The Small Crimes of Tiffany Templeton

by Richard Fifield

  She considered this. “Maybe you’re right.” She shut the cash register softly, but the bell still rang out, an incomplete sale. “I’m okay with eight dead prostitutes. This town needs all the strong women it can get.”

  I guess it was wrong to call it a parade. There was only one vehicle, only one attraction that drew people out into the bitter cold: the National Christmas Tree.

  The sawyer had taken it down yesterday, and I heard there was a crowd for that, too. A crane swung the tree onto the back of a logging truck, a local sawyer and a local logging truck, so I knew the newspaper had a worthy headline. Pride in the sawyer who was the son of another sawyer, and pride in the logging truck, also passed down from a father to a son.

  As far as my own familial relations, my mother was unimpressed with the hoopla, but I wouldn’t have been surprised to see my brother clinging to the tree as it passed through town, refusing to let go. That would have at least made the parade interesting. Most likely, he was standing in front of the stump, waving an American flag, maybe crying.

  I’m not an environmentalist, but it did seem weird for an entire town to celebrate the death of something, a murder that measured seventy-nine feet.

  Ten minutes before the parade, the gas station was completely empty, and I heard my mother swear as she ejected the drawer from the cash register. All that change had piled beyond the capacity, and the drawer was stuck, probably pennies. She yanked, but it would not budge. In the last eight months, I had discovered where my mother’s strength truly resided. It wasn’t in her forearms. Even though she would never admit it, my mother had something inside her that would not allow her to give up on me, even when she said otherwise. My mother would not give up on anything she really cared about, and this included the cash register drawer, and with one loud grunt, she finally dislodged it. Unfortunately, it dislodged past its springs and flew onto the floor. She didn’t ask me to pick up all the loose change. I think she was still relishing her new body, and her ability to crouch, and she took to the floor and began to pluck the errant coins. In her particular way, of course. Instead of scooping all of the change together, she picked up all the pennies first.

  She was still crouched down on the floor when the door of the gas station swung open, and Kaitlynn burst through, silver ski jacket and a purple-and-black scarf, the stripes so close together that it seemed to be the color of bruises.

  I stood in front of the deadly popcorn machine, mop still in hand. Tough Tiff would have used it as a weapon.

  She marched straight up to me. I could tell by her intensity that she was following orders, just like always. Unfortunately, she didn’t know that David had just left and made things right.

  “We know the truth about you. We know you’re a lesbian.” She squared her shoulders and tossed her hair. I’d seen this pose a thousand times since kindergarten.

  “That’s the best you’ve got?” I dipped the mop into the bucket, and when I shoved it into the wringer, I cranked as hard as I could. I hoped she could see my muscles flex. “That’s not even an insult.”

  “Nobody likes a freak. You’re going to die alone.”

  At this, my mother suddenly sprung up from behind the counter, her fist full of pennies, and startled Kaitlynn. Wisely, she took a step back from me.

  “What did you just say?”

  “Nothing,” said Kaitlynn. “No big deal.”

  “I heard you,” said my mother. “Who in the hell do you think you are?”

  “Kaitlynn,” she said. “The one with the K.” Clearly, she did not grasp my mother’s tone.

  “I know exactly which Kaitlynn you are. I know everything in this town. Your current stepfather has hepatitis C because he used to be a meth head. Next time you see Sheriff Schrader, ask him about your real dad, and the time he got busted in the bowling alley parking lot. He tried to sell you to some Canadians.”

  Kaitlynn’s face blotched purple as her scarf, and she took another step backward.

  “That’s not true,” she said.

  “Of course, you don’t remember, because you were just a baby. But the rest of this town will never forget that he couldn’t even get ten dollars.” My mother smirked. “Canadian dollars.”

  As usual, my mother knew everything, and Kaitlynn’s jaw dropped open, so I knew it was the truth. I would hold on to this information, just in case I needed it later. My mother slammed the fistful of pennies on the countertop, and the crack made Kaitlynn jump backward into the candy aisle.

  “I don’t ever want to see your rat face or your cheap clothes in my store. Got it? You’re no longer allowed here.”

  Kaitlynn nodded her head and backed toward the exit. Of course, my mother was not finished.

  “I would ask you to apologize, but I never want to hear you open your mouth again.”

  A cold blast of air from outside as Kaitlynn swung open the door and fled out toward the highway. I watched her silver jacket pass several groups gathered in front of the garage, including two of her fellow cheerleaders. Kaitlynn kept walking. She was the type of girl who didn’t need a parade, because she lived inside one her entire life. At this moment, she walked so fast that nobody could shower her with compliments, a silver blur getting smaller and smaller, until she ducked down a side street, and I lost sight of her entirely.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “My pleasure,” she said. “You’re not going to die alone. I’m pretty sure your brother won’t find anyone, either.”

  It had taken some work, and a lot of time, but I had accepted that these words from my mother were her version of kindness. This was who she was, and I never expected her to change. Things were right, things had been forgiven. When she asked me to make popcorn, I knew for sure.

  The rumble of the truck approached, louder than the hissing and spitting as the kettle spun. My mother and I both watched out the window, and that was enough. We would not join the crowd along the highway. The cab of the truck appeared, and behind it, a tree so massive that it filled the entire window, and for a few moments, all we could see was green.

  Acknowledgments

  THIS BOOK WOULD NOT BE possible without the grace and kindness of my friends and family. They kept me going, and they caught me every time I fell, and picked up the pieces when I broke apart. My mother was lifted up by the love of Gary Jones, Lisa Cooper, Launa Baas, Dana Wallace, and the rest of my biological family. Special thanks to my aunt, Mary Baker Johnson, who reminds me every single day to live ferociously, and love fearlessly. I’m fortunate to have a family of friends that never left my side: Julie Janj, Hunter Thomas, Adam Muscarella, Lucy Hansen, Patrick Ryan, Kelley Provost, Rashid Abdel Ghafur, Renee Tost, Robin O’Day, Jeff Orchard, Erinn Ackley, Paula Miskuly Tripp, Frank Casciato, Kia Liszak, Sharma Shields, Vasa Parsons, Kelly Plotz, Jenna Blum, Mark and Pam Gibbons, Alison Callahan, and Amber Boyce.

  Thank you to John Runkle and Dallas Wilson, and Jane Peterson and Eileen McGurty, who offered me places to write, and to Book Club for Mayor and the Missoula Group, who offered me a place to be loved. Thank you to Dr. Laura Wharton, and the nurses at Cabinet Peaks Medical Center in Libby, Montana, for taking care of my mother, and for holding my hand through the end. We were blessed by your presence, and the dignity you provided.

  I have a great team of cheerleaders and advisors, and I am indebted to Jenny Bent, Andrea Peskind Katz and Great Thoughts Great Readers, Kathy Murphy and the Pulpwood Queens, J. Ryan Stradal, Barbara Theroux, Gwen Florio, Gretchen Durning and Ben Schrank. Mara Panich, Aimee McQuilkin, and Quinn McQuilkin were extraordinary beta readers, and Mike Malament was an exceptional (and patient) photographer. Big love to all my students, past and present, and the Zootown Arts Community Center for hosting us. Thank you to Fact & Fiction, Shakespeare & Co, and all the independent bookstores that hosted me, as well as every book club brave enough to have me in their homes. When I got lost, Pete Fromm and Deirdre McNam
er rescued me, and reminded me of how damn lucky I am to be able to share my words. I am incredibly grateful to each and every reader out there; none of this would be possible without your continued support of authors and books.

  Sometimes, real life can take away the best parts of you, and leave behind a blank page.

  Don’t give up. When you are loved, and are brave enough to love somebody else, the stories will always be there.

  XOXO,

  Richard

  About the Author

  Richard Fifield earned his MFA from Sarah Lawrence College in upstate New York. For the past twenty years he has worked as a social worker for adults with intellectual disabilities, while volunteering as a creative writing teacher in Missoula, Montana. His first novel, The Flood Girls, was published in 2016. Follow him on Twitter @richard_fifield.

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