Lucky eats dirt. He digs holes at the end of his driveway, puts tidbits in his mouth and eats them. Sometimes he vomits in the shallow little holes sometimes he buries things.
Lucky stands at the edge of the driveway and screams and mutters, raises his arms to sky and flails about.
He will cry, pacing and frantic, his eyes filled with desperation.
He will ride his bicycle into town with his hair slicked back and his best T-shirt on. Some days he walks, head down and tattered. He smiles when he gets to move the truck from the backyard to the front.
“LUCKYYYYY” I hear her scream. Every day.
“Lucky dammit - get your ass home!”
“Lucky, You better get your f***ing ass back here…”
She screams for the full grown man, her voice is vicious and harsh and full of hate. Lucky is at least forty years old, but she scolds him like an abused child.
Where the hell does Lucky go? Where in this small neighborhood does he hide from her. Does he sit in the pine thicket, seeing but unseen? Does he prowl through the yards and streets like a feral tom-cat?
I hate to hear her scream at him.
I am honestly afraid Lucky may snap. When I see the familiar glare of flashing blue lights by their house, I always pause and wonder if today was the day.
But then, inevitably, I hear - “LUCKYYY!”