by Regina Williams

My day was a total disaster. I’d had to stand with my nose in a circle on the blackboard an hour for slapping Misty Collier. She started it by calling me a doody head. Things went downhill from there.

Walking home, I had almost reached our driveway. It was more like two paths through the middle of a dense forest, but driveway was what daddy called it, so mama and I did to.

Inside Mr. Tanker’s field sat a large flatbed truck with a wench on the back. It reminded me of a tow truck I had seen on the highway once. Three men were standing around waving their arms and shouting.

As I got closer, I could see they were trying to load something on the flatbed. Mr. Tanker was a cantankerous old man, going mostly to fat. When he talked his cheeks moved with the rhythm of his mouth. Even closer now, I recognized Billy Joe Watson and Buddy Lee Simpson, a couple of no accounts that lived in the trailer park on the other side of town. They were hooking something on the wench.

They yelled, cursed and walked back and forth, trying to figure out how to get the lump on the ground onto the truck. Finally, Billy Joe started cranking the wench. The first thing I realized was they were drunk as Cooter Brown. Don’t ask. That’s what daddy always said when he saw somebody falling down drunk.

Second, I realized what they were trying to haul up on that truck. Delilah. My stomach heaved. I leaned over, breathing hard, trying to get stuff to stay where it belonged. I could feel the heat leave my body and I shivered.

Delilah was a mule. She was also my friend. In fact, at this very moment, I had half an apple in my lunch pail, saved just for her. Now, these drunks were trying to pull her up by her back feet.

“Gosh dammit, Billy Joe,” Buddy Lee screamed. “What in blue blazes are you doing? It’s a hunnert degrees out here. Let’s get this over with.”

They tried again. Delilah came off the ground, but her back legs caught on the flatbed. I could hear ka-thunk, ka-thunk as Billy Joe raised and lowered the wench. My stomach turned over and bile rose in my throat. I swallowed it down, afraid of what would happen if those men saw me.

“Gol-durnit,” Mr. Tanker yelled. “Stop it. You’re givin’ me a headache.” He staggered around to the back of the truck, beer clutched tightly in one hand. “You boys ain’t worth a copper penny,” he said, sitting his beer can carefully on the ground behind him. Grabbing Delilah’s legs, he yelled over his shoulder, “Now try it.”

Billy Joe raised the wench again, but Mr. Tanker was having problems holding the legs straight and they caught again. “You’re ‘bout worthless as a opossum on the side of the road,” Mr. Tanker yelled. “Hold it.”

I didn’t want to look, but I couldn’t drag my eyes away. I could hear daddy’s voice in my head as he complained about the spectators at a bad car wreck a couple of months ago. “They ain’t nothing but a bunch of vultures, just waiting.”

I felt like one of them vultures as I peered through the pole fence rails. I hadn’t even realized tears were coursing down my cheeks until one splashed on the back of my hand.

“Put yer back into it.” Mr. Tanker’s loud, drunken voice pried my eyes back to the horror unfolding in front of me.

“It’s hung up,” Buddy Lee said.

Mr. Tanker threw up his hands, bent down for his beer and almost toppled head first in the grass. He finally got straightened up, but he was swaying back and forth like a strong wind bends the trees.

I kept wondering what happened. Delilah was fine when I’d gone out this morning. She’d followed me down the fence, braying softly, wanting a treat. I’d given her half the apple then patted her soft brown muzzle, telling her she’d get the rest this afternoon. Now, she’d never eat another apple. The tears started again.

Mr. Tanker wound up and let loose with a mouthful of curse words so bad they made my ears hurt. The mule’s legs were still making that awful ka-thunking sound.

I would be nine years old next week, but it felt as though I aged a lifetime watching them trying to load my friend. She might not feel it, but she deserved better than three drunks taking her to her final resting place.

“Hey kid.” I looked up.