by Joan Hess
I finished the report, stuffed it in a drawer for later perusal, and decided it was quittin’ time, so to speak. In that, I was not only the chief of police but also the entirety of the department; I was on duty twenty-four hours a day. It would have been a relentless burden had Maggody been riddled with violent criminal activity on a regular basis, but everybody tended to go about his or her business, licit or illicit, in a quiet and orderly fashion. Oh, I knew the owner of the pool hall bootlegged beer from an adjoining state, and every once in a while I suggested he desist. The rumor of a moonshine still on Cotter’s Ridge waxed and waned, but I wasn’t about to waste my energy combing the woods for it—or for the marijuana patches that were up there, too.
Instead, I dedicated a portion of each day to nabbing speeders out by the skeletal remains of Purtle’s Esso station. I followed the school buses in the afternoons to remind folks to stop when the flag shot out from the side of the bus and children scampered mindlessly, across the highway. When I heard about the local teenagers acting up, I went down to the high school and bawled out the offenders. I listened at least once a week to Raz Buchanon gripe about whatever was ailing him.
And mostly let the days slide by. I’d been doing so since I’d come back to Maggody to recuperate from life in the fast lane and divorce in the excruciatingly slow one. The transition from Manhattan to Maggody had been accomplished so easily that it alarmed me. Martinis to beer. Caviar to catfish. Nightclubs to nights alone in a tiny apartment above the antiques store across the road from the PD. Debating foreign policy to complaining about the weather.
I was becoming complacent, I lectured myself as I walked down the road to Ruby Bee’s Bar & Grill for a comfortable supper and an update on the gossip, which was dished out as readily as the black-eyed peas. There was nothing to stop me from returning to Manhattan. The job at the security company would be there. Since I’d been the martyr in the divorce, most of my old friends would put me back on the invitation list.
But it didn’t feel right; not yet, anyway. The confusion and pain of the divorce had worn down my edge, left me skittish and unsure of myself. I wore my hair in a bun and stored my makeup in the back of a drawer. I favored a khaki uniform over designer jeans and silk blouses. My nightly fantasies were works of art. I’d run home to mama, and for the moment I was content to be bullied and pampered and fed the best scalloped potatoes on either side of the Mississippi.
The parking lot was thick with pickup trucks, most of them with well-stocked gun racks in the rear windows and tool boxes in the beds. The Flamingo Motel sign flickered nervously; it looked as though the bird was about to lose another feather and the V CAN Y sign another letter. One of these days the symmetry would be completed and we’d be looking at V C N Y. Viable Connections in New York. Very Close; Not Yet.
The jukebox was wailing and the booths were filled with nuzzling couples or bellicose drunks. One couple appeared to be copulating on the dance floor, to the amusement of the spectators, since everyone in town knew the girl was carrying on with the boy’s brother—and his uncle. Everyone also knew Joyce Lambertino was pregnant, Elsie McMay’s daughter was visiting, the Missionary Society was in a tizzy over the upcoming elections, and that Chief of Police Arly Hanks would never catch herself a fellow if she didn’t stop moping around and start listening to her mother, who happened to be the infamous Ruby Bee Hanks, proprietress. And not to mention allowing Estelle Oppers, owner and sole operator of Estelle’s Hair Fantasies, to do something about that schoolmarmish bun and plain dark hair. An auburn rinse and a body perm had been suggested.
One of the neckless wonders at the bar staggered toward the men’s room, so I appropriated his stool and waited until Ruby Bee noticed me. “What’s for supper?” I inquired politely.
“How can you eat at a time like this?”
I glanced at the clock above the bar. “At a time like six o’clock, give or take a few minutes, I can eat. In fact, I cannot fathom not being able to eat at such a time, which isn’t to say there aren’t other equally appealing times.”
“All you ever think about is eating and sleeping and making uncalled-for remarks.” She shot me a pinched look, then moved down the bar to berate one of her regulars, who had dumped the pretzels and was now flipping them into the air like tiddlywink pieces. He quit immediately, because he and everyone else had enough sense to be intimidated by Ruby Bee, who was short and matronly and who could toss out a drunk without regard to his weight or his degree of compliance.
She returned and devoted great energy to wiping the spotless countertop. “I suppose you haven’t heard the big news.”
I thought for a minute. “Joyce’s pregnancy? Elsie McMay’s visitor? The fire up past the Pot O’ Gold mobile home park?”
“Don’t be smart-mouthed with me, young lady.”
Devotion to scalloped potatoes forced me into humbleness. “What big news?”
“It’s all over town. You being the chief of police, I’d have thought you took an interest in local happenings.”
“I’ve been occupied with a fire bug, which is somewhat important to the community, unless we all decide to start smoking—literally.”
“Seems I heard about that old shack burning down two nights ago,” she said with a small frown. “But nobody’s lived there for years and years. I am talking about the movie.”
I didn’t think she was referring to The Towering Inferno, so I arranged my features for maximum fascination and said, “What movie?”
“You mean Arly doesn’t know?” Estelle said from behind me.
“She’s been too busy to pay any attention to what every last soul in town’s been buzzing over all day,” Ruby Bee said, taking more swipes at the pristine counter.
“Why don’t you just tell me,” I said meekly.
They did, although it was a challenge to pick out the snippets of fact from the fanciful ravings of two potential movie stars who were already imagining themselves strolling along the sidewalk of fame and accepting statuettes for best supporting actress.
“Is it really going to happen, or was the woman merely considering Maggody?” I asked.
Ruby Bee grew solemn. “It’s really going to happen. She called a while ago and said she needed to fax consent forms. I had to tell her we didn’t have any of those machines in town. She’s reserved all the rooms out back and arranged for the cast and crew to eat here.”
“What’s the name of the production company?” I said, trying to come up with a reason why anyone (besides yours truly, that is) would come to Maggody voluntarily, especially a second time. “What other movies have they done recently?”
Estelle leaned forward and murmured, “We can’t say one word about their last picture. We swore to keep it a secret.”
“Good for you,” I said. “How about pork chops, Ruby Bee? And peach cobbler with ice cream for dessert?”
She nodded, then gave Estelle one of their aren’t-we-too-clever-for-words looks. “Sure, Arly. And how about a nice glass of wild cherry wine to go with that?”
They found this remark hilarious—shrilly, wildly, loudly hilarious. I was not the only one staring in bewilderment at them as the jukebox whined a lament of lost love and whiskied woes.
What fascinated him was the ease with which he could start the fires. The first time he’d used a pile of kindling and a match, then moved to a prudently chosen hiding place to watch as flames begin to lick the roof and curl through the windows. Rafters crashed to the floor. Walls collapsed, hurling armies of sparks at the cloud-choked sky. He felt as if he’d unleashed a maleficent dragon inside the primitive structure. The first fire had given him a sense of power he’d never felt before.
The second fire had been even more compelling. As he’d watched, he’d been overwhelmed with a strange sensation that abated slowly and left him flushed and damp with satisfaction. As the third one consumed his chosen victim, the sensation had been stronger.
The woman cop with the dark hair had come once with a grim ma
n, and the two of them had squatted on the floor to scrape brittle black fragments into plastic bags. She’d returned later, alone. He’d almost laughed aloud at her obvious uneasiness, but of course he’d been very quiet. She could dig through the ashes as much as she desired, as long as she didn’t try to stop him.
Chapter 2
6 INT. SHACK—EVENING
Loretta is sitting on the sofa as WE HEAR the doorbell. Zachery crosses the room and throws open the door to admit COOTER GRIMMLEY. He is wearing a coat and a bow tie and holding a hat.
ZACHERY
Well, if it ain’t Cooter! Come on in and set right there by little Loretta.
MARTHA
I already told Loretta the good news. How ’bout a piece of apple pie and a cup of coffee?
Cooter stays by the door, staring at Loretta.
COOTER
I thank you kindly, Martha, but I reckon I’ll pass on the pie. I came to see if my fiancée wanted to take a stroll and enjoy the cool breeze.
Loretta stares at the floor. CAMERA WIDENS as Zachery crosses to her and pulls her to her feet.
ZACHERY
(jovially)
’Course she does, Cooter. It’s time you two got to know each other better. Why, you’ll be hitched afore you know it.
COOTER
We shore will, won’t we, honey child? By this time next year, you’ll be so busy caring for a little baby that you won’t have time for a peaceful stroll with your husband.
LORETTA
I ’spose so. Ma, Billy Joe said he was coming by with some fresh okra from his garden.
(beat)
Tell him I said it was real nice of him to think about us.
COOTER
Billy Joe Jenks? He’s just a dirt-poor, white-trash kid. I grow plenty of okra to share with y’all. I don’t want to hear tell of you even talking to that pissant excuse for a farmer.
MARTHA
I’ll keep ’em away from each other, Cooter.
COOTER
You better if you want to keep your farm. She’s mine, and I ain’t gonna stand for him or anyone else taking what I aim to take for myself. Now come on, Loretta. We don’t got all night. Not yet, anyways.
He takes her wrist and pulls her out the door. Martha and Zachery exchange looks, but neither speaks.
DISSOLVE TO:
“But is it a sin?” Mrs. Jim Bob repeated, determined to remain on her knees but increasingly aware of the graininess of the floor. The windows of the Voice of the Almighty Lord Assembly Hall were open, but the air inside was as fusty and stagnant as the contents of an old trunk.
Beside her, Brother Verber rumbled thoughtfully while he tried to decide what to say. He knew he had to say the right thing, that being defined as what she wanted to hear, but nothing in his correspondence classes from the seminary in Las Vegas had dealt with the sinfulness—or lack thereof—of having your house in a movie. He clasped his hands more tightly against his white-bread soft belly and rolled his eyes upward to stare at a cobweb on the ceiling. A drop of sweat formed on the tip of his nose, and hung there with the tenacity of a stalactite.
“Well?” she prompted him.
“It’s a matter of conscience,” he said piously. “In that you, Sister Barbara, serve as the conscience of the whole town and have never let even your pinkie stray off the path of righteousness, I think it’s safe to assume that whatever you choose to do will be the Christian thing.”
Mrs. Jim Bob fought back a flash of annoyance as she sat on the edge of the pew and dusted off her knees. “If I saw clearly what the proper thing was, I wouldn’t have driven all the way over here to ask you, Brother Verber. I was planning to take a coffee cake to Eula, who’s been so feeling poorly that she hasn’t decided how to vote in the upcoming Missionary Society election. Then Ruby Bee called on me with this crazy story about a Hollywood company wanting to make a movie in town, with my house in it.”
“It’s troubling,” Brother Verber said, aware he wasn’t behaving like the spiritual dictator of his flock. He normally didn’t have any problem telling folks what to do and when to do it (and usually made a practice of doing just that), but a recent episode with an inflatable doll and a sackful of dirty magazines had undermined his conviction in the sanctity of his own opinions.
Mrs. Jim Bob had lost a little faith in him, too, but he was still the shepherd and she but a humble lamb, so she figured it was only fitting that she give him a chance. “The problem is,” she said through a smile so tight the corners of her mouth didn’t move, not even one tiny millimeter, “that everyone knows what kinds of immoral things go on in Hollywood. Every last one of those people takes drugs, drives too fast, sops up liquor like a sponge, and commits … well, unnatural acts during the day. What if they were to start doing that sort of thing in my newly redecorated living room? What if they were to sneak upstairs to the guest room and commence fornicating on that ruffly pink bedspread that I had dry-cleaned less than a month ago?”
Brother Verber’s mind strayed for a moment, but he managed to avoid any onslaught of tattletale sweat. “Right there with the sun shining through the window?”
“That is not the issue.”
“No, of course it ain’t.” He banished the image from his mind, wiped his forehead with his handkerchief, and did his best to concentrate. “What does Jim Bob say about your house being in a movie?”
“He asked how much they would pay,” she said with a sniff. “I do not feel we can welcome immorality into our home for three hundred dollars, but Jim Bob seemed to feel otherwise.” Her eyes narrowed as she remembered the last time she’d been obliged to confront Jim Bob with certain violations of the Ten Commandments. Some of them she’d rewritten for the occasion, but she felt her revisions were just as good, if not better, than the originals.
“Do they have any use for a religious setting?” asked Brother Verber. There was a variety of good works he could accomplish with that kind of money. Like a new television in the trailer that served as the rectory, for starters.
“I doubt it. The name of this movie is Wild Cherry Wine, and I think that says it all, don’t you? I simply will not have strangers drinking alcoholic beverages in my living room.” Her decision made for herself, Mrs. Jim Bob stood up, smoothed away the wrinkles in her skirt, and put on her white gloves. “I really must run by Eula’s and see how she’s feeling. My duty is to the members of the congregation, not to outsiders with their trashy Hollywood morals.”
“Praise the Lord,” Brother Verber muttered to her back as she marched toward the door. He waited until she was gone before allowing himself to ponder the wicked, lascivious ways of the outsiders, at least one of whom was bound to be a starlet with big breasts, a tiny waist, a firm derriere, wet lips, and sultry, smoldering eyes. He was so overcome by his vision that he thudded to his knees, entwined his fingers, and earnestly began to pray.
Dahlia O’Neil sighed as she and Kevin sipped cherry limeades in front of the Dairee Dee-Lishus.
“What’s the matter?” Kevin asked, swallowing hastily so he could inquire about his beloved’s obvious state of depression. Why, she’d shook her head when he’d suggested cheeseburgers and onion rings. Now all three hundred plus pounds of her quivered in distress, as if she were the goddess of a volcano about to erupt in tears. He would have dropped to his knees to entreat her to pour out her soul to him, but the parking lot was muddy and he was wearing new jeans.
“Ain’t nothing the matter,” Dahlia growled, her teeth clamped on the plastic straw. A gargly noise came from her cup as she sucked up the last few drops. “Nothing at all, so there ain’t any point in you asking me over and over again. Take me home, Kevin.”
“Home? But I thought we was going to drive out to Boone Creek and—”
“And what?”
She sounded so unfriendly that Kevin’s mind went blank. This happened a lot, and according to some folks in town, it stayed that way more often than not, but this time Kevin was blinded with panic. His father ha
d let him take the car, which he hardly ever did after Kevin had experienced a few mishaps (though no one had been killed). There was a blanket in the trunk, along with a cooler filled with soda pop and a package of vanilla sandwich cookies. He’d even brought a transistor radio so the night could be filled with music, the breeze with the heady perfume of honeysuckle, the sky with twinkly stars, and his arms with as much as he could hold of the woman he loved.
He turned on all his manly charm. “Ah, but Dahlia, my dumpling, the night is young.”
“The night may be young, but your brain ain’t been born yet,” she said without mercy. Her cheeks bulged out, and several chins appeared as she lowered her face and glared at him like a bull getting ready to charge.
“But what did I do?” Kevin forgot about his new jeans and dropped to his knees.
She looked down at his teary eyes, trembling mouth, and undulating Adam’s apple, and for a moment felt something akin to pity for him. “Nothing, Kevin.”
“And we’re still betrothed, even if you don’t want to go out to Boone Creek to count the lightning bugs?”
The pity dried up real quick. “I told you that we’re gonna behave like respectable folks now that we’re betrothed. Last time you let the devil creep into your soul, it was about the worst week in my entire life, Kevin Fitzgerald Buchanon. If it ever happens again, you’ll find yourself on your knees asking Raz’s prize sow to be your awful wedded wife.”
She refused to talk to him on the drive home, and climbed out of the car without so much as a peck on the cheek. The house shook as she stomped across the porch and through the door.
“Women!” Kevin said to himself as he backed out of the driveway, flattening a dozen chrysanthemums in the process, and drove back toward town. As he went past Raz Buchanon’s place, he remembered the brutality of his beloved’s remark. An ice pick stabbed his heart. He decided he needed some advice from someone who understood women. That ruled out his pa, and he sure couldn’t go asking his ma about counting lightning bugs by the creek, but at last he thought of someone.
