The Lost Causes of Bleak Creek(2)

Every few steps, Rex and his mom returned the customary polite smiles and heys doled out by familiar faces. His shoulders tensed up as they made small talk about the weather with Sheriff Lawson, whose mirrored aviators and perennial look of disapproval did nothing to stem the mounting feeling that maybe his dad’s camera should stay zipped in his backpack. There was still no sign of Leif or Alicia.

They arrived at a massive barbecue smoker resting in front of the laundry. In Bleak Creek, it didn’t take much to justify cooking a pig. Today’s excuse was a Second Baptist Church fundraiser to replace the copper pipes that had been stolen from the church’s organ (for the second time—it had happened just six years before, too). Everyone knew who had taken the pipes (Wendell Brown, again), and everyone knew why (to fund his cough syrup addiction), but in a way, people were appreciative, because it had been three weeks since the last “pig pickin’.”

Rex spotted his dad in his usual white shorts about ten feet from the barrel-shaped smoker, staring at the grillmaster Wayne Whitewood with a combination of awe and resentment. Whitewood and his mane of perfectly coiffed white hair were beloved in Bleak Creek for many reasons, one of which was his opening of the Whitewood School, a reform school for wayward youths, in 1979. The school was seen as the primary reason Bleak Creek had made it to 1992 unscathed by the “Devil music and crack pipes” that plagued the big cities. That alone would have cemented Whitewood’s status as a pillar of the community, but he was also considered to be one of the town’s premier pork gurus.

Rex’s dad had worked hard on his own barbecue stylings for the better part of a decade, but he’d never been bestowed that great honor, the highest a Bleak Creek man could receive: being asked to cook a pig for a town event.

“I think it’s because I’m a mortician,” he’d say. “People don’t like the idea of me touchin’ people then pigs.” Steve McClendon was the owner and operator of the McClendon-McClemmon Funeral Home, formerly known as the McClemmon Funeral Home. When Martha’s father, Mack McClemmon, died in 1984, Martha had convinced Steve to move the family back to her childhood hometown and try his hand at the funeral business. The result: a funeral home with a name few locals could correctly pronounce on the first try.

Today’s choice for chef was a no-brainer, as Wayne Whitewood was also Second Baptist’s organist, the player of the very instrument for which this entire event had been planned.

“We gotta get Whitewood his pipes back!” said Mary Hattaway, the secretary at Second Baptist, a thin woman with highlighted hair that spiked in the back, giving her an unintentional resemblance to Sonic the Hedgehog. She repeated her mantra as each new person arrived at the pay table, raising one bony fist in the air.

“Picking up any tips?” Rex said, attempting to break his father’s trance.

“Huh?” Steve said, recoiling as if Rex were a door-to-door salesman before realizing it was his son. “Oh, no, not really. I know most of these techniques already.”

“Right, of course,” Rex said. It was unclear what techniques his dad was referring to, as Whitewood was just sitting there reading the Bleak Creek Gazette while the grill did its thing.

“You ready to join us, honey?” Martha asked Steve. “You’re probably makin’ Mr. Whitewood nervous.”

“Oh, it don’t bother me,” Whitewood said, surprising all three McClendons, who hadn’t realized he was listening. “I’m flattered you care that much.” He returned to his paper.

“Let’s go, Steve,” Martha said. “Nice to see you, Wayne,” she lied.

“You take care now,” Whitewood said without looking up, turning a crumpled newspaper page.

“Yessir,” Steve said. “You too. Can’t wait to eat your meat.”

Wayne Whitewood shot his ice-blue eyes at Steve without moving his head from the paper, staring at him for a few uncomfortable seconds. Despite his small stature, Whitewood was remarkably intimidating. He seemed to be waiting for Steve to correct himself.

Rex’s dad took the bait and stammered, “Well…the meat. That meat. The barbecue.”

Whitewood’s mouth cracked a smile, his eyes unchanged. Martha grimaced and tugged Steve’s arm as Rex put a guiding hand on his back.

“What was that?” Martha whispered to Steve once they’d put some distance between themselves and the grill.

“I don’t know! I’m just tryin’ to make a connection!” Steve shout-whispered back.

“Yeah, I think he definitely got that impression.”

Rex was glad his parents were distracted by their own drama, as it meant they’d be slower to notice the carefully manufactured drama he was about to shoot—using all the fundraiser attendees as unsuspecting extras—for the film he’d been making all summer with Leif and Alicia. He again checked the crowd for his collaborators, wondering if Leif would have a Speed Stick in his bag whenever he showed up. It wasn’t impossible. Leif was always bragging about how prepared he was. Probably the more appropriate question, though: Even if he did have some, would he let Rex use it? Leif could hardly share a can of Mello Yello—no way he’d okay indirect armpit contact. Rex gave himself another sniff, hoping that his proximity to the smoker might have helped to mask his odor.

Nope. It actually smelled worse.