Kind of Kin (36 page)

This was a concern she unknowingly shared with State Representative Monica Moorehouse, who at this moment was asking herself a very similar question: Was it too late now for the story to make a political splash? And for God's sake,
where
was that cache of Mexicans? All those cable news people on their way, Monica thought, and not one illegal alien to show them!

This singular lack of aliens was also what had Arvin Holloway frantic and furious and cursing in church—but goddamn it, how was he going to justify the expense of a daylong siege, all that overtime, bringing in extra men from LeFlore County? How could he jail Sweet Kirkendall for harboring illegal aliens if nobody could find the damn aliens she'd been harboring? Most urgent of all, how was Sheriff Arvin A. Holloway expected to achieve the one main fundamental purpose of this whole dadblamed operation—that is, find out where the Mexican man had stashed the missing kid—if he couldn't find the dadblamed Mexican!

“What are you looking at?” he barked at Beecham as he stomped past—he'd kept Darrel Beecham here where he could keep an eye on him—and the big deputy shrugged. Holloway marched to the mouth of the short hallway leading to the old building. “Y'all quit horsing around in there and bring me something I can use, goddamn it!” he hollered, then whirled around and yelled at the preacher: “Don't get up on your high horse with me! I'll cuss when I need to!” The sheriff stomped back to the front of Fellowship Hall.

His fury was intensified by a single suppressed fact he could admit to no one, including his own dimly conscious self:
he
was the one who'd left the rear side door unguarded when he sent Beecham to Wilburton to fetch Bob Brown. It was such a glaring stupidity on his part that Holloway's mind refused it. His mind assured him that the Mexican was still hiding in the old church house someplace. He resumed his pacing and cursing, muttering foully under his breath as he mulled the possibility of arresting Sweet Kirkendall for manslaughter in the death of the old man Horace Bledsoe. He couldn't rely on hearsay, though; he'd have to have facts, the autopsy report, testimony, well, he could get all that, sure, but it was going to take time—and anyway, how was that going to help him find the lost kid? Just then Holloway caught sight of the state representative edging toward the news people at the back of the room. “What the hell do
you
want!” he hollered.

Well, this was perhaps an apt question, but not one Monica Moorehouse could have publicly answered, even had she been so inclined. Which she was not. She stopped, flustered, at a rare loss for words. All eyes were turned to her. It's probable that no one except the representative herself heard the little whirring click as the cameraman switched his camera back on, but Monica Moorehouse heard. She stared in midair. She stammered. She struggled. Helplessly she searched for the proper calm, confident, self-deprecating answer. Her mind was utterly blank.

“Get back over there by the door!” the sheriff bellowed. “I'll have you arrested!”

The representative, incensed, immediately found her tongue. “On what charge?”

“Trespassing, public nuisance, and interfering with an officer!”

“Do you know who I am?”

“I don't give a shit who you are!”

“Arvin, please,” the pastor said. “Your language.”

Tap, tap, tap, tap.
Monica turned to see her husband outside the glass doors, motioning her fiercely to come out.
What!
she mouthed at him.
Let's go, babe, this instant!
his fleshy face said, a study in urgency and excitement. For the briefest of moments, Monica Moorehouse was torn. The camera was on. She could have ripped that fool sheriff apart, rhetorically speaking, but there was some kind of gleaming triumph in Charlie's eyes. At the back of the room the camera operator lifted his platinum umbrella reflector. Instinctively she turned her cheekbones to catch the light. “Goodness, Sheriff Holloway,” she said brightly as she edged backward toward the glass doors, “it appears you've misunderstood. As a representative of the People's House here in this great state of Oklahoma, I've simply come to
thank you
for your service. For having the
courage
to uphold the state's laws, no matter
who
transgresses them, no matter how
personally difficult
the circumstances might be . . .” Monica swept the room with her most charming, self-deprecating smile. “The people of Oklahoma appreciate our public servants, we really do. Don't we?” The people at the tables stared back at her. With a final well-practiced, open-palm side-to-side wave, she stepped out.

I
n the backseat of the deputy's cruiser, Sweet's mind churned—had the kids made it? She hadn't seen any sign to the contrary. She'd watched the deputies shoving her shackled daddy into the sheriff's car, surely she would have seen if they'd caught Misty Dawn and Juanito, too. She had wanted to give them more time, and she would have, truly, if Carl Albert hadn't come tearing across the yard. She remembered that moment, her son's body hitting her full force. She remembered looking over his shuddering head at her husband. Who was going to take care of their son when she got sent to prison? Terry would have custody, yes, but Terry worked all the time. Who was going to watch Carl Albert the sixty or more hours a week his dad was in the gas fields? She thought of Vicki Dudley. Among all the women she knew, the preacher's wife would be the best choice. But Vicki might not want to. She might not be available. She might, in fact, be in as bad a fix as anyone if Brother Oren got charged with a felony, too. Would they do that? Sweet wondered. Hopefully not. Not the good, sweet-tempered pastor of Cedar First Baptist, and the two senior deacons, and those four powdery little ladies from WMU . . . but Sweet had seen the uncontrolled rage of Arvin Holloway, how he'd roared
Halt, halt, goddamnit!
and pointed his busted bullhorn at Carl Albert like an enormous fat pistol he'd like to use to blast the boy off the earth. There was no telling, Sweet thought, what Arvin Holloway might do.

Numbly she watched as the khaki-headed representative emerged from Fellowship Hall and followed her froggy-eyed husband back to their giant SUV. Another pickup pulled in, and a young woman got out and hurried along the sidewalk toward the brightly lit doors. Sweet's gaze followed her, barely registering that it was the girl from the front desk at the Latimer County Jail. Her mind returned to its worn circles. Had she waited long enough before coming out? She had tried, she told herself. Hadn't she tried? She had done what she could . . .

“W
atonga,” Monica said from behind the steering wheel. She massaged her forehead. “Where's that?”

“An hour northwest of Oklahoma City.”

“Oh, Charlie,” she moaned, “that's four hours. I don't know if I can make that drive again.”

“You can.”

“How about we go home to McAlester, get some sleep, and leave early tomorrow?”

“They've got the kid, they've got the Mexican, the media's all halfway there by now! I called Tim Cunningham, told him to meet the network teams at the Tulsa airport and drive them straight out to Watonga. You can't miss this, babe.”

Monica pinched her cheek, tried to keep from rubbing her eyes. “I'll drive,” Charlie said, and shoved open the door on his side. “
I'll
drive!” she said. Her husband shut his door, hit the laptop refresh button. Monica glanced along the dark empty Main Street toward the highway. “Please tell me we can get a cup of coffee
some
place in this godforsaken town.”

“W
atonga,” Cheryl repeated to the sheriff. “They said he's suffering from exposure and a sprained arm but otherwise he appears to be okay.”

“Praise God,” Ida Coley murmured.

“Praise Jesus,” Claudie Ott echoed.

Oren Dudley looked across the room at his wife. Her look said,
See? I told you everything was going to be fine.
At the second table, Lon Jones sat with his head bowed, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs of relief. The preacher could feel his own emotions welling: relief, yes, and gratitude, and a piercing tenderness deep in his chest. He closed his eyes.
Thank you,
he said.

“The call came in, like, forty minutes ago?” Cheryl was saying. “I couldn't get you on the radio or whatever, so I just drove over. I figured you'd want to know.”

Sheriff Arvin Holloway said nothing. He was stunned beyond fury, beyond indignation, beyond self-justification, resentment, rage—all that would come later. Without a word he walked out of Fellowship Hall, across the trampled strip of muddy yard to his cruiser, and got in.

S
weet watched the sheriff's car in the stillness that followed. She couldn't see her father in the backseat, though she knew he was there. Probably cold, like she was, probably sore around the wrists. The glass doors opened again, and the young brunette reporter and her cameraman fumbled their way out with their equipment, rushed toward the news van. The sheriff started his car. So they were taking her daddy back to jail, Sweet thought. She supposed the deputy would be here in a minute to transport her, too. She would be one of those mothers in orange jumpsuits visiting with their children in the county jail yard. At least until her trial was over, that's where she'd be. Until she got convicted and sent to the McAlester state pen. If that's where they even sent felons like her. Maybe not. Maybe they had special places for women where their kids could come visit without having to stand around outside in the heat and cold.

Part Four

Postlude

ONE WEEK LATER

Saturday | March 8, 2008 | 7:00
P.M.

Sweet's house | Cedar

I
kept feeling like I was waiting for something, but I didn't know what. Every time I went to the window and twisted the blinds open, there wasn't nothing outside to see. Our whole town looked dead. “Dead as a mackerel.” My cousin Carl Albert used to always say that. When me and Aunt Sweet got home from Watonga Monday evening, there was a white news van parked in her yard like the one me and Señor Celayo seen at Misty Dawn's house. Aunt Sweet wouldn't talk to them though, she squirreled us right past into the carport, and after a while the van left. Now nobody bothers us. The house stays more quiet than you could ever imagine. Sweet keeps the sound down on the TV. I said, “Is that lady from the human sources office going to be there when we go see Grandpa?”

“What?” Aunt Sweet said. “Oh. No, of course not. It's human services, hon. Department of Human Services. Please quit messing with those things.”

I quit twisting the blinds open and closed and just left them closed and came over to the divan. “How do you know?” I said.

“She won't be there. Sit down, Dustin. Nobody's going to make you go live someplace else.”

“How do you know?”

“That judge in Watonga gave his ruling, hon. You heard him. You'll stay here till Daddy gets out.”

“When's that going to be?”

“Honey, I told you. We just have to wait and see.” She got vague again, staring off at the TV, flicking at the little thumb tabs on the Bible she was holding in her lap. Genesis Exodus Leviticus Numbers Deuteronomy Joshua Judges Ruth . . . I learned them all straight through to Revelation in Vacation Bible School last summer. They gave me a prize, a new Youth Bible and a fake sword. I said, “Is Carl Albert going to be there?”

Aunt Sweet set the Bible on the coffee table, got up and left the room. In a minute I heard the popcorn in the microwave. I try not to say my cousin's name out loud, but sometimes I forget. Part of me sort of hopes Carl Albert might be at the fence when we go to the jail yard tomorrow, and part of me hopes not. For one thing, I don't know if him staying in Poteau with his dad is something else I'm going to have to tell Grandpa. There's a bunch of things I'm going to have to tell him when I see him, including lying, cussing, and stealing. I've been thinking about that a lot.

The cans of pork 'n' beans and other stuff I took from Aunt Sweet's pantry and the map I got out of her glove box and the coin jar I swiped from her dresser drawer—I'm going to pay all that back. Twenty-seven dollars and thirteen cents, me and Señor Celayo counted it. Everything else, though, that's going to be hard. The bike's gone, the preacher's knife's gone, and my cousin's brand-new
Cars
backpack.

When Aunt Sweet came in from the kitchen, her eyes were red, and her nose, too, and she had a wadded-up Kleenex in one hand. She handed me a plastic bowl. I didn't really want any popcorn, but I took it so she wouldn't feel worse than she already looked like she felt. There are a lot of things different now—how quiet the house is, no Uncle Terry and no Mr. Bledsoe, no dodging the secret hand-pops from my cousin, no arguing with him in the bathroom when we're brushing our teeth—but the biggest difference is Aunt Sweet herself. She's nicer than she ever used to be. She lets me stay up till practically midnight, watching TV. She never says no reading under the covers. Half the time she even forgets to tell me to brush my teeth. Staying here wouldn't be so bad, except I'd just rather be home.

I said, “Can we go out to the farm in the morning?”

“We'll see.”

“Don't I need clothes to wear to church?”

“I haven't made up my mind yet to go to church.”

I cut my eyes over. I never knew Aunt Sweet to just purposefully miss church. Maybe she don't want to go because she feels bad about missing Mr. Bledsoe's funeral. They had it at First Baptist. I know that because the preacher came by real late the night we got home from Watonga and told that to Aunt Sweet. He said it was a nice turnout, and Uncle Terry and Carl Albert seemed to hold up real well. Aunt Sweet said she was glad to hear it, but she still didn't ask him to come in. He stood under the porch light smoothing his hair over the top of his head with his hand. After a minute, he said, “Well, if you need anything,” and she said, “We'll be fine. But thank you. For everything. Really. I can't thank you enough.” The preacher sort of craned his neck then to see around her. “You doing all right, buddy?” he said. “Good,” I said. “Well, we're all . . . real glad to see you home.” He kept standing there like he still wanted to say something. Then he blinked a couple of times and went back down off the steps, and Aunt Sweet shut the front door and turned off the porch light and she hasn't opened the front door any more since.

The reason Aunt Sweet didn't get to go to Mr. Bledsoe's funeral is because she had to be at family court in Watonga with me. That human sources lady was there, too, the one that drove me over from the hospital. The lady kept trying to talk to me, she said she was on my side, she was just there to help me, and I guess she was nice and all, except she really frowned when the judge said I could go home with Aunt Sweet. That's why I don't trust her. I was worried she might be at the Wilburton courthouse, too, when we went up there for Señor Celayo's hearing on Thursday, but she turned out not to be. The preacher was there though. He's the one who came in and told us what happened at Grandpa's hearing.

They had all three hearings in Wilburton last Thursday, for Brother Jesus and my grandpa and Señor Celayo, but me and Aunt Sweet didn't get to see Grandpa then because I had to be a witness at Señor Celayo's hearing, and the district attorney said witnesses aren't allowed to come in until it's time for them to talk, so he made me stay in his office at the end of the hall. Aunt Sweet stayed with me. She wanted to go in and watch Grandpa's preliminary, but it got finished too fast. Before we hardly knew it, Brother Oren was standing at the office door saying they were letting Brother Jesus go, but they were keeping my grandpa, and Aunt Sweet got really upset. “What for?” she said, and the preacher said, “Well, felony assault,” and Aunt Sweet said, “Are you kidding me?” and the preacher said, “Well, no.” So then Aunt Sweet went out to talk to the district attorney and Brother Oren stayed with me and we played tic-tac-toe on a piece of paper the secretary gave us until Aunt Sweet came back.

“Is Brother Oren going to the jail with us tomorrow?” I said.

“Not that I know of. You want something to drink?”

She didn't wait for me to answer, just got up and went to the kitchen. I heard the icebox door open. Then the dishwasher started. Aunt Sweet says we'll get on a regular schedule about eating after I start back to school. I don't know when she's going to make me do that. I didn't ask her yet. I sort of don't want to bring the subject up. In a minute she came in with two Dr Peppers. She popped the rings on both cans, took a drink of hers, and set it down next to her popcorn bowl. I keep thinking how lonesome she's going to be when Grandpa gets out and me and him go back to live at the farm. But maybe if I could get the bike back, Carl Albert might come home and not be mad, and maybe even Uncle Terry, and then everything will go back to being how it's supposed to be.

The trouble is, I don't know where that mountain bike's at. I remember riding it away from the ditch after the truck boiled over. Señor Celayo pumped the pedals and I rode on the seat with my feet out to keep them from getting caught in the spokes. After I got sick, though, I don't remember everything. I remember we stopped and camped in the nighttime. I remember my throat hurt and Señor Celayo tried to get me to drink some water and the sky was really black. I remember my mom being there. That's the best thing I remember. Sometimes I could hear her, like when I used to listen at the cemetery, but after a while it wasn't her voice anymore but just a feeling like she was sitting beside me, watchful, like an angel, except not white and with wings and glowing like you see in the pictures but more dark and soft, like a shadow, but I don't mean something bad by shadow, just something good and nice and warm. Like sleeping in the bed next to her when I was a little kid.

“Dustin,” Aunt Sweet said. “Please leave that alone.” I quit rolling the doily and smoothed it out flat. My chest was hurting. I had that feeling again, like I was waiting for something. Aunt Sweet leaned over and set the Bible on top of the doily. “Finish your popcorn now and then go get in the shower,” she said. “I want you to wash your hair this evening. Can you do that with your arm?”

“I think so.”

“Here,” she said, and took my arm and unwrapped the stretchy bandage and rolled it up and laid it on the coffee table so it wouldn't get wet. She pressed a little on the top of my wrist. “Swelling's about gone. How does it feel?”

“Okay.”

“Then go get your shower and come in the kitchen when you finish. I'm going to trim that shaggy mop.” I didn't move. “You want to see your grandpa tomorrow?” she said. I nodded. Aunt Sweet tugged my hair at the back where it's been getting long. “Well, you're not going up there with this mess.” I stood up to take my bowl and pop can to the kitchen. “Rinse your head good!” she called after me. “Put on one of Carl Albert's old T-shirts!”

So I went and took a shower and thought about everything. I thought about my cousin. If he's at the jail fence tomorrow, he's going to jump me for wearing his clothes, I know it. I'd rather just go out to the farm in the morning and get my own. Not to mention what he's going to do when he finds out I stole his bike and his new backpack. I could tell him I only meant to borrow them, not steal them, but I don't think that'll do any good. Maybe I could ask Aunt Sweet not to tell him it was me that took them. But then that would be like trying to get her to lie, too. All the lying I been doing, that's the main thing I'm dreading about tomorrow. I
want
to see my grandpa, I feel like I can't hardly wait to see him, but it still makes me kind of sick to think about.

I tried telling the truth. I told it to the sheriff in his office the night me and Aunt Sweet got home from Watonga. I told him it was my idea to go to Tulsa. I said I was the one that swiped the food and the preacher's knife and the map and the coin jar, but he just stomped around and cussed worse than I ever heard a grown man cuss, and then he stuck a pad of yellow paper in front of me and started telling me stuff to write down that never actually happened. So I figured if the sheriff wouldn't believe me, nobody else would either, including the judge at the Wilburton courthouse when we went up there for Señor Celayo's hearing. I've been trying to tell myself it wasn't real true lying I did, or maybe it was just a little white lie, but I can hear it in my mind anyway, my grandpa's voice in the jail yard tomorrow: You know that don't make any difference, son. There's no such thing as a white lie or a little sin
.