My Little Town

Andy pushed the telephone away on his desk like it was a plate of snails and closed his tired eyes resting them just for a moment. It had been the State Police inquiring about the re-re-capturing of a slippery escapee. At three o’clock on Thursday he was glad to pull the phone towards him like it was a dish of pumpkin pie a la mode to hear the low calming voice of Helen. He was grateful to think about the slender lady in the pale green close-fitting dress instead of the tattooed gorilla with five numbers on his shirt.

Three o’clock? Wasn’t it time for Leonard Blush? He’d forgotten. Maybe it was the WMPD Farm Report from three to three-fifteen, then Blush from three-fifteen to three-thirty. Barney would remember the exact times. Blush was probably singing Christmas hymns this week and the sheriff was in the mood to listen. It reminded him to check his bank savings. He opened the middle drawer and pulled out his cracked-bound black bank book. Fifty-two dollars and seventy-seven cents. That’s a sad looking ledger, he thought. He looked closer and the small blue-ink five melted into a nervous three. He put it away disgustedly as Barney rushed in the Courthouse making a bee line for the radio.
“Leonard Blush at fifteen, Ange!”, he said breathlessly, pulling up his chair leaning forward and turning on the radio.

The singer on the radio cleared his voice right on the air. A comical start for anyone else, but what followed was a sweet and harmonious rendition of ‘O Holy Night,’ and he finished with ‘Silent Night,’ trembling at first, then finishing strong with a noble and melodious full heart. Andy listened the full fifteen minutes with his head resting in his hands, elbows on the desk. Barn hunched forward in his chair struggling to keep his weary eyes opened. The boys heard intermittent scratching on the radio during the closing song and they knew Leonard was suffering from a returned bout of that pesky skin condition.
“Bless his heart,” Barney said soberly, and as Andy grimaced and looked over his shoulder and met his deputy’s eyes, Barney quickly got up and went into the back room sniffing.

In Mt. Pilot, some eleven or so miles away, Leonard Blush was pale and shaking and had to sit down afterwards. He recovered nicely in about eight minutes, collected his paycheck for ninety-two dollars and seven cents from the station owner, and went out to his car avoiding eye contact with anybody. He wept as he drove North to Siler City for his evening broadcast of hymns.

***
On Saturday, Christmas Eve at dawn, Goober and I went duck hunting. He’d been after me to go along for weeks to try his new Browning Arm’s shotgun. Besides, Gomer, on leave from the Marines, was coming in on the bus at one-fifteen, and Goob wanted to shoot Christmas dinner. I thought that was funny the way he said it and promised him I’d bag him some taters if I saw them fly over. Man, it was cold. The stubborn morning mist hung forever down at Myer’s lake, so all we got done hunched in the blind shoulder to shoulder was tell stories and laugh - but mostly shiver. Around nine-thirty the sky cleared with an orange eerie glow up in the eastern sky above the tree line and we finally got to fire off a few rounds. Goob got three, and I managed to nail one.

Later, around twelve-fifteen, we walked the trail near Old Post Road, right amongst where the pine needles thickly cover the gravel road that lazily winds upwards along the North slope, and Goob left me with a smile, a promise of same time same place next year, and his quick twisting-pinch. He departed towards Wally’s, and with the brilliant Sun now blinding I took the shaded path through the fragrant hemlocks towards town. Looking back over my shoulder across the lake, black smoke rose steadily, probably from Rube Sloan’s still or an uninvited guest frying burgers at O’Malley’s cabin. Over the giant Christmas trees in the distance I could hear the All Soul’s pealing bells echo, and I thought to myself Forgive me, God, for not loving my little town enough.

Stepping lightly over the polished rocks in a silent creek, the same sojourn from a youthful solitude, carefully keeping my balance with my gun slung over my right shoulder and a headless duck in my left hand, I emerged onto Post Road where the road winds around towards Rafe Hollister’s place. Pulled off to the side, leaning against his dusty cruiser with his arms folded and looking down his nose at me stood Barney Fife.

“Gotta license yet, fella?” he snapped.
“No,” I said looking down at the ground. This wasn’t the first offense of hunting on a whim, and I knew by the way he grabbed his shiny black belt looking stern as an ancient schoolmarm with her hair in a bun it was no use trying to explain it away. During our lifetime we travel many roads…..

I spent Saturday night and Christmas day in jail. Once, there was an animated discussion over behind the desk between Andy and Barney Saturday evening late, I’m pretty sure about me, Andy gesturing, like he was pleading my ‘whim case,’ but to no avail. He walked over to the cell and asked if I needed anything from home. I turned away and laid down on the cot facing the wall. ‘Gentleman Dan was here’ written in refined handwriting on the stone wall was the last thing I saw in the minutes before falling asleep.

Around one o’clock Sunday afternoon, Erma Bishop stopped by carrying in both hands an oval basket covered with a faded white and periwinkle-blue checkerboard-designed cloth. I reached through the bars and retrieved the key to the cell door to let her in, and after scooting the small table over she set the basket down. Underneath was roasted wild duck stuffed with aromatic chopped apples and pearly onions, three baked potatoes, fresh green beans with bacon, six warm rolls with a slab of butter, a thermos topped with hot coffee, and down below, two slices of nearly flattened apple crumb pie, juices leaking out the sides. Oh hail to thee, Miss May-burr-eee, Oh hail! oh hail!

“I’m sorry…,” she began to sympathize. Her pale wide-set eyes glistened.
“It’s ok,” I interrupted, and in a whisper, “thank you, Miss Bishop.” I kissed the kind lady on the forehead. She smiled and winked.

Later, as I devoured the delicious evidence, I noticed the cell door ajar. I got up and closed it. That sad, cold, iron click didn’t seem so bad after all.

***
© 2005

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