The Searchers

Fiction Friday: Here's the first part of a piece inspired by an actual incident that occurred in an undisclosed town in Arkansas. You'll remember the off-stage protagonist, Sheila, from previous encounters. Continued next week.

LOOKING FOR MISS SHEILA

By Jimmie von Tungeln

© 2007

            Thomas Hyatt and Sweeney were the first to return, the oldest and the slowest. Thomas had never liked horses and by this point in his life was only good for helping out. Sweeney was just capable of taking orders from Thomas but seemed to enjoy it, so he rated a front row seat in the little local drama. Those who had stayed in town would only hear the story second hand. The remaining participants wandered in singly or in pairs and never talked about it.

Bobby Ray heard the two had returned after a busy morning, that being the reason he didn’t hurry right over to hear the details. It sounded big, so he found himself hating the delay and cursing his responsibilities. News like this generally bypassed the City of Armistead, or came directly to him. Being City Attorney held its advantages. He rarely had to work to stay abreast of things. That’s the way he preferred it: a slow and mellow absorption of history.

But this morning rolled over him like a bad smell. Earlier, he had been trying his best to stay busy. Tilted in his office chair, with his feet resting on the edge of his desk, he was dozing lightly in the morning stillness. The phone rang and he would have fallen to the floor if the wall hadn’t stopped him. Straightened in the chair, he growled into the phone and heard the voice of Deputy Boggs.

“Mr. Hinson?”

“Yeah, what?”

            “It’s Ola Mae Turner’s dog again. He got out again and tore up two flower beds.” The deputy paused and then continued when he heard Bobby swear. “Now he’s got the Baxter kid cornered at City Park. Chief’s out of town. What can I do?”

            Trying to focus, Bobby Ray snapped into the phone. “How in the hell am I supposed to know?”

            “The Chief is out of town,” he repeated. “You the City Attorney. Ain’t you in charge?”

            “I’m not in charge of anything. Why the hell are you calling me?”

            “I had to call somebody. Maybe he bites that kid; then what?  I need somebody to tell me what to do.”

            “What to do?”

            “About the dog.”

            “The dog?”

            “Yeah, the dog.”

“Shoot the son of bitch!”

            The phone went dead and he listened for a moment for a voice. None came. He wondered if he had been dreaming and replaced the phone in its cradle. Before he dozed again, he thought perhaps he should walk to window. He would be able to see the park from there. He could see, see if the call had really happened. He could see what was going on from there. He could even yell down to the deputy if he needed to. He just had to stand up and walk over. Just stand, and walk. The world returned to gray and he decided that he had been dreaming.

            The explosion and the falling were all part of his dreaming until he hit the floor. This time the wall didn’t catch him. His right leg jumped harder than the left, twisting the chair just enough to clear the wall and slam his head into the wooden floor. “Dammit! he yelled as streaks went in all directions. He rolled over and rose to his knees. Through the pain and confusion, he could hear screaming and a jumble of voices from the direction of the park.

            He spent the rest of the morning attending to the disposition of the deceased, the consoling of the Widow Turner, and attempting to explain the concept of common sense to Deputy Boggs.

            He was somewhere in this process when Roy Middleton, Armistead’s pharmacist, called with the first news.

            “They’re coming back,” Roy shouted into the phone. “Meet me at the ‘Bowl.”

            “Can’t now. Got dog problems.”

            “Dog problems?”

            “It’s a long story.”

            “Well get here as soon as you can. This is going to be good.”

            “Would’t miss it for the world. Wait for me.”

            An hour later Bobby Ray ushered Deputy Boggs to the door with assurances of protection when the Chief returned and walked back to his desk. Several pages of yellow paper lay scattered about. He knew he should consolidate them before the memories of the details faded. Instead, he thought of the crowd that would be gathered by now at the Cotton Bowl.

            “Screw you,” he jeered at the notes. He took the Deputy’s confiscated shotgun and locked in his office closet. He started to put the closet key into his desk drawer then stopped. Instead, he pitched the key into the trash can by the desk. “Time for the show,” he said as he headed for the door.

            The Cotton Bowl Cafe was the official nerve center of Armistead. Behind its ancient doors, news was made, reported, embellished and evaluated for induction into the official folklore of the county. News that that was too old, too boring, or too sanitized for the Cotton Bowl was forwarded to the Armistead County Weekly. The rest was forgotten.

Shorty Huddelston’s father became proprietor when the third owner died in World War Two. He ran the place and served as the unspoken sergeant-at-arms for the group that assembled twice daily for coffee, food, news and gossip. Usually the crowd had thinned by two o’clock in the afternoon and Shorty would begin closing for the day. But today there was a full table near the rear of the main dining area when Bobby Ray walked in. “Lai dai,” Shorty said to him, a reminder that this group bonded more than most due to the fact that all had served in Vietnam. “Come on back, we’re just getting started.”

            He hurried to the back where, in addition to Shorty and Roy Middelton, sat Steve Singleton, Jr, the local banker and John Merriweather, the State Farm Insurance agent. The men had formed a semi-circle with an outer chair saved for Bobby Ray. In a lone chair at the center of the semi-circle sat a red-faced boy about 14 years old. He was sitting on his hands, looking from face to face. To Bobby Ray, he looked like a witness on the stand—a guilty one.

            “Hello Sweeney,” he said to the youngster.

            “Mr. Hinson.”

            “Who else is back?” Bobby Ray looked at Shorty.

            “Just Sweeney here and Thomas Hyatt. “Thomas wasn’t haulin’ no horse or nothin’ so he come back when it was all over and dropped Sweeney off here. Then he went home and went to bed.”

            Shorty stopped and reached over to pat the boy on the back. “But Sweeney here is gonna’ tell us the whole story. Ain’t you Sweeney?”

            Sweeney looked at Shorty and then from face to face. He said nothing.

            “How come you went along in the first place?” Booby Ray asked. Sweeney lowered his head and stared at the floor.

            “Oh, Sweeney is the official horse-tender for the Armistead, Arkansas Mounted Auxiliary Police. Ain’t that right?” Shorty looked at Sweeney and smiled.

            Sweeney looked at Shorty and didn’t answer. Then he looked at Bobby Ray and nodded, barely.

            Bobby Ray smiled and pulled his chair closer. “Now Sweeney, we just want you to tell us about the trip you made. It’s not often that a boy like you gets to travel all the way past Little Rock, clear to Hot Springs and back on a real adventure.” He bent over until his face was level with Sweeney’s and then spoke softly. “You comfortable? Are you hungry?”

            “We ain’t ate since yesterdy evenin’.” He looked from face to face again and squirmed on his hands.

            “Get the boy some food,” John said to Shorty. “Hell, he can’t tell us a story on an empty stomach, can he?”

            “How about something to drink?” Roy said, “You want a cold drink?”

            Sweeney looked up and nodded.

            “Get the man a drink,” Roy said to Shorty who had gotten up and was walking behind the counter.

            “I’m gettin’ it,” said Shory. “But you go ahead and tell us about it, Sweeney - and talk loud enough for me to hear.”

            All eyes turned toward Sweeney who dropped his face again.

(To Be Continued)