Woulds

by J. L. Wilson

  I washed up then tugged a stool from under the gleaming metal center island. I pressed the bag of peas against my face and slumped tiredly. I’ve tended bar for years, from fancy hotels to ocean-side dives, from one end of the country to another. When Alan approached me decades earlier after my divorce, I jumped at the chance to invest my divorce settlement into my lifelong ambition to have a place of my own, a place where I set the rules.

  Like the rule about no fighting.

  I heard the back door open. A minute later Alan joined me, carrying my purse, which he set on the counter near the prep sink. “I stopped in at the Pub and you’re covered for the night. Why were you still working? You quit at ten.”

  “I was getting ready to turn over my shift when Guy came in. Then I saw Rob come in and I figured I should hang around, just in case. Why are you here so late?”

  He leaned his back against the counter so he could face me. With me seated and him standing, we were about the same height. Alan had wiry gray hair, a round face, and a solid frame he kept trim with regular exercise. “I’m testing a new recipe. John brought me some ham and I was fiddling around with an idea for a ham and cheese macaroni.”

  “I’m happy to be a guinea pig when you’re ready for testing,” I volunteered.

  “You and Owen are always my guinea pigs.” The mention of his guy-friend brought Alan’s smile, dimples appearing at the corners of his full lips. He and Sheriff Owen Knott kept a very low profile in town, although I suspect most of the townspeople knew they were an Item. Iowa legalized gay marriage a few years earlier, but neither man was willing to test the limits of tolerance, especially where law enforcement was concerned.

  I shifted the pea bag on my bruised face. “What did Guy mean when he talked about Rob being a second choice?”

  Alan waved a hand. “Old history. Guy and Marianne dated in high school. They broke up when Guy went to college. Marianne turned to Rob. They dated for a long time. I think Marianne finally put her foot down and told him to make it legal or take a hike. Of course, Rob hasn’t been able to hold a job long enough to really support a family, so I guess he was waiting for his fortunes to turn around before he popped the question.” He shook his head. “I don’t think it’s a happy marriage.”

  I moved the bag again to hide my expression. “Well, you never know,” I said noncommittally.

  “I suppose Marianne wishes now she’d waited for Guy. It’s not often your old high school sweetie goes off to the big city, makes a million or two bucks, then comes back to town to retire. Compared to poor old Rob . . .” Alan shrugged. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Marianne is having second thoughts. Rob’s job as manager at the chicken factory can’t pay much.” He tilted his head, concern evident in his brown eyes while he regarded me. “You should go to the eye doctor tomorrow.”

  I pulled the bag away. “You think so?”

  Alan nodded. “Can you move your eye? How’s your vision?” He held up two fingers. “How many?”

  “Six.” I dropped the bag on the counter. “Just kidding. I’ll see how it is in the morning.”

  He straightened up. “Can you drive?”

  I yawned. “I could get home on autopilot, I think.” I patted his shoulder and slid off the stool. “Thanks for the worry. I’ll be fine. All I need is a good night’s sleep and some aspirin.”

  “Sure?”

  “Sure.” I picked up my purse and extracted my car keys from the outer pocket. “You’ll close up for me?”

  “Yep, no problem.” He grinned. “You’d do the same for me if I was in a brawl.”

  I winced at the mental image of a barroom brawl, the beautiful oak floors of the Acorn strewn with drunks. “If Guy Gibson comes in tomorrow, I’m tempted to snatch his arm off and beat him with the stump.”

  Alan laughed. “You’re the woman to do it. Good night, Tucker.”

  I waved good-bye and headed out the back door, making for my dark red sedan under the streetlight on the east side of the parking lot. I glanced at the cat alcove when I passed, but saw no movement. Poor critter. I was willing to help find her and her kittens a home, but I couldn’t get close enough to make the attempt.

  “Maybe tomorrow.” I steered my car through the lot and making a left turn onto Broad Street to go north. I drove past Central Park, the one-block green space in the middle of town then I passed the movie theater, drugstore, clothing store and other establishments that were Barnsdale’s downtown.

  I saw the hospital sign on my left and turned into the parking lot, reasoning if the E.R. was busy, I’d go home. But the large waiting area was empty and before I knew what was happening, I was whisked into a cubicle where a brown-haired guy too young to be a doctor examined my face.

  After asking me to stare here, there, and everywhere, he straightened. “There’s no permanent damage to the eye, so keep up the ice and come back if you have any problems with your vision.”

  I said I would, signed a sheaf of papers probably promising my life away, and was on the road twenty minutes later. I passed the country club on my right and made a left turn into my subdivision, Sherwood Acres. Towering oak and maple trees surrounded me while I navigated a series of left and right turns on streets named after English counties, so-designated by the eccentric developer who created the subdivision half-a-century earlier. I drove along Suffolk Street, Devon Way, and Northants Avenue heading to my driveway on Lincolnshire Lane with my headlights illuminating my small blue three-bedroom home with the back yard sloping to the river below.

  I entered through the garage door into the kitchen, a doorway separating my kitchen/dining area from the living room on my right. I dropped my purse and my car keys on the dining table and went to the fridge to get a hot-cold pack I kept frozen for when my aching back acted up. I took it, a dishtowel, and a glass of white wine and went to the living room where I sank onto my dark gold couch.

  First I took two big swallows of wine then put my feet up on the hassock and gingerly positioned the ice bag on my right cheek. I lowered the brightness on the lamp next to the couch, which I always left on when I was out. I winced when light angled into my right eye, making it tear.

  My vision was blurred, but I think that condition was normal with a black eye in the first few hours of injury. I could Google it to be sure, but my computer was in my home office, two doors down the hallway. I swallowed some more wine and leaned my head against the sofa, the cold pack balanced against my nose.

  After another gulp of wine, I tossed the cold pack and towel onto the braided area rug covering the oak floor. So Rob and Marianne were getting divorced? I stared at my pale green ceiling, a contrast to the darker green of the walls and wallpaper. They were married shortly after I moved to town and I think they were maybe happy early on, but it wasn’t long before I started getting sob stories from Rob about their wedded not-bliss.

  I once again thanked Heaven or my Guardian Angel or whoever watched out for such things that my divorce years earlier was so amiable. Of course, the amiability was due in a large part to the fact we had no children and very little property. We didn’t have a lot to argue about. It was odd that I was divorced and Rob and Marianne were married within a few months of each other. Funny how things work out. I was busy separating myself from my husband while Marianne and Rob were busy intertwining themselves. I yawned, my eyes closing.

  I woke once and realized groggily I was snoozing on the couch. My face hurt and I shifted position, tucking a pillow under my ear so my bruised cheek wasn’t pressed against the fabric. I drifted back into sleep, lulled by the sound of the air conditioner.

  The brisk ringing of my phone woke me. I propped myself up on my elbow and fumbled for the receiver on the end table near my head. “What?” I mumbled when I managed to find it.

  “Tuck, I need help.”

  I sat up straighter and rubbed my left eye. Luckily, I remembered in time and didn’t touch my right one. “Rob? Is that you?” I asked around a yawn.

  “I need help. Can yo
u come here? Can you come to the cabin?”

  “The cabin? Why are you there?” Rob had a cabin which his family owned for generations. It was north of town near the river in the middle of a tract of forest and not far from the flood plain. “You were going home, weren’t you?”

  “I had John bring me here. I need help, Tuck. Can you come out?”

  I blinked at the clock on the wall over the dining room table. One-ten. Damn. One o’clock in the morning and Rob was calling me. “Why?” I snapped, waking up more fully.

  “It’s Guy.”

  “Guy? Guy Gibson? What about him?”

  “I think I killed him.”

  Chapter 2

  “What? What do you mean, you killed him?” I got up and stepped on the squishy, still-cold gel pack lying on the floor. I jumped and almost did a header onto the braided rug. I avoided it by running into the coffee table and banging my shin on it. “Shit!”

  “What’s going on? Are you okay?”

  I sank back on the couch, rubbing my leg. “I’m fine.” I gritted my teeth when my shinbone started to throb, keeping time with the headache pulsing above my right eye. “What are you saying, Rob? Why do you think you killed Guy? The last time I saw him, he was mad as hell and driving away in that fancy car of his.” I got up cautiously and made my way to the fridge, where I refilled my wine glass.

  “. . . and we argued. I told him Marianne and I talked but he . . .”

  “Rob, you’re fading out. Are you using your cell phone? Reception is crappy around the river.” I sipped the wine, trying to rinse the taste of a too-short nap from my mouth. It felt like sweaters covered my teeth.

  “. . . come and help me. I wasn’t sure who to call. I can’t call her because . . . alone here. She and I aren’t talking and . . .”

  I downed more wine. “Go to bed and sleep it off. Guy was at the bar, alive and well and being an asshole an hour or so ago. He’s not dead. You’re dreaming.”

  “Hold on.”

  “What? Hold on? It’s one in the morning, why—” Silence. There was no indication Rob was still on the line. I considered hanging up, but my momma drilled politeness into me as a child and it was hard to kick the habit. Besides, if I hung up, he’d probably just call again.

  I kept the portable phone pinned to my ear while I went to my bedroom at the back of the house. I peeled off my shirt, tossing it near the laundry basket before going into the small half-bath attached to my bedroom, flicking on the light while I went.

  “Holy Mother of God,” I muttered when I saw myself in the mirror. My right eye and cheek were dark blue-red streaked with yellow at the edges. The discoloration went up my face from my cheek to my eyebrow, but my eye appeared to be okay. The white part was white and the green part was green, which I guess was a good thing. Some blood had trickled along the side of my face and I dabbed at the crusty patch with a washcloth.

  “Tucker, I heard something. Can you come out? I really need help. I don’t know what to do. Please.” His words tumbled over each other so much I could barely understand him.

  I glanced to my left, at the inviting bed. “What can I do?”

  “Please.” He sounded desperate.

  I sighed. “Okay. I’ll drive out soon as I get dressed.”

  “Thanks.”

  A click on the line told me he’d disconnected. “Why me, Lord?” I asked the air around me. I went to the closet in my bedroom and drew on a loose blue cotton shirt. Then I shucked off my jeans, replacing them with a clean pair from the dresser. When I headed back to the kitchen, a deep rumble overhead made me pause. A second later the sound of rain hit my roof.

  I hurried to the front window and pulled aside the curtain to peer past my small porch at rain pelting through the trees in the front yard and bouncing off the driveway. Well, thank God it finally rained, but did it have to start right before I needed to drive into the country on a twisting road that was about thirty feet from the river? I’d gone to Rob’s cabin many times because he and Marianne often threw parties, but I usually was with someone and we didn’t drive at night in a rainstorm.

  I started to turn from the window but movement outside made me lean forward. A person leaned toward me on the other side of the glass. “Holy crap!” I skittered back, bounced off my recliner, and landed in a heap on the floor when a booming knock sounded on my front door.

  I checked the clock again to confirm what I saw earlier. “It is one-fucking-thirty in the morning,” I said, crawling to the recliner and using it to pull myself up. “This had better be the second coming of Christ for you to come to my door.” I went to the peep hole, flipped on the switch for the outside light, and stared out.

  My nephew, Will Redman, gestured frantically at the light, hunching his shoulders and turning so his face was in the shadows.

  “What the hell?” I threw the bolt and opened the door. Will pushed past me, bringing with him rain and the heady aroma of wet earth and grass. I closed the door behind him and turned off the outside light. “What are you doing here at this time of night?” I demanded. “Is everything okay?”

  “I don’t want to be seen. It might get you in trouble.” Will ran his hands over his head, shaking off the raindrops. He wore all black—a black T-shirt, black denims, and black sneakers. “I was hoping you were still awake. Aunt Tuck, I need your help.”

  Well, shit. This was my night to be the knight in shining armor, no pun intended. “Help with what?” I asked.

  “This.” He dug in his jeans pocket and held out a small gray rectangle. A USB disk gadget. “I need you to keep it safe.” His dark gold hair, thick and short, sparkled with raindrops in the light. He’d been an angelic child with his tousled curls, big blue eyes, and his dimpled, engaging smile. Will was still a handsome young man, now in his thirties with the slender build of his momma and the long legs of his daddy.

  “Why can’t you keep it?” I moved to the couch and into the circle of light cast by the lamp on the end table.

  “Wow, what happened to you?” He touched my shoulder gently, turning me so the light illuminated my face. “Are you okay? Who hit you?”

  I gestured at the easy chair for him to sit. “It was a bar fight I broke up. I’m fine. It looks worse than it is.”

  “It looks pretty bad.” He set the USB stick on the coffee table before taking a seat.

  “You want a drink? A glass of water?” I went to the kitchen, getting the pitcher of water from the fridge and filling a glass.

  “No, I have to get back before I’m missed. I told the guys at the apartment I was going for smokes. Hold on to the files for a day or two, until I’m sure it’s safe to go public.”

  I took a long swallow of water while I considered that. Will wasn’t technically my nephew because my no-good brother didn’t breed before he died, thank the good Lord. But given the convoluted family tree from which I sprang, I considered Will my kin. His mother, a cousin to my mother, took refuge with my family when she got pregnant out of wedlock. I ended up helping raise Will and stayed in touch with him when I left Louisiana as a new bride.

  Recently, rumors swirled through town about the recall of eggs from the production facility in the nearby town of York, part of the Fitz agribusiness conglomerate. The egg factory (Buy Your Yolks at York’s Yolkshire Farm) employed a lot of people from Barnsdale and their jobs were on the line if an investigation shut down the plant. Will was an animal rights activist and when he told me he came to town to gather evidence about the factory, I welcomed the chance to help, not only because he was family but because I was pretty damn sure the factory was a little bit of hell on earth.

  “What’s on the memory stick?” I resumed my seat on the couch. “Why give it to me?” I eyed the little gadget nervously.

  “Nobody knows we’re related. It’ll be safe with you.”

  That made sense in a way. “But what’s on it?” I asked again.

  “You read about the new law? The Ag-Gag law?” He leaned forward, his tanned forearms resti
ng on his thighs. Will appeared exhausted, with dark circles under his sky blue eyes and his oval face creased with lines that didn’t belong on the face of a thirty-three-year-old.

  “Yep. I can’t believe those sons-a-bitches did it.” My headache thrummed unmercifully against my noggin, but I think it was anger more than my injury that made it so painful. The Iowa legislature recently passed a law making it illegal to film or to record the goings-on in a factory farm operation without permission of the owners.

  Of course, ‘permission’ was laughable because the factory farms in question were hotbeds of inhumane treatment of animals and poultry. It almost made my head explode to consider it. “The whole damned legislature is in the pocket of agribusiness lobbyists. I swear, politicians are so crooked they could hide behind corkscrews,” I fumed. “They’re setting out to punish whistleblowers.”

  “They worded it so it only pertains to those of us who take jobs in order to gather evidence,” Will corrected. “So-called ‘true whistleblowers’ can still report.” He shot me a cynical glance. “Like anybody would now.”

  “I read the Humane Society and some other groups are organizing to get it overturned.”

  “They are, but until they do, I can be arrested for working there and gathering evidence like that.” He nodded at the memory stick. “What I’ve found could close the place. And it’ll implicate the Fitz family in almost seventy deaths, including all those kids at the day care.”

  “Oh, Lord.” A salmonella outbreak in eggs killed dozens of people around the country and was linked to the Yoke, as the factory was facetiously known. “Who knew about it?”

  “Everyone in management,” Will said. “I’m sure of it. I have copies of fudged safety reports, all signed by the supervisors. If the Feds come in to investigate, it’s all over for Fitz Ag.”