Remembering August (Triple C Ranch Saga)

by Rodney V. Earle

  Sheila’s secret was partially covered with the bra strap, so Joan switched hands and pulled the silky thin material aside. The maroon ink on Sheila’s shoulder saw the sun for the first time in over ten years.

  “S.J.J.M.B.,” Jeff read the tattoo aloud. “What’s that mean?”

  “How old were you when you got that?” Joan asked before Sheila could answer.

  “I got it the day I turned eighteen,” said Sheila, ignoring Jeff’s question.

  “I like the lettering,” Joan said as she continued to hold Sheila’s blouse and bra strap in her fingers. “What kind of font is that?”

  “It’s what they call Bleeding Cowboy,” said Sheila as Joan let go of her blouse and bra strap.

  “But what’s it mean?” asked Jeff impatiently.

  Sheila adjusted her blouse and refastened her third button. Jeff went back to the wall he was holding up with his shoulder as Joan sat back down on the concrete ledge.

  “Nuh—uh,” Sheila said as she turned to face the pair, folded her arms again and shook her head. “You owe me one secret ingredient.”

  “I can only assume that the first two letters stand for Sheila Jones,” Jeff muttered as he resumed gnawing on the pipe and smirked at Sheila.

  “Your investigative skills are incredible,” Sheila said mockingly. “Where did they teach you that? Junior sheriff school?”

  Joan let out a loud belly laugh for the first time that day. Jeff stood up, removed the pipe from his teeth, and used it to push the brim of his “Indy” hat higher on his tan forehead. The smirk on his face grew wider.

  “That’s good. I like this one. She’s a smartass.”

  “Don’t get her started,” said Joan, still laughing hysterically. “I have heard her say some things that are… simply beyond belief.”

  “I’ll bet,” replied Jeff. “Okay… come closer.”

  Sheila moved closer with her arms still folded. Jeff leaned forward and Sheila turned her head as the sixty-four-year-old sheriff whispered MaeBelle’s secret ingredient in her ear.

  “You’re kidding,” said Sheila, who stood with her mouth open wide.

  “Nope,” replied Jeff. “She puts it in everything.”

  “Gr—” Sheila started to say aloud, but Jeff interrupted.

  “Shhhh!” Jeff hissed.

  Sheila mouthed the words of the secret ingredient. “I can’t believe it! How much do you put in?”

  “Mae puts in like a heaping tablespoon for each pound of ground beef.”

  “Hmmm,” Sheila said reflectively. “I’ll have to try that.”

  “You won’t be sorry you did,” said Jeff.

  “So that’s one secret ingredient,” Joan interrupted. “What’s the other?” she asked as she looked up at Jeff.

  †

  Carlos slouched on the padded cloth pew in the hospital’s tiny chapel. A simple wooden altar with small plants on each end stood against the wall in front of him. The other walls, with the exception of the multi-colored stained-glass mural to his left, were white and bare.

  He thought long and hard about Colleen, and the events that led to her broken condition. In all his years, he had never felt such guilt. Colleen eased much of his pain by placing the blame on the filly, but he still felt responsible for how it all happened.

  Prayer, he thought, was the answer to healing his troubled heart. He prayed silently for many things in the small, non-denominational chapel. He prayed for Colleen’s health, Joan’s strength, and for his own forgiveness. The chapel was completely devoid of any religious symbolism, so Carlos removed his gold cross necklace and clutched it tightly to his chest. He knelt and ritualistically signed himself as he completed each prayer.

  The chapel’s heavy door suddenly clicked loudly. Father Francis Jones opened the door, stepped inside, and held the door handle to keep the latch from clicking again as he closed the door behind him. Carlos opened his eyes and returned to the seated position as he looked up and made eye contact with the priest.

  “I hope I’m not interrupting,” said the priest in a whisper. “I can come back if you would like to be alone.”

  Carlos kneeled again and faced the priest. “No, Father. I’m finished.”

  “Rise, my son,” said the priest. “I don’t stand so much on formality here.”

  “Thank you… Padré.” Carlos made another Sign of the Cross over his chest.

  “Shall we talk for a minute?”

  Carlos motioned to the pew, inviting the clergyman to sit with him. Father Jones noticed the gold cross and chain in Carlos’s hand.

  “Here,” said the priest. The man of the cloth reached into his pocket. He withdrew a rosary made of dark glass beads with a matching wooden crucifix and offered it to Carlos. “I keep an extra one handy for those in need.”

  “Thank you, Padré.” Carlos cupped his hands under the rosary.

  “You’re welcome.” He carefully placed the rosary in Carlos’s hands.

  “What is troubling you, my son?”

  “My heart… is heavy.” Carlos bowed his head.

  Father Jones leaned back, crossed his legs, interlaced his fingers in his lap and said, “Help me understand.”

  Carlos felt immediately comfortable with the Roman Catholic priest sitting next to him. He felt as if there were a spiritual presence in the chapel as he spoke. As he started to tell his version of the day’s events, the priest immediately knew that he was talking about Colleen Caldwell, just as Joan Caldwell did a few hours before. Father Jones barely said a word as Carlos spoke, aside from the occasional “Bless you, my son,” whenever he paused for a deep breath. The ranch foreman held the rosary tightly in his hands, together with the golden cross and chain.

  “What am I to do, Father?” asked Carlos as he finished his story.

  “We must pray to the Almighty for strength. The Caldwell family needs you now, more than ever.”

  “I’ll try,” replied Carlos.

  “Do… or do not.” instructed the priest. “There is no try,” he said as he stood and faced Carlos, who remained seated.

  Carlos looked up at him. “I heard someone say this before… I don’t remember who.”

  “Yoda,” replied the priest with a smile.

  “Yes. That’s it.” Carlos replied with a smile of his own.

  “I don’t think Yoda was Roman Catholic, but he should have been,” the priest chuckled. “He was a great teacher, and had some very wise things to say.”

  Carlos nodded and smiled a little wider.

  “You must also draw upon the strength and wisdom of your fathers before you,” said Father Jones.

  Carlos bowed his head and the smile abandoned his face. “I will try. I mean… I will do,” he said.

  Father Jones placed his hand on Carlos’s head. “Let us pray together to the Lord Almighty.”

  †

  Jeff Lohr looked down at Joan as Sheila Jones stood and shifted her weight impatiently from hip to hip.

  “Well?” Sheila pleaded as she folded her arms again.

  “Well what?” Jeff imitated.

  “What’s the other secret ingredient?”

  Jeff leaned toward Joan, who was still seated on the concrete ledge that lined the garden. Joan tilted her head as Jeff cupped his right hand in front of her right ear. MaeBelle’s meatloaf was now becoming less of a secret.

  “I’m getting tired of this!” Sheila shouted, snarling playfully at the other two.

  Jeff stood up straight, backed up a step and went back to the wall under the NO SMOKING sign. He looked at Sheila’s face, which was turning red in the hot August sun. Joan looked at Sheila, and then up at Jeff again.

  “You made that up didn’t you?” asked Joan.

  “May God strike me down if I’m tellin’ a lie,” he said as he resumed chewing on his pipe. “Scout’s honor,” he added through his teeth as he held three fingers in the air.

  “If MaeBelle hadn’t told me that Congressman Gerald R. Ford presented him with his Eagle Sco
ut Award personally, I would have said he’s full of shit.” Joan testified loudly to anyone within shouting distance.

  “Really?” Sheila asked.

  Jeff removed the pipe from his teeth as he looked at the thirty-two-year-old blonde. “That, young lady, is something I never joke about,” he said proudly.

  Sheila unfolded her arms and stood with her mouth open. Before she could say another word, her cell phone rang loudly with Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic. “Excuse me for just a second,” she said as she ripped through her purse in search of the slender phone. “Don’t go anywhere.”

  Jeff and Joan looked at each other and chuckled. After a few seconds, she found her phone and flipped it open. Jeff thought she looked like Captain Kirk from the original Star Trek TV series. He even half-expected her to say, “Kirk to Enterprise.”

  “Hello?” Sheila said. “Hey, K.P. Can I call you right back? Okay. Bye.”

  Sheila closed her cell phone with a loud clap, and slipped it in her right back pocket. She slung her purse over her shoulder and crossed her arms again.

  “Okay. Go ahead,” she continued.

  “Go ahead with what?” asked Jeff.

  “The other secret ingredient,” Sheila snapped, frustrated.

  “I don’t think so,” said Jeff defiantly.

  “Why not?”

  “There’s still one secret of yours we haven’t heard, young lady,” Jeff reminded her in a fatherly voice.

  “No there isn’t,” she interjected. “I showed you the tattoo.”

  “Not good enough,” said Jeff. “Now what’s it stand for?”

  “I told you that already,” said Sheila.

  “No you didn’t. You made some smartass remark about me learning my investigative skills at junior sheriff school… remember?”

  Sheila uncrossed her arms and looked down at the hot concrete. She kicked at an invisible pebble at her feet.

  “What I meant was…” she began in a suddenly submissive tone, but didn’t finish her sentence.

  “You did do that, though,” interrupted Jeff playfully.

  “Okay. I did do that. What do you want to know?” asked Sheila.

  “Only what it stands for,” replied Jeff.

  “Okay. You win.” Sheila threw up her hands in defeat. “Like I told you before, I got it the day I turned eighteen.”

  “Right,” Joan replied, announcing that she was still just as interested as Jeff was, if not more so. “You already said that.”

  Sheila scanned the area for other people. She did not want others listening in on their conversation. A few visitors entered and exited the automatic double doors further down from the NO SMOKING sign, but none of them entered the garden area.

  She stepped closer to the other two and grabbed her purse from her shoulder. Joan stood up. Sheila stood a few feet away and began rummaging in her purse again. She took out her billfold, unsnapped it, removed her California driver license, and then put her billfold back in her purse. “Here,” she said as she offered the license to Jeff. “Read that.”

  “Let me see,” Jeff began. “Sheila Jones… apparently no middle name… your address in Tarzana… female… five foot seven… blonde hair… blue eyes… weight…”

  “Just never you mind about the weight,” Sheila interrupted. “You already said what’s different about my license.”

  “No middle name?” Jeff asked.

  “That’s right, Sheriff,” said Sheila mockingly.

  “Here in California, that’s not all that uncommon,” informed Jeff. “I pulled Madonna over about ten years ago. Did you know that her license actually says Madonna?”

  “Seriously?” Joan asked.

  “Scout’s honor,” Jeff repeated as he held his three fingers in the air again. “So you are obviously calling attention to the fact that you have no middle name. So? What’s that have to do with what your tattoo stands for?”

  Sheila snatched the license from Jeff’s hands, and then dropped it in her purse without putting it back in her billfold.

  “If I showed you Joe’s license, you would notice that it had a different last name on it,” Sheila said.

  “That is also not uncommon in California,” said Jeff matter-of-factly.

  “What I am trying to say is that I kept my last name because of a damn tattoo,” said Sheila, her face turning red again. “If I took Joe’s last name, the initials that my tattoo stands for wouldn’t rhyme.”

  “What’s Joe’s last name?” asked the sheriff.

  “Liebert,” she said. “Joseph A. Liebert.”

  “Which initial does Jones rhyme with, then?”

  “The last one,” replied Sheila

  “That’s a long dance, Mrs. Jones,” Jeff said, getting frustrated. “Either trade the secret, or don’t.”

  Sheila could tell he was growing tired of playing the game with her. She decided to make her point because the mood around there would be returning to a somber one soon enough.

  “When I got the tattoo, I vowed to keep it for the rest of my life. It’s a reminder to me that no matter how complicated life gets, it’s important to remember a time when I didn’t have a care in the world. Joe and I discussed it, and we decided that when we have kids, they will take his last name, and I will keep mine. With all of that in mind, S. J. J. M. B. stands for…”

  Sheila paused and looked around again to see if anyone else was nearby. With the exception of a fat man near the newspaper racks in the distance, the courtyard was empty.

  Joan Caldwell and Jeff Lohr looked around, imitating Sheila, and then leaned in toward her. The makeshift triumvirate stood together in the garden, huddled like school children about to play a game.

  “Sheila Jones…” she said aloud, and then whispered the rest.

  Jeff stood up straight, blinking exaggeratedly and tilted his head backward as his brain processed what he just heard. His hat gripped his head tightly as Joan looked at Sheila and closed her lips tightly. They were beginning to turn white. The sheriff’s shoulders began bouncing up and down silently as he stepped back and struggled to keep from laughing. Joan took one look at Jeff’s face, and couldn’t keep a rein on her laughter anymore. She let out a cackle that neither Sheila nor Jeff had ever heard from the sixty-one-year-old woman. Jeff joined in the chorus with his own series of loud guffaws.

  Joan sat down on the concrete ledge and held her stomach as she tried to catch her breath. Sheila stood with her arms crossed and her lips closed tightly, just as Joan did before she lost control.

  “Well, shoot a mule!” Joan shouted. “I reckon I wouldn’t tell anyone what that means, either!”

  Sheila began to smile, which allowed the blood to flow to her lips again. Joan put her hands over her mouth and drew a breath of the hot August air through her nostrils with a loud snort. Sheila laughed at Joan, and Jeff’s roars grew even louder. The three laughed until tears streamed down their cheeks.

  “How can I keep a secret like that?” Jeff asked with a chuckle.

  “You can tell me the other secret ingredient, that’s how,” Sheila said as she wiped the tears from beneath her eyes.

  “Okay,” Jeff said, still chuckling. “But you can’t write it down or tell MaeBelle. We wouldn’t want something like that to fall into the wrong hands.”

  “Too funny,” said Joan, who was wiping her own tears away with a tissue.

  Jeff stepped closer to Sheila and cupped his hand over her left ear. She listened intently as Jeff revealed the second secret ingredient that MaeBelle always put in her prized meatloaf. Sheila crossed her arms as Jeff turned and went back to his leaning wall.

  “I never would have thought of that in a million years,” said Sheila.

  “Me, either,” added Joan.

  “How much of that does she use?” asked Sheila.

  “What do you use for your wet ingredients?” asked Jeff through his teeth as he resumed chewing on his pipe.

  “I use Worcestershire Sauce, ketchup, and one egg per pound of g
round beef,” she replied. “And about a tablespoon of prepared mustard, I think.”

  “Well, however much ketchup you use, replace it with you know what,” Jeff instructed.

  “Hmmm… I have plenty of that in the fridge,” said Sheila.

  “I don’t, but you can bet I’ll get some,” added Joan. “I gotta try that.”

  “So MaeBelle’s secret is safe with you, young lady?” Jeff asked.

  “Is my secret safe with you?” Sheila answered with the same question.

  “It’ll be a tough one, but I’ll keep my end of the bargain,” Jeff replied.

  “Same here,” said Sheila.

  “Sounds good. Speakin’ of MaeBelle, I best be moseyin’ back to the shop,” Jeff said.

  “I need to get a move on too,” said Sheila. “I gotta call K.P. back and meet up with her and Jezebel.”

  “I’m headed back up to the room,” Joan piped in. “I think Carlos is floatin’ around somewhere.”

  “I almost forgot,” said Jeff. “When you make the sauce for your meatloaf, mix a tablespoon of brown sugar with one cup of ketchup and a dash of Worcestershire. Mince about two tablespoons of fresh sweet onion, and whisk it all together. About fifteen minutes before your meatloaf is done, spread it over the top and put the meatloaf back in the oven.”

  “Is that a secret, too?” asked Sheila.

  “Do you think I would just give away secrets for free?” asked Jeff.

  “I think you have plenty of secrets,” said Sheila in a mocking tone.

  “Too damn many,” added Joan. “Okay, kids…”

  Joan gathered her purse and stood up. Jeff tapped his pipe against the heel of his boot, and the spent tobacco fell to the concrete. Sheila checked her pockets to make sure she wasn’t forgetting anything.

  “Sheriff, it was nice meeting you,” Sheila said as she stuck out her hand.

  “You too, Sheila Jones,” said Jeff, who shook her hand like she was a foreign dignitary. “Stay out of trouble.”

  Sheila just looked at him playfully, but did not reply as she stepped toward Joan and hugged her tightly in the hot sun.

  “Thanks for coming,” said Joan as she leaned back and looked squarely at Sheila. “Colleen couldn’t have chosen a better best friend.”