The Small Crimes of Tiffany Templeton

by Richard Fifield

  I stole it.

  Chapter Eighteen

  THE BIGGEST NEWS SINCE MY arrest came to Gabardine: the National Christmas Tree.

  I was totally okay with being replaced by a tree. This is what it’s like to grow up in a small town. I made terrorist threats and stabbed somebody, but now the talk of the town was an Engelmann spruce.

  At rehearsal, even the old ladies couldn’t stop talking about it—something from our hometown would share a stage with Kathie Lee Gifford.

  “Maybe Carrie Underwood,” said Eileen. “Last year, they had the entire United States Marine Band, and one hundred foster children dressed like angels.”

  “Disgusting,” said Irene Vanek. “Those poor kids.”

  “Maybe they got adopted afterward,” offered Eileen. “They were onstage. Right next to our president. People could get a good look.”

  “You just described a slave auction,” said Irene.

  At last, we could block out the scenes in the Quonset hut. There was still work to be done, but Waterbed Fred assured us that we could rehearse without hard hats. The birds perched near the framework of the stage. At this point, it consisted of corners propped up two-by-fours, yellow string tied between them to mark the perimeter. Having those women so close to trip wire made me nervous. They continued clucking as David conferred with an electrician in the corner. That also made me nervous.

  I hoped these women would channel this much energy on opening night. I made a mental note to check on medications and side effects, and if any of them were prescribed something that made them lethargic at night. Our show was at seven o’clock, and I had only seen them in the mornings or early afternoon. If necessary, I knew I could bribe the crappy nurse into holding the dose. I also wanted to double-check on incontinence, or the Soiled Doves of Gabardine would take on a whole new meaning.

  “I heard they’d narrowed it down to eight,” said Betty Gabrian. “No offense, Tiffany, but I’m glad your brother didn’t get to choose.” Ronnie took his job far too seriously and was unhealthily invested in the selection of the tree.

  “He doesn’t need any more glory,” I said.

  “Litigious,” called out one of the old men, who had drifted to the corner, monitoring David as he supervised the electrician. Stunned at the outburst, we all turned to stare at him.

  “Nurse!” David yelled, but as usual, the nurse was out in the van.

  “Litigious,” repeated the old man, and his two friends nodded. I knew they had dementia, and I think they thought they were at another city council meeting.

  “You are getting a subpar education,” one of his friends said when David looked visibly confused. “It means that dipshit likes to sue people.”

  Nobody argued that point. The women picked up the chatter again.

  “I’d have liked to be on that jury,” said Erika Hickey. “All those years I drove around with my husband, looking for just the right tree. One year I had diverticulitis, and I let him go on his own. That was a mistake. I sent him back to the woods twice, until he got it right.”

  “Typical,” said Diana Whipple.

  Erika was offended by this. “You didn’t even know him,” she said.

  “All men are the same,” said Betty Gabrian. “Furthermore, all trees are the same.”

  “Some trees bear fruit,” countered Erika. “You are the most dismissive person I have ever met.”

  “Engelmann spruce,” said Loretta McQuilkin. “They were hell-bent on an Engelmann spruce.”

  Diana Whipple harrumphed. “Those politicians know nothing. A real Christmas tree is a Douglas fir. It’s been that way for centuries. Spruce shower the floor with needles.”

  “I broke a vacuum cleaner,” said Loretta. “Needles everywhere, no matter how much you water.”

  “I believe in tree skirts,” declared Erika Hickey.

  Finally, something all the women could agree on.

  * * *

  * * *

  TEN MINUTES LATER, DAVID CLAPPED his hands together to restore order and began to distribute fake hair to the ladies, pinching each wig disdainfully. He knew they were cheap.

  Waterbed Fred crossed his arms as he stood beside me. We both knew that this would be entertaining.

  David gingerly passed the three blonde wigs to Diana Whipple, Beatrice Smetanka, and Ruby Bardsley. The wigs were identical, the shade of hay and just as straight and thick. They were shoulder length, and as the women tugged them on, they really did look like prostitutes. But the kind that hang out at truck stops. “The Frostbite Sisters,” pronounced David. Betty knew cheap when she saw it, and I watched as she bit her lip.

  We had one red wig. Truthfully, it was purple in the fluorescent lights and nearly three feet long. Unfortunately, David had chosen it for the madam of the brothel. Betty took it from his hand but did not put it on, just draped it over her shoulder like a scarf. “I’m afraid I might be allergic. Let me try it on tonight, where we have a defibrillator.”

  “Smart lady,” said Waterbed Fred.

  Irene Vanek, the feminist, proudly yanked on the small brown pelt that looked like a piece of porcupine taxidermy. I think it was meant to be a wig for a punk rocker, but Irene was pleased to be given something short and spiky. It fit her personality, or at least the way she spoke to David.

  Eileen Lambert was given a jet-black wig, parted down the middle. I shuddered, remembering her Native American roots, and hoped David wasn’t being unconsciously racist. Her character, Miss Connie, was the oldest prostitute, and we could paint chunks of the wig silver, as long as it didn’t match the metal of her walker.

  Loretta McQuilkin and Erika Hickey were given the pair of curly brown wigs, and the curls were coarse brown clumps that sprung out randomly, even from the forehead. Loretta was supposed to be the drunk prostitute, and Erika the scullery maid, so I could destroy the curls by ratting them out until each woman was left with a halo of hair-sprayed frizz.

  His task completed, David clasped his hands together and studied his actresses. With wigs, he could tell them apart. “Perfection,” he declared. “Time for vocal exercises!”

  As the women made dolphin sounds, Waterbed Fred leaned close to me, concerned.

  “Your brother came by my house last night,” he said. “I let him borrow a bunch of stuff. Binoculars, subzero sleeping bag, collapsible hunting blind. Is there something I should know?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Is he hearing some chatter on the border? Is there going to be some sort of invasion?”

  “My brother is an idiot, Fred. If there was going to be a war, I bet my mom would know before anybody else.”

  “True,” he said. “But I’m going to fill up with gas, just in case.”

  * * *

  * * *

  RONNIE AND HIS FAMILY WAITED in the kitchen. He had to share his news with somebody, and he had no friends. Lorraine smiled at me, but her son was oblivious. I kind of liked him for that. He never reminded me of a toddler, more like a nectarine balanced on chopsticks. Ronnie preached about Jesus going out into nature, as little grim-faced Joseph clutched an old magazine, but never opened it. Like an old man, it seemed like he was just waiting for something bad to happen.

  “Save your preaching for Mom,” I finally said. “Let’s go back to the days when you weren’t talking to me.”

  “You tried to kill me,” he pointed out.

  “Not hard enough,” I said.

  He turned to Lorraine. “My sister sucks at everything. She can’t even hit internal organs.” He elbowed his wife, and she laughed like a dummy, like she should be sitting on Ronnie’s lap, hinged jaw and strings. “My church is without a leader,” said Ronnie. “I got my orders directly from God.”

  I knew his pastor was gone, but unlike Ronnie, I knew the reason why. I said nothing as Joseph sat down at my feet, peering up at me, expectant. I don’t
know what he wanted. Maybe he wanted confirmation, wanted me to tell him that something bad always happened, and that he should run away as soon as possible.

  “I don’t care about Christmas trees,” I said. “Seriously. You’re wasting your time.”

  “I swear this is the best day of my life,” said Ronnie. He dropped a ring of keys on the counter. Joseph rose from the floor when he heard the sound. He knew that they meant escape. When he grabbed for the keys, Ronnie pushed them out of his reach.

  “I thought a wedding was supposed to be the best day of your life.” I knew why he brought the keys, and I didn’t want to take care of Lorraine. “Is this your only set?”

  “Yes,” said Ronnie.

  “How is she supposed to unlock the door?”

  “She doesn’t need to,” said Ronnie. “Jesus. She’s going to be inside, you weirdo.”

  “What if she needs to go to the grocery store or something?”

  He considered this. He shoved the keys back in his pocket. “I’m going to be gone for months,” he said. “This is a special assignment.”

  “You’re not getting paid for this, Ronnie.”

  “I’m a warrior for God,” he said. “A true patriot. I’ve received my calling, and I must serve.”

  “Obviously,” I said. “I don’t understand what God has to do with a Christmas tree. I’m pretty sure he has bigger things to worry about.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Don’t mock me,” he said. “You of all people. I suffered because you were a heathen. I almost lost a kidney when you stabbed me.” This was not true. It only required two Band-Aids.

  I took a deep breath. “I’ve already apologized,” I said.

  Lorraine looked at me, dead in the eye. “Clear the way for the Lord in the wilderness. Then the glory of the Lord will be revealed. And all flesh will see it together; for the mouth of the Lord has spoken.” She touched the crown of Joseph’s head and smoothed his hair with a steady hand. “It’s from Isaiah.”

  “Good job, babe.” The Meatloaf reached across the kitchen table and touched her hand, and in that moment, I saw the truth. Lorraine wasn’t an idiot. She suffered the church and she suffered the Meatloaf, all for a free ride.

  He kissed Joseph on the forehead and Lorraine on the cheek, and then he fled.

  We watched his truck through the kitchen window, back windows completely blocked with survival supplies. The sound of his engine blasted through the trailer court. As he drove away, Lorraine and I studied each other, and Joseph smacked his lips together.

  “Goodbye,” said Joseph.

  “Good riddance,” I said.

  Lorraine laughed, and I think it was authentic.

  FROM THE DESK OF TIFFANY TEMPLETON

  David sent Thank You cards for everything, and over the years, I listened as he called people for their mailing address to tell them he was sending a Thank You card, which seemed ridiculous to me. If you were going to bother to call somebody, why not just say thank you and be done with it? He believed in niceties, even though he didn’t mean them. He sent a Thank You card to every single teacher at the end of the school year, he sent Thank You cards to the sheriff after his yearly speech, and a Thank You card to the volunteer fire department during December, right in the middle of Christmas card season. His house had never caught fire, but he sent a card during the holidays just the same. Never a Christmas card, always a Thank You.

  “Thank You is secular, and I respect religious diversity,” he proclaimed, as if our fire department had Jews or atheists.

  I’ve received two Thank You cards from David in my lifetime, both through the mail. The first was a painting on thick stock, when I wrote his paper on Harriet Tubman. The second card came last year, and when it opened, played a tinny version of “Send in the Clowns,” his expression of gratitude for perming Janelle’s hair, because he was allergic to the fumes. His Thank You card collection was impressive, and his mother didn’t mind spending all that money on stamps, even though they couldn’t always pay their power bill. Many of his cards could have been literally walked across the street. I coveted his collection, perfectly organized by color and pattern, in a Lucite box that had once held rocks from his ill-fated Rocks and Fossils high school club. I never collected anything. Now, I guess you could say I collect felonies.

  At my father’s funeral, I didn’t hear a word, didn’t even know what denomination it was or why my mother had picked that church or the preacher. I know that the Meatloaf had requested the funeral be held at his church in Idaho, but was flatly denied. As the preacher spoke about a man he never knew, I looked around the church. I couldn’t believe it was full and not packed with people from the Bad Check List. These were people who were mourning, who knew my gentle father, who came to honor his kind soul. Waterbed Fred, and all of the residents of the trailer court, except for the Mail Lady and Bitsy. The McGurtys were there, without any of their children. Even TJ McMackin and his brother were there, and it didn’t bother me that they were wearing giant winter jackets. Betty Gabrian and Lou Ann, who both cried; I saw it with my own eyes. The two guys from the garage in town, who rescued him when he got the flat tire. I counted at least twenty people who depended upon my dad to do their taxes, and another twenty from the food bank. Even Lorraine’s family showed up, a whole row of Sweets on their best behavior.

  It was an urge that built up inside me, took over until it was released. I needed to send them Thank You cards, even though I was three months late. Normal people would call it a conscience, but my mother has convinced me that I don’t possess such a thing.

  I knew I would never wear the dress from the funeral again, and I also knew my mother kept the receipt. I asked to borrow the car, to return the dress to Shopko, and I don’t know if it was grief, but she agreed, as long as I brought her the money, the exact total.

  After returning the dress to Shopko, I drove to the Ben Franklin. David had taught me only to strike on weekday afternoons, when the store was at a lull, the cashiers watching the clock like zombies, waiting to lock the doors, but it was a Saturday. The Ben Franklin had two extra cashiers on Saturdays, just to deal with the masses of ladies who needed scalloped paper for their scrapbooking projects or dried eucalyptus for ever-expanding wreaths, new inventory hot-glue-gunned until the wreaths were bigger than their children.

  In the greeting card aisle, I made sure I was alone, and I grabbed the first clear plastic box of Thank You cards. Holding my head up high, trying to look like I belonged amongst the arts-and-crafters, I stepped out into the main aisle. David tried to teach me how to appear inconspicuous, ironic for someone so flamboyant he could probably be seen from space. As I walked back toward the dressing room, I passed a flock of women fingering lengths of bugle beads, a herd at the fabric-cutting station, clutching at their numbers. The noise of the cloth guillotine made me remember that I had forgotten my scissors, usually tucked into the inner pocket of my jacket.

  I veered left into the sporting goods aisle, and my eye caught on a pearl-handled penknife. It hooked me, and after what I’d witnessed in the windows of the trailer park, I decided that I could use the protection.

  At Ben Franklin, the bathroom doubled as the dressing room, and I sat on the upholstered bench and realized my conundrum. The knife was encased in plastic, and I needed the knife itself to open its own packaging.

  The Thank You cards were easy enough. I used my fingernail to pry open the bottom of the package, and they slid into my hand. I stood and stuffed them down the front of my jeans, and turned around in front of the mirror. The bulge was barely visible. As I studied the knife inside its plastic prison, I broke out in a sweat. I tried to pry it open with my fingernails, but it was impossible. I felt around in my pockets, looking for some sort of tool, but only found loose change and a cigarette lighter.

  I didn’t even think twice about melting the plastic. I watched it brown and bubble and warp, and within se
conds, the knife was in my jeans pocket. I stuffed the plastic into the wastebasket, covered it in a giant wad of toilet paper.

  I should have walked right out of the store, but against the far wall, I noticed the seasonal items had changed, among them a stack of furnace filters. I thought of Janelle, and I stood in front of the display, but realized I didn’t have a clue what size they needed, and that there was no way I could stuff a furnace filter down the front of my jeans.

  I was startled when I felt the hand on my shoulder. Honestly, I nearly screamed.

  A middle-aged woman had smelled the melting plastic, and alerted the manager. Where I live, we are always sniffing the air, because of the forest fires, and because we don’t trust the volunteer fire department to get there in time. The Soiled Doves of Gabardine were proof of that.

  When streams and creeks flow into rivers, it’s called a confluence. All those things coming together, all those currents creating the undertow we were always warned about. This moment was my confluence.

  Fortune had three cops, and apparently, my shoplifting was so heinous that it required all of them. I did not hear any sirens in the parking lot, and I was thankful for that. I could have given them a Thank You card. They were identical—deeply tanned, blond mustaches, square jaws. Two remained in the doorway, watching nonchalantly. This was not a hostage situation.

  I surrendered the Thank You cards to the third cop, but I said nothing about the knife.

  The grand total was three dollars and one cent, so the third officer wrote me a ticket, didn’t cuff me or take me to jail. In the back pocket of my jeans, I had twenty-nine dollars and seventy-four cents, the money from returning the dress. In a box in the trailer court, I had over twenty thousand dollars. When I did the math, I could have afforded exactly 6,689 packs of Thank You cards. We don’t have a sales tax in Montana, so the math was easy.