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Authors: Lori Wilde
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gathered outside their trailer houses, necks craned in my direction.
Great. I was a one-woman freak show. Uncomfortable with the perusal, I glanced away. But it didn’t do any good. One of the neighbors ambled over.
“How-de-do.” A middle-aged, overweight man with a face like a boiled ham came to stand beside me, his thumbs tucked under the straps of his triple XL overalls, a matchstick stuck in the corner of his wide mouth.
“Hello.” I gave him a tight smile.
“What’s a goin’ on?” He had a Jethro Bodine drawl and small curious eyes.
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
“Is that little gay boy in trouble with the law again?” Matchstick inclined his head toward the patrol cars. “I heard he got arrested for runnin’ around nekked in the bushes up where the rich folks live in Brazos River Bend.”
So I was considered rich? I cast a quick glance at Matchstick’s patched overalls with the ketchup stain on the bib and figured, yeah, according to him, I probably was wealthy.
“Yes ma’am. There’s been some strange going-ons over there.”
“Like what?” I asked, deciding to use the Andover Bend grapevine to my advantage. Who knew? Matchstick might hold the key to Tim’s suicide.
Matchstick relished his role as keeper of the trailer park gossip. He rubbed one ear pensively, building the tension. “I don’t work you understand. Hurt my back at the gravel pit in ’97. Haven’t been able to even pick up my grandkids since. My wife, Lindy Sue, she has to support us. We can’t make it on my disability. She cooks at Heavenly Acres retirement center in Cloverleaf.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Anyway, I got time on my hands and nothing much to do with it ’cept keep an eye on the neighborhood. I’m head of the community crime watch program,” he exclaimed proudly.
I scanned the dilapidated trailers and wondered what kind of pathetic criminals would steal from these poor folks.
“That young’un, Tim, he was a good boy even if he did like to ride the baloney pony,” Matchstick said. “If you know what I mean.”
Unfortunately I did and I really didn’t appreciate the image Matchstick’s words brought to mind.
“But he had all kinds a weirdos coming to visit. I kept an eye on ’em. Never can be too careful.”
“That’s true,” I murmured. “Did you see anything unusual in the last day or two?”
The man stopped to ponder my question. He removed the matchstick from his mouth and scratched his head with it. “Hmm, let me think.”
“I saw sumptin’.” The voice startled me.
I turned to find a woman about my age wearing a faded housedress and sponge rollers in her hair standing directly behind me and Matchstick. In an age of hot rollers and curling irons I didn’t know people still wore sponge rollers. A couple of toddlers were wrapped around her legs and from the looks of her distended belly, she had another bun in the oven.
“You did.”
She nodded. “They had a fight over there last night. Way late. I was up with my youngest.” She placed a hand on the head of the child to her right. “Marianne had a bad cough and couldn’t sleep. I brought her out on the porch so she wouldn’t wake Alfred, my husband. He hasta get up early to drive the school bus.”
“I didn’t hear nothing about no fight,” Matchstick grumbled, obviously unhappy to have my attention usurped by the woman.
“Who are you referring to?” I asked.
“Tim,” she said. “And that big blond guy.”
Big blond guy? Who was that?
“Do you know the man’s name?”
She shook her head. “No. He’s not very friendly. I tried to say hi a couple of times when I was out workin’ in the yard but he never said hi back. I wondered what Tim saw in him.”
“How do you know they were lovers?”
The woman blushed and glanced down at her kids. “I saw them,” she whispered.
“Saw them?”
“You know—they was holdin’ hands, kissin’. Other stuff, too.”
“Er…how did you see them?” I
Great. I was a one-woman freak show. Uncomfortable with the perusal, I glanced away. But it didn’t do any good. One of the neighbors ambled over.
“How-de-do.” A middle-aged, overweight man with a face like a boiled ham came to stand beside me, his thumbs tucked under the straps of his triple XL overalls, a matchstick stuck in the corner of his wide mouth.
“Hello.” I gave him a tight smile.
“What’s a goin’ on?” He had a Jethro Bodine drawl and small curious eyes.
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
“Is that little gay boy in trouble with the law again?” Matchstick inclined his head toward the patrol cars. “I heard he got arrested for runnin’ around nekked in the bushes up where the rich folks live in Brazos River Bend.”
So I was considered rich? I cast a quick glance at Matchstick’s patched overalls with the ketchup stain on the bib and figured, yeah, according to him, I probably was wealthy.
“Yes ma’am. There’s been some strange going-ons over there.”
“Like what?” I asked, deciding to use the Andover Bend grapevine to my advantage. Who knew? Matchstick might hold the key to Tim’s suicide.
Matchstick relished his role as keeper of the trailer park gossip. He rubbed one ear pensively, building the tension. “I don’t work you understand. Hurt my back at the gravel pit in ’97. Haven’t been able to even pick up my grandkids since. My wife, Lindy Sue, she has to support us. We can’t make it on my disability. She cooks at Heavenly Acres retirement center in Cloverleaf.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Anyway, I got time on my hands and nothing much to do with it ’cept keep an eye on the neighborhood. I’m head of the community crime watch program,” he exclaimed proudly.
I scanned the dilapidated trailers and wondered what kind of pathetic criminals would steal from these poor folks.
“That young’un, Tim, he was a good boy even if he did like to ride the baloney pony,” Matchstick said. “If you know what I mean.”
Unfortunately I did and I really didn’t appreciate the image Matchstick’s words brought to mind.
“But he had all kinds a weirdos coming to visit. I kept an eye on ’em. Never can be too careful.”
“That’s true,” I murmured. “Did you see anything unusual in the last day or two?”
The man stopped to ponder my question. He removed the matchstick from his mouth and scratched his head with it. “Hmm, let me think.”
“I saw sumptin’.” The voice startled me.
I turned to find a woman about my age wearing a faded housedress and sponge rollers in her hair standing directly behind me and Matchstick. In an age of hot rollers and curling irons I didn’t know people still wore sponge rollers. A couple of toddlers were wrapped around her legs and from the looks of her distended belly, she had another bun in the oven.
“You did.”
She nodded. “They had a fight over there last night. Way late. I was up with my youngest.” She placed a hand on the head of the child to her right. “Marianne had a bad cough and couldn’t sleep. I brought her out on the porch so she wouldn’t wake Alfred, my husband. He hasta get up early to drive the school bus.”
“I didn’t hear nothing about no fight,” Matchstick grumbled, obviously unhappy to have my attention usurped by the woman.
“Who are you referring to?” I asked.
“Tim,” she said. “And that big blond guy.”
Big blond guy? Who was that?
“Do you know the man’s name?”
She shook her head. “No. He’s not very friendly. I tried to say hi a couple of times when I was out workin’ in the yard but he never said hi back. I wondered what Tim saw in him.”
“How do you know they were lovers?”
The woman blushed and glanced down at her kids. “I saw them,” she whispered.
“Saw them?”
“You know—they was holdin’ hands, kissin’. Other stuff, too.”
“Er…how did you see them?” I
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