by Newman,James
“Hello again, Kyle,” Sheriff Burt Baker said to me. “How are you, son?”
I couldn’t move. I knew I would pass out any second. I prepared myself for the taste of old shag carpet.
“Wha…Mom?” I stammered, jerking my hands away from the killer in khaki before me. “I don’t…h-how…”
“Say hello,” Mom said. “Don’t be shy.”
My eyes grew wider than ever. I watched him watch me.
Time seemed to stand still.
“I…I…M-Mom? Wh-what is this?”
Mom mouthed for me to say hello. She looked desperate. As if, should I ruin this moment, I would shatter any happiness she had ever known.
Sheriff Baker looked back at her and she quickly smiled.
“I don’t understand…what is this?” I said again, glaring at them both. It was all I could do not to hiss my words through my teeth, not to spit my hatred all over his uniform. I envisioned globules of my saliva catching in the black curly hairs beneath his throat. How’s that for sexy, Ma? You people make me sick.
“What are you…why…wh-what are you doing here?” I said instead.
“Kyle! That’s not very nice!”
Mom gave me a stern look, but then smiled again as if life had never been finer when the sheriff looked back to her.
“Oh, it’s alright, Darlene,” the sheriff said. He held up the most gigantic hand I had ever seen in a placating gesture. “Kids are always intimidated by the uniform, I think. I’m used to it.”
That seemed to appease Mom. At least for the time being.
“You can relax, Kyle,” Baker said. “I’m not here to arrest anybody.”
“You’re…no?” I didn’t know what I was saying. I felt light-headed, so confused.
He winked at me, made a clicking sound with his tongue. “Unless, of course, you’ve done something wrong.”
I said nothing. Just kept staring at him, dizzy with disbelief. My teeth chattered together. I felt so, so cold.
“What is this, Mom?” I asked her yet again. “Why…”
“Kyle, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you,” she began to explain at last. “I guess I’ve waited long enough. You do have a right to know.”
I waited. Not breathing. Not moving. Not wanting to believe the filth that would soon fall from between my mother’s lips, as I somehow knew what was coming.
I needed to pee.
“The sheriff and I,” Mom started. “That is, Burt and me…we…well, Kyle, we—”
Baker cleared his throat, stared at his shiny black shoes.
“We’re sort of…um—” She looked to him, as if for help. “We’ve been…seeing each other, for the past couple months, and…oh, Gosh…”
One hand went to her chest. Mom’s cheeks turned a bright rose color.
“Hey, shh,” said the sheriff. He moved toward her, gestured for her to stop. He set his glass of scotch atop my television, put one big arm around her. “Let me, hon.”
Hon? I was going to hit the floor any second. There was no doubt in my mind.
The sheriff reached behind Mom, turned off her radio.
As if he owned my house and everything in it.
I wanted to scream. Scream at him to leave here and never come back. I wanted to scream until my voice was gone and my throat was raw and bloody.
“What your mother’s trying to tell you, Kyle, is that she and I…well, we’ve been spending a lot of time together for the past couple of months. We’ve been…dating. It’s nothing serious. It’s not like I have that much free time these days anyway, if you know what I mean. But your mother, when we get the chance, we…well, we just…we have a lot of fun together, Kyle. We really enjoy one another’s company. That’s all. Like I said, it’s nothing serious, but we thought you should know. It’s only fair.”
“What?” I barked at him.
Burt Baker stared at me.
Mom stared at me.
“H-How…whaa…Mom? What…”
“It’s okay, honey,” Mom said. She stepped toward me, out of Baker’s embrace, but I took two quick steps back.
Don’t you fucking touch me, the look on my face must have said.
“We understand what you must be feeling.”
“You…I…n-no…no, you don’t, Mom…”
“Darlene,” said Sheriff Baker, with a little sniffle. He adjusted his gun-belt, nodded sadly. “I think I know what’s going on here.”
“You do?” Mom and I said at the same time.
“Yeah,” Baker said. He looked at me. “I do. But it’s okay, son. Really. You have nothing to worry about.”
“It’s…I don’t understand…”
“I’m not trying to replace your father. You have my word. I’d never try to do that.”
Burt Baker’s right hand covered his heart, offering up a picture of utmost sincerity.
Then his arm snaked back around my mother’s shoulders. As if he would never let her go, no matter my feelings on the matter.
“That’s not what he’s trying to do, Kyle,” Mom added. “Not at all.”
“I know I could never replace your father,” said the Sheriff. He took a second to kiss my mother’s forehead. I shuddered. “No one can. But I want you to know…I am here for you, if you ever need anything.”
He winked at me, and I wobbled where I stood. The rain on the roof above seemed deafening, like the hoof-beats of a thousand demonic horses approaching to signal the dawn of Armageddon.
“Are you okay, honey?” Mom asked me.
At least one long, awkward minute passed before I answered.
“No, Mom,” I said, my voice cracking. “I’m not okay at all.”
“He’s not trying to replace your father,” she said again, quickly, as if she had lost the ability to think for herself and could only repeat the Sheriff’s filthy lies. “Really.”
“You see, Kyle,” the sheriff explained, “Your mom and I have a lot in common. My wife, Connie, passed away ten years ago. Ovarian cancer. It was rough, the worst thing I’ve ever been through in my life, and I thought I’d never date again. I thought it’d be like…like betraying her, you know?”
“Right,” said Mom.
“But it’s not. It took me a long time to realize this, but I know Connie would want me to move on with my life. She would want me to be happy. In fact, I’m quite sure my wife…and your father too, for that matter…they’re probably looking down from Heaven right now, and they’re pleased to see we’re not wallowing in misery. We haven’t forgotten them—Lord, no—but we’re happy. We’re making it. Day by day. The best we know how.”
Mom smiled at me, nodded. Her eyes were moist.
I could not look at them. I looked everywhere around the room, my gaze constantly shifting and darting about me from the floor to the wall to the ceiling and then back to the floor, but I could not meet the murderer’s eyes.
I wanted to leap upon him, tear out his throat with my bare hands. How dare he mention my father. How dare those words fall from his ugly lips.
“We thought you should know, Kyle,” Mom said. “I do apologize for not telling you sooner. I guess I was just waiting for the right time to tell you.”
“Wh-why?” I said.
“It’s not like we were trying to hide anything from you, you understand?” Mom went on. “There’s nothing to hide, really. We’ve just tried to be very discreet about it. No one but our families need to know.”
“Why?” I asked her again. “How…”
“It’s okay, son,” Baker said. “We understand what you must be going through. But there’s nothing for you to worry about. Just be happy for your mother. Know that she’s happy.”
“I can’t believe this.”
“I’ll take good care of her, I promise.”
“I can’t believe this.”
“Kyle—” Mom started.
“I can’t believe this!” I screamed at them, at the top of my lungs.
I ran to my room. Slammed the do
or as hard as I could, locked it.
Thunder boomed overhead, rattling the windows. Setting me even more on edge.
“Kyle Mackey!” my mother shouted, from the living room. “You get back here right this instant!”
I ignored her.
“You come back here and apologize, young man! That was very rude!”
I didn’t. And I wasn’t going to. No matter the consequences.
I heard him trying to console her in there, felt the buzzing vibrations of his basso tone in the wall against which I cowered. I thought I heard my mother weeping. But I did not care.
I shook my head back and forth, back and forth, refusing to believe any of this.
It couldn’t be happening. It couldn’t!
I waited until I heard the front door shut, about ten minutes later, before I got up. Waited until they left on their precious little date, and I heard the sound of a vehicle moving away from our house and up the street.
That cinched it. I was alone. So terribly alone.
She had left with him—with that bastard—without attempting to reconcile her shattered relationship with her son. Didn’t she realize that’s what I wanted? Didn’t Mom know I secretly wished she would come knocking at my door, demanding I open up or by God I was grounded for so long Dan would be out of college the next time I was allowed to come out of my room? Didn’t she understand that I wanted her to chase after me, to hold me and tell me everything was gonna be okay?
No. She had left in the arms of a murderer. She had deserted me.
I decided during that moment that I hated not only Sheriff Burt Baker, I hated my mother as well.
Never in my life had I felt so betrayed.
Things could not possibly get any worse.
AUGUST 11
CHAPTER TWENTY
Six days after the Apple Gala, and only two days after he was arrested for the murder of Cassandra Belle Rourke, Calvin “Rooster” Mooney escaped from the liar’s custody.
At least, that is what the citizens of Midnight all believed. What Burt Baker led them to think.
I knew better.
Mom had already left for work that morning when I wandered into the living room, lazily scratching my butt through my pajamas. I was glad she was gone. I didn’t wish to speak to her so soon after discovering her betrayal of our family, of my father’s memory, and for that matter I wondered if I would ever want to see her again.
Putting such thoughts out of my mind as best I could, I planned to pass the time by watching a few cartoons, maybe indulging in a blueberry Pop-Tart or two.
Once upon a time I thought Saturday morning cartoons were the greatest invention since primitive man discovered he could create fire. Those early hours of every Saturday seemed so magical. How I dreaded seeing noontime roll around when the likes of Bugs Bunny and the Super-Friends were replaced by adult programming such as NWA Wrestling and the Champion Bass-Fishin’ Hour With Bobby J. Flukhas. Now, however, watching cartoons had become nothing more than a beloved distraction, something to take my mind off of everything that had happened in my hometown. I tried to avoid watching television at all, for that matter, lest it reminded me of my failure to do the right thing with some sudden “News Flash” or “Late-Breaking Top Story.”
Case in point…less than ten minutes after I plopped down on our ratty old couch, and the thing squeaked like some living creature protesting my intrusion upon its private territory, a smiling, middle-aged man with perfect white teeth and immaculately coifed sandy blond hair suddenly replaced Wile E. Coyote and his ill-fated efforts to destroy the Road Runner on the TV…
“We interrupt this program to bring you a Special Channel 5 News Report,” said the anchorman. He spoke very softly, slowly, as if his audience were a bunch of drooling idiots who could otherwise barely comprehend the implications of what he told us. The slender black stripes on his bright yellow tie looked like prison bars. “This morning the Polk County Sheriff’s Department issued an All Points Bulletin for Calvin Tremaine Mooney, the thirty-year-old man who was arrested earlier this week for the murder of Cassandra Belle Rourke. Sources say Mooney escaped from the Polk County Jail shortly after seven a.m., after allegedly attacking Sheriff Burt Baker during a routine inspection of his cell.”
The man looked down at his papers, licked his lips before continuing.
“At this time, authorities are warning citizens that Mooney may be armed, and he should be considered dangerous. Sheriff Baker urges anyone with information leading to Mooney’s whereabouts to please call 704-555-1819 immediately. Again, that’s 704-555-1819.”
For the next few seconds Calvin Mooney’s mug-shot was displayed, giving everyone a good, long look at this harmless man they were being told to fear. To hate.
I shook my head, stared at the floor, but flinched when Burt Baker appeared on my television.
He stood outside the offices of the Sheriff’s Department, hands upon his hips. His bumpy brown forehead was shiny with sweat. The shoulders of his rumpled uniform were stippled with drops of the day’s cool drizzle. Baker rubbed at his Adam’s Apple every few seconds as he spoke into a microphone some off-camera reporter had shoved into his face. Once he pulled out a dirty-looking blue handkerchief, dabbed at his cheeks and forehead with hands that trembled slightly.
I guess he was supposed to look rattled. I wanted to throw something at the TV screen.
“He got me good, I’ll admit it,” the murderer said, wincing. “Poked me right here, in the throat, with two fingers. Hurt like a son-of-a…anyway, I can promise you that’ll be the last time this guy lays a hand on anyone in my jurisdiction.”
Burt Baker should have won that year’s Oscar for Best Actor. Forget Peter Finch and Faye Dunaway. They had nothing on him.
“Sheriff, what provisions are currently being taken to apprehend Calvin Mooney and bring him back into your custody?” the reporter asked.
“I’ve got my best men working on it,” Baker replied. He looked directly into the camera, as if personally consoling every worried man, woman, and child in Midnight. “I assure you this won’t take long at all. I made the mistake of letting my guard down this once, but it will not happen again. That’s what I get for trying to be compassionate, trusting the best in people, I suppose. In any event…what happened, happened. Now we’ve got to focus—I’ve got to focus—on apprehending this felon and bringing him back to justice A.S.A.P. One thing Polk County knows is that I’ve never been the kind of sheriff to sit around on my duff and let business take care of itself. This little…problem…will be handled quickly and efficiently, and I can promise you it’s just a matter of time before Calvin Tremaine Mooney is back in jail, awaiting trial for the murder of Ms. Cassandra Belle Rourke.”
“Thank you very much for your time, Sheriff,” said the reporter.
The camera started to pan back to him.
But then Sheriff Baker held up one hand. He pulled the microphone back toward his face, gestured for the cameraman to give him one more second.
“Hold on there, Chief,” he said. “I’m not done.”
The reporter gave him one last chance to spread his propaganda. “Please, Sheriff, be my guest.”
Sheriff Baker looked so sincere as he stared into the camera. If I hadn’t known he was a lying bastard, had not witnessed his murderous acts with my own eyes, I might have bought into his unholy deception just like everyone else…
“I want everyone to be careful out there,” Baker said. “Calvin Mooney might not look like much, but this is one very dangerous man we are talkin’ about. He’s sick. Some kinda pervert, gets his kicks off hurtin’ women. He’s already had his way with one poor girl, and I’d die before I’ll let another innocent person fall prey to his twisted desires. Just be careful, folks, is all I’m saying. Be careful. We’ll get him. I promise. Soon.”
Damned if I didn’t see tears in the sheriff’s eyes. For the second time in the last twenty-four hours. I thought I might throw up.
Worst of all, thou
gh, was the realization of what was to come.
Calvin Mooney—the man we all called “Rooster”—was a dead man. He just didn’t know it yet.
Sheriff Baker hadn’t “accidentally” let Calvin Mooney escape. He hadn’t been overtaken, “poked in the throat with two fingers” by that lanky, buck-toothed black man whose mind knew only child-like wonder and not a hint of violence. The sheriff could have broken Rooster in two, if the urge overtook him.
I hated Burt Baker more than ever, as his little “plan” became so clear to me…
It should go without saying that, in small Southern towns such as Midnight, circa 1977, things worked much differently than they do now. Though people did not talk about it, racism was still alive and well. Despite the victories earned by civil rights activists a decade before, Dr. Martin Luther King’s dream of equality had only begun to take awkward baby steps at best. While bigotry was not as blatant as it once had been below the Mason-Dixon Line, and its practitioners refrained—more or less—from advertising their disdain forthright, such outdated ideals were far from nonexistent. I saw it every day, though I could not fully comprehend the cruel implications of it all at the ripe old age of twelve. The days of WHITE FOLK ONLY and NO COLOREDS signs in dusty storefront windows were long past, yet hate still festered beneath the surface in my hometown like an ugly sore that no longer oozes but leaves a nasty scar nonetheless. When I was a child the truth about tolerance displayed itself not through public lynchings or even flaming crosses illuminating the night out toward Jefferson Circle (the area of Polk County populated predominantly by black folk), but in subtle Sunday morning smirks given the region’s small but boisterous African Zionist Church by passing Caucasian families. How far Midnight had progressed in matters of race and equality was evident in Mayor Hiram Bentley’s routine dismissal of motions brought forth in town meetings requesting the reparation of the roads on Jefferson Circle, despite frequent allotments of thousands of taxpayer dollars for the continued upkeep of streets leading into wealthy white developments like Fleming Heights and Foxwood Terrace.
It wasn’t something that was out in the open, Midnight’s racism. Most of the time, my hometown hid it well. I soon deduced, however, that things might have been simpler, better, had the bigotry that lurked in Midnight been more obvious. The way things were, back then, it was like a volcano waiting to blow at just the right time.