by Gwen Hunter
His hair was short in front and on the sides, longer on top and greasy; he wore jeans and a plaid shirt, the sleeves rolled up, exposing tattoos. There was nothing remarkable about him other than the foul smell. And that meant what? That my worries were over? Or maybe it meant nothing. I felt curiously unaffected by the sight of the tattooed man, as if his capture had nothing to do with me. Perhaps I was beginning to react to the long days of unremitting stress, shutting down all but the most essential emotions, experiencing wide swings from feeling nothing at all to the near hysterical giddiness of McKelvey’s capture. How long could I live under stress before I broke down totally?
The man beside me twitched and I looked up into his eyes. He bared his teeth at me in a grin, exposing red gums, bleeding and raw. He was laughing at me. The stench was staggering.
I turned to an officer, glad of the residual wine floating in my system. Glad of the distance the alcohol and the stress offered me, the insulation from the proceedings. Each moment seemed separate and disconnected, the world around me moving in disjointed blocks of time, like the individual frames of a video on pause.
"This one. Number four."
The deputy nodded and moved toward the prisoners. Behind me, a door opened and Macon entered the room. My lawyer was smiling and gesturing. "Ashlee. In here."
"Here" was a small, cramped consulting room crowded with a conference table, half a dozen gray plastic chairs, Macon, Wicked, Bish, Jas, and Sheriff Gaskin. They all looked pleased, as if in choosing number four I had accomplished a neat trick and they wanted to congratulate me. Much like a dog that had finally caught a Frisbee.
The room was close and overheated. My headache bloomed into a monster, pounding against my skull. Pulling out a chair, I sat down and waited. The sheriff, his deputies and I were getting quite chummy. "Jasmine picked out the same guy," Macon said.
And then it finally hit me. Two down. Jasmine was safe. I discovered it was possible to be both exuberant and nauseated at once. Jasmine was safe.
"Our man isn’t talking," the sheriff said. "He’s asked for a lawyer though, and says he has something to trade. Name’s Clevon Dixon, but he goes by the name Tattoo or Stinky. Familiar?"
"No." My head pulsed with pain and my arms felt hot and tender where McKelvey had twisted them. I could trace the shape of his hands on my arm by the pain. "I need some Tylenol. Anybody got any?" No one did, and the Sheriff continued.
"Clevon has a list of priors going back to his teens, but he ain’t bright enough to be in charge of what’s been going on here, Miz Davenport. Not all the things your lawyer and my men have been telling me. I figure Clevon’s working for somebody else. He knows the ropes though, and I have a feeling he’s willing to cooperate. Ashlee, you got any opposition to my working a plea bargain if what he’s got seems worth a trade?"
It was Ashlee now, instead of Miz Davenport. We were definitely getting too chummy. "You do what seems right Sheriff. Though I’d appreciate it if you tell us before you let him loose." I looked up at Macon. He nodded, apparently agreeing with my statement, and the little meeting was abruptly concluded. Sheriff Gaskin opened a door, letting in a cool draft of air, and dashed off to do whatever it is that sheriffs do. He was a busy man. I just wanted Tylenol.
Following a brief, whispered conference with Macon, I stood and joined Bish, Wicked and Jas. Assuming we were no longer needed, we wandered through the Law Enforcement Center, out into the parking lot. My headache was worse, and I’d have gladly given up a back molar for a headache med. Alcohol had never agreed with me. The world staggered and swayed. My stomach was queasy. Only knowing that my daughter was safe helped.
The trip home was a seasick agony I attempted to sleep through. I rested my head against the seat and closed my eyes, trying to block out the young people’s conversation. I was somewhat successful, until I realized Jas was talking about her father. "He knew about Mr. McKelvey’s toxic dump, didn’t he? He knew about it when he traded for it. And he cheated that man." Her voice was cool, sounding very adult. Only a mother would have noticed the resonance of desolation and disenchantment. I fluttered my fingers at Macon, giving the lawyer the right to speak. Jasmine had the right to hear some of the truth, even if it hurt.
"We don’t know, Jas. But it seems likely that he knew," Macon said kindly. "In his defense, before he died, he was working on a solution. And to give your father credit, he also was finally in a position financially to make things right with McKelvey. The profits from the development of Davenport Hills had reached a point where he could have taken back the land in Charlotte, and provided McKelvey with recompense for his financial loss. The way the deal with McKelvey was structured, it appears your father had planned a bailout for him."
I sat up at Macon’s words, tying to focus in the darkened interior of the Volvo.
"That doesn’t make him any less of a thief," Jasmine said softly.
I opened my mouth to defend Jack, but closed it. There wasn’t anything I could really say. All the phrases that came to mind sounded trite and banal in the hollow silence of my mind. In the darkness, I reached over and took Jas’ hand. She squeezed back, as if she understood my concern and wanted to reassure me in return. In an uncertain quiet, we traveled the miles home.
Bleary-eyed, half-awake in the morning light, I stumbled to the shower. Ten minutes later, Jas’ words penetrated, but even awake they made no sense. Something about being late and red-necked turkeys shooting each other. I’d never heard of a red-necked turkey, but I had no intention of watching them kill one another. Surely I’d missed something when Jas rolled me out of bed this morning, talking non-stop. When I stepped from the shower, she was there to feed me coffee and English muffins, dress me as if I were a doll, explaining all the while. "Mother," she said in that patronizing my-mother-is-a-moron tone that teenage girls use when their mothers display unwitting ignorance. It was a tone I hoped she would outgrow before I had to say something to her about it. "I told you about the turkey-shoot the day of the concert. It was one of those messages you didn’t bother to listen to. The Rescue Squad is hosting a turkey-shoot to launch a fundraiser. Remember?"
I didn’t. But I nodded anyway, and dutifully put my arm through the sleeve of the shirt she intended me to wear.
"They’re naming the new building the Jack Davenport Rescue Squad Building Number Two. It’s in Daddy’s honor, not that he deserves it, and you are the guest of honor today. I told you all about this. And now you’re going to be late. How much wine did you drink last night?"
It was more accusation than question, and I meekly answered while stepping into jeans. "Four glasses. Which was three too many," I admitted.
"Yeah, well, McKelvey bruised the heck out of your arms." She handed me charcoal gray cowboy boots, ones Jack bought me for Valentine’s. They had red hearts and roses twining up the sides. Very campy. "I hope he and that bastard Dixon rot in jail for what they did to you."
I didn’t know where Jas learned such language; I should have put a stop to it. After last night, however, I wasn’t the best example. Meekly I took a boot and braced myself for her response to my words. "Macon bailed Mr. McKelvey out this morning."
"What!" Jas’ dark eyes were wide and shocked.
Reaching down, I stroked her hair. She was kneeling, boot in hand, at my feet. "I asked Macon to handle it last night. It’s part of the plan he and Esther devised to reimburse McKelvey for his loss in the original exchange, for two of the farms that became Davenport Hills. Macon came up with a bailout plan based on your father’s notes," I added gently.
Jas looked away, picked up my left foot and pointed it into the boot. "Yeah. Well. Maybe my daddy wasn’t all he was cracked up to be."
I obliged my daughter by stepping into the boot, my toes sliding down the shaft to the arched bottom. Then I squatted beside her and took her face in my hands. "Jasmine Leah, your daddy wasn’t perfect. Nobody is. And I suppose it’s possible he knew about the toxic dump before the property exchange." Jas looked aw
ay. Gently, I pulled her face back. "But long before he died, your father was working on a way to rescue McKelvey. Your father had written to the state of North Carolina to inquire about federal bail-out programs to clean up toxic waste sites."
Jas finally looked up from my booted foot and into my face. Her eyes were wounded and aching, and no matter what I might really know or suspect about Jack, I couldn’t let my daughter be totally disillusioned. I just couldn’t. Perhaps it was a weakness, something in my Caldwell or Hamilton genes, but I had to protect Jas, even if it meant defending Jack. "Your father put his company and his reputation on the line to get help for McKelvey. And frankly, he didn’t have to help the man at all. Legally, he could have let McKelvey flounder and drown all by himself."
Jas blinked and absorbed the words I had just uttered. And with the words something twisted deep within me, the truth of my own statement forcing its way into my mind, settling in. Jack could have let McKelvey hit bottom. From a financial and legal standpoint it might even have been a wise move to step back and watch the man fall. But he hadn’t. Jack had stepped in and come up with a rescue plan. I didn’t have time to think it through right now. I didn’t have time to accept the truth of my own words. Staring into my daughter’s soul, I went on. "Macon and Esther discovered your father’s notes and copies of the correspondence dealing with the bail-out, some moneys of which will eventually come from Davenport Hill’s profits. It will be expensive, especially in light of the water problem at the golf course."
"The Swamp." Jas said, mocking the title and her father both at once.
"Precisely. But the plan was your father’s. And I okayed it yesterday."
"It doesn’t make Daddy any less of a crook," she said stubbornly.
It looked as if I would be here a while, so I repositioned my weight, sitting back on my rump, and got comfortable. "Jasmine, remember when you nearly killed Mabel?"
Jas looked up quickly, her face stunned. I had never before mentioned the foolish mistake that almost cost Mabel her life. "It was an accident," She whispered.
"Yes, it was. But you knew better than to give Mabel whole carrots. You knew she ate like a pig. You knew to slice the carrots both length-wise and in half. But you wanted to go to the movies with Topaz and Mama Pearl, and you were running late. You knew better. And yet you didn’t slice the carrots."
She whispered, "The new James Bond. I wanted to see it . . ."
"More than anything," I finished for her. "And when you got home, what had happened?"
"Mabel had colic. She was down in her stall" Jas shook her head as if to shake away an ugly memory. "Daddy and Doc Ethridge saved her." Tears glistening in her eyes.
I smiled at my daughter, took the right boot and slid it over my foot. "Your father never said a word to you. He understood. He also understood when you put yourself on restriction and didn’t leave the farm for three weeks. He understood when you decided on veterinary medicine for a career. Your father understood the concepts of penance and restitution, Jasmine. He was practicing both penance and restitution to McKelvey when he died."
After a long silence, Jas finally spoke. "I think I understand what you’re trying to say."
"Good. I think I’m beginning to understand a little too. Unfortunately."
Jas looked at me quizzically and when I didn’t explain, she said, "Put on some makeup and I’ll meet you at the Jeep. Okay?"
"Okay. Are you signed up to shoot?"
"Of course." Jas rose from the floor in a single, lithe smooth motion, pulling me up after her. She took a deep breath and said, "I’m my father’s daughter, aren’t I?"
The words were progress in the right direction. "Yes Jasmine Leah Davenport. You are."
Thoughtfully, Jas checked me over from head to boot, nodded in approval and left my room. After a moment, I went to the bathroom and applied makeup, covering my pale skin and hollowed eyes, the bruised look left from weeks of grief, anger, and last night’s wine. I kept my mind blank, not thinking over the words I had shared with Jas. I wasn’t ready to consider anything good about Jack. I wasn’t ready to give up my anger and bitterness. I wasn’t ready to forget that my husband had been a liar, a cheat, and a thief. And perhaps a party to murder. What was the term? Accessory after the fact? I wasn’t ready to forgive the photographs of Jack and Robyn that rested on the floor of my closet in a plastic grocery bag. I wasn’t ready. Not today.
Because Jack and Jas were crack shots, and because turkey-shoots were a favorite county fundraiser, I had attended numerous similar events. Contrary to the name, no turkeys were ever shot. In fact, the only turkey involved in the contest was the twelve-pound smoked one given as a prize to the best shot in each age category; second place was a small, honey-cured ham. Today’s category tournament prizes were donated by Bi-Lo, while the overall winner would receive a gift card for Puckey’s Guns and Things.
The fund raiser was held behind Hargett’s Truck Stop at the junction of 901 and Gordonville Turnout. Centrally located in Dawkins County, Hargett’s was a watering hole for local men on their way into and out of one town or another on farm business, a place where they could stop, have a strong cup of coffee or a beer, and catch up on local news and gossip. Find out who was selling what and for how much, or what they’d take in trade for it. Hargett’s advertised the coldest beer and the worst boiled peanuts in the state, but their real draw was the vast array of tobacco products. Cigarettes, snuff, chewing tobacco, cigars, and pipe paraphernalia was stacked floor to ceiling on aisle two. Cartons of tobacco-based products were sold by the case to enterprising types who wanted to risk the law, cross state lines and sell at a tax-free profit.
There was a cooler along the back wall with beer and wine, milk, cheese, and sandwiches prepared daily by Mrs. Hargett. Motor oil, fishing tackle and lures lined one aisle, and live bait hopped crawled, or swam. Saddles and used tack took up one corner near cowboy hats and work boots. Minuscule bathrooms, cleaned and scented with Pine Sol, were in the back. Snacks were behind the counter with hotrod, hunting, and porn magazines. Ice cream and school supplies, sunglasses, muscle rubs, aspirin, Pampers, Mentholatum, and Tums were bestsellers, scattered in no particular order on the shelves.
A dusty twenty-point buck with a red bandanna around its neck presided over the scene, and Hargett himself ruled the roost from his swivel chair behind the cash register, an illegal sawed off shotgun beneath the counter for the foolish stranger with larceny on his mind. It was hunt and search for what you wanted in Hargett’s, or ask Hargett. He’d scratch his chin, ponder, and finally point you in the wrong direction. Most times it was faster to find what you wanted on your own in this modern-day remnant of a general store.
For the Rescue Squad’s fundraiser, Old Man Hargett was donating eighty cents on the purchase of each beer sold, twenty cents on each cola, ten cents on every cup of coffee. He’d make a profit and the Rescue Squad wouldn’t have to handle the cash. It was a generous arrangement for both sides. Food was provided by a variety of vendors, the most popular being the whole roast pig offered by June Bug Gordon. Because June Bug was a Rescue Squad member, and because his son had been saved by the Rescue Squad from drowning when an earthen dam broke several years back, he donated the whole pig roasting on his traveling barbeque, all proceeds to go toward the new building. The carcass, slow cooking since yesterday, was turning on the spit at the back of June Bug’s pickup truck. The aroma of roast pig was mouth-watering delicious, the scent attracting heady for a mile around. The financial and culinary arrangements were typical for turkey shoot fund-raisers.
It felt strange to be a guest rather than one of the hosts; Jack and I had often organized Rescue Squad fundraisers. Someone else had handled the advertising, had arranged with Puckey for the ammunition. Someone else had talked to liability insurers. And someone else had handled all the last minute delays and headaches and errands. Not Jack. Not me. Phillip Faulkenberry was the new captain of the Rescue Squad, and quite obviously in control of the arrangements.
He was carrying an air of importance around like a badge of honor, shouting answers to questions, giving instructions, and pointing out the location for the P.A. speakers.
Phillip strode up, his long legs covering the packed earth at what, for me, would have been a fast jog. "Ashlee! You made it!" A big smile wreathed his face, deepening weatherworn wrinkles into deep crevices, bracketing his mouth. Phillip pulled me into a hug, my cheek to his rib cage. "I’m so glad to see you. I know this is a hard time, but everyone’s been asking after you, hoping you’d be here. You are staying long enough to give out the first place prize, aren’t you?"
"She’ll be here," Jas said, at my side. "Nice to see you Mr. Faulkenberry."
"Good to see you too, Jasmine. Where’s your shadow?" Phillip asked, and then roared at his own joke. "You know. Topaz? Shadow?"
"Oh, I got it, Mr. Faulkenberry," Jas said, her eyes slitting. " ’Cause she’s blacker than I am." Jas was protective of her cousin, and any slight to Topaz was an insult to Jas. Of course, being a Chadwick made her supersensitive to racism in any form.
Phillip, however, was immune to Jasmine’s ire. Still chuckling at his whimsy, he slapped me on the back and strode off. "Ya’ll have a good time. I’ll see you at the finish, Ash."
"You know," Jas mimicked, "Topaz? Shadow? Ugh. Idiot redneck."
As racial slurs went, I had heard worse, but I kept my peace. "I’m starving." Okay, I also know when to change the subject entirely. "How soon will the pig be ready?"
Jas checked her watch. "Soon. But if you beg real sweetly, I’ll bet June Bug’ll slice you off a taste right now. He always does. And don’t worry, Mama, I’ll be polite. I wasn’t about to stomp down on old Faulkenberry’s instep."