by Paula Boyd
No sooner had the words mumbled out than I felt a cold prickle run up my back. Cosmic confirmation of my lunacy was my first thought. The second was that someone was watching me, which made more sense--at least in the short term.
Miz Addleman was probably regretting that she hadn’t yelled at me for my teenage covert operation and that the opportunity was just too good to pass up. Fine. Swell. If she needed to get it off her chest, I suppose I should just let her do it. She’d been the one screwing up, but I hadn’t necessarily needed to do what I did either, so fine. I could take the high road. Maybe we’d both feel better after she chewed me out.
I spun around to where I sensed the source of the glare, but Sharon Addleman was nowhere to be found. Oh, no. Glowering at me like a psychotic blond water buffalo was none other than Rhonda-The-Lying-Slut Davenport.
Chapter 7
My lungs sucked in an involuntary gulp of air and the muscles of my face tensed in displeased shock. Rhonda Davenport was indeed the very last person on the planet I wanted to see, especially in the United Supermarket. I’d let Addleman rake me over the coals thirty or forty times rather than have to look at, much less talk to, Rhonda Davenport. Couldn’t I just smack her and leave?
The nagging little voice chanted something about karma and dharma and embracing my suffering, but I mentally flicked it off my shoulder and wondered what the evil fairy’s take on the situation would be. With a nice little fake smile and perky tilt of my chin, I said, "Hi, Rhonda."
Rhonda did not immediately reply to my attempt at a warm overture as she was concentrating on scrunching up her ugly old face into a childish scowl and beaming me her classic "I’m gonna kill you" look.
I’ll admit that several--okay, about four hundred--ugly thoughts raced to the tip of my tongue, some of them really good zingers. But since she already looked homicidal, I thought it might not be the best time to spring them on her. Rhonda never did have much of a sense of humor anyway.
While Rhonda hyperventilated, I gave her a critical once-over, and I’m sorry to say that I could not come up with one good thing to report. She towered over me by a good eighteen inches and outweighed me by a couple of metric tons. Okay, if you want to get technical about it, she was about five-seven and maybe a hundred sixty pounds, but every ounce of it was lumpy. And her hair--ick. Her formerly waist-length tresses--which she had flipped and wiggled like a mare in heat--were now bobbed off at chin level, ratted up a good six inches on top and shellacked into place, old-lady style. Not cool. And the color? Yikes. What did she use, a neon yellow highlighter pen?
She’d also seen fit to enhance her bugged-out eyes with some of those new retro glasses, the ones that are only slightly bigger than half-frame bifocals and made of thick black plastic. Oh, yes, very trendy, added just the right accent to her cranberry-colored wind suit. If you asked me, she looked like a mildewed bowl of art deco grapes. And I am being perfectly objective in my assessment. Honest.
I adjusted the cake and party goods in my arms, strongly hinting that I needed to be moving on. "Did you have something you wanted to talk to me about?" Or should we just stand here all day and stare at one another? I forced my lips back from my teeth and tried to look sweet and cheerful. "Well, then, I guess I’ll just be running along. Nice seeing you again."
Rhonda's left eye began to twitch spasmodically behind the dark frames, while a feral-type growl gurgled from her throat. "I saw you with Jerry yesterday."
Yesterday? How many people had been watching me yesterday? Oh, wait, she hadn’t been watching me, she’d been looking at Jerry. It was always about Jerry. Well, fine. But if you want to talk about Jerry, let’s start with how you lied about sleeping with him in high school and ruined my life, you bimbo. Why I ever listened...I stopped myself and smiled very congenially, or at least as congenially as I could, considering. "Yes, I swear that man just gets better looking every day. Gosh, that reminds me. He’s waiting for me to call so I better run along now."
She sucked in a couple of quick breaths and her face turned kind of splotchy red. "You remember what I used to say to you in high school?"
Oh, yeah, I remembered. It’s kind of hard to forget somebody saying "I’m gonna fucking kill you" every time we passed in the hall. I plastered on a quizzical look. "Hmm, don’t guess I do."
Her jaw quivered, and with barely controlled rage, she growled, "It should have been you yesterday, coming over those falls."
Me? Instead of Calvin? Is that what she meant? The murderous glare in her eyes told me that was exactly what she meant, and it kind of pissed me off. I was thinking up a reply--actually I had plenty to choose from, but I was culling the herd for the best of the lot--when I heard the rapid clip-clop of feet behind me. I spun around to see a little boy racing up the aisle holding a carton of ice cream out in front of him.
"Gramma, Gramma, look, look!"
Oh, surely it couldn’t be.... Oh, but indeed it could, because right on cue Harley Senior appeared behind Junior to confirm the coincidence. Oh, shit.
Big Harley was wearing green camo pants, an olive-colored tee shirt, snake tattoos on his forearms and a disconcerting resemblance to Jean-Claude Kicks Butt. This was not good. Not good at all.
"Hey, Harley Junior," I said, finding my voice in a hurry. I talk to calm myself, and as the intensity of the situation increases, so does my compulsion to chatter. "How’s it going, kid? You must like ice cream as much as I do. What kind have you got there? Chocolate? Looks like chocolate." He held it out for me and I peered over my armload of goods. "Ooooh, Rocky Road. That’s really good stuff."
This little interaction between me and Harley Junior sent Rhonda into an eye-blinking, jaw-quivering, sputtering fit. Her buggy orbs darted from me to her son and then to her grandson while she worked her mouth around, apparently trying to find just the right words to express herself.
While Rhonda gagged and gulped, I also said hi to Harley Senior. "You must be Rhonda’s son. I didn’t even know she had a son, or a grandson." Ha, ha, smile, smile. "We haven’t run into each other in years." Thank God. I glanced down at my loaded arms. "I’d shake your hand, but it might take a while."
"Oh, no, ma’am, that’s just fine. I didn’t catch your name yesterday," Harley Senior said, smiling very friendly-like. "You were awful nice to my boy."
Rhonda held a hand to her throat, coughing and panting like a hyperventilating hyena. "Her…name…is…Jolene," she sputtered, choking as she did so. "Jolene Jackson."
It should be duly noted that faces can indeed fall and smiles can vanish--instantly. Harley Senior’s did both. And the look left on his face scared me more than Rhonda’s threats ever had. This was one mean son of a bitch. He grabbed Junior by the arm and jerked him over against his tree-trunk legs. The little boy howled in response and I took that as my signal to leave. Whatever Rhonda had told her son about me, it wasn’t good and I wasn’t staying to chat about it.
"Glad you got some more ice cream, Harley Junior," I said, trying to pretend nothing was wrong. The catch in my voice proved otherwise, but I kept up the pretense. "You ought to try some of that cookie dough kind too. I’ bet you’d like it. Ya’ll have a great day now."
I turned and practically ran up the aisle, trying not to look frantic or scared, which, of course, I was not--I’d handled the situation darned well, if I did say so myself. I had been mature and perky, and had even refrained from uttering a single smartass remark or personal slur even though Rhonda richly deserved a truckload of them. The fact that my knees were shaking, threatening to buckle beneath me, my heart was pounding in my ears and I was sweating bullets was simply a testament to my fine self-control. I darted around the corner and nearly ran over a grocery cart--manned by Deputy Max.
Thanking God, Buddha, Jesus, Allah, the Great Spirit and the other three thousand deities I couldn’t name, I plopped my goods in the basket and sidled up to Deputy Max. Yes, I was mighty glad to see my armed guard. I managed to prevent myself from flinging my arms around his neck
in gratitude, but it was close.
There is a slight possibility that I might have looked a little concerned--concerned, mind you, not scared--and that a teensy little yelp might have slipped from my lips at some point. I suspected this because Max immediately shoved the cart aside, dropped his right hand to his pistol and peered around the corner while growling out staccato "who, what and where" questions.
"It’s okay," I said, pointlessly rearranging the goods in the basket and taking a few deep breaths. "I just let something get to me that shouldn’t have."
He kept his hand on his gun and looked down the aisle again. "The teacher?"
"No." I glanced behind me and saw only an elderly man with a cane hooked on the handle of his basket walking slowly toward us. "She’s gone now. It was just an old rival from high school. She never did like me very much."
"What on earth’s going on here?" Lucille said, stomping up to us. "It was Rhonda," I said to Mother, then to Deputy Max, "Long story. I’ll explain in the car."
Lucille, who thankfully didn’t know what had actually transpired, saw no need to wait for a more private venue to discuss the issue, and proceeded to do so, loudly. "That Davenport girl always was jealous of my Jolene. She caused nothing but trouble back in high school, lying to Jolene’s boyfriend, telling unspeakable tales. Why, it was her lies that kept Jolene and Jerry Don from getting married back then like they should have. If I’d known what she was up to, I’d have given the lying little hussy a what-for!"
It was news to me that Mother thought Jerry and I should have been married right out of high school. But then it has become abundantly clear that her opinions and recollections on such things, specifically things concerning Jerry Don Parker, vary according to her incarceration status at the county jail.
Deputy Max glanced at me. "I can have another deputy here in fifteen minutes. Redwater can send somebody in five or less. Under the circumstances--"
"No." I couldn’t see that any good could come from letting Rhonda run her mouth off to one of Sheriff Parker’s employees. She’d lie like always and they might get the wrong idea about me. Bad for Jerry, bad for me. Besides, Rhonda and son looked plenty pissed-off already. "It was nothing, really." I grabbed the basket and pushed it toward the checkout. "Let’s just get out of here."
* * * *
With the groceries loaded in the trunk, the sheet cake in my lap and the round cakes on the back floorboard with me, we left the supermarket. We did not, however, take the direct route home. Even though I’d told Deputy Max that the Rhonda thing was nothing but an extension of a cat fight that had started thirty years ago, he looked worried and proceeded to take the long and winding road home, much to the dismay of my stomach.
As he grilled me on the details of my encounter with Rhonda, sweat beads began to form little rivers down his face. He looked so worried that I figured I’d forgo mentioning Harley. Even so, Max gripped the steering wheel with both hands and checked the rear-view mirror every few seconds.
I didn’t really understand his concern and considered mentioning a few pertinent details about my mother so he wouldn’t be so worried. I certainly wasn’t. There was no doubt in my mind that if Rhonda or her Bigfoot-sized son threatened me again Mother would, quite literally, shoot them. That this knowledge comforted me was slightly unsettling, but I knew better than to dwell on it.
Deputy Max checked the mirror again, unfurled his grip from the steering wheel and picked up his radio. "I really don’t have any choice but to call this in."
I’d figured it would come to this at some point, and I guessed he was right. I’d had a chance to think about things and it was only fair that everybody knew about bad old Rhonda--especially Mr. Sheriff. And Russell had been very wrong. Rhonda Davenport hadn’t changed one little bit, except now she had a very large and very mean-looking son to back her up.
Deputy Max quite professionally reported the "Rhonda" incident--without using the fittingly descriptive words bitch or slut even once. I was a little disappointed, but when he emphasized that the report was to be relayed to Sheriff Jerry Don Parker immediately, I saw a window of opportunity and perked up a little. Deputy Max tossed the radio down with a fatalistic air and mumbled to himself.
I thought I recognized the words "deep shit" in there somewhere, but I couldn’t be sure. I tried to tell him that all was well, but he didn’t seem to hear me, just stared out front window, driving us down the long and winding back roads to Kickapoo.
Chapter 8
When we arrived at Mother’s, a white Ford Expedition with a Bowman County sheriff’s logo on the door was parked in the drive. The sheriff--and only the sheriff--drives the big rig so it was pretty clear who was waiting for us. Jerry must have already been headed to Kickapoo when he got the call or he couldn’t have made it that fast from Bowman City.
Fine and dandy with me. This way, he could hear first-hand what dear little Rhonda had been compelled to do--because she’d had a bad childhood, no doubt. Only I wasn’t going to let him give me that excuse for her this time. No way. The woman was inherently a witch--had always been--and this would prove it. Besides, everybody has a bad childhood. That’s what childhood is for. I survived Lucille, thank you very much, and I don’t go attacking people in the grocery store. I lifted the sheet cake from my lap, hopped out of the car and walked very smugly up to where Mr. Sheriff stood in the shade by the garage. "Hey, good to see you," I said cheerfully. "Glad you’re here." About a heartbeat later I realized that beneath those mirrored sunglasses was a really stern frown. Uh-oh. "Been waiting long?"
"Long enough," Jerry said, rather curtly. He shot a disapproving glare at Deputy Max, who immediately grabbed the carrot cake from the floorboard and began fussing with a bag of party goods. Then, Sheriff Jerry Don Parker turned his attention back on me. "I thought you knew better by now."
What? Uh-oh again. It might have slipped my mind that Jerry didn’t find such forays out of protective custody quite as essential as I did. I glanced toward my mother, looking for help, but she was keenly occupied helping Deputy Max unload the groceries. Both were pretending not to notice that Jerry was somewhat displeased. The traitors, leaving me to face the dragon alone.
"We just went to get a cake for the party this afternoon." I said, shrugging as if I hadn’t a clue why he was peeved over the deputy-chauffeured outing. "We’re just being watched for our own protection, for goodness sakes. It’s not like we’re criminals." I cringed, knowing I sounded just like my mother.
"There won’t be any party."
Mother sucked in her breath and jerked upright. Unfortunately she misjudged the distance and banged her head on the top of the car. "Ouch! Now, look what you’ve made me do," she sputtered. "I’ll tell you one thing--"
"Jerry," I said, jumping right in with the first thing I could think of lest Lucille explain why there darn well would be a party. "You’ll just never guess who we saw at the grocery store."
I waited for Jerry to ask who, but he didn’t, so I decided to carry his part of the conversation for him. "Who, you ask? Well, I’ll tell you. We saw none other than your cute little friend Rhonda, although I’d have to say she’s not so little any more, or cute either. Yeow."
He leaned back against the garage and crossed his arms over his chest, a very arrogant pose. "I got the message."
Now, it would be much easier for me to handle these things if he didn’t look so darned appealing, even when he was mad. I tried to look through his pesky mirrored glasses to get a better idea of just how mad, but all I saw was a goofy-looking brunette squinting like a fool. "Well, I guess that pretty much confirms what I’ve said about her all these years--"
"You could have been killed."
Yeah, twice even, but how’d he know that? "She threatened me all through high school, Jerry, and you didn’t get too worried about it then, so what’s the big deal now?"
"Rhonda threatened you in the store?"
Wrong word choice, Jolene. "Not technically, no." The little scene
had been highly unpleasant and I’d admit to being a little afraid, but mostly it was just high school déjà vu. "She did ask if I remembered what she always said to me. I said no, but really, who could forget something like that? She was going to elaborate but we were interrupted."
"Anything else I should know about?"
Oh, yeah, plenty, but my ever-keen intuition told me I’d better feed it to him in little bites. For my sake, not his. Bad dude Harley Senior and Rhonda’s "should have been you yesterday" comment seemed like mighty big mouthfuls for the present circumstances. Shrugging noncommittally, I said, "Peaches were on sale."
Jerry shook his head and growled, "I can’t believe you did this."
"Aw, come on, Jerry, we just went to buy a stupid cake."
As the words left my mouth, my eyes darted around for my mother, who would not appreciate the "stupid" part of my comment. Luckily she and Deputy Max had scurried away and hidden themselves indoors, the cowards. "It didn’t seem like a big deal. I had an armed deputy and an armed mother with me at all times." Mostly. "Nobody in their right mind would go up against those odds."
"You’re probably right, Jolene. But the thing is, you forgot to wear your shirt that says ‘Be nice to me, my mother has a gun in her purse.’"
"That is so not funny, Jerry. Really, you should play it straight and leave the sarcasm to me. It just isn’t you."
"Nah, I can be funny too. I’ve got some of the best serial killer jokes you’ve ever heard. And those circles in the yearbook, well, I’ve been chuckling about those all morning. Murder cases are just a crackup."