Finally, I heard him march down the hill, and I knew he meant it. He would not talk to me. Consequences. He would keep my secret, because he had to. I was a thief, but his father was much, much worse.
I listened to his descent, until I couldn’t hear him anymore, and finally, I opened my eyes. Things had changed. Tough Tiff upset another universe.
Above me, the stars remained fixed in place.
FROM THE DESK OF TIFFANY TEMPLETON
I put everything in its right place. Except this. This has been stuck inside me, lodged in my throat. Dangerous. I could choke or I could cough it out.
This is my last confession.
I went back. Something at the Bitzches’ called me, told me I wasn’t finished. In September, I returned.
Coach Bitzche sat on a stripped mattress, no pillowcases. It must have been laundry day, and Bitsy and his mom were in the living room, not folding or sorting, but watching some beefcake in a hot tub with four women, another dating show. I watched Coach Bitzche check his watch, tug on the whistle around his neck, a ritual. He crouched down beside the bed and slid out one of Ronnie’s boxes and a gray metal toolbox. Cross-legged, he pried at the shipping tape and peeled, until the flaps of the cardboard box were free. I expected him to pull out Bibles, honestly. Instead, a stack of white envelopes wrapped with a rubber band, and a manila envelope folded around a brick of something. More prying and peeling of tape, and when he finally just ripped it apart, I watched the cash fall all around him. The Bitzches were poor enough to live in a trailer court, but I watched for ten minutes, as he carefully smoothed each bill, organized and stacked the denominations into piles, at least an inch tall. He removed binder clips from the toolbox, and arranged the cash in a semicircle around him. The white envelopes were arranged in another semicircle, eight envelopes, evenly spaced, like he was doing a tarot reading. A fear rushed, and it seemed to come from my stomach, and I knew right then and there that everything had changed. I could see that far ahead, without the King of Swords.
I ducked when I heard a car, and the headlights nearly caught me as I tucked myself farther in between the dumpsters. A station wagon parked in front of the Bitzches’ house, and I was fascinated when the interior light flashed on as the doors opened. Nurses, in hospital scrubs imprinted with balloons, terrible plastic shoes. The passenger swung a new loaf of Wonder Bread as she approached the front door, the balloons seemed to match the primary colors, the dots on every package of Wonder Bread.
I swear that I nearly puked, as acid continued to boil up through my throat, and my mouth filled with saliva as I watched the nurses enter the house without knocking, walk right through the living room without even acknowledging Bitsy or his mother.
He didn’t seem to be surprised when they entered his bedroom. I guess this wasn’t a house call. They gave him the loaf of bread, which he cradled under his left arm like a football. With his right hand, he plucked the two envelopes at the very end of the semicircle, and each woman tucked one in a pocket of her scrubs. Wordlessly, they left the room, and I watched Coach Bitzche immediately readjust the envelopes on the bed, evenly spacing them once again. It all seemed like witchcraft, and when he tugged on his whistle once more, I knew I was hexed.
The nurses in the station wagon drove away from the trailer court, but Coach Bitzche remained sitting, staring at the ring of assembled objects, as if daring them to move. After another twenty minutes, I was the object cursed into action, as I’d seen enough. I walked the short distance home and took the hottest shower I could stand.
The next Monday, I skipped fourth period. I knew Mrs. Bitzche was on her route, and it was strange to be spying in the middle of the day. My black clothes were conspicuous, but the trailer park was empty.
Like most people, the Bitzches didn’t lock their door.
In the bedroom, I reached for the familiar toolbox. The bed was freshly made, but the room still smelled like something dirty.
Inside the box, another stack of cash and five Ziploc bags stuffed with sandwiches. This made no sense. Coach Bitzche seemed to run an expensive picnic operation. I unzipped a plastic bag and slid out the bread, and suddenly, pills escaped in all directions, scattered across the floor of the master bedroom. In my lap and rolling across the carpet, white ovals, yellow capsules, and fat circles speckled with blue. Always blue.
As quickly as possible, I bent down to the floor, and on my knees, I picked up every pill that had rolled away. I could see under the bed, and there were no dust bunnies. Mrs. Bitzche was a fastidious housekeeper. She had seen this toolbox. She had seen the Wonder Bread. She had let strangers into her house without a word. She knew.
I left the toolbox behind, crammed the sandwiches into the pockets of my leather jacket, the pills and the cash into a felonious lump in my jeans. I took everything, even the empty envelopes.
At the Laundromat, I crammed myself into the tiny bathroom, and I counted the money. I was the daughter of a tax man and a woman obsessed with invoices, so I counted it twice. Twenty thousand, one hundred and thirty-seven dollars. Carefully, I disassembled each sandwich and dumped the pills into one of the Ziploc bags. I zipped the top, clicked the blue strip over and over again. Again I had that fear, an unreasonable feeling that two hundred pills could escape. I dumped the bread and the remaining sandwich bags into the bathroom garbage, but even that made me paranoid. I removed the garbage bag and twisted it and tied it in a knot. I buried it in the dumpster in the middle of the trailer court, underneath a stained rug and a clattering assemblage of empty wine cooler bottles.
Coach Bitzche was absent on Tuesday. On Wednesday, Principal Beaudin made an announcement in gym class, declared it a study hall until further notice. Bitsy stayed at home, maybe to make coffee for the Search and Rescue team. On Monday, Mrs. Bitzche claimed to discover a missing suitcase, and the search was called off. In Idaho, I’m sure parishioners were mystified by the sudden disappearance of their pastor, but they had experience in accepting things without explanation. I knew the reason, and it was not metaphysical. Even the police didn’t find it odd that two men vanished at exactly the same time. I guess they were used to the hazards of living in the wilderness. The coach and the pastor were not in the stomachs of grizzly bears, and I kept that secret to myself.
That’s the story. If you want me to testify in court, let me know. I have experience now. Just promise to leave Bitsy out of it. We can’t help who we are born to. I wish Bitsy had been like a stray dog that I found in the trailer park, and we could have just loved each other like that, both of us unclaimed, and untethered to horrible owners.
Chapter Thirty-Four
WE COULD CALL IT A theater now, but from the outside, it still looked like a garage. David and I stood outside, plugging outdoor lights into an extension cord. One on each side of the stage, our floodlights. They were strictly utility lights, 1000 watts, and the stands and the cages around the lightbulbs were that utility-yellow color that only straight men seem to find satisfying.
“We could spray-paint them,” said David.
“You and your spray paint,” I said. “It’s a sickness. I’m afraid you’re going to spray-paint the actresses, too.”
“I bet it would look better than Bitsy’s makeup,” he said.
“Bitsy won’t be doing the makeup,” I said.
“I’m not surprised,” he said. “I knew you would find some way to destroy it.” David paused, and turned to look at me. I could tell he was sorry. It was a rare thing. “He was terrible at it. No big loss.”
A rumble up the street, and Waterbed Fred’s truck pulled up in front of us. In the passenger seat, Janelle waved madly, and even from twenty feet away, I could tell she was wearing false eyelashes. David had been begging her to do this for years, but apparently only Waterbed Fred was worthy of the effort. Interesting.
Waterbed Fred honked his horn. This was the first time I had ever heard him do such a thing. App
arently, he was smitten.
The actresses responded to the noise, and made their way out into the parking lot. We watched as Janelle leapt from the passenger seat, wearing a fringed baby doll dress, even though it was barely thirty degrees outside. She winked at us, and I wished David had given her a better tutorial, because the lash stuck, and she had to tuck it into place with one finger.
We heard the door swing open at the back of the truck, and then Waterbed Fred was carrying folding chairs, three in each arm, and I think I heard Mrs. McQuilkin gasp as his biceps flexed.
David was delighted, of course, but as soon as he saw them up close, his brow furrowed.
“They’re padded,” he said.
“Of course,” said Betty Gabrian. “I paid extra.”
“Did you get a lot of your friends to come to the show?”
“I’ve invited them all. Except for the locked ward. Dementia is one thing, but those people bite. I don’t think that would be a good thing.” Sixty seats, ten rows, three on each side of the aisle. After we hauled them all inside, David fussed with the arrangement until he was satisfied.
“I’m concerned about continence,” said David.
“Especially Africa,” said Ruby.
* * *
* * *
WHEN I RETURNED TO MR. Francine’s office, he sighed deeply, and pointed at the calendar on his wall. “You have the wrong day, Miss Templeton.”
“I know. I need to leave something for Kelly.” He stared at me as I thrust the envelope in his direction. I knew how organized he was and imagined he had a system for incoming mail. I wanted to stay on his good side. “Do I need to sign anything?”
“A confession would be nice,” he said. “You can just bring that straight to the courthouse.”
“It’s important,” I insisted. It was a confession, just not for his eyes.
“I’m not a post office,” he said. “And I know how little respect you have for the mail.”
“Can you please just leave it in her office?”
Mr. Francine looked at me as if I had finally brought the apocalypse. I was the end of the world. At least he was prepared for it. When he took my pages, he had no idea that I had included another explosion in Gabardine, a letter to Kelly that would change everything.
I was glad I had sealed it shut.
FROM THE DESK OF TIFFANY TEMPLETON
November 6, 2018
Dear Kelly:
I’m probably going back to the detention center, and I’m pretty sure it’s in Texas now, which would give me something to write about, but I think I’m done with writing. When I confess, things explode. I think I’m done with all of it. I deserve this. I told Bitsy everything, and my mom is still in her nest, and there is no gasoline in Gabardine. I ruined an entire town, I think.
I don’t want to be that girl.
Behind the Laundromat, there is a juniper bush. If you put some heavy gloves on, you can reach a typewriter case. I’ve left it unlocked. Inside you will find all the evidence. I don’t care if you return any of the things, but I want you to have proof that you did your best.
I could not be fixed.
Get out of Gabardine.
Sincerely,
Tiffany Templeton
Chapter Thirty-Five
WHEN I HEARD THE NOISES in the kitchen, I was shocked.
My mother sat at the table, bleary-eyed in a bathrobe.
This was like a great bear, emerging from hibernation, shaking off the winter.
The gold foil from a piece of chocolate stuck in the folds of her sleeve. She pointed her unlit cigarette at me as I walked through the door.
“I dreamed of your father. He was wearing that trench coat I hated so much, the black one that looked like a goddamn couch cover. He didn’t say a word. But this light surrounded him, until it filled up the entire room. I swear to you, Tiffany. The light was the exact color of the popcorn butter.”
I had been so wrapped up in making things right that I didn’t notice the construction. The streetlight had been erected within a day. My role was a secret, so I wouldn’t have been invited to a ribbon-cutting ceremony.
The light had been switched on while I was in the shower, and at first I had not noticed the yellow cast of the arc sodium light, but she was right. The color of popcorn butter. The trailer court was flooded with it. We’d never had shadows, not unless the moon was especially bright. Now, everything doubled in another shade, a brownish orange. The light that struck every immoveable object left a twin on the ground, stretched out and taller. David was paralyzed by the thought of overhead light, and he was going to hate the glow.
“That’s weird,” I said. “The trench coat, I mean. Maybe it’s like Groundhog Day, and he appeared to warn you that we are going to have a really bad winter.”
She stared at me. “I tell you about something beautiful, and you compare your father to a rodent.”
“He was an angel,” I said. “Let’s just call him an angel.”
“I don’t believe in that nonsense,” she said. She sighed and lit her cigarette, but her face still looked dreamy, the most at peace I’d ever seen. I leaned across the table and pulled open the only curtains in the trailer park. The streetlight filled the dirty window, and my mother recoiled from the blast of incandescence.
“What in the hell?”
“We got a streetlight. It’s not in the street, really. It’s next to the dumpster.”
“Who approved of such a thing?”
“Mr. Francine.” This was kind of true, so I didn’t feel bad. “I just wanted to show you, so you could stop thinking that light was from an angel.”
“A ghost,” she confessed. “I don’t believe in angels, but I do believe in ghosts.”
“I won’t tell anyone,” I said. “I believe in them, too.”
“Twenty days was enough,” she declared. “Please tell me the entire town fell apart.” I wanted to tell her about Bitsy, about Lou Ann, about the can openers. The only undoing of the last twenty days happened to me, and I had pulled the string.
“Of course,” I said. “No riots or anything, but you got people talking.”
She looked around the kitchen, like she was seeing it for the first time. I followed her eyes as they fell on unopened bags of potato chips on top of the refrigerator. “Get rid of all of this food,” she said.
“I could start cooking,” I said. “We don’t have to live on Lean Cuisines. I could cook healthy meals.”
“That’s ridiculous,” she said. “You’re still on probation. No knives in this house. Unless you learned how to chop vegetables with that sharp tongue of yours.” She stopped herself. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Let me think about it.”
“Okay,” I said. I moved across the kitchen and reached for the potato chips, tossed them in the garbage. I could always fish them out later and hide them under my bed.
“It caught up with me,” she said.
“What?”
“I forgot to grieve for your father,” she said. “I figured it out this morning.” My mother went straight back to work after my father died, and straight back to chasing the magic number, ran toward a number on a scale. I guess she didn’t know that something was chasing her until it finally caught up.
“I miss him, too.” We had never really talked about our grief, we had never really talked about any sort of feelings. My dad held all the feelings in the house, I think, absorbed them, so we didn’t have to.
“I’m sorry, Tiffany.” My mother looked up at me, and jabbed her cigarette out in the glass ashtray. “I really mean that.”
“I know,” I said and began to open the cupboards, pulling out the contraband.
“Back to work,” she announced and stood up from the kitchen table. “You better not have fucked up my car.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
SHOWT
IME WAS AT SEVEN, BUT David wanted me there at four. This was unsurprising. When I pushed through the doors, he was sitting on a folding chair, front row, staring at the stage. He rose when he heard my footsteps and turned to face me, holding out a carefully wrapped box.
“For you,” he said, and this was, in fact, surprising.
I didn’t want to take the box from him, but he forced it into my hands, cringed when I began tearing at the paper. I stopped and peeled back the scotch-taped corners carefully. This made him happy.
“I don’t need any gifts,” I said.
“You earned it,” he said. “This is something you need. It fits.”
Christ. I was sure the box held a pair of sparkly butt jeans, and David was doing what David was always doing, cultivating.
Instead, inside layers of thin tissue, a brand-new black leather jacket.
“Like I said, it fits. Try it on.”
I didn’t know what to say, just followed his orders, and it did fit, perfectly.
“Jackets should have sleeves that end just at your wrist, and shoulders that are cut and don’t come out somewhere near your elbows.”
“Thank you.”
“There,” he said. “If you zip it up all the way, nobody will see your dirty T-shirt.”
* * *
* * *
AT SIX, THE OLD MEN set up their card table, offered up the programs, folded exactly, each one prepared by David. There were no tickets to collect, no hands to stamp, no change to count back. The sets, the costumes, the chairs, the complete overhaul of a building. The days and nights of worrying, the hours of rehearsal, the minutes we had stolen from elderly women who had none to spare. Despite all it had cost, we would not charge admission.
The Small Crimes of Tiffany Templeton Page 23