Stone Angel

by Carol O’Connell

  Approaching the fairgrounds, they traveled by a cluster of trailers. Men in sleeveless T-shirts were standing in groups, drinking beer for their breakfast. Now a shoving match ensued and one man hit the ground in a hurry. He was kicked in the ribs by another man, and the content of a beer can was poured over the fallen man’s prone body. But the sheriff seemed not to care about this infraction of the law against assaulting one’s fellow citizen.

  Charles unwrapped the packet in his hand and released the spicy aroma of bubble gum. He discarded the baseball trading card and held the bright piece of gum to his nose, seriously assessing the bouquet. It even smelled pink. When he popped it into his mouth, the taste evoked a flood of memories. That summer on the road with Cousin Max, bubble gum had been a staple of his diet.

  Before they pulled into the parking lot, he had outdone himself by blowing a larger bubble than the sheriff could manage with twice the chewy pink waddage. Then Charles did a bit of showboating by blowing a bubble within a bubble. The grand finale was a resounding pop, and the sheriff took his hands off the wheel to applaud.

  The car rolled to a stop in a dirt parking lot, and the two men sat companionably for a few minutes of highly competitive chewing and bubble blowing.

  “You know, Sheriff,” Pop. “I haven’t seen a single child in Owltown.”

  Pop. “The families with kids live in Dayborn. Most of this roadie trash around here is drunks, junkies, hookers and the odd pervert – the staff and clientele of the Owltown business district.”

  Pop. “How many Lauries are there?”

  “With cousins, second cousins, and relations by marriage? I guess a few hundred people. When the family business got too big for Mal and his brothers to manage it, they brought in relatives from Texas and the Carolinas. Now the whole pack of them work for the New Church.”

  Pop. Pop.

  “How does a church support so many people?”

  “When the tent show’s touring up north in the Bible Belt, they pull in at least thirty grand on a bad night. The Lauries who stay behind in Owltown make even more money running the mail order business.”

  Charles aborted a bubble. “Mail order religion?”

  Pop. “Oh, yeah. For a five-dollar donation you can have an envelope full of dirt from the Holy Land. I’m afraid I crunched up a lot of that holy dirt when I pulled into this parking lot.”

  Pop. “God forgives you,” said Charles. “How much for a piece of the true cross?”

  “Twenty dollars. However, those sawdust shavings are laminated in a strip of plastic. You can use them to mark your favorite scripture in the autographed Bible.”

  Pop. “Autographed by…?”

  “The authors, all twelve of ‘em.”

  Charles’s last bubble died in a smile. The sheriff had produced the lesser pops but the better punch line. Then Charles was appalled to learn that the sheriff was not joking. There were twelve apostles on the New Church governing board, and the text of the Bible had been substantially rewritten.

  As he opened the passenger door of the car, the sheriff leaned toward him and said, “I’m gonna send my deputy back here to pick you up when you’re done. I’m not being pushy, Mr. Butler, I’m just real concerned for your health. So you won’t mind that?”

  “Not at all. I appreciate the concern.” And he meant that, for they had just been bonded by gum, hadn’t they?

  “Have a nice visit,” said Jessop, “but don’t stray off the fairgrounds. That’s just a friendly caution.”

  Charles stepped out of the car and walked over the open field beyond the parking lot, past the blights of vans and trucks, trailers and food stands. When he stood at the center of the denuded horseshoe bend, he had a spectacular view of cypress trees and their mirror reflections lining the far shore of the bayou. A snowy egret took flight in the distance, escaping the noise which was growing in volume as the grounds filled with workers shouting and barking commands.

  His eyes followed the flight of the bird. Its wings spread on the air and long legs flowed back from white feathers. The sun dappled the bayou in a bright band of sparkling lights. A fish broke through still water near a string of trap lines extending out from the bank. Scales shining like silver, it rose out of the bayou as though to fly free. At the end of the tether of hook and line, it fell back into a foam of splashing water.

  Charles turned his attention to the metal shafts erected in the middle of the field. Each tall pole waved a bright red banner, and long ropes trailed down to the ground. The tallest would be the center pole of the great canvas tent, which now lay in a huge flat circle spread out at his feet. Its circumference would make a fair-size dog track.

  Off to one side of the bend, a sudden burst of a cappella music came from a gospel choir in blue jeans. A woman with a baton stood before the group and waved their voices up and down with a flick of her wrist. Suddenly, she broke off the rehearsal to shout obscenities at a man passing close by with a boom box blaring rock music. There were hollered conversations all around him as men converged on the massive circle of canvas.

  He had come just in time. The tent was going up, being hoisted on the ropes, rising before his eyes and blotting out the sky. Each time he blinked, it morphed into some new shape, sharply pointing at the center and more points at the outer rim, as the material, anchored in metal rings, was drawn up the length of the poles. All around the vast circle, men hauled on the lines, and the pulleys squealed. The canvas was alive in the wind, whipping and bucking against the ropes, stressed and straining, finally rearing up into the familiar form of a gigantic circus tent. Atop the poles, the red banners snapped in the breeze and then stuck straight out in forked tongues.

  Another man had come to stand beside him, and when Charles turned, he half expected to see the famed magician, Maximillian Candle. But Cousin Max was long dead, and Charles was staring at Malcolm Laurie, a head smaller than himself. But it occurred to him that this man must also be a conjuror of sorts, for he was experiencing the illusion of falling down into Malcolm’s eyes.

  “I thought you might enjoy this, Charles. I’m glad you came.”

  So, Malcolm had gone to the trouble to learn his first name, but not asked if he might use it. Though he had always given such permission to anyone who wanted it, he didn’t like the sound of his more familiar name in Malcolm’s mouth. It felt like an intrusion.

  A violation?

  Augusta, get out of my head.

  Charles turned back to the tent. Four men were raising a neon sign by guide wires to suspend it from a tall steel framework. It was a marquee of green glass tubes rising high in the air above them. The capital letters were very large, and Charles was startled by the bluntness of the words: ‘MIRACLES FOR SALE.’

  Mallory shook pillow feathers off the blanket and sent them drifting into the corridor outside her cell, where the sheriff was lecturing his new deputy on the fine points of housekeeping and the proper procedure for handling dangerous prisoners.

  “Now, at the end of the month, I gotta give you back to the state in the same condition they gave you to me. So follow my orders and stay out of trouble.” The sheriff waved one hand in the air to bat away the feathers from the small storm Mallory had created with her blanket shaking. His mood was worsening by the second.

  Good. Mallory sat down on the bed and commenced her daily activity of staring at the opposite wall.

  “First, have her put her hands through the bars. Then you cuff the prisoner to the bars before you unlock the door. You got that? And be sure you hang up your gun belt outside the cell.” He pointed to the hooks on the wall.

  Mallory had noticed that the sheriff never took his own advice. During all the hours of questioning, pacing up and down her cell while she sat in silence, he had never taken off his gun belt. He had all but waved it in her face. But she had bided her time, waiting for a slip of words to hang him with.

  As a small child, she had believed this man was God with a six-shooter. This morning, the man outside her ce
ll was just an ordinary human, sloppier and slower now, falling short of a god in every way. He was even conforming to Louisiana code and carrying a police-issue automatic. However, his deputy had strayed outside the code to pack a.38 revolver. Now that was promising. The ammo would work in her own.357.

  “And then,” the sheriff was saying to his new deputy, “you clean all those damn feathers outta that cell. Hear me?”

  The deputy took umbrage, dark eyebrows rushing together, lips pouting. Perhaps no one had told her that maid service was part of her job description. All Lilith Beaudare’s words came out in a rush. “I was first in a class of – ”

  “Girl, that police academy was nothing more than a glorified kindergarten.” His irritation was showing more, building to a boil.

  So the deputy was only a rookie, fresh from a six-week training program which might have taught her how to avoid shooting herself in the foot, but little more than that. Mallory noted another giveaway – the deputy’s belt. It was weighted down with Mace, ammo, flashlight, handcuffs, cell phone, speedloader and a nightstick. This woman was all dressed up for a task-force raid, yet she conveyed the credo of the overly prepared Girl Scout.

  Mallory ceased to listen to the argument beyond the door of her cell. She was taking further measurements of Lilith Beaudare, estimating the woman’s height as even with her own. Their build and weight were about the same. Beaudare might be a few years younger. The woman seemed secure in her dark skin, moving with an easy physical confidence of the body – but the sheriff was walking all over her.

  “When I come back up here, I don’t want to see one damn feather in that cell.” The sheriff opened a small door to disclose a pantry of shelves bearing cleaning supplies. He pulled out a broom, a dustpan, a cloth and a folded plastic trash bag. He handed off these items to the rookie, who was now subdued by humiliation. “We’ll just see if you can do this one job right before we turn you loose on organized crime.”

  Mallory picked up a handful of feathers from the floor, held them to her lips and blew the sheriff a kiss. Two feathers landed in his hair. Others were delicately balanced on his nose and chin. He removed them with great deliberation, pinching them between his fingers and reducing them to strings.

  Lilith Beaudare was working hard at holding back a smile. Jessop stared at his deputy until her mouth assumed a more respectful line. “Just get on with the housework, girl.” His feet were heavy on the floorboards as he stomped down the narrow corridor. The door slammed shut behind him.

  The deputy leaned the broom against the cell block wall. It was well within Mallory’s reach.

  Stupid move, Deputy.

  The woman turned to Mallory. “You know why that bastard thinks he can talk to me that way?”

  “Because you’re a woman? Or because you’re black? Pick one. I haven’t got all day for this crap.” She reached out through the bars to grasp the broom.

  The deputy only watched her do this, unconcerned, not realizing that a broom could be a weapon – if Mallory chose to drive it through the bars and into the deputy’s gut. If she really wanted to do some damage, she could drive the broom handle into the deputy’s throat. It would only take a second. But it was not Lilith Beaudare she wanted to damage.

  “It was a mistake to tell him you were at the top of your class,” said Mallory, moving the broom along the floor. “He’s going to gnaw on that for a while, and then sometime after lunch he just might put it all together.” She had fluffed a small pile of feathers up to the bars, and now a sweet light southern drawl crept into her voice. “Hand me that dustpan, will you?”

  The deputy’s face was fixed in rapt attention as she surrendered the copper dustpan with its nice sharp corners to tear the flesh of a throat with only minimum force.

  Oh, Deputy, you have a lot to learn, and I am going to teach you.

  “I know your name can’t be girl.” In fact, she knew that Deputy Beaudare’s middle name was Mary. Most of Mallory’s information came from Jane, who brought her meals three times a day and didn’t mind holding up both ends of a conversation.

  She brushed the feathers into the dustpan. And some took flight, escaping between the bars.

  “My name is Lilith Beaudare.” And now, unbidden, the deputy also handed over the large green garbage bag, which would fit so nicely over the dark head if Mallory chose to suffocate the life out of this rookie cop.

  “Lilith, this is no place for an up-and-comer like you. First in your class? That would have guaranteed you first pick of assignments.” She set the bag and dustpan on the small chest of drawers by her bed. “He’ll have to wonder what you’re doing here in St. Jude, the smallest parish in the state. And the town’s population wouldn’t fill two city blocks of New Orleans.”

  “I was born in this town. It makes sense that I – ”

  “Well, no it doesn’t. It would make sense for you to get as far away as you could. First in your class? Not small-town material. No, there’s definitely something wrong with this picture.”

  Mallory came back to the cell door and got on with the chore of fluffing the feathers along the strip of floor by the bars. “He’ll have to figure you for a liar. Or maybe you’re a screwup, and this is a punishment detail.”

  “I am not a – ”

  “You could be a plant.” Well, that shut her mouth. “Yeah, that would work.”

  Even Jane, of Jane’s Cafe, had found it odd that the state police should send the sheriff a deputy. Tom Jessop had been hiring and training his own people for decades. “You’ve made a lot of mistakes, Lilith. But maybe he’s as dumb as you think he is. Maybe he won’t put it all together… unless somebody puts the idea in his head.”

  The woman said nothing. She was only gaping.

  Mallory gestured to the stuffed armchair opposite her bed. “Come into my office and pull up a chair. I’m going to fix your life.”

  The invitation was delivered so like an order, the rookie nearly followed it. But she stayed the hand that was reaching for the door, the hand with the key. Her arm dropped to her side, and she only stared at her prisoner.

  Mallory lowered her eyes in submission. She returned to the bed and knelt down on the floor to move the broom underneath it, stirring a small cloud of feathers into the open. Her back was turned when she heard the clicks of the key working the tumblers of the lock. Footsteps entered the cell, and the door was locked again. When Mallory looked up, the deputy’s hand rested on the gun in her holster.

  Perfect.

  Mallory gestured to the armchair, inviting her guest to sit down. The deputy remained standing, eyes on the prisoner, as though Mallory might be a viper in striking distance. And she was.

  “So he humiliated you.” Mallory turned her attention back to the leathers at the far corner under the bed. The armchair creaked behind her. “I bet he does that a lot.” She turned to see the deputy sitting in the chair, rigid, hands tightly clutching a dustcloth.

  ‘He’s a son of a bitch,“ said the deputy, teeth clenched. ”I could write him up for – “

  ‘No, that’s a bad idea.“ Mallory swept feathers into the dustpan as she went on in an easy tone, low and conspiratorial. ”If you ask someone else to solve your problem, they’ll write you off as a loser. That’s what I’d do.“

  Oh, the rookie didn’t like that at all. Well, tough.

  “Here’s a better idea,” said Mallory, emptying the dustpan into the green plastic bag. “Be the kind of cop no one would treat that way.” She stood up slowly and swept feathers closer to the armchair. The deputy sat ramrod straight, distrustful in every alerted muscle.

  Mallory picked up the dustpan and began to herd the feathers into it. “Shoot better, even if it means putting in overtime and paying for extra practice rounds.” She walked to the window of the cell and ran one finger over the sill, staring distastefully at the dust. “Think better – don’t be in such a damn hurry to get the words out.” Now she strolled back to the deputy’s chair. “You don’t want to open your mou
th unless you have something to say, and then you only say something worth listening to.”

  The deputy seemed more relaxed now. Her grip on the dustcloth had lightened. Mallory bent down and plucked the cloth from the woman’s hand in a natural, easy movement. She began to rub the surface of the chest of drawers. “Never take crap from anybody. If you take it once, you’ll take it forever. If it means a fight, then fight – even if you know you can’t win.”

  Mallory made intense eye contact until the other woman found it uncomfortable and dropped her guard to look at the floor. Mallory walked closer to the deputy’s chair. She bent low, her fair head next to the dark one, so close – sisters now. “Wear the bastard down.” And now she whispered, giving equal weight to every syllable, “Make this your religion.”

  Mallory moved quickly to rip the gun from the deputy’s holster. She pressed the muzzle to the woman’s skull. As a throwaway afterthought, she said, “Oh, and there’s nothing quite as stupid as losing your gun to a prisoner.”

  Lilith Beaudare showed all the signs of deep embarrassment, but no fear. Mallory liked that – she liked it a lot. This rookie cop had promise. She sat down on the edge of her bed and leaned toward the woman.

  “Now I’ll tell you why the sheriff treats you like dirt. It’s because you’re a useless rookie, green as they come.”

  And maybe you’re also a spy, Lilith Beaudare. State or federal, I wonder?

  “Right now you’re no help to him at all. You’re more likely to get yourself shot.” Mallory held the gun a little higher as a show-and-tell exhibit. “Point taken? Now do you understand your place in the world?”

  The deputy nodded.

  Mallory turned the gun around and handed it back to her. The deputy only stared at it for a second, as if disbelieving it could be within her reach. Then she accepted it and pointed it at her prisoner.