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Authors: George Dawes Green
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could.”
“And how many people would work there at a time?”
“Well, just one, mostly. Or they had it rigged so a call would come in and get switched to your own phone. But I didn’t have
a phone, ’cause I was staying at the motel. So I went in. Sundays and Mondays.”
Shaw’s eyes were incandescent.
He held out his cup and Tara filled it. He sat there holding the cup close to his lips but not drinking. He’d forgotten to
drink. He was lost in thought and had a little smile working. She could guess the story that was unspooling before his mind’s
eye: the meeting of two strangers, a lost lamb and a kindly shepherd. He started laughing, and Dad must have thought he was
laughing at the idea of a Christian crisis line, because he said, “No, we really helped some folks, we really did.”
Shaw said, “Oh, God, I
know
you did. I know you saved souls. You saved mine.”
Burris, the old city cop, was at Trudy’s Café on Newcastle Street, waiting in line for the cashier. Rose Whittle was right behind
him; they fell to talking and she asked him what he thought about the jackpot news. He said he didn’t know what she meant.
She was astonished. “You really don’t know? The Boatwrights won the Max-a-Million jackpot.”
Long awkward moment. Finally he asked her, “Which Boatwrights we talking about here?”
“Mitch and Patsy.”
“Is this a prank?”
“No, sir.”
“How much was in the jackpot?”
“Huge. Like three hundred million. More.”
“Rose. Tell me the truth.”
“That is the truth. Well, I guess it’s only a rumor. But I believe it.”
Rose had a demonic streak of white in her hair, and voodoo fingernails an inch and a half long, and knew everything about
everybody — not through voodoo but because she worked Dispatch at the Brunswick police. If Rose was crediting a rumor, it
was probably solid.
Stupidly then, insufficiently, Burris responded, “Wow.”
Then he attempted a little smile.
Then he exhaled slowly and said, “Well that’s just great.”
He paid, fumbling the change, and went out to the blinding street where everything was white, erased, and the fumes that came
off the asphalt were so hot he felt they might carry the hat off his head. On the way to his cruiser, he passed the Chief
of Police, who was headed into Trudy’s with a couple of city commissioners. The Chief was a young guy. He had an abundance
of hair. He gave Burris the slightest of nods, then murmured something to the commissioners. Whatever he said amused them.
Burris hadn’t heard it, but it was probably, “Well, here comes Deppity Dawg,” or “Well, if it ain’t Deppity Dawg,” or something
like that. Why did the Chief call Burris Deppity Dawg? Burris wasn’t sure. It had been his tag for years. Maybe owing to his
years of faithful police service. Or his jowliness, or because he was such an entertaining idiot.
He nodded back at the Chief.
Keeping his shoulders at the proper angle of hunchment. Limping to his cruiser and getting in and driving away. Give ’em a
show of debasement and get the hell out of here. He drove to his favorite hiding place on Rt. 17, near the Spur, behind a
mess of oleanders, and raised dutifully his radar gun. But today was a lucky day for speeders in Brunswick, Georgia, because
he wasn’t even looking at the numbers. All his thoughts were on Nell Boatwright. Now she’ll be lost to me forever. Her son
Mitch will buy her a mansion in the south of France, and she’ll have tea with duchesses and play seven-card stud with Bea
Arthur who will adore her drawl and her crazy piercing laugh, and she’s lost to me. It’s finished now. I’m done and I just
ought to own up to that fact.
Tara had to drive Shaw over to Nell’s. She begged him not to make her do this. She said, “I can’t lie to Nell. She’ll know something’s
wrong. Please.”
But he wouldn’t listen. “I’ll have to meet her sooner or later. Why not now?” He
“And how many people would work there at a time?”
“Well, just one, mostly. Or they had it rigged so a call would come in and get switched to your own phone. But I didn’t have
a phone, ’cause I was staying at the motel. So I went in. Sundays and Mondays.”
Shaw’s eyes were incandescent.
He held out his cup and Tara filled it. He sat there holding the cup close to his lips but not drinking. He’d forgotten to
drink. He was lost in thought and had a little smile working. She could guess the story that was unspooling before his mind’s
eye: the meeting of two strangers, a lost lamb and a kindly shepherd. He started laughing, and Dad must have thought he was
laughing at the idea of a Christian crisis line, because he said, “No, we really helped some folks, we really did.”
Shaw said, “Oh, God, I
know
you did. I know you saved souls. You saved mine.”
Burris, the old city cop, was at Trudy’s Café on Newcastle Street, waiting in line for the cashier. Rose Whittle was right behind
him; they fell to talking and she asked him what he thought about the jackpot news. He said he didn’t know what she meant.
She was astonished. “You really don’t know? The Boatwrights won the Max-a-Million jackpot.”
Long awkward moment. Finally he asked her, “Which Boatwrights we talking about here?”
“Mitch and Patsy.”
“Is this a prank?”
“No, sir.”
“How much was in the jackpot?”
“Huge. Like three hundred million. More.”
“Rose. Tell me the truth.”
“That is the truth. Well, I guess it’s only a rumor. But I believe it.”
Rose had a demonic streak of white in her hair, and voodoo fingernails an inch and a half long, and knew everything about
everybody — not through voodoo but because she worked Dispatch at the Brunswick police. If Rose was crediting a rumor, it
was probably solid.
Stupidly then, insufficiently, Burris responded, “Wow.”
Then he attempted a little smile.
Then he exhaled slowly and said, “Well that’s just great.”
He paid, fumbling the change, and went out to the blinding street where everything was white, erased, and the fumes that came
off the asphalt were so hot he felt they might carry the hat off his head. On the way to his cruiser, he passed the Chief
of Police, who was headed into Trudy’s with a couple of city commissioners. The Chief was a young guy. He had an abundance
of hair. He gave Burris the slightest of nods, then murmured something to the commissioners. Whatever he said amused them.
Burris hadn’t heard it, but it was probably, “Well, here comes Deppity Dawg,” or “Well, if it ain’t Deppity Dawg,” or something
like that. Why did the Chief call Burris Deppity Dawg? Burris wasn’t sure. It had been his tag for years. Maybe owing to his
years of faithful police service. Or his jowliness, or because he was such an entertaining idiot.
He nodded back at the Chief.
Keeping his shoulders at the proper angle of hunchment. Limping to his cruiser and getting in and driving away. Give ’em a
show of debasement and get the hell out of here. He drove to his favorite hiding place on Rt. 17, near the Spur, behind a
mess of oleanders, and raised dutifully his radar gun. But today was a lucky day for speeders in Brunswick, Georgia, because
he wasn’t even looking at the numbers. All his thoughts were on Nell Boatwright. Now she’ll be lost to me forever. Her son
Mitch will buy her a mansion in the south of France, and she’ll have tea with duchesses and play seven-card stud with Bea
Arthur who will adore her drawl and her crazy piercing laugh, and she’s lost to me. It’s finished now. I’m done and I just
ought to own up to that fact.
Tara had to drive Shaw over to Nell’s. She begged him not to make her do this. She said, “I can’t lie to Nell. She’ll know something’s
wrong. Please.”
But he wouldn’t listen. “I’ll have to meet her sooner or later. Why not now?” He
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