by C. L. Bevill
The Stetson hat went flying off into the wind. Willodean was saying something fierce, and Bubba stopped to listen to her, but it was lost in the outburst of the crowd’s shocked gasps. Then she said, “You haven’t even questioned him, Big Joe. This is going to get thrown out quicker than a john slipping out of the back of the Red Door Inn.”
“Shut up, deputy,” Big Joe snarled, pinning Bubba to the ground with one of his knees planted in the middle of his back. “He was going to run. I could see it in his eyes.”
“Run?” Bubba repeated. “I was only turning to take a look at Steve again. And don’t you talk like that to a lady—”
Big Joe shoved Bubba’s face into the grass, and Willodean snapped something else. Big Joe pressed down on Bubba’s back and several of his vertebras popped. He turned his head despite the pressure from Big Joe’s palm and heard Willodean declare, “I’ll file charges myself, damned if I won’t.”
“That’s what we get for hiring a female to be a sheriff’s deputy,” Big Joe growled.
“Oh, hell no, you didn’t just say that,” Willodean snarled right back. “I’m a resident of Pegramville, and I pay my taxes the same as every other citizen here, chief. I deserve a modicum of respect, and I’ll kick your fat redneck butt if you say otherwise!”
Bubba sharply lifted up and bounced Big Joe back over backwards. Not expecting the sudden movement, Big Joe went ass over tea kettle, and everyone watching suddenly shut up. Then Bubba settled back on the grass and waited patiently while Big Joe composed himself.
Big Joe roared with anger, and three patrol officers abruptly jumped on Bubba like it was a scrum during a soccer match. Bubba had also heard it called “Smear the Queer,” and Bubba was definitely “it.” Big Joe bellowed again and threw himself on top. Bubba grunted and struggled to breathe until someone kicked him in the side of the head.
And that was the end of Christmas morning for Bubba.
~ ~ ~
Chapter Three - Bubba Meets Jesus Christ
On the eleventh day of Christmas, my true love gave to me, eleven jurists a-judging…
Sunday, December 25th -
Bubba came bubbling to consciousness like a babbling brook trickling its way down a stony course. He dizzily wondered if he would turn his head to see Deputy Willodean Gray tenderly brushing away bits of grass from his face; however, he turned his head and saw George Goodjoint, the town’s local doctor and Pegram County Coroner, instead. “I like you, Doc,” Bubba said with a dry throat, “but couldn’t you be a pretty girl?”
Doc snorted with laughter. His shock of white hair fell over his forehead, and he brushed it back impatiently. He was an elderly man who had attended both Harvard and Johns Hopkins for his accumulated list of degrees. If he actually put all the initials that he was entitled to have behind his name, it would have been longer than the Gettysburg Address. He got along fine with other strong personalities and was in Miz Demetrice’s circle of close friends. Furthermore, he had probably known Steve Killebrew just as well as Miz Demetrice had.
Bubba moved his head and groaned. There was a wave of pain that made him want to retch. Indistinctly he perceived that the handcuffs had been removed and that he was now resting in one of the rooms at the tiny Pegramville Hospital. He had an IV hooked up to one of his arms, and he was wearing one of the baby barf-colored hospital gowns. The lovely Willodean Gray was nowhere to be found. “Dammit,” he cursed mildly. “Who the hell kicked me in the head?”
“Chief’s still arguing about that,” Doc said. He pulled up a high stool and perched on it as he peered into Bubba’s eyes with an ophthalmoscope. “Maybe it was Officer Haynes. Might have been Officer Smithson. That boy’s got thighs like an Olympic speed skater. They were both wearing their boots with the steel tips.” He paused while he gathered his thoughts. “Your mama’s in a fine form this morning. She’s screaming about po-lice brutality and the like. I believe she even pulled out the big guns and called Lawyer Petrie on her cell phone right in front of the chief. Then she complained that he billed her $200 for calling him. Most entertaining Christmas I’ve had in years.” The tireless smile in Doc’s eyes dimmed. “Excepting about poor Steve Killebrew, of course.”
“Yeah,” Bubba agreed. “Poor damned man. Do they know who did it?”
Doc straightened up. “Surely they do not, although the chief is hollering that you had all the prerequisites to have committed the foul offense in question.” He stuck a finger up in front of Bubba’s face and said, “Follow my finger with only your eyes as I move it.” He moved the finger all the way left and then all the way right while watching Bubba’s eyes.
“I was hardly on the head of the list to kill Steve Killebrew,” Bubba said sourly. “Plenty of folks would have shoved me to the ground getting to him ahead of me. Hell, even the governor would have tripped me to get to Steve first.”
“Big Joe likes to have his Christmas packages all tied up in a neat little box with a pretty glittery bow,” Doc commented idly. “Why go looking for someone else when Bubba Snoddy dropped himself into the chief’s lap all nice and tidy like? Have to put in a bit of work then.”
“Why in the name of St. Peter would I put Steve Killebrew in a Santa Claus suit and put him on the front yard of city hall?” Bubba asked darkly.
Doc’s white eyebrows went up. “That is a question for the prosecutor to answer, but I’ll say this, Bubba. Big Joe is out for blood. No pun intended. He took the clothes you were wearing for evidence and checked under your nails for evidence, too. Then he woke up Judge Posey and managed to convince him to issue a warrant for the Snoddy Mansion. I heard tell that Hizzoner was none too happy because he had been enjoying his Christmas spirit the night before all too well. Helga Martinez said she could hear him singing ‘Jingle Bells’ from all the way down the street.”
Bubba’s eyes rolled. He moved his head again and groaned. “The po-po should be more familiar with the Snoddy Mansion than I am. Maybe they can tell me where I left my gold cufflinks. They’re a family heirloom.”
Doc grinned. “You might mention it to Big Joe that he should look for them whilst he’s next snooping through the mansion.”
“I reckon you know what Big Joe didn’t find,” Bubba said matter-of-factly.
“Sure do.” Doc turned Bubba’s head and critically examined the bump there. He stabbed a finger into the thick of the lump and watched intently as Bubba visibly winced. “You sure do know how to liven a place up. How many times have you been knocked unconscious in the last six months?”
Bubba glared. “I don’t rightly recollect. For good reason.”
“One more time and you’ll need to have a boatload of tests. Maybe a CT scan, too. We’ll have to send you to the big city for some of them. You’re like a heavyweight boxer, boy. It just ain’t right to keep getting knocked out, even if it wasn’t your fault.” Doc turned Bubba’s head the other way. “Okay, I want you to grab each of my hands with each of yours and give me a squeeze. Don’t worry I ain’t apt to get any ideas about you. Besides the fact that you ain’t my type, I heard what they’ve been saying about you and the fair Deputy Willodean Gray.”
Bubba grasped the doctor’s hands and squeezed. Doc proceeded to put him through a series of tests to gauge his neurological responses. Ultimately, Doc sighed and said, “Good enough, boy. You ain’t broken yet. But if you don’t start wearing a football helmet around full time, you’re going to end up a paraplegic or brain dead.” He considered. “Brain dead could be an improvement.”
“Hahaha,” Bubba said morosely. “Why are the cuffs gone?”
“Judge Stenson Posey said that the chief didn’t have enough evidence to arrest you, much less tackle you like the end of the fourth quarter on Super Bowl Sunday. And the attractive Deputy Willodean interjected her side of the story and said that Big Joe was wrong when he said you tried to run. Of course, about a dozen other people said you hadn’t even moved your feet when Big Joe jumped on you.” Doc cackled again. “Bet Big Joe got coal in his
stocking this morning. Boy needs to et a little more fiber. Serves him right for going to the doctor over to Buffalo Creek. And Miz Demetrice says she ain’t letting another Kimple on Snoddy property until the gates of Heaven open up and take all the gentiles home.”
“So what did they find, Doc?”
Doc’s face crinkled. “Come on, Bubba Snoddy. You know I ain’t supposed to tell you anything.” He paused while Bubba sighed loudly. “Dang it all. Wasn’t blood under your fingernails. Weren’t blood neither on the clothes you were wearing nor on the bottoms of your boots. And weren’t any of the boots and shoes you had in your room. You haven’t bought much since Lurlene Grady burned down your house, huh?”
“Donna Hyatt,” Bubba corrected bitterly. “Should have just asked me about Nathanial Snoddy’s wagon full of iron ingots. Would have saved her a beaucoup load of time and effort.”
“Okay then,” Doc said as he stood up. “They didn’t find a bloody knife in your truck, the Snoddy Mansion, or your room. They even looked in the wood stack again, but I heard Sheriff John telling Big Joe that it had been Donna Hyatt and Noey Wheatfall who left Elgin’s gun in the wood pile.” Doc chuckled again. “Sheriff John said one of your cousins was out there, and his boy gnawed one of the police officers’ legs. Drew blood, too.”
“Hope it was the one who kicked me in the head,” Bubba grumbled. “Hope he’s got to get some shots, too. Brownie’s probably got a whole cartful of unnamed diseases. Kid is into everything. Think he might be possessed by the devil. He might very well be rabid.”
“Well, I’ll make sure I use the big needle when the officer comes in to have me look at the bite wound. Plus I’ll use the alcohol when I rinse it, and I won’t numb it. Will that make you feel better, Bubba?” Doc grinned down at him.
“The po-lice department gonna pay for my stay here in the hospital or your bill, Doc?”
“Hell no,” Doc swore vehemently.
“I’ll get Lawyer Petrie on it,” Miz Demetrice said from the door. She stood there tall and straight, her entire five feet two inches stretched out to maximize her height. Her blue eyes glittered at Bubba in wordless fury. He knew she was angry but not necessarily with him.
“And I’m out of here before I break some other oath that I said once upon a time,” Doc said sincerely. “Ma’am,” he said solemnly to Miz Demetrice, “you shine as luminously as the lone star that warms our daily hearths and brightens our heavenly bodies.”
Miz Demetrice smiled grimly at George Goodjoint. “You’re coming to dinner next week, George? I believe I’m in sore need of adult conversation.”
“But don’t you have relatives visiting, dearest one?” Doc asked.
“As I said, I’m in sore need of adult conversation,” Miz Demetrice repeated. “A conversation that doesn’t include accusations of mismanagement of Snoddy properties or listening to a ten-year-old child screaming at the top of his lungs for no apparent reason.
“I’ll be there,” Doc agreed and added before he left the room, “Have you out of here within an hour, Bubba. Try not to fall unconscious again, boy.”
“Oh, Bubba,” Miz Demetrice wailed when Doc had departed.
“Oh, Ma,” Bubba said back, unable to bring himself to wail.
“Why does this keep happening?” Miz Demetrice persisted and threw herself into her son’s arms. Bubba’s large arms wrapped his mother up and patted her awkwardly on the back. His head was throbbing, but he didn’t dare say anything.
After a few minutes, a composed Miz Demetrice pulled herself back and announced, “We’re suing the Pegramville Police Department for everything. They’ve got a nerve coming out to the house to search it as if we were common criminals. Big Joe should have gotten the Cliffs Notes from Sheriff John.”
“Big Joe is a might more intractable than Sheriff John,” Bubba commented.
“Did you have to look that word up in the big dictionary, boy?” Miz Demetrice demanded.
Bubba groaned again, and Miz Demetrice melted into compassionate fervor. She patted his head, got him a cup of water with a bendy straw, and even fluffed the pancake-like pillow behind his head.
A nurse stuck her head into the room and said coldly, “Bubba Snoddy. The doctor said he’ll let you leave after you give me a urine sample.”
Bubba saw that it was his favorite Licensed Practical Nurse, Dee Dee Lacour. She had a definite dearth of a sense of humor. The short, plump woman didn’t appear to be happy to be working on Christmas Day, and she didn’t appear to be happy to see Bubba or his mother for that matter. But then Nurse Dee Dee didn’t appear to be happy about anything ever. Bubba was sure that Nurse Dee Dee didn’t essentially know how to smile. Possibly it was a birth defect.
“You want to help me with that?” he asked amicably. “I might not recollect what to do, Nurse Dee Dee. Might need some assistance finding the proper body organ to use.”
Nurse Dee Dee simultaneously flushed and scowled. “I know where the scalpels are located, Bubba. And I know exactly what to do with them.”
Bubba pursed his lips petulantly. His day was looking up if he could make Nurse Dee Dee blush. “Why, ma’am, I didn’t know you cared about scalpels and my private parts.”
“Bubba,” Miz Demetrice said, scandalized. “TMDI.”
“TMDI?” Bubba repeated.
“Too much damn information,” Miz Demetrice snapped. “Don’t tease the nurse. She’s only doing her job.”
“I don’t think I care to touch your ‘private parts,’” Nurse Dee Dee added with a potent glower on her face. “Besides I’ve heard you’re married to Deputy Gray now. The latest count is twenty-three bridesmaids and groomsmen. Plus three flower girls. There might have been a hot air balloon involved, too.”
“Some folks need to stop buying Lloyd Goshorn shots of whiskey,” Bubba barked. “That boy keeps telling taller and taller tales.”
“Twenty-three,” Miz Demetrice repeated. “Last I heard was twenty bridesmaids and groomsmen, and over five million dollars of Union gold. Lloyd’s losing brain cells.”
“He’s going to lose more than that,” Bubba growled.
Then the earth moved. The sun came out from behind a heavy cloud. There was a moment of euphoria that made Bubba forget all else.
Deputy Willodean Gray peeked around Nurse Dee Dee. Her green eyes were twinkling, and her lovely lips were parted. He thought she might have heard just about all of the last part of which they were speaking. Understanding came to him in a rush, and his tongue precipitously failed to work in a proper fashion.
Bubba started to say something but what came out was, “Buh-buh-buh-buh.”
“What’s the matter with you, boy?” Nurse Dee Dee bit out. “I need a urine sample, not a brain sample.”
“Bubba?” Miz Demetrice asked concernedly. “Are you all right? How hard did that vicious, totalitarian storm trooper kick you anyway? We’re going to need a brain scan for evidence.” She turned to tell Nurse Dee Dee and saw Willodean. “Oh. Oh, never mind.”
“Say, Miz Demetrice,” Willodean said politely. “Bubba. Hope you’re feeling better. I think Big Joe will figure out the obvious as soon as his daily ration of common sense finally kicks in. But Miz Demetrice, do all these people belong to you?”
Bubba was locked in on, “Buh-buh-buh,” but he’d managed to close his mouth. He looked down to see if the puke green hospital gown was covering up everything it was supposed to be covering. Then he checked to see if drool had been cascading down one cheek as it was prone to do when he saw Willodean Gray. What really came out was, “What people?”
Miz Demetrice shrugged. “Oh, them.”
Several people peeked around the corner of the door then began flowing past Nurse Dee Dee and Willodean to stand inside the room. Bubba perked up. It was a circus or the very next best thing. There was a short, balding man wearing a sheet toga style. He had a wispy beard and mustache that appeared as if it wouldn’t grow even a millimeter more. There was a mousy woman with gray hair wearing thre
e sweaters and staring fixedly at the ground with a dull expression. There was another man who was holding a pipe in one hand and wearing a button-down cardigan with taupe slacks. He had thick-rimmed, Buddy Holly glasses and looked at Bubba with a professional eye. Then another woman wearing a long skirt and a light jacket followed them in.
The man in the sheet scuffed his high-topped Air Jordans. He came up to the side of Bubba’s bed and looked imperiously down at the other man. Bubba wasn’t sure what to say, so he said, “Hey.”
“The faithful shall be heeeeaaaaled,” the balding man announced, regally emphasizing the word, “healed.”
Miz Demetrice sighed. “It’s the Christmas Festival.”
“He doesn’t look like he would fit in,” Bubba said sotto voce. “Maybe he needs to find the frat houses instead. Or a Baptist church. Either one.”
“I shall laaaaaay my hands upon you,” the balding man said. “And you shall be heeeeaaaaled.”
The man in the thick-framed glasses moved up to the bald man’s side and said, “David Beathard, psychotherapist.” He offered a hand to Bubba, and Bubba shook it weakly with the hand that was still connected to the IV. David motioned to the bald-headed man and added, “Classic neurological and pathological condition. According to the DSM-IV-TR, poor man has a classic delusional disorder with delusions of infamy. The subtype is titled grandiose. It’s a very interesting aspect to a psychological phenomenon. I’m writing a paper on it.”
“Uh-huh,” Bubba said. The balding man laid his hands on Bubba’s shoulders and looked upward at the ceiling.
“He’s quite harmless,” David went on. “His medications are quite complicated and unfortunately, don’t always work correctly. While we refuse to play into complex delusional issues we will not argue with him about his aberrations. It would be counterproductive.”
“And you are heeeeaaaaled,” the balding man yelled abruptly.
Bubba jumped. His head pounded. It wasn’t really heeeeaaaaled. Too baaaad.
