Burning Confessions

How I Happen To Be Getting Married Yep, this is me, Calley Gallagher, sitting in this wedding dress waiting for the guy of my dreams to show up at the church. Oh, don’t worry! He’ll be here. Daddy’s got his shotgun handy and Bret Lawrence knows good and well, he’ll use it to get him to the alter. You see, Daddy is very old-fashioned about some things. Actually, he’s old-fashioned about most everything. This may be the end of the 1940’s with lots of excitement happening all around us in this beautiful world. The war’s over, the sky’s the limit on life. But my Daddy thinks that sticking to the old tried and true is what keeps people happy. I don’t dispute his logic, but with my butt sore as hell right now, I kinda wish he’d find his way into this century. And about my butt being sore—that’s the whole point of this confession. It’s a good thing I have lots of time to tell my story, because it’s a long one. There’s no way I can explain why I’m getting married, or why my butt’s aching like it was stung by a hundred bees without giving you a fairly complete history of my life, or at least a thorough accounting of this most recent chapter. But then, lets backtrack, and get a few basics straightened out. Daddy’s been taking me and my brothers to the woodshed for years. Mostly for things like mouthing off—he hates bad attitudes—or sneaking out in the middle of the night, or coming home more than ten minutes late for dinner. Simple stuff like that. There was the one time he whupped the twins, Jess and George, after they set fire to Herbert McCarthy’s 1932 Chevy. It was an accident, even Daddy agreed on that. But they “shouldn’t have been there in the first place, they shouldn’t have been out at midnight, even it if was Halloween, they shouldn’t have been fooling around with matches, and most of all, they shouldn’t have lied.” I can still hear that exhilarating lecture ringing in my ear after all these years. Some things you don’t forget, you maintain a memory of them in your head the same way that sticks like peanut butter to the roof or your mouth. This one stuck—Daddy’s lecture, the sound of his “Get to the woodshed,” order, and most of all the amazing incident in the woodshed that night. It was not something anyone would forget if they lived through it. It must have been the atmosphere that cold clear night, the way the noise ripped so cleanly through the air. You never heard such howling as came out of that old shack. The Gallagher boys were getting a lickin’ and everyone in three counties likely knew before it was over. The sound of Daddy’s strap hitting their bare behinds—mind you, I don’t know for sure if it was their bare butts he was strapping, the twins never said, but Daddy hardly ever spanked anyone without taking down their pants—anyways, that smacking noise and their yeowling could be heard for miles, so it seemed. It was a night no one would forget for some time. Had poor Jess and George trying to scoot around town unnoticed for weeks. The snickers were just plain mean-spirited. I hated seeing them suffer that way. But then, that’s how it was in the Gallagher household, you pay the piper for your crimes. Yeah, you could say our Daddy ruled his roost with an iron hand. But there was usually a great big heart thereafter. He is as generous as the day is long and laughs up a storm at a good joke—just between you and me, I think he actually thought old Herbert McCarthy’s burning Chevy was one great sight to behold. The old coot had been pissing him off for years, that is, Daddy and everyone else in Perryville. But he couldn’t let a prank like that go unpunished. Anyway, back to my story, Daddy isn’t a bad sort at all. I love him dearly, and I know he hates to punish me because he’s said so a hundred times, but you get his dander up, watch out! You’ll be living with a smarting behind for some hours—or even a day or two like I’m feeling right now. He’ll tell you it’s all for your own good, and you’ll get a big bear hug when it’s over—Daddy kinda looks like a growly old bear so that’s natural. I’m not sure my three brothers ever got quite that much affection after a whippin’, but I’ve seen him tousle their hair, smiling as he finished off his lecture. Five minutes after the deed’s done the crime’s always forgotten. It’s one kind of justice I suppose. And I’ve been living with it for so long, I shouldn’t have been surprised what happened just a week ago. I actually thought I was done with getting spanked. After all, I’m eighteen and practically on my own. We live in this great big house in the center of a quiet neighborhood. There are rooms upstairs in this three story gothic showpiece that I was sure no one has ever found. I swear. Six years ago, when the boys and I stumbled on the second attic, through a regular spring loaded door behind the spare room dresser, we couldn’t believe there was yet another room we hadn’t discovered. Our new hiding place was great while we kept it a secret. We managed that for about six months, but Jess and my oldest brother, Tommy, started smoking there, having no clue that the smoke would drift under the wall. Mama promptly located our den of iniquity and shut it down. That night after dinner, we were all lined up in front of Mama and Daddy in the music room, made to confess to everything we did in our hideaway. Then, we were marched out to the woodshed together, Daddy in front, leading the way with his strap dangling from his hand. He lined us up across his workbench, made us drop our pants—or in my case, lift my skirt—and then went from bare buns to bare buns with the strap flying. It must have been a pretty sight, four pairs of dancing feet, four jiggling heinies turning red. I guess it really didn’t matter that I was in the company of my brothers. I might have been mortified, but we were all so into ourselves and our burning butts, that we really didn’t take much note of each other. The only good thing was, when Daddy would move on to one of my brothers there was time to recuperate before he came back to me. I think, all in all, it wasn’t so bad, not as bad has having all of Daddy’s wrath focused on me alone. That was the only time I was ever whupped before my siblings, or saw them take a lickin. Though we hardly had to see it with our eyes to know it was taking place. There was, of course, the time Daddy gave my cousin, Dorothy, a good one in front of the family reunion. She was a brat’s brat. We were on the lake having a picnic with softball, ice cream, potato salad and water balloon wars. Dorothy, as usual, was making smart talk, sassing grown-ups, pulling the little tykes hair and generally being a nuisance. “If you don’t mind, Archie,” Daddy said to his brother, “I think it’s time your insolent daughter learned a lesson or two.” “Be my guest,” my wimpy uncle answered him. He was only too glad to see Miss Smarty Britches get her just desserts, he just didn’t have it in him to do it himself. That was the only time I ever saw Daddy really chastise someone in public. Boy, he was pissed, and her butt was red as a fire engine by the time he was finished. So, back to the story…you’d think by the time I’m eighteen that I’d be too old for such things. Oh, Daddy still threatens all the time, but I thought he had a more respectful attitude toward me since I’ve been pretty much on the straight and narrow for the last three or four years. Until last week, the last time I remember getting the strap was three years ago when I snuck out of the house to meet my boyfriend. That nasty licking was enough to make me think twice about sneaking out—or at least make damned sure I wasn’t going to get caught. I did get a rude awakening a year or so ago, when I found out that my mother still got licks of the belt. I’d come home sick from school in the middle of the day, hearing those distinctive sounds as clear a bell coming down the staircase from my parents’ bedroom. I decided I wasn’t so sick, and left the house right away. For whatever reason Daddy was spanking Mama, I didn’t want to know any more. I learned that day that my Daddy didn’t really care what age you are, if you’re part of his brood you’re subject to his discipline. I think that knowledge has inspired me to some degree, but then, I haven’t really been particularly rebellious the last few years. Maybe all those trips to the woodshed did work some magic. That brings me to Bret Lawrence. He came to live with us three years ago—son of one of Daddy’s old school chums who is now deceased. His mother had died when he was young, and just before his father passed away, Daddy promised Timothy Lawrence that Bret could come live with us. Seemed like a great idea. From the start, I thought Bret was kinda cute. His curly brown hair is constantly falling over his brow, and he has this sheepish grin that’s always looked pretty sexy to me. But behind his shy exterior there is a scoundrel lurking. The things Bret has told me about his life before he came to live with us make me wonder that he’s still alive—racing his car on the highway at top speed, mountain climbing, sailing. He’s found a way to do just about everything he’s dreamed of doing. He has an adventurous spirit, a quick mind and the kind of charm that knocks the pants off girls—which, for a while, he did whenever he got the chance—so the rumors go. In his favor, Bret is a hardworking and responsible guy. From the day he first arrived, he’s worked around the house just to earn his keep, something that was never demanded of him. But Bret wouldn’t have felt right imposing on our family. Daddy kept telling him that it was no imposition at all. After all, there’s all these wasted rooms in our upstairs, no use letting the mice take over, he’d say. Mama insisted on making Bret a part of the family, something I know he appreciated. He was expected at the dinner table on time like the rest of us, he said the blessing, he made his bed and got a generous hug from Mama’s wonderful warm arms every day. On Daddy’s part, he supplied him with many lectures on hard work—something that wasn’t really necessary—the dangers of partying around, and the importance of respecting women. Daddy also considered him as worthy of a licking as any child in the Gallagher house if he should stray from the rules. I only remember Bret making the trip to the woodshed twice: once was a private matter that everyone assumed had something to do with a girl. The first time, however, was much more public and what proved to be quite a memorable occasion. I for one will never forget it. One night about eighteen months ago—Bret a real man at eighteen—came home drunk. He stumbled past a living room full of guests from the Women’s League, dragged himself up the stairs to his room and passed out after throwing up all over the floor. He did manage to clean that up sometime before dawn. Nothing was mentioned until the next night at dinner. We were just getting to dessert—something no one in our house ever has if they were due for a trip to the shed—when Daddy turned to Bret. “Son, I think it’s time we discussed last night.” “Yes, sir.” You could see his Adam’s apple bob as he gulped guiltily. “I take it you were drunk?” “Yes, sir, I was.” He answered politely, like a real gentleman, not all surly or sullen like my brothers would get when they were confronted. “That is not a behavior tolerated in this house.” “No, sir. I don’t imagine it is.” “Do you have an explanation?” “Not really. Just stupidity, I suppose.” Daddy liked that, the kind of boy that could recognize his fault without trying to find some silly excuse to weasel out of the truth. He looked him straight in the eye, and though nervous as hell, his voice didn’t quaver.