by Ann B. Ross
I heard him groan and strain to sit up in bed, so I said, “Don’t try to get up. Just lie still, ’cause I’ve got to go in a minute.”
“Uh-uh, ’Unior,” he croaked.
“Junior’s gone out for a while, so I can’t stay long. I just want you to know that me and Emmett, uh, I and Emmett, are trying to look after you. I don’t want you going and getting upset, regardless of what Junior does. We’ll find you, and I’ll do my best to fix things like you want them.”
“Ehra Mae, he . . . He’p me.”
Lord, it nearly broke my heart to hear that fierce old man beg for help. “I’m going to. Don’t you worry now, you just take care of yourself, and don’t forget me.”
He reached with his good right hand and pressed it against the screen. I put my hand over his thin, cold one, trying to warm both it and his old heart.
“Not ’orget, Ehra Mae. Ge’ me ’way from here.”
“I’m going to,” I told him. “I’m going to do everything I can. I just want you to take care of yourself and give me time to see what I can do. I’ve got to go now, you ole sweet thing, before Junior gets back. If you need me, tell Emmett and he’ll call me. I’m going now. You get some sleep, and dream about me.”
I slipped down below the window, hearing him still calling my name. Oh, I hated to leave him, but I knew it wouldn’t do anybody any good if Junior caught me.
I hurried across the yard and out onto the sidewalk, still fearing Junior’s headlights. It was a relief to get to my car and just sit for a while to let my heart slow its pounding.
I opened the glove compartment and felt around till I found a Snickers bar. I sat there eating it, trying to figure out what I could do to outwit Junior. Or what anybody could do. As it was, he held all the cards, being the next of kin, and everybody assuming Mr. Howard had stroked out his mind, as well as his left side.
I took a big bite of candy and chewed it for a long time, wondering just how old it was. The thing that bothered me the most was why I hadn’t gone ahead and married Mr. Howard when I had the chance. I could’ve brought in the Reverend Haliday from the Universal Harvest Church, which is where I went. He would’ve done it in a minute, but I’d held out for something better. Mr. Howard kept pleading for us just to go to the magistrate’s office, where it could’ve been done before anybody knew of it. But I’d wanted it done right, so nobody could say I’d taken advantage. I’d wanted the preacher from Delmont’s First Methodist, Mr. Howard’s church. And I’d wanted his lawyer as a witness, which would’ve meant putting his stamp of approval on the match. Besides that, though, I’d wanted a real church wedding for a change, with newspaper announcements, a wedding portrait, and bridesmaids all in velvet walking down the aisle holding white floral sprays with gold glitter on them.
I hadn’t wanted anything under the cover or suspicious in any way. The whole point, well, almost the whole point, of marrying Mr. Howard was to get up in the world. So I’d waited, hoping Mr. Howard’s steady improvement would get him to the point of making the arrangements himself, which no one in the world would’ve questioned.
Well, I’d tried to do everything right, and look where it had gotten me. Out in the cold, is where.
I saw a cop car turn the corner heading down the street where I was parked. It probably wasn’t Bobby Lee, but I didn’t want any of the cops seeing me and telling him I’d been sitting by myself in a car at midnight. So I lay down on the seat, crumpling the candy wrapper under my shoulder. In that uncomfortable position, I had my first clear thought of the evening. I knew what had to be done.
The only reason I wasn’t already Mrs. Howard Connard, Senior, was because I’d wanted the knot tied tight and right—holding out for a big church do with engraved invitations and wedding gifts and light blue tuxedos with ruffled shirts. And a honeymoon at Disney World.
But you don’t have to have all the trimmings to make a marriage legal. Who’d know that better than me? So what I needed to do was forget about bridesmaids and floral sprays, and just go ahead and get the job done before Junior knew what’d hit him.
Chapter 9
The trailer park was quiet when I pulled the car into my slot, at least as quiet as it ever got. There were supposed to be pole lights that came on at dark along the central street, but most of them were out. A few lights were on in several of the mobile homes I’d passed on the way to mine, which was in one of the darker spots.
I made up my mind to call old lady Springer again—she owned half the county and had plenty of money for lightbulbs—the next morning and complain about the streetlights. I knew she didn’t like me, hadn’t had any use for me ever since that time I took care of Mr. Sam Murdoch when he broke his leg. I couldn’t help it if men liked looking at me. It could be a burden sometimes, which I’ve had to learn to live with. And I didn’t help matters by always calling and complaining to Mrs. Springer about the slack way she ran the trailer court. But, dang it, when you own something and rent it to people, you ought to keep up the maintenance. If it wasn’t trash all over the place and hook-ups that wouldn’t work, it was rowdy parties and loud neighbors. I sighed, thinking it was probably that way everywhere.
I parked by my trailer and sat in the car awhile, still strung out over leaving Mr. Howard. If Junior was planning to take him to Raleigh the day after tomorrow, I didn’t have much time. But time for what, and in what order? There were a dozen different things to do, now that I’d made up my mind to do them, not the least of which was to clue Mr. Howard in to the change of plans. Then there was Skip with one of his get-rich-quick schemes, which I could surely do without at this point in time. And Lurline sticking her nose in where it didn’t belong. I’d call her first thing in the morning, tell her I was sick and couldn’t work. That would give me all day, and, one way or the other, I was going to have my way this time. In spite of Skip or Lurline or Junior. Especially Junior.
I heaved another sigh, tired to my bones after all I’d been through during the day. I got out of the car and walked to my front door, fussing to myself about another light being out. I always left the outside light on over my door even when I was home, but it’d blown out again.
I fumbled to get the key in the door, cussing softly under my breath because it was so blamed dark. As I tried to fit in the key, the door shifted and swung open an inch or two.
Lord, it scared me. I’d locked the door. I always lock my door. I know what kind of people live in a trailer park. Then it came to me. Skip Taggert, blame his hide. He was bound and determined to tell me his big secret tonight, and he wouldn’t think a thing about breaking in to do it.
I was so mad I swung the door open, reached in, flipped on the living room light, and liked to died right that minute. There he was, lying on my couch sound asleep and snoring like a Poulan.
I headed toward him, furious enough to bash him good, and stopped dead in my tracks. The room was teetotally trashed. I couldn’t believe it. The kitchen cabinets were hanging open, and all my plates, glasses, pots, and pans were on the floor. My canned goods were all over the place, my recliner and lamp table overturned, and the blamed refrigerator had been cleared out with the door left open. Using electricity I’d have to pay for.
I was mad enough to chew nails. That blasted Skip had wrecked my house, and there he lay drunk as a coot, stretched out on the couch with his face buried in a cushion.
“Skip, dad blame it!” I yelled, grabbing him by the shoulder. “Get your sorry self up and clean up this mess. You think you can just come in here and trash my trailer! Get yourself up from there!” I gave him a good, hard shake, holding myself back from giving him a swat over the head.
“Skip! Wake up, damn it, or you’re gonna wake up in jail!” I pulled at him, straining to turn him over. God, he was heavy, crammed into the couch the way he was. And his shoes! He was lying on my couch with his shoes on! I took hold of his arm and shoulder with both hands, got some leverage with my foot, and
jerked him over on his back.
I was so shocked, I turned loose and flopped hard to the floor on my bottom. I just sat there, staring at him. It wasn’t Skip. Jesus Lord, it was Junior Connard. Junior Connard, with the whites of his eyes shining through half-closed lids. Junior Connard, with a bloody mess on the side of his head. That had bled all over my new floral-patterned living room couch.
I drew my knees up and put my head on them, trembling all over. What was he doing in my house? What was he doing, lying there bleeding on my couch? Who’d done this?
“Oh, God!” I said, what if he was dead? I jumped up and put my hand on his chest to see if he was breathing. My own breath was coming so hard and fast, and I was shaking so bad, I couldn’t tell what he was doing.
• • •
They crowded into my trailer—deputies, EMS techs, and Jennie from next door. All I could do was sit in a corner and try to stop trembling at the thought of Mr. Howard’s son being half or all the way killed in my trailer. It was not the preferred way to start a marriage.
The flash of blue lights from cop cars parked outside swirled through the window. People came and went through the open door, cutting their eyes at me as they passed. Finally, they got Junior out the door by strapping him to a stretcher and turning it sideways. I watched it all, my hands tucked between my knees, trying to get a grip.
“What happened here, Etta Mae?”
I looked up at Clyde Maybry in his dark blue uniform, standing over me with his fat face all stiff and closed off. Clyde had been a deputy for some twenty years, which was about twenty years too long.
“What?” My shoulders were shaking so bad I could hardly talk. Posttraumatic stress syndrome, I guessed, recalling my nursing handbook of common ailments.
“What happened here?”
“I don’t know. I came home and . . . is he dead?”
“That ain’t for you to worry about right now. I need for you to tell me how this happened.”
“I don’t know. I swear, I don’t know. I just found him. Just found him, lying there.”
“Now, Etta Mae, we all know how a little argument can get outta hand. Just make it easy on yourself and tell me what happened.”
“You think . . . ? I didn’t do this! Why, Clyde, I wasn’t even here! I found him! I’m the one who called you!”
“You was somewhere else? With somebody who can back you up?”
“Well,” I said, my brain running all over the place. Emmett could back me up, but would he? Mr. Howard could back me up, but could he? And I’d been so careful not to let anybody else see me.
“Maybe you better come on down to the station with me,” Clyde said, touching my shoulder. “Come on now. Let’s don’t have no fussin’ and fightin’ about it.”
“Fussin’ and fightin’! Clyde Maybry, I’m just as upset about this as you are, and I want to know who did this as bad as you do, but you don’t have to treat me like I’m gonna go crazy on you!”
“Well, but, Etta Mae, everybody knows you got a temper, and I expect that’s what happened here. Come on now.” He took my arm and pulled me to my feet. “We’ll talk about this at the station where it’s all nice and calm.”
I let him lead me out to his cruiser, aware of my neighbors watching from the sidelines. If I hadn’t been so scared, I’d’ve been embarrassed to death. Clyde pushed my head down, squashing my hair flat, as I climbed into the backseat.
There was no arguing with him. I did have a temper, and everybody knew what I’d done to Bobby Lee the time he danced twice in one night with Darla Davis out at the County Line Two-Step Tavern. And I mean on the same night he’d been in my bed all afternoon.
And, to make it worse, he’d been out there dancing with her to Garth Brooks singing “To Make You Love Me,” and I’d thought that was our song.
I still wasn’t sorry about the new windshield he’d had to put on his truck.
But that was all long gone and past. Right now, I was in the sweaty hands of Clyde Maybry, who’d love to lock me up and throw away the key. I scrunched down in the corner of the backseat, thinking about what Junior Connard could do to me, so scared now that I could hardly get my breath. I knew what happened to anybody who had run-ins with rich people in our neck of the woods.
But by the time we were halfway to the station, which was on a side street in downtown Delmont, I’d about gotten over being scared. Clyde didn’t have a thing on me, and I’d be damned if he was going to treat me like a suspect or a perpetrator or whatever else he could think of.
“Clyde!” I yelled over the calls from his police band radio and the country music blaring from his car radio. I banged against the wire partition between us. “Clyde! Let me out of this cop car cage! I’m not under arrest and you don’t have a right to put me back here. I ought to be riding up front with you, and besides it smells to high heaven back here.”
“Can’t do it, Etta Mae,” he said, turning his head slightly toward me, his eyes still on the road. “Can’t have a woman in the front seat. Too many opportunities for inappropriate behavior.”
“On whose part, you big ox?” I was practically screaming at him. Clyde Maybry had hit on me one too many times with no success, and now he was getting back at me.
I flopped back against the seat and folded my arms, temporarily resigned to being treated like a criminal.
Then I popped back up again. “Well, tell me this. Is he dead?”
“No, he ain’t dead. Just pret’ near it. Man, Etta Mae, when you do a job, you evermore do it. Now, why don’t you calm yourself down and get your story straight. I ain’t supposed to tell you what to say, but I expect one thing just led to another and before you knew it he got conked on the head. That about the way it was?”
“No, and nowhere near it. What do you want me to do, Clyde, tell you how I tore up my trailer, too?”
“Well, I expect Junior had a part in that. Maybe that’s what made you so mad. Now, you just tell it thataway, and we’ll have this all wrapped up by morning.”
“I’m not telling it any way except the way it was. Which is to say, I don’t know anything about it. I wasn’t there. You hear me, Clyde.” I rattled the cage again. “I wasn’t there!”
“Get a grip, Etta Mae. We’re here.” He turned off the radio and nosed the car to the curb in front of the one-story brick sheriff’s satellite office. The main one was in Abbotsville.
Clyde got out and unlocked my door, reached in, and helped me out, never turning loose of my arm. He marched me up the steps to the door and inside the station. The desk sergeant stared at me. A deputy named Wendell Something-or-Other held a cup of coffee halfway to his mouth as he stared at me. A teenager and his mother sitting on a bench stared at me, too.
My mouth got tight and my eyes turned into slits. Somebody was going to pay for the shame that had fallen on my head.
“Clyde, I’m going to say this in front of God and all these people, so hear me good. I. Want. A. Lawyer.”
He shrugged his fat-layered shoulders and said, “Okay, but I wouldn’t think you’d need one. If what you told me is the truth.”
“Well, if you believed what I told you, I wouldn’t. So I’m not saying another word till my lawyer gets here.” I planted my feet and glared at him. I knew my rights because I watched all the cop shows on television. And besides, Bobby Lee had once told me that all officers just hated it when suspects held out for a lawyer. I was in no mood to make Clyde Maybry happy.
“Okay, there’s the phone,” Clyde said, pointing at the desk. “Go call your lawyer.”
That stopped me, because I hadn’t thought that far ahead. I didn’t have a lawyer, so who could I call? My first thought was to call Bobby Lee, but that wouldn’t work. Bobby Lee would see that I was treated right, but he was a by-the-book deputy when it got down to the nitty-gritty. He’d hate like anything to put me in jail, but if he thought
I was guilty he wouldn’t cut me any slack at all.
“I need a phone book,” I said, walking over to the desk and stalling for time. All I could think to do was look in the Yellow Pages and hope a name would jump out at me. When the desk sergeant slid the book in front of me and I flipped to the Attorneys section, a name jumped.
As I ran my finger down the listings, my heart started pounding with the chance I was about to take. Mr. Ernest Sitton, Esquire, was Mr. Howard’s lawyer and close friend. If I could get him to represent me in this mess, maybe he couldn’t represent Junior against me and Mr. Howard, if Junior tried to put some legal blocks in our way down the aisle. Assuming, of course, that Junior came through healthy enough to need representing. But I was looking way ahead. If I played my cards right and got Lawyer Sitton tied up and on my side, maybe he’d stay there, if and when Junior got back to his mean self again.
Because even though Junior Connard had messed up mine and Mr. Howard’s plans, I sure didn’t want him to die. I still had pictures in my mind of a big, happy family with me and Mr. Howard having Junior and his wife for Christmas, and singing “Up on the House Top” together, with a big Christmas tree in the front window with blinking lights. Maybe all blue lights on a shiny aluminum tree. With snow coming down outside, and a fire blazing away in the fireplace, with Emmett in the kitchen cooking turkey and dressing, and everybody warm and happy like in a Hallmark Hall of Fame Christmas Special.
It could be that way, no reason why not, if Junior could just see his way to having me in the family.
“You gonna make that call?” Clyde picked up the receiver and handed it to me.
“Thank you very much.” I snatched it from him and turned my back. “Now, if you’d just give me some privacy.”
With trembling fingers, I dialed Mr. Ernest Sitton’s home number, realizing that it was past midnight and he might get mad about being called so late and not even listen to me. Realizing, too, that if he turned me down, I’d probably spend the night in a cell, and maybe more than one. And realizing also that I was putting all my eggs in this one basket.
