Halfway to Half Way

by Suzann Ledbetter

  She moved her iced tea glass aside and laid her forearms on the table. "I'm sorry. I really am. I shouldn't have cheated on the application, but if you'd known I had kids, you wouldn't even have given me an interview, would you?"

  Hannah shook her head. "No, I—"

  "See? How fair is that? Please, just give me a chance. You won't regret it. I promise you won't."

  Hannah sighed and returned the form to the file folder. "I can't."

  "Why." A statement, not a question, but it held not a trace of animosity. "Tell me how you can be so certain I can't do the job with kids, as well as you have without any."

  The former ad executive that colleagues nicknamed Balls-to-the-Walls Garvey admired that kind of chutzpah. A lesson Hannah's grandmother mistakenly taught was that an unqualified no should be challenged. Whether a change of mind or heart results, it'll annoy the obstinate, the whimsical and relatives with mean streaks.

  "Okay." Hannah splayed her fingers. "Live-in grandchildren aren't allowed in Valhalla Springs. Visits are restricted to one week. It sounds harsh, but people come here to retire and appreciate an excuse to not be a handy dump site for their children's children."

  By Juline's scowl, she took exception to "dump site." If Hannah had a dollar for every tenant who'd used the term, Malcolm could dine on prime rib until Christmas.

  "Apart from a manager's children contradicting that policy, a one-bedroom cottage is too small for a family of three. The great room is a quasi-reception area, not a place for kids and toys and Elmo videos blasting from the TV.

  "Some prospective tenants tour by appointment. Plenty drop in and expect the manager to show them around. That isn't always easy for one person, and children aren't portable at a moment's notice."

  Index finger hooked on her thumb, Hannah continued, "Add to that, handling commercial lease agreements and cancellations, tenant agreements, overseeing new construction, department supervisors, some social activities, promotion, direct mailings and responses, resolving tenant disputes, covenant violations "

  She gestured surrender. "I'm the one who's sorry, Juline. And disappointed. But I'm not being sarcastic when I say there've been days when taking care of a dog is almost too much to do along with everything else."

  Juline might have assumed that Hannah was a fanatic zero-population growth advocate. Now her expression was a younger, prettier variation of Henry Don Tucker measuring Hannah for a straitjacket.

  Itemizing the duties and responsibilities had boggled Hannah's own mind a little. Ye gods, she wasn't Superwoman. Probably wouldn't rate an honorable mention in a Resident Operations Manager of the Year competition. But wouldn't the sum of any job broken down into its parts sound impossible?

  Juline stammered, "M-my mom said this was too good to be true."

  "Well, I wouldn't—"

  "No, you're absolutely right. Nobody could juggle a family and all that stuff. But how are you ever going to find anybody that can?"

  Hannah was still deliberating long after Juline left, as thunder rolled like a muffled tympany, at once reverberating and retreating. She perused the sky, now a solid purpling bruise lanced with coppery flashes of lightning.

  Wanted, she thought. A mature, childless, reasonably intelligent person with excellent people skills and no felony convictions, neuroses, psychoses or substance addictions to manage retirement community. Housing and utilities provided; hours and salary commensurate with migrant farmwork.

  Peachy freakin' keen. Strike retirement community and it would read like an employment opportunity at Guantanamo Bay.

  The phone ringing ended a reverie with no apparent future in it. She wasn't surprised when David told her he was going straight from the ice-cream-and-politics party to his office at the courthouse.

  "We've got a long night ahead of us," he warned. "There's a whole covey of storms popping up in southern Oklahoma and central Kansas."

  Hannah nodded, as though their phones had videoconferencing capabilities. "I'm headed for the porch to storm-watch, after I click on the TV and turn up the weather alert radio."

  "An old boy here in Passover doesn't set much store in electronic gadgets. He said when his cows hunker in the field it means we're in for a heavy rain, but nothing dire along with it."

  Hannah sincerely hoped the prediction was accurate, but she feared otherwise. "My great-uncle Mort was big on animal signs, too. After the tornado hit Effindale, he swore the dead horse floating in the mayor's swimming pool was thirsty and his hooves slipped on the concrete when he got a drink."

  David laughed. "And you bought it."

  "Hey, I was just a little kid." Hannah looked at Malcolm, flopped in the grass. "For whatever it's worth, the thunder isn't bothering Malcolm."

  A pause and a "Yes, ma'am" cued her to David Hendrickson morphing into Sheriff Hendrickson. "Do keep me advised on that situation."

  Judging from the background noise, his public had him surrounded. Because cell phones had revolutionized eavesdropping for busybodies and everyone else in a ten-foot radius, Hannah said, "10-4, Adam 1-01." Then, in a rush, whispered, "I love you, David."

  "Yep, that's an affirmative, Zebra 3-28. Adam 1-01, clear."

  Adam 1-01 was his official radio designation. The county's alphabetical identifiers stopped well short of Z for Zebra, aka Hannah, whose birthday was March 28. Either no one had picked up on him using ten-codes on his office phone and cell, or weren't inclined to comment on it.

  Hannah listened to the dial tone, wondering what prompted that impulsive, "I love you." And resisting the compelling urge to punch redial and add, "Be careful."

  Clicking off the handset, she supposed the threatening weather had her on edge. Just because she wasn't diving under the bed, didn't mean National Weather Service meteorologists were a bunch of nervous Nellies.

  The yellow maintenance department van pulling into the driveway seemed like a good omen. For the air conditioner, anyway.

  4

  On any given weekday morning, the Short Stack Café, across from the courthouse, buzzed with lawyers, clients and locals catching breakfast, a cup of coffee or a bite of gossip.

  The codgers nicknamed the Liar's Club held down a center table. If they didn't snag a fresh rumor to chew on till lunchtime, they'd improve on yesterday's, last week's, last month's, or last century's choice scandals and controversies. Failing that, they'd debate when and why the world started going to hell in a handbasket.

  Ruby's Café was Sanity's other purveyor of homemade baking powder biscuits, sausage gravy to smother them with, and Grade A jumbos fried in bacon grease, as the good Lord intended. The storefront eatery was located in a strip mall anchored by Wal-Mart and a Price-Slasher supermarket.

  A Liar's Club of a different kind frequented Ruby's on Monday through Friday mornings. The long-haul truckers', fishermen's, hunters' and route drivers' allegations were no more factual than their elders' across town, but they were less inclined to begrudge the sheriff a table for one.

  The aroma of fried apples, ham steaks and hominy grits swimming in creamery butter diffused the cigarette smoke roiling above the café's larger, crowded seating area. David returned the men's waves, nods, and mouthed "Howya doin'?" s He also knew it was the badge folks acknowledged, not necessarily the person wearing it.

  The far table in front of the coffee station was unoccupied, as usual. Dingy batting oozed from slits in the chairs' vinyl upholstery. The tippy, burn-marked tabletop was sun-faded and chipped. Old soldiers, David thought, still spry enough to march in the parade, but demoted to its tag end.

  His posterior hadn't met the seat before Ruby Amyx lumbered over with a brimming cup of coffee in hand. The diner's owner was in her early sixties, as tough as ten-penny nails, and never turned away a hungry stray, be it human or animal.

  Her coal-black beehive, spit curls and lipstick rouge were a little well, cartoonish, but Ruby was as likely to change them as she was to trade in her thirty-year-old red Caddy with fake fur glued to the dashboard.
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  "Hidey there, tall, dar—" Her customary welcome dissolved to a heaving sigh. "If'n you don't look like a cat done dragged you halfway to Half Way and back again, I don't know what would."

  The Dallas County town named for its equidistance between Bolivar and Buffalo was outside David's jurisdiction, but the point was taken. He chuckled and said, "It's great to see you, too, Miz Amyx."

  "Aw-w, you know' twas meant for a scold, not a belittlement." The mother hen with no chicks of her own arched a penciled eyebrow. "Them storms woulda blowed through the same last night, whether you was out in 'em, or home like you oughta been."

  David swallowed down a yawn. Piece together a string of naps and he'd grossed about nine hours' sleep in the past thirty-six, or so. And he'd felt pretty good, until Ruby reminded him how tired he was.

  A faint, intermittent whine in his ears was escalating to a steady high C. Irritating, but he'd be sacked out in his own bed by noon, and sharing it with Hannah by nine that night. Still, the day couldn't come soon enough when His and Hers applied to towels in the linen cupboard, instead of whose mattress he stretched out on.

  If it ever did.

  Doubt crept in, as pernicious as cigarette smoke drifting from the room's far side. Contrary to Sunday school teachings, a weary mind is the devil's playground. David's wandered to last night's telephone conversation with Hannah.

  He hadn't been shocked to hear another resident manager candidate had flunked the interview. Hannah then called herself a hypocrite for prejudging applicants' dedication to the job, while she shacked up with David at his house whenever she could. Said she felt guiltier and guiltier for sneaking around behind everybody's back.

  David objected to "shacked up," but knew that was her conscience talking. He sympathized. Admired her honesty, with him and herself. He'd even laughed when she went on about Kinderhook County's ten political commandments starting with Thine Sheriff can screw around with whomever he wants, as long as he parks his cruiser in her garage at night, instead of her driveway.

  "Screw around" rankled, too, but venting frustration was fine. Healthy, even. What bothered him was a nagging uncertainty that her legitimate-sounding reasons for rejecting one applicant after another were just excuses.

  If it was more stall than substance, David couldn't fault her for it. Would he give up his home and his job to marry her? "Hell, yes" was a mighty easy answer for the guy on the catbird side of compromise.

  And a lie, he admitted. Half of one, anyhow. He hadn't quit the Tulsa Police Department to save his first marriage. It wouldn't have, but he hadn't given it a second's consideration, either. He and Cynthia were classic examples of opposites attracting, then discovering their common ground was as solid as quicksand. Except his ex-wife wasn't wrong when she said, "A cop is my husband," instead of "My husband is a cop."

  Hannah had no reservations about David's career choice. Oh, she fretted about him, sure. Wavered between monitoring the scanner Delbert bought her, and switching it off when an incident in progress frayed her nerves, instead of soothing them. But if anyone grasped how it felt to earn a paycheck for doing what you loved most, it was Hannah Marie Garvey.

  As for the other half of his reflexive "Hell, yes"? Luke Sauers had promised months ago to buy David's land, if he lost the election. At the time, his campaign manager was a couple of bottles shy of killing a six-pack, and the offer was a duke's mixture of a bet, a reassuring gesture and a worst case scenario escape clause.

  Luke would buy him out, though, circumstances be damned. He wanted the place for himself. Had, since David carved out a slice of Eden with a brush-hog, a bulldozer, a chain saw, a lot of sweat and a little blood.

  With his property out of the equation, Hannah could keep her cottage and her job at Valhalla Springs. Hopefully, voters would let him keep his.

  Ruby plucked at David's sleeve, startling him from the mental black hole he'd retreated into. The noisy diner, with its brightness and smells, crashed over him like a sensory ambush.

  "I can see what you're thinkin'," Ruby said. "It's writ' all over your face that buttin' into your business ain't none of mine."

  Evidently, his zone-out hadn't lasted longer than a few seconds. "Believe me, Miz Amyx. That was the furthest thing from my mind."

  He passed a hand over his eyes, the heel grinding into the right one. The socket was so dry, it should have squeaked. Between blinks, he glimpsed a man swaggering by the window. The blurry profile was depressingly identifiable.

  Jessup Knox wasn't a regular customer. Ruby was wont to say he'd inspired the Right to Refuse Service sign taped to the cash register. To David's knowledge, she hadn't booted Knox or anyone else out the door. The privilege was reserved for the day she ran out of insults to hurl at the smarmy burglar alarm salesman.

  "If you're what the cat dragged in," she told David, "then that there's the bull-footed peckerwood it hawked up."

  He smiled. "Now, Ruby—"

  "Gimme two shakes and I'll box up your usual, so's you can eat it somewhere else in peace."

  He thanked her but declined. Running against Jessup Knox was one thing. Running from him was another. "Just a couple of scrambled eggs and wheat toast will do me fine."

  Hearing Knox greet the Liar's Club like kin, which several probably were, David added, "And put whatever he orders on my check."

  Second thoughts must have countered whatever argument she was poised to make. "All right, Sheriff." She backed away, saying, "But if that fool leaves afore you do, I'm tossin' a steak on the grill and you're gonna eat it."

  Knox rounded the dividing wall and halted. Fists knuckling his hips, he bellowed, "Dave Hendrickson?

  What are you doing hiding back in the corner, ol' buddy?"

  In a dozen words, starting with a nickname no one else had ever used, David's opponent had him on the defensive and struggling not to show it.

  The owner of Fort Knox Security mounted the chair across from David as if it were a saddle. He signaled for a cup of coffee and sloshed David's in the process. "Boy, if those bags under your eyes get any bigger, airlines are apt to charge extra to carry them on board."

  David's expression was devoid of humor. "Like I keep trying to tell you, Jessup, this job you want so bad isn't eight-to-five."

  "It would be, if you trusted your deputies to do theirs."

  Ruby mopped up the spilled coffee, then banged a second cup on the table. It was filled from a nearly empty carafe. David's was topped off from a full, fresh one. "You eatin', Knox? Or jes' here to harass the sheriff."

  Knox massaged the gut straining against his shirt's pearlized snaps. God help David if one of them gave. Picturing fifty pounds of blubber unleashed like a deployed air bag shriveled an already waning appetite.

  "Much as I'd love to dunk a sweet roll in this cup of swamp water," Knox said, "I'm still digesting that fine breakfast the mayor bought me at the Short Stack."

  Ruby sniffed and stalked off, muttering about ptomaine, botulism and birds of a feather.

  "That gal's been funny-turned since Heck was a pup." Knox licked a fingertip and ran it along the chair rail above the wainscoting. "I wonder how long it's been since County Health dropped by for a look-see."

  "Two weeks. She scored ninety-nine out of a hundred." David couldn't resist adding, "Seventeen points closer to perfect than the Short Stack."

  "You don't say." Knox shrugged. "Could be, not all the tips she gets are in quarters and dimes."

  Don't take the bait, David warned himself. Ruby doesn't need you to defend her, and she'll cuff your ears if you try.

  "So, Dave. What's this I hear about that new squad car the taxpayers bought after you totaled the old one?"

  Only a fool answers loaded questions. David swigged his coffee and gained a greater understanding of why restaurants with drive-thru windows became an overnight success.

  "I hear tell, you wanted your cruiser painted black and white. Wanted the whole county motor pool repainted black and white." Knox wagged his head. "Bo
y, it's so easy to hammer you for pissing away money, there's no sport in it at all."

  Back when the wrongful-death lawsuit was still in the fiscal liability column, Luke told David not to requisition a box of paper clips until after the election.

  He'd respectfully but adamantly ignored the advice. A sheriff who weighed ideas and decisions against a calendar wasn't protecting or serving the public. Of course, neither was Mayor Wilkes, whose son's body shop customized patrol units with expensive, ultra-blue reflective bands and pinstripes.

  Police departments across the country had realized that black oversprayed on a predominantly white cruiser's trunk, fenders and hood cost far less than custom trim. A true two-tone paint job also enhanced recognition in low light, sunlight, in drivers' rearview mirrors, and from air-evac and highway patrol helicopters.