by Lawton Paul
“How ya doin’?” says a skinny, wrinkled man with a weeks’ worth of gray scruff on his face. “You lookin’ for anything in particular? We got a buncha good fictional litera-tour for the uptowny types, historical, sci-fi space crap, all sorts, even some stuff behind the little curtain in the back that’ll give you a charge. O’course that sh— stuff, is mainly for the river rat set,”
“Where’d the cafe go?”
“Think it went to Jax.” He sits up a little and squints at her. “Hey, you’re the economist dude’s wife, right?”
“How do you know?”
“Yeah, I seen y’all when this place was the cafe. Y’all never saw me, I was slavin’ away in the back. As well as literary and culinary emissary to the good people of Chickasaw, I’m also the town press man.” He hands her a newspaper called The Chickasaw Regal. “Mrs. Jojo Delacroix does the writin’ and I run the printer. Ain’t nothing like the big jobbers they got in Jax with the 1-ton rolls, but we got a nice little sheet-fed offset. Jojo cranks out about 175 editions once every few weeks. Got a lot of older folks ain’t up with the in’ernet yet. They gotta have paper.”
Angela reads the headline, Chickasaw Ladies’ Club Annual Dog Show Canceled. “I guess you don’t do hard news.”
“Just local news mainly, and the occasional gossip column stuff, which sells far better,” says a woman walking towards them. “Jojo Delacroix,” she says, holding out her hand.
“Angela Fleetwood.”
“You live next door to Marlina Kaufman, right? I’m gonna have to get a statement from the sheriff. Do a small write up. Everybody wants to know the details. Would you mind giving me a little background on Mrs. Kaufman?” Then she turns to the print man, “Jimmy, are we set for a run tomorrow?”
“Yep. We got just enough paper for the usual 175.”
“What’s the lead story gonna be?” says Angela.
“I think we’re going with ‘Chickasaw Renovations Spur Increased Tourism’,” she says.
“How about: ‘Sheriff Says No Murder, Facts Say Otherwise’,” says Angela. Jojo’s eyes light up.
Goodbye
1958, Richmond, Virginia
At first Marlina thought he was just naturally small. He’d been through so much, maybe his growth was stunted. Other than his size he seemed amazingly well adjusted: he’d long since stopped crying at night, stopped yelling for his mother, stopped speaking German. He was a cute kid with skinny legs and a funny way of walking.
There was just one little problem: they’d been in America for years now but the boy hadn’t grown an inch. He still weighed 42 pounds with his shoes on. When she hugged him his little head rested in the same spot on her stomach it always had.
She kept hoping one day he’d have a growth spurt. But that never came. They left New York because people started talking. Marlina said he had a “condition” which worked for awhile, but when all the other kids grew up and he didn’t, the lie didn’t work anymore. And then it was time to move.
Deep down she knew the reason, she could see it when she looked in the mirror. Her hair was still blond, not one bit of gray like her mother, like the other ladies her age who had started getting fat, who’d started to dye their hair.
It was the metal cone.
Marlina remembered making their way out of Germany. People would ask her to pray for the sick and wounded because she wore the clothes of a nun. And she would put her hand on them and try to remember her prayers from when she was a child. She was a fake nun and wondered if God would be angry.
But when she touched them, they got better. People near death opened their eyes, they smiled. Even the big dog they found near death at the side of the road perked up as soon as they came up on it.
At first she thought it was the black nun’s clothes she wore, as if God had given her some power. But one day no one got better. And then she realized on that particular day she’d forgotten to bring the metal.
The pilot in the hospital in Germany said fuerball, which the Americans call a UFO. It was too strange to believe. But she also knew the boy needed to grow, needed to be normal. And that shiny metal cone around her neck that she called her pendant was keeping him small.
She thought about throwing it away. She stood on the bridge over the James River, stared down into the water, rippling and sparkling in the sunlight, the pendant in her hand. In her mind she threw it, a small splash like a rock, then watched it flash in the sun and then disappear.
But she couldn’t do it. She clutched it tight, afraid she might drop it. She ran off the bridge and tucked it back under her shirt and held her hand over her chest, over the metal. It wasn’t going anywhere.
And for awhile she did nothing. She’d found work as a maid and she and the boy were as happy as they had ever been. He called her Momma. And at night she would hold him and they would listen to the radio and fall asleep together.
But coming home to their tiny apartment one day she saw him yelling at some boys who wouldn’t let him play baseball. He was staring up at a boy who was a full foot taller but five years younger.
“Come on you little shit,” her boy yelled. “I’m better than all of you.”
“You callin’ me little?” said the taller boy. “Get out of here and go play marbles with kids your own age.” The bigger boy pushed him to the ground and so he refused to move. And then they drug him off the field and played without him.
Marlina wanted to hold him and tell him everything would be alright. She thought he would cry, but he just got up, dusted off his trousers, yelled one last time at the boys and walked off. And Marlina realized he wasn’t the little boy she saved. Even though he was still small, he was growing emotionally and intellectually, and they couldn’t go on any more like they were. A teenage boy trapped in a child’s body was a strange thing. He couldn’t keep moving with her. He needed roots to grow. Some stability.
There was only one thing to do. But that was going to be tough. She made the arrangements and then took him by the hand and said they were going to help someone who was sick. She made him wear his good trousers and carry a small suitcase. He went for the dog leash but she said no.
They came to a big white two-story with a wrap-around porch. She squatted down to his level and buttoned up his shirt and combed through his hair with her fingers.
“I’m sorry the dog can’t come. You look good,” she said.
“Nobody’s sick here, are they?” he said.
“No.”
He got quiet, stared at his dirty shoes, one size too big. She gave him a hug.
“I love you, but we can’t keep on like this,” she said. “It’s time for you to be normal. That means I’ve got to go.”
“Can’t you just stay down the street?”
“No.”
A man came to the door with a golden retriever at his side. The boy stroked the dog’s head and stared into the house through the open door: a handsome porcelain pitcher on the table, lace tablecloths, and in the corner a big wooden box with rounded glass on the front and brown knobs down the side.
Except for the TV, the house reminded him of Oppenheim when he was little. His father was a dentist and they lived in a two-story. And the boy always had new, clean shirts that fit and socks with no holes.
Marlina introduced the boy to the tall man. The big man had a rich, sweet, smokey smell the boy would later learn came from a shiny brown pipe. “I hear you’re pretty smart,” the man said, patting the boy on the head. The boy looked up at Marlina and sighed.
“You are going to grow and get big,” she said. “Don’t you want to be big?”
“I don’t want you to go. I’ll stay small like this if you stay.” The man smiled. He thought it was just cute kid talk.
“I love you,” Marlina said, and gave him one final hug and stepped down off the porch onto the dirt path that led to the road.
Then a pretty lady came to the door and gave the boy a hug, then ran down to the path and hugged Marlina. They were both crying, an
d then smiling with tears coming down.
And he didn’t see Marlina again for a very long time.
Johnny Boy
Chickasaw, Florida: present day
“Got some more people coming in today from Jax” says Bo, pouring Angela a cup of coffee in the kitchen a few days after her trip into town. “Next week’s booked, too.” Johnny is standing at the sink with an apron peeling potatoes as fast as he can.
“Damn, Bo. You’re doing great. What’s the draw?” says Angela.
“What do you mean, what’s the draw? My cookin’ for one. Then there’s all of this,” she says, turning around with both hands outstretched. “People don’t get to stay in a real house like this anymore. They get the river, too. It’s a cultural experience!”
“You keep this up and I’ll just continue my role as CEO,” says Angela.
“Yeah, yeah. Doin’ nothin’.”
“Ooh, ooh, I know. You can be upper management and we’ll make Johnny do all the work!”
“Hey, I heard that,” he says, turns around and points his paring knife at Angela trying to look serious and not smile. “I ain’t doin’ all the work while y’all just sit around.”
“No, Johnny,” says Angela. “You haven’t heard the full plan. We’ll make you the boss. Then we’ll hire some little redneck cutie you can order around.”
Johnny lights up at the idea. “Cool! Oh, but what about when I go off to school?”
“No worries, there, Sweetie,” says Angela. “When you get back you can hang your shiny new diploma right over there above the fridge and get your ass right back in front of the deep fryer.”
“Don’t talk to me that way,” says Johnny, with a grin on his face. “I got a knife.”
“I got a rifle.”
“Well ain’t you just Mrs. Sassy Pants,” says Bo. “Gone into town and done lost her mind.”
“Hey look at that,” says Johnny. “Antie Angie actually having some fun. What’d you do, score some happy pills in town?”
“No!” Angie says a little too strong, then says “no, no, nothing like that,” lighter and happier. But it’s too late. The moment fades, and dog starts barking at the back door.
The sheriff walks in and holds his hand out to pet the dog. “That’s a beautiful animal. Nice shiny coat,” he says. The dog backs up, the bark turning into a low growl.
“Quiet down, Dog,” says Angela. He backs off and lays down.
“He only barks if he don’t know you or don’t like you,” says Bo.
“I keep hearing great things about this place, Bo. The word is out in Jax, too. They say go to Bo’s if you want a recharge. Those damn Beemer-drivin’ rednecks don’t know how to live like us old-school rednecks.” He turns his back on them for a second to close the screen door and Angela gives Bo the what-the-hell-is-he-doing-here look and Bo just rolls her eyes and shrugs.
“What’ll it be, Sheriff?”
“How about some o’ them pancakes, Bo.”
“Good morning, Mrs. Fleetwood. I hope you are well,” says the sheriff, settling into the chair across from her. “Sorry our little chat the other day didn’t go the way you wanted.” Bo’s taking eggs out of the fridge and glances up at the sheriff. “Yeah, Bo. Mrs. Fleetwood paid me a visit a few days ago. You didn’t know?”
Bo sends Johnny out to wipe down the picnic tables on the lawn, then a few minutes later brings the sheriff a plate of pancakes.
“Thank you, Bo,” he says, and starts pouring syrup. He pulls out a newspaper. “Y’all read the Regal this morning? Lemme read the headline. ‘Chickasaw Coverup: Sheriff Refuses to Investigate Suspicious Death’.” He puts the paper down and takes a bite of pancake. “Oh, these are good, Bo,” he says, voice muffled by pancake, butter and syrup mix running down his chin. He pauses to swallow, then continues. “Seems Angela here had a nice little chat with Delacroix.” Bo stops chopping up cabbage for cole slaw and turns around.
“Angie, that woman’s a snake,” says Bo.
“Well, she seemed fine to me,” says Angela.
“She’s fine alright, until she starts writing about you,” says the sheriff. “Yeah, Mayor Blankenship called this morning after he’d read the paper. He’d already spoken to the council. He, and by he, I mean him and the entire council, reminded me of my duty to the good citizens of Chickasaw. I told him I had not forgotten, but my instincts on the Kaufman case were correct. But he said maybe I ought to investigate. He then reminded me that next year I’m up for re-election and the full support of the council would be most helpful in that regard.
I told you my thoughts on the case in confidence Mrs. Fleetwood. And this is how you repay me?” he says, holding up the paper.
“You told me it was an accident. It’s not.”
“Is that your professional opinion? I wonder if Delecroix knows the woman accusing the sheriff of not doing his job is taking pills and drinking too much.” And then he leans toward her across the table. “Unstable.”
“That’s enough Andy Jackson! You gonna talk like that you can get outta my kitchen,” says Bo.
“She fainted the other night right after. She had the look of a woman who’d had a little too much of something.”
“That’s it, Andy. Get out,” says Bo.
“Thank you for breakfast, Bo. And I’d love to go but now I’m on official police business.” He stands, adjusts his belt. “I’d like to speak with Jonathan Rosencranz.”
“Why?” says Angela.
“Well, I’m not at liberty to discuss an ongoing investigation.”
“What investigation?
“The investigation you wanted.”
“Johnny didn’t do anything,” says Bo.
“This is what you wanted,” he says to Angela. “Now you got it. So here I am. Where’s Johnny?”
While the sheriff talks to Johnny, Bo sends Angela and the dog out to meet the shrimper, Carl. The big, white shrimp boat slows down and the bow dips, sending a wave under the dock. Angela instinctively steps back. The dog watches with her, wags his tail, sniffs, barks. Two big trawl doors hang off either side of the boat, the chains rattling as the boat slows to a stop. Carl tosses Angela a line and she ties it to a cleat. Everything in the boat is sun-bleached and worn: the nets, the old rope, the wooden scoop rounded like a piece of driftwood.
“That’s a good half-hitch there,” he says, adjusts his faded blue Braves hat and nods at the bow line knot she tied. “Where’d you learn that?” He knows the answer right after he asks, then changes the subject. “I got your email.” He hands her a carton of wine in a plastic Mini-Stop bag, then hauls a bucket of shrimp on ice onto the dock. The dog gets his nose in for a second then turns back to Carl. “I guess you don’t like sushi, huh?”
Angela peeks into the bag. “Chardonnay? They didn’t have Merlot?”
“Unfortunately there’s been a run on Merlot lately. Somebody been awful thirsty. You’ll have to make due.”
“Okay, sorry,” she says and forces a little smile, then changes the subject. “You know the sheriff was asking about Johnny at the fish market. I think he’s trying to punish me by picking on Johnny.”
“Sheriff oughta be checkin’ in on ol’ freakboy.”
“Who?”
“You know. The long-haired dude that runs around town in nothing but a raggy pair of shorts like a wildman. The kids call him Jesus. I seen him in Kaufman’s backyard rootin’ around.”
“Yeah, I’ve seen him there, too. Johnny said he was harmless, that he loved plants, used to give flowers to Mrs. Kaufman.”
“Right. Why’s the freak giving flowers to an old woman? Johnny’s just a kid and maybe he don’t know what people are capable of.”
He looks over to Kaufman’s house. “What’s going on over there?” A white van, Duval County Forensics written on the side, is parked in front. A man and a woman wearing blue latex gloves are ducking under the yellow tape carrying boxes of equipment into the house. “I seen the Regal today. Figured you must’a had somethin
’ to do with that.”
“Yeah, I had a little chat with the newspaper lady.”
“Be careful with the sheriff and that Delecroix woman. Both of ‘em only care about themselves. Delecroix don’t care who she railroads as long as it benefits her.”
Carl carries the heavy bucket to the back door of the kitchen and calls through the screen to Bo. She comes back a second later with flour on her nose and her white hair a little wilder than usual. “What! Oh, it’s you. And you,” she says, loud and rough. Opens the door. “Well, come on in, ain’t got all day. Johnny’s still talkin’ to Numbnuts and I got a house full of hungry people.” She hustles back to the stove, then turns and softens, eyes Carl for a moment. “How’s the ticker?” her voice almost normal.
Carl puts a hand to his chest, turns his head like he’s listening. “Yep, still works. Now I’m thinkin’ about heading over to—”
“Nope. I need you here if you’ll stay. I’ll pay you with a fine shrimp dinner, some gas money for the boat, and some intellectual banter with the CEO there,” she says, poking her finger towards Angela. So Bo gets Carl heading and peeling shrimp and then she sits down at the table with Angela.
“How you doin’?” she says.
“Uh, good, I suppose,” says Angela. She wants something.
“Johnny was supposed to vacuum and change the sheets in the upstairs rooms. Can you do it? I wouldn’t ask, but you seem a little more sprightly than usual.”
“Yeah, I can help out.”
Downstairs the old house has a kitchen, dining room and the big sun room with giant glass windows facing the river. Upstairs there are six guest rooms, three to a side with a hallway in the middle. A doctor had the house built in the 20s with one thought in mind: parties. He loved having actors, politicians and luminaries over. Once the famous heavyweight boxer, Max Schmeling, came for a party and ended up staying a few weeks.
It was designed specifically for this place, with a view of the river and steps coming off the sun room that served as seats so party guests could sit outside on cool nights with a drink. It was the crown of Chickasaw for twenty years or so, then after the war was bought and sold for less and less as the old house and Chickasaw were forgotten. When Walt came along there were people who wanted to tear it down and build new. But he wouldn’t stand for that. He wanted to be there from the moment he saw the old house.
