Chapter 19

Sandy’s letter is written in cursive. I had forgotten how nice her penmanship is, almost like some machine put it out instead of a person. I don’t expect this to be good, but have to find out what the letter says.

I turn on the interior light of the truck, roll the window down and start to read.

Michael,

Thank you for this day. I needed to get out of Langford and away from Trevor to think about some things. I had a really good time.

You have always been so good to me. I’m sorry that you felt like you had to get out of Langford and away from your father.

I don’t think you will ever know how bad I missed you all these years.

While I enjoyed the day, I also realize it was a mistake that we cannot repeat. I don’t want to ever hurt you or be hurt by you. I couldn’t stand that.

You say that you’re not good in relationships, but I don’t think you have found the right person. At least you’ve tried. I can’t allow anybody to get close. I’m trying to change, and that’s one reason why Trevor and I will get married.

He is not as bad as you think. Trevor will never be like you and I am glad of that, in some strange way. He will tell me when I screw up and vice versa. That would never happen with you.

I think back to earlier today and wonder what would have happened if the phone hadn’t rang or the psycho steroid hulk had not pounded on the door. But I really don’t think it was meant to be between us. You have your life and I have mine.

Please accept my apology. Mikey, I don’t want to see you or talk with you again. It makes things too difficult.

I will always love you,

Sandy

I had to read the letter twice. Sadly, the outcome never changed and wouldn’t if I read the letter every day for the rest of my life.

The hurt was worse than finding wife number one with another woman or discovering that wife, the sequel, had been intimate with all the men in my apartment complex. Wife number three was just bad news. They all hurt when they went cascading down the great toilet bowl that is life, but nothing like this.

I could feel tears gathering in my eyes. I closed them and threw the letter down on the seat. Women are harder to figure out than any college course. That includes statistics, calculus, economics or whatever. It might take some time to figure them out, but at least there are rules and formulas to follow.

There aren’t with women, or if there are, I’ve never seen or found them.

I try to put the hurt away, but it wants to linger for a while, jabbing me every now and then just for kicks. The old low self esteem decides to join in as well, telling me that a person as good as Sandy would never want to be with me and I will never have somebody that good.

That’s fine, I try to argue back. If I can’t have her, I will travel the solo route. I can live with myself and be happy.

I fire up the truck. The radio is turned on an old classic station out of Fort Smith. I recognize the song quickly, it is If I Can't Have You, a song off the old Saturday Night Fever sountrack sung by some chick named Yvonne Elliman.

It’s the chorus part with her singing about how if she can’t have somebody, well, by gosh, she doesn't want nobody else. First off, I never liked the sappy song. Second, the timing really stinks. I hit the power button and silence her.

I don’t want to do it, but have to go back to the hospital to stay with my father. It will be the perfect ending to what has become a really bad day.

I escape without a Squiggy sighting, which is good, and start making my way through Langford back toward Poteau and the hospital.

As I near the city limits sign, I look in my rear view mirror and see a police car approaching with the lights flashing. I don’t speed and I’m positive that wasn’t the case, so I expect the copper to fly by me and go to the wreck or wherever he is heading.

But the police car pulls in behind me. I’m hacked off, since I did nothing wrong, and hoping nobody sees me. Before the cop even exits the car, my phone is ringing.

I open the phone and see it is my mother.

“Why does the cop have you pulled over?” she asks.

It’s like the woman has these spy cameras all over town. Actually, she does, it’s her old biddy friends. It’s what they do, spread rumors and news with the speed of light. This is another disadvantage of the stupid cell phone that I have grown to hate.

“I don’t know,” I answer. I’m trying to find my proof of insurance in the glove box.

“Were you drinking, Michael?”

“Yeah, Mom, I have a fifth of whiskey between my legs. Do you think the cop will want some?”

“Oh, Michael! Do you really?”

“No, I don’t drink.”

“Be nice to him, Michael, he’s a little on the crazy side and…”

“Gotta go,” I interrupted, hanging up on my mother. A drum roll, please, Langford’s finest was exiting his car and heading in my direction. I almost laughed, not the smartest thing to do.

The dang cop was almost a midget. He was about the height of my mother. As he turned to the side to make sure no semis were bearing down on him, I could see the huge belly that hung over the front of his pants and almost reached his knees. He adjusted his belt and pulled his pants up. It was a losing effort, the belly would not allow it.

He placed his left hand on his belt. His right hand hovered close to his pistol, a huge gun that looked way too big for him to carry. He was wearing a pair of cheap sunglasses, even though it was dark, had a toothpick sticking out of the side of his mouth and was packing a wad of chewing tobacco in his left jaw that looked like it contained half a pack.

His badge was gleaming off the light of a lightpole above us. Somehow, the thought of this Barney Fife wannabe, itching to "clear leather," did not make me feel safe.

The cop stuck his head in the window and started sniffing. He really looked like Porky Pig with sunglasses, toothpick and chewing tobacco. His face was flushed a dark red, probably from the exertion of walking from his cruiser to my car. He was packing on about a hundred extra pounds, after all.

“Git yo hands on the steerin wheel!” he commanded. I did as he requested. “You been drinkin, boy?”

“What?” I replied.

“I asked if you’d been drinkin?”

“Yeah, I heard you. What were you wondering if I was drinking?”

He’s getting a little confused. I don’t want to be this way, but can’t stop now.

“You tryin to be smart, boy?”

“No, just trying to answer your question. I had a bottled water just over an hour ago and a Coke, probably four hours ago. For breakfast this morning, I had a glass of orange juice. For lunch, I think it was tea, unsweetened. I think that pretty much sums it up.”

“Beer?”

“No thanks.”

“Huh?”

“I said no thanks. I’m not in the mood.”

“Naw, you been drinkin beer?” he asked. The cop had a strange talent of being able to talk with his mouth closed. I decided to see if I could do it.

“Numph,” I tried to say, finding out I did not possess that talent.

“What’d you say?” he asked, pulled out his flashlight and pointed it right in my face.

“Not in the last five years.”

“You ain’t drank beer in the last five years?” I don’t think he believed me, but I could care less.

“No, what about you?”

“What about me?” he was getting a little irritated, but still talking with his mouth closed. He lowered the flashlight.

“You drank any beer tonight?”

“No son, I’m on duty.” I was at least his age, probably older. The “son” reference just didn’t fit. “What about whiskey?”

“No thanks. I never developed a taste for it.”

“Been drinkin anything with alcohol?”

“Not that I could recall. There might have been some in my mouthwash this morning.”

“I don’t like your attitude.”

Then it was unanimous. I didn’t like his, either.

“What about weed?” he asked.

“They bother my allergies.”

“I was talking bout the kind you smoke.”

“Oh, I see,” I responded, although I didn’t. A car went by going about seventy. They honked and Officer Fife simply waved. “I don’t smoke pot, shoot heroin or snort cocaine. Weren’t they going a little fast?”

“Probably, but he used to be married to the second cousin on my wife’s side. He’s a good guy, ya know?”

“Okay,” I was tired of this. I just wanted to get my warning or whatever and leave. “Why’d you stop me?”

“You was goin forty three in a forty.”

“You stopped me for going three miles an hour too fast?”

“Yep.”

“You stop all cars for that? Or just the ones you don’t know?”

That question hit a nerve. He stood up, spit out a huge amount of tobacco juice close enough it splattered on my truck.

“Gimme your license and proof of insurance,” he demanded, then loudly snorted. It was one of the most disgusting sounds I have ever heard. His sinus had to be cleared of all debris after that effort.

He looks at my license and then back at me.

"Where's your glasses?" I was momentarily puzzled until remembering I have a license restriction for corrective lenses. "I have contacts."

The cop eyeballs me and barks, "I don't care who ya know, you're no one special to me and if you don't answer my question, I'm gonna cuff ya and stuff ya."

Startled, I say "No, you don't understand. I wear contact lenses. Would you like me to pull one out and show you?"

Fife chortles, "That's better boy, and no I don't want you to pull out a lens. That would gross me out," although I doubted it would.

My phone rang again. I stared at it, along with the cop.

“Do you mind?” I asked.

“Who is it?” he asked.

“Well, I don’t really know. Let me check and see.”

I grabbed the phone and flipped it open. Yep, it was my mother again.

“Who is it?” asked the nosey cop.

“It’s my mom.”

“Go ahead,” he stated. I stared at him for several seconds, but he would not move.

“How about a little privacy?” I asked. The cop nodded and scooted back maybe a foot.

“Michael, are you there?” Mom asked.

“Yes, I am. That’s why the phone isn’t ringing anymore.”

“Are you still stopped by the cop?’

“Yes, I am.”

“What’s his name?”

“I don’t know, Mom. Want me to find out?”

“Please do.”

This was getting really stupid. I leaned out the window. The cop was acting like he wasn’t listening, but I could tell he was.

“Excuse me, but my mother wants to know your name.”

“I’m Police Chief Arnold,” he answered proudly.

“How's Roseanne?" I asked.

"Huh?" he was lost.

"It’s the police chief,” I told my mother. "Arnold."

“Let me talk to Stubby," she replied, a name that was certainly accurate.”

“What?”

“I want to talk to him.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Mom.”

“Let me talk to him,” she insisted.

“Here you go Stubby," I said, holding out the phone.

"I don't like that name," he replied.

"Sorry, my mother wants to talk to you.”

He grabbed the phone and turned away from me. I couldn’t even hear what was being said. They carried on a conversation for several minutes. I could hear him laughing. Finally, he turned around and handed me the phone.

“Your mother wants to talk to you,” he said. I grabbed the phone.

“Yes, Mom?”

“Officer Arnold says you have a smart mouth.”

“So?”

“Apologize to him and he’ll let you go.”

“Mom, I don’t have anything to apologize for.” I looked out the window and saw him leaning over, listening.

“Just do it. His mother and I are good friends.”

“This is ridiculous,” I replied, making sure it was loud enough the cop could hear. I hung up the phone, knowing that would rattle my mother’s cage.

“Ya shouldn’t talk to your mom like that,” he advised.

“I’m sorry if in anyway, shape, or form that I offended you. It wasn’t intentional. I know you were doing your job and harassing somebody who you thought didn’t belong here. Thank you for your service to this fine community. I will sleep much better at night knowing we have such a fine police captain.”

“It's police chief, not captain," he replied, handing me back my license and registration. "You are quite welcome. If I’d known who your daddy was, I’d never stopped you. That old man has always been good to me. I remember…”

The phone rang again. I picked it up and flipped it open. It was my mother, again.

“Your mom?” he asked.

I nodded and hit the send button.

“Michael, you need to come home,” she pleaded.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“I’m scared,” Mom responded, definitely sounding that way. “Somebody’s outside looking in the window.”


Chapter 20