Dear Toni,
I’m so sorry I haven’t written in so long, but things here have
Hey Toni,
Long time, no talk! I miss you. I wish I could come home but
Dear Toni,
There’s no excuse for not reaching out in such a long time. I think about you every day, though. You always warned me not to fall for the first guy to look my way, but I didn’t listen. You were right. I was wrong. But now it’s too late, and I just wish things could have been different. If you find this, I hope you will
Toni,
I’m so sorry. I love you.
The room was getting dark; it smelled muggy and acrid like aging houses do when they haven’t been lived in for a while. That old, empty smell; the smell of wood and paint and dust, dampened by the humidity seeping through the badly-sealed windows. There was no overhead fan to combat the damp musty air—well, there was, but the power had been off for several weeks now. That’s one of the first things he’d done when she’d finally kicked him out for good—he’d gone and had the power shut off. Never mind her, what about the kids? That he’d just turn off the power, knowing they needed food and milk and to be able to flush the damn toilet, for god’s sake?
But he didn’t care. Not about the kids, at least. Besides, they were off with her. Pawned off on yet another woman’s nurturing, running from his responsibility. The kids that were his, so clearly his, right down to their high cheekbones and dark brown eyes. Though he’d told her often enough they couldn’t be. Accused her of cheating as easily as he breathed, most days. But they were his. And he had never cared about them.
He did care about her, though.
He cared like a child cares about a Tonka truck that some other kid on the playground is trying to snatch from the sandbox.
She folded up the old envelope, which she’d smuggled away before being confined, hastily scribbling on the back with a drying-out, old blue BIC pen, and tucked it between the mattress and the box spring. It must be close to eight p.m.; dusk was deepening into night, and the moon might send a sliver of a beam, enough for her to finish her note, if she even bothered to finish it. If she had time to. Not that there was anything she could say to fix it all, anyway. Toni would never see it. Toni was as good as gone, one of a lifetime of experiences
and people and memories that only existed now in her mind, because all of her had been stripped away.
Only a shell of her remained.
And he was coming.
She heard the crunch of his tires on the gravel driveway before she saw the headlights on the wall. The truck pulled up slowly, leisurely—he wasn’t in a hurry, never was, never had to be—and the lights cut off. There were two distinct slams and the thud of footsteps—one tall, booted and heavy, the other lighter, but with purpose. Her left hand, bound by a chain to the bedpost prevented her from raising up from the dirty, bare mattress to peer out the window, but it didn’t matter. She knew it was them.
She knew what they planned to do.
Say your prayers, she thought before closing her eyes. But she didn’t say them, even though she knew it was the end. She’d said so many that had gone unanswered.
The front door opened with a creak.
“Antonia Sclafani,” I say, enunciating clearly, pushing my ID along the mahogany desk toward the uniformed man sitting across from me. His clasped hands make no move to touch it as he stares back at me, his small, steely blue eyes peering at me from over his wide, golden-colored mustache. Everything about this man is large and imposing. I can imagine that in any other scenario, he’d be a blustering, goofy Gomer Pyle type, all thumbs and a bit of a dim bulb besides. What my mother, God rest her soul, would have called a bull in a china shop. But the uniform gives him an authority and power that is only bolstered by his large, formidable size and flushed face. One could assume that he gets angry quickly, and when he does, it’s probably like a thunderstorm, raining hell all over his quaking inferiors.
Of which I am applying to be one.
“You got any experience, Mrs. Sculfarney?” he says, and I bristle. This rudeness is intended to make a statement. He would have read my application and file. He knows I am not married.
I paste on a wide smile and, hating myself a little, bat my eyelashes. More than once would be overkill, but applied correctly, a bit of flirtation might do the trick. I have to get this job. Charming the sheriff might be the only way I’ll be able to.
Getting any kind of respect or even basic human decency was bad enough back home; it’ll be worse here. I know that already. But it’s a risk I have to take.
The smile I’m holding hurts my cheeks. “It’s Ms., actually,” I say brightly, waving my hand as if to say but it’s fine. “And yes, I have a great deal of experience. I was on duty in my hometown of Passaic for eight years, as you would’ve read in my application. For five of those, I was a deputy, and for the last three—”
“But ah, do you have any experience,” he cuts me off, waving his hand with his own gesture, one that says, stop wasting my time, little girl. “Anybody can be on the beat, you know, but ah, what I’m askin’ is, have you seen any action?” His accent is almost cloyingly Southern—you comes out yew, and every other word is peppered with “ah,” an open sound that seems to come directly from his sinus cavity. Nothing like the aw, shucks variety of Southern accents you hear on television, those twangy, Texas-basted Stetson-wearers or the genteel, marshy accents of the Southern coasts. This one is duller, more base, like it comes from deep inside his skull. It is much more aesthetically pleasing, but it still tastes bitter, because it’s a reminder that I’ll always be an outsider here. “Or did you just ride around in the car twiddlin’ yuh thumbs?”
My back straightens in the chair; he’s pissing me off. On purpose. What kind of ridiculous question is that? The nerve of him, this shitty Sheriff Nobody from Nowhere, Georgia, asking me if I’ve seen any kind of action. I’m from Passaic, New Jersey, you troglodyte, I scream
inside my head. I stare at his golden mustache, which seems almost dewy. Is he sweating? I wouldn’t be surprised. The humidity in this place is like something alive. You could probably bottle it and use it to bake bread, I think meanly, clocking that he’s actually the one twiddling his thumbs as he stares at me. We’re right across the tunnel from NYC, you festering pile of dog shit. We have actual fucking Mafia, guys who could do you in silently and dump you in the Hudson before your sainted mother ever thought to call you in for your dinner. I mean, supper. How dare you, you fucking fuck?
My first day here, I was accosted by some well-meaning yokel in Dickies coveralls with no shirt beneath, riding through the gas station on a John Deere tractor like it was the most natural thing in the world. He cut the engine, gawked at me with a mouth full of missing teeth, and asked, “Who’re you, gal?” as if he had any right to know. I’d been in the car for six hours without a single stop, my pissed off cat, Citron, panting in his carrier at one point from the heat (who knew cats did that?), and had run squarely out of patience and politeness. So as I leaned up against my car, pumping my overpriced gas, I said, in my best rendition of his accent, “Who I am is a policewoman. Which means you shouldn’t be calling me ‘gal.’ Officer will do just fine.”
The man just threw back his dirty-blond, mulleted head and laughed, crushing a can of Natural Light beneath his meaty paws. I grimaced and went back to pumping. But he hadn’t been done with me. Before cranking the tractor, he ran one sunburned hand over the scraggly, bright yellow patch of chest hair poking out from his overalls in a move that was uncomfortably familiar—sexual yet somehow sexless—and called out, “Watch out for the Peach Mob, gal. They’ll chew ya up and spit the likes of you right on out.” Then, with another cackle, he cranked up the tractor and sped off faster than any John Deere had business going.
I had no idea what the “Peach Mob” was, but I guessed it was some kind of local Southern gang; every town in Anywhere, USA has one, usually filled with the no-good boys from every family that never amounted to nothin’. Petty crimes and low-stakes charges until they drank or drugged themselves to death or into prison. But I’m from New Jersey. Cut my teeth on New York’s finest families, and I don’t mean the Jeffersons. I mean the Family. As if I’d be intimidated by some group of hillbillies out here making crop circles in corn fields. Selling moonshine and dime bags of shwag weed. Please.
“Ma’am?” the sheriff asks. I jolt back to reality.
My smile never wavers as I stare straight in his beady blue eyes. “I’ve seen plenty of ‘action,’ as you say, Sheriff …” I falter for a moment. Then I remember. “… Sheriff Beauchamp. I’ve got several commendations,
as you’ll have read. But if there’s any question as to my experience, you’re welcome to call my commanding officer at the precinct in—”
He laughs, cutting me off again. “It’s pronounced ‘BEE-chum,’ Mizz Sculfarney.”
“I’m sorry, what did I say?” My brow furrows, and I feel a sheen of sweat forming on the back of my neck. This interview is not going well. At all. I’m distracted and anxious and I need to get it together. I can’t strike out here. I can’t. I’ve waited too long for this opening; for a chance.
“You said ‘Bow-CAMP.’ It’s pronounced ‘BEE-chum.’” The sheriff’s smile has turned into a leer, as if he’s in on a joke and the joke is that I’m a fool. It’s not mean-spirited, more of a look at this little lady trying to be one of the grownups sort of thing. If anything, he pities me a little. For a man like him (I know after years of dealing with his type this is being magnanimous, letting me in on my own mockery, giving me a chance to be self-deprecating, to “what, little old me?” my way into his good graces, to prove that I’m one of the team. It’s a dance I’m quite used to after almost ten years as a “lady cop.”
Cops on the beat in Passaic, New Jersey, and the deputies out here in Jefferson, Georgia, might not have much in common, but some things are the same no matter where you are. They call it “the boys in blue” for a reason, emphasis on boys. They’ll let you in because they have to, but you’d better be damn well ready to let them know at every turn that they’re stronger, better, faster, smarter. Pity the woman who shows confidence in her own abilities or doesn’t laugh it off when her superior rests his hand on her lower back as he inches by. I’ve played the damn game. And I’ll have to keep playing it if I’m going to get this job.
But if the sheriff’s’ not going to hire me then he’s just wasting my time. I’ll be damned if Antonia Giuseppina Sclafani is going to grovel for a beat cop job in Nowhere, Georgia, woman or not. I stand up and fix him with another smile, but this one is more pointed; it has teeth. “My apologies, Sheriff Beauchamp. By the way, my name is pronounced Scla-FANI. Officer Sclafani. Not miss, and definitely not missus. If you’ve got nothing else for me, I won’t take up any more of your time.” Even as I’m saying the words, though, I’m rethinking them. But you do need this job, you idiot.
I’m halfway out the
door, fuming, my cheeks red-hot, when the sheriff stops me with a “Hey!” I turn, secretly relieved. He’s standing behind me, brushing his knuckles against his badge, his plump, rosy face pursed in a grin. His golden mustache quivers a little; he reminds me of a redneck Santa Claus, somehow jolly and intimidating at the same time. “Well, ah, Officer Sculfarney,” he says with a cat-ate-the-canary grin, his ample gut shaking as his chuckles down at me, “do you want the job or don’t ya?”
Unfortunately for me, I do want it. And the bastard knows it.
In the parking lot, I hop into my trusty green Trans Am that has carried me all the way from Passaic to Jefferson. I take a moment to pat the dash before I start it up and head toward the dinky motel in town. I guess I’ll have to find a more permanent place now that I know I’ll be staying. I can still hardly believe that the sheriff hired me after I lost my cool.
Lucky me, Sheriff Beauchamp was just having a little fun, putting me through the ringer for the hell of it. Testing me. Somehow, I passed. And I hate how relieved I am.
For all his pretense of laid-back disinterest, Sheriff Beauchamp was pretty damn eager to get me to sign the new hire papers before the interview was even over. I wondered how long they’d been strapped without a much-needed deputy but didn’t ask. As we stood filling out paperwork, he peppered me with a few more questions. I couldn’t blame the man for being curious. After all, it wasn’t every day a five-foot-one, curly-haired, Italian, female police officer from New Jersey came down to North Georgia to ask for a job. I could indulge him that bit of novelty, even if my first impression of him was that he was a jerkoff. A jerkoff who made it a point to flash a casual smile while telling me he had a three-strikes-you’re-fired policy on lateness.
But jerkoffs I could work with. Jerkoffs I understood. I could worm my way into his good graces and become not only an essential part of the force but someone he genuinely liked and trusted. I just had to play my cards right, flirt but not too much, and try not let my hot Italian temper get in the way. I had to play nice.
And not answer certain questions. Well, at least not truthfully.
One thing I’ve learned after years on the beat—outright lying is no good. You’ll get caught out every time. Lies of omission, though, can be managed if you do it carefully. The trick is to control your breathing and your eyes, remain calm, and focus on the truth of what you’re saying rather than the omission. Criminals and cops alike know this well; it’s a trick of both our trades.
“So, Officer S,” the sheriff said, signing the first round of papers with a flourish, then passing them over to me. “What exactly brings you here to Jefferson? We don’t see folks from New Jersey here too often.”
I glanced down at
the papers and busied myself with reading over the contract, buying myself a little time to choose my words. No lies, only omission. I signed on the line where my name should go, dated it carefully in neat, precise strokes. “I needed a change of pace,” I said evenly, raising my eyes to meet his. I vaguely remembered the light shade was called “cornflower.” “To be honest, I got sick of working the beat up there. It was soul-destroying. I wanted to come somewhere simple, out in the country where the air is fresh. Where the law is the law and things are more black and white.”
The sheriff chuckled and passed another sheet of paper over to me, his eyes alight. He seemed pleased with this response, the compliment hiding in plain sight. “Well, I reckon you been on the beat long enough to know that ain’t the case anywhere,” he said with a grin, handing me the pen again. “Folks is crooket no matter where you look, some of ‘em. But ah, I like to think we do things by the letter here. You ain’t gonna find a better team of officers nowhere. All of ‘em got your back, and you’ll have theirs. We’re a family, here.”
“Never work any place that calls themselves a family,” my dearly departed nonno told me when I graduated high school. “They’ll work you to death and conduct interviews for a replacement during your funeral.” But I smiled at Sheriff Beauchamp anyway. His own smile was genuine, but I knew enough not to trust it. His kindness would only extend as far as my usefulness, and not a millimeter over.
And I knew enough to know he wouldn’t let me go too long with such a vague answer, either. Folks out here loved a good story, and they didn’t take kindly to introverted, secretive people who kept to themselves. I’d already learned that much just from my gas station venture and stopping for morning coffee. I’d have to get my story together, fast.
After signing the paperwork, the sheriff walked me out. We passed by an ancient, rusting old snack machine, filled with pretzels, Lay’s potato chips, and strawberry Pop-Tarts. An old water cooler in the corner appeared to be leaking on the linoleum. “See you don’t slip in that puddle,” the sheriff said, gesturing absently. “Janitor works three days a week, but last night was his off day.” I stared at the puddle Why not just get the cooler fixed, or better yet, buy a new one? This rural police department might be small, but if they had money to hire new deputies and could afford those shiny new cars I’d seen lined up like ducks outside, surely they could afford a decent water cooler. As if he’d read my thoughts, the sheriff chuckled. “
I know I ought to just buy a new cooler, but I’m like to squeeze a nickel till the juice runs clear.” His laughter boomed. “That’s what my wife says.”
“My nonno was just the same,” I said, deftly avoiding the puddle as the two of us danced around something resembling conversation. “He would patch his own shoes. And then he’d put patches on top of the patches!”
The sheriff laughed as he ushered me toward the door. “Nonno, whatzat mean?”
“Grandfather,” I said, and the sheriff’s face fell a little. Perhaps comparing him to my grandfather had been a mistake; I’d made him feel old, probably.
But he gave me a tight grin and nodded. “Well, he sounds like a smart, thrifty son-of-a-gun.”
“Yes. He was that.” I smiled at the memory. Nonno had been that indeed, and a lot more.
And then came the question. “So, ah … what happened up there to make you leave the PD in Jersey?” My stomach flipped. His face was full of curious wonder; the sheriff seemed like a man who enjoyed his gossip, knowing things others didn’t, being the first to break news. Men like that are always dangerous, but in law enforcement? Be careful. They’ll hamfist the fuck out of a case just to be the first to tell the tale. “Something internal? A cover-up?”
I turned to look at him. I knew he wouldn’t be able to let it go. We don’t ever let things go, cops. We see a thread, and we’ve got to pull at it. And as the sheriff, Beauchamp saw himself as the pack leader of a bunch of wolf cubs. It was his business to know what all his pups were up to. I’d hoped to avoid the conversation, but he’d managed to catch me off my guard with small talk about a water cooler.
“Something like that,” I answered slowly, keeping my face neutral. “Local drug and gambling ring was about to get busted up right before I resigned; a mob-related thing.” The sheriff perked up, full of interest. I just knew he’d want to hear all those juicy stories; small-change in little, country towns were obsessed with the big stuff. Surely a place so small couldn’t have had a scandal bigger than the odd affair or burglary gone wrong. “But it turns out the guy behind the whole operation was bowling buddies with one of the junior guys on the force. Their wives were best friends, pregnant together, all that jazz. We had a mountain of evidence to go in and bust it up, but the guy on the force talked my superior into holding
off on it. He called in a favor.”
The sheriff’s eyes were wide as he listened.
“As you might expect, the FBI swooped in and busted the ring. For all I know, they might’ve done that before we had a chance anyway, but I couldn’t get past the way my superior officer just stepped aside because one of our deputies was buddies with a criminal.”
“I hear that kind of corruption is rampant up thataway,” the sheriff said, not unkindly, but with an undercurrent of deep curiosity. “We’re still fighting the Civil War, from what I see, both sides wanting to believe they’re morally superior. Both as corrupt as the other.”
I met his eye. “I hope things aren’t like that here, Sheriff Beauchamp.”
“You’re in the right place, then, I reckon,” the sheriff said, and held the door open for me. As I walked out toward the car, he called, “In the spirit of that, don’t think I just hired you on the spot without checking. I called your superiors before you ever walked in for the interview.”
“I assumed as much,” I said, turning with a small smile. “Everything on the up and up, I take it?”
“Wouldn’t’a hired you if it wasn’t,” he said, tipping his hat to me. I had no hat to tip back, so I just nodded and got in the car. I was set to start first thing Monday morning as an official deputy on the Jefferson City Police Department.
I was halfway down the road before I realized I’d never asked him about the Peach Mob. Oh, well; I’d learn about them in good time if the redneck on the tractor was to be believed.
I reached for the middle console out of habit, knowing it was empty. I’d quit smoking just before moving to Georgia, and the old habit was dying very hard. It took everything in me not to stop and get a soft pack of Dorals. My hands shook as I gripped the wheel. The sheriff had seemed to buy my story easily enough, but I couldn’t help but feel I’d still gotten in by the skin of my teeth.
I did tell the truth. Most of it, anyway.
I just left out a few parts. A few crucial parts. Those parts, the ones that still burn like a scorched brand on my heart, will be kept close and silent until I choose to reveal them.
***
I stop at the Minut Mart, the little white cinderblocked gas station beside the motel, for a quick, cheap, and easy dinner. Not for cigarettes, I tell myself repeatedly as I turn off the car. I’ll be lucky if they have a pack of ramen or a can of Vienna sausages. But the gnawing in my belly has long passed the point of being discerning, and I’m trying to save as much money as I can for a downpayment for an apartment or duplex here in this shitty town. I’ve already eaten out twice since I’ve been here—once at the Waffle House, with its oil-slick coffee and surprisingly excellent hashbrowns, and the second at the Tasty Dawg, a family-owned establishment that I understand is run by a retiree chasing a lifelong dream of owning a restaurant. I could hardly say I blamed him—the appeal of a mundane existence, slapping chili onto hot dogs or pressing burger patties onto a grill top, seems bigger every day.
I step into the Minut Mart, instructing myself not to grimace as the cloying and damp smell of mold, stale cigarettes, and roasted peanuts hit my nose all at the same time. What is it about Southerners and their love of peanuts? Everywhere you turn, they’re in your face—roasted, boiled, parched, floating in Cajun-scented crockpots, shoved into chocolate bars, and foaming over the top of glass-bottle Coca-Colas. Peach State, my ass. From what I can tell, the shiny-toothed former President and Boy Scout Jimmy Carter ushered Georgia into the Endless Age of the Peanut.
I step into an aisle, surveying the pitiful selection of candy bars, bagged chips, and canned goods. The Vienna sausages are all expired, and the only can of Chef Boyardee ravioli is dented and covered in moist dust. I sigh and grab a packet of BBQ Lays and a Clark Bar, a jug of water, and a piss-yellow Gatorade for good measure. It’s humid as Hades here, and the days get hot as fire; after the cocktail (or two or three) I plan to have back at the motel, I know I’ll wake up thirsty as hell tomorrow.
As I’m paying for my shitty dinner, another customer walks in, the little dented bell on the door giving the best rendition of a tinkle it can muster. Their steps are heavy on the linoleum behind me, the kind of steps that come from thick-soled black boots. Military or cop, I think without looking, reaching into my wallet for my crumpled ones. You can pick them from a mile away.
The cashier takes his sweet time counting the money and moves to bag up my items, even though I wave away the paper bag. I’m trying to get out of here quick—I’m tired and don’t feel like meeting new people right now—but cashier boy is doing his best to make that impossible. The footsteps come up from in back of me, and I feel the flutter of breath on the nape of my neck.
As if he’s read my thoughts, a voice says, “You the new hire, huh?”
The cashier pushes a greasy receipt toward me, and I gather my items up with a smile. Turning around, I’m expecting to find some weathered-looking beat cop, no doubt with a handlebar mustache or the red, rosy cheeks of a drunk, but the man standing there is tall, thin, and muscular. He has a curly mass of auburn hair that falls down over his forehead, and his eyes are wide and a sharp, clear gray-green, his smile wry and bemused beneath a beard that’s a little unkempt but not unattractive. With his shaggy hair and the barest hint of a dimple in his cheek, he reminds me of Kris Kristofferson, so much so I wouldn’t be surprised if he had a worn acoustic guitar hanging from his shoulder. Undoubtedly, this guy’s heard all about me already, judging from his shit-eating grin, but I have no idea who he is. He can’t be a day older than me; he might even be younger. A flicker of excitement unfurls in my belly, and I squelch it immediately. You can’t be making friends with random strange men, Toni. No matter how cute they are.
I move out of the line, fixing him with a guarded smile. “If you mean at the PD, then yes, I’m the new hire,” I say, gesturing with my full arms, grateful I don’t have to shake his hand. “I’m Officer Sclafani.”
“Hang on a minute, let me pay for my things,” he says, things coming out thangs. He’s for sure a country boy, though something about his graveled twang is different than the sheriff’s accent, which is cool like a deep well. I stand there awkwardly, ...