Her eyes jerked open. Warm! I’m wasting warmth. In a flash, she was back in the leaves, grabbing the driest and putting them in a pile at the bottom of the stairs. The slightly damp, she carried to the top steps, nearest the door, the warmest spot in the cellar, piling as many leaves as the steps would hold. Back and forth she went, until every step was heaped with brown and gold. She waited five minutes, then five more, and touched her open palm to the highest step. The leaves were drying out. It was working.
While waiting for the sun and warm air to do their job, Melissa took the dry leaves she had collected and spread them across her cot, evening the piles as best she could, until the bed was covered. She lay down and got still, hearing the crunch as the driest of the leaves broke and crumbled, filling the gaps. Would this make a difference or be energy wasted? It didn’t take long to find out. Now, without the cold air beneath her, she began to feel the spread of her own body heat, first on her back then on to her thighs and calves. The leafy insulation was working for Melissa just as it had done for the mouse that had given her the idea.
“Thank you, Lulu,” she whispered and once again, closed her eyes.
The nap was short lived. Somewhere in her subconscious, attuned to any change of noise and a possible rescue, a new sound penetrated her uneasy sleep. It was different than the usual rustle of scampering mice, this movement had urgency, a sense of drama unfolding at the back of the cellar. A mouse was involved, that was for sure, as she could hear the frantic squeaks and squeals. Something was happening, a battle of sorts? Do mice fight? Melissa got off the bunk and cautiously edged to the rear of the cellar. The sun was getting lower, the light almost gone with one single narrow beam peeking beneath the door. The leaves moved again. There was something there, struggling. Too dark to see. Light a candle? No way, not with the limited number of matches left. Then, more movement. She froze, waiting.
“Oh it’s another mouse.” And it was, but only part of a mouse; a tail and two tiny pink feet, kicking and struggling against an unseen force. After a moment, the mouse grew still. Then the leaves moved once more and parted. That was when Melissa saw the head of the snake and what remained of the mouse. The reptile unhinged its jaws, spreading them wide, wider, ready for the final swallow.
“Holy shit”, Melissa said. She dashed back to the cot, found the jar and candle, and didn’t stop until she ran out of stair steps and bumped her head on the cellar door. With trembling hands she fired another match and lit the candle.
Chapter 18
At the foot of the easy chair, Harley farted; silent but odorous enough to burn the lining in Sheriff Morrison’s nose.
“My Gawd, dog,” Lester cried, waving the air with his latest copy of Outdoor Oklahoma magazine. “You been eating somethin’ dead? Lord have mercy! Oh!”
Lester was on his second cup of strong black coffee. He’d brewed enough extra to fill a thermos for the stakeout at the Pirate’s Den later tonight. Lester couldn’t remember the last time he’d done a stakeout, but the coffee seemed like a good idea. A can of clam chowder soup, one of his favorites, along with a handful of crackers had gone down easy for supper. He’d considered a big steamin’ bowl of Wolf Brand Chili and Beans, but facing long hours cramped up in a Camaro with Billy Ray, the chowder had seemed the smarter choice. It had been a long time since Lester had enjoyed a home cooked meal. His own culinary skills were limited to say the least. He knew how to open cans and heat whatever came out in the microwave and except for the frozen dinners (the Salisbury steak being his favorite), that was the extent of the cooking. Of course there was the occasional charcoaled t-bone—if Harley didn’t grab it off the grill first. The menu hadn’t always been so bland. His wife, Mary Alice, had been a hell of a good cook and she liked doing it, spending much of her time at home trying out new recipes and experimenting with some of her own. With the odd hours of being a sheriff, Lester missed many a dinner hour but Mary Alice seldom complained. She understood it was a part of the job and accepted it even if it meant reheating a lot of the meals she had so lovingly prepared. Now that she was gone, the evenings were the worst; too quiet, too lonely. The dog helped, a living thing, something to talk to, to respond to his voice, but Lord, how he did miss that woman.
It was during a rodeo in Cheyenne, Wyoming (it seemed so many years ago) that a stunning young girl in form-fitting western wear, gold in color with long fringe flying everywhere, had entered the arena on a beautiful white horse. She immediately caught Lester’s attention, his and every other cowboy who wasn’t busy preparing for the next event. She had a trick riding act that wowed the public everywhere she appeared, vaulting back and forth, one side of the horse to the other, using an extended saddle horn to hang on. She made another pass around the ring, this time hanging by her feet over the rear of the horse, her head only inches from the ground and flying hooves, a maneuver know as the death drag. For her next trick, she brought in another white horse, identical to the first, then rode them both while standing up, one foot on the back of each horse, racing around and around the arena, waving at the crowd, her hair flying in the wind. She finished the act with her grand finale, jumping both horses over a rail of fire while at full gallop, earning enthusiastic applause from the packed house.
Lester had a little time to kill before the calf roping came up, his specialty, and found the golden girl walking her horses back to her trailer. She looked as good up close as she had from the top rail of the arena fence; tall, at least five-ten, with long black hair down to her shoulder blades.
“Good lookin’ pair of animals,” Lester said, not being much experienced in the way of opening lines to meet pretty young girls.
“Thank you,” she replied along with a brief smile, but kept on walking. Lester fell in beside her, matching the pace of the horses, but couldn’t think of anything else to say. Finally: “Do you like steak?”
She brought the horses to a halt and looked Lester in the eye. “Yes, cowboy, I do like steak. What kind of steak are you talking about–rib-eye, t-bone, or chicken-fried? Is this your way of asking me out to dinner?”
Lester rubbed the nose of the nearest horse and gathered his courage. “Why, yes Ma’am. I guess that’s what I’m asking. I was thinking just now, as we were walking along, that a lot of cowboys probably ask you out for a date and that most ‘em want to take you to a bar and get you drunk and…well.”
“Go on.”
“Truth is, I’ve spent the last couple months traveling all over the country with my roping partner and while he’s a nice enough fella, I’m getting sick and tired of lookin’ at his hairy face over burgers and fries. The only hair I see on your face is eyebrows, nice eyebrows I might add, and it would be a welcome change if you were to sit across from me at a table full of baked potatoes and steak, rib-eye if I can win the calf ropin’, chicken fry if not. How bout it?”
The dazzling smile Lester had seen in the arena returned. “I got to hand it you and you’re right, I get hit on at least twice after every performance, but you’re the first to ever compliment my eyebrows. But I am hungry and a steak sounds wonderful. I accept your invitation. But there’s a catch.”
Lester raised an eyebrow.
“I never go out with cowboys unless my brother comes along.”
And he did. Mary Alice, much to Lester’s chagrin, always traveled with her brother Steve, a big and burly man with an imposing countenance and quite protective of his little sister, discouraging any and all advances toward his very attractive sibling.
By the end of the meal, Lester had learned that Mary Alice had a home in Southwest Missouri, a little town called Mound City, and this was her third year of trick riding on the circuit. Best of all, she had no serious relationships in progress, partly owing to the constant travel, but mostly due to her brother’s threats of serious bodily harm to any horny cowboys with lustful thoughts on their mind.
As luck would have it, Mary Alice was booked at another rodeo for the following week in Cody, Wyoming (just down the r
oad in cowboy miles) the very same rodeo where Lester had already paid his entry fee. There, they met again for another dinner, this time for a plate of ribs at Bubba’s Bar-B-Que. It was over a couple of beers that both agreed to stay in touch, or try to, tough to do on the road before the days of e-mail and cellular telephones. But with both knowing the various lodgings where the rodeo crowd hung out, they managed a few long distance hookups where they talked for hours, or as long as their limited budgets would allow.
A year passed and by the time the next circuit had rolled around, Lester had taken on a new challenge, bull riding. It was an ill-fated career move. In only his second time out and on a monster of a bull named Booger, he lost his balance during a particularly violent spin, and off he went. But instead of a clean fall and the usual minor bruises, his hand hung up in the rigging. The eighteen hundred pound bull drug Lester against the rail as if he were some kind of biting horsefly to be scrapped off and stomped on. The rodeo clowns had no chance to prevent the inevitable injuries, two cracked ribs and a sprained right arm. It was somewhere during the consolation applause that Lester decided to find another line of work. Taped up and with his arm in a sling, Lester drove back to the family ranch in Whitefish to mend and think about his future.
Later that summer, he got a call from Mary Alice. Her next show was at the Wild West Rodeo in West Yellowstone, Montana, a mere three-hundred and fifty mile drive. Without hesitation, Lester promised to meet her and talk, but only on the condition that her brother Steve, the chaperone, find other things to do.
The next day, sitting on the tailgate of the pickup in the parking lot of a Holiday Inn, Lester laid out his plans for the future. The thought of having such an important conversation in a slightly more romantic setting had not occurred to the man. “Mary, I’m going back to school–Northeastern State University in Oklahoma. I got a brother that lives right there in Tahlequah and he’s agreed to provide my room and board if I help him with his home remodeling business. Remember me telling you about my dad, how he was a town cop and then a highway patrolman? I was always proud of my dad, and now, well, I’ve decided I want to try my hand at law enforcement. Not as a city cop, I don’t care much for cities, I think you’ve figured that out by now, but I’m thinking I’d like to try being a county sheriff. Course I’ll have to start out as a deputy and the pay won’t be all that great, but the day will come when I plan to be elected as a full sheriff.”
Mary Alice took his hand and smiled. “I think that’s very wise of you, Lester. In fact, this is my last tour with the rodeos as well. My ankle has given me problems ever since I twisted it doing my act in Colorado. I’m not getting any younger myself and trick riding has a limited future. I hope we can stay in touch, cowboy. Oklahoma isn’t all that far from Mound City, Missouri you know.”
It was almost exactly 366 miles is what it was and Lester made the trip three times before the miles began to take their toll on his old El Camino that broke down with predictable regularity. It was around mid-November when Lester and Mary Alice were driving the visitor loop on the nearby Squaw Creek Wildlife Refuge, only a few miles from Mound City, when they both spotted a swirling flock of Snow Geese, thousands of them, circling the choppy water. Lester pulled to the side of the road and parked to watch and listen. The air was filled with the sound of wings and honking geese, the birds stacked up in vertical tiers like airplanes at a busy airport. Silhouetted by the evening sun, flock after flock descended and splashed down until the water was covered with a sea of white.
When the sky was empty of birds with the exception of a few late arriving Mallard ducks, Mary Alice broke the silence. “I’ve lived here for years and the geese come and go every fall, but I never get tired of watching them.”
“Like I never get tired of watching you,” Lester said. They kissed and held it, savoring the moment.
“Guess the show’s over,” Lester said reaching for the ignition key. The motor on the old El Camino groaned, turned over once, stopped, then caught and fired to life.
Lester blew some air. “Whew!” Mary Alice smiled. “Thought we might be spending the night out here.”
“That wouldn’t be all bad you know,” Lester said, grinning. After a moment, “Mary Alice, this little truck is about wore slick from traveling back and forth from Missouri to Oklahoma. I don’t know how many more trips she’s got in ‘er. So here’s what I got in mind. Been thinkin’ on it. Why don’t you come back to Tahlequah with me? Save a whole lot of gas money.”
“That almost sounds like a marriage proposal, cowboy.”
“Well, it was intended to. Maybe I didn’t say it right.”
“Hmm. Try again. How about, ‘Mary Alice, oh love of my life, would you marry me?’”
“All right, since you put it that way. Let me take another shot at it. Mary Alice, oh love of my life, would you marry me? How’s that?”
“How nice of you to ask Lester. Yes, I will marry you.”
“Hot Damn!” Lester said and kissed her again.
After a hasty but meaningful ceremony, they packed the pickup with everything Mary Alice could cram in it and drove to Oklahoma where they found a small, but nicely furnished apartment. There they lived poor but happy until Lester got his degree and found a deputy sheriff’s job in nearby Sequoyah County. The duplex they rented in Sallisaw was nothing to brag about but would suffice until they could save a little money and make a down payment on a home of their own. Mary Alice found a job she enjoyed at the local feed and hardware store, horse and cattle folks being the most common customers, her kind of people. After his first year of steady employment and miserly life style, Lester was able to trade in the old El Camino for a Chevy Silverado extended cab, used of course with 80,000 miles on it, but about a hundred thousand less than his previous ride.
The next few years were the happiest that Lester had ever known. He loved the work, as he knew he would, and at the same time, enjoyed the feeling of doing something meaningful with his life. Married life for the pair of lovebirds could easily be described as blissful, regardless of their meager paychecks. One of Lester’s co-workers called it “stupid rich”, so broke you don’t know you’re poor but you have fun anyway.
Lester excelled at the job of Deputy Sheriff. He was a quick learner and had an easy going but firm style when dealing with lawbreakers. Speeders were allowed to voice their invalid excuses, but the bottom line was that unless you were having a baby or your hair was on fire, you were going to get a citation. Drunk drivers had no chance, going directly to jail without hesitation. Lester hated drunk drivers.
Within the department, Lester quickly earned the respect and admiration of the other deputies as well as the Sheriff himself, a man by the name of James Bradley. Sheriff Bradley was well thought of in the community but was now almost sixty-six years old. After spending most of that time as a public servant, the Sheriff had begun to talk about retirement. Lester, despite his youth, had his eye on the job. When Bradley gave his notice, Lester decided to go for it. He hoped his lack of experience wouldn’t hurt him as he tacked Elect Morrison notices on every other telephone pole in the county.
It was a close race but when the final vote was in, Lester P. Morrison was the new sheriff of Sequoyah County. There was a raise in pay of course, nothing to brag about, but enough for Lester and Mary Alice to buy a modest home overlooking the Illinois River. On their days off, the happy couple enjoyed lazy canoe trips over the mild mannered river rapids.
Lester’s Camelot came crashing down on May 29th, only twelve and a half years since they had said their vows in that cozy little chapel in Missouri. It was on a Friday evening and after a boring day of serving warrants, that Lester had come home to find his golden girl in dirt-stained jeans and an old denim work shirt, lying in her rose garden …without a sign of life. Aortic aneurism the doctor had said, sometimes unforeseeable, probably genetic.
Attendance at the funeral exceeded anything the town of Tahlequah had ever seen. Lawmen from Sallisaw, Ft. Gibson, Mus
kogee, and even a few from Arkansas, paid their respects and offered condolences. Lester scattered her ashes in the Illinois, a river Mary Alice had grown to love. He watched as pieces of his heart floated downstream, riding on the current. He sold the house soon after, unable to enjoy the river or tend to the rose garden, the memories too painful.
Lester changed after that. He became harder, a lot more cynical, and had far less patience with the assholes he dealt with from day to day. Thinking a change of scenery might help, he eventually ran for and was elected sheriff of McCurtain County, about a 150 miles south. Geographically, McCurtain County wasn’t all that much different from Sequoyah, but it was new people, new territory, and a chance to start over, leaving the pain behind.
But then came the era of drugs, meth labs, and easy money. It consumed his time on the job, taking down one lab only to have another appear a few days later. The frustration of it ate at him. The almost daily raids became little more than a nasty chore, not unlike cleaning out the back of his patrol car where some drunk had tossed his cookies. The constant dealing with the druggies added to Lester’s growing depression; their addictions, their drawn faces covered with sores. No matter how hard he worked at it, the number of labs increased every year. Then came the fire at the trailer house, killing the innocent mother and her kids, started by yet another careless zonked out meth maker. It had tipped the scales once more and now, here in No Man’s Land, Oklahoma, Lester sat in his easy chair, head nodding in mini-naps, a good dog at his feet, no longer dealing with crack heads and their self-destructive cravings.
At the distinctive sound of the Camaro, Harley jumped up and dashed to the front door, pushing on it with one paw. Lester opened the screen and let the dog out where he and Billy Ray had another joyous reunion in the front yard. Lester smiled at the scene.
If something ever happens to me, those two would be a perfect fit. I need to talk to the boy about that.
Fraidy Hole: A Sheriff Lester P. Morrison Novel Page 14
