The Small Crimes of Tiffany Templeton

by Richard Fifield

  I didn’t doubt her. “If you need any muscle, let me know.” I tipped my glass of soda at her, imagining our private investigation firm.

  She shared clippings with me, her research on the brothel. The town of Gabardine had tried to erase them from history, and Betty told me that this was something that always happened to strong women. I admit that there was something about those women that reminded me of my mother, and of myself.

  I returned to English class with 2,500 words. My paper unpacked the grisly deaths, but I cited the news articles Betty had photocopied, and my bibliography was perfect. I assumed my teacher would just stop reading after the first thousand, because that’s how our teachers are. Instead, he gave me an A and scribbled a little note at the end—nothing about the subject matter, but a warning about writing in passive voice. This would be the first and last time I would ever be warned for doing anything passively.

  Chapter Six

  MY PROBATION OFFICER CAME TO Gabardine once a month, and they made room for her in city hall.

  City hall was in the center of town. It was a low-slung, incredibly long building, and it took up most of Second Street. I would guess that it filled an entire block, but there were no side streets, let alone sidewalks. It’s impossible to measure a town that was built by drunkards, destroyed by fire, and then rebuilt by the sons of the same drunkards.

  Like everything in Gabardine, it served multiple functions. The left end was really a garage that contained the three rigs for the volunteer fire department and the one rig for the volunteer ambulance. We had one ambulance for nine hundred people—there was always talk of purchasing another, but my mother showed up at every city council meeting to yell about the tax base. If our one ambulance broke down, Gabardinians would most likely just throw the bodies in the back of their trucks and drive to the hospital in Fortune. The emergency crews in Fortune got a paycheck, and they were the ones who dealt with the big emergencies, speeding to Gabardine for any drunk-driving wrecks or pipe-bomb explosions.

  A crude addition had been built onto the garage for our volunteer dispatch. It was supposedly staffed twenty-four hours a day, but the ladies were notoriously unreliable. I know of two chimney fires that ended up engulfing entire houses: once, the dispatcher got drunk and fell asleep in her car, and the second time, the dispatcher went to play in her pool league—but people understood, because it was the championships.

  City hall was also where my father started the food bank. Gabardine needed one, and years of doing taxes had sparked an awakening in my father. It also angered my mother, which pleased him. For twenty-eight years, my father volunteered in the afternoons, Monday through Friday. On Saturdays, the food bank was closed, but it was the day we got all the donations, and I spent every Saturday afternoon stocking shelves and checking expiration dates. After my father died, our neighbor Lou Ann took over the food bank, but I stopped volunteering.

  The only occupant of city hall who wasn’t a volunteer was Mr. Francine, and his office was at the opposite end of the building. You could actually call it an office, because he had filing cabinets and windows. His space was tiny and crammed, even though the room next door was mostly empty and twice the size, but it was reserved for official city business. He was forced to act as a receptionist in addition to his official title. Being the City Clerk meant that he did everything from collecting utility bills and property taxes to issuing marriage licenses and hunting licenses— occasionally at the same time.

  Mr. Francine waved a clipboard at me as soon as I entered. I knew he hated having the door in his office, the only entrance to the room that hosted city council meetings, occasional weddings, and juvenile probation. He would probably block it off with file cabinets if he had the chance, but he knew the fire codes. I signed my name with the pen he had attached to the clip, wound repeatedly with circles of twine, and then duct-taped. Another short leash.

  Our town was named after a fabric, and Mr. Francine was proud of his curtains, made from the namesake gabardine. He brought it up at city council meetings, as an example of his civic pride. He wouldn’t let anybody touch his curtains, of course, but I couldn’t help but stare at them while I waited. They were dense things, and he pulled them over his window, blocking the natural light. Tough, tightly woven, uncomfortable, and durable. This was a perfect description of my hometown.

  There were scented candles all over the desk. Mr. Francine had a thing about scented candles, probably because he was so close to the public bathroom. They were usually lit during normal business hours, but not today. He was probably worried about one of us committing arson. Too bad, because he needed the candles—the room reeked of teenage boys. But he didn’t seem frightened of us, even though our crimes had made the newspaper, names redacted because of our age.

  Five folding chairs jammed most of Mr. Francine’s office, and I could tell that he blamed me.

  Two Sweet brothers, Jimmy and Phil, related to Lorraine, perhaps even my brothers-in-law. Like me, they’d made the newspaper. Pipe bomb, not the first, and as usual, unsuccessful. They’d tried to blow up a forest service truck. Unfortunately, Ronnie was not inside it. In Gabardine, explosions no longer startled me. Pipe bombs were the recreation of boys without high-speed internet. Like most things in Gabardine, sometimes they worked, and sometimes they didn’t. The Sweets had declared war upon government, local and federal, but my mother was adamant they were not real Libertarians, they just didn’t want to pay property taxes.

  Next to the Sweets, Rufus Baker, also on probation for pipe bombs. Unlike the Sweets, he was adept at mixing gunpowder and ball bearings, blew up fifteen mailboxes. I wish I had thought of that. Mrs. Bitzche would have surrendered after a few explosions.

  TJ McMackin was my neighbor, eternally on probation, a minor in possession who never made the newspapers, but was legendary enough. He was always drunk at school, and once, at a high school basketball game, he threw a full can of beer at Becky, nailed her at the three-point line during the national anthem.

  When the frosted glass door cracked open, a woman’s head poked out.

  She was young and had an expensive haircut, cropped close to her head, shaped perfectly. It felt weird to acknowledge that she was the first black person I had ever seen in real life; after my father died, David’s free month of HBO spotlighted all the Madea movies, and Tyler Perry transformed us both into social justice warriors.

  From ten feet away, I could smell her perfume, and it reminded me of my father studding oranges with whole cloves at Christmas.

  “Jimmy and Phil,” she announced. She raised a hand and stopped them before they entered her office. I didn’t see a wedding ring. “No explosive devices in your pockets?”

  The Sweets shook their heads. As she swung open the door and ushered them in, I admired her heavy mascara, spotted a small stain on the collar of her crisply ironed white shirt, a smear of foundation. David would have gasped.

  Across an empty folding chair, I could smell TJ’s armpits, and the cheap beer seeping from his pores.

  None of these boys had been sent away to an actual reformatory. I was the most hard-core juvenile delinquent in the room.

  Twelve minutes later, the frosted door sprung open, and the Sweets escaped, slack-jawed and sleepy. The woman called for Rufus.

  TJ reached into his jacket pocket. I glanced over at Mr. Francine, just in case it was a gun, but he didn’t even look up from his desk. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a flash of red and turned to watch TJ take a big swig from a bottle of cherry NyQuil.

  I don’t think he had a cold.

  When Rufus was released, TJ wiped his mouth, walked toward the probation officer, cough syrup lost in the pockets of his giant winter coat.

  I tried to hear their conversation, but Mr. Francine was a mouth breather.

  Instead, I watched the clock, and thirteen minutes later, TJ swept past me, jacket making whisking sounds as his arms swun
g.

  She stood in her doorway, and for the first time that day, I saw her smile. I followed but refused to look at her when she sat down in a wheeled office chair, parked behind the same folding table they used for city council meetings. I trained my eyes on the cheap gray carpet, my chair still warm from TJ.

  “Tiffany,” she said. “Is that how you’d like to be addressed?”

  “That’s my name,” I said.

  “Sorry,” she said, as she opened up the light-brown folder on the table. “That’s my training. I’m supposed to ask you that. Sometimes kids have nicknames or gang names, and I want to be respectful.”

  “I don’t have a gang name,” I said. “Yet.”

  She just stared at me, like I was serious. When I didn’t respond, she clutched at her collar, attempting to hide the smear of foundation. I think I made her nervous. I liked that.

  “My name is Kelly Plotz,” she said. “You can call me Kelly, if you’re comfortable with that.” I liked her last name, an appropriate verb. The juvenile delinquent plots against the entire town of Gabardine. “Before we start, I need to tell you that I’m not a probation officer. I’m a practicum student.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I go to the University of Montana,” she said. “I need six hundred hours of fieldwork to graduate. I just want to be up front with you.”

  “You’re doing this for free?” I tried to do the math in my head. Her probation was almost as bad as mine.

  “The experience is priceless,” she said. “At least that’s what my professors keep saying.” She leaned toward me and whispered. “Honestly, I’ve been looking forward to meeting you,” she said. “All those pipe bombs were starting to bore me.”

  “I could build a pipe bomb,” I said. “Those boys are morons. It can’t be that hard.”

  “All boys are morons,” she said. “The sooner you figure that out, the better.”

  “Don’t treat me any different,” I said. “I know I’m a girl, but I don’t think that should change things.”

  “I’m from Cleveland,” she said. “You might feel like you’re some kind of pioneer, but I can assure you that there are girls tougher and meaner than you. I think I was the only girl in my class who wasn’t on some kind of probation.” She leaned back in her chair. “Are you nervous?”

  “No,” I said. “I think I’m still feeling the Seroquel.”

  She read from my file and raised one eyebrow. “You’re a writer,” she said.

  “Kind of,” I said.

  “What do you write?” When I didn’t respond, she examined my leather jacket and black jeans. “Let me guess. Lyrics to death metal songs.”

  “I don’t listen to death metal,” I said. “We don’t even get radio reception here.” I zipped up my jacket. I looked up at the clock. “I guess I write about whatever I’m feeling.”

  “Your father died last year,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t write about that,” I said.

  She smiled at me in that sad way I’d gotten used to. At Dogwood, the social workers had the same expression of pity, but with a paycheck.

  “I’ve got to ask you about your charges,” she said. “It’s my job.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Harassment and intimidation of a federal employee,” she said, reading from her folder. “The charge of terrorist threats was dropped.”

  “Yep,” I said. “It’s all true.”

  “Larceny,” she continued.

  “Petty theft, really,” I countered. “Under five dollars.”

  “Did you steal from the Ben Franklin on August 19, 2017?”

  “Yes.”

  She paused. “You don’t seem like the arts and crafts type.” I saw her face cloud over, and she suddenly looked at me with alarm. “Please don’t tell me you were going to huff model airplane glue.”

  “What? Is that a thing?”

  “Cleveland,” she said. “Forget I said it. I don’t want to start a drug epidemic.”

  “I stole Thank You cards,” I said. “I don’t do drugs, and I’m not a threat.”

  She looked down at her file again. “Not a threat,” she said. “I think Ronald Templeton Jr. might disagree with you.”

  “Jesus,” I said.

  “Domestic violence,” she said. “Aggravated assault.”

  “Not domestic,” I said. “We were in his truck. But definitely aggravated.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “Fine. I stabbed him. If you met him, you’d understand.”

  “I’ll take your word for it,” she said. I didn’t think she was satisfied, and she wanted to try to dig deeper, but something stopped her. Instead, she reached behind her chair and dropped a denim backpack on the table in front of me to riffle through it. The backpack surprised me, the first time she’d actually seemed like a college student. What kind of young woman got dressed up to come to Gabardine? After the first field visit, most girls would have returned in sweatpants.

  “He wasn’t seriously injured,” I said. I felt it needed to be clarified.

  “I’m sure you had your reasons,” she said. “That’s the difference between girls and boys. Those boys don’t have a reason for what they did. They blow stuff up and get drunk because they have nothing better to do.”

  “They need to wear deodorant,” I said.

  “I’m legitimately interested in you,” she said. “I want to know what makes you tick.”

  “That sounds like there’s a bomb inside of me.”

  “You’ve got a story,” she said. “I can tell.” She finally found what she was looking for, and removed a brand-new yellow legal pad.

  “Write it down,” she said and pushed the pad across the table. “The truth. Tell your story. I can promise that nobody else will ever read it.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “There’s lots of stuff that nobody knows about.”

  “The small crimes of Tiffany Templeton,” she said.

  “Some of them weren’t small,” I protested. Tough Tiff’s ego flared. “You promise that nobody else will read them? Isn’t it your job to report back to the state?”

  “Did you murder anybody?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Then I will keep your secrets. I think you need somebody to listen to you. I think you’re afraid of getting hurt. I want to hear your stories.” I considered this. I could tell her the whole story. I don’t want to die like my father, unknown.

  “Fine,” I said. “But if I die suddenly, you have to promise to burn them.”

  “Maybe I’ll blow them up with a pipe bomb,” she said. “I want you to have a safe space. Bring something to me every month.” She paused. “Does your mother allow you to have pencils?”

  I slid the yellow pad back across the table. “I don’t need this.”

  Her face flashed with anger for a split second, until she caught herself. “I bet you have a computer,” she said.

  “No,” I said, as I stood up to leave. “A typewriter. I do things the hard way.”

  FROM THE DESK OF TIFFANY TEMPLETON

  You are probably going to laugh at the stationery, but it was a gift from my father. He ordered a whole case of it, all this paper with my name on top, even though I don’t have a desk. I carry my typewriter to the Laundromat. It’s thirty pounds, and it builds muscle. I’ve only got forty-eight pieces left, the case of paper another reminder of what I lost. I guess I could get more photocopied, but the only Xerox machines in Gabardine belong to Principal Beaudin and Mr. Francine.

  I don’t carry a purse. I carry this typewriter, a Remington Quiet-Riter. It’s too loud to use in the house, but I don’t mind lugging it to my office in the Laundromat. I can type as loud as I want, but sometimes I find a dryer sheet stuck between old pages, so some of my short stories smell
like fabric softener. My dad told me that the color of my typewriter was seafoam, but I don’t think the ocean looks like mint ice cream. Thankfully, the case is black, so David can’t yell at me for not matching my accessories.

  I’m going to start at the beginning. My earliest memory involves an explosion, which seems appropriate. After my mother had enough of the meatloaf smell, she banished Ronnie to the back porch. The room had no natural light, perfect for a twelve-year-old boy. A man from the Bad Check List, determined to have his name removed from the public shaming, reinforced and insulated the room, covered the rough pine boards with the cheapest linoleum. The screens on the porch were covered in sheet rock, because my mother refused to spend the money on windows. Ronnie and his meatloaf smell were crammed into a tiny space, only big enough for his odor, a bed, a dresser, and his weight set.

  Although he despised my parents, Ronnie was obsessed with his own heavy things. Pumping iron exhausted him, and sleeping in a windowless porch made him oblivious to natural light. When he slept, it was for great stretches of time, and he could not be roused unless he was shaken. We learned this the hard way.

  I remember that it was October. I remember leaping from my own bed, startled by an enormous boom, and the walls continued to reverberate. Frightened, I found my mother and father in the living room. It was two o’clock in the morning, but my father already had a fire extinguisher in his arms, and my mother a baseball bat. The three of us stumbled out the front door and into the yard, stiff with frost.

  Our next-door neighbor was an old man who lived there from the beginning, a trailer court pioneer. I only remember him vaguely, watching him navigate the loop, dragging an oxygen tank on wheels, always smoking a Lucky Strike. That night, his luck ran out.

  The trailer exploded, the side closest to our house still on fire, the middle a blackened cavern, smoldering. My father waddled closer, to inspect, but my mother remained on our property, clutching her baseball bat. The neighbors stumbled out into their own yards in shivering flocks. Five-year-old David was the only one with common sense, and he ran into his house to call 911.