Coco Twain Tells the Truth

AUGUST, 1958, WHITCHIT, OKLAHOMA





With the heat of the noonday sun and the dust flitting around, the house could have been in a scene from a bad western. Gary Cooper, however, was not likely to make an appearance. We could have used Gary Cooper and his whole posse.
Daisy parked the car in front, opened the trunk, hauled out my suitcase, and headed for the door. Sonja and I dutifully followed her inside.
“That couch,” she said, pointing a shinny red fingernail. “Who moved it?” She shoved one corner but it wouldn’t budge. When she gave a second hearty push, a hand snaked over the top, clasping the cushion.
Sonja shrieked, so, naturally, I did too. It was reflex more than fear, like when the zombie jumps out of the grave in a movie and you scream but you know the zombie is only on the screen and not in the very living room where you’re standing.
Daisy was unperturbed as the stranger crawled out and staggered to a standing position, lifting both hands into the air.
“Who are you?” she asked in a perfectly natural voice. She wasn’t known as a particularly brave woman, nor was she skittish. It fazed her not at all that Sonja and I were clinging to one another and whimpering in a cowardly manner.
The man’s shirt was streaked with dirt. He was tall, slightly bow legged, and had scraggly hair. His cheeks hosted the beginnings of a beard and his eyes were bloodshot. He said his name was Buford Markman, then waited for her to say something, demonstrate some recognition. When none was forthcoming, he asked “What have you got to eat?”
Before Daisy could answer, the bathroom door opened and second man entered the room. This one was fat and smelly. (Not that Buford Markman wasn’t smelly. He was. It’s just that this other guy was even smellier.) He was shaped like a giant toad with thin legs, little fat feet, and stubby fingers. His baggy pants and shirt were so loaded with debris they looked hairy. He had a rusty brown line down his cheek where blood had dried on a cut. He scratched in an inappropriate place to our virgin eyes and walked to the kitchen counter where he opened several drawers. He found what he wanted--a long butcher knife. Clutching the handle, he moved closer to Daisy with a definite swagger. “Don’t try anything funny,” he said. His voice was high, like a soprano with a bad cold.
“I think we better pray,” I whispered in Sonja’s ear. Prayer was not something I was particularly good at, but I bowed my head and closed my eyes in hopes the men would both disappear.
They didn’t.
“You see this?” the fat one asked.
I opened my eyes as he raised Daisy’s butcher knife into the air and flailed it around in careless figure eights. I should explain that Daisy believed in using a stone instead of steel to sharpen her kitchen knives, so this particular one was sharp as a razorblade. Just in the act of waving it, the fat man managed to cut himself. We stared in horror as a trickle of blood emerged from his left arm and dripped onto the floor. “Well, lookey there,” he said.
“Put that damn knife down,” Buford Markman said, “before you cut something important.”
The fat man dropped the knife onto the counter. His broad body swayed back and forth as his eyes circled the room.
The other man ignored him. “You don’t need to be afraid,” he said to Daisy.
It took only a moment for her to ask, “Do I look frightened to you?”
He had to admit that she didn’t.
“Good, because I don’t see anything to be afraid of. You are in my house.”
“You left the door unlocked.”
“I sure did,” Daisy agreed. “But then, I always do.”
Buford Markman shook his head in dismay.
“Oh, please.” Daisy rolled her eyes. “Most folk in Whitchit lost their door keys years ago.”
“Got any ciggies?” the fat man interrupted.
Nobody had any ciggies.
Buford Markman walked over to the table. Its small square top was cluttered with papers and dirty dishes. “I’ll settle for some food.” He shuffled a few things around, finding nothing edible.
“I can make eggs,” Daisy offered. Sonja started to protest until I clasped my hand around her mouth to shut her up.
“Got any bacon? Sausage?”
“Which?”
“Both.”
“Ok, but I’m not moving until that man gets away from the kitchen,” Daisy said.
The fat man obliged, moving toward the table to stand beside Mr. Markman. “Got any Band-Aids?” he asked. “I need a Band-Aid.”
Daisy motioned and Sonja dashed to the bathroom, returning with a box which she handed to Buford Markman, rather than the icky guy next to him. He stared with a funny expression as though he’d seen her for the first time. “Who are you?” he asked.
Daisy turned on him with instantaneous fury. “You leave them alone,” she shouted, pointing a finger right at his nose. The anger in her voice was noteworthy. I could tell by Sonja’s sudden intake of breath that even she was impressed.
“I was just trying to get the introductions out of the way,” Buford Markman said, lifting a dirty hand to scratch his chin. “Like I said, I’m Buford Markman and this here is Al Hooper. Now, what’s your names?” He motioned toward Sonja and me.
“My name is Daisy Reynolds,” Daisy replied.
He ignored her, asking us, “Cat got your tongue?”
Daisy answered again. “Sonja and Coco. Leave them be. They’re scared shitless.”
I could see Sonja’s muscles tighten at this pronouncement. “We’re not scared of nobody,” she said defiantly. I wanted to argue the point, but the cat did seem to have my tongue.
“You’re not scared of anybody,” Buford Markman said. “Correct English is always important.”
“You’re not my teacher,” Sonja replied. “Who the hell are you?”
“You’re a kid. Don’t use cusswords with me.”
“We were just wondering,” I said, quickly stepping forward. I didn’t want to speak but I could feel the tension mounting between those two and wanted to diffuse it as quickly as possible. “You’re in Daisy’s house. You’re trespassing.”
This made Al Hooper laugh and scratch again. “That we are, little lady. And we’re pretty damn hungry, so lets’ stop the inter-ductions and get some chow.”
Sonja lifted her chin and flicked her eyes at the men. “Go ahead, Daisy,” she said. “Cook for them.”


I should explain that Sonja Reynolds had been my best friend for as long as I could remember. We were in Brownies together, attended Girl Scout camp, and even joined the Order of Rainbow for Girls at the same time. We chewed each others gum, wanted the same boy, and made identical skirts in home economics class. Hers came out really cool and mine looked like it belonged in the bottom of a ragbag. And I don’t even need to mention who got the boy. Sonja was well endowed for her age and knew it. I, on the other hand, was flat-chested. We weren’t exactly two of a kind, but we had vowed to be friends for life.
Sonja knew all about the birds and the bees, which I was surprised to learn, had nothing to do with birds or bees. She got her facts from her mom, so I know she was telling the truth. My mom was still trying to convince me that storks brought babies. I was always willing to help Sonja with her homework, because otherwise she wouldn’t do it. Sonja was more interested in whatever there was to be interested in as long as it had nothing to do with school. But we were inseparable. Especially in summer.
Sonja was short with dark curly hair and thirteen years old. I just turned fourteen but we were both entering eighth grade. My mom detained me from starting school because I still sucked my thumb when I was six and she didn’t want me seen in public.
Sonja was quite popular with the boys, as you might guess. I didn’t mind that, but I did envy her for having Daisy as a mom. I would love to have had such an interesting mother, but this fact was lost on Sonja. I think she was jealous of me because I had a dad. Truth be told, he didn’t treat her very well, or me either, for that matter. But just having a dad was something she’d never experienced. I also had a brother, but she didn’t want one of those. Who in their right mind would want a brother?
Daisy Reynolds was truly amazing. She was fifteen-years-old when Sonja was born. She had the baby in our local hospital, which consisted of three rooms above the drugstore. At the time Daisy wouldn’t, or couldn’t, name the father of her child.
She always polished her toenails bright red to match her fingernails. Her hair was puffed up like marshmallow fluff. She was a beautician and believed in advertising her products. She was a self-assured woman, but, in my opinion, overly concerned about being twenty-nine years old. She had it in her mind that turning thirty would immediately add multiple wrinkles to her face and a paunch to her tummy. Personally, I didn’t think she’d ever be anything but beautiful. And she was very intelligent for a woman who wasn’t allowed to finish high school because she was ‘with child.’
Daisy’s farmhouse was just outside of town. She inherited the house when her parents died in a traffic accident several years before. They had already sold all the land surrounding the place and spent that money, so all Daisy acquired was the house (in need of repairs) and a small yard with a vegetable garden that Sonja and I planted so they would have something healthy to eat.
“The house is on the market,” Daisy was fond of saying. It had been on the market for as long as Daisy owned it. “This is my ticket out of here,” she also liked to say. She planed to relocate in Dallas or Houston where things were happening.
But who would buy a broken-down farmhouse without land in Whitchit, Oklahoma? “Nobody in their right mind,” my dad said. “Daisy’s hopes for a new life are gonna be postponed indefinitely.”
My family lived in a rented house in town. We didn’t own anything, but somehow everyone thought we were better off than Daisy and Sonja Reynolds.
I loved Daisy’s little farmhouse with its wooden floors and braided rugs. The living room, dining area and kitchen were all in one big open space. It had a small front porch with a swing, and a bay window in the living room. Nobody, absolutely nobody, in Whitchit would even know what a bay window was if Daisy’s house didn’t have one. People drove by just to look at the window that protruded out as if hanging in thin air. Sonja and I sat on the pillows that lined the window seat in hope that they would drive by and notice us.
My name was Coco Twain and I had never been happy about it. My mother borrowed my first name from Coco Chanel because she thought it was so clever, so French. Little did she know that the fashion designer’s name was actually Gabrielle and ‘Coco’ was nothing more than a ridiculous nickname. I’ve had to endure countless jokes about being a “hot drink” and quips about marshmallows. Had I been named Gabrielle, I could have been exotic or at least interesting. But that’s neither here nor there. Having a last name of Twain was an even a bigger burden. Mom actually believed she married into a family related to Mark Twain. When I learned enough to know that Twain’s real name was Samuel Clemens I tried to tell her, but she wouldn’t listen. She liked to brag about our ancestry “all the way back to Mark Twain.”
So here I was, Coco Twain, growing up feeling totally fictitious.
I had ash blond hair and slightly crooked teeth. My mom described me as stilts with a cute little body. What she meant was that I was taller than everyone in my class and thin as a rail. I’d been wearing glasses since I was twelve, though I probably should have had them long before. When I put on my glasses that first time, I was astounded to see individual leaves on the trees. Before that day trees were covered with a mass of green, which was the way I colored them in grade school.
I wanted to go to college but Sonja thought that was a waste of time. Sonja was always looking for a fool-proof plan that would swoop us out of this dump of a town and make us rich and famous (her words, not mine).
We were pretty average people living in a boring small town, that is until Buford Markman and Al Hooper showed up.