AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Paul studies his hands as though looking for the right answer in them.
“Ultimately, yes, but not at first. I was too young to know the difference back then, but now I know that in the beginning, he was just an occasional drinker—a beer with dinner, a shot of whiskey before bed. Not every night because they didn’t always have the money to buy alcohol, and he was never mean. But after his wife died, and then after he was fired and before he found a new job, that’s when the drinking intensified. He was humiliated to be the garbage collector, seeing as he was way too overqualified for it. A year after he started that job is the first time I ever saw him hit something.”
“Something like…his daughter?”
Paul shakes his head. “No, he never hit Sally. Trust me, I used to ask her that a lot, but he loved her, even while he battled what I now know was a severe case of depression. She loved him, too, though it was a lot for her to take care of him at such a young age. Scrounging for food, fishing every night just to keep protein on their plate. Scrubbing the dishes they had and the clothes, most of the time by the creek after the water to the house was shut off. Her papa couldn’t manage much more than work and sleep for a lot of years.”
It’s a sad description, but my mind catches on something and sticks. “They didn’t have running water?” I don’t miss Billi’s troubled frown. Things aren’t always as they seem, even when you spend your whole life looking right at it.
“She still doesn’t have any. Though at this point, it’s more a source of pride than anything else. Sally won’t give this town a dime of her money, not even to pay the light bill. So, she goes without any of it. Even buys what groceries she can afford over in Blytheville.” Even I know that Blytheville is twenty miles away. What I don’t know is how Sally gets there. Or how she has gone this long without basic human necessities. Paul is telling a story more than four decades old.
I let his words sink, uncomfortable with the imagery. We take things for granted in life without even realizing it, don’t we? A warm bed, a new microwave, a hot meal on a cold day, an even hotter bath when nothing else works to cut the chill that’s settled deep inside our bones. It’s nearly the twenty-first century; running water is just a given. To think of someone willingly choosing to go without it…
What has this town done to her?
They accused her father of killing her mother, but I’m beginning to wonder if the whole town killed Sally’s family with their harsh judgments and cruel shunning.
The question rolls around in my mind for a few whirling seconds before I remember it’s the reason I’m here—to ask. So, I do. To the point and direct, exactly the way my job requires.
“In my research, I found an article that mentioned Mr. Gertie being fired from his job, but it didn’t mention what his job was or where he worked. Can you tell me any information you have on that?”
Paul unfolds and folds his hands. “I can tell you the important part.”
“Which is?”
“That he was an engineer and that he worked for Washington Plastics.”
Washington Plastics. The company mentioned in the article I read with Billi at the library. The company is the biggest employer in the town, the one whose president offered a lengthy condolence statement after the hospital fire. The muted alarm bell that began to ring at the mention of the name steadily intensifies, though I can’t point to the reason for it.
“Why was he fired?”
“Because he knew too much.” Paul's answers are short and concise, but they’re all I have to go on since no one else will speak to me. I’m so on edge that I’m almost afraid of him and of what comes next. I sneak a glance a Billi. She looks at me, mirroring what I suppose is my own expression.
“Knew too much about what?” I get the feeling I’m standing on a precipice of before and after, my pen lying prone on my lap. Maybe I’m afraid that I'll miss something important if I waste a second picking it up and clicking it open. Like the look on Paul’s face when he pulls the pin on his next verbal grenade.
“About the fire. About their involvement in it.”
I wait, not wanting to do anything to derail his train of thought. I’ve conducted enough interviews to know that if you give a person a moment to collect their thoughts, more often than not, they’ll gather them up and end the conversation. Stream of consciousness is the only way to keep people vomiting up words, and as a reporter, it’s the only way to get the story.
There’s more to this story than anyone wants to admit. I’m sure of it.
“Washington Plastics was responsible for that fire, and Sally’s father knew it. He warned them it was going to happen, but they didn’t listen. And because of their inaction, seven families lost their babies, and two others lost a parent.” Paul’s decades-old anger simmers in the space between us, years of hostility still looking for a place to land. Most of the people in charge back then are either dead or too senile to account for much.
Though Washington Plastics is still the town’s biggest employer.
“That’s a pretty big accusation,” I say, intending to try Paul’s patience. Any good reporter knows that the best way to get people to talk is to give them the floor and let them speak without interruption. Stream of consciousness, like I said.
The other option is to make them angry and get them to lash out. A coiled snake always strikes when it’s poked and prodded.
“Yeah, it’s a big accusation,” Paul says. “But it’s a true one. Washington Plastics has spent the past thirty years essentially getting away with murder. The question I have for you is, are you going to be yet another person who continues to let them?”
We’re taking a break.
Paul got tired and asked us to come back in two hours, so now I’m sitting across from Billi at Susan’s Diner, the only diner in town that serves breakfast, lunch, and dinner with a side of pie at each course. I’ve never had “blueberry buckle pie,” and the name demanded I sample it. And there’s a sign out front that reads “Arkansas’ Best Cinnamon Rolls,” which I first surmised was a largely overconfident claim. Turns out they weren’t kidding. If I could dive headfirst into the thick layer of cream cheese frosting and buttery middle, I would. Instead, there’s an empty plate with blueberry juice sitting to my right, and I’m sharing one of the restaurant's plate-sized cinnamon creations with Billi. It’s hard not to stare every time she drags her fork across the excess frosting at the bottom of the plate and glides it over her tongue. Oh, to be made of powdered sugar and cream. I never knew a cinnamon roll could be X-rated, but here I am, lifting my thoughts out of the gutter every five seconds or so. Much more of this, and I’ll grab a sleeping bag and pitch a tent.
The gutter isn’t such a bad place to live. Very entertaining. Filled with possibilities.
“Um, hello?” Billi says. “Did you hear me?”
