by Amanda Tru
Ryan lifted an eyebrow. “Nevertheless. Traci is not the one who designed how a Christian home should be set up. God is. And He said that the husband is the leader. The term head used in the New Testament is a military term, meaning leader among equals. If your desire is to have a Biblical home that is pleasing to God, then you’re going to need to be willing to step up and be the head, be the leader, the leader among equals. There isn’t a lot of room for negotiating there.”
Thinking of Traci’s personality, her distaste for anything traditional or overtly feminine, and her job as a deputy sheriff, he couldn’t imagine her submitting to anything, especially to someone other than the Sheriff himself. He also didn’t necessarily believe she ought to in the first place. “I don’t think that I have the same concept of marriage as you,” he said, then he looked at his watch. “As much as I would love to continue this conversation, you have a meeting, and I have a class starting in forty-five minutes. I’ll talk to you later.”
As he walked away, Ryan called out, “Travis, I am here and available to you whenever you need to talk,” he paused, “and it sounds to me like we need to talk.”
Travis raised his hand and waved behind him, acknowledging that he heard.
On the drive back to his studio, Travis contemplated the conversation. How did that type of antiquated model work in the modern home? How could a twenty-first-century preacher, someone his age with whom he went to school, have that kind of archaic concept of a patriarchal arrangement? Didn’t Ryan grow up in a divorced home? Wasn’t his mother the only adult in the house, like Travis’ house, even like Traci’s house? How did it work that way with no husband in the picture? What would Ryan have to say about things like that?
Travis believed in God. He went to church every Sunday, usually with Traci if she didn’t have to work. He even sang in the church choir. But trying to take the lifestyles of thousands of years ago and apply them to modern homes, with so much advancement made in the name of equality and gender neutrality, didn’t really make a lot of sense to him. He would have to explore it further; investigate the ideas behind it.
A military term? That’s what Ryan had said. The leader among equals. The captain of a ship. That intrigued him in a way that would ensure he investigated it more thoroughly. He tried to imagine having an orderly class without a Master leading the others.
Traci did not want children, nor did she did want a traditional home arrangement. She wanted to work her way up to sheriff of the county and one day retire and travel the world. As much as he’d always imagined being a father, raising his own children, he had done some long and deep soul-searching and spent lots of time in prayer to make sure he would be fine either way before asking Traci to marry him. He knew he could be the world’s greatest uncle, and his sisters wouldn’t mind a bit. He also knew exactly what type of woman Traci was, and he loved her thoroughly.
Travis decided Ryan wasn’t right about his opinions, especially as they applied to a modern marriage. Maybe that notion worked with the more traditional-minded parishioners, the women who wanted to stay home and play Suzy Homemaker, but he couldn’t imagine how any husband with a spouse whom he considered an equal would accept it. A marriage wasn’t a ship or a military platoon, or even a Taekwondo class. It was a marriage—one man and one woman—who loved each other.
He shook his head, as if to clear his thoughts, and turned his truck down Main Street. He’d think on it more later. Right now, he could feel himself getting angry, so he practiced some deep breathing exercises to help center and calm his emotions before he started teaching his class.
A fly buzzing against the thick window tried to distract Traci from the traffic report in front of her. She looked up and glared at the sixty-year-old pane of glass, as if the fault lay there instead of the trapped insect. Glancing around the room, as she did a hundred times a day, she looked at the dark wood panel walls, the industrial green linoleum floor, and metal desks, and thought the modern computers sitting on them looked entirely out of place. She imagined what it would look like with smoke hanging in the air, a hatstand by the door, and manual typewriters replacing the sleek electronics.
She shook her head and focused again on the screen, inwardly sighing at the monotony of clicking one key after another when she could be outside in the April sunshine. Finally, she clicked submit on the report and turned away from her computer, ignoring the stack of paper on her desk so she could stand up and stretch. “This is the worst part of it,” she grumbled to Marvin “Tiny” Middleton, the six-one, two-hundred-twenty-pound deputy sheriff sitting across from her. “It makes my brain numb.”
He chuckled and stamped “PROCESSED” across the front of a form on his desk. “Makes it easier in the future if the information we need is input properly in the first place.”
“We need someone like an intern to do this paperwork for us.”
“No, Winston, we don’t. First of all, I wouldn’t trust anyone to do my paperwork. An intern couldn’t begin to understand all the nuances that go into that report. Secondly, it’s your job.”
She knew that he knew she was just grumbling, just as she knew he totally egged her on. So, she scowled at him and plopped back down in her seat. “You were the teacher’s pet, weren’t you,” she remarked as she refreshed the screen and started typing again.
She groaned when she hit the wrong key and had to backspace and painstakingly retype it all again. She hated typing. She never did take it in school, choosing instead to go to woodworking or auto mechanics classes. Now, here she sat with her dream job, and one-third of the time, she found herself trapped behind her desk, her two pointer fingers furiously clicking and clacking on keys.
“At least it’s not typewriters anymore.” Traci glanced up and saw Sheriff Ben Hughes standing next to her desk. He had skin the color of dark chocolate, dark brown eyes, and bright white teeth set in a face always ready to smile. “Computers have made everything easier. I used to throw away two forms for every one I typed. I swear the office integrated the computer system just to save the money I was wasting on forms.”
Traci chuckled, thankful to have some backup against Tiny. “At least I’m not the only one,” she said, pulling a handwritten arrest report forward. “I can sleep better knowing I’m not a burden to the force.”
Sheriff Hughes snorted and did not give any other reply. Instead, he carried his fresh cup of coffee into his office and shut the door. For another twenty painstaking minutes, she typed arrest records into the system, then moved the last one to her outbox. What happened next with them, she neither knew nor cared. Anna May, the office clerk, would make them magically disappear, and Traci wouldn’t have to think about them ever again.
“Done!” she exclaimed, pushing away from her desk and pulling open her drawer to remove her weapon and deputy star. She holstered her sidearm, slipped her star into her pocket, and walked over to the door. “I will see y’all way later. Like, maybe tomorrow or the next day.”
Sheriff Hughes’ door flew open. “Where are you headed, Winston?”
“Away. Outside and away. Why? You got something?”
He held up a slip of paper. “Domestic disturbance at the Crawford farm. It’s yours.”
The word farm was a rather euphemistic word. The Crawfords used to grow tobacco, but quit doing it when they lost the government subsidies. Someone suggested they convert to a grape orchard and start making wine, but no one ever really followed through on that. So, they bought goats and put them out in the old tobacco fields. “Probably need someone going with me out there,” Traci mused, thinking about the Crawfords she’d had dealings with in the past.
“I’ll go,” Tiny said, pushing back his chair and standing up. “I know Bubba Crawford from school. Should be okay.”
“You say that now,” Traci laughed, “but I know they’ll sic dogs on us. Be ready.”
She drove while Tiny read the operator’s report on the built-in computer. “Sandy Crawford called it in. Looks like Bubba’s tryi
ng to beat down a locked bathroom door with a Louisville Slugger.”
Anticipation ran up and down her spine, and adrenaline flooded her limbs. “Sounds like a good time,” she muttered, increasing her speed once she left the city limits.
They turned off the main road and drove down a rutted lane. Empty fenced fields flanked the road. She couldn’t even see any goats. They used to fill this field. She wondered what happened to them. In the distance, Traci could see an abandoned tobacco barn falling in on itself. Finally, the lane opened up into a yard. The old farmhouse, built in the twenties, sat in the middle of four double-wide trailers. Two men and a woman stood outside the one on the far left, so Tiny parked in front of it. As they got out of the car, the woman rushed toward them.
“He took something that made him crazy,” she said. She wore an oversized pink sweatshirt advertising the Kentucky Derby from five years ago, a pair of jeans, and no shoes. Traci recognized her and searched through her mind trying to place her. Maybe they went to school together? She tried to picture her fifty pounds lighter, with hair the color of her brown roots instead of the blonde dye job.
“Jill? Jill Mitchell?”
The woman’s face lit up. “Yeah, ‘cept it’s Crawford, now. Yeah.” She gestured at the trailer. “He’s done lost his mind.”
Tiny asked, “Who? Bubba?”
“Yeah. He’s got Sandy trapped in the bathroom. Dylan here said he coulda kicked the door in easy, so he must just be trying to scare her. But he’s got a pistol.”
“What kind of pistol?” Tiny asked.
“It’s his old .45,” Dylan supplied.
Traci looked at the men, then zeroed in on Dylan. “What did he take?”
“Some stuff he got from some guy he knows in Lexington. Looked like a piece of jelly candy.” He took a drag from the cigarette he clutched between two fingers. She noticed his hands shook. “I’m telling you, he’s gone crazy. I never woulda thought we’d call the law out to our place, but there ain’t no talking to him, and I don’t trust what he’ll do while we wait for him to come down.”
Traci pushed the button on the radio strapped to her shoulder. “Hey, Anna May, go ahead and send an ambulance out here to the Crawford place. I think we’re dealing with a drug overdose.”
She absently listened to Anna May’s confirmation and looked up at Tiny. “What do you think?”
He scowled and unfastened the lock on his holster. “I think people who make designer drugs ought to be hanged in the public square.” His boots thudded on the steps, then he stepped onto the red-stained pinewood deck in front of the trailer. White plastic chairs flanked a square table with a potted fern on it. “Why don’t you all go over by the cars? If he fires, a .45 round will go right through these trailer walls, and I don’t want any of you hurt.”
Traci reached down and unfastened the strap on her holster, then let her hand rest on the butt of her pistol. Tiny quietly opened the door, and they stepped into the trailer, pausing at the entrance to let their eyes adjust to the dim interior. The stale odor of cigarette smoke mingled with the pungent scent of/smell of marijuana.
A lumpy couch faced a large flat-screen television sitting on a stand in front of a long-unused fireplace. The flanking love seat had laundry piled on it. An overflowing ashtray and a small glass bong sat on the coffee table in front of the couch. Crushed beer cans spilled out of a small trashcan next to the sofa. Through an arched opening, she could see the kitchen. She walked carefully in that direction, checking corners and behind furniture until she could see the entire room. The kitchen was clean but showed signs of a struggle. The shattered remains of a coffee cup lay on the floor in front of the back door. One of the kitchen chairs lay on its side. The observation that concerned her most was the smeared partial bloody handprint on the white linoleum floor.
Traci signaled to Tiny that all was clear, and the two walked toward the master bedroom. They could hear the muffled sobs of a woman. Bubba Crawford sat on the bed. A splintered Louisville Slugger lay discarded on the shag carpet, and he clutched a Colt 1911 automatic .45 pistol in his hand, waving it in the direction of the bathroom door. At the sight of the weapon, Tiny and Traci both drew theirs.
He was a large man —big hands, big feet, big gut, broad shoulders. He had a scruffy beard and curly dirty-blond hair. He wore a blue T-shirt, torn black jeans, and scuffed work boots.
“Drop the weapon, Bubba,” Tiny ordered, aiming his pistol toward the large man.
Bubba’s head spun toward them, and Traci noted the wild look in his eyes and the drool around his mouth. His pistol wavered in the air as if he stood on a boat in heavy seas.
“What?” A grin covered his face. “What? What?” By the third what, he screamed. Traci could feel the word go through her, and the hairs on the back of her neck pricked up. He didn’t sound human. A menacing scowl instantly replaced the grin. He surged to his feet and spittle flew from his mouth as he yelled, “Do not presume to tell me what to do in my own house!”
“Bubba, I’m not going to say it again. Put the pistol down.” Tiny never raised his voice and never wavered even as the large man stepped toward him.
“Or what?” Bubba put his head back and howled at the ceiling. “Or what? Or what?” He looked at Tiny again, and Traci watched his face change from almost comical to intensely manic. “Or you’re going to do this?”
Before either of them could react, Bubba put the pistol to his own temple and pulled the trigger.
“No!” Traci and Tiny yelled in unison, but it was too late. They rushed forward. Bubba lay on the floor twitching and convulsing as the life left his body. Tiny leaned over the man. A single look confirmed the wound was mortal. Traci reached down and inverted the pistol, prying it from Bubba’s twitching fingers so he could not fire a final shot as his valediction.
Traci tossed the pistol up onto the bed and caught a glimpse of her blood-covered fingers. She looked back at Bubba, who had stopped moving. His last breath left him in a wheezing gasp. Suddenly, she spun around, putting a hand over her mouth. She couldn’t—
Over the ringing in her ears, Traci heard the screams in the bathroom grow louder. She focused on that instead. “It’s okay, Sandy. This is deputy Traci Winston. You can come on out. It’s safe now.”
She tapped on the door and listened to the muffled sniffles and sobs. Finally, the door opened, and Traci stepped forward to block Sandy’s view. The short woman was probably in her forties. She had a stout body, short straight black hair peppered with gray, and red-framed glasses. Traci could see blood staining her nose and the side of her face. “I need you to come with me,” she said as gently as she could.
Sandy saw something beyond Traci because she started crying again. “You killed him. You killed my Bubba. You killed him!”
“We didn’t.” Half expecting her to shrug her away, Traci put an arm over her shoulders to guide her from the room. When Sandy leaned into her and let her lead her, it surprised her. Over and over again, she said the words as they walked through the house and onto the porch. “You killed my Bubba.”
The ambulance arrived as they walked down the steps, so Traci walked her to the paramedics. Dylan, Jill, and the other man rushed toward them. Sandy kept wailing about how they’d killed Bubba. Dylan spun toward Traci with his fists clenched.
She released Sandy to hold up one hand and put her other on top of her weapon. “Dylan, he shot himself. We couldn’t stop him.”
He’d taken one more step, then stopped. His face fell, and he aged ten years right in front of her. “He done what?”
“He wasn’t right. Like you said. He shot himself like he thought it was a good idea. We couldn’t do anything to stop him. We tried. I’m sorry.” She kept her hand on the butt of her weapon but approached him. “What can you tell me about this drug and who he got it from?”
Traci sat on her front porch with her feet up on the railing. Clouds had started forming midafternoon, and by now, the temperature had dropped several degrees, bu
t she didn’t have the energy to get up and get a jacket. She knew the temperature would barely reach fifty degrees tomorrow. From the second story perch, she watched a barge slowly moving down the river, but in her mind, she kept seeing the look on Bubba’s face seconds before he pulled the trigger. In the distance, she heard the sound of a shoe on gravel and turned her head, watching Travis walk up the stairs.
“Missed you at choir practice tonight. If I’d known you weren’t going to be there, I would have come straight here.” She rolled her head toward him but didn’t get up. Choir practice? Traci had a hard time thinking about singing in the Easter cantata when all she could envision in her mind was the expression on Sandy Crawford’s face when she saw her husband’s corpse. He took the chair next to her but turned it to face her instead of the river. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Her stomach rolled. Tears she hated but couldn’t control burned her eyes. Afraid she’d cry if she spoke, she shook her head.
“I’m sorry. Can I do anything?”
Keeping her eyes fixed on the barge, she reached out for him, and he took her hand. As his thumb brushed over her knuckles, she realized she’d never put the ring back on this morning. He obviously noticed.
“You don’t really want to get married, do you, Traci?”
She forgot about the barge and whipped her head around to look at him. “Beg your pardon?”
“You don’t want to get married.” This time he didn’t ask. He simply stated it. “Not really.”
How did she answer this? How did she explain the jumble of emotions in her head at the thought of him, of her, of them as a married couple? How could she think of them amid the kind of day she’d had? All she could see when she closed her eyes was the aftermath of Bubba’s bullet. Days like this were going to be a part of her life. Did she want to share that with someone, or did she want to have this time, the isolation she sought at the end of a really bad day, instead? Why couldn’t she have both?