The Small Crimes of Tiffany Templeton

by Richard Fifield

  “Mrs. Templeton,” he said, another attempt. “I’m here to ask your permission to take Tiffany for the afternoon.”

  “In that car? I don’t think that car is going to make it around the block.”

  “It’s a surprise party,” he said.

  “That’s not how surprise parties work, young man. You’re supposed to hide in somebody’s house and jump out when they walk through the door. Unless they are morbidly obese. Don’t surprise them. I know what can happen.”

  “Dad wasn’t surprised,” I pointed out.

  “You don’t know that, Tiffany. Maybe his mother”—she glared at Bitsy—“itemized too much.”

  He bit his lip. “I don’t know about my mother’s taxes,” he said. He stood straighter and looked her directly in the eye. “I’m here to ask your permission to take Tiffany for the afternoon. I respect your rules and I respect her probation, and that’s why I want to ask you first.”

  “Fine,” said my mother. “Just get that girl to move her car.”

  “It’s a tea party,” said Bitsy. I guess he thought that would be helpful, but he looked like he was going to vomit.

  “Oh, that David. He’s a darling.” She nodded at me, but as I circled around the counter, she stopped me.

  “Oh, Tiffany. I almost forgot!” She fished beneath the cash register and threw a pack of AAA batteries at me. When I caught them, I wasn’t sure if she had really bought them for the remote control, or just hadn’t put them out as inventory. It was most likely to impress David, even though Bitsy was the boy I wanted her to notice.

  * * *

  * * *

  KAITLYNN’S CAR DID MAKE IT around the block and deposited the seven of us and a giant wicker picnic basket in front of the gloomy garage at the sand hill. It felt like the beginning of a horror movie.

  David had stuffed the basket full, but oh so carefully. First, he removed a plastic tarp, rolled tightly with at least ten rubber bands. We all watched in silence until the tarp was unfurled and smoothed onto the concrete floor.

  “Sit,” he said, and we did, and the next items in the basket emerged, two bottles of Mad Dog. Begrudgingly, he gave them to Victoria. “It’s supposed to be a party,” he said, explaining the bottles, caps twisted off and passed between the girls. “I don’t like them to drink, but it’s not like it was easy to get them to come to your party.” He pointed at Becky. “Where’s your notebook? You just consumed a hundred calories. Write it down.”

  Bitsy refused the bottle when it was passed to him, scooted backward on the slippery tarp until his leg was touching mine. David’s next magic trick was to pull out a tea set, plastic, with settings for four little girls. The cheerleaders drank cheap booze, and Bitsy and I touched legs, and we all watched David unpack the entire set, arrange the saucers and cups and fake sugar and cream bowls, across the plywood counter. He jammed two fat candlesticks into the mouths of empty bottles of Mad Dog. I was glad the girls had contributed something.

  “Lighter,” he said, and Bitsy tossed it. At the far corner of the tarp, the girls had managed to finish an entire bottle. They were varsity, without question.

  Bitsy leaned toward me, and whispered. “Happy birthday.”

  “This is completely fucked up,” I said. “But thank you.”

  As he leaned back, a package tumbled out of his cargo shorts. Wrapped, leftover Christmas paper, silver trees on red paper, but still wrapped, and for a fifteen-year-old boy, that was amazing.

  “What’s this?”

  “I kept the receipt. But I don’t think you can return it. No offense, but I think they might arrest you.”

  I opened it, and it was true, I would need the receipt. Bitsy bought me the exact same universal remote as the one my mother had presented that morning, still floating around somewhere inside Kaitlynn’s car.

  David stood back, and inspected his display. He was satisfied, thank god. I’d known him for too long and could easily imagine him adjusting and readjusting for an hour. The flames flickered in the gloom, and in the weird light, the second bottle of Mad Dog shone in Kaitlynn’s hand.

  “Perfect,” declared David. He returned to the basket, and I guess a part of me was hoping there was a cake in there somehow, but David would never have packed a cake at the bottom of the basket. He was better than that. He removed the last item, and it was definitely not a cake, nor was it something normally seen at a sweet sixteen party, even in the snowbelt.

  He lugged the gallon of blue antifreeze to the plywood counter and carefully unscrewed the cap. The cheerleaders were finally drunk, and pointing out all the spots Becky had missed when she had shaved her legs, but Bitsy and I were transfixed.

  I watched David carefully pour antifreeze into each tea cup, and he didn’t spill a drop. The plastic saucers remained immaculate.

  “This tea party isn’t for you,” he said.

  “I figured that.”

  “We’re going to kill some pack rats.” With that, he screwed the lid back onto the jug of antifreeze and grabbed his picnic basket, and the cheerleaders hoisted themselves from the tarp and followed him, staggering. Apparently, the party was over.

  “I know way too much about the Meatloaf,” said David. “Unfortunately. I know how he feels about pack rats. I’m not going to let him get away with pepper spraying one of my girls.”

  “I’m not touching any dead animals,” said Victoria. “This is like peer pressure.”

  David glared at her. “I don’t consider any of you my peers.”

  “Wow,” I said. I knew it was the truth, but always thought it would remain unspoken. He turned on a heel and exited, and as he opened the door, the room filled with the glare of the sun. His troupe rose and followed sluggishly behind. When the door shut, Bitsy and I sat in silence, as the gloom collected, and the candles flickered and reflected in the filthy window.

  Bitsy stared at the tea set. “That’s some dark shit,” he said. “I think David might be a psychopath.”

  “I don’t think he has an outfit for that,” I said. Bitsy leaned back on the tarp, and I thought he was going to smoke a cigarette, but instead he kissed me.

  It was my sweet sixteen. Candles and a tea party. Bitsy reached around my shoulder to pull me closer, a move he had never tried before.

  Our bodies touched, and we forgot about the poison.

  FROM THE DESK OF TIFFANY TEMPLETON

  The court date was finally scheduled three months after I was caught. I thought it was a good sign that my crimes did not require urgency. Once again, I was wrong. Everything I had imagined was wrong. There was no jury. In juvenile court, the courtroom was closed. I remember meeting my court-appointed attorney for the first time an hour before my hearing. She told me I was probably just going to get community service. I had no reason to doubt her, but I was still scared. Honestly, it was the first time I remember wanting my father, needing him to be in court, to assure me that the damage meant nothing to him. He had predicted I would make mistakes.

  I wish I could have used a bottle of Wite-Out to fix that day, but being a girl hurt my chances. Being the infamous daughter of Vy Templeton probably made things even worse.

  As soon as the judge took the stand, I could tell he had been looking forward to this. He had prepared carefully, and my court-appointed attorney suddenly looked nervous. It only got worse when he began to read the written statement, smirking as he filled the chambers with a lordly baritone.

  Lionel’s account was two pages long, every single detail of that day, even the temperature. It was bad enough to listen to two pages of Lionel’s witness statement, and I assumed we were done. But then the judge launched into the account of Ronald Templeton Jr. David would have been impressed with the judge’s dramatic reading, unspooling the attack slowly, his volume rising to match the terror that Ronnie described.

  Again, I was sure we were done and looked at my court-ap
pointed attorney, who was stone-faced. She knew the judge was not finished. My mother’s letter was the real surprise. It wasn’t full of terror, just the tale of an exhausted woman. The judge switched his tone, and read it in a melodramatic way. To the court, it sounded like a woman who had been beaten down by years of a belligerent daughter. To me, it sounded like she just wanted a vacation.

  I was sentenced to three months. When the judgment was announced, the court-appointed attorney was shocked. Not me. Bad luck for bad girls, that’s how it goes.

  The night I left, my mother stood in the doorway of my bedroom in her new skinny clothes. Yoga pants, tank top, like she had lost the weight from exercise. That look on her face, those deflated cheeks, sunken and grim. I was familiar with how my mother displayed disappointment.

  “I just need a break,” she said.

  “Then maybe you should be the one going away,” I said.

  She had no response to this, crossed her arms, the extra skin moving like wings. “I bought you a new suitcase,” she said, and that was the last time I spoke to her for three months.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  ON AUGUST 15, ONLY THREE chairs remained in Mr. Francine’s office.

  The Sweets were gone, having confessed, but I’m sure they were off somewhere shoving gunpowder into empty beer cans. While Rufus was in Kelly’s office, I noticed that TJ was calm, clear-eyed.

  “It’s my last day,” he said. “Being sober for two months was enough, I guess.”

  “Congratulations,” I said. “I hope I see you around.”

  “We live in Gabardine,” he pointed out.

  “Right,” I said.

  “Silence,” commanded Mr. Francine, a sheen of sweat on his forehead.

  * * *

  * * *

  “WHAT DO YOU DO FOR fun?” Kelly leaned across the table. I think maybe she had run out of things to talk about. I wanted to bring up the Sweets, but I knew better.

  “Right now? Killing pack rats, I guess.”

  “For sport? Is that a thing around here?” She leaned back, and I could see the horror on her face.

  “No,” I said. “There’s not much sport involved, I guess. Don’t you have rats in Cleveland?”

  “Yes. But we also have museums and high-speed internet. There’s better things to do.”

  “I know what you’re thinking,” I said. “I read a lot of true crime books. All psychopaths kill animals when they’re younger. It’s true. Every single one.”

  “I don’t think you’re a psychopath, Tiffany. Honestly, I don’t even think you’re that tough.”

  “I got sent away,” I said. “The court would disagree with you.”

  “You never talk about Dogwood,” she said. I had my reasons. The worst story wasn’t mine to tell. It belonged to another girl, who was afraid of the dark.

  “Nothing exciting happened there,” I said. For eighty-two of the days, that was the truth. “I wanted to come back with some hard-core stories and maybe a scar or something.” Kelly stared at me. “Not disfiguring or anything. I didn’t want a scar on my face.”

  “Not all scars are on the outside,” said Kelly.

  I didn’t respond, just pushed my pages at her. She surprised me by suddenly producing papers of her own, removed a folded Chronicle from her backpack. “The newspaper came out today,” she said. She held it up for me to see, and unfortunately it was Ronnie’s face.

  “Keep it,” I said. “I don’t want to know.”

  “It’s hilarious,” she said. “No offense. But I wanted you to know that your reign as the most notorious Templeton is over.”

  “It was only a matter of time,” I said. Begrudgingly, I unfolded the newspaper.

  LOCAL MAN DEFENDS CHRISTMAS FROM UNKNOWN THREATS

  Gloria Giefer, Staff Reporter

  A local man has taken up an armed vigil to protect the National Christmas Tree, and many Carney County residents are wondering why.

  Ronald Templeton Jr., 24, a resident of Gabardine, began his tactical operation last month, even though the National Christmas Tree is not scheduled to be harvested until Nov. 30 of this year.

  Templeton, a longtime employee of the U.S. Forest Service, does not have any direct connection to the National Christmas Tree program.

  A tree has been chosen every year since 1923, and this year’s 79-foot Engelmann spruce was selected after a nationwide search and will travel to Washington, D.C., for the annual lighting and ceremony. The tree will be felled on Nov. 30, and transported by a locally owned 16-wheeler stretch trailer. Templeton’s vigil is not supported by local law enforcement or the USFS, but the Chronicle confirmed that his AR-15 is legally registered and his carry permit is valid through 2019.

  The tree, located in the Kamura Forest District, has attracted many sightseers and civic leaders. “I’ve sworn to protect it,” said Templeton, in an interview on Friday. When asked for clarification, Templeton said that his oath was administered by a higher power and not through judicial channels. “I was called, and I answered, and I’ve got ammunition.” In addition to ammunition, Templeton has a stockpile of granola bars, bottled water and energy drinks.

  When reached for comment, Allison Shelly, USFS spokesperson, declined to make a statement and deferred to Jake Morton, chief of the Kamura Forest District. Morton, reached by phone, confirmed Templeton’s employment, but explained Templeton’s official duties as restroom maintenance and on occasion extinguishing campfires.

  Morton, who has supervised the district since 1998, offered little explanation for Templeton’s activity. “He’s doing this on his own time. We appreciate his devotion, but we don’t think there is any real threat at this time.”

  Templeton, via satellite phone, was asked for a response. All requests for clarification were met with silence, although Templeton did offer one word, just before unplugging his satellite connection.

  “Terrorists.”

  Attempts to reach Templeton for further details have been unsuccessful. In an email, Shelly and officials from the U.S. Department of the Interior referred any additional media requests to the office of the state attorney general. Controversy erupted across some segments of Carney County on June 29, after Shelly issued a press release announcing that an Engelmann spruce had been chosen, instead of the traditional Douglas fir. As reported in the Chronicle last week, the FBI is investigating a series of death threats against Shelly, as the state attorney general continues to work in conjunction with cybersecurity experts from Homeland Security to investigate local social media accounts falsely accusing Shelly of being a member of ISIS, the Jewish Defense League, and Atheist Women in Media.

  In his initial interview, Templeton confirmed that he would continue his armed vigil until the moment the sawyer arrives with the chainsaw on Nov. 26. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said. “This is my duty. I’m not just defending Christmas. I’m defending America. I know he’s got my address, but you can tell the president he doesn’t need to send me a thank-you card.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  BY THE LAST WEEK OF August, members of the Bad Check List had finished the stage. Twenty feet wide, ten feet deep, raised a foot from the floor. Twelve inches was good, I thought. If any of the actresses fell, or if any actresses were pushed by their imperious director, twelve inches didn’t seem deadly. Bones broken, maybe, but not death. I wondered if we could surround the stage with pillows.

  David scheduled rehearsal for ten, but called me that morning and asked me to keep the actresses occupied until ten thirty. He gave me a list of ways to do so, but I wasn’t going to make them do the breathing exercises, and I was not going to play any improvisation games, because with dementia, I thought it could go to really bizarre places.

  Instead, the women lined up on the new stage, sat in their stars and stripes. I had spent enough time with them to know they were used to waiting around
, usually for the activities director or the nurse, but sometimes for death. They gossiped and argued, and I sat in the front row, script in hand, flipped through pages, trying to look busy.

  One woman was not wearing stars and stripes. Irene Vanek wore a bright green T-shirt, with black letters: THIS IS WHAT A FEMINIST LOOKS LIKE.

  I knew Irene had a DNR, and it seemed strange to believe in something so much, but yet be so willing to surrender to death. I had the notes. I knew she was healthy.

  “I like your shirt,” I said, and although she smiled broadly, a few of the women rolled their eyes.

  “My daughter sent it to me,” said Irene. “I used to have one just like it. It got lost along the way, I guess. As things do.”

  “It’s awesome,” I said.

  “Are you a feminist?”

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “I’ve never met one before.”

  “Your mother,” said Betty Gabrian. “Your mother might have questionable politics, but she is a feminist, through and through. Even if she doesn’t realize it.”

  Irene’s eyes sparkled. “I’ve watched you,” she said. “I’ve known lots of girls just like you. Leather jackets, tough little faces. You don’t need any of that. Writing this play was a feminist act.”

  “What does that mean? I thought you hated the play.”

  “Just the clichés,” said Betty Gabrian, trying to be helpful as always.

  “Being a feminist means being awake,” said Irene. “Being a feminist means being true to yourself, no matter the consequences. You created art, and you put it out into the world. That’s revolutionary.”

  Betty Gabrian nodded. “A feminist is fearless and she fights for her place in the world. And a feminist accepts that there will be consequences.” She winked at me. “I know a girl just like that,” she said.

  Behind me, I heard David and his squad enter the garage, the clack of heels on concrete, most likely Becky. David made her wear heels everywhere, until she figured out how to stop wobbling.