CAUGHT IN A TRAP
by Sarah Holloway
My flash fiction references two good ole country songs. One of my characters is Fancy, also the title of a song written by Bobbie Gentry about a young woman’s escape from poverty. It’s best known via Reba McEntire’s 1990 cover version. The title of my piece comes from the first line of “Suspicious Minds,” a song by Mark James which became Elvis Presley’s final number one hit. Dwight Yoakam recorded a great cover of it in 1992, but nobody could sing it like the King.
Ben is hangry, Fancy is pregnant and Ben’s brother Jamie thinks he’s the father. As they wait to order breakfast for dinner at a pancake house, Fancy plays with the sweeteners—pink, blue and white. It looks like she’s trying to sort something out.
“Look at this! Eggs, bacon and a short stack—seventeen bucks! Back home, it wouldn’t be more than eight dollars.” Ben’s the one with a car. And a job. And a credit card. He already gave Fancy two hundred and sixty bucks and has taken today and tomorrow off without pay. Three weeks ago, she told Ben she just knows it’s his baby even though she’s been Jamie’s girl for a year. His stomach has hurt ever since.
It just happened the once, one stupid drunk night when Jamie was down with the flu and Fancy came over anyway. Once they got going, Ben realized he’d made a mistake but hadn’t been able to stop in time. He’s been sober since that night, going to meetings again. Ben’s eight years older than his only living family, 17-year-old Jamie, and nine years older than Fancy, the bad-news hillbilly chick Jamie’s crazy about.
They spent the whole day driving up from Kentucky to this Chicago suburb where the Planned Parenthood clinic is. Icy rain fell for several hundred miles, turning to snow north of Indianapolis. Jamie sat up front with Ben part of the time, but mostly in the back with Fancy. They stopped six times for her to pee. She keeps saying the baby’s pressing against her bladder even though she doesn’t show. Fancy’s skinny as a rail and long-legged as a colt.
Once they've ordered, Fancy says, “After this, I can’t eat again until it’s over.”
“You can still change your mind, baby, you know that. I’ll stand by you,” Jamie says.
“We came all this way, Jamie. I expect she’s decided,” Ben says. “Don’t forget the promise you made Mama.”
It’s just Jamie and Ben since their mother passed two years ago. Mama decided Jamie ought to go into the service after he graduates high school. He’s supposed to learn a skilled trade there. And then Ben will be free to do his own thing—if he ever figures out what that is. About the only thing he knows for sure is it’s not Fancy.
At the motel, they all stay in the same room. Jamie and the girl are in one double bed, and Ben has the other. It takes him at least an hour to doze off.
All three cell phone alarms go off at six the next morning. Fancy’s plays the song she was named for and Ben’s blasts the first line of “Suspicious Minds.” The Dwight Yoakam cover, since Dwight’s from home.
“Turn that Star Wars shit off, Jamie!” Ben shouts at his kid brother who, as usual, is sleeping through his alarm. Ben immediately feels bad about it. He’s afraid he’s getting an ulcer and needs this situation resolved pronto. He’s terrified the baby could actually be his. A sob bubbles out of Fancy. She burrows under her covers, crying her scrawny heart out.
“You know y’all are too young for a child.” Ben heads into the bathroom, turns the shower on and gets in. Frigid water slams into his shoulders, his penance for shouting at Jamie. Once it’s warm, he lathers up. Ben wraps himself in a towel and goes back into the room to get his clothes.
Jamie is all smiles. “Ben, we’re getting married!” Ecstasy shines from Jamie’s face like he’s some kind of raptured saint. Fancy’s eyes challenge Ben over Jamie’s shoulder.
“Whatever,” Ben says and takes his clothes into the bathroom. Ben talks to his mother up in heaven while he dresses. “Mama, please let this be over today, preferably without Jamie ever finding out that I slept with his girl.” In AA, they say he can pick his own Higher Power, so he picked Mama. Next, he says the Serenity Prayer as he’s been taught.
At least it’s not raining on the drive back to Pikeville, but Fancy’s weepy and has terrible cramps. She and Jamie are in the back. Neither one of them says much, except for when Fancy groans or asks Ben to stop so she can change her pad. The girl just can’t stop talking about what’s going on between her legs.
Fancy’s pale, eyes puffy from crying. Maybe she has more sense than Ben thought. At least, she went through with the procedure. Despite his relief, Ben can see it’s cost her. He can care, pity her, now that he know he’s free.
Ben turns on the radio, finds some classic country to drown out the silence. When a semi veers into their lane, Ben lays on the horn. Fancy shrieks. The car fishtails as he brakes, but Ben holds on and it straightens out.
“It’s OK, we’re OK,” Ben says. The crisis has passed. “Everything will be alright.”
Sarah Holloway lives with her husband and lots of books in Savannah, GA. She’s a recovering tax accountant. Her recent work has appeared in SmokeLong Quarterly's blog, Roi Fainéant, Emerge Literary Journal, Cowboy Jamboree and SugarSugarSalt. She’s on Twitter/X @Sarah31405.
by Sarah Holloway
My flash fiction references two good ole country songs. One of my characters is Fancy, also the title of a song written by Bobbie Gentry about a young woman’s escape from poverty. It’s best known via Reba McEntire’s 1990 cover version. The title of my piece comes from the first line of “Suspicious Minds,” a song by Mark James which became Elvis Presley’s final number one hit. Dwight Yoakam recorded a great cover of it in 1992, but nobody could sing it like the King.
Ben is hangry, Fancy is pregnant and Ben’s brother Jamie thinks he’s the father. As they wait to order breakfast for dinner at a pancake house, Fancy plays with the sweeteners—pink, blue and white. It looks like she’s trying to sort something out.
“Look at this! Eggs, bacon and a short stack—seventeen bucks! Back home, it wouldn’t be more than eight dollars.” Ben’s the one with a car. And a job. And a credit card. He already gave Fancy two hundred and sixty bucks and has taken today and tomorrow off without pay. Three weeks ago, she told Ben she just knows it’s his baby even though she’s been Jamie’s girl for a year. His stomach has hurt ever since.
It just happened the once, one stupid drunk night when Jamie was down with the flu and Fancy came over anyway. Once they got going, Ben realized he’d made a mistake but hadn’t been able to stop in time. He’s been sober since that night, going to meetings again. Ben’s eight years older than his only living family, 17-year-old Jamie, and nine years older than Fancy, the bad-news hillbilly chick Jamie’s crazy about.
They spent the whole day driving up from Kentucky to this Chicago suburb where the Planned Parenthood clinic is. Icy rain fell for several hundred miles, turning to snow north of Indianapolis. Jamie sat up front with Ben part of the time, but mostly in the back with Fancy. They stopped six times for her to pee. She keeps saying the baby’s pressing against her bladder even though she doesn’t show. Fancy’s skinny as a rail and long-legged as a colt.
Once they've ordered, Fancy says, “After this, I can’t eat again until it’s over.”
“You can still change your mind, baby, you know that. I’ll stand by you,” Jamie says.
“We came all this way, Jamie. I expect she’s decided,” Ben says. “Don’t forget the promise you made Mama.”
It’s just Jamie and Ben since their mother passed two years ago. Mama decided Jamie ought to go into the service after he graduates high school. He’s supposed to learn a skilled trade there. And then Ben will be free to do his own thing—if he ever figures out what that is. About the only thing he knows for sure is it’s not Fancy.
At the motel, they all stay in the same room. Jamie and the girl are in one double bed, and Ben has the other. It takes him at least an hour to doze off.
All three cell phone alarms go off at six the next morning. Fancy’s plays the song she was named for and Ben’s blasts the first line of “Suspicious Minds.” The Dwight Yoakam cover, since Dwight’s from home.
“Turn that Star Wars shit off, Jamie!” Ben shouts at his kid brother who, as usual, is sleeping through his alarm. Ben immediately feels bad about it. He’s afraid he’s getting an ulcer and needs this situation resolved pronto. He’s terrified the baby could actually be his. A sob bubbles out of Fancy. She burrows under her covers, crying her scrawny heart out.
“You know y’all are too young for a child.” Ben heads into the bathroom, turns the shower on and gets in. Frigid water slams into his shoulders, his penance for shouting at Jamie. Once it’s warm, he lathers up. Ben wraps himself in a towel and goes back into the room to get his clothes.
Jamie is all smiles. “Ben, we’re getting married!” Ecstasy shines from Jamie’s face like he’s some kind of raptured saint. Fancy’s eyes challenge Ben over Jamie’s shoulder.
“Whatever,” Ben says and takes his clothes into the bathroom. Ben talks to his mother up in heaven while he dresses. “Mama, please let this be over today, preferably without Jamie ever finding out that I slept with his girl.” In AA, they say he can pick his own Higher Power, so he picked Mama. Next, he says the Serenity Prayer as he’s been taught.
At least it’s not raining on the drive back to Pikeville, but Fancy’s weepy and has terrible cramps. She and Jamie are in the back. Neither one of them says much, except for when Fancy groans or asks Ben to stop so she can change her pad. The girl just can’t stop talking about what’s going on between her legs.
Fancy’s pale, eyes puffy from crying. Maybe she has more sense than Ben thought. At least, she went through with the procedure. Despite his relief, Ben can see it’s cost her. He can care, pity her, now that he know he’s free.
Ben turns on the radio, finds some classic country to drown out the silence. When a semi veers into their lane, Ben lays on the horn. Fancy shrieks. The car fishtails as he brakes, but Ben holds on and it straightens out.
“It’s OK, we’re OK,” Ben says. The crisis has passed. “Everything will be alright.”
Sarah Holloway lives with her husband and lots of books in Savannah, GA. She’s a recovering tax accountant. Her recent work has appeared in SmokeLong Quarterly's blog, Roi Fainéant, Emerge Literary Journal, Cowboy Jamboree and SugarSugarSalt. She’s on Twitter/X @Sarah31405.