Petty Crimes & Head Cases

by Lola Beatlebrox

  She paused. I had my cue. “What?”

  “‘Our son is complying with the laws of God.’”

  I sat back from the edge of my chair.

  “I was born in the Mormon Church and I know how people think,” Gay Lynn continued, “but my kids are who they are. If you believe in God, they’re the way God made them and if you don’t, then that’s the way it is. Who is anyone to say they can’t be part of society and society can’t be a part of them?”

  I opened my mouth to say that society in our conservative state can be hard on non-conformists but Gay Lynn plowed on. “We called the police early on, of course, but they can’t do anything unless they catch the little bastards red-handed, so we wrote a Letter to the Editor, asking people for their support. The next week, a box of 100 rainbow flags arrived at our door. Now I can give a rainbow flag to anyone who wants to fly one.”

  I remembered Paddy Hamburger writing about this story. “You went to the high school principal, I think.”

  “We did. We wanted to give a talk about gay rights at an all-school assembly.”

  “But he said no, didn’t he?”

  “He’s a devout Mormon,” she said. “He thought we should go fly a kite.”

  “So what happened?”

  “We kept flying the flags, the kids kept taking them down, and we kept putting them up, and then they got tired of it. Homecoming Weekend arrived and we decided to fly the football team’s flag. Now when we fly either flag, no one takes it down.”

  “Sounds like you’ve got it licked.”

  “You just have to stick to your guns and open up people’s heads,” Gay Lynn said.

  There was a nanosecond of silence and I thought it was my turn to talk. “Let’s discuss your hair,” I said.

  I jotted down what she wanted in my Client Notebook—pecan highlights in her brown-blonde hair, a layered cut, and a Portuguese Pump-Up treatment to restore hair body.

  Three and half hours later she looked smashing.

  “I’ve got a gorgeous husband,” she said, “and I like to look gorgeous for him.”

  “Well, you do.”

  “You’ll meet him at Cholly and Soren’s wedding,” she said.

  “I’m looking forward to it.”

  “I can’t believe they had to move the reception. The Finery won’t cater a gay wedding.”

  “But that’s against the law. The Finery can’t pick and choose what weddings they’re going to do.”

  “They say they’re booked.”

  “It’s discrimination.”

  “You’re telling me? They want to deny services based on their employees’ religious beliefs,” Gay Lynn said. “They’re taking a cue from our state legislators—the House passed a bill that makes it legal for county clerks to refuse to marry gay people as long as they refer them to someone who will.”

  “But that bill never made it to the state senate.”

  “I know, but it just demonstrates the shaky ground we’re walking on. What’s to prevent businesses from denying service to anyone based on their employees’ religious beliefs? Blacks, Latinos, gays, Jews—”

  “It’s the proverbial slippery slope.”

  “You got that right.”

  I took Gay Lynn’s credit card and we made an appointment in four weeks. She headed for the door.

  “Let me know how they do on finding another venue for the wedding reception,” I said.

  “I’ll keep you posted.”

  What a frisky lady. I should get her together with Shelley Prothero—in this corner, thoughtless teenagers—in that corner, Gay Lynn. Now that would be a match I’d like to see.

  I was in the back yard grilling chicken and basting zucchini slices with olive oil. The guys were playing soccer. I feel guilty for owning a backyard with grass. In the high mountain desert, it’s a luxury to water a lawn, but soccer, football, badminton, volleyball, and bocce ball all seem to require turf.

  I turned off the grill and piled each plate; then called the boys to the picnic table. They tucked in.

  “How was your presentation at the high school?” I asked Carl.

  “Good.”

  “What’d you talk about?”

  “Anti-bullying laws and school policies and how to report something you see. There’s no such thing as ratting on anybody and there’s no stigma about being a victim. Kids have got to know that it’s the law—they’re required to speak up.”

  “We always tell,” said Jamie. “We tell the principal.”

  I knew what Jamie was talking about. The playground at his elementary school wasn’t for the faint of heart. I visited Jamie’s school one day during recess. Half the school was lined up outside the principal’s office waiting to complain about the other half.

  “Carter kicked me in the shins today,” Jamie said.

  “Why?”

  “Because I wouldn’t give him the ball.”

  “That’s not bullying, Jamie,” Carl said. “Bullying is when a big person gangs up on a little person and tries to scare them, hurt them, and make them cry. It usually happens over and over again and the little kid feels bad and can’t defend himself.”

  “I kicked Carter back—it wasn’t his turn.”

  “You were both wrong,” I said. “Kicking and hitting isn’t the way to solve conflicts.”

  “You work it out,” Carl said. “You come up with ways to make things fair.”

  “I let Carter have the ball after I took a shot,” Jamie said.

  “And how did that work out?”

  “Good.”

  That settled, I asked Carl if he was aware of Kayla Prothero’s case.

  “What case?”

  “She’s being harassed because of a stand she took on gay rights.”

  “The principal didn’t mention it.”

  “And what about the incident at Shelley’s house last weekend?”

  “What incident?”

  I told him about the TP-ing and the infra-red camera set up.

  “What’s TP-ing?” Jamie piped up.

  “It’s when—“I wished I’d kept my mouth shut. “It’s when the bathroom floor is covered with toilet paper.”

  “But I thought you said it was in the trees,” Jamie said.

  “Mommy’s just making a joke, Jamie. Some bad kids threw toilet paper in the trees on Kayla’s property,” Carl said. “It made a mess and it’s against the law. It’s called vandalism and people can go to jail for that.”

  “I’d kick them in the shins!” Jamie said. He loves his babysitter.

  I didn’t say anything, but I felt like kicking those kids in the shins myself.

  “May I be excused?” Jamie asked.

  “Take your plate to the sink,” I said.

  My eyes followed Jamie as he balanced his plate and fork and tried to open the screen door at the same time. I relaxed when he managed to get inside without dropping everything on the deck.

  I turned my attention back to Carl. “Why didn’t the principal mention Kayla’s case? Surely, he needs to report it to law enforcement.”

  “Only if it’s criminal activity, otherwise, we’d hear about bullying and teasing all day. From what you tell me, the harassment is against school policy, but it’s not a criminal act.”

  “What about the vandalism?” I asked.

  “I’d be interested in what the surveillance camera shows.”

  “It’s the chief’s case.”

  “Then I definitely want to see it.”

  We smiled at each other as Jamie returned to the table.

  “Dessert is strawberry shortcake,” I said.

  “Awesome!”

  I love pleasing my men. It’s so easy.

  I was trimming the rose bushes in front of my house on Monday when Russell Huntsman pulled up in his Chevy Silverado with the gun rack on the back of the cab and the deer rack on its hood. He slipped out the front door as if he were dismounting from a bull, legs jumping to the ground, right arm in the air.

  “
Hello, Little Lady,” he said, “long time no see.”

  “You never come for a haircut,” I said.

  He rubbed on his crew cut. “Sadie barbers the hell out of this old pate.” Sadie was his seventeen-year-old daughter.

  “What are you going to do when Sadie goes to college?”

  “She’s attendin’ beautician school, so nothin’s gonna change.”

  “You watch out,” I said. “She’ll learn how to do more than buzzcuts and want to practice on her dad.”

  Russell winked. “How’d ya think I’d look with a Mohawk?”

  I rolled my eyes.

  Russell reached into his pocket and pulled out a thumb drive. “Lookee here what I have for you.”

  My eyes must have lit up because he laughed. “Mighty incriminating piece of footage. Bunch a hooligans at a car rally.”

  “Could you tell who they were?”

  “Not really.”

  “Let’s go inside.”

  We went to the den where I plugged the memory stick into my computer and tapped on the keys. Dark grainy footage showed up and it took me a few seconds to get my bearings. A raccoon meandered across Shelley’s front lawn. I could make out the mailbox at the end of the driveway, two roads intersecting, and the tall pine tree at the corner of her lot. The time stamp said 10:30 when the raccoon left the lawn and the motion sensor turned the camera off.

  At 11:17 a parade of three cars zipped past the mailbox, rounded the corner, and continued up the street. That wasn’t the disturbing part. Hooded figures leaned out of the car windows; one figure thrust his torso up through a sunroof waving in the air. His mouth was open. I could imagine the noise even though there was no sound—Shelley had told me how loud the kids hooted and hollered.

  At 11: 21 the same cars careened back again, this time from the opposite direction. I paused the video and examined the white faces ringed by the black hoods but the picture was too gray and fuzzy to make out distinct features. I let the footage roll until the cars disappeared from view.

  At 11:27 the cars returned, this time to pull onto the lawn and train their headlights on the house, almost blinding the camera. Black shapes emerged, twelve in all, and began throwing toilet paper. At least I thought that must be what they were doing; their movements resembled goblins with St. Vitus’ dance. Within minutes, the shadowy shapes returned to their cars and drove off.

  Finally, at 11:47 the video showed a squad car arriving. Shelley’s husband walked slowly down the path to greet the police, his shoulders hunched. He gestured to the pine tree, now draped in toilet paper.

  “I couldn’t recognize the officers or the kids,” I said. “The picture’s too fuzzy.”

  “It’s the cheapest motion detector system on the market,” Russell said. “All I want to know is what game is coming around the water source on my land.”

  “Let’s go back to 11:22.” I pressed the reverse button. “I thought I saw something we could use.”

  I slowed the video when the parade of cars reappeared from the right side of the screen as if backing up. When the street light illuminated the front license plate of the lead car, I stopped the picture. “There. Do you see?”

  “Sure do.”

  I think Carl can do something with this,” I said.

  The next day at dinner, Carl said, “The chief identified the owner of the car. It belongs to the high school principal. We believe his teenage son was driving.”

  “No!” I said.

  “Yup,” said Carl.

  “What did the chief do?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing!

  “Nothing.”

  I ruminated on this for a while. It was not my place to call him out but I think I understood our chief. He was embarrassed. He didn’t want to be the bearer of bad news to someone who’s in his ward and he didn’t want to bring a vandalism charge against the offspring of someone who’s in his ward. Chief Fort Dukes is not a coward—he’s a political animal. Delivering news like that would be bad for his reputation.

  “What are you going to do?” I asked Carl.

  “I’m giving another talk at the high school this week. The principal’s kid will be in the audience and I’m going to single him out. I’ll make sure he knows that I know what’s going down and I’ll stress the penalties for harassment, vandalism, and bullying.”

  “Do you think it’ll do any good?”

  “Mormons have been taught since they were children that homosexuality is wrong. Now they have to un-learn that idea and it’s not going to happen overnight.”

  “Do you think the principal knows about his kid?”

  “If he does, he’s turning a blind eye.”

  “It’s God’s law,” I murmured.

  “What?”

  “That’s what the parents said to Gay Lynn when she told her neighbors their kid was stealing their rainbow flag—‘Our son is complying with God’s law.’”

  “But vandalism and harassment are against man’s law,” Carl said, “and that’s the only law I’m interested in.”

  About a month later Kayla Prothero returned to my salon.

  “Kayla!” I hugged her. “What’s this?”

  Kayla was crying. “I can’t ever go back to school!”

  “Oh, no.”

  “It’s too horrible.” Kayla went off into a paroxysm of sobbing.

  “Whoa, whoa, hold on now. Sit down and tell me what happened.” I got Kayla a tissue.

  She blew her nose. “There’s this boy at school I really like, and we were chatting—you know, online—and I thought he really liked me, and he asked me out, but he didn’t show, and I was all alone at the movie theater, waiting for him, and later he chatted and said his mother grounded him, so we made another date, and I went again and he didn’t show again, and then he chatted that he was sorry, so I went to school and I thanked him in person for his apology and he said, ‘What apology?’ And I said ‘For our date at the movie theater,’ and he said ‘What date at the movie theater?’ And he said “I never made a date to go to the movies with you—you’re a Lez.’”

  She finally took a breath, then more words rushed out. “It was all over Facebook and I realized I’d been set up. It was never him chatting with me at all. It was someone who set up a fake account and pretended to be him, and the cars are still coming every weekend and the vandals broke a window and they trampled Mother’s flowerbeds and they won’t stop and I wish I never wrote that article and I hate all of them and I hate my life and I’m never going back to that school ever again!”

  Her wail was horrible to hear. I gathered Kayla up in my arms and told her that she was a brave, mature woman, not like the nasty, petty kids who played mean tricks on her, and someday she would laugh over this when she was a lawyer fighting for the rights of all individuals, not just gay people, and that she should have an aromatherapy facial right this minute with coconut and avocado butter massaged into her face by good-looking teenage boys who were not available right now, but would I do?

  She stopped crying. I gave her some chocolate and took her to the massage room where she lay down on my heated massage table, and I applied unguents and emollients, essential oils and warm compresses until she fell asleep to my mellow-chill-out magic mix.

  Gay Lynn emerged from my comfort room. “I heard the whole thing.” She and her pecan highlights were processing while her feet were soaking in a warm bath of lavender water.

  “It’s heart wrenching,” I said.

  “It’s cyber bullying,” Gay Lynn said.

  “I know.”

  “How stable is Kayla?”

  “She’s got her feet on the ground a lot more than other kids I know.”

  “That’s good,” said Gay Lynn, “because there have been suicides. There was a case recently where a girl sent her boyfriend a nude picture of herself, and then they broke up. He put it out on Facebook. She couldn’t stand the humiliation and she took her own life. And there was another one where the taunting and name-cal
ling over the internet caused a gay teen to hang himself.”

  I stared at Gay Lynn in horror.

  “It’s one thing to be humiliated in front of a few people,” she said, “and quite another to have a cyber-setup with instantaneous messaging and a public Facebook bashing. Do you think Kayla’s strong enough to ride this out?”

  I was about to give an opinion when Gay Lynn asked, “And what’s with the weekend warrior stuff?”

  I told Gay Lynn about the vandalism and the car harassment.

  “How long has this been going on?”

  “At least a month.”

  “This is nuts,” she said. “They’ve got to cut this shit out.”

  “How’re we gonna stop ‘em?”

  “I’ve got a friend with big guns,” she said, “and this is what we’ll do.”

  The next Saturday night at Shelley and Jack Prothero’s house, I put my tossed salad on the kitchen counter as Gay Lynn uncovered a platter of barbecued ribs. The house was full of our friends.

  Margaret was dressed in a long camo vest, camo leggings, and combat boots. Somehow she made this look hot.

  Annabelle Davina was wearing a long brown skirt with a camo sleeveless T-shirt over her flat-chested nubs.

  Carl and Joe wore their uniforms and I wore red. Let them see me.

  Gay Lynn introduced us to her friend from the big valley—Mel Baird. He was forty-something with black hair, a black mustache, a black T-shirt, and black cargo pants. Mel only had eyes for Margaret.

  We sat down to dinner.

  “Who’s this young man?” asked Jack’s mother. She had come to the dinner table dressed in a housecoat and slippers.

  “This is Mel Baird, Mother,” said Shelley, raising her voice and speaking distinctly.

  “What do you do, young man?” asked Jack’s mother.

  “I sell pre-owned cars at a car dealership in the city,” Mel replied.