The Opium Equation

by Lisa Wysocky

  I stepped into the house and just as quickly stepped out. It felt spooky and I realized that someone could be in there after all. On the other hand, I reasoned, if someone was in the house, it would most likely be Bubba or Hill, and I had a perfectly good excuse for breaking and entering. Well, Hill might not think so, but probably I could convince Bubba.

  I hate dark places. I stood in the mist, my heart thumping, trying to gather up the courage to go back in the house. Only the thought of a child who might be hurt made me step back across the threshold. I wasn’t going to leave, I told myself, until I’d either found Bubba or found the house as devoid of life as it appeared to be. Missing child or not, the thought of searching the dim rooms made me as tense as a mule in a submarine. I am such a chicken.

  The flimsy trailer wobbled slightly as I walked into the living room.

  “Bubba,” I forced myself to call out in a pleasant voice. “Bubba, are you here?”

  There was enough illumination to see general shapes and not much more. Was that a rebel flag tacked to the ceiling? I believe it was. I put my hand on the wall to guide me but jerked it back to my side when I encountered something slimy. On second thought, there was enough light that I didn’t have to touch anything.

  I could tell that the far wall held the outline of a couch. A table in front of it was littered with what looked like trash. On closer inspection it could have been fast food containers. Maybe.

  “Bubba?”

  I took a left into the kitchen. It was small and messy, but a quick glance told me Bubba was not there. I took a couple of deep breaths to try to calm my shakiness. Snooping through someone else’s house was not my idea of fun. I wanted nothing more than to get out of there. Now. But if Bubba was inside the house and not answering, he was probably unconscious and in need of help. I took a left out of the kitchen and doubled back into the narrow hall behind it. It was darker back here and I felt, more than looked, my way through two bedrooms and a bath.

  The fact that I felt with my boots more than my bare hands is not important. I searched well enough to know with certainty that Bubba was not there. I finished with a fast but thorough search of the yard around the trailer, then ran back to Glenda’s driveway and to the safety and comfort of my truck.

  I sat there for a few minutes, Bubba’s bloody cap in my hand. My heart thumped and my legs shook as I wondered what the hell to do next. Bubba was not my kid. But Hill wasn’t home and Bubba was a human being who could be bleeding profusely. Either that or he had just pulled off the prank of the century. If so, I was going to be thoroughly pissed.

  Maybe I should head over to Hill’s barn to see if his horses had been fed their evening meal. That would be an indication that Hill or Bubba had been present somewhat recently, unless the hired help had done the feeding. Or maybe the horses were fed later in the evening. I didn’t keep up with Hill’s schedule.

  I sighed, got out of the truck, and made a brief foray to Hill’s barn. I was able to snag a quick peek through the window in the office door before Hill’s two snarling Dobermans raced to the glass from inside the barn and made a beeline for my throat. Sadly for them both the door and the window in it held firm. It was the lack of human noise more than anything that convinced me that, other than me, dogs and horses were the only beings present. If a person were in there, he or she would have to be as deaf as a Moon Pie not to investigate the racket the dogs were making.

  I thought angrily about the filth that Bubba was living in; surely Hill’s precious clients never saw that. The one time I had been inside his barn, it had been immaculate. Poor kid. No mother, and a father who was just plain sorry. Bubba certainly hadn’t had it easy. I wondered briefly if my concern for Bubba meant my biological clock was starting to tick a little louder. Nah. I shook my head. Not yet.

  So, damp, scraped, and bedraggled, I drove the short distance home. When I picked up the phone to call the Cheatham County Sheriff’s department, I remembered that Bubba had not shown up at my place for lunch. If Bubba had missed an opportunity to eat, something was seriously wrong.

  7

  CHEATHAM COUNTY IS A MUSHROOM SHAPED piece of land just west of the combined city and county of Nashville/Davidson County. It is bisected north and south by the Cumberland River, the south shore being where my farm lies. The particular stretch of River Road that my neighbors and I shared was kind of a stepchild of both Cheatham and Davidson Counties. We all had Nashville addresses, phone numbers, and electrical service; but our water, gas, and law enforcement came from Cheatham County, where the properties were actually located. We weren’t offered sewer service from either county. So close were we to the county line that a small section of the Henley property was actually in Davidson County.

  Hill claimed his ancestors planned it that way so they could have their say in both Davidson and Cheatham Counties. I always thought the original Henleys messed up and put the county line in the wrong spot. But we’ll never know, will we? Regardless of the intent, the actual site of the Henley home was in Cheatham County. That’s why I gave the sheriff’s department across the river in Ashland City a call.

  The deputy who arrived a few minutes later was a member of the Giles family. I knew that even before I looked at his name tag simply because he had the prominent chin, pale hair, and jug ears that all members of the Giles family are afflicted with. There were lots of people with the surname Giles in Cheatham County, which was odd, as Giles County is in south central Tennessee and nowhere near here. There must have been a very prolific Giles who moved here years ago to account for as many of them as there were. A look at the deputy’s nametag confirmed that he was indeed Giles, Martin.

  Giles, Martin was somewhere in his mid-twenties. He wore the standard brown and tan county deputy uniform along with a thick down jacket. He was of stocky build, around six feet tall, and still had a bit of peach fuzz on his doughy face. I had heard that Cheatham County deputies came and went pretty quickly due to the county’s low pay scale, but I thought this one might stick around for a while; he had a lot of family in the neighborhood. Besides, Hank’s frantically wagging tail confirmed that the deputy was indeed one of the good guys, and I guarantee that there is no better measure of the human spirit than Hank’s tail.

  As I sized him up, I could tell the deputy was doing the same for me––masses of curly, mouse-brown hair, thin but muscular body, long nose a little too large with a rash of freckles spread across the bridge. My pointed chin was a little too small, my teeth a little too large. On the plus side was the fact I’d once been told that my bright green eyes saved my face from utter plainness. A former boyfriend made the comment about my eyes while he thought he was breaking up with me. In reality, it was I who was breaking up with him, and it wasn’t because of what he thought of my eyes, or my face. Looking into Deputy Giles eyes, I knew I passed inspection.

  I could see by the polite twitch of the deputy’s nose that my house was still faintly scented with dog urine. But the deputy looked to be a well-bred Southern boy, which meant he was too mannerly to say anything and I, not quite as well-bred but possessing just enough breeding to be thoroughly embarrassed, did not mention it either.

  After we dispensed with the niceties, I found that Bubba Henley was no stranger to Deputy Giles. He was, in fact, kin, as Deputy Giles’s maternal grandmother had been a Henley. The genealogy out of the way, I showed him what was left of the cap and explained where and how I found it.

  When I finished, he stared at the dark red stains on the cap. “Guess I’d better call it in. The lab will know whether or not these are human blood stains,” he said slowly.

  I got the feeling that Deputy Giles did everything slowly.

  “The kid’s another matter,” he continued. “We don’t know for sure if he’s hiding, or missing, or off somewheres with his dad. But knowing the background of the family and looking at the weather out there, we’ll round up some guys and start a search. Check the barn out first. I can tell you though, folks won’t be real ha
ppy about it. On top of the weather being bad, Bubba’s not the best liked kid around. We’ve dealt with him before and it’s usually some childish game he’s playing. Either that or he’s done run away again.”

  He took his time as he carefully placed the cap in an evidence bag. “On the other hand, looking at that bloody cap, assuming that it is his blood, is enough to make you want to search all night.”

  While Deputy Giles called in his report, I began to worry that Bubba would show up of his own accord. It would be just like Bubba to wait until we got half the county out here and then wander in on his own. If that were the case, I made up my mind to thrash his pudgy bottom myself. Of course, Hill would probably sue me for child abuse, but what the hell.

  It wasn’t too many minutes after the deputy called in his report that I began to see the lights of several vehicles over at the Henley place. The big sliding door to the barn was opened and I thought of the brave person who dared face Hill’s dogs. I hoped he (or she) remembered to bring along a tranquilizer gun. Beams of light from portable lanterns started to bob in erratic patterns in the pastures of all our farms.

  I remembered my mission to confront Glenda, but one look at the clock and another at my grimy face, and I decided it could wait another day. As much as I wanted to stay up for Bubba reports, by midnight I was exhausted. I took a quick shower, bandaged my still oozing hand, and dabbed my face with an organic cream that Agnes swore also brought about positive karma. Then I said a quick prayer for Bubba as I slid between the clean warmth of my sheets.

  8

  I ROSE EARLY THE NEXT MORNING in preparation to feed. Unless it was my or Jon’s day off, I fed in the morning, and Jon in the evening. Hank and I headed for the barn at six o’clock sharp under the cover of a dawn that promised nothing but thick gray clouds and more damp air.

  I loved mornings. I loved the cool stillness of the air and the sound of stomps and whinnies as the horses greeted me. There is something very relaxing about watching a horse eat and I treasured my morning minutes with my equine friends.

  Hank did, too. He supervised as I pulled hay from the feed stall and distributed it to each horse. Hank’s morning ritual was to stick his nose into every flake, as if he was a quality control expert. Then he sat by the grain bin as I measured the correct amount of feed for each horse and mixed supplements that were formatted for that horse’s individual needs. Hank then personally inspected each horse’s stall as I looked over every horse for the odd bump or scrape he or she might have acquired overnight, and as I cleaned and checked the automatic waterers. By the time I was done, we were both ready for our own breakfast.

  On a sobering note, this morning, on my walk back toward the house, I noticed there was still a county vehicle over at the Henley place and I assumed that the fact it was there meant the searchers had found nothing.

  I was back in my kitchen by six-thirty and had just poured a cup of coffee when the doorbell rang. It was Deputy Giles come to tell me they had called off the search of the immediate area. For now.

  “We did an inspection of the area and we know the kid is not in the neighborhood. But,” he said, silencing my protests before I could voice them, “we’ve stationed a guy at the Henley house. That’s standard procedure. Chances are that Bubba’s run away, but we take runaways serious like and won’t give up ’til we find him.”

  Wishing that I’d never heard of Hill or Bubba Henley didn’t do me any good, for it wasn’t much more than an hour after Deputy Giles left that Hill himself banged on my door.

  “I been talkin’ to cops for half an hour and I want to know what makes you and them think that by Bubba bein’ out all night Bubba ain’t doing just what he wants?” he demanded as he barged in to my living room. Have I mentioned that Hill Henley is dumb enough to throw himself on the ground and miss?

  Hill wore a long-sleeved denim shirt that had seen better days, and filthy jeans that could have been kin to those worn by his son. What hair remained on his head was black and stringy and his face had not seen a razor in at least two, three days. The whole package made me want to dunk him in the horse trough. It would have been a big improvement.

  “If I thought Bubba was somewhere safe, I wouldn’t have called the sheriff,” I said calmly. The fact that I could handle Hill’s wrath without batting an eye, but being around Glenda made me want to cower like a kicked dog, flickered through my mind.

  I led Hill through the living room and back into the kitchen where he helped himself to the last of my coffee and sat down at the kitchen table. At that point I was so mad at Hill that I almost forgot to worry about Bubba. A ten-year-old does not stay out all night in the cold and rain voluntarily. The house, with no electricity, would be cold, but at least Bubba would have been out of the wind and dampness.

  “Oh yeah,” he sneered, “go right ahead, call the law on my boy. That’s how you people handle ever’thing. Get them hard-asses to snoopin’ through all my stuff, and without a warrant, I might add. You ain’t any different from the rest of ’em. You don’t give a shit about ol’ Hill.”

  He jumped up and ran cigarette stained fingers through his straggly hair. “An’ just what were you doin’ with my boy anyhow? That’s what I wanta find out. Just how the hell did you know he warn’t home and who invited you to call the po-lice? Whyn’t you mind your own god-damned business? I try my damnedest to raise him in a God-fearing manner and here’s what goes an’ happens.”

  I wondered if ignoring his son for years on end was Hill’s definition of God-fearing child raising.

  “Yesterday morning he was cold and hungry,” I said, “and quite worried about you. He was at the end of your driveway batting rocks at passing cars with a twitch, so like any friendly neighbor, I invited him to lunch. But he didn’t show, so I assumed you were home to––”

  “Whaddya mean, ‘He was hungry?’ I went all the way up to Ashland City and bought him a couple o’ them happy meals afore I left. Bubba’s too fat anyway, it’s embarrassin’ the way he eats all the time. If’n he were an inch taller, he’d almost be round. He jus’ don’t need to be eatin’ ever’thing in sight.”

  “So is that why you didn’t take him with you, because he’s too fat? Because he embarrasses you? Because––”

  “I didn’t leave him by hisself. My man come in twice a day to feed. Bubba coulda told him if he needed anythin’. My Bubba ain’t all that smart, but he knows how to use a telly-phone.”

  “Let me see if I have this right. You haul a mare to Shelbyville, leave after supper Sunday night and don’t come home until Tuesday morning. In the process, you leave a ten-year-old boy home alone with no food and no supervision, no electricity, no place where he could reach you, no one to call if––”

  “Now you hold on just a god-damn minute, Missy. I––”

  “Have you ever heard the phrase ‘child neglect,’ Hill? Do you understand the concept? Do you realize that if anything has happened to Bubba, it’s your neck they’ll hang? Not mine, not the ‘law’s,’ no one else’s. Just yours.”

  “What the hell––you tryin’ to scare me? He’s my kid and I’ll raise him as I see fit. Plus, I don’t want to see him ’round this here place no more. He comes back from here and tells me how to run my barn. I try to lead a horse the civilized way with a chain over its nose and he says, ‘No. Cat does it this way,’ and wants me to take the chain off. He says if I need a chain the horse don’t respect me none. Well I been doin’ this a long time and I don’t need no learnin’ from no kid or no silly-ass girl.”

  “You assume Bubba will be back.”

  “Now what’s that supposed to mean? A course he’ll be back. But things’ll be different ’round here when that happens I can tell you. The law crawlin’ all over my place ain’t doin’ my business no good. It’ll mess me up good for years to come, I can tell you. And it’s all your doing. You’ll hear from my lawyer. That I can guarantee.”

  He stood, belligerently, in front of me. A stupid, selfish man overwhelmed with
his own importance. Overwhelmed, and losing sight of the fact his son was missing and probably in need of medical attention. But then, as if he could sense what I was thinking, that realization started to sink in.

  “What am I goin’ to do now?” he said softly, his head sinking into his hands.

  Gee, maybe there was a real person in there somewhere, for Hill looked like he was afraid. Of losing Bubba, of losing face, of what the “law” might find in its search, I didn’t know. But there was a glimpse of real emotion in his eyes.

  “You’re going to do everything you can to find him,” I said as I led him back to the kitchen table. “Who are his friends from school? What does he like to do? What kinds of games does he like to play? You’re his dad. You know the answers to those questions better than anyone else, and those answers will help lead the searchers to Bubba.”

  Hill just shook his head. “I don’t know. I jus’ don’t know.”

  I sighed and wondered about Bubba’s mother, if he could have run to her, or to another relative, but before I could ask, Hill stopped that idea cold.

  “It’s just me an’ him. With all the relatives I got ’round here, there’s never been no family that’d help us. Not even his ma. Oh, man alive, I don’t know what I’d do without that boy.”

  Hill now looked trapped, like a fox who realized he’d no place left to run. I wondered just where it was that Hill had been these past few days.

  He sighed, muttered what sounded an awful lot like an apology, and let himself out the front door. I got an empty feeling when I realized there was nothing I could do to help.

  Cat’s Horse Tip #4

  “Home is where the horse is.”

  9

  WHEN I GOT TO THE COVERED arena later that morning, Jon was already there, longeing a yearling filly we hoped to take with us on the show circuit that summer. I think whoever invented longeing should be elected president, as it’s about the most efficient way to exercise a horse there is. If a horse is too young to be ridden, or suffers from stiffness and needs to loosen up, longeing is the way to go.