by Rilla Askew
“Explain what?”
“How your goddamn pickup ended up in Tonkawa!”
“What?”
“State Patrol found that piece-of-crap Chevy of yours in a ditch six miles south of Tonkawa. I want to know what it was doing there.”
“I don’t know.”
“Where’s the boy?”
“My God, man. Don’t you think I would’ve said something if I knew?”
“I don’t know what you’d do. I never expected the Bob Brown I grew up with to be a goddamn Mexican smuggler, either.”
“Arvin, you know it’s not like that.” Brown’s voice was quiet, but his heart was racing, his hands trembling. “There must be a mistake.”
“They checked the VIN number.”
“I don’t know. Maybe somebody borrowed it.”
“Somebody like that goddamn spic your boy’s hanging around with? Oh, yeah, we know all about that! Sure do.” As of seven o’clock this morning the sheriff had known, anyway—that was the first call that came in: Tulsa police phoning him at home to tell him the kid had been sighted in Tulsa with “an unidentified Spanish-speaking man.” Holloway had exploded in fury, flung his coffee mug in the kitchen sink, where it bounced and broke in half. He leaned in now toward Bob Brown. “Who is it? That wetback your granddaughter married, right? He’s the one drove your truck to Tonkawa!”
This was the call that had come in a few minutes ago: the truck located not just a measly hundred miles away in Tulsa but all the way practically to the goddamn Kansas border! Holloway’s rage knew no bounds. He jumped up and went to the high small window, stood seething, his right hand fondling his pistol grip. Goddamn Tulsa PD, State Highway Patrol, Kay County Sheriff’s Office, Oklahoma State Bureau of Investigation—everybody getting in on the act! The case was set to be ripped right out of his jurisdiction! Press conferences would all move north. He’d be relegated to second fiddle, the county sheriff who broke the news and then botched finding the missing kid. Holloway turned and narrowed his eyes at Brown. “You got that snivelly little grandson out doing your dirty work while you loll around in my jail, is that it?”
“What are you talking about?”
Holloway stalked back to his chair and eased himself down. “We are fixing to have us a little heart-to-heart, my friend.”
“Arvin, we have never been friends. Not growing up. Not now.”
“You are one arrogant son of a bitch, did you know it? You always have had a ton of gall.” He pulled a small spiral notebook over, located a pen. “All right then. We’ll start at the beginning. Who’s this spic your boy’s running around with?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Who told you they saw Dustin?”
“Tulsa chief of police, for your information. Some store owner seen them there together, your grandson and this Mexican fella he’s hanging around with. So. You ready to volunteer me some help here, or do I have to come around there and smack it out of you?”
Brown’s mind scrambled, trying to fit the pieces together. Dustin in Tulsa? Yes, he might have tried to go to his sister’s, but how would a little boy travel a hundred miles to Tulsa? Had they checked at Misty Dawn’s? “You need to go—” He’d almost said “talk to my granddaughter,” but stopped himself in time . . . this Mexican fella he’s hanging around with. Who could that be? Holloway seemed to think it was Juanito, but Juanito was in Mexico. Only, what if he wasn’t? “—talk to Sweet,” Brown finished. “She might know something.”
“Oh hell yeah, that misbegotten, misnamed daughter of yours, she’s real forthcoming. No, I ain’t talking to Sweet! You’re talking to me.” He noticed Brown cut a sideways glance at the murky TV monitor, where, in one of the gray rotating screens, the Mexican pastor’s tennis shoes and pants cuffs showed at the foot of the cell bars. “Tell you what,” Holloway said slowly, “I been thinking I just might have to transfer that amigo of yours to, say, oh, I don’t know, Tulsa County. Or back to the main run. Someplace I wouldn’t have any way to protect him.” He tried to gauge how the threat was playing. “Folks hate beaner smugglers, they really do. Not quite so bad as child molesters, but pretty bad. Especially Mexican ones.”
Brown gazed steadily back. There passed a few clicking moments of silence. Beneath the sheriff’s bloated features Brown could still make out the face of the small-town bully he’d known as a kid: the chuffy little coward, intimidator, bellowing schoolyard tyrant. Arvin Holloway had translated these lifelong traits into a fine law enforcement career. He wasn’t about to quit as long as he thought he could bully somebody into telling him what he wanted—but what could Brown tell him that he didn’t already know? Only to check at Misty Dawn’s house for Dustin. But what if Juanito had snuck back across the border? Misty Dawn could get arrested for harboring her husband. “How long ago was that?” he said.
“How long ago was what?”
“When somebody saw Dustin.”
“Hell, I don’t know! Who’s asking the questions here? Me. I am. And you’re answering. I want to know what your truck’s doing in Tonkawa!”
“I told you. I don’t know.”
Holloway jumped up and swooped down on Brown, leaning over him, forcing his head back, his fist twitching on his pistol grip. Breathing hard, he said between tight-gritted teeth, “You sorry self-righteous so-and-so, you tell me where that kid is and what y’all got going with this goddamn smuggling operation or I’ll—”
“You’ll what.”
“Arrest the rest of your goddamn family,” he snarled. “Starting with that snooty tight-britches daughter of yours.”
“Sweet hadn’t done anything illegal,” Brown said, his voice steady.
“I’ll find something.” Holloway backed off a little. “Believe me. Then I just might have to bring in that hefty granddaughter you’re so proud of.”
Bob Brown’s eyes flicked away. Well now, Holloway thought. That got his attention.
“You can’t do that.”
“I can do any goddamn thing I please, and you know it. In this county I can.”
“Misty Dawn ain’t in your jurisdiction.”
“I can fix that.”
“Arvin, listen. I want my boy home safe, I want that worse than anybody. If I knew one thing in this world, I’d tell you.”
“Like hell.”
“I would. You know I would.”
“I don’t know nothing except you’re an arrogant s.o.b. and always have been. And I know I’m going to be the one finds that goddamn kid if I have to slap half the goddamn county in jail!” Holloway went to the door and bellowed out into the hall: “BEECHAM! GODDAMNIT, GIT IN HERE!”
Brown tried to think faster. He needed to talk to Sweet. He needed to tell her to check at Misty Dawn’s house—but surely she’d thought of that already? None of this made any sense. What was his truck doing in Tonkawa? Or was that even true? Maybe Holloway was just playing him. The deputy appeared in the doorway. Brown burst out, “I can’t tell you what I don’t know!”
“Get him the hell out of my sight.”
The deputy motioned Brown to stand up, guided him in front of him away down the hall.
Holloway reached for the phone, sat a good while with his hand on the receiver, trying to think of who to call to stop all the air being sucked out of the case, sucked up north, to Tulsa and Oklahoma City, where every goddamn thing got sucked in this state. But who would it be? The governor? Tulsa PD? The head of OSBI? Hell no. State Bureau had probably brought in the feds already. Anybody he could think of to call would just make matters worse. Well, maybe the Kay County Sheriff’s Department, he thought, lifting the receiver. At least they’d be coequals.
“Sheriff?” It was Beecham again. He looked beat, dark circles under his eyes, his skin splotchy. Hell, they were all beat, the sheriff thought. This business had been going on too damn long. He’d had every man jack working e
very minute he could get them, and the shake-and-bake meth cookers hadn’t just thoughtfully all packed up and moved to Texas simply because Arvin Holloway had a few other things on his mind—that was a good line, he thought. He’d have to remember that one for the reporters. Then that blamed ice storm last night, now wouldn’t that gripe you. He’d had to call in his men to help the town officers. The county was going to go bust on overtime this month. The deputy hulked in silence in the doorway.
“What!” Holloway said.
“I thought maybe I better mention . . . well, Phil Hunter, he was out there with me, and he thought—I don’t know. Probably it’s nothing.”
“What, goddamnit! Don’t start and stop like a dadgum choked engine.”
“Well, we were out at the site last night. At Mr. Brown’s place? That’s the duty I drew yesterday evening, till y’all called us all in, and, well, his daughter, you know, the one that came to see him last week? Well, she was out there, too. I didn’t think much about it, the place being kind of her family’s place, but Phil Hunter, he thought it was curious. She got her car stuck trying to cross the creek. Said they were out looking for the boy, she had some cousins or somebody with her, but, well, that freezing rain and all. Just seemed kind of a odd time to go looking. Anyhow, Phil Hunter, he said I better mention it.”
Cousins, Holloway thought. What cousins?
“So. Well,” Beecham said. “I don’t reckon there’s any fresh word, is there?
“Word.”
“About the little boy?”
“I’ll let you know. Go on back to the office, Darrel. Get yourself some coffee.”
Hot damn, Holloway thought. That little high-nosed bitch is up to something. Well, well, well, looked like he’d better pay a call on Sweet Georgia Brown this morning after all. Arvin Holloway got up from his chair gracefully, reached to the wall hook beside the desk for his tan Stetson.
As Holloway wheeled his cruiser past the courthouse, he happened to glance to the left and spied Terry Kirkendall climbing out of his Silverado in front of Jones-Hawkins Funeral Home. That was strange. They wouldn’t be having a viewing this time of day. He watched Kirkendall walk up the long sidewalk to the white double front doors and thought about stopping to find out who died. But Terry Kirkendall was a pain in the ass who’d been in the office a dozen times already, complaining about them hauling in his father-in-law along with all the wetbacks—well, what the hell did he expect? Holloway was in no mood to listen to that fool’s blather. He drove on. When he hit the highway, he flipped on his roof light-bar, picked up speed. The ice was gone everywhere except the shady places. The center of the blacktop was dry as sand. Holloway didn’t turn on his siren, but he drove at high speed, east on Highway 270, toward his little old familiar hometown.
Wednesday | February 27, 2008 | 8:45 A.M.
First Baptist Church | Cedar
Sprinting back through town in sneakers and sweats, Sweet prayed that her son wouldn’t wake up—she’d left him asleep on her bed under the afghan, his swollen adenoids making his snores as loud as poor old Mr. Bledsoe’s—and also that if anybody saw her, they might think she’d taken up jogging rather than that she was trotting back to First Baptist to commit a felony, and also that Misty Dawn hadn’t particularly heard that last order to stay put inside the nursery so that maybe she wouldn’t feel compelled to act just precisely the opposite. On this last count, apparently, the Lord wasn’t listening.
Because, indeed, it was Wednesday morning at nine o’clock when the Women’s Missionary Union had their weekly meeting, and there in the cramped hallway between the church nursery and Fellowship Hall stood Misty Dawn in the preacher’s blue plaid bathrobe, her long sandy mane combed, pink lip gloss on, balancing a mug of coffee in each hand as she lectured four baffled blue-haired ladies and the preacher’s confused wife about illegal immigration. Vicki Dudley’s youngest boy was asleep in her arms. The other wild one was racing around in circles. Sweet could see Brother Oren standing back in the bright kitchen, rubbing his palms hopelessly up and down over his face.
“—do pay taxes,” Misty Dawn was saying. “That’s just another lie, because people don’t like Mexicans, when actually there’s as many illegal Indians as Mexicans, but you don’t ever hear about that. I mean like India Indians, not Choctaws or anything, obviously, but when you think about it, we’re all illegal immigrants from their point of view, American Indians, only they’re the only ones who’ll say that, and my grandpa, he’ll say it, which is probably half the reason he’s in jail, nobody wants to hear it—”
“Okay, okay!” Sweet cried, rushing forward to squeeze herself between Misty Dawn and the WMU ladies. “We know, they know, that’s fine, Misty, thanks.”
“People don’t know! That’s what I’m saying—”
“Hi, Brother Oren!” Sweet waved toward the kitchen. “Y’all got back!” She dashed a quick smile at Vicki. “How’s your mom, good, huh? Boy, that was some weather. Glad y’all made it home safe. Misty, why don’t you, um, run get dressed—”
“I’m dressed.” She opened the robe to show her. “I’m just cold.”
“Yes, all right.” Sweet beamed at the ladies—and Lord, oh, Lord, wouldn’t you know one of them would have to be Claudie Ott. “I guess y’all are fixing to start your meeting, huh? Well, we don’t want to hold you up. Come on, Misty, let’s just get out of their way.” She didn’t, of course, actually move out of the way. The nursery door was closed behind her, thank goodness, but she could hear the baby in there talking Spanish to her daddy—Spanish! Probably the elderly WMU ladies were too hard of hearing to detect it, but the preacher’s wife wasn’t. But then there probably wasn’t ever any way to keep this from Vicki anyhow. Sweet looked desperately toward the preacher in the kitchen. He was slouched back against the counter, and his hands were down off his face now, but his eyes were closed; he looked like he might be praying.
“You’re Gaylene’s daughter, aren’t you, dear?” This from the retired schoolteacher Ida Coley. She’d taken Misty Dawn by the arm. “I remember your mama so well, what a pretty girl. I’m just so sorry about your brother. That’s your brother, isn’t it? Bobby’s grandson that disappeared?”
“I always said that child would come to a bad end,” remarked Claudie Ott. “Too pretty for her own good. Didn’t I always say that?”
“It’s a shame,” Edna Martin said, frowning hard to tell Claudie Ott to shut up.
“A crying shame,” agreed Alice Stalcup.
“Honey?” the preacher’s wife called toward the kitchen.
The preacher straightened up from the counter and started toward them just as his older boy, Isaiah, came tearing along the hall making squealing tire sounds. The boy rounded his mother with a wailing screech and slammed open the nursery door and raced inside, causing Lucha to let out a shriek and start sobbing hysterically. Sweet and Misty Dawn rushed forward together, Misty a half step ahead. She clunked down the coffee mugs and reached for her screaming daughter sitting on her daddy’s lap. The child clung to her and sobbed and sobbed. Juanito got to his feet, looking worried. Little Isaiah flew around the nursery with his arms out, an airplane now, and Sweet tried to catch him, barking “Quit that now, quit!” Lucha’s sobs grew louder, turned into long trembling wails, as if everything, the mine, the dark, the cold, the hunger, her parents’ fear, the strangeness of everything had culminated in her little chest all at once. “Shh, baby, shh,” Misty Dawn said, walking the room with her, patting her back. The preacher came on into the nursery and picked up his son, who was sputtering motorboat sounds now, his little chunky arms and legs pumping, and carried the
boy back out to the hall. The four WMU ladies crowded together in the nursery doorway to see in.
Looking up, Sweet cast her gaze from each old woman’s face to the next: Ida Coley’s startled eyes and rounded mouth, Edith Martin’s creased frown, Alice Stalcup’s raised, auburn-penciled brows, Claudie Ott’s crimped satisfaction. Oh, what’s the use, Sweet thought. It’s all over. All over. But she had to go on. “Miss Coley,” she said loudly over Lucha’s wails, “would y’all leave us a little privacy? It’s a family matter. I’ll come, well, explain in a minute. I know it looks . . . We just need to . . .” She smiled, trying to act as if the shabby-clothed, coal-smudged Mexican man standing next to her niece might be invisible. Clearly, he was not invisible. Edith Martin’s frown deepened as she stared. Claudie Ott’s filmy blue eyes never left his face. But Ida Coley, bless her heart, bless her, announced in her trembling turkey voice, “Come on, girls. If we mean to get those Lottie Moon baskets finished, we’d better get started.” And she came around in front of the other three like a skinny little cow dog and herded them out the door toward the Adult Women’s classroom.
Sweet took in a long breath, listened to the child’s wails a moment longer, then she turned on her niece. “Do you see what you’ve done? Do you see! No, you don’t see! Because it’s never your fault, is it? It’s always somebody else’s!”
Misty Dawn stared at her, shocked.
“I told you to stay hid!” Sweet snapped. “But you don’t listen. You have never listened. To anyone! You longhead on, doing just what you want to do. Your granddaddy’s sitting in the Latimer County Jail this instant because of you and that . . . husband of yours. And I don’t blame them, Misty, I blame you! What have you ever given this family except trouble and heartache?” Fat silent tears were running down the girl’s cheeks, but Sweet was too wound up to quit. She stormed around the room. “I’m asking you, Misty. Name me one thing! We all go carting up there for your daughter’s birthday, but you can’t even a make dadgum birthday phone call to your granddaddy who put his whole life on the line for you! You can’t think to send a card to your baby brother, who would not be lost right now this minute if you’d just come home with me like I asked! But no, you got to wait for your illegal husband to swim back across the damn river! Or whatever it is they do. Then y’all show up at my door expecting me to fix things, expecting me to give you food, give you money, pay for your gas and whatever, risking my own future, my own child’s well-being, and then you’re going to stand there and lecture those poor old ladies about how people don’t like Mexicans! Give me a break! You are so selfish and self-centered, you don’t care about anybody but yourself! Look how you’re raising your daughter, Misty! Look at her! She can’t even speak the damn language of the country she lives in!”
