by Adam Cesare
“Are you nervous?”
“About my little girl going out to a party?”
“No, Dad,” she said, suddenly not wanting to joke about the party, especially with the sheriff right behind them. “About seeing your first patients?”
Her father paused, considering the question. “I’m not nervous. A bit of first-day jitters. Never easy being the new kid—even when you’re not a kid anymore. Why? Do I seem nervous?”
“On your way to the bathroom, you offered to give that lady a pelvic exam.” Quinn pointed across from them using her pinkie.
Her father managed both a laugh and a disapproving look at the same time. It was a look he’d been working on since she’d begun testing adult conversational waters. After Mom died, Quinn had to do a lot of growing up, quickly, and while Dad might have needed her to be his friend and confidant and sometime shoulder-to-cry-on, she knew he also missed having her be his—in his words—little girl.
“So, are you asking if I’m going to have a breakdown?”
“Yeah. I guess I kinda am.”
“I love you, Quinn. You know that, right?”
“I know.”
“I’m good. I’m in a good place. Kettle Springs is . . .” He searched for the word, then settled for something different. “This is what I needed,” he said, putting a hand on hers and then correcting himself, “what we needed. And you say this like I wasn’t at the office all day today.”
“Yeah, but you didn’t see any patients.”
“Dr. Weller’s departure was really sudden. It’s weird. He literally didn’t advance the paper on his exam table, just left it there with someone’s butt imprint still on it. I’d canceled today’s appointments, but I probably didn’t need to.” Her dad fiddled with the salt and pepper shakers, mismatched, the salt in simple clear glass and the pepper a ceramic clown face. “The good news is that the office has all his equipment. Was expecting to have to do some orders, run at half capacity. I’m amazed he didn’t sell the house furnished, too, if that was how quickly he needed to get out.”
“I guess it’s not that weird. Wherever he’s moving, he probably needs chairs,” Quinn said. For the first time since unpacking, it seemed to sink in that their house had been someone else’s house earlier this month.
It didn’t feel right to her, the brevity of it on both ends. It was like Dr. Weller could turn his car around, use his spare keys to walk in when they were at home tonight, and be like, “Sorry, changed my mind. GTFO.”
“Anyway”—her dad kept talking, bringing her attention back—“it’s exciting taking over a practice, but the office also feels . . .” He paused.
“Don’t worry. You’ll make it your own soon enough. How many you seeing tomorrow?”
“There are three patients on the schedule. Was supposed to be four, but one called this morning to cancel. I have no idea if the rest have even been told there’s a new sheriff in town.”
At this turn of phrase, Quinn felt the actual sheriff behind her shift in his seat.
“So to speak,” her dad added, flicking his eyebrows up and looking over Quinn’s shoulder as Trudy came over to ask how their dinner was.
Dad gushed about the food itself, then went on to rave about how the prices were so much more reasonable than back home in Philadelphia. It was more of an answer than Trudy expected. Dad was trying too hard to be neighborly. And he wasn’t great at it. He wasn’t the kind of doctor who excelled at small talk or bedside manner. It wasn’t really his nature. He was a quiet guy, big-hearted, soft. He cared too much but didn’t give voice to the care. Which was a big part of why they moved to Kettle Springs. Working at a big hospital owned by one of the nation’s largest corporate healthcare conglomerates had gotten to Glenn Maybrook. He’d had to tell too many families that this procedure or that medication wasn’t going to be covered by insurance. He’d seen too many kids come in with gunshot wounds and sent them home with bills they couldn’t afford to pay. The stress wore on him, but after Mom overdosed, he was done. He was just hollowed out. He went through the motions for a year after, afraid to upset the routine, unsure that the ground beneath him wasn’t about to open up again. But his mind was somewhere else. He couldn’t keep his head in the game. He wasn’t sleeping. This diner food was the most she’d seen him eat. More than once, Quinn had woken in the middle of the night to find him sitting in the dark, arguing with a ghost, with Mom. So when the opportunity in Kettle Springs came, Quinn didn’t fight it. A fresh start was exactly what they needed; even if it was not what she wanted.
“Since you bring it up. I think I’ve decided. I think I’m going to the party,” Quinn said after Trudy was finally able to pry herself away from her dad’s compliments.
“Good, you should,” Dad said. “Is the neighbor kid going? I like him. Doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy that gets kicked out of many classes.”
“No idea,” Quinn admitted. “And Rust. His name is Rust, Dad,” she said, hoping repetition would help the information set, congeal, in Glenn Maybrook’s brain.
Her dad took a toast shovel of chipped beef and nodded absently: “Weird name.”
Across Main Street, a few doors down, Quinn spotted Janet and a few other kids preparing to cross the street. Janet had her phone out, laughing to Ronnie, who mugged for the camera, side ponytail in yet another new configuration. Next to Ronnie was a guy Quinn hadn’t seen before. He was shorter than both girls, but no one would ever call him small. He was built like a fire hydrant, squat and solid. He held his arms out at his sides like he’d recently finished working out and was still enjoying the burn. Janet led the way as the three of them shot between parked cars.
Was brazen jaywalking another indicator that Janet and company didn’t give a fuck, or was there just not much traffic to pay attention to in Kettle Springs?
Quinn realized she’d been staring too long and that her dad had been trying to talk to her the whole time. Then came the fear that her classmates could very well be crossing to the restaurant so they could grab a bite to eat.
She stared intently at her mostly eaten toast and tried to think invisible thoughts.
“The girls are in my bio class,” she said into the table, interrupting her dad’s idle chatter.
“The bio class?” he asked.
Behind her, Quinn felt Sheriff Dunne once again shift in his seat. Her father’s attention pivoted away from the window as the lawman behind her stood from his booth. Quinn didn’t turn, but she could hear the sheriff’s boots on the tile. Isolating that tiny sound caused her to realize another hush had fallen over the restaurant.
Quinn raised her eyes. She could see the sheriff in the reflection of a hazy wall-length mirror at the back of the room, leading to the bathrooms.
The sheriff left his hat on the table to save his spot as if to say, This won’t take long.
Walking over, the sheriff stopped inside the door to the Eatery and waited. Janet and her group paused on the sidewalk outside and looked up, wordlessly communicating with the man through the glass.
And in that moment of stillness, Quinn saw it: the glass of the door was like a magic mirror out of a movie. On one side there were yellowed newspaper clippings about giant pumpkin pies made from giant blue-ribbon-winning pumpkins, little old ladies wearing kitty sweaters they’d knit themselves, and over that delicate small town, the huge, aged sheriff protecting law and order. On the other side—in what seemed like a different dimension—there were the kids with their iPhones, taking in the world through electric eyes a gigabyte at a time, there were boys in V-necks and girls in boy shorts, and that world was led by Janet, a vision Norman Rockwell never painted, black hair perfect, dressed in pink to match her nails, looking like a new stick of bubble gum.
Was it Quinn’s imagination, or did the sheriff’s right hand subtly drift toward his gun as he peered out at the teenagers? No, couldn’t be; the big man was simply adjusting his belt.
Whatever he’d done with his hand, it was enough to defus
e the situation. Janet smiled a “just kidding” smile to the sheriff, and the teens continued, zipping right past the door.
The sheriff made a show of stretching, so tall, his arms so long that his knuckles nearly grazed the stucco ceiling, and then he turned and headed to the back of the restaurant toward the men’s room. The murmurs, the sounds of rattling knives and forks against china, resumed.
“Oh wait,” the sheriff said, doubling back. He clapped one large hand on her dad’s shoulder. Glenn Maybrook looked immediately uncomfortable. The sheriff smiled, wide and warm as if he hadn’t just had a Mexican standoff with a trio of high schoolers.
“You’re the new doctor!” the sheriff boomed, almost announcing it for the diner, as if that hadn’t already been told.
“Why yes, I am. Hi, Glenn Maybrook,” her dad said, visibly nodding away his discomfort and attempting to slip back into professional mode.
The two of them shook, her dad’s hand disappearing into the sheriff’s like the big man was wearing a catcher’s mitt. Glenn didn’t get up, so the sheriff loomed over her dad, holding all the power.
“Sheriff Dunne. Welcome to town, Doc.” Her dad held his dopey smile, nodding. “I’m not going to interrupt your supper, I just wanted to say hello. We’re so glad you made it. And just in time.”
“Yup, er,” her dad faltered. “Happy to be here. It’s a great little town you have.”
“Sure is—” The sheriff looked up, remembering something, or making a show of remembering, at least. “Actually . . .” He reached into the top pocket of his shirt, behind his badge, and took out a small, folded paper. “You probably heard already, but tomorrow is Founder’s Day.” He looked down, acknowledging Quinn for the first time. “I bet you’re excited to have your first Friday in town be without school, sweetheart. Looking forward to seeing you there.”
“I . . .” I’m not your sweetheart, motherfucker. She didn’t know where the rage had come from, a good feminist upbringing or maybe just the way the man said the word. But—as far as the sheriff was concerned—at least she wasn’t banned. “I didn’t even know I had school off tomorrow.” Quinn smiled, squeezing her own thigh under the tabletop to control herself.
“You sure do,” Sheriff Dunne said, then turned back to her dad. Kid time was over, apparently.
“Explains why my patients are canceling, I guess,” her dad said, but Sheriff Dunne seemed not to hear or care, just continued on with his prepared spiel.
“The town’s undergoing a bit of a transition at the moment, and as our doctor, I’d love to get you involved in a positive way in the community. I know it’s short notice, but we’ve got a town meeting tonight,” the sheriff said, punctuating the words with a squeeze at Dad’s shoulder. “Be nice if you could come. Refreshments will be served—if you’ve still got room.” He chuckled, eyes down to Dad’s empty plate.
Her dad stood, apparently tired of being talked down to.
“That’s mighty nice of you to ask.”
Quinn winced at her dad’s attempt to sound folksy. Mighty nice. God.
“I’ll,” her dad continued, “certainly try to be there.”
“You can be there or not, right? There’s no trying.” The sheriff smiled wide. Nobody in Kettle Springs minced words, apparently.
“Uhhhh. With unpacking and all. I don’t think . . .”
“Relax. I’m just making you squirm, Doc. But I understand. We’ll get you at the next one,” Sheriff Dunne said, and slapped Glenn Maybrook on the back hard enough to send her dad’s side into the tabletop, spilling both their waters.
“Trudy,” Sheriff Dunne said, then whistled between his teeth. “A slice of pie for the doctor and his little gal. Any flavor they want, but they want cherry.”
“That’s very kind,” her dad said, Quinn still hung up on being called both a little gal and a sweetheart.
“And some napkins.” The sheriff gave a firm nod and continued to the restroom.
Her dad turned back to Quinn.
“Where were we? Oh yeah, you said you were going to the party,” her dad said.
But Quinn wasn’t listening. She watched their waitress pass the sheriff and grab his arm: “Thank you. That girl and her friend, they . . .”
The sheriff held one massive gray-haired hand up and waved Trudy away: Think nothing of it.
Quinn’s dad cleared his throat.
“Right. The party,” Quinn said, snapping back to the present. “No worries—and, yes, I promise if there’s drinking and driving, I’ll just call a Lyft.”
“A Lyft in Kettle Springs?” her father snorted.
“Yeah, I guess you’re right. Lyft probably hasn’t made it here yet.” She shook her head.
Her dad looked down at his hand. He unfolded the paper the sheriff had handed him. He had a familiar curl at the sides of his mouth, one Quinn recognized from before Samantha Maybrook had died, leaving them alone. “But you know what has made it here?”
“What?” Quinn asked, almost afraid of whatever cornball response was coming from her dad next.
Glenn Maybrook kept his impish smile, turned the flyer around to her, and spread its headline wide.
The paper read:
“Make Kettle Springs Great Again”
Five
“And how exactly are we supposed to do that, Harlan?”
“Yeah, with what money?”
The questions hit Harlan Jaffers like waves. They were tossing him, drowning him. These people, his constituents, needed to give him one fucking second to think.
He should have had his assistant spring for a few extra cookies to toss onto the refreshment table. Maybe a sleeve or two of Chewy Chips Ahoy would have soothed the rabble.
There. That was it. There was a way Harlan could quiet them. At least buy some more time to think.
“Everyone quiet please!” Harlan said, feeling a droplet of sweat slither its way down his spine, ending in the waistband of his briefs. How was it this hot in here? With the windows open? In October?
Body heat. Angry bodies. That was how.
“Before y’all keep yellin’ about canceling Founder’s Day, I want you to know that this is an event that your neighbors have been putting their hearts and souls into for weeks. And with only a quarter of the regular budget! I know times are tight and we have to do more with less, but I can honestly say that this is the best these floats and costumes have looked in years. Downsizing the fair helped, too.” He paused and dabbed his forehead with his handkerchief. For the moment, he had the room’s attention and he was determined not to lose it. “Honestly, let’s give a hand to Mrs. Murray, who hand-painted the banners for the Shriners and the 4-H Club. She’s not just a pretty face, she’s an artist.” Harlan motioned to the Asian woman in the second row. Beside her, her husband uncrossed his arms and clapped, but looked annoyed while doing it. Murray. Harlan hated that shitbird. Pudgy cue ball didn’t know how good he had it.
“Banners are all well and good, but what about the pump engine that was damaged while putting out the Hill boy’s fire? It ain’t gonna be ready for the parade!” Fred Vassar yelled, cupping his hands even though it wasn’t needed in the cramped, hot lodge.
“Yeah, not to mention if there’s another fire,” Grady Lidle hollered, piling on.
“We should have taken out a billboard on I-44 like I suggested,” shouted Helen Mars. “More out-of-towners would come, then. They’d visit downtown. It’d help local businesses.”
“People. People. Listen to me. Flyers have been distributed at the St. James Mall. We’ll have a crowd. And as far as the rest of the money problems go, I have it on good authority,” he said, then paused. Well, here goes. He was beyond the point of no return: “Arthur Hill is considering attending the parade.” They stopped yelling. That had shut them up, even temporarily. “I don’t want to speak for the man, but if he likes what he sees on Main Street, he might reinvest. Reopen things.”
A hush fell over the room. Hill hadn’t been seen in town for almost a
year. The only person going in and out of that big fancy house was the boy, who mostly just caused trouble and heartache when he did.
Townspeople looked at each other. There were smiles and whispers, no more barked commands on how to fix things, what to spend their nonexistent treasury money on.
Harlan was satisfied. It felt like he’d quelled the insurrection. That was until a voice from the back of the room had to speak and ruin things:
“Are you sure that’s true, Harlan?”
It was Sheriff Dunne, barely raising his voice as he walked his boots down the center aisle. Harlan hadn’t even seen him lurking back there. But, come to think of it, where else would the bastard be but lurking?
“Of course it’s true,” Harlan shot back. “Wouldn’t have said it if it wasn’t. I . . . I just got off the phone with him.”
The sheriff seemed to consider this, fiddled with the hat in his hands, then looked back up. Was that a smirk on his face?
“Well, then that is good news,” Dunne said, more to the gathered townspeople than to Harlan.
Huh. Harlan breathed a sigh of relief.
“Sheriff?” a voice asked from the crowd, tentative. Dunne turned to face the question and managed to eclipse Harlan, draw all the authority away from the mayor, by simply moving down to the front of the room.
“I don’t mean to bother,” Cybil Barton continued. She was a timid woman, so much respect for her sheriff that she didn’t have any leftovers for her mayor. “But how is the Baypen investigation going? The charges against Cole Hill were dropped, but—”
Sheriff Dunne held up a hand to interrupt her. Not rude, but soothing. “Unfortunately, I can’t comment on an ongoing investigation, Mrs. Barton,” Dunne said. “We’re doing everything we can to bring those responsible to justice.”
There was a slight wave of disappointment from the crowd.
“But what I will add,” Dunne continued, “off the record, of course . . .” He nodded to Janice Perry, busy scribbling out what would eventually become the official town meeting minutes. She put her pencil down.