The Small Crimes of Tiffany Templeton

by Richard Fifield

  It took twenty minutes for the volunteer fire department to arrive, sirens and lights. I believed there was some sort of magic to his brand of cigarettes, because the old man had been ejected from the living room and into the front yard. The ambulance arrived minutes after the fire department, and he had not broken a bone. They would have taken him to the hospital for smoke inhalation, but he was already an expert at it. The firemen and the ambulance crew watched the house burn, as the old man removed the cannula from his nose. He sat in his pajamas on the frosty lawn, and lit another.

  When the trailer exploded, the cheap siding flew through the night, including a six-foot panel in our front yard. Small piles of pink fiberglass insulation scattered on the street, and hung on the barren trees, still smoking. After ten minutes, the volunteer ambulance decided to take the old man to a hotel in Fortune, after he promised not to smoke in the back of the rig.

  The night was nearly quiet again, and the firemen rolled up their hoses and used wrenches to crank the hydrants shut. Assured by that stillness, our neighbors herded back toward their own homes, until a scream cut through the frosty air.

  My brother, weighted with sleep, did not wake through the explosion. Unfortunately, the pack rats that lived underneath the old man’s trailer house were light sleepers, and being pack rats, they were unstoppable. They were not incinerated, just confused. They sought cover and scurried to the closest shelter.

  We burst into Ronnie’s room. When my mother flipped on the light, he stood on his bed, clinging to the wall, and the rats were everywhere, blinking at the overhead light. They stared back at us, at least twenty, but if you ask Ronnie now, he would claim a hundred, and he would also claim that they hissed at him.

  Pack rats on the bed, perched on his sheets and blankets. On the floor, squirming on the new linoleum. Even a pack rat on the bench of his weight set, probably attracted to the smell of his meatloaf sweat.

  Ronnie kept screaming, but the pack rats would not budge. Most people in Gabardine would have reached for one of many guns, but my sensible mother ripped the fire extinguisher from the arms of my father and filled every inch of the room with foam. Ronnie leapt from the bed and ran toward safety, kicking up the white spray, maybe even kicking a confused pack rat.

  I remember that we left all of the doors wide open and piled into my mother’s car. We drove to Fortune, and that was the first night I ever spent in a hotel. Three doors down, the old man had a room of his own. Perhaps he slept. Perhaps he smoked and thought about the loss.

  Chapter Seven

  EVERY THIRD FRIDAY, I GAVE David a ride to the allergist in Fortune. I had come back seven days early and nobody was expecting me, but there was no grace period, no honeymoon, no time to readjust. Things just picked up where they had left off.

  After school, I walked to the gas station to borrow my mother’s car, the same routine for two years, ever since David developed “allergies” that were as fickle as his friendship with me. Janelle didn’t have a car, which was enough for my mother to pronounce David as a “disadvantaged youth.” My mother hated charity, but she loved David.

  Outside, the reader board announced my mother had lost two pounds. I also noticed that the price of unleaded and diesel had increased by four cents. I don’t think there was a correlation.

  When the bell rang out, announcing my arrival, her neck snapped toward me, but she sighed when she realized I wasn’t a customer.

  “What happened to Mrs. Gabrian?”

  My mother pushed a tube of quarters at me across the counter. This was also the ritual, in case David wanted dinner. “She got old,” said my mother.

  “Seriously.”

  “She’s in the old folks’ home in Fortune,” said my mother. “Trust me, she went against her will.”

  Outside, Waterbed Fred pulled the giant Frito-Lay truck up next to the gas pumps. Normally, I would rush to the popcorn machine, because he liked it fresh. Today, however, my mother stalked past me, to do it herself. There used to be a time my mother trusted me with a cauldron of boiling grease, but now she didn’t trust me with a telephone.

  The popcorn machine was twenty years old, and the health department looked the other way but warned of an electrical fire. When I was six, she trusted me with the machine, even though a slip could result in a skin graft, and I knew what that looked like. One of our customers was a former logger with half a face, a chain saw explosion. He was nice enough, but the sheen of his face, his cheeks like steaks wrapped in cellophane, gave me a healthy fear of the machine.

  I watched my mother pull the tub of the buttery substance from the cupboard below the machine. The stuff didn’t need to be refrigerated, which was suspect, dyed the spatula and the walls around the machine a yellow like the fingers of a chain-smoker.

  Waterbed Fred pushed through the door with his back, wheeling a hand truck stacked to his chin with boxes. My hands clenched when I saw the new merchandise. I knew my mother would not allow me to use the price gun, a chore I loved, lining up the gun over the old sticker, and pulling the trigger.

  “You’re back,” he said, as he spun around and wheeled past me.

  “Pretend she’s not,” said my mother, as she flipped the cylinder at the top of the machine, and I could hear the wire arm stirring the bottom of the kettle. Inside, I knew it was glowing bright red.

  Waterbed Fred unwedged the hand truck from the stack of boxes and winked at me. He had delivered for Frito-Lay for years, ever since the waterbed industry went bust. He still had a billboard just outside of town, mostly of his face, features long faded in the sun, except for the dark commas of his famous mustache. Even though he was no longer flush with waterbed money, he was still the most eligible bachelor in town.

  The wire arm whirred in circles as it coated the kettle. Waterbed Fred lugged the boxes to the back of the store, just as the cauldron hissed. As did my mother. “Don’t even think about touching the box cutter.”

  David burst through the door, wearing the black overcoat my mother had bought him for his birthday. He ignored me, drawn like a magnet to my mother, as always.

  “Hello, David,” she said, standing on a milk crate, launching a handful of popcorn kernels into the vat. David took her hand as she stepped down.

  “Did Tiffany tell you that we are working on a project?”

  “Makeover!” My mother actually clapped her hands at this.

  “Oh, Vy. You know I’ve tried. Some wars you just can’t win.”

  My mother looked at my hair. “Agreed.”

  “Your daughter wrote a play. An entire play about the history of Gabardine.” David announced this loud enough for Waterbed Fred to hear, but my mother didn’t react. Instead, she slammed the stubborn plastic windows of the popcorn machine; years of sizzling grease had warped the edges.

  From the back of the store, Waterbed Fred shouted at David, “Your mom still on the market?”

  “He’s coarse,” said David, dismissing him. “When Tiffany applies herself, she is capable of greatness. I’ve always said so.”

  “You’ve never said that,” I said.

  David smoothed the lapel of his jacket, his other hand still grasping my mother.

  “We can’t use school property, because of your daughter.”

  “Oh, Tiffany,” said my mother. I rolled my eyes, just as the first ping sounded in the cauldron.

  “We have until November to find a theater,” said David. “But we need to hold auditions soon. Theater waits for no one.” The gas station began to smell like a carnival, and the pings rang out, as popcorn exploded. This was a war zone. David bowed down—actually bowed—and my mother was a short woman. Folded in half, he begged. “I want the fire station.”

  My mother immediately reached for her phone. I grabbed the keys from the shelf next to the cash register. I wanted to warm up the car, because David would complain about the cold, even in that stup
id coat. She drove a 2003 PT Cruiser, and it slunk low to the ground, the shocks destroyed from so many years. The driver’s seat was broken, and she had my brother disable the seat belt alarm. She could have afforded any car she wanted but had made a vow to buy a new car as soon as she hit her goal weight. I wasn’t sure if that would ever happen. My mother was the type of person who enjoyed sitting in her shame and guilt but only if she was the driver.

  When I reentered, my mother was still on the phone, and David was eating a hot dog. Waterbed Fred had abandoned his boxes, and leaned against the counter, munching on popcorn as my mother issued commandments.

  “You only need to move the trucks for an afternoon, Joe. It’s for the children. Yes, I’m speaking about my daughter. She’s still a child in my eyes. It’s a community service. You’re called volunteer firemen for a reason. That means you volunteer. Do I need to tell you how many of your knuckleheads are on my Bad Check List? Those trucks need to be out of there next month. I don’t care if you have to move them yourself. What? Don’t take that tone with me. That garage will be empty. Don’t put it past me to burn something down.”

  * * *

  * * *

  AS WE DROVE, DAVID TALKED about the play. He had pages of notes. His stack of notes was thicker than the actual script, but I didn’t say anything. I was silent, and he chattered on and on.

  In the waiting room of the allergist, the chairs were empty. I’d been driving David for two years, and this was always the case. No patients, but I knew he would still wait a half hour. I thought the doctor might be meditating or drinking, because David was a lot to handle.

  David was still talking about scenes, and ignoring the receptionist as she pointed to the empty seats and returned to her computer monitor. The same moon-faced receptionist as always, and once again, I had expected things to have changed. I was getting used to the disappointment.

  “It’s gross,” he said as we sat down in the chairs that faced the window. Outside, the parking lot was nearly obscured by snow berms that hadn’t melted.

  “I agree,” I said, figuring he was talking about the waiting room. All the magazines were for golfers or expectant mothers, and I hoped I never became either.

  “I’m so glad you feel that way,” he said. “You’ll have to find a different way to end the play.”

  I snapped to attention. “What did you say?”

  “The deaths.” He said this loudly, on purpose. The receptionist looked up from her computer, and David glared at her before he continued. “I don’t want the audience to leave on that kind of note.”

  “It’s a true story, David. It’s got to be accurate. People want that.”

  “Not me,” he said. “I don’t want to direct something so devastating.” He hissed the word.

  “Devastating? You’re just being a dick.” I regretted the words as soon as I said them. He wanted this. He wanted to tangle. I swore I could feel the heat rise from his body. I closed my eyes like they taught me at Dogwood. Focused on the present. I honestly thought I’d never have to use any of these tricks. I’m here. Right here, right now. I touched the lump of quarters bulging in my pants pocket.

  He cleared his throat. Here it came, the trap. “I’m going to ignore the name-calling, Tiffany.” He paused, a trick that I was used to. He wanted me to admit that I was being unreasonable. He was waiting for me to apologize, but I wasn’t going to give it to him. Eyes closed, I counted to fifteen. He couldn’t help himself. “It’s bad enough that I have to direct a play about prostitutes! You’ve got to make it a happy prostitute story, like Pretty Woman!”

  I took a deep breath. When I opened my eyes, the receptionist stared at me, like she was afraid I was going to freak out and throw a chair. “It’s a true story,” I repeated as evenly and as calmly as I could. “Those women lived terrible lives. They died terrible deaths. It’s not a damn musical.”

  His eyes lit up, but then he sighed. “You’re right,” he admitted. “I don’t think anybody around here can sing or dance.”

  “This was a lot of work, David.” My hands clenched, but there would be no punching. “I’m not going to let you destroy it.”

  “I have a reputation!” He leapt to his feet and pumped his fist, and the receptionist was transfixed. “I will not allow my name to be associated with a disaster!”

  From another room, I could hear the doctor clear his throat.

  This caused the receptionist to snap back to reality, and she addressed us curtly. “The doctor will be with you shortly, David.”

  David ignored her, remained standing. He wanted me to yell. He didn’t know that I had practiced for this. I had done three months of role-playing exercises. I used the words they taught me: “I’m not comfortable with this.”

  Silence, until a delivery truck roared into the parking lot, squeezed between the banks of snow, narrowly missing my mother’s car.

  “Everybody loves a musical,” said the receptionist, trying to be helpful.

  “Thank you,” said David. Satisfied, he finally sat down.

  The receptionist lifted a lipstick-stained coffee mug to her mouth. “Just so you know, I used to do community theater.”

  “Fabulous,” said David. He grabbed my forearm, but I looked away, stared at the glitter of salt, our trail across the carpet. “Get her phone number.”

  I nodded my head, and I knew the deaths would be rewritten. I could live with that, as long as my characters wouldn’t be bursting into song.

  Chapter Eight

  AFTER THE ALLERGIST, I DIDN’T give David a choice. I drove us straight to the nursing home. He knew about Betty Gabrian, but of course, I had to find out from my mother.

  “I’ll wait in the car,” he said.

  “I figured,” I said.

  “I have issues with mortality,” he said.

  “Especially when it comes to prostitutes,” I responded and left him sitting there.

  I expected there to be a receptionist at the nursing home or a nurse at the front desk.

  Instead, I walked past two open rooms filled with women peering at jigsaw puzzles and nurses reading tabloids. At the end of the hallway, through the windows of the doors, I could see Betty Gabrian sitting beneath a bulletin board decorated with crude attempts at decoupage.

  “Thank god,” she said. “Just the girl I’ve been waiting for. The only girl that can help me with a jailbreak.”

  “What happened?”

  “My children are assholes,” she said. “I had one small stroke, and all of a sudden they were in charge of me. Legal guardians. All three of those ingrates. I wouldn’t trust them to decide on a pizza topping.”

  Unfortunately, I was the one who needed reassurance. I wanted Betty Gabrian to see what she had helped create, but I also needed her to check it for historical accuracy. Mr. Graff would not be interested in fact-checking a three-act play about prostitutes. For a social studies teacher, he was a terrible historian. Mr. Graff was on record as being a Holocaust denier, skimmed through those pages in our books, only telling us that it was “unseemly and inappropriate to discuss.” If the man didn’t believe in Hitler, the untold tales of the prostitutes of Gabardine would probably be a hard sell.

  Eagerly, Betty Gabrian clutched my script. I could tell this place bored her.

  “My next project is to make some friends,” she said. “But there’s only two Democrats in the entire building. I will need to recalibrate.”

  “I’ve got faith in you,” I said. “You are a tough cookie.”

  “Please come back and tell me all the sordid details of your incarceration,” she said. “Finally, someone in this town has done something interesting.”

  I explained about David, and his hostile takeover, and his latest demand. “He wants a happy ending.”

  “Gays are like that, my dear.”

  FROM THE DESK OF TIFFANY TEMPLETON

  I
was in seventh grade, and for six weeks, my mother got a prescription for diet pills. She did lose a lot of weight, but then she started to lose her hair. The worst side effect was her impulsive need to tell the truth, and the worst truths, the kinds she should have kept to herself.

  She called us together for a grim family meeting, where she announced that neither of her children would inherit the gas station.

  “It’s painful to me,” she said. “It was supposed to be a legacy.”

  “Grandpa only had it for six years,” said Ronnie. “And he wanted to trade it for a llama farm. You told us that.”

  “Llamas were the next big thing,” countered my mother. “He was an entrepreneur. The two of you do not have an entrepreneurial bone in your body. You are a religious fanatic,” she said. She turned to me. “And you are on your way to being a serial killer.”

  “Not really,” I said. “That’s kind of a stretch.” It was. At that point, I just wore all black and watched slasher movies. My crime spree had not even begun.

  “I can’t trust either of you,” she said. “So don’t count on an inheritance.”

  “Serial killers have their own kind of legacy,” offered my father, trying to smooth things out, as always.

  “This is bullshit,” said Ronnie.

  She crossed her arms, and stared at all three of us, dead-eyed. “You’re welcome.”

  I was the one who broke the silence. “What if I want to go to college?” I expected my dad to respond to this, but my mother’s eyes were fearsome things.

  Instead, Ronnie decided that my dilemma was solid. “She should probably go to college. She would be the first, and that’s like a super-big deal.”