The Care and Feeding of Exotic Pets by Diana Wagman Read Free Book Online Page B

He tried to push the boy who was throwing the hot dogs. The boy just snickered, high and mean, his derision as sharp as a stick.
    â€œOren!”
    His father was coming. Marcus strode through the rain, his boots kicking up the mud. He wasn’t tall, but he was pumped,more pit bull than man. The boys scattered. Oren slid out of the stand and began frantically picking up the hot dogs.
    â€œOren!”
    â€œI’m sorry, daddy,” he said. He stood up to face him. “I couldn’t stop—”
    Before he could finish his father’s hand swung and knocked him down into the mud. Oren scrambled to his feet and his father belted him again. He stumbled, but he did not fall. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
    â€œPick up those dogs and wash ‘em off good. That’s your breakfast, lunch, and dinner for tomorrow.”
    â€œI tried to stop them. It’s not my fault.”
    Marcus lifted his hand. “Do you want another one?”
    Oren bent to get the dirty hot dogs. His father spread his legs, disgust washing his face, dripping with the rain on his broad shoulders, his muscular arms, those dangerous hands. Oren recognized his own freckled skin, the burnish of red hair in the dim light. He didn’t want to share anything with his father.
    He gathered the hot dogs and wrapped them in a soggy napkin. Marcus would not forget to make him eat them. He turned off the cooker, put the lid on it, and handed his father the cash box. Then he stood on his tiptoes on the milk crate to close the shutters as his father watched.
    â€œFucking idiot,” his father said as he turned away. “Tell your mother I’m going out.”
    His father went one way, toward the exit, and Oren took off toward the RV that was home. His ear was ringing where Marcus had hit him. He always hit him on the same side. Oren wondered, why did he never give this ear a break?
    Oren ran until he reached their motor home. “Mama?” he asked at the door. “Mama?”
    The door opened just a crack releasing a strip of harsh lightthat hit him right in the eyes. He squinted at the person in silhouette peeking out at him.
    â€œSomething the matter?”
    It was Jimmy, the agent for the Ferris wheel. Jimmy had a secret tattoo on his thigh of a naked woman being burned at the stake. It was a picture of his wife, he told Oren once. She hadn’t been tied to a stake, but she was passed out in bed and Jimmy said he hoped she woke up long enough for it to hurt like hell.
    â€œCan I come in?” It was his home. “Dad said he was going out.”
    â€œYou cold? Take my sweatshirt.” Jimmy took it off. He wasn’t wearing a shirt underneath.
    â€œIs my mother in there?”
    â€œJust take it.” Jimmy threw the sweatshirt at him and the zipper hit his face. “Leave your mother alone,” he hissed. “Leave the bitch alone.”
    Oren tasted blood on his lip. He let the sweatshirt fall as he called again. “Mama! Open up.”
    â€œOren?” his mother called to him, “Baby, is that you?” Her voice was way up in the top of the trees somewhere, high and thin as the whistle from a plastic toy. “Baby? Go away now. Give your mama some time alone.”
    â€œYou heard her,” Jimmy said.
    Oren took a step forward and Jimmy shoved him hard enough to send him back on his ass. Jimmy was chuckling as he shut the door.
    Oren got up and started running again. The rain didn’t bother him. He knew the exact number of steps to the place he was going. The only place he could go. It didn’t matter if the carnival was set up in Kentucky or Wisconsin. Each ride always sat in its same place, the popcorn wagon smelled of chemicals and rancid oil, the merry-go-round calliope slid off-key in the samemeasure. There were always discarded tickets under his feet, and fat people in shorts and tank tops, and mothers yelling at their children.