by Paula Boyd
“Now, Miz Jackson,” Leroy said, “The commissioner—”
“Shut up, Leroy, you know as well as I do that he’s got his dirty hands in this. Same with that Gilbert Moore who’s been out there. He’ll tell you one thing one time and then something entirely different the next, and then when you call him on it, he tries to make it out like you’re the one who’s crazy. Well, I’m not crazy, and he’s a big fat liar.” She stopped and stomped her gold sparkled foot. “They think they can just come in here and do whatever they want to, and they most certainly cannot. I’ve let them know that real plain, and if they mess with me, I’ll do it again.”
I had no doubts of that. “So how long has this been going on?”
“Probably about six weeks. Three days of having my dishes rattling in the cabinets and my coffee splashing out of my cup just sitting on the table was all I could stand. I tried talking nice to them about it and then I gave them a what-for, but they wouldn’t stop. Agnes talked me out of shooting them, but as you can very well see I am not getting any good press this way so I sure hate it that I didn’t blast them when I had the chance.” Seeing the look of disbelief that was apparently on my face, she added, “Well, I wouldn’t have killed any of them, Jolene. I was only going to wound a few.”
“Oh, well, in that case…” I said, sighing dramatically because really, that’s all you can do. “Anyway, why is Bob Little—”
“Oh, Bobby can be such an idiot sometimes.” She gave a dismissive wave. “He got himself in way over his head, and before he knew what he was doing, well, here we are. To be so smart about some things he sure is dumb as a post about others.”
Ditto for me or I wouldn’t be sitting in the Bowman County Jail having this conversation. “Let’s go back to the house so you can show me what’s been going on first hand. Show me where the trucks were, that sort of thing.”
“I told you I’m not leaving.”
“Who knows,” I said, deciding to dangle a little bait, “maybe if we leave right now you can catch somebody out there in the mesquites and shoot him.”
She cut her eyes toward me. “You’re just saying that.”
“Fine, you stay here and I’ll go knock on Mr. Little’s door myself and have him tell me what’s going on.”
Lucille eyed me again, frowning and chewing her lip. After another glare, a huff and a pointed scowl, she sat back down and crossed her legs. “You can do what you want, I suppose, but it would be a complete waste of time,” she said, her glittery slipper twitching like it was on fire. “He won’t talk to anybody anymore.”
“Even you?”
She huffed again and folded her hands in her lap. “He hasn’t been himself lately.”
“Well, guess what, I don’t care. I had to rush down here because you’re in jail yet again for committing a felony and somebody is going to tell me something that makes some kind of sense.”
“I’ll have you know that Jerry Don only wrote me up for a misdemeanor.”
Leroy nodded in agreement. “But then she wouldn’t leave. That’s why he called you. He thought she’d listen to you.”
“Right, because that always worked so well before.” I leaned an elbow on the armrest of my own chair and propped my cheek in my palm. “I have no idea what to do, none.”
“There is something you can do,” she said, responding to a statement I hadn’t realized I’d said aloud. “Since you’re here, you might as well write one of your stories about what all’s going on, me being in dire straits, penned up in jail like a common criminal and such, and send it to the paper. That’ll get some attention. If you do a good job, it might even make the wire service.”
“That’s not how it works. And even if it did, I wouldn’t write articles about family. It’s a conflict of interest.” It also isn’t smart since I’m kind of particular about printing the truth, and as best I could tell, there wasn’t much of that to be had here from Her Highness, and what was true wouldn’t reflect that well on her, and therefore me. Nope, not something I was getting dragged into. Ever. “No way.”
“Good grief, Jolene, you act like it’s some big deal to write up a simple story. How hard can it be to tell what the scumbags are up to and why everybody in their right minds should rally and stop them? Shouldn’t take you over ten minutes.”
Ten minutes. Did she think I was that good, or that what I do for a living takes such little skill and effort that it can be accomplished instantly? Don’t answer that. “No.”
She hopped up and began to pace yet again. “Well, we need some national coverage, and a story in that Denver paper would surely get some kind of attention.”
Yes, surely it would. Not the kind she’d want, but it would get attention. “No.”
“I called CNN and the girl who answered the phone said they’d send a whole crew out immediately. She was real sweet about it, even offered to send Barbara Walters. I thought that was real nice of them, but I said I hated for her to have to drop her big celebrity interviews for it. I guess I shouldn’t have been so thoughtful since whoever their next in line was, Harry King I think was his name, certainly didn’t bother to show up. I know if Barbara had been given the assignment she’d have been here in no time.”
I gritted my teeth and kind of smiled. No way did any of that need to be clarified, rectified or even discussed, especially by me.
Lucille stopped in front of Leroy’s desk and tapped her nails then proceeded onward as if I were in complete agreement, not to mention cahoots, with her. “An interview from the jail cell is what we need though. And where is CBS? I called them too, and that Fox station. You’d think with the kinds of things they have on that channel they’d have jumped at the chance to be in on a real hot story like this one.”
“Um, excuse me, Media Queen—”
“Not now, Jolene, I’m thinking.” Lucille continued to march around the small room. Two steps, stomp, spin, two steps, stomp, spin. “Okay here’s what we do. They just hauled in some drunks and a gas thief a little while ago. I’ll get in the jail room beside them. The kindly sweet grandmother behind bars for a cause. It’s a good angle, and since the TV people aren’t doing anything to speak of we’ll just have to make do with what we’ve got. We’ll get some photos first then worry about what we’re going to write later. Run get your camera, Jolene.”
“What? We have covered this already. No. I’m not taking photos because I am not a photographer. I am not writing a story about you because I am your daughter and no one would print it.” That wasn’t the only reason I wasn’t writing a story for her, or even the best reason, but it was one that should register since her main goal was scoring column inches. “This is your deal, not mine. I am here because… Why am I here?”
“Hey, Jolene,” Leroy said, rubbing his chin as if in deep thought. “I’ve got a camera out at the house that you can use.”
Had either of them even noticed I’d already said this wasn’t going to happen? “We really don’t need a camera, Leroy.” Particularly since the only kind of camera Leroy Harper was capable of handling was the Polaroid variety. “Thanks anyway.”
“It’s a real good one. Nikon with three lenses, filters and flash, all the bells and whistles. Do my own digital work too.”
What did he just say? Leroy Harper knew how to use a real camera? And he did say “digital work,” as in computer? Was that some kind of joke? “Really?”
“Leroy may be a jackass, but he’s a fine photographer,” Lucille added, sounding like she really meant it—the fine photographer part, the jackass is a given. “You know, we could have him do one of his artsy portrait things, where the lighting and such gives the subject, that’d be me, a haunting quality.” She tipped her chin upward with a long nail and gazed at the ceiling, trying to look wistful, perhaps. “Why, if it was done right, it might not even need your story.”
Oh, please. That tactic is lame and I quit falling for it when I was ten.
“Miz Jackson, you’re gonna make me blush,” Leroy said bef
ore I could comment. He ducked his head and shuffled his feet. “I’m not all that good.”
“Leroy’s got his faults, I’ll grant you,” she said, dismissing me with a wave of her hand. “But he takes awful good pictures.” She sucked in a dramatic breath. “Oh, I just know he could do wonderful things with this setting. And with me.” Unbridled glee bubbled up like a thirteen-year-old wannabe model. “You know he’s won all kinds of awards. Some of his pictures are even hanging in the Redwater Falls Art Gallery too. Now, wouldn’t that be something!”
Leroy? An award-winning photographer? With his work in an art gallery? I waited for the punch line, but it never came, and they both just stared at me as if I should be ecstatic that Leroy was ready to save the day. I wasn’t, of course. Having the otherwise inept on-duty deputy sheriff take photographs of the supposedly incarcerated and imperiled grandmother, the prints of which might just be hanging in an art gallery someday, was about three miles past ridiculous. For this part of the country, however, it was darned near perfect.
“Well, get moving, Leroy,” Lucille said, shooing her hands at him. “We have to strike while the iron’s hot.”
Before I could throw out a more helpful cliché, like “stop or I’ll shoot,” Leroy’s beige-uniformed bulk was thundering for the door, his buggy eyes blinking with excitement. “Won’t take me over fifteen minutes. If the phone rings, just answer ‘Bowman County Sheriff’s Department’ and take a message.”
He was looking at me. “Oh, no, I’m not answering the phone, Leroy, and there’s really no point to—“
“Dispatch is down the hall and Larry’s on duty up front. It should be pretty quiet back here.” He paused and jammed his meaty fingers into his shirt pocket.” Just in case, here’s my card.” He jogged back and tossed it on the desk. “Call me on my mobile if it’s an emergency or something.”
“Wait!”
The door slammed and within seconds a siren howled to life. I just shook my head and sighed. Lucille, however, took the blaring squeal as a call to arms and began digging in her handbag. “I suppose I should try to make myself look a little bedraggled for the shoot, get the sympathy vote. Or maybe neat but forlorn would be better. Hmmm. Well-heeled but put upon? It’s very important we get the right tone. What do you think?”
What did I think? My opinion was about as important to my mother as it was to Leroy’s vacated chair, and we both knew it. The chair, however, wasn’t going to force me to carry on a conversation with it. So, I got up and walked around behind the desk and settled myself into the spongy brown vinyl. Oh, sure, I could fight it. I could stomp and scream and rant and physically drag her from the jail. Maybe. Or, I could just take a little nap and let nature run its course. There were no good options, trust me. “You just do whatever makes you happy, Mother. That is indeed why we are all here.”
Lucille ignored my sarcasm and set her mini-tackle box of make-up on the desk and snapped it open. “I think I’ll use Ash Rose on my lids and Driftwood above, kind of heavy, to give a sunken look. Hollow out the cheeks with a bronze blush, and add a touch of Merlot Bisque lip liner. Yes, that should do it. Elegant, but haunted.” She grabbed the case and turned to the door. “I’ll be in the ladies room.”
For two hours.
I smiled and nodded, and was just lifting my feet to prop them on the desk when the inevitable occurred. Yes, the stupid phone rang. By the third ring, I figured letting it go unanswered would be worse than picking it up, so I cleared my throat and gave it my best fake TV cop voice. “Bowman County Sheriff’s Department.”
“Who is this?”
Uh oh. The caller might not recognize me, but I sure recognized him. Unfortunately, the voice of the man I dream about was not so dreamy at the moment. However, it didn’t seem like he had recognized me, and if we could keep it that way it would eliminate a whole bunch of explaining. I tried to lower my voice about six octaves and speak native. “Hello? Sheriff’s Department. Help you?”
“Who—Jo, Jolene?” Dream boy’s voice ended with an incredulous tone. “Is that you?”
So much for fooling Mr. Sheriff. “Oh, hi, Jerry, didn’t recognize you at first.” Yes, it was just as lame as it sounds.
“What are you doing there? Where’s Leroy?” He said it with a decidedly accusatory tone, as if there’d been a takeover of the office or something equally awful. “What’s going on? Is something wrong?”
Well, yeah, there was always something wrong around here. Relatively speaking, however, the fact that Leroy had sped away with siren wailing to get his camera, to take pictures of an inmate for a publicity stunt, was really not that out of the ordinary, probably. “Everything’s fine. Leroy just had to step out for a minute, and I told him I’d answer the phone if it rang. He should be back any second.” Or twenty minutes, but who was counting.
“What are you doing here? I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow.”
Yes, apparently no one was. And, it did not escape my notice that his order of concern was first and foremost for his office. After that, his concerns regarding me were more along the lines of suspiciousness. He seemed somewhat confused and distressed—as opposed to surprised and happy—by my early arrival. It was getting to feel like everyone had planned to have a nice relaxing evening and rest up for when Jolene arrived the next day so they’d be at the top of their game to make her life a living hell. Well, too late.
I explained, for the third time, that I had managed to fly to Dallas and rent a car. He didn’t sound as impressed as he did relieved, and again, my heart did not go pitty-pat.
“So you’re going to take her home then,” he said, relaying exactly what was relieving him.
Rather than get personal about things—which I darned well wanted to do in a not so pretty way—I said, “Tough situation you’ve got here, Jerry. She’s determined to stay and make a martyr of herself. Not having much luck changing her mind about it, but I’m working on it,” by serving as a witness to her photo shoot by your deputy photographer. “As soon as Leroy gets back,” and takes the jail pictures, “I’m hoping we can head on out to Kickapoo,” eventually, possibly. “It’s been a long day and I’m ready to get to bed.”
“That would be best,” he said with a heavy sigh that ended in something that halfway sounded like a growl. “When can I see you?” His voice had dipped into that tone that sends shivers through me in ways best left to the imagination. “I’ve really missed you.”
I hadn’t seen it coming and my reaction was instantaneous and intense. Dammit. I both love and hate the fact that he can do that to me. Forget touch, all he has to do is shift his tone of voice, utter a few choice words, give me a certain look or even just breathe on me, and I’m, well, um, let’s just say in sort of a puddle. Yes, it is pathetic. “You know where I am,” I said, in an inviting tone that a deaf man couldn’t miss. Then, through the fog in my brain, it occurred to me that having him run right over might not be a great plan. I sincerely doubted that either of us would find the experience satisfying—or even pleasant. Before I could start backing myself out of that corner, I realized that he wasn’t exactly spewing forth with a breathy “I’ll be right there, baby” reply.
“I can’t right now.” Another pause. “I’ve got the kids tonight.”
Ah, the kids. Jerry’s children are in elementary school, mine are in college. He is in the middle of parenting hell and I’m down to only periodic dips into the fiery flames. It is not a good fit. “That’s okay,” I said, as cheerfully as I could, considering. “I’ll be out at Mother’s tomorrow if you want to drop by sometime after the kids go to school.”
“Tomorrow then, at nine?” he said, sounding a little disappointed himself.
“Sounds great.” Okay, great was pushing it just a tad. Great would be seeing him somewhere other than Kickapoo, Texas, and without my mother or his kids.
“See you then.” His voice rippled through me yet again, but before I could fully enjoy it, he said, “Tell Leroy to call when he gets back.” He wa
s back to his official sheriff voice. “I need to talk to him. Immediately.”
“He’s not in trouble, is he?”
Jerry paused for a few long seconds. “I don’t know, Jolene, is he?”
Not as much as he was going to be, I feared. “As far as I know, everything is just fine.” It wasn’t a lie. Technically, things were basically still as fine as they were before I got here. “Yep, just fine.”
Mr. Sheriff muttered something about “we’ll see,” and after I hung up, I felt neither warm nor tingly anymore—nor at ease. Fine was out of the question. I’d been in town, what, an hour? And in that short time, how many situations with the potential for seriously bad trouble had formulated? A lot, that’s how many.
Right on cue, ground zero for the trouble came bouncing back into the office, looking like she’d just been to a Mary Kay makeover party. I didn’t see a single hair out of place, not to mention a crooked eyebrow or lip line. “Well, Mother, if you’re going for the ‘poor pitiful me’ look, you better go give it another shot.”
“No,” Lucille said, patting her plastered-in-place hair. “I decided to just be me and look my best. I’m going to tell it like it is, and if they don’t like it well, too bad. I’m not backing down and they’re not ruining my life.”
In truth I couldn’t argue with her about not wanting a parade of trailers, complete with TVs, boom boxes, generators and screaming kids out behind the back fence. Whether they were really going to put them on her back doorstep, I didn’t know. But I did know one thing for sure, if they weren’t already, the parks people were going to be real sorry they messed with Lucille Jackson. We all were. I leaned back in Leroy’s chair again and propped my feet on his desk. “Okay, Mother, tell me about SPASI.”
I pilfered a legal pad from Leroy’s desk and took as many notes as I could while Lucille rambled. Only one who has had the misfortune of interviewing Lucille Jackson can truly appreciate the effort involved to keep from hurling yourself through the nearest plate glass window during the task. Nevertheless, I emerged from the soliloquy with a few facts and a plethora of local—and pointless—trivia.
