could make some kind of life out of that. What else did I have to build on? By the time early release came around, I knew I wanted to work as a therapist. I set up in Memphis, made the rounds of school social workers, doctor’s offices, community centers and so on to introduce myself and leave business cards, started picking up clients. Slowly at first, and anybody who walked in. But I had some kind of real feel, an instinct, for the acutely troubled ones-those at the edge of violence. Within a year that’s mostly who I was seeing.”
Sheriff Bates was nigh the perfect listener. His eyes had never left me as he leaned back in his chair, making himself comfortable, wordlessly inviting me to go on. Then he propped it up: “You found work you were good at. Damn few of us are ever lucky enough to do that.”
“I know; believe me. Knew it then.”
“But you quit.”
“After six years, yes.”
He waited.
“I’m not sure I can explain.” Where’s a movie-of-the-week plot when you need one?
A mockingbird lit on the sill and peered in at us, chiding.
“That the one Don Lee took to feeding?” Bates asked.
Daughter June nodded.
“And you wouldn’t have anything to do with that.”
In what was apparently a longtime private joke, she batted eyelashes at him.
“Time when that girl was eleven, twelve, every week she’d show up after school with some kind of orphan or another. A kitten, puppy, a hatchling she claimed fell out of a tree, not much to it but a skull, feet and hungry mouth. Once, a baby rabbit-they say once those have the stench of human on them, parents seek them out and kill them.
“You’d best go ahead and feed the thing,” he said after a moment, “else we’ll never hear the end of it.” Then to me: “You’ve done some hard wading against the current.”
“Off and on.”
“More on than off, from the sound of things. Work like what you ended up doing, that has to be like police work, demands a lot of you. And the better you are at it, the more it takes.”
“True enough. Just being on the job, on the streets, not anything in particular that happened, made a difference. Changed me, damaged me: the point could be argued. All those years tramping around in other people’s heads was a kind of repeat.”
“Not to mention prison.”
We watched June, outside, scatter birdseed on the sill and back away from it as the mockingbird returned. Glancing up at us, she waved.
“One day ostensibly like all others, sitting there with my morning coffee and appointment book, I looked out the window and realized the floors were gone. They’d just dropped out from under me, they were gone. I knew I no longer trusted anyone or anything. That I could see around, through and behind every motive-my own no less than everyone else’s.”
“So you decided to be alone.”
“I’m not sure it was a conscious decision. How much of what’s most important in our lives ever is?”
June came in and pulled her purse from an open desk drawer, saying she had to pick up Mandy at school, she’d drop her off and be right back.
“That time already, is it?” Bates said. And I, once she was gone, that I hadn’t known June had a child.
“No reason you would. But she doesn’t-not yet, anyway Friend of hers, Julie, works as a nurse, twelve-hour shifts twice a week. June helps out. The two of them went right through school together, kindergarten on up, you couldn’t pry ’em apart with a crowbar.”
“June and Julie.”
“Cute, huh?”
“Other kids must have had fun with that.”
“Only the first time or two. You haven’t seen it yet, but that girl has a temper’d make a grizzly back off, go home and call out for food.”
“Someone else takes care of the child once she drops it off?”
“Julie’s brother. Clif’s not old enough to have his license yet, but he goes over after school and stays with Mandy till Julie gets home. Has dinner waiting most nights, too, I hear.”
The phone rang.
“Sheriff B-”
He looked at me, shook his head.
“Yes ma’am, I-”
His end of the conversation was like a motor turning over again and again, never catching.
“Yes ma’am. If-”
“Yes ma’am. Can I-”
“What-”
He tugged a notepad towards him and scribbled something on the top page.
“We’ll get right on that, ma’am,” he said, then, hanging up, “Surprise you?”
It took a beat or two for me to realize the last comment was addressed to me, that he was referring to what he’d told me about June and the friend’s baby.
“A little, Sheriff.”
What I’d truly been thinking was whether I was still in the United States. This couldn’t be the same country I saw reflected in news, TV shows, current novels. Mind you, I didn’t watch TV or read newspapers and hadn’t read a novel since prison days, but it all filtered in. Thoreau, Zarathustra, Philip Wylie’s superman alone and impotent on his mountaintop-in today’s world they’d all be aware what shows were competing for the fall lineup, the new hot fashion designer, the latest manufactured teen star.
But people watching over friends’ children as though their own? A teenage brother taking responsibility for his sibling’s child?
Bates tore off the note he’d just made and tipped it into the wastebasket.
“Time you dropped that ‘Sheriff’ business, don’t you think? Friends call me Lonnie.”
Five or six responses came to mind.
“Friend’s a tough concept for me,” I finally said.
“It’ll come back to you.” He smiled. “You like chicken?”
Three hours later I found myself seated at an ancient, much-abused walnut dining table. My new best friend Sheriff Bates aka Lonnie sat at the head of the table to my right, wife Shirley directly across, June at the other end, a couple of teenage sons, Simon with a brush cut and baggies, Billy with multiple piercings dressed all in black, in the remaining chairs. Plate heaped with mashed potatoes, fried chicken. Bowls of stewed okra and tomatoes, milk gravy and corn on the cob placed around a centerpiece of waxed fruit in a bowl. Shallow bowl of chow-chow, small white bowls with magnolia blossoms afloat in water scattered about. Anachronistic platter of commercial brown- and-serve rolls. The TV sat like a beacon, sound dialed down, angled in, just past the connecting doorway to the living room. The boys’ eyes never left it as Fran Drescher’s nanny gave way to Fresh Prince.
“We’re pleased you could join us,” Shirley Bates said.
“Thank you for having me. The food’s wonderful.”
“Nothing fancy, I’m afraid.”
“I don’t know, the magnolias add a certain festive touch.”
“You like them?” Pleasure lit her face. “Lonnie thinks they’re silly. It’s something my mother used to do.”
Mine too-I’d just remembered that.
Afterwards, the sheriff and I helped stack dishes and take them out to the kitchen through a door propped open with a rubber wedge of a kind I hadn’t seen in years. Declining offers of further assistance, Shirley said, “You go play good host, honey. God knows you can use the practice. I’ll finish up here.”
Bates poured coffee from a Corning ware percolator into mugs with pictures of sheep and deer. A sliding door opened directly from the kitchen onto a patio. Four or five white plastic chairs sat about, the grid inside a grill was caked with char above white ghosts of charcoal, jonquils sprang brightly from a small plot by the house. A rake leaned against the wall nearby, tines clotted with dark, brittle leaves. We sat chatting about nothing of substance,
