by Lee Martin
He’d never seen a look on Brandi’s face like the one that came to it now, not even on the night Pat Wade came to tell them about the fire. It was like something gave way inside her, and he could see the fear in her quivering chin, and the disbelief in her slack jaw and the distress in her watery eyes. It hit him with a force that almost brought him to his knees, because for a moment he had the eerie sensation that he was looking at Della’s face, the way it surely was countless times after he left her heartbroken and fearful of what the future might hold, or, worse yet, the way she looked the night of the fire at the moment she lost hope and knew she wasn’t going to get everyone out of the trailer.
Such a thought froze him, and even though he knew he should say something more, should explain it all—he could only stand there, dumb and looking guilty as sin.
Brandi was shaking her head. She was pointing to the door. “Get out.”
“But, baby—”
“I mean it. Now.”
“But my girls.” He looked around the room again, eager for some sign of them, something that would tell him all of this was a bad dream and any second he’d wake from it and find his family welcoming him home. “What’s happened to my girls?”
Brandi was on him now, her hands balled into fists, beating against his face, his arms, his chest. He could smell her perfume, Love’s Musky Jasmine—he’d given it to her for Christmas. She wouldn’t stop hitting him, and, finally, stumbling backward to the front door, he thought to take out his pocketknife. If he could show her that knife, maybe he could start to explain.
He wasn’t aware that he’d opened the blade. Just a matter of habit, but Brandi had no way of knowing what he intended. She was screaming now. She made one more rush at him and he let her come. She shoved him backward through the open door and he stumbled over the threshold strip and fell. Just before the door closed, he saw Angel in the hallway, her arms folded over her chest. He called out to her. He got to his feet and pounded on the door. He pounded and pounded. “Brandi,” he said. “Brandi, let me in.” But there was no answer, and then, one by one, the lights went off inside the house.
22
While all of this was happening, Shooter and Captain were going over their story of what had taken place the night of the fire. They’d had an argument over Della and her goats, and Captain had gone off to his bedroom in a snit. Shooter turned on a John Wayne movie and fell asleep. When he woke, the movie was over, and the house was very still. He got up and went to check the front door lock. He looked out the window and saw Ronnie’s Firebird. He stood there long enough to see Ronnie come out from behind the trailer, get into his car, and drive toward town. This much he’d told Pat and Missy—he’d even told them that Ronnie was toting something—but Shooter hadn’t told them everything.
He hadn’t told them how he’d gone down the hallway to Captain’s bedroom that night.
The door was open, but Captain was nowhere to be seen. Shooter could see that his bed was still made. He went into the kitchen and grabbed his coat off the peg hook by the door. Then he opened the door and stepped out into the cold night.
“What did you do first?” Shooter asked Captain now. “I mean, when you first went outside that night.”
Captain was sitting at the kitchen table looking at a Hot Rod magazine. He turned the pages slowly, studying the pictures of cars: a 1933 Ford Coupe, a 1955 Buick Roadmaster, a 1966 Ford Mustang, a 1981 Chevrolet Malibu. He had on plaid flannel pajamas—green and black—and his hair smelled fresh from his shower. It was getting too long, the blond bangs hanging down over his eyes, and Shooter, who was pacing back and forth alongside the table, knew he’d have to remember to take him into Goldengate soon for a haircut.
“What night?” Captain wanted to know.
“The night of the fire. Now listen to me. What did you do first?”
“I went to see the goats.” Captain turned another page. “Della’s goats. They got out that afternoon.”
“That’s right. They got out, and we herded them back in and we patched the fence, right?”
“And you were mad.”
Shooter stopped pacing. He said, “I wasn’t mad. What was I mad about?”
“The goats,” Captain said. “Della. You were mad.”
Shooter reached over and closed the magazine. Outside, the wind had come up, and the arborvitae shrubs at the corner of the house were scraping the siding and making a noise that put him on edge.
“What did you do after you saw the goats were all right?”
“I don’t remember.”
Captain was looking down at the cover of the magazine. Hot Rod Drag Week—2010, the cover said across a picture of a white Chevelle, smoke coming off its rear tires. Shooter reached down and cupped Captain’s chin. He lifted his face, made him look him in the eyes.
“The sheriff might ask you questions.” They’d heard the news about the fire marshal’s report on WPLP at supper, and ever since, Shooter had been thinking about everything that might happen. He was thinking that it might be time for him to have a talk with Biggs. “You’re going to have to know what you’re going to tell him,” he said to Captain.
Shooter had meant to tell the fire marshal’s deputy when he’d been by earlier to question him that he’d seen Ronnie come from behind the trailer the night of the fire. Then Shooter started thinking about Biggs asking questions, as he surely would, and how sooner or later he’d want to talk to Captain, and Shooter had put off going to the authorities a day at a time because he couldn’t bear the thought of Captain being in the spotlight. Hadn’t there been enough wrongheaded stories and out-and-out lies about him? Sure, Shooter had heard them, rumors boys spread about Captain having done this and that. Malicious gossip about deviant sexual practices, devil worship, anything the boys could make up to give themselves a thrill. Any right-thinking person would know those stories to be lies as soon as they heard them, but there were the idiotic and the cruel who wanted them to be true so they could feel justified in what they’d always thought but perhaps had been hesitant to say: that Wesley Rowe—that Captain—needed to be put somewhere for those of his kind, somewhere he couldn’t hurt anyone. Shooter had sworn he’d protect him, but now that the fire marshal had ruled the fire suspicious, he knew he couldn’t wait much longer. He’d have to start talking, and so would Captain. Shooter didn’t want him to appear to be dumb when he made his answers. It was important that he offer up the facts with honesty and clarity so no one would be able to doubt him.
Shooter squeezed Captain’s jaw, and Captain said, “I went to Della’s to check on the goats.”
“And that’s when you saw Ronnie.”
Captain nodded. “He was behind the trailer.”
“That’s right.” Shooter let go of Captain’s jaw. “He was behind the trailer, and what was he doing?”
“He was—I think—” Captain stumbled along. “He was behind the trailer, and—”
“What did he have with him?” Captain squinted as if maybe that would help him see the answer. He chewed on his lip. “A can of gas,” Shooter finally said.
Captain’s face relaxed. His eyes opened wide. “He had a can of gas.”
“Yes.”
“Behind the trailer.”
“Good.”
“He had a can of gas behind the trailer.”
“And did he see you?”
“No, he didn’t see me.”
“Right as rain.” Shooter ran his hand through Captain’s bangs. He petted his head. This boy. His boy. “You tell the sheriff that.”
23
The news about Brandi turning Ronnie out of her house broke when Anna Spillman admitted that he’d spent the night with her. “It wasn’t like what you might think,” she said. “He just showed up, said Brandi locked the door on him, and he needed a place to sleep. Didn’t say anything more than that, and I never in the world would have thought—well, I mean, I just wouldn’t have thought it of him, would you?”
By this time, late aft
ernoon the next day, the word was out. Missy Wade had called Sheriff Biggs that morning, who in turn had called Laverne Ott at Children and Family Services to express concern for the safety of Ronnie Black’s daughters, and Laverne, when she heard the story that Missy had told Biggs, knew she’d have to look into the matter.
It was just before noon when Laverne walked into the Wabash Savings and Loan and said to Brandi, who was about to take her lunch break, “There’s something we need to discuss.”
Brandi was putting on her coat. “I’ve got an hour for lunch.”
“Why don’t we just get that lunch together?” She handed Brandi a business card with her cell phone number on it. “So you can get in touch with me whenever you need to,” she said.
It was the waitress at the Mi Casita, Maxine New, who let it slip that Brandi and Laverne Ott had been talking in hushed tones and that Brandi seemed upset. Meanwhile, in Goldengate, Willie Wheeler was at the Real McCoy Café telling Pastor Quick that there seemed like there’d been trouble at Brandi’s last night. He’d heard Ronnie pounding on the front door and begging to be let in. Bit by bit, the word made its way around Phillipsport and Goldengate: something was out of kilter with Ronnie and Brandi, and now Laverne Ott from Children and Family Services was involved. It wasn’t long after the noon hour when Pastor Quick, who was pumping gas at Casey’s convenience store, looked across the pump and saw Missy Wade on the other side, filling up her van.
“Missy,” he said. “I’m worried about what’s going on with Brandi Tate and Ronnie Black. Seems she threw him out last night. What’s that mean for his girls?”
“So she threw him out.” Missy took the nozzle out of her tank and returned it to the pump. “Good.”
“They say Laverne Ott is involved. Do you know anything about it?”
“I called the sheriff.” Missy screwed her gas cap back in place. She opened the door of her van and got in. Before she closed the door, she said, “I had to. I’ve got to take care of those girls.”
All of this was happening while Brandi and Laverne talked at a back table in Mi Casita.
“We really ought to be talking about this in my office,” Laverne said. “Or at your home. Somewhere more private.”
“I don’t mind.” Brandi stirred a little sugar into her tea. They were in the corner along the back wall where the restrooms were, and no one else was sitting at the tables around them. “It’s not an easy thing to talk about no matter where we are.”
Laverne knew that was true. She’d seen it time and time again: a woman coming to her, ashamed, afraid to say what she suspected might be the ugly truth about a husband or a boyfriend—something not on the up and up, but the woman not wanting to believe it.
As soon as that woman said what she feared—said it to Miss Ott—she knew it became something to be investigated; she knew her life was about to change. For that reason alone it took more than one woman a while to work up the nerve. She had too much to lose—the man himself, maybe, and the way she’d always thought of him. The money from his paycheck, sometimes even the house where they’d all lived. Some women tried to talk themselves out of it, tried to convince themselves that the facts didn’t add up and the allegations were just that: talk.
Laverne had to coax the story out of so many of the women, but that wasn’t the case with Brandi. She looked Laverne straight in the eye. She said, “What Missy told you is true. I was just waiting for my lunch break to tell you myself. I’m starting to believe that Ronnie burned up that trailer. I confronted him last night, and he didn’t deny it.”
“He said he did it?”
Brandi swirled her straw around in her tea. “He was out there that night. Shooter Rowe saw him, and Angel found Ronnie’s knife behind the trailer. At first, I didn’t want to believe it, but now I know too much. He was there and he was behind the trailer and then it burned.”
“You heard the fire marshal has said it was arson?” Laverne could tell how hard this was for Brandi. “You know there’s been talk about Ronnie?”
“He pulled a knife on me. The knife Angel found and then gave back to him.” It was at this point that Brandi got shy. She bowed her head and moved her silverware about, lining up the knife and fork just so. She put her hand on her stomach. “I’m having Ronnie’s baby. I’ve been taking care of his girls. I thought I had everything right where I wanted it.”
Maxine New arrived with their lunches. She set the steaming plates on the table.
Brandi was dabbing at her eyes with her napkin. “I swear,” she said. “I thought we were going to have a wonderful life.”
Now Laverne had questions of her own. Chief among them: where was Ronnie?
Brandi didn’t know. She’d locked him out of the house the night before and hadn’t heard from him since.
At that exact moment he was pounding on Missy’s door. She looked out the window and saw the Firebird. She took a deep breath and thought about just standing there and doing nothing. Maybe he’d get tired of pounding and head on back up the blacktop.
“Missy,” he said. “I know you’re in there.”
He’d awakened at Anna Spillman’s house, and she’d told him he could stay there as long as he wanted. Then she’d gone off to work. Late in the morning, it came to him that if he were headed toward trouble—and the question Brandi had asked him about whether he set the trailer on fire, on top of the suspicion that Biggs held, indicated that he might very well be doing just that—he’d need a lawyer, and to hire one would take money.
Missy pulled the door back a crack so she could see Ronnie, but she wouldn’t open the storm door.
“You told me you wouldn’t let my girls go without.” He tried the storm door, but it was locked. “You said any time they needed something, just to ask. I want a thousand dollars.”
“Better get out of here, Ronnie. I’ve already talked to the sheriff.”
“Damn it. I need that money. I know you’ve got it in the account, and I want it so I can do right by my girls.”
That was too much for her, his claim that he was looking after the girls. “So you can make a run for it?” she said. “I don’t think so. I know that Angel found your knife behind the trailer. I know what you did, and all I can say is God save you, Ronnie. God take mercy on your soul.”
Missy closed the door, and Ronnie felt a tremendous rage filling him. How dare she turn down his request for money and then sit in judgment of him? He tromped on back down the driveway and got into his Firebird. His hands were trembling. He backed out of Missy’s drive, dropped the Firebird into first gear, stomped the accelerator, and tore up the blacktop to town.
But he didn’t stop in Goldengate. He slowed enough to get him through there without calling attention to himself, and then he went on to Phillipsport.
Brandi was with a customer at the counter when he stomped into the Wabash Savings and Loan.
DeMova Dugger was finally getting around to taking down the last of the twinkle lights they’d put around the window for Christmas, and when she saw him, she said, “Hey, Ronnie. Brandi’s with a customer right now.” The customer, Henry Greathouse, was renewing a certificate of deposit. He was a bachelor farmer, tall and gaunt in his bib overalls, his barn coat riding up in the back due to his stooped shoulders. “Haven’t seen you in a while,” DeMova said. Her big glasses had slipped down and were resting on her cheekbones. She had that cheery grin on her face like she always did and a new frosted hairdo that she was happy with, so she was in a good mood when she went ahead and said to Ronnie, “How’s life treating you?”
She had no idea what that would do to him, but what it did was toss him even further into his rage because, of course, life wasn’t treating him well at all and hadn’t been for some time.
He stopped for just an instant and gave DeMova what she would later call “a look to kill.” Then he went on toward the counter, where he crowded in next to Henry Greathouse and said to Brandi, “How in the world can you think I’d ever do a thing like that?”
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“Ronnie, I’m working,” Brandi said. She tried to keep her voice even. “I’m helping Mr. Greathouse.”
Henry Greathouse took a step to the side and studied Ronnie the way he must have a hundred or more bulls in his life when he was trying to herd them and could tell they were getting chancy.
To Ronnie’s credit, he calmed down enough to apologize to Henry. “I’m sorry, Mr. Greathouse. I’m not looking to cause a scene here.”
“You need to take it easy, son.” Henry’s voice was steady. “That’s what you need to do.”
Ronnie was tired of people trying to tell him what to do—Brandi telling him not to press charges against Wayne after he clocked him with that tire iron, Missy telling him what could and couldn’t be done with the money for the girls, and now Henry Greathouse, a man he didn’t much know, telling him to take it easy.
“Damn it, Brandi.” Ronnie slapped the counter with his open hands. “You believe all this talk?”
“I’m working, Ronnie.” This time Brandi’s voice had an edge to it. “We can’t talk about this now.”
“Did you tell all this to Laverne Ott?” Ronnie’s voice was rising as if he and Brandi were the only ones in the Savings and Loan. “Did you tell her you thought maybe I—”
“I talked to her.” Brandi cut him off before he could finish his sentence. “I told her you were at the trailer that night, and I told her you pulled that knife on me.”
“My knife? I was just trying to show it to you. I was just trying to explain.”
“I can’t have you being like that around the girls. What else did you expect me to do but to talk to Laverne? Especially if it’s true that you did what it looks like you did.” Tears welled up in her eyes and her voice shook a little. “Good God, Ronnie.”
“You’re not going to cost me my girls.” Ronnie swept his arm across the counter, scattering the documents Henry Greathouse had been resting there. “I mean it, Brandi. I won’t let that happen.”
