by Amy Metz
YoU aNd yOUr
GF ShOuLD bUTt
OUT. oR ElSe.
“Well, at least he’s an equal opportunity stalker.”
“He called you my GF. Guess this makes it official. Now you gotta be my girlfriend.” Jack looked at her, and her mouth went dry.
“I’m your girlfriend just because some lunatic says so?”
“Would that be such a bad thing?” Jack looked at her intently.
“I can think of worse,” she said, shyly. “But Jack, that’s what you got out of this whole message? That I’m your girlfriend? Doesn’t this concern you? This sounds like a threat.”
“Well, whoever it is isn’t being very smart about it. They’re gonna mess up. I think the more desperate he-she-it becomes, the bigger the mistake he-she-it’s gonna make.”
“You’re probably right.” Tess looked around to see if anyone was watching them. She had grown very paranoid in the last few weeks.
“Did you mention your letter to John Ed?” Jack had his arm resting behind Tess on the bench, and he moved his fingers to lightly caress her neck, under her hair.
“Of course not.”
“Shouldn’t we at least show these to him? He can’t say you made these up. Although knowin’ him, he’ll accuse you or me of makin’ and sendin’ them.”
“Oh, I guess we should. I just would rather not have to see him. He’s so smug, and condescending and so . . . so wrong. The man just makes me so mad.”
“Well, you just get glad in the same pants you got mad in, Missy!” Jack had lapsed into his exaggerated drawl. She gave him a look, and he hugged her with his one arm still behind her. “Oh, I’m teasing you, Mary T. My mama used to say that to me all the time. Except for the Missy part. You want me to go by myself so you don’t have to deal with him?”
“You wouldn’t mind? I’d like to go home and spend some time with Nick. And I’d rather not have to talk to John Ed about this.”
“On one condition.” Jack smiled into her eyes.
“What’s that?”
“I want an autographed copy of your book.”
Tess groaned.
* * *
“So what did you two talk about today?” Tess asked Nick, as she made his favorite dinner that night.
“Mom, I’m sorry I spilled the beans about your children’s book. I didn’t think you cared. I just assumed he knew.”
“Oh, it’s okay. He was bound to find out sometime. It’s just that he’s a successful, nine times published author, and I have this one little children’s book. It’s a little embarrassing.” She tasted the sauce, and then put the lasagna noodles into the boiling water.
“I don’t see anything to be embarrassed about. It’s a great book. Are you still working on your new one?”
“When I have time. It’s slow going.”
“Still not going to tell me what it’s about?”
“I’d rather wait. Be careful or you just might end up in it.” She shot him an amused look.
“Will you tell me the title?”
“The title is “Keep your straw out of my Kool-aid.” She saw Nick’s eyes go to her iced tea glass. “That’s local for mind your own business.”
“You’re not writing porn, are you, Mom?” he teased.
“No, I’m not writing porn, Nick!” She swatted him with a tea towel. “Now, what else did you all talk about?”
“I don’t know.”
Tess saw Nick pick up his glass and take a sip—a tell she knew well. Then he shifted in his seat, put one leg on the other knee, and finally stood up to pour more sweet tea into a mostly full glass. Signs she’d seen too many times when he was little and trying to avoid answering her.
“What? What aren’t you telling me?” She busied herself icing a chocolate cake to avoid looking straight at Nick. It was a ploy she’d used when he was a teenager, to get him to open up, and it was usually effective.
“How well do you know Jack?” He added more ice to his glass, making it almost overflow.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, it’s just that you’ve lived here . . . what . . . two, three months? You all seem to be . . . pretty close. I see the way he looks at you.” He scratched his head absentmindedly. “ I don’t know . . . I guess I was just surprised to see the chemistry between you two, so soon. I mean, you’ve talked about him a little bit, but I was just surprised . . . Maybe it’s just that I’ve never seen you with anyone but Dad.”
Nick was rambling, and she knew the subject made him uncomfortable. She didn’t know what to tell him, because frankly, she didn’t know herself. She thought about Jack way too much, looked forward to being with him, wanted to touch him all the time, she melted under his touch. But part of her was glad they’d been interrupted those two times. She still wasn’t sure if she was ready for another relationship. At least not a serious one.
Nick’s voice brought her from her thoughts. “ . . . nice enough guy and all that, I guess it’s just weirding me out to see you with someone besides Dad.”
“I know, sweetie. I don’t know what to tell you about Jack, except that I think he’s a good man, and I like him a lot. We’ve really only been out on a few dates, although we’ve spent a lot of time together over this murder thing. I enjoy his company, his sense of humor, his intelligence. I feel safe with him, and he makes me feel good; it’s nice to have someone to talk to again. It’s nice to have someone want to be with me again.” They were both quiet for a minute before she added, “Never mind that he’s sexy as hell.”
“Mom!”
“Oh, Nick. You’re grown up. I may be almost fifty, but I’m not dead. I know it will take some getting used to. But I think the more you get to know him, the more comfortable you’ll be with him. You’ll see what I see. I’m not saying anything will happen, I’m just saying I like the man.”
“I just want you to be happy, Mom. I’ll try to deal.”
* * *
After dinner, Tess and Nick talked some more and watched a movie together, while Tess scratched his back for a while, a habit they’d had since he was a little boy. When the movie was over, Nick looked at his mother and saw she’d fallen asleep. He nudged her a little and she opened her eyes.
“What?”
“You fell asleep!”
“I did not! I was just checking for holes in my eyelids.”
“You know, you’ve gotten a lot weirder since you’ve been here, Mom.”
Tess yawned, kissed Nick, and stood up.
“I’m sleepy. I think I’ll go on up to bed. You coming?”
“No, I think I’ll stay down here and watch TV for a while. Maybe Letterman or The Colbert Report. See you in the morning.”
“Okay. Night, sweetie.”
An hour later, Nicholas was asleep on the couch in front of the television, when he was startled awake by the sound of shattering glass. A brick came crashing through the window, landing a foot away from him, glass shattering all over the room.
He jumped up and was out the front door in a flash. He heard the slap of branches in the trees to his left and charged that way. The smell of Frasier fur filled his nose as branches hit his head and scratched his face when he ran through the clump of evergreens at the edge of his mother’s driveway. He pushed them aside and kept running. He couldn’t yet see anyone, but he could hear feet slapping against concrete not far away. Nick was a runner in high school and college. It had been a couple of years since he’d competed, but he was still fast.
He saw and heard a dark figure up ahead and watched as it ran right into a street lamp. The person bounced off it and staggered backward, shaking his head like a wet dog. He took off running again, but Nick got to him, reached his hand out, grabbed the back of his shirt, and tackled him to the ground. He pushed the man over, pinning his shoulders to the ground. Straining to see in the dark, Nick did a double take, not believing his eyes.
Just Scratch Your Mad Place And Get Glad
bought air: noun bawt air air con
ditioning
Close the door. You’re lettin’ out all the bought air.
[ July 2010 ]
“PICKLE?”
Nicholas stood over Pickle, breathing hard, absolutely astonished at who he’d tackled. “You?” he managed to say as he leaned forward, resting his hands on his knees and breathing heavily. “Are you kidding me?”
“I’msorryI’msorryI’msorry . . . please forgive me! I didn’t wanna do it! He made me! Oh crap, why’d I get myself into this. Why?” Pickle pounded his fist against his head.
“Who made you?”
In a muffled voice Pickle said, “I cain’t say.”
“NICHOLAS!”
Nick heard his mother’s frantic call. She sounded panicked. He pulled Pickle up and shoved him toward Tess’s house, holding on to him by the back of his shirt.
“I suppose you’re going to tell me your imaginary friend made you do it,” Nick said sarcastically, not expecting a reply. But Pickle, being Pickle, gave him one.
“Ya think they’d believe that?” he asked seriously.
“No, Pickle. I do not.” They walked up the front lawn, to where Tess was waiting on the porch with the brick in her hand.
“What’s going on? Who…PICKLE?” Her mouth flew open.
“Pickle.” Nick’s breathing was starting to return to normal. “He says somebody made him do it, but he won’t say who. Don’t ask him if it was his imaginary friend, he’s already thought of that defense and just might go with it.”
Tess was holding a note that had been wrapped around the brick. It, too, had lettering cut from a magazine.
I’LL LeARn Ya
DuRn Ya.
“Why, Pickle?” Tess whispered, sounding deeply hurt.
“I needed the money,” he mumbled, looking at the ground.
“Mom, go call the police, and I’ll watch Mr. Shot Putter here.”
“I believe the expression around here is ‘call the law,’” Tess said, attempting to lighten the moment. Pickle’s lip was quivering and tears threatened to overflow his eyes.
“Did you send me that note too?” she asked, referring to the one at the bookstore.
Pickle looked at the ground, shaking his head.
Tess called the police station first and then Jack. It was late, but she knew he worked late into the night most of the time. He actually got to her house before Officer Skeeter Duke. He shot a dark look at Pickle and went to Tess.
“Are you all right?” He pulled her into an embrace.
“I’m fine. Only my feelings are hurt.” She smiled weakly, clearly upset at Pickle’s betrayal. “I guess you were right about he-she-it slipping up soon.”
Nicholas came back into the room, and Jack released Tess when he saw the look on her son’s face.
“Hey, Nick.”
“Hey, Jack.”
“Good thing you were here. You're definitely in better shape than Ezzie or me.” He went to Pickle, who was sitting on the couch, with his head in his hands, elbows propped on his knees. Jack talked softly to him, with Pickle nodding his head every now and then.
Tess let the officer in and filled him in on what had happened.
“Looks like they caught you red-handed, boy,” Skeeter said, standing over Pickle. “Don’t that just dill yer pickle?” He laughed at his own joke, slapping his knee, and looking around for others to join in, but no one was laughing.
It wasn’t until Skeeter had loaded Pickle into the patrol car and driven off that Tess laughed.
“What are you laughing at?” Jack asked.
“Pickle’s t-shirt. It just sunk in.”
Jack and Nick looked at her blankly.
“Apparently in all the commotion, you didn’t notice his shirt. It wasn’t the invisible friend one he had on earlier today,” she said. “This one said, ‘High Achiever’.”
* * *
John Ed walked into the Goose Pimple Junction police station bright and early the next morning. He was blissfully unaware of the events of the past evening, but Skeeter filled him in.
“He’s three pickles shy of a quart,” Skeeter snickered.
John Ed glared at him. “Zat supposed ta be funny?”
Skeeter cleared his throat. “No sir. Um . . . he won’t talk, Chief. Just keeps sayin’ he needed the money, but won’t say who paid him, or why.”
John Ed farted loudly as he walked away, saying over his shoulder, “That’s what I think a that. Bring him to the interrogation room.”
“Ya mean the break room?” Skeeter called out.
“Break room, interrogation room, powder room. Call it what ya want. Jest get his butt in there.”
Escorting Pickle down the hall, Skeeter said, “Pickle, mash your hair down. It’s stickin’ straight up, even more than usual,” he motioned to the top of his head. Pickle’s eyes were red, with shadows underneath, and his clothes were wrinkled and grass stained. He flopped into a chair opposite the chief.
Chief Price looked at him for a moment and then said, “You look like somethin’ the dog’s been keepin’ under the porch.” He stared at him, waiting for Pickle to say something. Finally, the chief said, “Whattsa matta with you, boy?”
Pickle shrugged his shoulders, looking at the floor.
“You think my granddaughter’s gonna wanta hang ‘round with you after this stunt?”
Pickle shrugged again.
“Don’t you got anything to say fer yerself?”
Again, Pickle just shrugged his shoulders.
“Okay, let’s cut the crap, boy. Who told you to do this?”
Pickle shrugged his shoulders.
“You been responsible for all them other shenanigans?”
Pickle shrugged his shoulders.
John Ed glared at him.
“What’s gonna happen to me, Chief Price?” a glum Pickle finally asked.
“Well, boy, that depends on yer cooperation. You cooperate, things’ll go easier for ya.”
“What if I say I don’t know nothin’? That I just did it on my own?”
“That dog won’t hunt, son. You do know somethin’, and I wanta know what it is.”
“Well I cain’t tell ya! Stop bein’ so mean to me!” screamed Pickle.
“Just scratch your mad place and get glad real quick like. I’m losin’ patience. I’m gonna give you some time to think things over, but when I come back, you’d best be of a mind to spill yer guts, or I'm gonna slap you so hard, when you quit rollin' your clothes'll be outta style.” He stood up and walked to the door. “But I didn’t say that.” He winked at Pickle and left the room to find Skeeter.
“How’d it go, Chief?”
“Like tryin’ ta poke a cat out from under the porch with a rope. I want you to call his mama, get her over here.”
“Will do, Chief. She’s been callin’ every ten minutes. Had to make her go home last night.”
“Bring her in when she gets here.”
Fifteen minutes later, Caledonia Culpepper swept into the station. She was a Southern Belle through and through, wearing a sleeveless lime green and hot pink Lily Pulitzer shift dress and white sandals with two-inch heels. A hot pink scarf held her long, blond hair back into a ponytail. Her makeup and nails were perfect.
Bernadette, the secretary, saw her coming and said under her breath, “She's all dressed up like she's goin’ to Wal-Mart or somethin’.”
Skeeter appeared in the chief’s doorway. “Chief, she’s here.”
“Send her back,” John Ed growled.
The sound of Caledonia’s heels clacking on the floor followed her as she walked through the police station, holding the hand of her eight-year old son, and leaving a stream of perfume in her wake. John Ed met them in the hallway telling Skeeter, “Take little . . . “ the chief trailed off, waving his finger in the air, not knowing the child’s name.
“Peanut,” Caledonia supplied.
“…Peanut up front and keep him occupied while we chat with Pickle.”
“What do I do with him?�
� Skeeter looked slightly terrified at the prospect of entertaining an eight-year-old for any amount of time.
“Play Tic-tac-toe, Tiddlywinks, or Hangman, I don’t care.”
“Oh, he loves Hangman,” Caledonia said.
John Ed walked a few steps, sighed heavily, and turned back toward Skeeter. In a more patient voice he said, “Take him out back and show him your vehicle. Let him play with the siren once or twice.”
Chief Price showed Caledonia to his office and motioned to a chair in front of the desk. “Your son’s not of a mind to talk, Ms. Culpepper.”
“Caledonia,” she smiled sweetly, smoothing her skirt over her knees.
“He won’t tell us who paid him to throw that brick into Ms. Tremaine’s house, but he let it slip that someone did. What we’re gonna do, is play good mom-bad cop with him. Understand?”
“I’m with ya, Chief.”
They walked to the closed door of the interrogation-slash-break-room, and stopped. Caledonia was a true steel magnolia. She took a deep breath, worked up tears in her eyes, nodded her head, and the chief opened the door.
Pickle was sitting bent over, with his head resting on his crossed arms on the table. When he saw his mother, he jumped up. “I’m sorry, Mama. I really am.”
His mother hugged him and said through tears, “If you’re truly sorry, then you’ll answer Chief Price’s questions.” She looked at him, blinking back tears for a moment and then, in a dramatic attempt to control her emotions, flapped her fingers in front of her eyes, like a butterfly on speed. She stood up a little straighter, and shook her head ever so slightly, sniffing back tears.
Bravely bringing her emotions under control she said, “I used to could always count on you to tell the truth.” Then her eyes turned from sad to steely. She stood with her face an inch from her son’s, and pointed a pink-painted fingernail into his chest with each word. “So let me tell you somethin’, little mister. If you don’t tell the truth now, I’ll be all over you like stink on a skunk.” Then she smiled sweetly at him, patted his cheek, and gracefully sat down at the table, crossing her legs.
