“It sounds real to me. Look at him.”
Micah wiped his nose on his sleeve. “He asked me my name and I told him and he asked where I live and I told him and he said he’d find me and kill me if I told anyone and now I told you and what if he finds me and kills me?”
Dad unhooked his seat belt. “We better go see the ranger.” He got out of the car.
“No! I ain’t going. He’ll kill me; I know it.” Micah crushed back into the seat.
Mom said, “I’ll wait here with him. You go talk to the ranger.” Mom swiveled. “You want to sit up here?”
“I’m not getting out of the car. Lock the doors.”
Mom got out of the car and Micah screamed “Noooo.” She opened the back door, got in and hugged him. “It’ll be okay.”
“Lock the doors.”
~
Gary Blake walked into the visitor center to chaos. Three rangers surrounded a man, weeping and crying. One ranger keyed a radio and asked for support. Gary walked up to the group and tapped one ranger on the arm. “Excuse me?”
She turned. “Yes?”
“I... um—could we speak in private somewhere?”
“We’re in the middle of an emergency.”
“I know that. It’s about that. Very important. There’s three of you. Certainly one can break free?”
She must have caught the urgency in his voice or his mannerisms, because she excused herself. The man in the middle glanced at Gary for a second and he saw… what? A warning?
“Is this okay?” She stood off to the side of the huge window overlooking the canyon.
“Yes. Listen, my son claims he saw what happened, and that the man threw his wife over the cliff.”
She looked dubious. “What?”
He nodded. “He said she wore brown pants and a red jacket and he just picked her up and tossed her over the fence, then looked over to see... I suppose, to watch her fall, then he turned and caught my son watching.”
“Where was your son?”
“In the bushes. He plays secret agent. He hides and watches people.”
“Stay here.” She moved to the group as two more rangers came through the main entrance and joined the group. She asked a few questions and the man answered. Nodding, she returned to Gary.
“Well, the clothes check out. And no one knows about the incident… yet. So perhaps the boy did see it.”
“To be honest, I wasn’t sure, but he is really traumatized. It’s worth looking into.”
“Why don’t you bring him in?”
“He won’t leave the car. Says the guy grabbed him and threatened to kill him if he told. Now he’s terrified.”
“Come on. Let’s go to your car.”
They walked past the group and the guy made eye contact again, just a flash. Gary saw fear in his eyes this time.
“I’m Laura Morton,” she offered her hand, thin and cold.
“Gary Blake.”
They arrived at the car and Gary tried the door. Locked. “Unlock the door.”
“Nooo.” Micah screamed.
“Uh, roll down the window.” Ashley rolled it down and Gary made the introductions. With much cajoling, they got Micah to tell the story to the ranger—through the window.
At last Laura stood and glanced sideways at Gary. “Let’s go.” She nodded toward the visitor center. Gary headed that way and she fell into step beside him.
“So what do we do?”
“Let’s talk to the bigwigs and tell them what’s going on.”
They approached the group. Gary felt cynical, but after hearing Micah’s story, watching the guy cry and dab at his eyes looked contrived. At a pause Laura asked a few rangers to come aside to talk to Gary. They moved to the same spot as before.
“Mr. Blake here has a different side to the story. Let him tell you.” Gary obliged.
The rangers’ looks changed from doubt to incredulity to anger.
The biggest ranger hiked up his belt. “Those fences are low, but they aren’t that low. It’s pretty hard for a person to fall over them. I’m thinking this guy offed his wife, then came here crying. It’s always the spouse, they say.”
~
“You want to stay back there, honey?”
Ashley held Micah and stroked his hair. “Yes.”
Gary started to back up, then changed his mind. He pulled forward and shut off the car. “Hang on a minute. I need to talk to the ranger again.” He shut the door and stalked to the visitor center. Walking through the lobby, Gary walked straight to the crowd, bulled past two people and swung a roundhouse punch into the man’s face, then followed through by pushing him down and landing on him. He held his mouth to his ear.
“That’s for my son, you cowardly creep, threatening him. You ever get out and you’ll hear from me.”
The rangers shouted and wrestled him to his feet, dragging him from the scene. Gary peered at the man, making sure he understood the message. Two men escorted him outside.
“Now what?” The big guy spoke. Another ranger, Laura, trotted up, looked around for anyone who might overhear and whispered, “Off the record? I appreciate what you did.” In a louder voice she said, “Mr. Blake, that was inexcusable.”
“I apologize. Wait. No, I don’t. I’m sorry if it caused you people more grief, but I’m glad I did it.”
The big guy wiped his brow. “Well, I don’t think the guy will be pressing charges. And there certainly were mitigating circumstances. Let’s just drop it. It may come back to bite you later.”
“I’m just mad. First he kills his wife, then he traumatizes my kid. Not sitting still for that.”
“I understand.” They escorted him to the car, probably to make sure he didn’t return for another round. Gary got in the car and fastened his seat belt.
“What did you forget, dear?” Ashley remained in the back and held Micah’s hand.
“Just wanted to fill in a few details.” He massaged his hand. It hurt. A lot. “Got a loose end taken care of.”
Oregon
Every year, the town of Sisters hosts an annual quilt show, and we’ve been there, Quilter Girl more than me. The quilts they display are real works of art. We visited Sisters on the Adventure, but not during the big event. It looked like a good place for a quiltknapping. I decided to put the boys in Redmond, thirty miles away, as the prices for real estate in Sisters are stupid high. And everybody knows a TJ, right?
THE QUILTNAPPING
Mr. Grimshaw folded his hands on the desk. “Okay, boys, the punishment for smoking in Redmond Middle School is forty hours of community service.”
“Yes, sir,” TJ Mitchell replied, “and we’ll do it at Nana’s Quilt Shop.”
“That’s not community service.”
“Yes, sir. Just like last time. They’ll raffle the quilt for the homeless shelter.”
“You’re getting pretty good at this, Mitchell.”
TJ bowed his head. “We’re sorry about this sir. Ain’t we, Brad?”
Brad nodded, anxious to get out of there. “Yes sir, we’re sorry.”
“My grandma will make sure we work, too.” TJ gave him his best ‘Oh, yes, that’s the truth’ look.
“Yes, she will. I will see to it. Now get out of here and I don’t want to see either of you here again.”
“Yes, sir. Come on, Brad.” They slung their backpacks, hung their heads, and walked out of Grimshaw’s office.
“My mom and dad are going to kill me,” Brad sniffed. “I am so busted.”
“Nah, you’ll be fine. You’ll be grounded all right, but before you know it, we’ll be smoking behind the building again.”
“No I won’t. I’m done. It’s terrible anyway, I keep gagging and coughing. And I stink.”
“I was just kidding. It is pretty disgusting. We do stink.”
“So what’s with volunteering us to work at your grandma’s quilt shop?”
TJ punched Brad in the arm. “You want to pick weeds for forty hours on the scho
ol grounds when Katie MacGregor walks by? Or Dawn Bellows? And what if it rains, huh? I’ve done time at Grandma’s. You just fold fabric and stack it in air-conditioned comfort. Sweep and stuff. And she gives you, like, unlimited cookies. The ladies’ll pretty much ignore us. After they tell her how cute we are and stuff. Then they get talking about their fabric and it’s over, we’re invisible. Then we can smoke out back.”
“I ain’t smoking anymore.”
“Just kidding. You need to chill a little more, pal.”
~
“So you can work every other Saturday, five days, eight hours each day. In ten weeks you’ll have paid your dues to society,” Grandma patted TJ on the head. He tried not to grimace. Maybe by next summer he’d be taller than her. “So go on and empty all the trash at the register, in the sewing center, and in back.” She shooed them off and returned to a customer, who said, “such cute boys.” TJ and Brad frowned at one another.
“Eight hours,” Brad exclaimed, “are you kidding me?”
“Relax. By eleven she gives us lunch, and by one she’ll be so pleased with our work that she’ll let us go early. Trust me, I’ve been here before.”
“How many times?”
TJ picked up a wastebasket. “Too many to count. I can spot a fat quarter from a mile away. Pretty soon you’ll be able to spot cotton fabric from across the room.”
Brad groaned.
They swept the shop and sidewalk (which took much longer without anyone watching over them), picked up fabric bolts, and tried as best as they could to look busy without doing much of anything.
It went pretty well until Mrs. Buchanan entered the store, with, “Hello? Oh, hello boys.”
TJ groaned. “Should have disappeared.”
“Huh?”
She trotted up to TJ smelling like she’d bathed in lilac perfume and squeezed his cheek.
“TJ, my special little boy. How are you? And who’s your friend?” She put her arm around TJ’s shoulder and turned to gather Brad and hug him. TJ looked at his fellow inmate and rolled his eyes. “I see you’re here. Working again?” Brad nodded and she put her arms around their shoulders. “Come on, let’s go into the sewing area. Hello, Linda, I’ve got your boys here.”
Grandma waved and returned her attention to a customer.
“We’ll learn about geometry while we work on the raffle quilt. It’s going to be a lot of fun.”
They trooped to the sewing area where old ladies sat at machines and gabbed. Mrs. Buchanan stood at a cutting table and slid fabric over, talking incessantly about right triangles, cutting on the bias, rectangles, and squares. TJ and Brad stood on each side and nodded at the appropriate times. She gabbed on until TJ realized she’d asked him a question.
“Uh, I’m not sure.”
“Oh, come on TJ, surely you know. How about you, Bradley?”
“Six.”
“Right.” She nodded and put two pieces together. “A four inch square and the short side of a two inch by four inch rectangle is six.” Brad stole a look at TJ as she prattled on, with forty-five degree angles, three squares times six equals what—and TJ was ready this time with the answer of eighteen—which earned him a squeeze on the cheek. “I’m just getting started with this quilt and in August it will be on display at the Sisters Quilt Show.” She bent and whispered to them like co-conspirators. “And then it will be worth a lot of money.” And gave each one a wink.
After an interminable time, they broke away for lunch.
“But it’s only ten-fifteen,” she frowned at her watch.
“We started pretty early,” TJ explained.
“Well, as soon as you’re done, we’ll resume. I’ll sew these squares together and see you soon.”
They walked to the back and out the door where Brad gasped like he’d been starving for air. “What was that?”
TJ smacked his forehead. “I forgot Mrs. Buchanan. I think she’s God’s punishment. I can deal with Principal Grimshaw, my folks, Grandma and all, but this woman’s going to kill me. Last time Grandma made the quilt.”
“I sure would like to be pulling weeds at the school today,” Brad sighed. “Hey, it’s Saturday. If we worked at the school, Katie MacGregor or Dawn Bellows wouldn’t be walking by, would they?”
“Jeez. I never thought of that.”
The Saturdays, every other week, became predictable. Sweep the store, empty the trash, tuck bolts of fabric along the shelves like soldiers; Mrs. Buchanan and her two gallons of lilac perfume would show up on the minute, and the time slowed like a fly crawling through peanut butter. Grandma, of course, thought it was the cutest thing, taking those nice boys under her wing. The quilt took shape, rectangles and squares assembling together into a pattern, a riot of colors. To the boys it represented a springtime of suffering.
When school ended, they spent their days fishing and riding their bikes, exploring creeks and meadows, chasing birds, and carving their initials into trees. But every other Saturday through the summer, the punishment continued. Brad reminded TJ that Katie and Dawn wouldn’t see them weeding in the summer either. And wouldn’t it be nice to be outside? Instead, the quilt took shape, representing the oppression of their punishment, a symbol of indenture and grief.
One afternoon halfway through summer, TJ and Brad laid on the edge of a small channel on one elbow. In June they had dropped grass twigs in the water and followed their course as they bounced off rocks and spun in eddies. But today a layer of black mud lay at the bottom of the trench. TJ stripped off the seeds and stuck a twig of grass in his mouth.
“Tomorrow it’s back to the prison and Mrs. Buchanan.”
“You suppose she puts on her perfume with a bucket and brush?”
“I dunno.” TJ spun the twig between his finger and thumb and wiped the perspiration off his forehead. “Man, I hate that quilt.”
“It’s okay.”
TJ sat upright. “I got an idea.”
Brad didn’t move. “I got a bad feeling.”
“No, listen. We kidnap her quilt from the quilt show. She keeps yapping about how much it’ll be worth. We could take it, hold it for ransom, and get a lot of money.”
“Dude, first that’s stealing; second, we’ll probably get caught and end up working at the quilt shop until we’re dead; third, Sisters is thirty miles away.”
“Okay. First, it wouldn’t really be stealing because we’ll give it back. Second, we’re not going to get caught because we’ll plan it real good. And third, we’ll ride our bikes there, and since we’re thirty miles away, no one will suspect us.”
“Course they will. You and me at the Sisters Quilt Show? We’ll stick out like loggers at a sushi bar.”
“Nah, lots of kids are stuck there with their parents.”
~
They strolled out of the Stitchin’ Post quilt store.
“Did you see it?” TJ turned the corner and stopped.
“How could I miss it? I’ve seen that quilt a thousand times. Blue sky, mountains, trees, a creek. But I’ll tell you one thing, she cured me of smoking. Or anything else.”
“It’s right in reach. Okay. Just go inside and snatch it.”
“What?” Brad smacked his arm. “Are you crazy? The place is full of old women. What do I do? ‘Excuse me ladies, while I steal this quilt.’ Huh?”
“We need a distraction.” TJ paced, then stopped, his finger in the air. “I got an idea.”
~
“TJ, I’ve heard some bad ideas, but this is terrible.” Brad pointed to the white plastic bag, the creature inside thrashing about, the sides poking out as it wriggled. “If that thing bites us, we’re done.”
“It’s not a poisonous snake.”
“And how do you know that?”
“Poisonous ones are green. And rattlesnakes are... you know, diamondbacks.”
“There’s other kinds.” The snake’s head pierced through the plastic.
“Don’t worry about it. Just be ready.” TJ snuck into the side door of th
e quilt shop, holding the snake in the bag at arm’s length.
Brad shook his head and headed for the front door. He stepped inside and eased over to the far corner.
He didn’t have to wait long before a couple dozen screaming women ran through the store and out the front door, hollering, “Snake!” He kept glancing at his feet as he took down the quilt and stuffed it into a bag, thinking about the possibility of running into the snake. Fortunately, no snake. He headed toward the side door and spotted TJ putting the snake back in the bag. Brad nodded and ducked out, got on his bike and rode to the east end of town, the screams of women fading into the distance.
~
“Can you believe it?” An old lady clucked her tongue to Mrs. Buchanan. “Stealing a quilt and holding it for ransom.”
Brad moved closer to listen to their conversation as Grandma cut and folded their fabric.
Mrs. Buchanan laughed. “They demanded ten thousand dollars. I say, let’s pay the money, the quilt will be famous, and perhaps I can get twice that for it.”
“What is it worth?”
“Not more than two hundred fifty.”
Brad held his hand over his face to squelch the gasp.
“Not very smart thieves.”
Brad jerked back at the word. What? TJ said it wasn’t stealing. Now he couldn’t shake a vision of handcuffs and orange coveralls, both of them chained to each other, pulling weeds along the side of the highway while Katie MacGregor and Dawn Bellows rode by, their sixteen-year-old boyfriends honking their horns. He ran to the back of the store, got TJ’s attention and they slunk out to the back lot. Brad told him what he overheard. “We’re thieves, man, and they aren’t going to pay anything.”
TJ flipped his hand. “A minor setback. We’ll send another ransom note for two-fifty. You watch. We’ll get the cash.”
“My bad feeling is having a bad feeling.”
~
TJ could hardly keep still. “Did you see it?”
“I was too busy looking for someone to nab us. Was it there?”
“Yep. We’re going to be rich.” They had walked into the men’s room and on the cork bulletin board a hand written sign read, ‘We accept your terms.’ That meant the next day under the green park bench by the big fir tree someone would tape an envelope containing two hundred fifty dollars. “All we have to do is grab it.”
Brad shook his head. “Not too bright, my friend. They’ll have someone watching the bench. We grab the envelope and they grab us and we’re toast.”
50 Stories in 50 States: Tales Inspired by a Motorcycle Journey Across the USA Vol 5, The West Page 7