Dogwood (3 page)

This was not what I expected. I walked into the station and found a dark green desk that looked like something shipped back from Vietnam.

“Your uniform is down at the cleaners,” the secretary said, a brunette turned blonde turned redhead. Maggie looked like one of those girls from high school who threw herself into food and hair coloring with equal gusto. She could be pretty, but now she is just cleavage and wide hips and jokes about her weight to protect herself. In the days to come, I would learn that she didn’t get much help from the others in the office, especially Wes, a patrol officer who worked nights. He was thin, had eyes like a weasel, and walked like he owned the world.

“Ought to come with me tonight over to the Blue Moon,” Wes said to her. He winked at me. “They’ve got a wet T-shirt contest, and there’s no doubt in my mind—”

“Just stop it,” Maggie said, sorting through the mail on her desk. “You ever heard of sexual harassment?”

“I’ve never heard a sexual harassment I didn’t like.”

The door opened and a bell jingled. Two men walked in, the older with the presence of Moses. He had a slick, lizardlike face,
and from the Barbasol smell I guessed he’d just had a shave at the barbershop. The silver at his temples gave way to light brown hair that looked like the color of some barn cat I used to toss in the pond behind our house. Something between an orange tabby and the tail of a calico. The man had a chest as wide as the door, it seemed, and he carried himself like a prizefighter.

The second man was younger but had the same barrel chest and stout build. His hair was short, and he had a dark mustache.

“Morning, Chief,” Maggie said. “Guess that’s the last time I’ll be saying that.”

The older man put a hand on the counter and leaned against it, draining a spent piece of spearmint gum. “Now, Maggie, I’ll always be chief to you, won’t I?”

She smiled. “I guess you will.”

“You won’t mind that, will you, Son?” he said, turning to the man behind him.

His name was Eddie. I’d met him when I interviewed for the job a month ago. He flipped through letters and papers in his mailbox, disinterested. “As long as they up my pay, I don’t care what you call him.”

The chief turned and smiled, his eyes shining. “Wes? Everything go all right last night?”

“Hardly a peep, sir. Caught two kids going at it in the backseat of their Focus over on Virginia Avenue.”

The chief laughed, the gum sticking to his teeth. “Those don’t have much room in the back. Sounds painful. You write them up?”

“Nah, it was a friend of mine’s little brother. I put the fear of God in him and told him to wipe the steam off the windows and leave.”

The chief stepped toward me. “You must be Bobby Ray.”

“Yes, sir. It’s an honor to meet you, sir.”

He shook my hand. His skin was cold and surprisingly soft. “You’re Cecilia and Robert’s boy, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You have a sister, a little older than you. Right?”

“Karin.”

“How’s she doing?”

“Fine. Thanks for asking. She has her ups and downs, of course.”

“Well, we all do, don’t we?”

“Yes, sir. We do.”

He took a Hershey’s Kiss from a jar on Maggie’s desk and unwrapped it. “Well, I’m passing the baton to somebody you can trust. Wouldn’t have retired if I didn’t know I could leave this place in good hands.”

“Got that right,” Wes said.

The chief nodded. “Yeah, Eddie here learned from the best, if I do say so myself.”

Eddie had his sleeves rolled up, a smirk on his face, as if he wasn’t buying the compliments. The tag under his star said “Buret.” He had the look of a lone bull in an open field, his upper arms the size of my thighs. He shook my hand—the same grip as his father’s. “Good to see you again. Welcome to the force.”

The phone rang, and Maggie put her hand over the mouthpiece. “Chief, it’s the mayor.”

“Better get the office cleaned out, old-timer,” Eddie said. “I want to move in this afternoon.”

The chief shook his head and closed the door. I could hear his voice through the window. “Mayor, how are we today?”

“Wes, you coming to the breakfast?” Eddie said.

“If you can spare me.”

Eddie looked at me. “Figured you could hold down the fort while we say good-bye to the old geezer.”

“Sure.”

“I’ll keep my radio on just in case.”

“I don’t have my uniform yet.”

“That’s all right. You’ll just be answering the phone. Maggie’s coming with us.” Eddie opened a desk drawer and pulled out a service revolver, a .38 Smith & Wesson in a holster with Mace, a radio, and a nightstick. Then a silver badge in a leather holder. “We’ll grab your uniform on the way back from the restaurant. Any questions?”

“If somebody calls with an emergency?”

He wrote down the number for the restaurant. “Nobody’ll call.”

I brought in a box of my stuff as the four piled into both cruisers and screeched away. Eddie ran the lights. One last spin for the memory, I guessed.

I settled into the corner desk, going through the drawers to see what was there. Eddie had told me during the interview process that the previous officer had taken a job in Charleston. I must have answered his questions satisfactorily. He knew I was a native and understood the people.

“Dogwood’s never gonna be a big city,” Eddie had said. “And to be honest, I don’t want it to be. I want to keep things quiet as they’ve always been.”

I put out the picture of Lynda and me—a shot we’d taken on our honeymoon at Pipestem, a state park a couple of hours away. Then one from a few months ago, her stomach slightly paunched, my hand on her belly. Another reason I had quickly taken the job. I needed an income and some benefits for the new family.

Another picture showed lots of sand and my buddies looking tough, square-jawed, kneeling near a Chinook. After my military service, I’d gone into officer training and landed a job in Wheeling. With Orson—my affectionate name for our baby—on the way and the grandparents excited about their first grandchild, moving back seemed the best option. Lynda’s parents live in Winfield, only fifteen minutes away, so it made sense. We found a house, the old Benedict farm that had been divided into several parcels.
With the money I’d saved and gifts from both sets of parents, we made a down payment and moved in with Lynda’s folks until I could remodel. We had a long way to go—the water pipes were worse than I thought and the roof was a sieve—but I was hopeful we could be in before the baby came.

The third and last picture was of Karin and me when we were kids. It was Halloween—I was six; she was ten. She wore a frilly ballerina costume, and I held a motorcycle helmet and had written #43 on a white T-shirt to look like Richard Petty. Our faces were pressed together, cheek to cheek. I’m glad we got a photo of Karin smiling and happy.

The bell jingled and two women entered. The younger one wore tight cutoffs, her shirt tied to show off tight-as-a-drum abs. Her dirty blonde hair hung down, and each time she blinked, her split ends moved. Her lips were pouty, and her teeth protruded slightly. She had a smoker’s cough.

The older woman was large with a dimpled chin and gray-streaked dark hair. Her arms looked like the Michelin Man’s, and she wore polyester slacks that made an audible whine as she walked.

“Can I help you, ladies?”

“Where’s Eddie?” the older woman said.

“He’s out for a couple of hours. Can I help?”

“You the new guy?”

I offered my hand and she took it. “Bobby Ray Ashworth. I don’t have my uniform yet.”

“Robert and Cecilia’s boy?” she said.

“That’s right.”

She looked me up and down and spied my wedding ring. “My, my, Doris Jean. The good ones get taken too fast.”

The other woman lifted a hand, her fingers stained yellow. “We’re here about my brother Arron.”

The older woman introduced herself as Emma Spurlock, the
mother of Arron and Doris Jean. For years I’d heard the family name associated with everything from petty thievery and vandalism to house fires. The Spurlocks had so many kids that it was said you could throw a rock on their tin roof and they’d be running outside for days. Each time a child reached the age where he could strike a box of matches or flick a Bic lighter, the fire department was put on notice.

“I filed a missing person’s report on Arron two days ago, and I haven’t heard a thing from Eddie.”

I found the right cabinet and was impressed with Maggie’s filing abilities. I hadn’t expected much. But the missing person’s file was empty. I asked the two to hang on while I went to Eddie’s office and looked through the papers on his desk. The report wasn’t there.

“Like I said, it’s my first day. Let me take your number and have Eddie call you as soon as he gets back.”

“We’ve got some more information for him,” Doris Jean said.

“How long has Arron been missing?”

“Since last weekend. He left work about eight and went over to the pool hall. Nobody seen him after that and he didn’t come home.”

“We told all this to Eddie,” Mrs. Spurlock said.

I wrote down their number and taped the piece of paper to Eddie’s door.

“Arron’s a good boy,” Mrs. Spurlock said. “He works hard.”

“Where was he employed?”

“Over at the Exxon station. Been there almost five years now. I’m worried sick.”

I nodded. “We’ll do our best, ma’am.”

Ruthie arrived at the church office, her black purse slung over her arm like she had an appointment with God himself, and asked to see me. I was in a women’s ministry meeting mired in the specifics of the spring luncheon, so I excused myself and met her in the hall.

I showed Ruthie to my husband’s office—Richard was home working on a sermon or the new budget—and closed the door behind us. We faced each other in chairs near his desk. She stared through me, and I found myself studying the design on the spine of
The Treasury of Scripture Knowledge
.

“Why did you want to see me?” I said.

“You came to my place a couple of days ago. What did you want?”

Ruthie was at least seventy with thinning gray hair and skin that hung from her neck like a turkey wattle. Her eyes had that narrow quality you see in Pulitzer Prize winners who have pain running through their veins, having seen too much of the world, having written about the deeper things of life. Her stare wiped the smile from my face, and I could tell she knew something.

“You were on the list of people to invite, and I was told you didn’t have a phone,” I said.

Ruthie squinted. “Invite me to what?”

“The spring luncheon. I’m on the committee, and we’re trying to come up with—”

“Don’t you have that in May? That’s months away.”

“Yes, we’re trying to get the word out early.”

I ran down the list of particulars—our special speaker, the menu, the child care.

After I finished my spiel, Ruthie gave me her patented stare. “What’s wrong in your life?”

“I’m sorry?”

She opened her purse, took out a tissue, and pulled her glasses off, showing two red marks indelibly left on the bridge of her nose. She wiped the lenses and placed them firmly on the red marks. “Something’s going on, and God sent me here to find out what it is.”

Oxygen left the room for a second, and I had to consciously open my mouth and suck in a couple of breaths. Of course there was something wrong. Terribly wrong. But only God and I knew it, and he wasn’t letting me in on what it was.

“Are you cheating on your husband?” she said.

“Of course not! Why would you ask a thing like that?”

Ruthie stuffed the tissue back in her purse. If everyone lived like Ruthie, Kleenex would go out of business. “It took a lot to get me here today. Ask those ladies. They’ll tell you how long it’s been since I’ve been here. And if you don’t want my help, that’s fine.”

“Did Richard send you?”

Ruthie snapped her purse shut and stood, gathering her cane in the crook of her arm. “Not a human alive could get me here, save Jesus himself. You want to talk, come to my place. Tomorrow. Four o’clock.” And with that, she hobbled away.

I rejoined the meeting as Constance Weldon read the number of books our guest speaker had written. “What’s the matter, Karin? You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

I told them Ruthie Bowles had visited me.

The women looked at each other.

Finally, Constance ran a hand across the empty writing pad. “Ruthie is one of our well-intentioned dragons.”

“Excuse me?”

“She means well, but she’s a few cups away from a full Communion tray.”

Lucille Collander, the most compassionate one of the bunch, shook her head until wisps of hair floated onto the table. “Well, she’s been through a lot of heartache. I’ll give her the benefit of the—”

“Let’s stay on task, ladies,” Constance said.

The meeting ground on, but all I could think about was Ruthie.

Later that night, while my children were occupied, Richard asked about my day. I told him about Ruthie, and he said he had heard of her. Actually he had heard others talking about her.

“Did you sleep last night?” he said, changing the subject.

“Enough.”

“Is there anything you’d like to talk about?”

I yawned. “It’s been a long day.”

That night was the worst. Some can face sleeplessness with resolve, doing something constructive with the time like Creative Memories. I fell into that long stretch of night thinking I was losing my mind. Then a more horrifying thought. What if I was losing my faith? What good is a mind if you don’t have faith?

When I finally fell asleep, I dreamed. It was the same one I had dreamed for years, over and over, like a coded message. . . .

I am standing in front of the house where I grew up, with the black Labrador chained at the front. His fur is the color of dirt, and mud hangs from his jaws. He pants and pays no attention, as if I’m invisible.

I knock on the door and wait, cradling an infant. She is a newborn, pink and tiny, almost weightless. A bird chirps and flits from branch to branch of the three hickory trees in the front. The
one in the middle is tall, branches spreading as if it is welcoming something. Someone.

My father opens the door, and he appears older, chubbier, with hair that retreats from a bald spot like soldiers overwhelmed by a frontal assault. His teeth are yellowed from coffee, and his shirt is sweat stained. His eyes are pools of memory. There is an ocean of wisdom in there, if only I could reach it.

He sees the infant and smiles, reaching for her, gathering her in with strong hands. I have never seen my father care so much for anything, and I give the baby freely, almost haphazardly. I am glad to be rid of her. Relieved.

I look for my mother in the kitchen, but she isn’t there. The hallway leading to the back of the house is dark. I need to talk. I lean on her at times like this, and she seems to know what to say and what not to say. My mother is comfort and peace in a calico smock.

I return to the living room, where my father is on the floor hovering over my still child, making faces, smiling, cooing, attempting to summon some reaction. A human defibrillator.

I stare at the scene, and a sense of despair, failure, and disgust overwhelms me. I do not care for her. I do not love or hate her. I do not care what she becomes. I have no vision for her future. I have no regret about how she came into the world. She has no meaning to my life, and this horrifies me.

My father is intensely involved. He can’t take his eyes off her. He is enraptured with the very thought of this little one.

“I have to go,” I choke.

His face softens, mixed with sadness and love. It feels as if he’s looking straight into my heart. “I know,” he says. I can’t recall my father being this loving, this compassionate. “I’ll watch her until you get back. Until you’re ready.”

I turn and, without remorse or pause, abandon them. Past the dog. Through the trees. To the road that stretches farther than I can see.