Authors: Earlene Fowler
“Sweetcakes, hold on to your hat. We’ve got ourselves a little hostage problem downtown here, and apparently the only person they’ll speak to is you.”
9
“WHAT?” I SPUTTERED. “Who?”
“Take a breath, cousin. In a pecan shell, Dove and six of her friends have barricaded themselves in the Historical Museum and refuse to leave until the city agrees to give the museum back. They’ve called all the radio and television stations and, bless their radical little hearts, have stirred up quite a little tempest.”
“What?” I yelled into the receiver.
“Yeow!” he exclaimed. “Thank you kindly—I needed the wax cleaned out of that ear. Anyway, the only people they’ll let in are you and me. But me
only
if I’m accompanied by you. Am I making sense here?”
“Does Gabe know?” I asked.
“I’m on my cellular, and he’s standing right here. You can talk to him yourself.”
“Benni?” Gabe’s rich, baritone voice was not happy.
“What’s going on?”
“All we know is that a phone call came in about a half hour ago that something was happening at the Historical Museum. A patrol car rolled on it and discovered Dove and her friends. She told the patrol officer through the door that they’re staying until the city agrees to sign a long-term lease. You’d better get down here.”
“I’m on my way.”
I drove the twelve miles from Morro Bay in record time. The streets in front of the Historical Museum were already cordoned off with yellow police line tape, so I had to park three blocks away. I clipped a leash on Scout and headed to the museum. The front lawn was crowded with tourists, about ten or so picketers, the news van from KKSC—our local television station—and a few uniformed officers. I walked over to where Gabe was standing beside Emory. His eyes blazed a bright blue; his jaw was as stiff as metal pipe. I looked up at the second floor of the Historical Museum. Outside of an upper museum window, flapping gently in the late morning breeze, hung the Fifty-four forty or Fight quilt Tina had been working on yesterday.
“Hi, guys,” I said, touching my husband’s arm tentatively. His face relaxed slightly. He reached down and gave Scout a quick chest rub.
“I’m glad you’re here,” Gabe said. “Go talk some sense into her.”
I glanced at Emory, whose blond eyebrows raised slightly.
Not a chance,
they proclaimed, and I silently agreed. Gabe obviously didn’t know Dove as well as he thought.
“I’ll try,” I said, handing the leash to Gabe. “Let’s go, Emory.”
We walked up the steps to the Historical Museum, and I could hear the voice of the reporter from the television station say, “Start rolling.” Our ascent was recorded for replay on the four o’clock news.
We knocked on the wood-and-glass door, and a face peeked around the window shade that covered the upper half. Edna McClun called, “Halt, who goes there?”
“Oh, for cryin’ out loud, Edna, let them in,” Dove’s voice snapped.
The door opened a crack, and Emory and I squeezed in. Edna slammed the door behind us and bolted it. We followed her past the reception counter into the center of the museum, normally used for lectures and demonstrations.
I gazed around the room in amazement. There were cots, bags of groceries, and gallons and gallons of bottled water. I turned to my grandmother. “Dove, what in the heck is going on?”
“We’re staying until the mayor changes his vote,” June Rae Gates said.
I looked at Emory in dismay, but he didn’t see my glance. He already had his notebook out and was taking notes.
“Make sure you spell my name right,” Edna said. “It’s M-c capital C-l-u-n.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, writing feverishly.
“Dove, you can’t stay here,” I said. “It’s ... it’s ...” For the life of me I couldn’t think of one other thing to say.
“Honeybun,” she said, “we have to get them to listen, and this seemed the best way. We’ve called CNN and the television stations in L.A. and San Francisco. The Gray Panthers and some other groups are going to take turns picketing. We’re just trying to make a point. All we want is our museum to stay the way it is.”
“How many of you are here?” Emory asked.
Dove turned away from me and said, “Seven. Eight if you want to count Elmo Ritter’s cat. Fool man can’t go anywhere without it.”
“Seven,” Emory murmured, his face thoughtful. Then it brightened. “The San Celina Seven!”
Dove smiled widely. “I like that, Emory.” She turned to the others who had gathered around us. “See, I told you he was a clever boy.”
I groaned. “Dove, the similarities between you and the Chicago Seven are tenuous at best.”
“Sounds good, though,” Elmo said, holding his hissing Siamese. He was the man yesterday with the French beret trying to get arrested. “We needed a hook. All good stories have a hook.”
Emory grinned. “Elmo, you are my kind of man.”
I chewed my bottom lip, trying to hold back the screaming fit I truly wanted to throw. “What,” I said patiently to Dove, “do you want me and Emory to do?”
“Emory’s already doing it,” she said. “He’s going to be our media source. You are going to be our hostage negotiator.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve got a hostage?” I felt my stomach drop. I hadn’t seen the mayor out there . . . they wouldn’t . . . no, they wouldn’t . . . kidnapping was . . . “Please tell me everyone is here voluntarily.”
“Of course we are,” June Rae said. “She meant we’re holding the building hostage until that ole backstabbing Boxstore Billy sees fit to change his vote.” She turned to the tiny, white-haired lady standing next to her who looked vaguely familiar. “Sorry, Melva.”
“It’s all right, June Rae,” the woman said, her diamond-studded hands flashing in dismissal of the remark. “I sure didn’t raise him like that. That sneaky side comes from his father’s genes. They were rum runners back in the Prohibition, you know.”
“Oh, geeze,” I said, “please don’t tell me you’re Mayor Davenport’s mom.”
She gave a dainty sniff. “I’m merely a concerned senior citizen who is fighting for a cause she believes in.”
Emory gazed upward and crowed. “Oh, Lord, thank you. I’m going to win a Pulitzer.”
I smacked Emory’s arm with the back of my hand. “You’re going to win a knuckle sandwich if you don’t start helping me talk them out of this.”
“Emory,” Dove said, “you get all their names down, and Edna will fill you in on our demands. I need to talk to Benni alone.” She grabbed my upper arm and hustled me to the storeroom behind the reception counter, closing the heavy oak door behind us.
“Dove,” I started, “Are you out of your mind? It’s against—”
“Now, hush, child. We aren’t hurting a soul and we wouldn’t do this if we weren’t ready for it. We have plenty of water, food, good bathroom facilities, and everyone’s heart medicine. And I didn’t let anyone in on this who couldn’t handle it healthwise. You know I’m not a foolish woman.”
I leaned against the counter. “I know. It’s just that I feel like I’m caught in the middle. You know how this looks for Gabe.”
Her face grew pensive. “Honeybun, that’s the only thing I regret. You know I’d never in a million years hurt Gabe, but it can’t be helped. We can’t just lay down and let those money-hungry politicians take away everything we’ve worked so hard for. We might be old, but we still have beliefs and feelings. Try and understand that.”
I went over and put my arms around her. Her bones underneath my fingers felt so fragile and vulnerable. “I do, Gramma. I’m just worried.”
She hugged me quickly, then pushed me away. “Now, there’s something else I wanted to tell you. I’m probably not going to be home on Mother’s Day since Melva says that son of hers has a stubborn streak as long as a boa constrictor, so I wanted to tell you something.”
“What’s that?”
She gave me a long, searching look. “Your mama ...” She paused, hesitating, then started again. “Your mama left you something that she wanted me to give you at a certain time of your life, and, well, I’ve been thinking, I’m getting along in years, and things aren’t going the way she probably thought they would, and I’m sure not wanting you to find it after I pass on and wonder why I didn’t give it to you before—”
“What is it, Dove?” I asked, breaking into her explanation.
She inhaled deeply, her pale blue eyes shiny. “Your mama has a baby blanket that was given to her by her girlfriends back in Sugartree, and she wanted me to give it to you when you had your first child, but . . .” Dove’s voice trailed off, and she looked down at the ground.
“But it looks like that’s not going to be happening,” I finished for her. “It’s okay, Dove. It’s something I’ve been dealing with.”
She looked back up. “There’s still plenty of time for you and Gabe. Don’t think there isn’t.”
I grabbed her pale, calloused hand whose touch was the only one I remember as a child. What had my mother’s hands felt like? Why can’t I remember? Were they work-roughened like Dove’s or soft and smooth? Did she have long, beautiful nails or did she clip them off once a week like I always had? How had she touched me when she checked for a fever—with her palm or with the back of her hand? “I know, Dove.”
“I just think there’s times you have to rethink the promises you make people. If something happens to me, I don’t want you to thinking I was keeping something of your mama’s from you.”
I covered her hand with both of mine. “Nothing’s going to happen to you,” I said fiercely. “But thanks for telling me. Where is it?”
“It’s in the top of my closest wrapped in a sheet,” she said. “Talk to your daddy when you drop by and tell him I’m all right. I told him last night what we were going to do today, and he’s not happy by a mile. See if you can soothe his nerves a little.”
“I’ll try. Now, you take care of yourself. Promise me you’ll abandon this if any of you start feeling sick.”
She smiled at me. “Don’t you worry about us. We made it through the Depression.”
When we came down the museum steps, Emory and I were bombarded by questions from reporters, bystanders, television people. Gabe pushed through the crowd, slipped his arm around me, and nodded at Emory to follow him. He walked us across the street, where the police had set up an Incident Command Post.
“Fill me in,” Gabe said curtly.
“Where’s Scout?” I asked, glancing around. He pointed to a tree a few feet away where Scout was tied. Three giggly teenage girls were giving him enough attention to last the rest of the week.
With Emory throwing in his two cents’ worth every so often, I told Gabe what the senior citizens wanted. Just as I finished, the mayor, William Davenport himself, pushed into our small circle.
“Gabe, this is unacceptable,” he said. “I demand you arrest those rabble-rousers. I don’t care what their ages or who they are. That is city property they are holding hostage.”
Gabe stared down at Mayor Davenport’s thick head of silver hair. “Bill, I’m finding out the details now.”
The mayor turned to me and said, “This is the work of your gramma, young woman, and I’m warning you I’ll see her in jail, I will. Don’t think I won’t.” He poked my shoulder once with his forefinger.
Gabe grabbed the mayor’s hand, his voice low and uncompromising. “Do that again, Bill, and I’ll break it.”
The mayor looked up at Gabe, surprised. His tanned face blushed dark red. “Your job is to uphold the law in this city.”
“When and if there are arrests to be made in this situation, I’ll order them. Right now, I think the prudent thing to do is wait and see what they have planned.”
“I’ll tell you what they have planned,” he sputtered. “Making me look like a fool.”
“Not a difficult task,” I muttered. Gabe shot me an impatient look that said,
Your smart mouth is not appreciated right now.
Next to me, a chuckle erupted from Emory.
“And what’s so funny, young man?” the mayor snapped at Emory.
“Are you certain you want all the people involved booked and arrested?” my cousin asked. “That would give them criminal records, you know. All these sweet, nonviolent senior citizens.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Do you realize . . .” I stopped when Emory’s face begged me to let him break the news. I held out my hand in acquiescence.
“I don’t care,” Mayor Davenport said. “Age doesn’t give them the right to break the law.” He turned back to Gabe. “I demand you take steps to remove them from the property.”
Gabe said, his voice just barely tinged with sarcasm, “What do you propose I do, call in the SWAT team? Throw in canisters of tear gas? What do you think that would do for your image?”
The mayor contemplated his reasoning for a moment. “All right, let’s try to talk them out of there. But I don’t want this turning into a media circus.”
I gazed out over the milling crowd and thought,
Too late, buster
.
Gabe turned to Emory and said, “Do you have the names of the people inside?”
Emory’s face almost split from his smile. “Yes, sir.” He read off the names. “Dove Ramsey, Edna McClun, June Rae Gates, Elmo Ritter, Goldie Kleinfelder, Maria Ramirez, and Melva Davenport.”
A strangled cry came from the mayor’s throat. “What?”
Emory looked up and opened his eyes slightly with mock innocent curiosity. “Any relation to you, Mayor Davenport?”
A shocked expression spread over Gabe’s face. Behind him, a couple of patrol officers burst into laughter, quieting only when Gabe gave them a stern look.
“This can’t be,” the mayor said. “My mother would never agree to something like this. It’s kidnapping, plain and simple. They went down to her condo in Santa Maria and kidnapped her.”
Gabe’s face turned sober at the word. Kidnapping was a serious charge, and things were moving in an ominous direction.
“She’s in there voluntarily,” I said quickly. “I talked to her myself.”
Mayor Davenport turned to me, his thin nostrils flaring. “It simply can’t be.”
I glared back at him. “I guess you don’t know your mother as well as you thought. She fooled you just like you fooled the people who voted . . .”
Before I could finish, Gabe’s big hand closed around my elbow and firmly steered me a short distance away. “Benni, you’re just adding fuel to the fire.”