own home and four kids. In daydreams she furnished and decorated an imaginary nursery. Other times she made wedding plans. Both visions were soft and romantic, whimsical and elaborate, and provided a private escape from reality.

Wrangler thought that talking about baby stuff was “totally lame and boring,” and  a huge waste of phone minutes. Girls! Always talking about who’s having a baby, and stuff like what color crepe paper to use for shower decorations and what nursery theme their friend picked. He’d lived seventeen years unaware that a baby’s bedroom needed a theme.  Then one Saturday, he realized what “blissfully ignorant” meant when he was forced to leave that enviable state.

It all began normally enough. Cristol was craving French fries again, as she had every day that week. The two of them were in McDonald's in mid-afternoon, fries and sodas in front of them on the table. “I have a problem,” she said. “I can’t buy Sareetha a gift until I know the theme.”

“So? Ask her.”

“Can’t, the shower is supposed to be a surprise.”

“So? Ask her mother.”

“Duh, why didn’t I think of that? See why I love you?”

“You owe me,” he said with a smile.

“I’ll pay up tonight,” she said coyly.

Wrangler liked where this was taking them, so he tried to keep it going. “You always talk about themes. I don’t get it.”

“ Oh,” she brightened, happy to explain. “ ummm, a theme is like, you know, like maybe a froggy theme – Christa’s baby has that. Everything is green and has frogs on it.” He looked at her like she had two heads. “Really, I swear. It’s cute. The plastic baby tub has a lily pad painted on the bottom….”

Wrangler was sorry he’d asked.

 “…and Lannie chose that dumb sponge character. I hate that hideous yellow thing. But, Big Bird is yellow, and I do like him. That’s the theme Tasha picked. Big Bird is perfect for her because she doesn’t want to know if she’s having a boy or a girl. She didn't want to know...some girls do and some don't, but, see,  Big Bird is okay either way. I think Big Bird is a boy, though. Don’t you?”

“Whatever.” He was  concentrating on running some fries around inside a tiny paper cup of ketchup.

“ Peter Rabbit is popular again. It’s that old, old Peter Rabbit from, like, maybe the 60s or something. So cute.”

She took a sip of her Coke and ate some fries. Wrangler blessed the silence. 

“ I like zoo animals, that’s a good theme for not knowing if you’re having a boy or a girl. The sky – you know, clouds and balloons and stuff. Bright balloons!”

He kept his eyes down, didn’t want to encourage her.

“We don’t have to know what the baby is to complete the nursery.”

Wrangler noticed she had shifted from other people to themselves. He began to pay more attention.

“Otherwise, like, ummm, if we were having a daughter and wanted a princess theme - ” 

 “Not happening.” He cut her off, clenched teeth on the straw in his Coke. He let go of it and looked straight at her. “And, you know what? If I ran this place, they would use bendy straws.”

“What?” Cristol had no idea what he was talking about.

“You know, bendy straws, like your mom always gets.”

“No, before that; why did you say “not happening? What’s with that?” She sounded pissed.

He set down his drink and laid an arm casually across the back of the vinyl booth.

“The princess thing - not happening. Not for my kid.”

“Oh, really? Who says?”

“I do. My first kid’s going to be a boy.”  

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, positively.”

 “Well, maybe your first kid is going to be a boy, but that doesn’t mean my first kid has to be a boy.” 

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“ Think about it.”

“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

“Maybe I’ll marry Dan. Or maybe Carver. Who knows? Until I have a ring, anything can happen.”

“Have they been hittin’ on you?” This time, he sounded pissed.

 “Oooooo, do I hear jealousy? Dan and Carver are my friends, too, you know.”

Making Wrangler jealous was a game Cristol enjoyed even though, when the  roles were reversed, she didn’t take it well herself. Sometimes she wondered how she’d been lucky enough to catch him when he could have any one of a number of cuter girls. Sparkler once said it was either because Cristol’s mother was governor, or because Cristol was easy. At the time, Cristol was drunk and didn’t take offense. Besides, she didn’t need to be told that. She knew either could be true and maybe it was both - if she was going to keep him, she needed to have a hook, and one was as good as the other. Lately, they’d been fighting a lot. She didn’t want another fight right now, so she quickly said, “Don’t be silly, they aren’t hitting on me. But, technically, you know, I’m available.”

“Yeah?” he looked out the window at beautiful mountains that surrounded Azzolla. They made him wish he were out there hunting. Not turning his head to look at her, he said, “Guess that's so. And technically, I’m available, too.”

Cristol was getting nervous. “Just sayin’, Wrangler, don’t take me for granted.”

“I don’t.” 

He turned and they gave each other annoyed looks across the Formica table. It was a standoff, Wrangler matched her instructions with a set of his own. “Don’t you start flirtin' again. I heard the rumors. You got around when you were away.”

She laughed derisively. It was almost a cackle. It reminded Wrangler  of Mrs. S, and the thought caused him to feel slightly repulsed. “Yeah but that was because I hated it there. It didn’t mean anything.” She reached over and put a hand on his. “Look at you! You really are jealous!”

“Whatever.”

They sat quietly taking turns drawing long French fries out of the grease stained cardboard container and sipping their drinks. An old rock song with a summer theme subconsciously subdued them. 

The next song was another oldie – The Lion Sleeps Tonight. The words sleep and lion triggered Cristol’s memory. She asked, “Did your bedroom have a theme when you were a little kid? Lion King or something? That’s what Field had.” While “oh-wing-oh-wat, oh-wing-oh-wat” and tribal sounding instruments continued to play in the background, Cristol happily shared more childhood memories.“My theme was “101 Dalmatians.  I think I was Pride’s age.”

Wrangler was struck by the absurdity of it all. This song is ridiculous, and so is this conversation, he thought. But if he said that, she’d probably kick him under the table. Worse than that, she could go into one of those week-long pouting sessions. It was yet another behavior he’d found she shared with her mother.

“Sure, Cristol, my bedroom had a theme, it was “sharing a room with my sister and trying to keep her out of my stuff.”

 She frowned tightly. “Fine, be that way. I can see you aren’t taking me serious at all.”

“Oh, but I am. Today’s theme is ‘dirty clothes. Actually, that’s been my theme since Mom’s back started acting up again about a month ago.’” 

Wrangler’s lopsided grin was irresistible. Cristol couldn’t stay mad. She gave him a grudging smile.

“And tonight, when my room is glowing from the midnight sun the theme will be “Wishing Cristol were here.””

A shiver ran through her. I totally loved this redneck jock.

Searching with her index finger through the fries, she found what she wanted and pulled it out slowly, saying, “Oooooo, yesssss, I love big long ones.”

Suggestively licking her lips, she cocked her head at him and tried to look cute.  “Let’s get out of here.’

”You read my mind.”

CHAPTER    FOURTEEN

A few days later, Wrangler was explaining the concept of nursery themes to his friend Carver while they were cleaning their guns. Carver had been his best friend since kindergarten. They shared almost everything, and he trusted his friend wouldn’t think he was weird just because he found this difference between girls and dudes interesting. Interesting like a two-headed snake- a useless excess, a curiosity...

“I ain’t shittin’ ya, they spend a lot of money on that junk - nursery stuff and such.  I think there’s, like, a rule that they have to outdo the last girl.

“Why? Who cares?”

“Girls care. Oh, man, do they care.” He was shaking his head, “Serious competition, man. You’d think it was the Iron Dog.” Picking up the bore swab, he turned his attention to the shotgun he was cleaning.

“So what if they win? What’s the prize?’ Carver asked.

Wrangler shrugged. “Whatever.”

Another couple of minutes passed in comfortable companionship while they worked on their weapons. Carver used a silicone cloth to wipe fingerprints off, and finishing one gun, he began the process again with another. Lacking a new subject, he said, “You and Cristol talk about really lame stuff.”

 “Nothin’ lame about the payoff,” he assured his friend. Getting laid was a respectable topic any time. “Talkin’ about babies – that’s an aphrodisiac, scientifically proven and everything. Don’t you know that?”

“A what?"

“You know, it gets you laid. That kind of talk is the key. It unlocks the box.”

Carver wasn’t about to let his buddy think he was superior just because he was hooking up with the governor’s daughter. Carver considered Cristol to be one of the biggest players in the school. He didn’t think his friend, or anyone else, should trust her. “No offense dude, but that box ain’t been locked since that Halloween night when JJ-"

In one smooth move, Wrangler put down the stock he was polishing, picked up a pistol and took aim at Carver’s chest. Carver raised his hands and froze – a reaction stemming from a respect for guns, not a fear of his friend. He looked at the gun, then at Wrangler’s trigger finger, and then at his friends steady gaze. He got the message. It wasn’t I’m going to shoot you, it was Don’t talk that way about my girl. Carver was cool with that. The crack about Cristol had been crude and he shouldn’t have said it to Wrangler. He should have waited and said it to their friend Dan. Dan would love it.

“Whoa, man, take it easy.” Carver said.

An extra ten second made the point, and Wrangler, nodded tersely, set down the gun, and said, “Just watch how you talk about Cristol.” Then he picked up the shotgun and went back to work on it.

Carver resumed his work, too, but inside his head he kept thinking about how Wrangler was changing. Dan’s right, since he’s been with Cristol, Wrangler thinks he’s hot shit. And like Dan says, Wrangler’s making an ass of himself over a girl and she’s not even pretty.”

“You know what you are, Wrangler? You’re pussy whipped.”

Wrangler shrugged and spit on the garage floor. “Whatever.” He turned the stock over and looked at it more closely, letting the comment roll off him. But Carver was worked up, and getting more so.

“No one wants your stupid advice, either.” Carver said.

“Fine. Let’s drop it.” Wrangler said, Then he made the mistake of adding, “Just sayin, when ya talk about babies and marriage, girls get real agreeable.”

“Marriage? You talkin’ marriage, too? Shit, it’s worse than I thought.”

“Nah, Cristol does, not me I just let her.” This wasn’t quite true. Wrangler carried his own when they talked about marriage, he liked imagining a time not too far off when he’d have his own home and a wife (could be Cristol) with a big-belly. It would be a boy. First a boy, then a girl, just like he and his younger sister. Just like Field and Cristol. Yup, that’s how it was gonna be, someday.

Carver shook his head.“Wow, that’s all I got to say. Wow.”

Wrangler threw down the rag he was using and said, “Let’s go get some beer.”

They sat together on the stoop of Carver’s back steps, and after four beers apiece, they were both feeling pretty good. Carver leaned back and rested on his elbows. “So,” he said, “am I going to be in the wedding?”

Alcohol had loosened Wrangler’s tongue and he opened up. The Saplin-Strauss wedding plans, all were explicit and he could recite them line by line. “On a perfect summer day - that’s how she always describes it – in her folks’ yard – here’s how she says it,” he changed is voice to a falcetto, - “With the lake as a backdrop.” Carver snickered appropriately. “Anyway,” Wrangler continued, “People will be sittin’ in folding chairs and –"

“Dude, that’s unbelievable.” Carver commented.

“Why? Folding chairs are okay, it’s going to be outside.”

“No, dude, the fuckin’ details. Unbelievable.” Carver took a long draught and crushed the empty can. “Weddings, folding chairs – geesus, Wrangler, you’re gettin’ soft in the head.” 

“Don’t worry about my head, ole’ buddy. When Cristol and me are talkin’ about this stuff, she gets horny and I won’t be soft. Trust me.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and then held it up, palm toward his “ole’ buddy.” Carver gave it a slap, they picked up the empties and went inside.

****

Cristol and Wrangler agreed that July, 2009 would be an ideal time for them to publicly repeat promises they were now making to each other privately. Yes, it was true that talking about their wedding plans usually resulted in sex, but, Wrangler also liked coming up with ideas for the ceremony. That was what they were doing on the night before the Saplins were leaving on an Hawaiian vacation.

 “Okay,” Cristol said, “You and my minister hear the plane and that’s your signal to turn toward the lake. Once you turn, my mom stands up. After she stands up, everybody else will. But, I’ve been thinking maybe everyone should stay seated cause when Dad helps me down from the plane, I want our friends to get really good pictures.”

“Nobody’s gonna sit, Cristol. It’s a wedding. People stand up. Sheesh, that’s one thing I know after all the movies you’ve made me watch with you.” Over the summer she’d rented every movie she could find that had a wedding scene in it.

“Not so, Mr. Smarty, it all depends on what my mother does. If she stands, then everyone else stands and if she doesn’t then nobody does.”

“Why? Because she’s the governor?”

“No, silly,” laughed Cristol. “It’s wedding etiquette. You know – a rule.”

 Wrangler looked doubtful. “Are you servin’ me a warm load of moose-pie?”

“No, I’m not, and if you don’t know this stuff I gotta wonder what else your mother didn’t teach you.” She meant it playfully, but he took offense.

 “Oh, yeah? Well your mother is a st-“ He stopped just in time. If he said Ms. S was “a stupid phony and she sounds stupid, too,” the chances of a romantic goodbye would be ruined. He looked up to the sky, counted to ten, and acquiesced, “Don’t worry about me or my mom.”

“You’ll tell her not to stand unless my mom does?”

“Yeah, I’ll tell her. Okay? Let’s change the subject.”

“You better tell your friends too. Those guys don’t know anything, either.” Typical Cristol, piling on even though she knew she had Wrangler beat.

“Whatever. Let’s drop it, okay? Now, tell me the next part again, it’s my favorite part,” he lied.

It was Cristol’s favorite part, however - the fairy tale entrance of the bride and her father. “It is the best part, isn’t it?” she said. Then she began to recite, “As the story of Cristol and Wrangler’s Magnificent Wedding continues, the little red Piper Cub, my father’s pride and joy, docks safely…”

The degree of detail went on ad nauseum – short veil waving in a breeze, bouquet of yellow and orange roses gripped tightly in one hand while she steadies herself with the other hand placed on her father’s shoulder. Carver’s right, thought Wrangler, this is freaky. He continued to half listen. He didn’t care who wrote what vows, or who sang a song, or what the cake looked like.“While I’m on the beach in Hawaii, I’m going to look through magazines and get some ideas for our cake.” When she began to list flavors of cake, flavors of frosting, textures and edible decorations, his eyes glazed over.

Though it seemed to take forever, she finally got to the place Wrangler had been hoping for. On the way home that night he pulled out his phone to text Carver and brag that his theory was tested again and proven true. But, he changed his mind when he saw a message from Carver that read, “Where you at? Lookin 4 foldin chairs? LOL ”

Grow up, Carver, thought Wrangler and he put his phone away.

*******

   Wrangler’s girl had been gone four days and he was drinking again with Dan and Carver, this time  in Dan’s garage. He was maudlin. “Why’d they have to go to Hawaii? Cristol said they’ve never had a family vacation before. Not a real vacation like this is. Why now? This is our summer, our best summer. Ya know what I mean? Next year we gotta get jobs and stuff.” He drained another bottle and threw it ten feet, making it into a barrel. There was a satisfying sound of glass breaking. “Yes!” he crowed, but the elation was temporary.“This is it, damn it. This is the end of our childhood. Damn, ten days is a long time.”

“Bet she’s not missin' you,” Dan said. “ Bet there’s a dude on the beach rubbing sun tan lotion on her right now.” Dan, like Carver, was no fan of Cristol. He often told Wrangler he was “whipped by the ice princess.”

“Shut up.” Wrangler, drunk and lonely, didn’t need Dan giving him any shit.

“Cut it out, Dan.” Carver didn’t want the night spoiled by tension between his two best friends. They didn’t get to hang out with Wrangler much anymore and this was supposed to be a fun night. “Here, I got something for you, Wrangler.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a blunt. “This will help.”

Wrangler took it and lit it. Taking a drag, he let his mind drift. He knew his relationship with Cristol was too intense for his buddies. Maybe they were right. Maybe this time apart from his girl was good for him. That’s what his father said while they were making plans for the hunting trip - the trip that they were going to start on the next morning.

Wrangler and his dad were close. Some of his best childhood memories were made with his dad at his side and guns in their hands, shooting bear, elk, caribou, fishing and riding off-road vehicles. Man stuff. They bonded during those times, and though he knew his sister was jealous over the closeness he and his dad shared, he was protective and selfish when it came to camping trips with their dad. Porsche had looked hurt when she found out about the upcoming trip but, Wrangler refused to beat himself up over it. It wasn’t his fault Porsche was a girl.

Even as he told himself that, he knew it was a lame excuse. Porsche could hunt, fish, and ride an ATV better than any guy he knew. Still, his life had too much women stuff going on and he needed the break. His dad understood the daily concessions Wrangler made, living with two women. And now he had Cristol bossing him around, too. Cristol wanted Wrangler to be with her all the time, which meant hanging out at her house and helping take care of her younger sisters. It could be fun, like when he did the cooking – hots and sausage and burgers and steaks. He even wore an apron! (God, he would never let Dan or Carver know that.) And, how many other guys his age would pitch in after supper to do dishes, clean up, and read to Pride before bed? He was more like their dad than Mr. S.

That was another thing he’d never tell Dan and Carver was that he liked being an ex-officio parent. While barbecuing chicken, tending steaks on the grill, setting out the paper plates, and mixing up lemonade he felt happy inside. It was good practice for the day when he and Cristol would have their own kids, and that was only a few years into the future.

 Cristol’s plan was to be two months pregnant when they finished high school, and not quite four months when they got married. That, she explained to Wrangler, was ideal. He'd have a scholarship to play hockey and they'd live together in campus housing. From some of her brother’s friends, she’d heard of a way Wrangler would be able to college even if he didn't get a hockey scholarship.  As an emancipated adult with a wife and child and not much income, he could take courses for free at the state college and she could stay home and cook and clean and care for their son.
Wrangler’s ideal plan diverged from hers. He didn’t want to go on to college any more than she did, which meant “not at all.” If he could get drafted by a professional hockey team he'd skip the college step and he'd travel with the team. He'd be home in the off season. Kind of like all those guys locally who worked on the Slope. They were away a lot. Heck, Mr. S was away more than most.
Yup, she'd have to understand. But for now, there was no reason to tell her. There would be plenty of time for that later.

CHAPTERS ELEVEN and TWELVE of White Trash in the Snow

 FIELD, Field, Field  - oh my!  It's Friday with the Saplins ! 

Thanks to a new Palin Place reader who alerted me to a problem with the links to previous chapters, I have changed the links and they should work.  Have a great weekend, everyone!

Remember, any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. It is an original work, written by Allison, and published for the first time on the blog The Palin Place. 

All rights reserved.

Chapter One 
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapters Five and Six
Chapters Seven and Eight
Chapters Nine and Ten

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Even twenty hours of sunlight couldn’t pierce the clouds of depression that enveloped Field Saplin. In the nearly seven months since his Mom took office as Governor, Field, like his sisters, had struggled to adjust to a new school, a different routine, and a borrowed house. Unlike his sisters, however, he did that while in exile in Michigan.

It wasn’t because he missed his parents; being without them was normal. Growing up Saplin meant being supervised by grandparents and aunts and uncles, if at all; and when each turned thirteen, they were allowed to stay home alone, even at night.  It had taken a toll on all of them, though it was most evident with Field. The older he got, the wilder he became. He flaunted the law like an Alaskan senator.

The one good thing about Michigan was that people didn’t know about his “little genetic problem.” That’s what Brianna called it. He was only twelve when he began to question who he was. Not in the normal meaning-of-life way, but literally. He wondered who fathered him. After a couple years in school, teachers, playground supervisors, and cafeteria ladies might confuse him with another, younger kid - a boy named Kenneth G. Krebs III.  Both were blue-eyed blondes with lopsided smiles and dimples and funny ears that had a quirky little folds at the top.

In elementary school it became a kind of joke. Then Field matured enough to think about it. By the time he entered Junior High, nagging suspicions prowled like unwelcome visitors in his head, though he lacked the courage to confront them. Through seventh and eighth grades, he suffered in silence.

Then came the inevitable – someone else made the connection. Field was fourteen at the time and had just won a brawl against a much larger boy, establishing himself as a high-school level tough guy. He was strutting proud, letting girls fuss over him and accepting kudos from the guys, when, after the high-fives and slaps on the back began to subside, a frienemy said “Congratulations, Saplin. You’re a pretty good fighter for the son of a dentist.”

 He trudged home with a tear in his shirt and dirt on his jeans; threw away the shirt and put the jeans in the wash. He felt numb, and it had nothing to do with the physical fight that day; he was pummeled emotionally. How was he to handle the rips and the dirtiness he felt in his heart? When the ties to your very own father have been torn away, what do you do? Throw that part of who you are away?  How do you do that?

There was no denying that his ears were like those of his godfather, who was a dentist. The doctor’s son, Kenny, had them, too, and so did Joseph Krebs, the dentist’s brother. Joe the plumber, had done work for the Saplins last year and he’d joked with Field that if the size (large) and shape (funny) of ears indicated brain function, the two of them were “twisted geniuses”.

Images flashed through his head. Images of his mother with…he spat, wiped his mouth, and said aloud, “Mom and Dr. Krebs? GROSS!”

At home that afternoon he got sick. In the bathroom, he found a bottle of Pepto Bismal, but it was too late. He spewed the contents of his stomach. Retching and being alone after school were a miserable combination. No one had ever felt sorrier for themself than Field Saplin on that day. He washed his face, then studied his reflection. Does Dad know? Does Dr. Krebs know?” Wryly, he mimicked a Fox News reporter “Breaking news! Mayor Saplin Caught in Pregnancy-Related Lie!” It was no use, he couldn’t cheer himself up.

He locked himself in his room, pissed and perturbed and blaming himself for not having caught on much earlier. He imagined confronting his mom, “You say you’re a Christian, and you say there’s no such thing as coincidence, so, Mom, why do I look like creepy Kenny Krebs?” He imagined his mom breaking down and confessing. Confessing how she and Dr. Krebs hid their sin. She’d make some Bible story out of it, probably say they were like the original sinners Adam and Eve except instead of fig leaves they used three little letters.  G-O-D in front of the word “father” covered what they didn’t want exposed. She might even quote that verse that says “The truth will set you free.”  

“Shit, I think I’d rather not be free,” he mumbled to himself.

Field stayed in his room when others came home; he said he was sick. He played X box until it bored him, he pulled out his library of porn and vigorously pursued happiness. For a fleeting moment he felt better, then started burning some incense and smoked a joint that he had hidden away. Nothing was enough to stop the pain.  The self -imposed isolation lasted three days. Then, he came out and joined the world, but he was forever changed. 

First, came fights with Tad, even though, even to him, it didn’t make sense. Here was a man who had been cheated on and who had stepped up and become a dad anyway. Why should he take the first hits? But, literally, that’s what happened. Field initiated a confrontation, threw a punch and the two of them went a few rounds. Tad was almost proud of Field for taking a swing at him.  He simply thought it was that stage most boys go through on  the way to establishing their independence.

Field’s anger toward his mother showed in other ways. Rachael became the target of merciless sarcasm.  Unwittingly, she gave him numerous opportunities. She bragged about being an “ethical watchdog;” she said she supported “family values”; she introduced “the Saplin kids” at events. Field was hostile and cutting. His bad behavior embarrassed her,  but Rachael made excuses for him. “It’s all part of growing up. He doesn’t mean it. We have to let him figure out what’s right for him. Different styles of communication, that’s all this is, he’s, well, he’s just experimenting...”

Tad disagreed. “Experiment with rudeness? I don’t think so, Rachael.”

“Oh, but it is. I remember when my brother went through this,” she said. “It’s normal. He’ll outgrow wanting to be a tough guy and settle into some kind of nice, normal adulthood. He’s not meant to be a bully. Deep inside he’s a milquetoast.”

“Don’t ever say that!” Tad snapped back in anger. “No son of mine is a milquetoast.” Rachael had made a big mistake. The funny sounding word was in her mind because Tad had used it recently. He’d used it to describe a certain dentist who’d called to complain for the umpteenth time about Rachael’s extension of the closing time for bars. He lived too near to two of them, and was often disturbed between 3 and 4 am by rowdy patrons.

“His problem is he doesn’t drink enough,” Tad had said with no sympathy. The exact phrase Rachael remembered him using was “Sissy milquetoast.”

 After that disagreement, Tad let Field get away with more than rudeness. Field became a time bomb, and in his junior year of high school, he exploded.

It was during an Azzolla Red Devils hockey game, when Field and an out-of-town opponent were preparing to face off. “Aren’t you Field Saplin?” the boy asked.

”Yup, that’s me.” Field puffed out his chest, imagining his reputation as a formidable opponent being bandied about the visiting team’s locker room. He took his position, eye on the puck, ready to prove the rumors were true. “So, you heard of me, huh?” he asked.

“Yeah, everybody’s heard about you. You’re the kid that showed up nine months after the dentist filled your mother’s cavity.”

After the referees separated them, the other boy was taken to the hospital with a broken hand and Field was thrown out of the game. Rachael and Tad were furious that their son had embarrassed them yet again with his poor sportsmanship.

”So, what happened this time?” his mother demanded when he got home.

Field was ready for her. “You tell me, Mom. Tell me why I look more like my dentist than I look like Dad!” The perfectly delivered shot was Field’s first score of the night. More followed.

Rachael’s defensive instincts took over. She suggested that hormones were fogging his thinking. When that didn’t work, she played the victim, she said she was hurt that he had bought into “that ridiculous conspiracy theory” made up by “wackos” who wanted to damage her reputation. She claimed she’d been a target for years. “Folks have been makin’ that stuff up ever since I first ran for city council,” she said.

“Rachael, why don’t you go upstairs?” Long ago, Tad prepared himself for this day. The evidence was too strong to deny, and he had nothing to be ashamed of. (Actually, he had plenty to be ashamed of, but nothing his family was going to find out about., and nothing directly related to Field’s paternal genetics.) “We always agreed that we would tell him when it was the appropriate time,” he reminded her. He pulled out a stool at the kitchen counter and sat down. “Well, it looks like it’s that time.”

“I hate you,” she said to Tad, then turned and childishly stomped up the stairs. And she wonders why the girls that, Tad thought. A door slammed and then there was silence.

Tad could hear the second hand on the kitchen clock ticking counting down to a conversation neither of them would ever forget.  He motioned for Field to sit on the stool next to him, and took a couple oranges from a bowl on the counter. He  handed one to Field and kept one himself. It was a perfect distraction and cover. Digging into the thick rinds, the boy and the man avoided eye contact. With a citric olfactory accompaniment that would forever link the scent of oranges to Field’s memories of this conversation, Field heard the story of how he came to be.

When he was done, Tad said,  “I decided it didn’t matter, I’m your dad and that’s that.”  

Tad admited that it wasn’t easy for him when Field’s godfather showed up at track meets and cheered loudly for Field, or hustled up to the boy when the team came out after hockey games.

“How can you stand it?” Field asked, perplexed.

“Life happens. Get over it. Move forward.” It was great advice, and Field was able to apply it. Sure, he cried in private and later confided in his girlfriend, but sooner than he’d expected, he found a modicum of peace. At times, however - times when Rachael and Tad were away or when his dad was beginning a month of fishing or a whole season of snowmobile race prep – Field asked himself What would it have been like if I’d been raised by a dentist?

CHAPTER TWELVE

One night, not long after Field learned the truth, Rachael and Tad called a family meeting. “How would you all feel about moving to Washington?”

“And live near grandma’s sister? Why?” asked Maple.

“Not that Washington, “ said Rachael, “the capital, Washington, DC.”

Cristol looked confused. Maple looked like she was thinking about it. Pride hadn’t heard, she had Cristol’s iPod turned up too loudly and was wearing a set of earbuds. And Field didn’t hide his feelings. “No way! God damn it, Mom! No!”

Rachael, consumed by her career, had expected all her children to be excited about their mother taking this step toward becoming a national figure. Instinctively she understood Field’s response came in part out of his closeness with Dr. Kreb and the doctor’s parents who were like a second set of grandparents to Field. She could not let the girls learn the truth.

“Girls, upstairs. Now,” she ordered. She put one hand on her hip and with the other she pointed in the direction of balcony railing.

“But, Mom,” Maple began to protest.

“I said NOW!”

Cristol took Pride by the hand and headed up the stairs. Maple held back and glared at her. There was a standoff between mother and daughter that lasted thirty long seconds. Then Maple stomped her way to the staircase and pounded her way up it making loud, angry thuds that bounced off the walls of the cavernous lower level. The stomping in the upstairs hallway ended with the slamming of a door.

“Where do they get that behavior?” Rachael asked rhetorically.

Tad was amused that she would even ask that, but he was too smart to answer. He got up and turned up the volume on the TV. Not to cover for Maple, but to cover up the discussion that would ensue.

Rachael stood and paced. “I guess you could live with your grandparents.” Rachael told her oldest child. She didn’t wait to hear if he wanted that,  her maternal instincts had atrophied years earlier.  “I’ll talk with them,” she said, as if she was doing Field a favor.

 “Nope, don’t bother.” Field said. “I’ll bet my real dad wouldn’t mind having one more dog-eared kid around. They’ve got a huge house and a huge dining room table. They even eat meals together.  Imagine that,” he added sarcastically.

The words had exactly the effect Field intended. All three of them knew that the Krebs would welcome Field into their home, and that, in spite of his bad choices and troublemaking, their love was unconditional.

But this wasn’t about Field, it was about Rachael’s political career. That would be the only reason to move to the beltway, and it couldn’t succeed if people learned the truth about Field and Dr. Krebs. It was hard enough keeping their son’s misdeeds under the radar of public scrutiny without having Rachael’s secrets unearthed, too.

 Field’s “bad choices” as a youth constructed a long record of juvenile delinquency. By seventeen Field was at risk of doing jail time. One day, in a closed courtroom, the judge issued a stern warning to the young man and his parents. It was made clear that even “a gubernatorial candidate” wouldn’t be able to get him freed if he came before that judge again. Humiliated judge’s scolding, Rachael and Tad argued late into the night, unable to agree on a face-saving solution.

Across town, Field’s other father lay awake wrestling with the same demons, thanks to being tipped off by the judge. Azzolla was a small town and the judge’s daughter had a beautiful smile that showed off some of Dr. Kreb’s best corrective work. His Honor was very grateful to Dr. Krebs. He would do the best he could to help Kenneth with his own kids. Field, he knew, was biologically a Krebs, and letting the doctor know about Field’s last warning was a simple case of quid pro quo.

Dr. Krebs went to the local Saplin for Governor campaign office the next morning. He ignored two women making campaign posters with pink and green markers, and marched into the office in the back where he found her sitting behind a desk signing papers. She looked up, surprised. “Kenny! So nice to see you! Are you here to help?”

“In a way,” he said as he shut the door. “I’m here to help Field.” He sat down across from her and leaned forward and folded his hands on the desk. “I’m worried about him, Rachael. He’s a troubled kid.”

“Oh shoot, Kenny. He’s just being young.” Her gum snapped and she gave her old flame a flirtatious smile.

“Rachael. Listen to me. If he continues on this path he’s on…” he paused when Rachael help up a hand, palm outward.

 “You’re over reacting. Sheesh, Kenny, don’t I know my son? Don’t you worry.”

“Don’t worry? Wake up Rachael! It’s not just Field, you know. All your kids are in trouble! All of them!” 
The smile was gone.  He was glad to see he was getting through. But then,  she glanced quickly at the door  and he knew she wasn’t worried about the kids, she was thinking about the people in the next room. 

“Damn it, Rachael. Stop this foolishness about running for Governor and be a mom for once. Be the mom God want you to be,” he implored. “Time might be running out for Field. I hope not, but even if it is, do it for the girls.” The set of her jaw told him he’d better hurry and finish. Soon she wouldn’t be hearing a thing he said. “I’ve been praying you, and the kids and Tad. I promised God that today I’d put action to my words, so here I am. God gave you children, Rachael, not political props.”

There it was again. That Bible-based criticism that she abhorred. And coming from Kenny made it all the worse. It was like a knife in the heart.

She slammed down the pen on the desk, and attacked. “How dare you come in here saying such thing? How dare you?” She stood up, her hands were balled into fists. This put them face to face and he saw her eyes narrow and flash.“My children are doing fine, I assure you. As for Field and his boyish escapades, well, it seems you should know, that’s what boys do. Kids test boundaries. My kids are brighter than most, and perhaps that’s why they can think of so many ways to …” she stopped herself. “Why am I explaining this to you? I don’t need to explain anything to you. You’re just…well, you know what you are.”

The implication was that Kenneth was only a sperm donor. Rachael loved that phrase, “sperm donor,” almost as much as she disliked the radio personality famous for using it. Rachael thought the radio doctor was far too extreme in her disapproval of working moms. It was her opinion, the talk show host needed a new attitude.

Kenneth Krebs II may have been a sperm donor, but he was a also a Christian who, on that day, was on a save-the-children missionary trip that had taken him into the den of a momma bear. Like all good missionaries, he tried to swallow his fear face his dangers with courage. “Rachael, the whole town’s gossiping about your kids.” Her eyebrows furrowed. “It’s bad.” He lowered his voice, “Drugs, sex, booze…Cristol and Field.”  He hated what he was doing, but he forced himself to finish. “Maple, she’s even…well, I don’t know for a fact, except…except you better watch that boyfriend of hers.”

Rachael sank back into her chair like a balloon deflating slowly.  Kenneth took a seat, too. He remembered one more thing, though now it seems almost petty.“And, Rachael, how can you keep taking them out of school to travel? How can they keep up?”

She put her elbows on the desk and her hands covered her face. Totally withdrawn, she said nothing. He waited. He thought she might be crying.

The silence became too much for him. He quoted a corny line they had come up with together, long ago. “Our lives are intertwined like vines.” As soon as it was out of his mouth he felt stupid; God that sounds stupid. This isn’t some afterschool special Lord, help me do this right..

“For God’s sake, Rachael, show me some respect. Think about what I’ve said. The kids are more important than politics, aren’t they?” He was finished. She remained withdrawn and unresponsive. He was sure he’d failed his mission. Exhausted, he got up and left the way he’d come in.

“Vote for Rachael, she’s the Real Deal,” one of the ladies chirped as he hurried past them and out the door.

By the end of the week, with his godfather’s help, it was arranged for Field to spend his senior year of high school in Michigan, where Lydia Krebs, Kenneth the first’s wife, had been raised. Through their connections, a family with a boy Field’s age took him in for the school year. It was a good decision, the school had a competitive ice hockey team which became the explanation for his spending time in Michigan. “Better than spending time in prison,” quipped Rachael’s dad, Buck when he was told.

Last month Field had returned to Azzolla to “graduate” with his class. His adopted (sort of) grandparents Krebs gave him a combination welcome home and graduation gift – an energetic puppy.  Filed named the dog“Fraud” as an inside dig against his mother’s deception.  It raised eyebrows at first, until Rachael came up with a lie.
 “Hmmm, interesting name,” the falafel-making lady said when Field stopped while walking the dog to buy some of her wares.  Rachael was with them, and quickly came up with a spin.
“His name is F-r-e-d not F-r-a-u-d. We pronounce it like that because we’re teasing Field.  See, he picked up this mid-Western accent, yup. You bethca, of course you heard that our boy was away playing hockey in the big leagues and being watched by scouts, and again, we are seeing great things, he’s gonna get some offers any day now. Golly, that’s a hard-working young man we raised, which of course, he’s never been any trouble…or in any trouble, and it’s…of course his father- that’s Tad – his father and I, we’re so proud.”

Damn she’s good, thought Field. If I'd had that talent, I could have gotten away with a lot more shit.

Azzles suspected that lies prevailed when Saplins spoke, but they accepted it as a given. No one but Field himself actually knew all the misdeeds he had done. And no one knew all of Rachael and Tad’s less-than-honest deeds, either. Small town rumors are passed down from parents to children like an inheritance and Cristol’s enemies made sure they repeated what they heard, not only to each other, but to Cristol and her friends. People said her mom had made it with a half dozen guys in high school, and that Field’s dimples were a proof that their mom was a slut. Cristol saw the dimples in the cheeks of Lydia Krebs, Kenny and Kenny, Jr., but she never talked about those things. Instead, she took on the mantle of “slut,” called herself that, semi-jokingly, diluting the impact of the word when someone else used it.

Cristol had missed her brother during his banishment. She missed him and, at the same time, she was mad at him. How could he have left her alone to deal with their parents? How could he just move out when he knew how much she needed him? Why couldn’t he have just promised he would straighten up? If he had begged Mom and Dad they would have given in. They never mean what they say. He knows that.

Deep inside, she knew why. She knew he resented their parents. When he got in trouble he went on the offense, saying something like “Don’t pretend this is about me. I’m just getting in the way of your plans. You’re afraid you might not get that next trophy or title or donation. It’s all bullshit. I hate you.”

Over the months he spent in Michigan, Field changed, at least that’s what Cristol and Maple said. Their brother was no longer fun. He was quiet and brooding. Sometimes he was surly. If Field had shared his feelings with Cristol, he might not have felt so alone. They both missed the innocence of childhood with its carefree endless summer days and the feeling of security.  Cristol in particular longed for the feeling of those days when her mother was home more than at the office. Before Mom’s job became all anyone cared about around the Saplin household. Field, if he’d been honest, would have had to that he  wanted to be noticed, to have a say in his life, and to be respected. Both really wanted the same thing -  to feel loved.

Remember - This Land Was Made for You and Me

It's hot. My job has had me working late. I'm looking forward to your reactions on Friday when you come across my favorite lines in White Trash in the Snow (in a chapter where you learn why Field doesn't look like Tad),  and the Palin Place needs to recognize this holiday - this  day that started our whole democratic experiment. For the occasion, I'm repeating my least-read posting from this start-up blog on a certain other national holiday.  Have a great 4th of July!

Woody Guthrie’s “This Land is Your Land” is a song  far right-leaners and dominionist say it is a communist/Marxist theme song.  Sarah Palin probably doesn't like it.  But,  I’ve done a bit of research.  Here’s what I learned that I think is important to today’s Americans.

Woody Gutherie saw the Great Depression first hand. Americans then, like today, needed jobs, needed to feed their families, and sought assistance from the government. 

When "God Bless America"by Irving Berlin was topping the charts, Woody  Gutherie had “had it” with Americans being fed the message “don’t worry about anything”  through songs and pop tunes.  "This World Is Not My Home” and  "Wrap Your Troubles In Dreams, and Dream Your Troubles Away" troubled him, too. Woody didn’t think it was right to tell people not to worry, that God was in the driver's seat. 

I’m not in a position to get into Woody’s religious beliefs, but I think it’s safe to say he would join todays' Occupy Wall Street movement. He and Sarah Palin would have differences of opinion.  Michelle Bachmann might say he was anti-America. Newt would tell him to get a bath and a job.

But he isn't here. His time was earlier. First stanzas of "This Land is Your Land" were written in 1940, a time when folks still hitch-hiked legally and safely. While he hitched north and east through Appalachia, Woody put together some verses. Eventually, they were written down on a piece of loose-leaf paper,. With "God Blessed America" at the top, he began the first verse:

This land is your land, this land is my land
 From California to Staten Island

He stopped, crossed out "Staten", and put in "New York."

From the Redwood Forest, to the Gulf Stream waters
,  God Blessed America for me.

He wrote five more verses working in a fleabag hotel room. "All you can write is what you see," he wrote at the bottom. He signed and dated it  "Woody G."  February 23, 1940.  He didn't do anything with it for another five years, then it became published and popular. At least some of it did.  Some verses are less well known, and there’s good reason-- they challenged the big money monopolies that were quite comfortable letting "lesser people" struggle. Have you learned these verses?

Was a big high wall [there] that tried to stop me


A sign was painted, said, 'Private Property'
  But on the back side it didn't say nothing,  
God blessed America for me

One bright sunny morning in the shadow of the steeple  
By the Relief office I saw my people
  As they stood hungry I stood there wondering if  
God blessed America for me

 [1993:] And Woody later added a new last verse:

Nobody living can ever stop me
 As I go walking my freedom highway
  Nobody living can make me turn back
  This land was made for you and me

There’s some political history about the trimming of verses from “This Land is Your Land.” Washington Bigwheel Clark Clifford in March 1950 addressed the wealthy businessmen at Chicago's Executive Club and explained it to peers:

"[...] The people have to feel that their small share of this country is as much theirs as it is yours and mine [...]." With only half of Woody's verses, This Land Is Your Land falls right into Mr. Clifford's trap. In other words, "Let people go ahead and sing the song. It makes them feel better. Meanwhile you and I know who really controls the country."

Everyone reading this is part of the 99%.  Well, almost everyone. The one percent that isn't?  Say "Hi" to Bristol, or Willow, or Sarah - you know one of them is on duty reading anti-Palin blogs even today. My message to the 1%:

"This land was made for you AND ME."

Here is Woodie Gutherie's song sung by Pete Seeger and Bruce Springsteen.  This links to the performance in Washington during  the Obama inauguration celebration.  (Warning – if you are so inclined, it will give you goose bumps.)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YiEAcZhqojk

Pete Seeger has sat at my kitchen table. He’s a gentleman and a fighter. He fought for Civil Rights when dogs and hoses were used to punish protesters and now he’s fighting for the 99% in the OWS movement.  I’m thankful for patriots like him, and thankful that the 2008 election turned out as it did.  Enjoy the day and your family, Truthers, we have much work yet to do

Dog Days of Summer – Levi Johnston Brings Home a Puppy.

It's Levi Johnston's turn to try his hand at dog raising public-style.

This idea isn't new. Bristol got a puppy. Her SarahPac-paid ghost-blogger (I’m assuming Sarah thinks any publicity with the name Palin attached qualifies as a political expenditure) put up a couple of posts – one to name the dog and another to stir up some sympathy and attention by announcing he was missing. No one really cared. Mitt Romney’s dog’s bowels created much bigger and longer lasting headlines this political season.

So, now it’s Levi’s turn. On his public Facebook, he shares the picture below of a female named Moose:

Now, I’m not much of a dog person, so I can’t say from experience exactly what kind of dog I would choose if I had a baby arriving in less than three months, but I do wish them well combining new parenthood with training what appears to be a Jack Russell terrier. 

Levi has a new look, too. What’s with all the hair? It looks more natural on him than those Armani suits. This looks to be the Alaskan man his woman gushes about on Facebook.  My guess is, this is as close to the real Levi 2012 as any Levi Johnston images published on the internet. He looks comfortable in his own skin (and hair).

The caption is captivating, isn't it?   The kids will "be here soon.”  Written for public consumption, it’s absolutely a message to the Palins. Levi and Sunny are going to have Tripp in their lives. So there. Bristol’s greed led to the reality show that did what no one else could do – document the mean spiritedness of Bristol Palin toward Levi Johnston in such a way as to make it inarguable that she is hurting their son with her inexhaustible campaign to hurt his father. Now a judge can see for herself what we knew was happening all along. (Levi, get thee to a judge.)

I’m looking forward to pictures of Tripp and the Jack Russell playing outside Levi and Sunny’s little house. (Yes, they have their own house. Contrary to Palin planted put-downs, Levi doesn’t live with his mother.) If they post ‘em, I’ll help them share ‘em.