Kerrville Creme
Drew Parker had been after the bottle. Whiskey was his poison—any cheap bourbon from Kentucky. He hit it hard and straight. Drew drank alone. The hangovers were awful. His body odor was worse.
At the grocery store, the locals avoided him. Children stared. They’d tug on their mother’s shirt. “Mommy, why is he so stinky?” By the time Drew turned, they’d be halfway across the store, mothers dragging their children away. Almost a jog, as if they were running from him. Everyone runs away.
There’s a dirt turn-off ten miles down Doss Creek Road, hidden behind a thick patch of cedar trees. If you drove the speed limit, you’d pass right by it. The road is eroded and unkempt, overgrown oaks and cedars narrowing the path.
At the end sits a rickety cabin. Two tired strands of barbed wire loosely outline a quarter acre. The land could be mistaken for a dump: rusted oil barrels, faded liquor bottles, a trash bag spilling cellophane into the wind, paint cans full of bullet holes, piles of rotten wood, forgotten food scraps, rodents decaying under loose sheet metal.
It has a distinct smell. Like if you threw every expired thing in your fridge into a puddle of mud, then stomped on it until all the juices mixed—a lovely aroma.
The cabin itself is small, maybe ten feet wide, fifteen long. It leans to the left. One good gust could bring it down. On the porch, a single rocking chair sits beside a stained tin cup and an orange bucket overflowing with half-finished Marlboro Reds.
Drew only leaves when he’s out of whiskey or canned baked beans. Most days he rocks there, tin cup resting on his belly, Marlboro between his fingers. He doesn’t read. Doesn’t listen to music. No hobbies. No interests. Like a proper depressive alcoholic, he just drinks.
Day after day, he stares at a broken windmill. He doesn’t stop until he sees two or three of them. That’s usually around noon. He falls asleep on the porch, then wakes a few hours later and continues. After sundown, he stumbles inside—hopefully only falling once or twice—and collapses on a twin bed.
The property was passed down to Drew by way of his father, Daniel Parker.
Daniel Parker was a respected figure throughout the Hill Country in the late 1900s. He was the sole proprietor of Parker Feed, founded in Fredericksburg the same year he married his wife, Diane. These were the days before wine tours and bachelorette parties took over the town.
Daniel ran his store well, building a reputation locally, then regionally. Before long, Parker Feed signs dotted towns from Highway 281 to Sonora. Profits doubled, then tripled.
With their newfound fortune, the Parkers bought up land—hundreds of acres. On a hill overlooking a pond, they built a dandelion-yellow two-story ranch house with a wraparound porch.
Daniel and Diane were alcoholics. Not the mean kind, but always drunk nonetheless. They threw big community dinners and parties. Everyone was drunk.
At first, they didn’t want children. They avoided it, enjoying their youth and success. Then, by accident, Diane got pregnant. She gave birth at home with a Baptist midwife from down the road.
Diane Parker was the quintessential homestead caretaker—slim, youthful, and sweet. Always in sundresses, always dancing around the ranch house with little Drew. She loved her garden. Tomatoes, carrots, lettuce, potatoes, onions—everything thrived. It was like she could talk the sprouts into growing bigger and sweeter.
She was known for her homemade Texas chili. Some said it was the best in the state, maybe the country. Every year at the chili cook-off, everyone knew who’d win. They just hoped their tents were near hers so they could sneak a bowl. Diane always made extra so everyone could take some home.
She entered under The Parkers, and the whole family would accept the award together. The crowd would cheer and holler, all smiles.
One morning, Daniel and Drew drove down to Parker Feed in Kerrville. Diane had already drunk too much and said her stomach couldn’t handle the drive. She wanted to stay and work in the garden. Daniel obliged.
It was inventory day—Drew’s favorite. It was the one day his father let him climb through the rafters, counting bags of corn, protein, mulch, and fertilizer stacked to the ceiling. Drew would shout down the numbers for his father to jot on a clipboard.
At seven, he knew more about feed than most grown men. He’d watched his father settle disputes about fertilizers and seed blends with calm, certain authority. Back then, Drew thought his father was a superhero. He wanted to be just like him.
After work, Daniel always rewarded Drew with ice cream at Kerrville Creme. Drew loved the place—the flavors were endless. Mint chocolate chip was his usual, but he liked to experiment: Moose Tracks, S’mores, Red Velvet.
That was the last day he pressed his face against the frosted glass of Kerrville Creme.
He loved the flavor he picked that day. Swore it was the best they ever had. On the way home, he begged his father to drive faster so Momma could try it. His father laughed. “Any faster n’ we’ll start flyin’!” The sky was blue, the grass uncut and yellow.
When they pulled up to the dandelion-yellow ranch, Drew jumped from the truck and ran up the porch steps shouting, “Momma! You gotta try this!” He’d saved her the last scoop.
The front door was wide open. That wasn’t unusual—she often left it open while gardening. But no one was inside.
He stepped back outside. His father was kneeling in the garden, shouting into his bulky mobile phone.
“Papa?” Drew’s voice quivered.
“In the house! Get in the house, now!” his father barked. His hand was slick with something red.
“Where’s Mo—”
“House! Get in the house, son!” Daniel’s voice cracked, desperate.
Drew froze. Then he ran. Through the door, down the hall, into his room. He crawled under the bed and clutched the baby blanket his mother had knitted. His little body shook. Tears pooled on the floor. Between sobs, he whispered, “Momma. Momma. Momma.”
Beside him sat the melting scoop of Kerrville Creme.