Read Online Volt: Stories by Alan Heathcock - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Alan Heathcock
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siding, a pair of trundling bar stools, a long metal box Helen believed was either a school locker or a feed trough. Then came Freely’s Diner and Freely’s General, three-story brownstones on opposite sides of the road, water up to the white-stone facing, roofs like rectangular docks. They passed within arm’s distance of the electric sign that read FREELY’S, which usually shone bright red, but was now dark and hung just above the waterline. Freda Lawson, who wore a chambray dress over yellow waders and sat beside Helen, ran a finger along the sign’s second E. Helen yanked down the woman’s arm.
“There’s wires,” she snapped. Then she gently held Freda’s elbow, and softened. “Please be careful, hon.”
They passed high above the converted boxcar that was the Old Fox Tavern, and the First Baptist Church, its steeple jutting crooked from the water like the mast of a sunken ship.
“They’ll steal everything we got,” Jake Tiernen said from the bow, his wife beneath his arm. “They’ll take what all they want.”
Freda twisted the hem of her dress around her fist. “I wet myself,” she whispered to Helen, crying.
“Ain’t nobody stealing nothing,” Helen said, and leaned a shoulder into Freda to let her know she’d been heard.
“The hell,” Jake said. “The hell they won’t.”
Christmas Eve, 2007: Light from Freely’s Diner spilled over the snowy walkway and into the cruiser. Helen checked her face in the rearview mirror. Her left eye was badly swollen, and she tried to hide it by tilting her cap over her brow. She considered driving on. But then Freely stood in the diner’s window, the old man thin and hunched and his hands cupped against the glass. Helen climbed out into the cold. She walked around the car and Freely moved to the door and opened it a crack. “I got pecan pie,” the old man said through the crack, then Helen was at the door and he opened it wide.
Helen stepped in and Freely had his arms around her in a hug. Ten years she’d worked in Freely’s General before becoming Krafton’s first and only law officer. It’d been Freely, longtime mayor of Krafton, who decided any real town had a sheriff, and raised funds to buy an old cruiser from the Boonville force, and called a town meeting in the First Baptist Church. It’d been a joke that Helen, a middle-aged grocery store manager, had been nominated and then elected, and when protests arose— I thought it’d be a goof to vote for her, didn’t think she’d win —it was Freely who declared civilized democracies stuck by a vote.
The dinner crowd had just left. Ham and potatoes fragranced the air. “I ain’t hungry,” Helen said. “Just saw the lights on.”
“No, no,” the old man said, hustling behind a glass counter. He pulled one of two pies from the dessert case and put the pie in a box. “You coming for Christmas supper? Marilyn said you might.”
Helen studied the front window. Jocey Dempsy’s photo was in all the shopwindows; her middle-school portrait, a ponytail tied with red ribbon, braces, a blemish on her hawk nose. MISSING across the top. REWARD across the bottom. “Don’t know,” Helen said.
The old man was in front of her again. He held the box with the pie inside and wore a fur-lined coat that was much too large for him. “What you done to your eye?”
Helen turned toward the door. “Slipped on some ice.”
“Clumsy girl,” and he took her arm. “Walk me home?”
They left out onto the walkway. Freely’s hand shook and he struggled to put the key in the lock. His house was down the road and up a small hill. Warm light shone from the windows, colored lights twined around two large spruce by the porch steps. “Looky there,” he said, pointing across the road. Over the dark field colored sparks burst, rained, faded in the night sky. They sounded far away, maybe miles, the pop of fireworks like a puff of breath in Helen’s ear.
December 19, 2007: The cruiser’s headlights
“There’s wires,” she snapped. Then she gently held Freda’s elbow, and softened. “Please be careful, hon.”
They passed high above the converted boxcar that was the Old Fox Tavern, and the First Baptist Church, its steeple jutting crooked from the water like the mast of a sunken ship.
“They’ll steal everything we got,” Jake Tiernen said from the bow, his wife beneath his arm. “They’ll take what all they want.”
Freda twisted the hem of her dress around her fist. “I wet myself,” she whispered to Helen, crying.
“Ain’t nobody stealing nothing,” Helen said, and leaned a shoulder into Freda to let her know she’d been heard.
“The hell,” Jake said. “The hell they won’t.”
Christmas Eve, 2007: Light from Freely’s Diner spilled over the snowy walkway and into the cruiser. Helen checked her face in the rearview mirror. Her left eye was badly swollen, and she tried to hide it by tilting her cap over her brow. She considered driving on. But then Freely stood in the diner’s window, the old man thin and hunched and his hands cupped against the glass. Helen climbed out into the cold. She walked around the car and Freely moved to the door and opened it a crack. “I got pecan pie,” the old man said through the crack, then Helen was at the door and he opened it wide.
Helen stepped in and Freely had his arms around her in a hug. Ten years she’d worked in Freely’s General before becoming Krafton’s first and only law officer. It’d been Freely, longtime mayor of Krafton, who decided any real town had a sheriff, and raised funds to buy an old cruiser from the Boonville force, and called a town meeting in the First Baptist Church. It’d been a joke that Helen, a middle-aged grocery store manager, had been nominated and then elected, and when protests arose— I thought it’d be a goof to vote for her, didn’t think she’d win —it was Freely who declared civilized democracies stuck by a vote.
The dinner crowd had just left. Ham and potatoes fragranced the air. “I ain’t hungry,” Helen said. “Just saw the lights on.”
“No, no,” the old man said, hustling behind a glass counter. He pulled one of two pies from the dessert case and put the pie in a box. “You coming for Christmas supper? Marilyn said you might.”
Helen studied the front window. Jocey Dempsy’s photo was in all the shopwindows; her middle-school portrait, a ponytail tied with red ribbon, braces, a blemish on her hawk nose. MISSING across the top. REWARD across the bottom. “Don’t know,” Helen said.
The old man was in front of her again. He held the box with the pie inside and wore a fur-lined coat that was much too large for him. “What you done to your eye?”
Helen turned toward the door. “Slipped on some ice.”
“Clumsy girl,” and he took her arm. “Walk me home?”
They left out onto the walkway. Freely’s hand shook and he struggled to put the key in the lock. His house was down the road and up a small hill. Warm light shone from the windows, colored lights twined around two large spruce by the porch steps. “Looky there,” he said, pointing across the road. Over the dark field colored sparks burst, rained, faded in the night sky. They sounded far away, maybe miles, the pop of fireworks like a puff of breath in Helen’s ear.
December 19, 2007: The cruiser’s headlights
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