by Ann McMan
“So, Sport?” Maddie began. “Is there something you need to tell us?”
Henry started to cry.
Syd fought an impulse to rush over and pick him up.
“Come on, Sport. Don’t cry.” Maddie reached out a hand to him. “Let’s sit down and talk about this, okay? You know you can always tell us anything. Right?”
Henry nodded.
“We aren’t mad at you,” Syd added. “We just need to know what happened at school.”
Henry sniffed and followed them to the table. Syd pulled out a chair for him and they all sat down. Maddie unfolded the paper and placed it in front of him.
“Syd found this note from the principal in your lunchbox. Did you forget to give it to us?”
Henry shook his head no.
Maddie sighed and looked at Syd for support. After a moment’s consideration, Syd got an idea.
“Henry?” she asked. “Did the principal tell you to give this to your daddy?”
He nodded.
Okay. Now they were getting someplace.
“Sweetie?” Syd continued. “Since your daddy is on a trip, Maddie and I are filling in for him—kind of like substitute parents.”
At her mention of the word “substitute,” Henry’s eyes filled with tears again.
“He doesn’t like me,” he stammered. “He picks on me.”
“Who?” Maddie asked. “Who doesn’t like you, Sport?”
“My substitute teacher. He says bad things about me and Buddy. He makes me stay in during recess.”
Syd quickly laid a restraining hand on Maddie’s arm. It was clear to her that Maddie was trying to remain calm. It was equally clear that the elementary school would be her first stop on her way into town.
“What’s his name, Sport?”
Henry looked up at her with owlish eyes. “Hose Beast.”
Maddie’s jaw dropped. “What did you say?”
“Hose Beast,” he repeated. “Mister Hose Beast.”
“Honey,” Syd took over the inquisition. “What’s his real name?”
Henry seemed confused. “Mister Hose Beast is his real name. That’s what everybody calls him.”
Syd dropped back against her chair. So much for that whole “suspended” mystery . . .
Maddie ran a hand over her face.
“Sport?” She tried again. “What is your teacher’s proper name?”
Henry had to think about that one. He looked back and forth between them.
“Darren?”
“Dar . . .” Maddie looked at Syd.
Syd dropped her eyes to keep from laughing. But when she did, she noticed something in the fine print at the bottom of the suspension notice. She picked it up and held it out to Maddie.
“Read the last line at the bottom. Aloud.” She pointed at the entry.
“‘Supervising teacher: Darren Hozbiest,’” Maddie read. “Hozbiest?”
“You can’t make these things up,” Syd replied.
“I told you that was his name,” Henry insisted. “He doesn’t like me. He’s mean to Buddy.”
“Okay, Sport.” Maddie put the paper back down. “Let’s start from the beginning. Why do you think Mr. . . . Mr. Hozbiest . . . doesn’t like you?”
“He makes me stay after school.”
“Why does he do that?”
Henry shrugged his narrow shoulders. “Sometimes I don’t bring a lunch so he has to stay in the classroom with me.”
It was Maddie’s turn to lay a restraining hand on Syd.
“Why don’t you have a lunch every day, Sport?”
“Daddy forgets sometimes.”
“And Mr. Hozbiest makes you sit in the classroom while the other kids are eating?”
Henry nodded. “He makes me stay after school, too. He’s mean to Buddy.”
“Does he make you stay after school because you don’t always have a lunch?” Syd asked.
“No.” Henry lowered his eyes. “Sometimes I don’t have my homework done.”
Syd began drumming her fingers in agitation.
“Henry?” Maddie asked. “How does Mr. Hozbiest know Buddy? Buddy doesn’t go to your school.”
“I miss the bus when I have to stay late,” he explained. “Sometimes Buddy gives me a ride home on his scooter.”
“And Mr. Hozbiest doesn’t like that?” Maddie wasn’t sure she liked that idea, either. Not because she didn’t trust Buddy—but because it didn’t seem safe for the two of them to be riding so far on county roads.
Henry shook his head. “He calls Buddy bad names.”
“Okay.” Maddie sat back. “I’m going to stop by the school today and talk with your teacher. Everything will be just fine. We don’t want you to worry, okay?”
Henry nodded.
Syd pushed Henry’s dark hair back from his forehead. “After breakfast, you can go with me to the library today. Would you like that?”
Henry nodded with enthusiasm. “Can Héctor and Gabriel come, too? I won’t get to see them after school is over for the summer. And Dorothy?”
“I’ll call Mrs. Sanchez and see if Héctor and Gabriel can come after school. I’m not sure about Dorothy.”
“Miss Freemantle sees her all the time. Maybe I can ride on the bookmobile with her?”
“Maybe. We can ask her. But first you have to finish your homework.” She bent down and touched her nose to his. “All of it. Even the math.”
“Okaaayyy.”
Syd stood up. “How about some breakfast?”
“Hear, hear.” Maddie pushed back her chair. “Who wants pancakes? Raise your hand.”
Henry’s arm shot into the air.
Syd glared at Maddie.
“What?” Maddie feigned innocence. “We’re celebrating. You don’t eat yogurt and twigs when you’re celebrating . . . do you, Sport?”
“No!” Henry slid off his chair and raced to the fridge. “I want berries in mine. And chocolate chips.”
“You know,” Syd drawled. “I’m tempted to kill you—but if I wait long enough, I won’t have to. Your diet will do it for me.”
Maddie beamed at her. “I’ll get the griddle.”
◊ ◊ ◊
Roma Jean had nearly finished restocking the bookmobile for the day’s route. This often was the hardest part of the job. She had to anticipate what the regulars at each of her stops liked to read, and do her best to rotate her inventory to be sure she had things on hand that would appeal to a very diverse group of interests.
Sometimes, that was more complicated than it seemed.
Nelda Ray Black, for instance, liked any book about Jesus. But the straight-laced old woman flew into a rage after Roma Jean suggested she read Another Roadside Attraction by Tom Robbins. In retrospect, that had been a bad choice—but how could people expect Roma Jean to have read every book in the library? It wasn’t fair.
When she told Charlie about it, Charlie just threw back her head and laughed. She said Mrs. Black didn’t have the sense of humor God gave a schnauzer.
Roma Jean didn’t know much about schnauzers, but she guessed this observation meant they didn’t find many things funny.
Today’s route was less volatile. She had four stops. Most of them were in the western part of the county: Volney, Grant and Troutdale. But her first stop was at the county prison unit. That one usually gave her a case of what her Gramma Azalea called “the yips.” It wasn’t that it was dangerous or anything. It was a minimum-security detention center—even though some of the inmates were in for super-bad stuff. Charlie said that any men staying out at this facility were considered safe and hadn’t exhibited any disruptive behavior for more than twenty-four months.
Roma Jean wasn’t sure she shared Charlie’s view of what constituted “disruptive” behavior. One of the men asked her to locate back issues of Inside Detective magazine. When she asked him why, he puffed out his chest and said, “There’s an article about me in there.” And a couple of times now, men who’d been released had stopped by the
library to “visit” with her or invite her out for “coffee.”
Miss Murphy put a pretty quick stop to that. Roma Jean was glad. She didn’t do too well managing unwanted attention—especially these days. Miss Murphy told Roma Jean she needed to be more careful. The way she said it made Roma Jean wonder if they were still talking about ex-convicts. She wanted to follow up with her and find out if Miss Murphy was really making a reference to Charlie, who still managed to meet up with her a couple times a week at some of her more remote stops. They weren’t doing anything all that inappropriate. Well. Not yet, anyway. But Roma Jean knew things between them were starting to get out of hand.
She had tried to talk with Charlie about that yesterday, when she was parked out at Creola near Baywood. It had been a slow day and not many people had ventured out for books. Still, she was scrupulous about staying at each stop for the full hour. You never knew when somebody might show up.
Like Charlie.
It was only her lunch break, but Charlie stopped by to spend what was left of it with Roma Jean. Charlie said it had taken her nearly thirty minutes to make the drive to Creola because she’d been at the opposite end of the county, delivering a message for Byron.
“He had me talk with the owner of the Christmas tree farm up on Whitetop,” Charlie explained.
“Why?” Roma Jean asked. “What did he do wrong?”
“Nothing yet.” Charlie shrugged. “But the mayor told Byron he hasn’t filed I-9 forms for all of his workers.”
“What are those?”
“They’re tax forms that verify eligibility to work. You only have three days to do that after you hire somebody.”
“I don’t get it. Why would the mayor care about who grew his Christmas tree? He bought one last year from Daddy’s lot—and those all came from Whitetop.”
“It’s not hard to figure out. Most of the workers up there are from Mexico.”
Roma Jean thought about the implications of that. “You mean like Carlos Sanchez?”
Charlie nodded.
“But Carlos and his family have lived here forever.”
“That won’t matter if they don’t have papers to prove their right to work.”
“Does that mean they’ll be arrested? Or deported?”
“I hope not. That’s why Byron had me go up there—to tell the farm owner that our mayor is planning on deputizing local law enforcement to act as immigration agents.”
“He can’t do that, can he?”
“Yes, ma’am, he can.” Charlie nodded. “Under Section 287(g) of the Immigration and Nationality Act.”
“So, we have to warn Carlos and Isobel.”
Charlie didn’t say anything.
“Charlie?” Roma Jean laid a hand on Charlie’s arm. “We have to warn them.”
Charlie sighed. “Roma Jean. You know I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
Charlie pointed to her badge. “I’m a deputy sheriff, Roma Jean. If I warned them, I’d be breaking the law. And we don’t even know what their status is. They could have green cards.”
“What if they don’t?”
Charlie shrugged.
“I don’t get it. Wasn’t Sheriff Martin breaking the law when he sent you up there to warn the tree farmers?”
Charlie shook her head. “I didn’t go to warn them. I went to advise them to get their paperwork in order—which is good legal advice on any average day.”
“This is all so confusing.”
“I agree.”
Roma Jean got an idea. “So, you can’t warn them, and Sheriff Martin can’t warn them because you’d both be breaking laws. Right?”
Charlie nodded.
“But nothing says that I can’t warn them. Right?”
“Roma Jean . . .”
Charlie tried her best to talk Roma Jean out of getting involved, but it was too late. Her mind was already made up. She vowed to talk with Mrs. Sanchez on her next trip to Volney. But she knew Charlie would never stop trying to dissuade her, so she decided to distract her. It wasn’t hard. All she had to do was scoot a bit closer and ask how much more time they had before Charlie had to head back to town. She pointed out that they never knew when a patron might show up, so they had to make the best of the time they had.
It was a new experience for Roma Jean to realize that she held some power in a relationship. That had never happened before. At least, if it ever had been true, she’d never been aware of it—much less clued in about how to leverage it to her advantage.
Right then, that leveraging worked out just fine. The problem was it hadn’t taken long for Roma Jean to forget all about trying to distract Charlie. The process of doing so quickly overwhelmed her ability to think coherently about anything.
She knew they were probably skating precariously close to what her Aunt Evelyn called “heavy petting”—although she wasn’t one hundred percent sure what all was comprehended in the phrase.
“Don’t you be all hell-bent on exercising them feminine wiles, young lady,” Aunt Evelyn had said, wagging a finger at Roma Jean. She’d caught up with her in the parking lot on Sunday after church. “You keep gallivanting around with that flame-red hair and that bosom of yours and you’re gonna end up in a steaming pot of hot mess.”
It wouldn’t do Roma Jean any good to point out to Aunt Evelyn that she couldn’t do much about her hair color or her bosom. They both pretty much got to be what they were all on their own without any special effort or enhancement.
Aunt Evelyn always seemed to be the one in the family tasked with having the “serious” talks. Roma Jean was pretty sure her mama had engineered this one. Ever since she started driving the bookmobile, her mama had been acting antsy—like she thought Roma Jean was up to something unsavory. But she’d never be the one to ask her about it. They didn’t have that kind of relationship. So instead, she sent Aunt Evelyn barreling in like a tank to clear a path for the infantry.
“I’m not exercising anything,” Roma Jean whined. “And I can’t help walking around with this bosom.” She gestured at Aunt Evelyn’s chest. “It runs in both sides of the family.”
Aunt Evelyn’s big brown eyes grew larger. “Are you giving me sass?”
“No, ma’am.” Roma Jean sagged against her car door. She was still driving her uncle’s ancient Caprice. It would be another six months before she had enough money saved to buy something used from Junior’s.
“Well you just mark my words.” Aunt Evelyn drove her point home. “No good can come from carrying on with the wrong kind of people.”
Roma Jean thought for a moment about the assortment of options available in Jericho.
It was a pretty short list.
“So,” she asked her aunt. “Who would the right kind of people be?”
Aunt Evelyn lifted her chin. “You know what I’m talking about, missy.”
“No, ma’am. I don’t. Not if ‘carrying on’ with the right people means I have to pick out somebody like one of the Lear twins.”
“Oh, those two are just idiots,” Aunt Evelyn scoffed. “And you know full well that ain’t what I’m talking about.”
“But, I don’t, Aunt Evelyn. I swear I don’t.”
“Let me make this simpler for you. You know it wasn’t easy for your Uncle Cletus to bring me back here to live after we got married.”
Roma Jean nodded. She’d heard all the stories about what a scandal it was when her uncle married a black woman and brought her to live with him in Troutdale.
“Well, believe me,” Aunt Evelyn continued, “my people didn’t much care for it, either. Hell, the only person around here who gave us the time of day back then was your Gramma Azalea—and that was only because she’d rather die than live with a Yankee like your mama. Everybody else acted like we’d committed a crime against nature. And it ain’t much different today, mark my words.”
Roma Jean opened her mouth to say it wasn’t like that with Charlie, but the words dried up before she could get them out. Besides, say
ing anything about her feelings for Charlie would just open up a can of worms she wasn’t ready to deal with yet.
Sometimes it seemed like she was racking up so many unopened cans of worms, she ought to give up on library school and open a bait shop.
Aunt Evelyn was still staring at her. “You’ve got a good head on your shoulders, girl. We all expect you to use it.”
“Just like you did?”
“I can’t say as marrying your Uncle Cletus was the smartest thing I ever did. But even though he drives me crazy, he’s a good man and I could a done a lot worse.” She looked at her watch. “I gotta go. Nadine’s gonna string me up by the short hairs if I don’t show up and get them biscuits started.”
“I just want to be happy.” Roma Jean muttered. She knew it sounded pathetic, but she couldn’t think of a better way to express what she was feeling.
“Honey?” Aunt Evelyn’s voice dropped down from what her daddy called its normal resting place in nosebleed country. “We all want to be happy. But sometimes, we need to accept that being smart is a better choice.”
Was being smart a better choice?
Had Miss Murphy been smart when she divorced her cheating husband and moved in with Dr. Stevenson? Not everybody in the county had good things to say about that. Yet the two of them sure seemed to be happy.
It was true that the world was changing and people had more freedom these days. But it wasn’t the freedom to choose who you were—she was beginning to understand that you pretty much got dealt that hand of cards at birth. It was more like you had the freedom to decide if you were gonna do what Aunt Evelyn suggested—pick being “smart” over being happy.
All these ruminations would just have to wait a bit longer.
Besides, maybe she’d live long enough to get lucky.
Maybe one day, people wouldn’t have to choose.
◊ ◊ ◊
Maddie was working late.
Her last appointment had been at four-thirty, and she was in her office, trying to get caught up on paperwork—the bane of her existence. She had no trouble understanding why so many residents gave up on their dreams of opening their own practices. Had she not inherited this one from her father, she seriously doubted that she’d have had the temerity to persist. She spent as much time pushing paper as she did seeing patients. And her practice was too small to add the requisite staff to manage it. So, for now, she was the one tasked with the Herculean feat.