The Pork Jerky beneath My Wings

It was the thirty-second class reunion for Holy Savior Menard Central High, and Norma Dubois was in her huge state-of-the-art kitchen, preparing an interesting variety of appetizers for her son Dylan and his four best friends. It was a tradition Norma started back years ago, to have a happy hour for Dylan and his companions before they attended any type of event, such as reunions, divorce settlements, births of babies out of wedlock, festivals, and funerals. Other than routine holiday celebrations, the last time Norma hosted an intimate pre-party for her middle son and company was six days after Hurricane Rita hit Alexandria back in 2005.

Norma was an extremely attractive seventy-two-year-old female, in an Ann-Margret sort of way. She had bright red hair and bronze, wrinkled skin baked just right by her latest-model tanning bed. The aged ginger had three sons. Steven and Dylan Jacobs were from her first marriage to Dr. Brent Jacobs. Kris Dubois, named after singer/songwriter Kris Kristofferson, was Norma's seventeen-year-old miracle child. She had him at the ripe age of fifty-five with her second groom, dried meat entrepreneur and one-hit wonder, Frankie Dubois. Norma felt that she could possibly be the oldest woman in central Louisiana to give birth. Norma and her entire family lived in Alexandria, Louisiana, not to be confused with Alexander, the famous Louisiana city where the brilliantly witty novel Too Fat to Dance originated.

The soundtrack CD from the movie Best Little Whorehouse in Texas was playing on the built-in stereo above the microwave as Norma struggled to get the Saran Wrap off the cheese ball. "Damn it to hell!" she shouted. Her long, manicured fingernails were covered with cream cheese. The doorbell rang. She yelled, "Just a minute, honey ... I'm coming," as she frantically looked for the remote to the stereo with her cheese-ball fingers. She gave up the search while Dolly Parton's rendition of "Hard Candy Christmas" loudly played on.

Norma quickly but cautiously, because of her five-inch high heels and tight-fitting jeans, walked through the spacious living room to open the front door. She struggled to unlock the door because she didn't want to get Philadelphia cream cheese all over the knob. She finally opened the door, and Dylan entered. He was a fifty-year-old man with a slim build, bright-blue eyes, and a full head of thick, salt-and-pepper hair. He was wearing black slacks, a white dress shirt, and a black sports jacket. He kissed his mother on her cheek.

"Why in the hell do you have the music from The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas blaring?" asked Dylan.

"I can't find the damn remote," Norma replied.

Dylan picked up the remote from the end table next to the sofa and gave it to his mother. The remote fell out her cheesy hands and hit the hardwood floor.

"Oh my Lord," she uttered. As she bent down to pick it up, the back of her jeans split wide open. "Damn it to hell ... I just split my pants. It's those damn stuffed cheeseburgers at the Cottage!"

Dylan laughed and then said, "Such vulgar language coming from the madam of the chicken ranch."

Norma snickered at his remark and told him she needed go upstairs to change and wash her hands. On her way to the bedroom, she stuck her head into her youngest son's room and informed him that his brother was there. Kris, a seventeen-year-old young man with curly brown hair and bright-green eyes, was replying to all his Facebook messages and didn't even bother to answer his mother. He held up his right hand and gave her the okay signal while keeping his eyes glued to the computer screen.

Dylan walked into the kitchen and turned down the music with the sticky remote. He had a mild case of OCD, so immediately he washed his hands and the stereo remote.

After his washing mission was completed, Dylan looked over at all the trays of Louisiana's finest finger foods. Crawfish pizza, boudin, pecan cheese balls, and shrimp rolls covered the large, granite-topped island in the middle of the kitchen. Norma was famous for preparing or ordering too much food. Kris entered the kitchen, wearing a purple LSU T-shirt and matching boxer shorts. Although it was the beginning of September, it was not uncommon for Louisiana natives to wear shorts and flip-flops until December because of the heat.

Kris gave his older brother a hug, grabbed a handful of shrimp rolls, and with one arm lifted himself up and plopped his butt down on the kitchen counter beside the sink.

"Jesus, did you see all the food Mommy Dearest fixed? It looks like the Cajun cuisine section of Ryan's buffet. Do you believe this feast?" Dylan asked.

"Yes, I can believe it—if mom's name was Chef Lee Gwinn," Kris answered.

Dylan laughed and said, "You mean all this is from Spirits Catering?"

Kris popped another shrimp ball into his mouth and replied, "Spirits did everything except for the cheese ball and those deli spiral things that she was too ashamed to put out because y'all would know that she bought them at Sam's Club."

Dylan laughed. "You mean those little wheels stuffed with tasteless crap that you have to thaw out and everybody serves them at holiday parties?"

"Those would be the ones, my wise, old brother," answered Kris.

Dylan leaped up and took a seat right next to Kris. "Hey, ya know, Kris, the folks at my condo are having BJ's Pizza delivered. You ought to go by there."

Kris put his hand on his big brother's shoulder and said, "Are you kiddin' me? Your place is like a foster care circus of insanity. Anyway, I want to be here when Phoebe gets here. She always brings me cool Saints memorabilia."

In a joking manner, Dylan grabbed Kris's neck with both hands and said, "Have I made it clear to you lately that I really don't care for you?" They both laughed.

Norma came into the kitchen wearing a dress designed for a baby doll. She looked like a cross between an old Shirley Temple and an evangelist on the Trinity Network.

"What in God's name are you wearing?" asked Dylan.

"It's my Baby Jane Hudson dress. I was gonna change into...