A little piece of my mind (continued)
This is the page that is dedicated to my writings other than poetry. Some of these stories are very long,
in chapters and such, so either check the length before you start reading, bookmark my page or make sure you have time to read it all.
Again, if you copy any of my stuff, please give me credit.
Hilariously Dead
Dead. Alive. Order. Disorder. No…ORDER! Some might call me anal; I prefer neurotically structured and innately prepared. I hope for the best and plan for the worst. So, sadly, if you are reading this, I am most likely lying somewhere in a ditch by the side of the road. Miss Cleo told me a storm was brewing in my life, but I just didn't want to pay that extra dollar for one more minute to find out what she meant. I figured I would just explain myself in words for people to read when I expired. Someone would probably try to find an explanation; might as well give them an explanation. Real thoughtful, I know. I’m always thinking of other people like that. Or thinking about them - BAD things about them…
Just kidding! The first thing you’re going to have to learn about me is that I like to believe I am a comedian. I’m not. For my own sake, and for yours, I suggest you just go along with it. I would have to say that my unwillingness to admit that I’m only funny-looking is one of my worst attributes. Either that or procrastination. I’ll tell you which one later.
My outlook on life is simple: you get what you put into it. I consider myself to be an honest, hard-working individual with high standards and expectations. Even though I may not meet my own requirements, at least I tried. I believe that success is not measured in grades and awards, but in determination and passion. My motto is “No guts, no glory”. Nothing can be achieved without passion. You have to have that juice in your camera to be able to succeed; otherwise, it is a lost cause. Case closed.
As with anybody, I do have my pet peeves. Number one: drivers who change lanes without signaling, or drivers who sit in the left turn lane with their right blinkers on. Are they dyslexic or is the concept too advanced for them? The whole point of the blinker is to indicate where they are going, not where they have been. Drivers are not time travelers; we do not want to relive the past. My second peeve is teachers who think they are the only teacher I have. They insist upon assigning six hours of homework a night, and still don’t recognize there is a problem when the assignments are not completed. I'm not Superwoman, I can’t stop time, and I definitely have a life outside of school. I shouldn't be punished for my intelligence. I’m ahead of others already, why make it harder? I like to be listened to and taken seriously. I have my own ideas, however creative they may be, and all I want is for someone to listen to them. I'm unique, just like everyone else.
I believe when I was younger, a good word to describe me would have been shy. Key words there: when I was younger. I'm still not one to give a lecture on the mating habits of a moose (Hey, could you?), but I hold my own when discussing topics that interest me or topics of controversy. As for reading aloud, it doesn't bother me. Given the choice between reading something out loud in class myself and listening to someone else mispronounce words or present the material in a slow, monotonous voice, I would choose the former. I don't know what I'd do if I attended a seminar and the surprise speaker was Ben Stein. I can't stand the way he talks. You would think he doesn’t know the meaning of the word enthusiasm. I can’t stand it!
If you were to ask someone what he or she thought of me, cool would not be a word in their response. You might hear: dork, nerd, dweeb, uncool, unpopular, or maybe even (GASP) an avid reader! I stand tall and proud when I say that I, queen of the Internet, of movies and TV and radio, love to read. There is always a book in my possession that I can't wait to finish, or even wait to start. The issue is not finding what to read, but finding time to read it. Reading takes me into a world that doesn't focus on dance, where it's not about high kicks and fast turns. I get away from GPAs and brainy children, where being in two AP classes still doesn't seem to compare. Instead, I read about other people, in small towns, who have small town lives, and small town problems. It presents the realization that, even for a second, my life isn't so bad after all. I like reading Stephen King books, although they sometimes get gory. It's okay though, because I figure if I've seen it once, it's less likely to happen again. My theory is - if you carry a bomb onto a plane, there's a slighter chance that someone else will, too. Of course, you know that the bomb won't go off. But just try explaining that to the ten armed guys that surround you and ask you to step out of line. At this point, your best bet is not to run, because they will track you down. Then they will take a banana, a feather, and half a can of spray paint and...
Sorry. I tend to get carried away sometimes. Just smile and nod, and eventually I'll get the picture and stop rambling. Although, I have found that rambling can unlock some pretty interesting things. I have also tried this sort of rambling/writing thing. You sit down and start writing for 15 minutes or so. You don't stop. You don't think. You just keep writing and writing and put down anything on paper that comes into your mind. Structured or not. It doesn't have to make sense, or even be in English. It's called Free Association Writing. Once I was done I analyzed what I had written and made an interesting discovery: My brain is faster than my hand. So I wound up having this backlog of thoughts stored somewhere in between the cobwebs and the images of the dancing cows with the pink tutus and the frilly hair bows and the....
Ahhhhh, see? I'm doing it again. I'll stop now. I promise. There's really nothing left to say. I'm done with my job so I guess I'm really ready for the end of my life. Wait, that came out wrong! I didn't mean the end of my life. I meant when I kick the... when I bite the... when I... oh never mind! We shouldn't even to go there.
That's all I have to say; although theoretically, I can't say much seeing as how I'm dead! Remember? Ditch in the road? Yeah, that's me. Lying there. Cold in the ditch. I hope now that even though I'm gone you can understand me a little better. However, if you don’t, it’s okay, because I’ll be different next year.
Simple Words Offer Comfort
His name was Justin, and at the age of 16, he was a teacher. Through his words and actions he taught me forgiveness. Though I hadn’t thought of his impact on me until last year, I realized it has been a life lesson that I carry with me.
The past is crystal clear; no part of it escapes my mind. It was the first day of school in fifth grade. As I came back from a much-needed summer break, I greeted the people in my class, except one: the new kid. We had all been together since kindergarten and we knew each other well, so walking into a new room only to see a new face was a little awkward. He seemed intimidated by us, and we weren't quick to welcome him. This behavior only increased his timidity.
Time would show that Justin had a split personality. He was shy around his peers but any teacher could get him on a tangent. He came from a private school out of the district, so he was alien to his surroundings as well. He struggled to understand what was going on at the same time he was trying to adjust to a new environment. What we did to him that year certainly didn't help him, either…
It was a matter of time before my classmates and I found out that he was nothing but a pure genius. Justin could answer any math, science, or history problem almost instantly. Needless to say, the rest of us were jealous, and slowly our green side leaked through.
Justin continued to amaze us with his intelligence, and slowly we began to feel inadequate. To build ourselves up, we resorted to making fun of him. However, intelligence is not scorned, so we focused on his weak spot, his weight, to bring him down instead. Granted, he was large for his age and larger than anyone in the class, but it was nothing like we exaggerated it to be. Of course as with most adolescents, fat translated into gross which meant he had the ultimate case of the “cooties”. No one would approach him. Coming in contact with him was like asking for certain death. People would go to the extreme; they would shrink from him as he passed, or get up and walk away when he came near. It got to the point where we were downright rude to him.
Justin never hinted he cared though. His actions showed no signs of our efforts to slaughter his esteem, and if he was hurt, it never showed. He would calmly remove himself from group activities or distance himself from us. I never liked what I did to him; I knew deep down what I was doing was unacceptable. Popularity took hold of my mind though, and being part of the group took front seat to his feelings, so I pushed my guilt aside and joined in with the taunting and teasing.
Then came the icing on the cake: the Junior Olympics. One of the most exciting days of school - a day devoted to physical activities rather than learning. Homeroom classes compete against each other for the satisfaction of being called the best. Students looked forward to this day every year, and this year was no exception. I signed up for the three-legged race with all of my friends. Our group assembled, a bubbling mass of anxious kids, but as we gathered we noticed Justin bounding towards us. His eyes never met ours as he explained that he had signed up for the race too. Looking back on his pathetic attitude now makes me want to cry.
I was already paired with my best friend and was at the front of the line ready to go. Nothing could possible ruin this day. But as we paired off, we found that Justin didn’t have a partner, and to make the number of pairs equal among the classes, someone would have to go twice. Someone in the front of the line – me.
I protested as long as I could, telling my “friends” that I didn’t want to get an infection. People were making jokes about how he was so fat he would slow us down. There was no way out of it though. Justin had signed up for the race and he wouldn't back out no matter what. The only real question was who was going to have to be his partner. Everyone argued that since I had gotten there first, I should have to race with him. Reluctantly, I agreed, still expressing my thoughts quite openly. Our turn came and as we tied our legs together I verbalized an “Ewwww” so loud that my whole class could hear my disgust. Yet Justin still kept his composure, letting the remark roll off of him like raindrops off a duck.
I don’t remember if we won or lost the relay. I suppose it doesn’t really matter. All I know is that school ended soon after and we parted ways. I still thought about him, about how unfair my friends and I were. My moral sense returned at the end of the year to reprimand me for my unacceptable behavior. I began to wish I could go back and alter the events of the past.
My ignorance haunted me for years. I felt I would never be able to forgive myself. Justin and I saw each other occasionally throughout junior high, but I found it impossible to apologize to him for what we had done. I was afraid he would be upset at me, as he had the right to be. I didn't want that to happen though, I didn't need bitterness in my life, so I kept my mouth closed. We didn’t really cross paths again until our sophomore year in high school.
I walked into my Algebra II class and found myself where I had been exactly five years before: staring at the chubby kid in the back. Only this time I knew him, and unfortunately, he thought he knew me. Awkwardness passed through the room as I took a seat on the other side. Our teacher put us in alphabetical order, and due to our last names, I was put next to Justin. As he walked over to his desk he looked at me and then said “Hi K.C.! I haven’t seen you in a long time. How have you been?”
I couldn’t believe it. Was this the same guy I had humiliated numerous times on the playground? Was this the guy that no one could stand to be around? I didn’t get it. Did he not recognize me? Obviously he did; he called me by my name.
In an instant, emotions engulfed me. I was confused. As one of his biggest tormentors, he should have had a lifelong abhorrence for me. I was caught off-guard; he seemed to have forgotten all previous events. I was amazed to see that even though I was so hard on myself, Justin had forgiven me already. With a few simple phrases, it was evident he held no grudge. He proved that he forgave me, and he expressed his desire for me to bury the hatchet, for he already had.
Whether he realizes it or not, Justin taught me the biggest lesson of my life. He taught me forgiveness. He has reiterated the fact that the past has passed and it cannot be altered. But he also taught me that I have the power to decide what happens in the future. The most powerful message came from nothing more than a simple action. He said hello.
The Last Hurrah (a play)
Characters:
Tricia - woman with a bad temper, loses control easily. Jet black hair with a hint of silver. Brown chestnut eyes are dark and wild. Her right eye occasionally twitches which gives the impression that she was traumatized as a child.
Clinton - man with a temper to match his wife’s. Hunchbacked and ugly. Always using hands to make gestures, to exaggerate, or to threaten.
Regina – Tricia’s stepmother.
Setting: Hotel bedroom with an adjoining bathroom (only the sink/counter can be seen). The mirror on the wall has been carelessly covered with tape, but the tape is old and worn and bits of reflective glass are still visible. A newspaper sits on the edge of the bedside table, haphazardly concealing a small handgun. A lamp casts a shadow on the room, taking an effect on any and all of its inhabitants. The faint chiming of the clock in the hallway sounds, indicating the wee hours are upon the characters.
(The door opens and in rush the couple, sweating and out of breath. As the man sits down on the bed to take off his shoes, the woman goes to the bathroom and takes three pills out of an unlabeled bottle. One by one, she proceeds to swallow them.)
Clinton: That was close. Too close. We almost got caught. (Shaking his finger.) I told you this was a bad idea. I knew from the start that this wasn’t going to work. There was something wrong, I said. This isn’t right. It won’t work. But you couldn’t listen, could you? You wanted to go ahead with the plan, no matter how much reasoning I did. And look what we have to show for it. We almost got caught. Why, if we hadn’t…
Tricia (cutting him off, angrily): I know my plan backfired, Clinton. I can see that. You don’t have to rub it in. (Degradingly.) If there’s one thing I regret more than marrying you, it’s devising a plan that doesn’t work. I’m perfectly capable of seeing that she’s still alive. (Gets up and paces. Eye twitches.) But she won’t get away so easily next time. I’ve been thinking it over in my head. (Wringing her hands.) I’m going to make a bigger and better plan, and this time, my thoughts won’t fail me!
Clinton: You mean to tell me that after what just happened, you’re not going to let it go? We almost got caught. And then what would have happened? We would be in the slammer, wondering why we had to do this. (Goes over to where she has paused for the moment.) You know the judges in these parts aren’t too easy on first-degree murderers. Do you really want to spend the rest of your life doing community service and stamping out license plates? I’m going to tell you again. You have to give it up. (Getting in her face.) Do you really want to risk it? Are you out of your mind?
Tricia: (Pushing him out of the way and walks around him to sit down on the bed.) Maybe. But I will make you a personal guarantee; as long as I live, I will devote my life to getting Regina back for the pain she caused me. (Buries her head in her hands.) The heartache and the suffering are more than I can deal with. I am a different person than I used to be, Clinton. She has made me into this. (Waves her hand over her body in a showy way.)
Clinton: We can’t try this again. There’s no way! We almost got caught this last time. We might not be so lucky next time. Let’s just give up.
Tricia: (Bolts out of the bed.) Give up? Give up! Now you’re the one who’s crazy. (Walking towards the window, once she gets there she faces the outside.) All my life I have resented that woman with more than you know. From the moment she married my father, things were different around my house. She took control of him, and of his life. (Wheeling around.) Don’t you see? She was the one who killed him!
Clinton: (Going over to comfort him.) Tricia, don’t be so harsh. He was old…
Tricia: (Screaming, Clinton jumps back.) But that doesn’t mean that he was dying. (Reflectively) He was so healthy, so full of life. There was nothing he thought he couldn’t do. (Rage entering her eyes) But then she came into the picture and she changed him. She kept him on a leash, and it was his destruction. All she wanted was the money. She was waiting for him to die so she could take his inheritance. (Starts to pace again.) No, no I can’t let this go. This has been haunting me for years, and I have to put an end to it.
Clinton: Tricia, I’m not going to let you do this. You can’t prove that she killed him. The medical examiner proclaimed that he died of natural causes. No one will believe that a loving housewife would kill her husband. Yes, you may think she did, but there is no merit in getting revenge.
Tricia: If you’re not going to help me… (Looks at the door. Pause, as if she is thinking) then I will just have to do it myself. (Rushes toward the door, Clinton gets there just in time to grab her.)
Clinton: (Authoritatively, shaking her by the shoulders.) Now you listen to me. Getting all worked up will not help. (Retracting) All you need to do is get a good night’s sleep and things will look differently in the morning. It’s been an emotional day; it’s almost three in the morning, time to settle down.
Tricia: You’re right. (Walking over towards the bed/bedside table… she seems to have had a complete change in attitude.) There’s no sense in getting hysterical. I’ve been wrong, and I just need time to think.
Clinton: That’s better. (Goes to the bathroom and offstage and door closes as though to indicate he is using the toilet. His voice can be heard, muffled, through the door.) I’m sure that when we are rested we can think more clearly. Come tomorrow morning you will see that you are being irrational.
Tricia: (She has now walked over to the bedside table and has picked up the gun. She moves it around slowly in her hands, runs her finger along the smooth, shiny metal. She speaks loud enough to where the audience can hear, but not Clinton.) You’ve always held me back, Clinton.
Clinton: What was that, dear?
Tricia: Nothing. Just thinking out loud. I’m going to bed, ok? I’m tired.
Clinton: Ok, I’ll be there shortly. Goodnight.
(Clinton finishes what he is doing and joins his wife in bed. The lights go out. Camera pans to digital clock, which then changes to an hour or so later. A knock is heard on the door and Clinton gets up to answer it. The only light in the room comes from the hallway after the door has been opened. Regina is standing at the door, pointing a gun at him.)
Clinton: Regina, wait! What are you doing? It’s me, Clinton!
Regina: (Sinister.) I know.
(Regina shoots Clinton and he falls to the ground. Tricia turns on the overhead light as Regina steps over Clinton’s body and into the room. They exchange high fives.)
Tricia: Job well done.
Regina: Thank you. Now that the men are out of the picture, let’s get out of town and go spend some of that inheritance money.
(As the two women walk out the door, Regina throws the gun back next to Clinton’s body. As the door shuts behind them, Clinton’s face slowly raises and watches them leave.)
Bluebonnets
And the bluebonnets ripple in the breeze…
Mother always sang that song as she made dinner in our small adobe. She was so full of life as she danced around, adding a dash of this spice or a hint of that one. Sometimes, she would grab my hands and twirl me around, doing a little one-two step and lifting me off my feet.
But now as she lay on her deathbed, her pale, limp body shone through my tears, and her breath came in short, shallow gasps. “Chaya,” she said, calling me by my native name, “you must promise me that no matter what happens, you will always be my little bluebonnet.”
I looked around the hospital room at all the decorations that adorned the walls and the door. Cards were piled on the bedside table bringing “get well soon” wishes and kind words. It is always nice for Mother to receive a gift, especially from a member of our tribe. Mother’s illness put a damper on the whole community, unraveling the close-knit bonds we have. The gifts are never very elaborate, either handmade from the elders of the group, or baked in the kitchen of the younger women. It doesn’t matter though, we are all like a family, and so in this case it really is the thought that counts. Flowers festooned the windowsill, the majority being bluebonnets - Mother’s favorite flower.
My mind drifted off to a time when there was no pain. I remember a little girl of about seven, who ran the countryside all day long, but always returned for dinner. Mother would be waiting for me on the porch to help me wash up. She was never angered when I tore my clothes or I came home ratty and wild. She would simply return dinner to the stove and then proceed to bathe me and dress me in clean pajamas. We would eat then, Father, Mother and I. Mother and Father didn’t speak to each other often, they were far too busy reprimanding me.
“Chaya, watch your fork!”
“Sit up please, daughter!”
“Don’t gulp your milk like that!”
“Sit still!”
I would spend the time after dinner looking at the stars. Father would head to bed (his job required him to be up before the sun rose) and Mother would sit by the fire, mending my clothes. Then, tired from a strenuous day, she would retire as well. I always thought that was how it should be; my life took precedence over others’. That was fifteen years ago. I have grown up since then and no longer require constant supervision. My naivete was packed away with the dolls and the toys from yesteryear.
Mother became ill when I was eleven. My family moved into the city so that she could be closer to a medical center. After two years, the chemotherapy began to work; she went into remission, and the major concern became paying the enormous hospital bills. Father took a job at the factory down the street, where he screws caps on toothpaste tubes for twelve hours a day at minimum wage. He never received a formal education, so he always took what he could get. Mother no longer has time to be a housewife. She is consumed with keeping her job as a seamstress, sometimes not returning home until the hour is eight.
She returns home, weary from her work, and like years before, immediately begins to fix dinner. She tries to keep the same spirit she once had, singing our bluebonnet song, but every day her gray hair and wrinkles became harder to conceal. She watches TV for half an hour, and drags her weary body to her bedroom where she falls asleep instantly.
The cancer reappeared last year, worse than ever. Mother was admitted to the hospital, and there she has remained, walking the corridors helplessly, longing for a glimpse of the outside world. She sits by the window day after day, her only connection to those who are well. Sometimes she speaks of her childhood and sometimes she stares into the horizon silently, lost in her thoughts. On good days, we sing the song of the bluebonnets. That’s when life is in her most. The bluebonnet song is our ritual, our past, and our history. This last month has been the hardest; the doctors have now given her a day, maybe two. The bluebonnet song keeps her going, as she sees me, her very own bluebonnet.
A beeping of the heart monitor brings me back to reality. I look down and realize that her hand has grabbed mine, and I lovingly hold it tight. Her eyes are squeezed shut; the frame of her body shakes with terror and confusion. I know this is the final descent. Her body is weak and she cannot continue for much longer.
Father gets up from his chair and rushes to her bedside, clasping her free hand. He talks to her endlessly, letting her know he’s there. The tears well up in his eyes as he too acknowledges the final moments of her life.
Then suddenly, it is over. The monitor beeps its steady note, until the doctor switches it off. There is no need to remind us of the obvious. He motions to the other doctors, and they silently head out the room, the door closing behind them, to let Father and me grieve.
I walk over to his side of the bed and we embrace long and hard, both weeping for the loss of our loved one. I take a deep breath and dry my eyes. The doctors return and offer consolation. Father and I discuss arrangements for what is to come.
The funeral is lovely; Mother looks so peaceful as she lies there in her coffin. Our chief made a special trip from our village to deliver the eulogy. It is long, yet beautiful, and he speaks of Mother in the highest regard. He spins the tale of her childhood, her adolescent years, and her devotion to my father. When he begins to speak of me, and what a great mother she was, I begin to cry. Father reaches over and gives me a hug, and the tears come as I again realize how much of a sacrifice Mother had made for me.
Every stitch of every thread, every bite of every meal, was created with love. Long hours at work were spent preparing to put me through college. Her own thoughts and inhibitions were put on hold when I had a problem. Her own life was cast aside just for me. That is a debt I will never be able to repay.
The funeral ends and Father and I stand outside the church. We thank all those who attended the funeral, shaking hands, reassuring them that we will be fine. But everything is like a dream. The smiles, the conversations; they mean nothing. All I want to do is go home and sleep. I am ready for this day to be over and for the pain to cease.
Finally, after what seemed like hours, I am able to leave. The car ride is silent, except for the radio, which is playing happy tunes. But they are drowned out by sorrow and mourning.
I get out of the car and shut the door. As I head up the walkway, I can’t help but notice Mother’s garden. The daises tell secrets to one another like adolescent schoolchildren. The roses look on silently, glistening elegant maidens. And the bluebonnets ripple in the breeze.
Sutherville - a novel
Chapter 1 - Betty Jo
The alarm clock went off and Betty Jo sprang from her bed. It was still dark outside, and the moon shone high above the treetops. She yanked her jeans over her long johns and pulled her sweatshirt down over her red flannel shirt. She retrieved a snow hat from the hall closet and grabbed gloves and an extra pair of socks and then headed into the kitchen.
She removed her thermos from the drain board in the sink and ran down the steps of the trailer out to her Chevy truck. The ride to the diner was short, as always, and she had no trouble finding a parking spot at so early an hour. Inside it was almost empty, except for Nan, who was behind the counter pouring the coffee for her arrival.
"Mornin', sugar. Howdya want this here coffee fixed?"
"Just black this mornin', please. I need the energy from the caffeine."
"Rough night?" asked Nan in an amused tone. Not much ever happened in these parts that was out of the ordinary, so any story was a good one, especially from Betty Jo. Nan settled back to listen.
"Well," began Betty Jo in a slow, molasses-like drawl, "I was watchin' the news last night and I done seen this killer had escaped from jail up in Arkansas. And I got to thinkin' that that weren't so far away from here. It'd be easy for him to git here, seein' as how it ain't really all that far. I stayed up most the night just thinkin' bout that man and prayin' he don't come 'round here."
Nan just shook her head and sighed. It was normal for Betty Jo to overreact to everything that happened. This was undoubtedly some hoax again; her imagination always ran away with her.
She continued. "This is just like the time that the crazy man escaped from that asylum, ceptin' that guy didn't get far 'fore they picked 'em up. They found him a clingin' to a mechanical merry-go-round horse at some Piggly Wiggly. He hadn't had his medication, and he was hallucinatin' up a storm. No wonder he done been in solitary confinement since then.”
“Anyway, I don't like the sound of no murderer bein' 'round here; I ain't got the time to spare to be watchin' for no unusual people. You see most the people that come through here don't ya, Nan? You can be the lookout. Lemme know what's a goin' on so I ain't gotta do no worryin'."
"Sure, kid. I ain't got enough work as it is tendin' to everyone 'round here lest I be watchin' for supermarket tabloid rejects. But I'll do the best that I can. You want anythin' else?"
Betty Jo finished her coffee, had Nan pour a new cup into her thermos, and got back into her Chevy. She thundered down the road towards the central part of the town to begin her busy day.
After a 30 minute drive, she arrived at the post office just in time to see the postmaster climb out of his truck and open the doors.
"Mornin', Bud. Mighty cold weather we’sa havin' here."
"Why, yes ma'am. Lookin' to be 'bout thirty degrees and no higher all afternoon. Better bring in your cattle from the pastures. The weather is always hard on the farmin' folks this time of year. Why, just last year Ms. Dixie done let her cows out to pasture, an' two of um went off and made popsicles out of 'emselves. If I was you, I reckon' I'd start havin' bales of hay shipped in to put in yer barn."
“Thanks for the advice. I might just do that, too. You got any mail for me?"
"Well, I reckon' I got a few things for you. You ain't been here in about three days, if’n I remember correctly."
Betty Jo pulled her cap off her head and let her long blond hair fall down her back. She followed Bud into the post office and retold her tale of the murderer coming to reside in the town.
"Here in Sutherville? That's ridiculous. Ain't no one got no business comin' 'round here 'ceptin they live here or they just passin' through."
"Or, if they wanted to hide from the Mounties. Id'a never thunk to look here if’n I was a Mounty lookin for some criminal suspect. But then again, that's why I stick to my farmin'. I ain't no smart gal, I just do the work on Daddy's farm. I reckon' there'd be criminals everywhere if I’s in charge."
The duo burst into laughter for they both knew this last statement was completely true. Betty Jo wasn't always there in the head, and she tended to tell the most colorful yarns around. Once she got on a tangent, people would come for miles around to hear the stories she had to tell that she heard from watching her black and white, 6-channel, 10 inch television. Not too many people owned a television, and they were eager to hear anything she had to tell them, whether they believed it or not.
[Of course, some say she doesn't credit a word of what she repeats. People claim that she does it for the attention, to have people always talking about her and exchanging the latest story. They figure that by always being talked about, she tends to be remembered when it comes to Christmas lists and invites. They say that Betty Jo knows she does this, yet continues to trick many people into giving merit to everything that comes out of her mouth.
Some feel that ever since she lost her husband she has turned to the stories to make up for his absence. Kenton died three years ago, leaving both a trailer and a land mortgage for her to pay, not to mention cattle to raise. Betty Jo has struggled over the last few years, and an abundance of the town has tried to help out, but she won't take charity from anyone; she believes in honest work, often taking odd-jobs from neighbors just to make ends meet so she can put food on the table.
For this reason, her landlord has been forgiving when she is late with the payment. She gets free service from the auto shop when her car breaks down, because that is the only way she can get from one job to the next, from her trailer to the town, or to pick up her animals from the vet when one of them becomes sick. The stories, many feel, give her a sense of importance.
Then again, there are those who insist she believes every word of what she says. The way she talks, using her hands to gesture, and how her eyes get wide when she gets to a scary part, add to the fact that she is completely intrigued by any story she comes across.
Whatever the case may be, there is always a story ready to be pulled from the memory banks of Betty Jo's brain. She especially gets attention from the kids in the town, in the long evenings of summer when the chores are done and the supper dishes are washed. They will come and sit on her porch, and stare up at the stars as she tells of a story she has read or seen or heard about or watched.]
"Here ya go, dear. That's all of it, I believe. If you got anythin' yer expectin', jus' lemme know and I'll be glad to hold it for ya 'til the next time yer in here. You have a nice day and remember what I done said bout that cold weather. It'll sneak up on ya like a rattlesnake on a mouse."
Betty Jo took the mail from Bud and pulled her cap back over her head before heading out the door. She climbed in her Chevy. She had a few more stops to make.
Chapter 2 - Nan
Nan watched Betty Jo pull out of her parking spot and head down the road. She shook her head as she sighed.
"Lord, watch over that there child. She done had a rough time these past few years, bless her heart, and she's all by herself."
Nan went to work straightening the small diner. She placed coffee cups at each spot along the counter and went into the back to start a fresh pot of coffee and make a batch of donuts. No one would be here for awhile; Betty Jo was by far her earliest customer. But Nan didn't mind; she often enjoyed talking with Betty Jo early in the mornings without any interruptions. She didn't believe the crazy tales the girl spoke of, no sir, but she didn't mind listening if it meant that Betty Jo's day went easier because she had someone to talk to.
The bell on the door jingled and someone walked in the door. The spurs on their boots drowned out the hum of the oven. Nan quickly wiped her hands on her apron and headed to the front to see who the early arrival was. It was a face she didn't recognize.
"Howdy, ma'am. Might I get a cup of coffee this mornin'? Or is it too early still?" The tall stranger had a way about him, and Nan was intrigued by his mystery. She looked down to his belt and saw a large handgun tucked into his back pocket.
She grimaced and then looked back up to his face. His eyes were boring holes into hers, and she realized he was waiting for an answer. She stammered and then regained her composure "Well, sure ya can. I just put on a fresh pot, lemme go see if it's ready. Sit down and make yourself comfortable."
"Thank ya kindly, ma'am."
Nan disappeared into the back of the diner and the stranger sat down on a stool. His spurs clanked together as Nan sang out from the back.
"It's almost ready. Would you like a donut as well?"
"That's mighty nice of you; I shore would." The stranger's thick Texan accent echoed in Nan's ears and she was mesmerized by his distinct facial features. She noted a scar above his right eyebrow, but didn't think anything of it.
She poured coffee into the cup in front of him and tried to conceal her graying hair behind her ears.
"So tell me. What's a stranger doin' 'round here 'fore daylight anyhow?"
The stranger took a sip of his coffee and began. "I'm not really a stranger, ma'am. I used ta live here when I was a tot. But my parents split, when I was thirteen I reckon', and I moved in with my mother back in LOO-siana. I drive them eighteen wheel trucks now, what you might call one of 'em big rigs, and I was passin' by so I thought I'd stop in and see what's changed since I done been here ‘bout 15 years ago. I ain't seen my dad in a while neither, I was hopin' maybe I could drop by to see him as well."
"You used ta live here? I done been here all my life! What's yore name, son? I might know yer fam’ly."
"Name's Butch. Used ta call me Rascal. I lived not too far from here, down this road a bit. Forgive me, but I don't recognize you a’tall."
"Racal... Rascal Crockett. I remember you! You were that kid always gettin' in trouble down by the riverside. Don't worry 'bout recognizin' me though; I just took possession of this diner not too long ago from the lady who used ta own it. She passed away last summer. She'd be the one you'd know 'round here. Her name was Tammy Boone."
"Tammy? That name sounds familiar. But, if you don't mind me askin' ma'am, who are you and how'd you come to know 'bout me 'n the folks?"
"My name's Nan Wise, and I used to be yer old housekeeper a while back."
"Nan! How good it is to see you again. You've changed so much. I'da never known 'twas you ifn you hadn't spoke up."
"Well, Rascal, it has been 15 years. People change, ya know. I didn't much recognize ya m’self with how tall you done got and all. I guess you musta got it from your dad’s side."
"True. Which brings me to my next question - how's my old man?"
Nan hesitated for a minute. "I hate to tell you this, Rascal, but he passed away ‘bout two years ago."
"I see. Well, we never got along anyway. The only time I ever talked to 'im was once when he called for my 14th birthday and once when I stopped by when I was 18. We had our differences, but it's a shame I didn't get ta go to the funeral."
"There weren't one. Ain't no one in this town much liked yer pop. He took to ‘imself most the time, 'ceptn he'd come out now 'n then and get drunker'n anyone and cause a commotion down at the town center. When he died, they couldn't find no record 'bout no one he was close to, so they buried him in the cemetery and that's where he is today."
"Well, thank ya for the news. I better be going now, though. Daylight's breaking and I hadn't planned to stay this long anyway. Goodbye."
Rascal picked his jacket off the coat rack and left. Nan watched him leave as well, taking the same route that Betty Jo had, heading towards the town center.
Nan went to the back of the diner and pulled a worn leather book out from a cabinet. She opened to a blank page, put the pen down and began to write:
Dear journal,
Betty Jo came in here as usual this morning, talking about a murderer escaped from jail. What will she believe next? We talked for a while and then she left.
You can see her age in her eyes now. Ever since he left her, she seems to have changed. She looks a lot older now, older than she really is, and lately her enthusiasm has been down. It's probably a matter of time before she breaks down and loses everything. I hate to see it happen to such a sweet thing like her, but she's got a lot of stress in her life.
I must remember to tell her that her old boyfriend, Rascal, is in town again. He came back today, though I didn't recognize him at first. He sure has grown taller. He drives trucks now or something, said he wanted to stop in and see how his pop was doing. Somehow I don't believe him. There's another reason he's here. I can't prove it, but he wouldn't look me in the eye earlier, and if I know Rascal that means something is up.
I hope he leaves Betty Jo alone. The town doesn't need to be reminded of that mess. Plus, she's got a lot on her plate right now without his sorry behind coming back around. He was nothing but trouble then, and I don't think he's changed much in the 15 years he's been gone. Only time will truly tell what will happen with them. The door just rang again; I must go tend to the customers now.
Nan
Chapter 3 - Rascal
Nan was right. Rascal wasn’t here just to check up on his dad. Well, not exactly.
As he left the diner, a flood of thoughts came to him. He tried to push them back in his mind; they were crazy thoughts that he had worked so hard to get rid of. But one thing kept coming back to him - the money.
As he rode down the main street towards the center of the town, he commended himself on his alibi for being in town after all.
Imagine, he thought, me givin’ a hoot about that greasy old windbag. I wouldn’ta cared if he’da crawled up on my porch and croaked. I done gotten rid of that man, and I ain’t gonna take none of it back. All’s I gotta do now is make sure that chick Betty Jo stays out of the way and I’ll do whatever I can ta make that work.
The rest of the ride was silent. Thoughts swarmed in Rascal’s head, and a devious gleam entered his eye. The events from 15 years ago were still fresh in his mind. Every word, every movement, Rascal could still recall. More than anything, he remembered the smell of the house the night the fight broke out. A lot had happened since he left Sutherville as a young boy. More than anyone could ever imagine…
“I hate you!” the adolescent cowboy yelled, snarling at his dad, a slim man with aging features and a sloped forehead.
“Git out of my house. You ain’t nothin’ but a lyin’, cheatin’ goodfornothin troublemaker. If your mama weren’t a restin’ in the ground right now, you’da killed her with yer ingnernce.”
“Fine, you don’t want me no more, I don’t gotta sit around here and put up with this disrespect. I can make it on my own. I don’t need you no more. I’m outta here.”
“And don’t you come back ‘round this place no more, y’hear? I got enough of my own troubles, without you causin’ a ruckus. But don’t you ‘spect to come back here and get nothin' outta me. I ain’t gonna have it.”
“I wouldn’t come back if ya paid me to do it, ‘ceptn I’d be able to laugh at yer stinkin' carcass. Goodbye."
There was a white Chevy driving down the road towards him, but Rascal didn’t pay any attention to it. He just kept brooding, playing the events of that night over and over in his head.
He kept thinking until he saw the sign that read:
Now leaving Sutherville. Please come back and visit again.
Lost in his thoughts, Rascal hadn’t noticed that he had completely driven outside the city limits. He applied pressure to the break, signaled left, and made a U-turn at the only light that would appear for another 10 miles. He headed back towards town, careful to focus on where he was going so that he would not have to retrace where he had already been.
He saw the turnoff for Betty Jo’s house and flicked on his blinker. The road was just like he remembered it – long and winding. Somehow though, the drive was incredibly calming. The trees overhead were colorful in the fall, and although dead and silent now, they watched the passersby with beckoning branches that seemed to say “Welcome.”
Rascal pulled in the makeshift driveway in front of Betty Jo’s trailer. He pulled his cap down over his ears and zipped up his jacket before stepping out of his car and making his way to the front door.
He knocked. Outside the air was still. A single bird could be heard calling in the distance, but there was no reply. It seemed to be the same for the lonely trailer as well. There was no answer. He knocked again. A breeze began to blow, rustling dead leaves about the ground. Rascal pulled his jacket closer to him and stuffed his hands in his pocket.
Apparently, there was no one home. He looked in the window to his left; no lights were on inside. Maybe she was out running errands or something. Come to think of it, today was Saturday, and Saturday was the day that she always went into town to pick up mail and share the latest news. If he just waited long enough she would be back, but that might not be for a while. Once Betty Jo got to talking, she could stay that way for hours.
The house was silent, a desolate decoration amongst the snarl of wilderness. Rascal decided that he would head into town to finish making arrangements. When he was done, if he had time, he would return to her house to try to meet up with her. There was a lot to be done though, and apparently she wasn't home, so there was no point in sitting outside anymore.
He walked briskly back to his car and climbed inside. The sun outside gave the illusion of high noon, but in reality it was only 11. Early still. With the heater blasting, Rascal headed back towards the way he had come, to the main part of town.
He was in luck; the funeral parlor was open. It appeared as though the owner had just returned from lunch. He parked his car, and headed to the reception area.
"Afternoon, sir. Can I help you?" The face belonging to this voice was young, maybe in its twenties, and it smiled pleasantly back at Rascal, who was instantly awestruck.
He looked the young blonde in the eyes. "Afternoon, ma'am. My name is Rascal Crockett. My dad bit the dust, er, passed away about a month ago, and unfortunately, I was out of the country on importent busy-ness, so I warn't able to attend his funeral. I just wanted to see to it that everything was taken care of, with those high expenses and all. I also wondered if I might be able to attain a copy of them documents that listed the division of his property and stuff."
"OK, what did you say the last name was sugar?"
"Crockett. Name's Crockett."
"Alright, darlin'. Now all I need from you first is to see some identification so's I can tell you's kin and all. These papers is confidential, 'less yore one of the fam'ly. If we can prove that, then you's all set."
Rascal reached into the envelope he was holding and pulled out a birth certificate that stated his full name and his father's full name. He also produced a driver's license, so the young girl could see that the records matched.
"OK, this'll do. Just one second please."
The receptionist headed into the back of the office and Rascal took a seat in one of the chairs by the door. He looked around the office at the odd decorations on the wall. What he was really looking at was some very beautiful art, but Rascal wasn't educated, and so, he was unfamiliar with the works of Van Gogh and Monet.
The receptionist came out with a thick brown file. "Everything you need is in here, sugar. There's a photocopyin' machine over thar. Just make sure I get them original files back 'fore you leave."
This was it! Rascal's ticket to “Richville”. He had all the information he needed. He set to work photocopying, with a smile on his face.
Chapter 4 - Bud
Betty Jo left, and Bud laughed as he thought about what she had just told him. A killer in Sutherville? That was highly unlikely. No one ever came to visit, let alone knew there was such a place. He watched her climb into her white Chevy pick-up truck and go barreling down the road.
Quite a few people came into the post office that morning. Of course, there were only 7 people that came in, but the town merely housed 15. Bud was not used to such a trickle of people. They were doing nothing out of the ordinary, mailing care packages to their families or late Christmas presents and whatnot. Bud greeted each of them the same- a warm smile and an inquiry about their families.
Bud had worked hard to set up the post office in a "do-it-yourself" manner, where anyone could come in and help themselves. As Bud's hair had gone from jet-black to salt-and-pepper, he felt this would be the best way to serve the customers. This would also give him a chance to help anyone who had a problem, while someone else could mail a standard parcel without having to wait.
Bud stopped at the counter to pick up some envelopes that had fallen out of the box. He straightened all the materials, pens and envelopes, folders, and a zip code list. He checked the stamp dispenser and reloaded it, with some difficulty - there were little screws that he needed to remove, and his shaking hands and diminishing eyesight made it twice as hard to complete the task.
He looked at the clock. It was 9:30 AM. The sun had started to shine, and anyone who looked out the window would have wanted to go outside and play on the beach, if they hadn't known it was polar bear weather.
Bud went into the back of the post office, to where his own desk was. It was covered from one end to the other, displaying pictures of brothers, sisters, sons and daughters, nieces, nephews and grandchildren. There was one picture that had been placed there just yesterday, the first picture of his new great-granddaughter, just home from the hospital.
He reached into the upper right hand drawer of his desk and pulled out a container with 10 different compartments in it. He looked at the calendar. It was Tuesday, and the third week of the month, meaning that he had to take all of the pills he was prescribed. This was a difficult task for Bud to do. Every time he looked at the assortment of colored capsules, his head began to swarm.
It wasn't always like this. Bud used to have to take just two pills a week when he was young. He'd had diabetes since he was twelve, so he was used to it. But as the years came, more and more problems started to develop in his body. Now along with diabetes, he had to take pills for arthritis, anemia, periodontal disease, muscular dystrophy, and much more. Of course, he didn't take every pill every day. He always took them sporadically it seemed, each pill with its own administration process. Sometimes, he took two or three pills a day, other times it might be a week before he took any. But, somehow, it always turned out that he wound up taking all ten of them on the third Tuesday of each month.
Bud went to the water cooler and filled his glass to the top. He went back to his desk and sat down. He rummaged through the top drawer of his desk and emerged with some crackers. The doctor had written precise notes about taking the pills, and he had to make sure he followed them to the letter. When only taking a few pills, there was nothing to worry about, but when he had to take all 10 of them, Bud had to be careful how he did it or he might have a chemical imbalance which would send him into a seizure. Donning his eyeglasses, Bud pulled out the directions of his doctor. They were hand-written in different inks, each one matching the design of the pill:
1. Blue and white - take with water. Wait five minutes.
2. Green and yellow - eat a cracker, take the pill, eat another cracker.
3. Purple - take simultaneously with....
4. Turquoise. Wait 10 minutes and drink some water.
5. Maroon and white - chew with crackers and swallow with one sip of water. Wait five minutes.
6. Pink - drink 5 sips of water. Place pill on tongue and let it dissolve. Drink one more sip of water and wait 10 minutes.
7. Tan - drink half of remaining water. Swallow pill with water.
8. Yellow - take with crackers. Wait five minutes.
9. Salmon - let capsule dissolve on tongue. Do not take with food or water. Wait 20 minutes.
10. Red - break capsule open and pour contents into water glass. Drink the rest of the water.
Note: After taking pills, there should be light activity for half an hour. The rest of the day should also be very calm. No hysterics or excitement. Call me with questions.
Bud did as the instructions said. He waited about 15 minutes, thinking, and when he came out of his thought cloud, he had no idea how long he had been like that. He thought for a moment and decided that he had been out for a while, so the 30 minutes should almost be up. He began to go about his work, when he grabbed hold of the desk for support. His ankle had rolled and caught him off guard.
Pain raced through Bud's body, and his ankle was swelling. Tears began to collect in his eyes, and he collapsed to the floor as the floodgates broke and he started sobbing.
He remembered what the doctor's instructions had said; there were to be no hysterics. All the same, no matter how many times he told himself that, it just seemed to add to the problem. He cried and cried - cried about the pain, about not being able to control his crying, about his multiplying difficulties in life.
Dizziness washed over the old man, and he began to see spots. He managed to prop himself up against his desk and forced a few deep breaths. The hysterics had now turned into sobbing hiccups. Gradually, he calmed down. He knew he needed help, but there was no way for him to get it.
The ankle was a purplish blue now, as if the circulation had been cut off from it. Bud tried to touch it, but it sent searing pain up his leg and created fresh tears in his eyes, which he subsequently shed.
He tried to put all his weight on his good foot and stand, but his frail bones gave out and he slipped and fell again. This time he hit his head against the desk and everything went black.
It wasn't until a customer came in about an hour later that Bud was discovered, lying in a slump on the floor. His pale skin turned paler with his breaths coming in shallow gasps. The man tried to call Bud's name, shook him as if trying to wake him up, but the lifeless figure did not respond. The customer picked up the phone and called the emergency medical service. Finally, after another 45 minutes they arrived, bundled Bud up, hooked him to a respirator, and transported him to the nearest hospital, 20 miles away. There he was taken to the emergency room where he was injected with an IV and kept on the breathing machine. He was not expected to survive the night.
Chapter 5 - Sheila
The young receptionist was grateful for the company Rascal provided. It had been a quiet morning so far, and rather boring. Sure, she had her computer to keep her busy and her filing to do, but that was not enough for this young blonde.
Born and raised in Sutherville, Sheila was familiar with the territory and everyone was familiar with her. Really familiar with her.
Just out of high school, the 19-year-old was picture perfect: blonde hair, blue eyes, not a hint of facial blemishes. Her body was toned, slim, and very full-figured. Most of the guys in her senior class had a crush on her, and most of them she had been with. It wasn't that she was promiscuous, Sheila just decided there was no point in settling down at an early age. She wanted to get out and experience, to live life to the fullest.
Now as Rascal sat in the adjacent room, the hum of the copying machine a welcome sound, Sheila learned by tipping back in her chair just a bit she could easily see the handsome young man.
"So whatcha doin' round these parts? I ain't heard nothin' bout you since you left here awhile back. How you been?"
The hum of the machine stopped and Rascal poked his head around the corner. "How d'you know bout me? Who are you?"
The young blonde chuckled, suddenly aware that she had not revealed her identity to him. "Rascal," she began, "don't ya know who I am? It's me, Sheila."
"Sheila? That ain't possible! When I done left here ten years ago, you was… you was…"
"Fat and ugly? I know Rascal. But a lot's changed here in these parts, includin' me. My face cleared up and I lost 'bout 15 pounds. But enough about me. Why's you back 'round here anyways? Last I heard you was in Cali-for-ni-ay runnin' some ro-day-oh or somethin' of the likes."
The color on Rascal's face quickly went from earthy peach to seasick green. Sheila had unknowingly asked the one question he had hoped she wouldn't. As he was thinking what to tell her, she spoke up.
"Oh, silly me! You just told me ten minutes ago. Your father!"
"Yeah." Rascal regained his composure. "I want to make sure people got what they was given in the will. With no fam'ly 'round to make sure everything was good, it'd be easy for someone to steal what warn't theirs."
"Ain't it the truth? There's so many people nowadays who's so bad they's gotta resort to stealin' to get what they want. But you ain't got nothin' ta worry 'bout. Yore pap done been burried with all his stuff that's got any value. It's in that there folder somewhere. Somethin' 'bout you can't trust no one. You two was thinkin' just alike."
As she watched, Sheila couldn't help but notice Rascal radiated some discomfort from being in the room after she made that comparison. I probably shouldn'ta said nothin' to him, she thought.
"Well," Rascal summed up after about two minutes' silence, "I reckon that’s about all I need. Thank ya for yer help, Sheila. It was good ta see ya."
"You too, Rascal. Take care, y'hear? I'll be seein' ya."
Rascal gathered his photocopies, put the originals back in the folder, handed the folder to Sheila and headed out the door.
Sheila watched him go and then headed back to her desk where she glanced at the clock. It was now lunch hour. In fact, it had been so for 7 minutes. But Sheila wasn't worried; her boss rarely checked on her. He sat in his office all day, doing whatever it was that made him The Boss.
She grabbed her purse, zipped up her jacket, and made sure to put up the "out to lunch" sign before locking the office door behind her.
She arrived at Nan's after about twenty minutes. The little bell tinkled above the door, and Nan appeared from the back, wiping her hands on her apron.
"What'll it be, shuga'? Yer usyal?"
"That sounds mighty fine, Nan."
"Alright then. One cheeseburger with fried tata skins comin' up. How goes work today?"
"Just the same, more or less. Only one thing was a bit differnt, but even that warn't too peculiar."
"Oh? Whatcha mean, differnt?"
"Well, this guy done came in askin' bout his father'n'all, and made all sorts of copies of them papers."
"Wait, what guy? You catch his name child?"
"Rascal was his name. Usedta live 'round here years ago. I dated him once but it warn't nothin' special."
"Well, I'll be darned. That boy was in here not too long ago 'imself!
Sheila's face turned from her sweet smile to a sort of half serious expression. She leaned forward on the counter and spoke in a quieter voice. "Did he say why he was here?"
Nan thought for a moment, and scratched her head. "Honestly, hunny, I don't remember much nowadays. He mighta said somethin' 'bout his pop. That musta been it. But there ain't no shor way of tellin' now."
Sheila forced her smile again and just kind of nodded. Nan went back into the kitchen to fix Sheila's burger and fries, which left Sheila in the deserted diner to think.
I knew there were more than what he were tellin' me, she feuded. But why weren't he comfortable with me? Is he still sore 'bout our break-up? That ain't possible. He said it were his pop done made 'im do it.
Like a sudden epiphany, Sheila's eyes lit up when she realized what she had just said. Slowly, she began to fit the puzzle together.
His pop musta made 'im do it! It ain't so blurry no more. He's been holdin' a grudge wit his pop for years now. He must think his pap done left 'im sumthin in that will and he'sa comin' back to claim it. I just hope there ain't nothin' gonna happen with 'im. He been gone so long, he might get 'imself inta more trouble than it's worth…
As she was thinking this, Sheila had no idea that Rascal was in his car reading one line of the will over and over again:
All earthly possessions belonging to me at the time of my death shall be given to Mr. Bud Jenkins.
There was an address listed for both Bud's home and the post office. Rascal figured he would try to talk to Mr. Jenkins, Bud, first, and see if he could get back all his pop's belongings. He put his car in gear and went speeding toward the post office. Time could not be wasted.
Sheila finished her burger and left the diner. Mindlessly, she climbed back into her car and took off. First she would drive to work to check for any telephone messages. Then she would head out again. She had some investigating of her own to do.
Chapter 6 - Sonny
Sonny was sitting in a rolling chair behind his desk at the county police station when he heard the radio come alive.
"10-12 we've got a 12-4 on our hands. Come in 10-12."
Sonny took his feet off the desk, and using his hands to push him, rolled across the floor and pressed the intercom button. "10-12, go ahead. What seems to be the problem?"
"We need emergency assistance at the post office. Bud has been knocked unconscious. The youngin' who found him ain't sure how long he done been like that, but he’s still breathing, which, I reckon, is a good omen. Anyways, we gotta get 'im in a am-byoo-lance right away."
"10-4 we got someone on the way."
Sonny released the button and turned towards the desk. There, he dispatched an ambulance to the post office. It would take them about 10 minutes to get there, which was good time, especially for a farming community, where homes were separated by acres of land. It would take the ambulance longer to get Bud to the hospital, but the crucial part was giving him medical attention, which could be done while on the way.
After Sonny had sent help, he went back to the black and white, 10-inch television he was watching before the radio had interrupted. Some old western was on; there was never anything good in the early part of the afternoon besides old western flicks. The morning talk shows had ceased, and it seemed like the whole world (except him) took a two-hour lunch break before the afternoon soaps began. It was always the same old routine for Sonny - talk shows in the morning, old westerns to fill in the space, afternoon soap operas, evening news, then his shift was over and he could arrive home just in time for Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy. He would sit, eyes glued to the television, eating some unidentifiable meat substitute drowned in gray sauce, for an hour or two, absorbing everything from the capital of Nigeria to the infomercials for a bigger bust size. Maybe his habits explained his physical appearance.
Sonny always dreamed when he watched television. Half the time he couldn't remember what he had just seen; he was wrapped up in his own little world. Sometimes he would be a cowboy like John Wayne, saving pretty girls from awful bandits. The frightful mobster would tie the intensely attractive blond to the railroad tracks, and she would scream "Oh help! help! help!" until out of nowhere a cloud of dust would appear in the distance. Hoofs could be heard thump-thump-thumping on the ground, which could only mean one thing - someone had heard the poor woman's cries and was going to attempt to help her. That's when Sonny would ride by on his horse, sweep the gal off the tracks with one hand, and gallop off into the horizon for some passionate love-making. He would smile at the nude woman beside him and dreamily proclaim "It warn't nothin', ma'am" before drifting off to sleep.
Other times, Sonny imagined he was the bad guy, committing endless crimes at the expense of unsuspecting people. He was a rough and tumbled old varmint, the rootinest tootinest gunslinger this side of the Mississippi. He would ride into town on his black horse named Lightening, and dismount, his spurs jangling in the silence. He'd saunter into the nearest saloon and proclaim that he could beat anyone in a shoot-off. This was the part where some scrawny, gangly “cowboy” would speak up from the corner of the bar, accepting the buff, bronze stranger’s challenge. The bar would go up in deafening noise, and bets were made on the spot as to who would win. Of course, there would have to be a prize if these men were to have motives to fight. So the prize was always determined to be the daughter of the bartender, who was always a pretty young thing.
The crowd would gather outside, with the woman in the front of the crowd as to cheer the men on. They stood back to back in the center of the circle, counted out ten paces, and whirled around to unload the first round of ammo from their guns. At this point, the crowd would really get into it, yelling obscenities and placing more bets, all the while taking swigs of their beer.
The battle raged on; at times each man looked like he would come out on top. Round and round the two would go, egged on by the townspeople.
However, in Sonny's imagination, the standoff wouldn't last much longer; Sonny would reload the gun and fire before the other guy knew what had happened. The cowboy would fall to the ground in a pool of his own blood, and the crowd would go momentarily silent. Then, it would erupt in burst of applause - shouting, yelling, and screaming more obscenities. Winning bets were quickly paid, and the town would return to normal again as men went about their business as if nothing had happened.
The young dame, whom they had been fighting for, would be released, and together they would ride off on his horse into the sunset, where he would lay her down in a bed of hay and make love to her until the sun came up the next morning.
With Sonny, everything ended up having to do with making love to a gorgeous woman. Having never been married, Sonny's mind ran a way with him often, and he often found himself dreaming of a beautiful woman. In fact, he dreamed about her so often that she began to resemble none other than Betty Jo, the poor widow who had been left to take care of so much by herself.
Sonny often dreamed about what he would do to Betty Jo if she ever agreed to date him. But so far, it had been no use; Betty Jo was not ready to date again. She had turned down numerous invites to dinner and various other places, always using some lame excuse. But Sonny knew that the real reason she didn't want to accept was because she was still mourning the death of her late husband. Although frustrated at times with Betty Jo's response, he admired her at the same time. Her love for this man was so strong that even though he was not coming back she still resolved to wait for him.
The radio began to demand attention again, and Sonny pushed the button on the telecom to receive the message.
"10-4, go ahead please, what's the problem now?"
"Sonny, I's gonna need another am-byoo-lance out here if you can lasso one up. We gots a problem over in this vicinity."
"Shor thing. Where ya want this here e-mer-gen-cy vehicle sent?"
"Down offa the highway 'bout 2 miles from the station. Ya can't miss the sight, it's downright awful."
"Why? What's gotten into y'all over there? Ain't one ambulance enough to transport one old man?"
"I reckon so," the voice on the other end of the line said. "But we ain't got just one person to take no more. Now we got four. There's a wreck alongside of the road and we ain't got no survivors 'ceptn the EMS workers."
Chapter 7 - Sarah Mae
“Kids!” Sarah Mae called down the hallway. “Hurry up! We’re gonna be late! I ain’t gonna be late on accounta you today.”
Her youngest son appeared in the doorway, clad in his Scooby Doo pajamas, clinging to a tattered rag he affectionately called ‘Momo the Blanky’.
Sarah Mae almost died when she saw him. “Jesusjosephandmary child, what do you think yer doin’? Where’s yer clothes? Why ain’t you dressed?” She took a deep breath. “And where’s yer sister? Why ain’t she helpin' you? Lord almighty, I ain’t got time to deal with you. My boss is expectin’ me in the office this afternoon to interview for a better job. I got so much of my work yet to do this mornin’ before I can make time to be goin’ in there though. If I don’t get it done, I ain’t gonna be able to make the interview. Now hurry up and get dressed.”
“Mommy, I can’t.” The little blue eyed boy looked up at his mother with intent eyes. The pool blue irises were interlaced with gray flecks of worry.
Sarah Mae stooped down and took him by his free hand. “What’s a matta, shuga? Mommy’s here.”
He reached over and whispered in her ear, as if a third presence in the room should be forbidden to hear the secret information. After listening carefully to what her son had to say, Sarah Mae’s stern expression softened into understanding as she led her three-year-old down the hall into his bedroom and shut the door.
Clad in fresh clothes, accompanied by his older brother and sister, the toddler raced into the kitchen for his Cheerios before going to school. This was his favorite time of the day, when he got to sit with his mommy and everything he knew in the world was secure. However, today would be the last day that he, or any of his other family members, would see Sarah Mae alive.
The rest of the morning transpired uneventfully, and the family of five climbed into Sarah Mae’s car and took off down the road.
By the time they arrived at her mother’s half an hour later, the toddler was asleep. Armed with backpacks for the two school-aged children, a bag full of games and coloring books for the younger one, and the sleeping child, Sarah Mae started toward the small house. Her mother greeted her on the front step, took the slumbering child inside and tucked him into her bed. He would sleep for the next few hours and be awake in time to see his brother and sister off to school.
“Don’t worry about a thing, Sarah. Yer gonna do fine today. Just remember to relax and don’t stress out. The Lord watches over you today more than ever.”
“Thank you, Mama. I need all the help I can git.”
Sarah Mae kissed her two eldest on the heads, bade them a good day at school, and then headed down the road towards her office.
Once there, she took out a bottle of Aspirin and downed two. Normally, she didn’t like taking pills of any sort, but as stressful as the morning had already been she figured it couldn’t hurt. Besides, she had a very long and VERY important day ahead of her. She needed to save all of her energy and remain calm.
She walked down the hall to the mailroom and looked into her box. There was a lot for her to do today. She scolded herself as she remembered how the work had piled up on her so quickly.
Two days ago, Sarah Mae was in her office typing up a résumé to bring with her to her job interview with the president of the company. A coworker, who was also applying for the position, had walked in to ask her a question. The coworker casually inquired as to what she was doing, and when Sarah Mae replied that she was preparing for her upcoming job interview, the coworker reminded her that she still had to keep up with her present job.
Sarah Mae had not known that until the fellow staff member spoke up; she had thought that the others in the office not going for the job would take on the extra work. However, looking back on that, she realized the mistake she had made. Sarah Mae panicked, not knowing what to do. She was almost a day behind, and she still had to prepare for her interview.
With no idea how she could fix the problem, Sarah Mae called her mother and asked if she could keep the kids later than normal. She wound up working late into the night to get caught up, but finally sleep got the best of her and she closed down the office until the next morning.
Today was the day of the interview, and there was still a lot of work to be done. Sarah had to finish typing her résumé, she felt that that took precedence over her other work. Yesterday was dedicated to perfecting her application/interview material, with the resolution that she would work twice as hard today to get her work done.
The rest of the morning flew by; Sarah buried herself in the heap of papers on her desk, and worked at double speed to finish what she had to get done.
About noon, the phone began to ring. Sarah Mae answered it; her daughter was in a panic on the other end of the line.
“Mommy!” wailed the adolescent girl. “I... can’t... papers... help...” The girl was talking hysterically, words were deciphered in chunks; if she was speaking full sentences they were indecipherable between the gasps and the hiccups and the sobs.
“Slow down, sweetheart. Tell Mommy what’s wrong.”
Sarah Mae listened intently to what her daughter had to say, all the while glancing at the clock and counting the precious minutes.
It turned out that her daughter had forgotten her history project at home, and would need it by the end of the day in order to get her grade. The project was a major grade, so it basically came down to no project, no grade, no passing.
Sarah Mae decided that she would use her lunch break to go home and get the project for her daughter. She had initially planned to work through her lunch hour and eat at her desk because of how much she had to do, but her daughter really needed her, and no matter what Sarah Mae had always promised herself and her kids that nothing was more important than them.
She hung up the phone and glanced at the clock. As long as she had been interrupted from her steady work pace, she might as well deliver the project to her daughter now.
She put away a few papers, and then poked her head into the office of the gal next door. She could always count on the young intern to answer the phone for her when she had to step out of the office for a while. The young intern, although having no kids of her own, understood that being a mother was a full time job, and therefore had no objections of helping out as long as Sarah Mae didn't make a habit of it.
Sarah Mae sped all the way home and continued to speed to make up for lost time as she made her way to her daughter's elementary school. In all of the rush and the excitement, she never even saw the speeding car that was coming in the other direction, veering on the wrong side of the road, heading straight towards her.
Chapter 8 - Hank
By the time Hank reached the crime scene, he could see the debris of car components, metal scraps, and body parts. Local policemen had arrived and were taking statements from the EMS workers. However, there was a large crowd gathered around the remains of what had once been fellow citizens. He sighed as he hopped out of his truck and got to work.
Walking around to the back of the vehicle, he looked in the bed and rummaged through the assortment of objects. He emerged minutes later with a brown leather bag, the strap of which had been frayed from years of wear and tear.
Walking towards the concentration of the accident, Hank reached into the bag and pulled out something that most law enforcement officers of any kind were required to have. He got to work, tying the yellow Crime Scene tape around nearby trees and benches.
When he had finished marking off the scene, Hank dove into his bag again, this time emerging with latex gloves and an expensive looking camera. He turned to the crowd of people who were packed right up against the yellow tape.
“Pardon me, folks,” he began slowly, picking his words, “but I’m going to have to ask you to step back a bit. I ain’t gonna be able to work with all of ya breathin’ down my neck.”
The crowd looked at each other, then slowly took a step back, then looked back at Hank. Finding him staring right back, they quickly backed up another 10 feet.
“Thank ya.” Hank smiled at the crowd. Then turning around, he kneeled down to where the upper body of Sheila Jackson had flown after the impact. He took his camera and snapped shots of her body from every angle, making sure he got one from the top and one of her whole body. Her eyelids were open, but her eyes had rolled back in her head, and her mouth was slightly open with her tongue protruding out.
The crowd became silent as Hank gingerly lifted Sheila’s bloody blonde hair off of a piece of paper and put it into one plastic bag and the paper into another for examination. He tried to set the head back down carefully, but it landed with a thud on the pavement. The crowd winced. Hank wiped his hands on a napkin from the leather bag and went over to the next body.
Bud was not as bloody as Sheila’s body had been. The car that caused the accident had hit the side of the ambulance and although it had sliced all the way through to the interior, the strong metal reinforcement lessened the gruesome appearance of Bud.
The first thing that drew Hank’s attention was Bud’s badly swollen ankle. It had gone from the bluish purple it once was to a sickening black stub. Of course, part of this was due to the no longer flowing circulation of fresh blood through his old wrinkled veins.
Resuming his place behind the lens of the camera, Hank began to take pictures of Deceased Body Number Two. He photographed the ankle and the old man’s face, and also got pictures of the ambulance, now unusable. Thinking a moment, he stood up and took a candid shot of the EMS workers giving statements. He intentionally took them to show that there were still living people, but subconsciously he needed the reassurance that someone, in fact, more than one person, had made it out alive.
The next body he took pictures of was Sarah Mae Hewett. Sarah had been thrown fifteen feet from where her car now stood. Hank captured the expression on her face - one mixed with anxiety and stress and determination and, above all, fear. Then, Hank took a few steps and took pictures of the rest of her body, which had become detached from her head when the cars collided. The fingers of her right hand were still ghostly white, gripping the steering wheel, which had come off and flown with her onto the side of the road. When she landed, the wheel must have hit her in the head, explaining the empty cavity in place of her left eye.
He took pictures of the skid marks on the road that led right up to her vehicle. He made a mental note to come back and take a closer look at them later.
The last cadaver was the hardest to photograph. The bloody corpse had tumbled out of its car and landed face down under the right wheel of the ambulance. Hank could not get the victim's face from any angle, so he took multiple shots of the surroundings and of the car. From what he could see of the face, it looked slightly familiar, as if he had known the man a long time ago. But any familiarity of the facial features was strewn with blood and dirt and other bacteria so Hank may have just been imagining it.
Hank put his camera away and took off his latex gloves, careful to dispose of them in a sanitary way. He pulled a napkin from his bag and wiped his hands. Then he got out a tape measure and went back to where he had left the skid marks not long ago.
He measured the length of the longest skid mark, and wrote that down on a piece of paper, along with how many skid marks, the intensity of the skid marks, and the resulting appearance of the tires. All of this could be used in the lab to determine the conditions of the car upon impact, and quite possibly the reason for the accident.
The last thing Hank did was collect items from each victim's car, things he could use to determine the nature of the accident. He took papers with handwriting on them from each car, and then individually found a planner, a receipt from earlier that day, and a poster board covered with construction paper with the name "America" scrawled across the top in big, third grade handwriting.
Hank decided that he had everything he needed and headed back to his truck to go down to the station. On his way back, he stopped at the photo shop to get his film developed.
Hank decided to grab a quick lunch at Nan's Diner before beginning on the task that would most likely keep him up all night.
The little bell tinkled over the door as Hank walked in. He recognized a few people from the crime scene, who had evidently tired of the whole thing and retreated to someplace warm.
Nan's smiling face greeted him at the counter. As he waited for his burger to arrive, Hank began to try to piece the leads together. Judging by the skid marks there had been speeding, but the marks came from the opposite direction that the ambulance did. Why would anyone speed in Sutherville? It just didn't make sense.
Hank ate and then went into the office to focus on all the clues he had. He laid out all the evidence and tried to make sense of it.
His eyes swept over the clutter on his desk and stopped on the poster board. Why would Sarah Mae have a school project in her car? Then Hank looked on the back of the poster and saw the name of her daughter and it made sense. Hank picked up the telephone and made a call to the local elementary school.
He spoke to the administration and informed them of the situation. The little girl was in class, but the staff did not think she should be told over the phone. Instead they would tell the girl in person. They talked for a while about the little girl’s school project found in her car.
Hank got off the phone with her and Sarah Mae's case was logically complete. He also had a lead for the connection to the other bodies. He picked up the phone and made a few more calls. The story slowly unfolded over the next few hours in Hank's small, dimly lit cubicle.
Chapter 9 - Katie
The bell rang to end recess and Katie stared at the clock. The minute hand had almost made a complete rotation since she called her mom to bring her the project she had forgotten at home.
"Mommy's not gonna let me down. She's gonna be here any minute now. I ain't got nothin' to worry 'bout."
Katie had told herself that same phrase for over thirty minutes, assuring herself that at any moment, her mom would walk into the school, shining like a golden angel, and hand her a report of "Our Country America". Of course, Katie's mom was so great that she had probably stopped to fix the minor errors that her third grade hands had made. That’s why she was so late! It had to be. Katie's mom had never let her down in her entire life, why should today be any different?
As her classmates ran inside, exhausted from an energetic game of kickball, they grabbed their lunches, chattering about who scored the winning goal, excited about what their mothers might have made for lunch.
"Katie!" a voice yelled from across the room. "Come on, let's go to lunch."
"I can't" Katie yelled back. "I gotta wait for my mommy. She's gonna bring me my project. Y'all go eat."
Her friends bounded down the hallway, and Katie stared after them, thinking she should go eat with them. After all, her mother would find her, right?
Katie decided that she would go eat after all. She grabbed her lunch from the cubbyhole with her name on it, and ran to catch up with her friends.
The next thing she knew, her teacher was tapping her on the shoulder saying that she needed to speak with her.
She led Katie down the hallway to the teacher's lounge, a place that Katie had only heard about but never seen. She wondered what was wrong, and why her teacher was talking to her in private and all the way down in the teacher's lounge instead of in her own classroom. Katie remembered one other time when someone had been taken to the lounge for a "talk" but that talk turned out to be not so good as the student walked out in trouble for something that he should not have done. Katie was a good student, always did what she was told, and so she knew she could not have been in trouble, which made her even more uneasy.
Katie sat down on a couch in the lounge, and she didn't even notice how nice it was, because her little third grade mind was too busy worrying why her teacher would need to talk to her under such circumstances.
Her teacher sat down in a chair next to her and looked her in the eyes.
“Katie,” she began, wondering how she was going to tell the child that her mother was dead, “something done happened today. Katie, I don’t know how to tell you this, it ain’t easy to say, but it’s gotta be said. Katie, your mom was killed in a car accident earlier this afternoon. I’m sorry.”
The little girl sat stunned for five minutes, staring at nothing on the wall. She started shaking her head back and forth. “No, no she’s not dead. My mommy ain’t dead. She’s bringing my school project for me. She’s gonna be here any minute. Just wait and see. She’s gonna come up here real soon.”
The teacher didn’t know what to do; she tried to comfort the child, but Katie didn’t want comfort. She wanted her mother.
There was nothing she could do, however. The child’s mother was dead. “Honey, you gotta understand. There ain’t nothin’ we can do. I’m afraid that she is really gone.”
Katie sat stunned, still in the same position from when she first sat down. Then, she burst into tears.
“H..h..how did it happen?” The little girl looked up at her teacher with wet, glistening eyes.
“There was a car crash. I’m so sorry sweetie. Is there anything you want me to do? Anything either myself or the school can do for you?”
Katie thought for a minute, still frazzled about the news of her mother. “My sister.” She finally mumbled. “Where is she?”
“Why,” the teacher said, grasping the concept of the two siblings who were still uninformed of the tragedy, “I imagine she’s still in class. I... I imagine that you’d wanna get in contact with her and be there for her. I was gonna leave that decision up to you. How do you want to do tell her?”
“I want to talk to her now.” Katie decided instantly. “I need to talk to her now.”
“Well,” the teacher began, “I can go get her for ya, if ya wanna wait here. But sweetie you’sa gonna have to calm down for her sake. You gotta be strong for her. She’s younger than you and ain’t gonna be able to handle this so well. Can you do that for me?”
The little girl nodded. She took a deep breath and wiped her face with the back of her hands.
The teacher handed her a box of tissue and left her to compose herself as she went to get her sibling. She stopped by the front office and asked the head guidance counselor to go with her. Then she went down the hall to get the younger sister.
Walking down the hall, the teacher kept her mouth shut as she listened to the little kid chatter about her day to the counselor.
As soon as they made it into the lounge, the little kid was astonished to see her older sister is disarray. She immediately knew something was wrong when Katie looked up with tears in her eyes.
The crew sat down around the lounge, on chairs and couches. Katie relayed the information to her sister, and she took the news worse than Katie did. Katie began to cry again as she told her sister, but her sobs were inaudible over the wailing from the younger child.
“Iiiiii waannnnt myyyyyy moooommmmmmmmmmmaaaaaaa.” The little girl was screaming and crying and throwing a fit. The teacher got up and shut the door to the lounge.
The two girls cried and held each other, uncertain of where the world would take them next. They cried for their mother, they cried for each other, they cried and cried and cried. It was apparent that the children were not going to be able to last the rest of the day at school, so the teacher and counselor decided the best thing to do would be to call the children’s grandmother and have her come pick them up. Sonny had already told the teacher that he had talked to Sarah Mae’s mother, and that she would break the news to the toddler she was babysitting.
The grandmother was glad to come and get them. She showed up at the school as soon as she could, with a sleeping toddler in the car seat. When she saw the children walk out of the building, armed with schoolbooks and looking frightened, she began to cry over her lost daughter. She took her grandchildren into her arms, hugging and kissing them and telling them that they were still loved and that everything would be OK in the end. They piled into the car to head back to the small trailer home.
The car drove off into the main lane of the town, and the teacher and guidance counselor both watched them go. Then simultaneously, they both reached up to their eyes and wiped tears away, praying for the innocence of the small children and their anguished grandmother.
Chapter 10 - Reverend Ingle
"Ladies and gentlemen, thank y'all for being here today as we say goodbye to four great in-duh-vid-yoo-als of our small town."
The last of the people viewing the four side-by-side caskets took their seats as the eulogies began.
"It ain't every day that a tragedy like this goes and happens to anyone, much less four anyones. Sutherville has always been calm and quiet, so this situation has stirred up a ruckus from all of us. This town ain't never gonna be the same after that horrible day last week. I hope that in speakin' I can help y'all be at ease about the loss of these innocent souls."
Reverend Ingle paused for a moment, and reached into his pocket for a handkerchief. He slowly wiped the corner of his left eye, which had begun to water, reflecting the feelings of those in the chairs opposite him.
He took a deep breath and began again. "We have to learn though that God has His idears and plans, 'n He does everything for a reason. He chose four people He wanted to be with, and He couldn'ta picked no finer bunch. The pain of our loved ones won’t go away none too quickly, but we must always remember to be thinkin’ 'bout the good in these folks. These were some of the nicest people I done ever met in my life. Ain't a time I saw one of 'em that they didn't gladly receive me. They was mighty fine folks, all of 'em, and we'sa gonna miss 'em somethin' awful. They will live on in our hearts, though they can't be with us no more in person. Now as they lay there peacefully they ain't nothin' but good people, and God done forgave 'em for their sins the day He took them to His home.
First, let us remember and pray for Butch 'Rascal' Crockett. A right old troublemaker he was, but a fine lad. He done went away for a while, doin' business that no one knows, but he returned to the place he called home in the end. He always made mischief, but we done all laughed along with him. A right good fellow he was, just tryin' to make a livin' out in that big world. Survived by his brother Hal Rascal will be joining his mother and father up in the sky. Let us pray for him now."
The crowd bowed their heads in prayer. A few murmurs could be heard; sniffles and coughs and hiccups were abundant.
"Amen," the reverend continued. "Now I'd like to remember Bud Jenkins, a fine character if ever there lived one." Reverend Ingle made eye contact with a man whom he had spoken to earlier. The man had approached him, before the funeral, and asked if he could speak about his father during the ceremony. From the way the man presented himself and spoke he was unmistakably Bud's son. "And now," Reverend Ingle said, looking at the young man, realizing that he had not even gotten the man's name, "Bud's son would like to say a few words."
Bud's son got up, nodded at the Reverend, and took the podium. "That man," he said, talking a bit too loud in order to choke back his tears, "led an absolutely amazin' life. He was married to his wife and my mother Shirley Jenkins until her untimely death not that long ago. The fire began to fade from his eyes around then, but he weren't gonna neglect the rest of his life. He continued to go to work every day, 'n he became one of the most carin' and lovin' postal workers in these parts, from what I can tell." A few of the spectators nodded their heads in agreement.
"I done talked to the Reverend earlier so’s I would know what to say ‘bout his later life. He was a good character, comin' to church when he felt the hankerin' to. He served the Lord mighty well, and for that I know he is in his Father's arms right now. I remember when I was little and he'd take me fishin' by the creek where we used ta live. We'd fish all day, but couldn’t catch nothin'. Then we'd come home and go to bed exhausted. My best memories were from when we'd get up before dark and go out and dig worms, just me and my daddy. Now as I see his body layin' over there, I ain't doubtful at all that he's in Heaven where the Lord can take care of him like he done took care of me all these years. May you rest in peace, Daddy."
Again the crowd bowed their heads to ask for the care of their beloved friend.
Bud's son took his seat and Reverend Ingle resumed his place. "Thank you Mr. Jenkins. Your daddy’s gonna be missed by all. But along with him let us not forget young Sheila Jackson. Only 19 years old, her life weren't nowhere near complete. But the Good Lord got His reasons for everything He does, so we just gotta trust that He done got a great plan in mind for all of us. Sheila was a lively thang, with a quick smile for everybody. She ain't never hurt a fly a day in her life. She was survived by her lovin' folks..." His voice trailed off as a wail surged through the crowd. Reverend Ingle looked up and saw Mr. Jackson escorting his hysterical wife out of the church, looking at the reverend and mouthing "I'm sorry".
The scene was too much for the reverend to handle. His face contorted into a wrinkled mess, and tears flowed from his eyes. He reached into his pocket once again and pulled out the worn, used handkerchief that he had been gripping the whole time. The audience, upon seeing the reverend's face, consequently broke down as well.
What they didn't know, however, was that the young reverend was not just weeping for the deceased Sheila Jackson. He was, in fact, weeping for the loss of a friend, of a confidant, of a lover, and possibly of a soul mate. It's true that she was young; HE was young, and like all young couples in love, they felt that nothing would ever come between them. So while the congregation wept for the loss of Sheila's family, Reverend Ingle wept for his own selfish losses.
He dried his eyes and began to speak again.
"Lastly," he continued, focusing on not thinking about his dead lover, "lastly, let us remember poor Sarah Mae Hewitt. Survived by her three children, Sarah Mae has done gone to rest with her late husband, leavin’ them poor chillun of hers without a fam’ly. There will be a drive for them poor thangs to co-lect vittles for ‘em.”
He paused and looked out at the people, all grieving in their own ways. His eyes swept over the crowd and came to rest on a face he didn’t recognize. He realized that in the hour or so he had been talking, he had no clue who was seated across from him. He made a mental picture and tried to put names with faces.
Of the people he knew, there was Bud’s son, Sheila’s parents, Nan Wise the diner owner, Hank the medical examiner, Sonny the policeman, a couple of sheriffs from the precinct over, people he had known at one point or another that had come to church seldomly. But there were also a few that he did not recognize.
Reverend Ingle snapped back into reality after noticing that the puffy eyes had all come out from behind their Kleenex and were staring up at him with anticipation.
"God bless them all as they go to Heaven to meet the Lord. We will miss 'em all very much. We all need to rest assured that they are in a better place now, and the Lord will provide for 'em. I will be available after the service to talk to anyone who may need more closure. Thank y'all for comin' this afternoon."
Chapter 11 - Randall
They sat in Nan's diner, not saying a word, just staring blankly into their cold coffee cups trying to comprehend what Hank had just said. It seemed possible, they supposed, but it wasn't probable.
Randall was the first to speak. "I just can't believe it. My daddy dies 'cuz of another man's stinginess and greed. He just got in the wrong place at the wrong time. That Rascal. If he weren't already dead I think I'd skin his hide for m'self. It just ain't right."
"And yer sure that's what happened, just like that, Hank?" The reverend was even more skeptical that such a tragedy could have been carried out so flawlessly. If just one event had changed, if just one person had waited one minute, they might not be in this fine mess. But then again, the reverend supposed, life is always that way. There ain't no way of knowin' what's a'gonna happen 'fore it does, so there ain't no way to prevent it.
The conversation earlier between the three men rolled over and over in Randall's head as he tried to understand exactly what had happened.
After the funeral, the three men had spoken shortly and then decided to head to Nan's diner for some coffee to unwind from the tumult of the day. Hank was planning on asking the reverend to lunch after the ceremony, so that they could discuss exactly what happened and what he had found from his examinations of the wreck and the evidence left over.
When Bud's son approached Hank and the reverend after the funeral service and introduced himself, Hank decided that this might be information that was helpful for Randall for closure from his father's death. He invited the young man to come along with them and Randall agreed, eager to hear the news that the medical examiner could deliver.
It all seemed so strange, Randall said as the men entered the diner. He got a call in the middle of the afternoon saying that his father had gotten in an awful accident and hadn't survived. Randall tried to ask the voice on the other end of the line what had happened, but the hospital orderly was only given a number and a script to deliver. He was sorry, he could not answer Randall's questions.
Randall left almost immediately to come down to Sutherville. He drove straight through the night, stopping finally when he had reached where he was going. He spent the night with an old friend from high school, and got up early to see if he could find out more. However, he couldn't seem to find anyone that knew much of anything. He was more than grateful to be invited with the men who knew the most about the situation.
The men walked into the diner and placed their orders. They ate first, so that their meal would not be interrupted by pain and suffering. They ordered coffee and while they waited for it to cool, Hank began.
"It seems as though we done had some type of inner triangle 'tween Bud and Rascal and Sheila. I talked to a batch of people in this town after it happened, to see if I could get a full account of where each person was all the way up 'til they all got in their ve-hicles." He took a sip of his coffee.
"First I tried to find out what done happened to Rascal. I talked to Nan, in fact, and she said that he come into the diner early that morning and that at first she hadn't recognized him. She finally saw who he was, and talked to him a while. They talked 'bout his daddy's death, and how he done left all the stuff to people from around these parts. She done told me he was uneasy the whole time, and when he left she got a feeling like he was up to no good again.”
"From what I can tell, next he went to the public relations department. Sheila usedta work there, and she was the only one workin' at the time that he woulda come in, so I can only guess this part of it."
By this time the other two men had completely neglected their coffee; their faces were concentrated on his mouth, and they lapped up every word he said.
"Well I got to findin' out some time last week that Sheila and Rascal done had a fling a while back, and we all know Sheila done been a curious person all her life. So what I figgur is that Rascal done went to see where his daddy's stuff had gone to. That makes the most sense; his daddy dies and he don't come to the funeral or nothin' but as soon as the legal stuff's outta the way he'sa gonna come runnin' to collect what he thinks he should get. So anyway, he musta gotten the records from Sheila and left in a hurry. Sheila musta followed him to see what he was fussin' about. That's why her car was also one of the four in the pile-up."
"OK," Randall broke in at this point, "but what does that mean in terms of my daddy? I ain't heard much 'bout how he fits into this."
"I'm gettin' there. I went ta do a lil' investigatin' of my own and I done discovered that when Rascal left the office he was headed to where your daddy works. You see, Bud and the elder Mr. Crockett was best of friends. He left almost everything he owned to your daddy."
"And Rascal was greedy and he was gonna go try to weasel it out of my daddy, weren't he?"
"You got it. It all ties together. Rascal was goin' fer yer daddy, Sheila was goin' for Rascal..."
"But wait!" wailed Randall. "Why was my daddy in the ambulance? I still ain't never found that out."
"That," Hank said with lamentation, "was an unfortunate side injury that just happened at the wrong time. Yer daddy was takin' his medicine and somethin' reacted like it shouldn'ta. He fell and hit his head and someone comin' to get their mail found 'im an hour later barely breathing. They called an ambulance to rush 'im to the hospital. I imagine the impact musta been greater cuz of the ambulance's urgency and Rascal's excitement that he thought he was gonna get more stuff for 'imself."
Until then, the reverend had been silent, listening to the exchange between the two other men. But now, he voiced the question that was on his mind.
"You say that them three was in a triangle, and I can see it clear as day. But how does poor Sarah Mae fit into all of this?"
"Again, that was just the result of bein' in the wrong place at the wrong time. Katie Hewitt done forgot a school project and Sarah Mae was rushing to get it there and get back to her job; she was stressed that day, accordin' to people I done talked to. So we have Rascal speedin' toward Bud, Sheila speedin' to keep up with 'im, the ambulance speedin' to get Bud to the hospital, and Sarah Mae speedin' to get back to work. And in a small town like ours, it ain't rocket science somethin' would happen. And it did."
It certainly did. This last statement was highly unnecessary, but nevertheless very true. The men sat staring into their cups not talking for a long time.
"It was all fate."
"Fate and circumstance."
"Circumstance and fate."
The men sat in the diner well into the evening, thinking about the events of the past week, thinking of their own lives, and where fate and circumstance would encumber their own short lives.
Beauty
"Wow, you look great!" he said as he kissed her on the hand. She was wearing a burgundy strapless gown, shining from head to toe with crystal beads. "You ready to go?"
She smiled. "You bet." She grabbed her purse, locked the door behind her, and let him escort her to the running car. This was going to be an unforgettable night: dinner, dancing, and maybe, if the mood was right, a little more.
The conversation in the car was far from dull - they talked about everything from sports to politics to weather. Soon, the exquisite building appeared in front of them, shining against the setting sun in the horizon.
After being seated at the cozy, two-person corner booth, the waitress took their order and then left them to themselves. The restaurant was not crowded; the only other people in the room were an elderly man and his elderly wife sharing an ice cream sundae.
"Look at them," she remarked, "I hope I can be as happy as them when I get old."
"Baby, you have nothing to worry about," he reassured her, "I'll always be here for you."
He seemed so confident that her heart couldn't help but melt. Here he was, had been, for almost a year, vowing to protect her forever and ever. Sure, he had always been there for her so far, but time could only tell the future.
"You're concentrating too hard." His hand reached across the table and took hers in it. He stroked it lovingly. "You're beautiful, you know that? Has anyone ever told you that before?"
She blushed a little as she replied. "I think so. But I don't believe it."
His mouth dropped open; he was taken aghast by this last comment. "Darling, you are, without a doubt, the prettiest girl in the world."
"Well thank you sweetheart. I love hearing that from you."
Their meals arrived, and were consumed while gazing into each other's eyes. No thoughts were voiced, but a special connection between the two of them enabled the thoughts to be felt through their bodies as they continued to hold hands across the table. This made eating a difficult task, but neither was willing to sacrifice the contact with the other for the use of both hands.
Soon the check came and was taken care of; he helped her put on her coat before returning back to the car.
The dancing was the most fun she'd had in a while. He held her close; the noise in the room was so deafening that they had to talk right next to each other's ears to be heard. He left at one point to get some drinks, and when he came back, he tapped her on the shoulder.
"Excuse me, miss," he began, "but have you seen my girlfriend? She's about five-three, with gorgeous blond hair and the bluest eyes you've ever seen."
He leaned over and kissed her. "Ready to go back out on the floor, Princess?"
The dancing lasted long into the night; the hour was three when he drove her home and she invited him in. He sat on the couch while she changed into bedclothes.
She emerged from her room wearing one of his T-shirts, so oversized that it hung off one of her shoulders. She took her brush out of her purse and started to remove the pins from her hair.
"Don't," he stopped her. "Leave it in. I like it that way. It makes you look sophisticated, like an angel. You're so pretty."
She set the brush aside. "All right then. What shall we do now at three o'clock in the morning?"
They agreed on a movie and curled on the couch to watch it. However, it wasn't long until they were engaged in a little kissing. She could feel the attraction she had for him just in the way his hand cradled the back of her head.
The passion grew in the room. Soon she had led him back to her room. He unbuttoned his shirt and pulled hers over her head. This time she decided she was not going to stop him at any point, and they made love for the first time.
The satin sheets helped to cool them when they lay together, sleepy-eyed and content. She lay next to him, her bare skin against his, her breaths matching his slow, steady ones. Their hearts beat in unison; all was right with the world. He reached over and kissed her.
"You know," he spoke quietly, dreamily, "all night I have not been able to keep my eyes off of you. You possess such beauty and grace that I am indefinitely drawn to you. Even now I am overwhelmed by your features. I love you."
She smiled and looked up at him. "I love you too. Goodnight." She rested her head against his shoulder, and the slow, steady heaving of his chest put her to sleep within minutes.
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