Fistful of Rain, page 3
It took more than an hour to suffer through the first item on the agenda, which involved a proposal to install coin-operated parking meters along both sides of Ashton Street, the commercial heart of Lewiston. The floor of the Grange Hall was a checkerboard of black and green silicate floor tiles, and I occupied my time counting the broken ones, and noting the places where they had worn through to the underlayment and substrate.
“Any thoughts on this matter, Sheriff Dawson?” the chairman finally asked.
“You’ve just spent a considerable amount of valuable time pearl-clutching over whether or not to pay dollars for dimes, is what I think. But my professional question is this: Who’s supposed to write the tickets for the folks who choose not to pay for the privilege of parking? I’ve got a grand total of five men—including me—to cover this entire county, and not one of us signed on to be meter maids.”
“I wish you had mentioned something to us earlier,” Brody said.
“With due respect, Mr. Chairman, I believe this is the third time I have expressed exactly this same sentiment, both to you and to the rest of this fine council.”
A ripple of laughter floated up from the rear of the room, where the older folks tended to gather. Nolan Brody squinted at me, then brought down his gavel and put the matter to a final vote, which went down in defeat with a count of seven against two.
“While we’re on the topic of law and order,” Brody said. “We have a request from Harper Emory who has something he wants to say about our growing hippie problem. Why don’t you come on up here to the podium, Harper?”
It was the first I had heard there was a hippie problem in the county, though it was common knowledge that a few dozen young people had taken up residence on an abandoned sheep ranch in midvalley. The first group of them had come here a couple years earlier, and their numbers had ebbed and flowed somewhat since then. But as far as I knew, there hadn’t been any significant trouble owing to their presence. In fact, they had opened a couple of small storefront businesses in the town of Meridian.
The room fell silent as Harper Emory limped his way up the aisle toward the lectern. Emory had operated as a local sheep rancher for almost twenty years, a solidly built man of above-average height, known both for his fractious disposition and as a notorious torturer of the truth. Notwithstanding my personal feelings about the man’s veracity, there was no denying that someone had taken out their aggressions on him, and had left him with substantial injuries to his head and face, and put his right arm in a sling.
“You all know me,” he said. “And you know my place butts up against that goddamn commune where the goddamn hippies live—”
Brody’s gavel rapped the table.
“Mr. Emory, please try to refrain from using profanity.”
Harper Emory peered at each of the councilmen in turn, his eyes resembling piss holes in a snowdrift.
“Two days ago, a couple of my animals went missing, so I set out to check the fence line and to try to get ’em back. Well, sure as hell, I found a cut in the wire that runs between my place and the one that belongs to the hippies, and I knew right away that they’d up and rustled my goddamn lambs. Then I did what anybody in this room woulda done in my place, and I ducked in through that fence hole and went after the thieves. I wasn’t more than a hundred yards inside that filthy place before three long-haired boys ridin’ motorbikes come askin’ me why I’m trespassing. ‘Trespassing,’ I say to ’em. ‘You sonsabitches took my lambs and I want ’em back right goddamn now.’”
Brody pounded his gavel again, but the sound was overwhelmed by the scraping of chair legs and the uneasy muttering of the gallery.
“You gonna let me tell my damn story or not?” Emory asked, and continued without waiting for a reply. “Anyways, these boys said they didn’t know a thing about no stolen livestock and told me to get offa their land. I told them they could all go to hell, and a minute later they were on me like a pack of coyotes, beating the ashes out of me. Those boys might look like girls, but they can damn well throw punches like Frazier and Ali. Nearly put out my eye. You can ask Doc Brawley about that.”
I could sense that the tone of the meeting was rapidly shifting to one of rancor and recrimination. I didn’t care for the direction, nor did I like the fact—assuming Harper Emory was telling the truth—that he had waited two days to report either the sheep rustling or the beating, and I had to wonder why.
“I have to admit,” I said. “I’m a little vexed that you didn’t report this to me sooner.”
“I’m reporting it to you now,” Emory spat. “I want those people paid back in kind, Sheriff. With interest.”
“You know that’s not the way the law works, but I promise everybody I’ll look into it.”
“That ain’t good enough, Ty. Those bastards beat holy hell out of me and stole my damn lambs.”
I shot a glance over my shoulder at Chairman Nolan, and his expression appeared oddly impassive. While I had long been suspect with regard to his principles, this public and intentional cultivation of suspicion and hostility being directed toward the kids they referred to as hippies seemed not only callous and cruel, but unwise. He made no attempt to tamp down the bedlam, and I was left with the distinct impression that we were all being gaslighted somehow.
“That’s not fair,” a female voice shouted from out of the crowd. When she stood, I recognized her as one of Cricket’s former teachers from high school, but couldn’t recall her name. “You don’t know for sure whether they stole anything from you!”
Harper Emory spun around and pinned her with a glare.
“A hole in my fence that leads right to their property says otherwise, young lady.”
“She’s right, Mr. Emory,” I said. “We won’t know who’s done what until I check it out. Okay?”
“No,” Emory said. “That’s not okay. We shouldn’t have to put up with these lawless longhairs for one more goddamn day.”
The atmosphere of malevolence was growing more palpable, and when I slammed my open palm on the table, the shouting and pandemonium died slowly away. The teacher had remained standing through the entire outburst and I gestured for her to continue.
“The reason I came to this meeting was to ask for the school board’s permission to take my students on a field trip to the commune for a tour,” the teacher said. Her complexion was ashen, but for the angry flush that had risen on her cheeks. “But, after witnessing all of this, I have no intention to ask that of you. Instead I am informing you that my class and I shall, in fact, be visiting Rainbow Ranch. And we shall be doing so before the end of the school year. That’s all I came for. I have now done what I came here to do, and I will be leaving. Good evening to you all.”
She nodded to me as she gathered her purse and stormed down the aisle and through the double doors at the back of the room.
Harper Emory was still standing at the podium. It seemed that his good eye had begun to quiver with fantasies of revenge.
“If you don’t do something about those hippies, Sheriff, I swear to God I will,” Emory said.
“You do and I’ll haul you in myself, Harper,” I said. “That goes for all of you folks. Just settle down and let the law do what you hired us to do.”
My statement was met with catcalls and hoots, and I turned toward Nolan Brody.
“You’d better do something, Nolan. Call for a ten-minute break so everyone can cool off. This meeting went off the rails in a hell of a hurry.”
He paused for a few seconds before he brought down his gavel and called for a recess, then regarded me with an expression of self-satisfaction. It was a look that suggested he knew that this outcome had been as foregone as that of the Knights Templar at the hands of the Saracens.
“I would appreciate a private word with you, Sheriff,” Brody said as he followed me into the vestibule.
We stepped outdoors into the welcome freshness of the early evening breeze. Off to the west, the low angle of the sun cast the narrow stone canyons that centuries had carved into the side of the mountain in shades of deep violet shadow and pale yellow light. Brody came to a halt when we reached the corner of the building and turned to face me, to square off with me, and I studied the strange architecture of his features again. There was a vaguely asymmetrical set to his small, dark eyes and a perpetual sliver of whiskers nested in the cleft of his chin that his razor never managed to reach. His eyes were illuminated by vanity and animus, his visage and posture oddly puerile, as if a cruel and angry little child still lived somewhere inside his flesh.
“What can I do for you, Nolan?” I said.
“What in the hell is the matter with you?”
“An angry mob can be an unstable and explosive thing. I’ve witnessed it too many times.”
“You’re not the only one who has experienced the hazards of the battlefield, Mr. Dawson.”
“My title is ‘Sheriff,’ and from what I understand, you were a JAG officer in the navy. I’m not sure that your military duty—assigned to a desk somewhere in Rhode Island—entitles you to opine on the horrors of war.”
“I prosecuted deserters and cowards.”
“You did no such thing,” I said. “You prosecuted brawlers and drunks on shore leave. You have no frame of reference to speak to me about cowardice.”
“You’re an angry man, Sheriff. Perhaps even dangerous. I don’t believe you deserve the office you hold.”
“You’re welcome to try for my badge anytime, Nolan. But you’re going to have to take it from me.”
“You listen to me,” he hissed. A cluster of tiny blue veins throbbed at his temple. “If that schoolteacher actually takes students out to the commune, you are going to escort them, and you are going to report back to me everything that you see while you’re there.”
My ears filled with a sound like falling water and my fingernails dug into the palms of my hands.
“That is not the kind of phraseology you want to employ with me, sir,” I said. “Have yourself a good night.”
I touched my hat brim and picked my way across the loose gravel lot toward my truck.
“You’re not leaving, Sheriff. We’re not finished here.”
“Stand there for a few more seconds, Brody, and my tail-lights will prove you wrong.”
CHAPTER FIVE
It was full dark by the time I passed through the lodge-pole entry to the Diamond D and into the driveway behind the main house. Amber light spilled from the windows and the cloud of smoke that trailed out of the chimney told me someone had recently freshened the logs in the fireplace.
I parked beside Snoose Corcoran’s five-window flatbed, pulled open the back door to the mudroom, and followed the sound of surprisingly lively conversation to where Jesse, Cricket, and Snoose sat at the dining table with a fourth person I hadn’t met before.
“Climb down and cool off your saddle,” Snoose said. “Let me pour you a tipple.”
I leaned in and kissed Jesse on the cheek, and felt the warm flush of her skin.
“Snoose and his nephew were kind enough to bring over cornbread and this jug of wine,” she said.
“My mama, rest her soul, taught me never to show up empty-handed.”
“Very civilized of you, Snoose,” I said.
“Grab you a glass.” He smiled at me, but it didn’t make it all the way to his eyes. “And look here. They make wine bottles that’s got handles on ’em now. Mighty clever, if you ask me. If you hook your fingers in there just right, you can carry ’em out of the store four or five at a time.”
I took off my hat and hooked it on the coatrack in the corner beside Snoose’s. Wyatt curled himself on the floor between Jesse and me and lifted his head for a scratch.
“You’re a good boy, Wyatt,” she said to the dog, but the rest of her message was meant for me. “Some people don’t call to tell us when they’re going to be late.”
Cricket grinned and I saw that her cheeks were flushed pink like her mother’s. I wondered how much wine they’d gotten into before I walked through the door.
“That’s bad manners, isn’t it, boy?” Jesse persisted.
I tried on an apologetic expression, but Jesse had passed beyond the peak of her perceptive abilities.
“Anyone care to introduce me to the extra hand at the table?” I asked, changing the subject.
“This here is my nephew,” Snoose said. “His name’s Tommy Jenkins, my sister’s boy from down in California.”
I reached across the table and received a limp, damp handshake from a boy I judged to be about sixteen or so. He wore the bored, sullen expression of a modern teenager, and his verbal greeting to me was little more than a grunt. His hair looked as though it had gone unattended for some time, and was just long enough that it reached down to his earlobes, one of which was decorated with a tiny silver hoop.
“You studyin’ on becoming a pirate, Tommy?” I asked.
“Dad—” Cricket said.
I winked at her, and Snoose said, “It’s okay, darlin’, Tommy’s aware that he’s got a ring poked through his ear.”
“No, sir, I ain’t no pirate,” Tommy mumbled and went back to work on what remained of his pot roast and peas.
“He don’t go in much for razzin’,” Snoose added. “Just like his mom. You might remember her, Ty. You remember Sallyanne.”
“He favors her,” I said, but I was lying. Snoose’s sister had been fairly attractive in her youth, and this slouch-shouldered, horse-faced child of God did not resemble her in the slightest.
“She finally divorced that useless husband of hers,” Snoose continued. “When they got married and moved down there to southern California, I swear it raised up the average IQ of both places.”
“How long are you visiting for?” I asked the kid.
Tommy shrugged without raising his eyes from his plate, and shoveled a forkful of beef into his mouth.
“He’s stayin’ with me for the summer,” Snoose answered for him. “Sallyanne thought it would be good for him to come up here to get him away from his friends.”
The boy shot Snoose a look that could peel paint off the wall.
“He ain’t much of a talker,” Snoose said. “But I’m sure he’ll make a fine hand by the time autumn rolls back around.”
“I’m sure he will,” I said, lying again.
“How about some dessert?” Jesse offered, and it seemed like her powers of perception might have returned. “I’ve got pineapple upside down cake in the fridge.”
“I’ll help you,” I said.
“Charming kid,” I said to Jesse as we plated dessert in the kitchen.
“It’s an awkward age.”
“If I had behaved that way, my father would’ve taken three layers of hide off my butt.”
“That’s not how it’s done anymore, Ty.”
“This new way seems to be working real well, doesn’t it?”
“You’re in a mood. Bad time in Lewiston?”
“I’m not the most popular man in Meriwether County tonight.”
“Want to tell me about it?”
“Maybe tomorrow,” I said. “Let’s get this thing over with.”
“That’s the spirit.”
My family and the Corcorans had a long history together, sharing a border fence that separated our ranches since Snoose’s father, Eli, and my granddad had carved out their first stakes as amicable competitors in a harsh and unforgiving business. Both had been young men at the time, raising families right here on this land. But the Great War claimed the life of Eli’s eldest son and when the boom finally came at the end of it all, Corcoran missed it, and the calamity that came with the Great Depression nearly drove the last nail home. My grandfather helped keep Eli afloat through those times, but a combination of poor luck and even poorer decision-making had gradually eaten up the Corcoran ranch like a cancer.
Two years had now passed since Jesse and I had discovered old Eli lying dead in the long grass of a pasture at the far western boundary of our property. He had died peacefully in the saddle, exactly the way he had lived.
Snoose always had a contentious relationship with alcohol, but the death of his father had come hard to him, and it seemed he had crawled into a bottle that day two years ago with little intention of climbing back out.
“Why don’t you and Snoose take your desserts and coffee outside on the gallery?” Jesse said. “I’m sure you’d both enjoy some man-talk.”
I saw Cricket wince at Jesse’s use of an expression that was never uttered in our home, but I knew it was Jesse’s way of letting me know that Snoose had something weighing on his mind.
A slow, easy wind pushed through the last blossoms that still clung to the dogwood, and the sweet scent of wisteria hung in the air. The sounds of the stock horses settling in for the night drifted up from the corral a short distance away.
I showed Snoose to a willow chair in a quiet corner of the deck well out of earshot of the kitchen, while I took a seat in the matching one adjacent to his. I snapped a Vulcan match to life with my thumbnail and touched it to the wick of the lantern that rested on the table between us.
“How’d they treat you at the auction this year, Ty?” Snoose asked as he scooped up a forkful of Jesse’s pineapple cake.
“About like everyone else, I suppose. It’s been a rough couple years all around.”
Snoose’s face was half hidden in shadow, but I could see his eyes dart and twitch like a bird looking for a place to land.
“Your granddad was smart breeding them Purples,” he said. “The bottom’s damn near completely dropped out on my cows. No money at all for Herefords or Angus on the hoof or otherwise.”
Crickets chirred from somewhere underneath the house, and I watched his eyes slide away again.
