Disclaimer: Not my character's, Annie's. I get no money.
What Makes Me Angriest
Ya want to know what makes me angry? Mostly it isn't worth thinkin' on too long 'cause I can't change it and all it does is raise my blood pressure. I wish I didn't hafta feel so, but that's what I'm left with. I was never any good with emotions. Maybe that's part of what makes me angry.
Anyway, as I was saying... you probably don't want to hear what gets me angry. It just gets me goin' on like some sort of hydrophobic dog, but you just remember that you did ask. I wouldn't volunteer this information otherwise.
My husband was found dead on the side of the road. Least his wallet said he was my husband. I had to identify the body, and I wouldn't have been able ta tell him from a run-over hog. They left his wallet. The police said that means it was likely some sort of "hate crime." Told me they'd sodomized 'im with a baseball bat. I am not stupid, Jack Twist. I am not a fucking retard.
Then I had ta go ta Bobby's school, make up some crap story 'bout a flat tire ta tell everyone, Mamma included. I had ta tell Bobby his Daddy was in heaven and that he'd died peaceful and painless and unconscious. I had ta call a funeral home and make arrangements. Jack wanted ta be cremated, which was good 'cause there weren't a lot left ta bury. I knew that. Saw it every night in my dreams.
Then I had ta deal with the fucking newspaper article. No one asked my permission ta publish it, but said they didn't need to, either. The editor at the paper told me, "people got to know about these sort of crimes against queers." There, he'd said that word. I don't know how everyone 'round town seemed to know he was queer, but tongues sure as hell started flapping. Bobby couldn't help but hear stuff about it at school, either. Mamma kept giving me this look like her heart was breaking for me, but Christ I did not want it. What I wanted was for my fucking husband ta have taken some care in his life ta not go fucking Mexicans and who-knows-who-else so his son didn't hafta hear about his run-over hog queer daddy in the schoolyard. Don't think anyone can make anyone angrier than that made me. Most days I'm pretty sure Jack never gave a flying fuck about me, but least he coulda done was lived a decent life for his boy ta look up to.
The angry fed me, night and day. It kept me going through the long days filled with Bobby's tears. It helped me look Ray Burgess in the face at church and smile when everyone in town said it was likely him that did it. I wasn't mad at Ray. He didn't tell my husband to fuck whoever he wanted, rumors be damned. He couldn't help it if he was a queer-beater and my husband was a queer. I don't think that's true, but at the time I was too mad at Jack ta have room ta be mad at anyone else.
By the time Ennis del Mar called months later, I was worn down. There wasn't much left of me after all that angry ate everything away. All the same, I was content to be emotionless. I was happy to be able ta say things straight-faced, and to not have nightmares, and to not give a damn 'bout Jack and his life 'cause he sure as hell hadn't been thinking much of me and mine. Jack left me without a husband, no one ta hold onto me when I wanted to pound the livin' daylights out of somethin', and no call ta mourn a man that didn't love me in the first place. I think I got a right ta be angry 'bout somethin'.
