Chapter 1 – GLENNA #4
He doesn’t want to sell it to the big newspaper conglomeration that comes knocking every so often, but he’ll have to eventually. I’m into photography—and I suck at writing—and Dad respects that. I can manage the coffeehouse, but the newspaper is not my bag. Dad understands. He’s happy if I’m happy.
So I fake it a lot. Badly.
“How’d we do today at the Bean?” he asks.
“Good. We were really busy this morning.”
“Anything I need to know?”
“Nope.”
“Toby do anything I can fire him for?”
I snort. “Not yet.”
“Would you tell me if he did?” Dad gives me a look over his thick glasses.
“I can handle Toby, Dad.”
“‘Cause you’re tough as nails?”
I nod and toast him with my nearly empty can of Schlitz.
“Just like your mother,” he says.
My insides go soggy like they do every time he says it. It isn’t true.
My mother rocked. Literally. She played guitar, and shaved the sides of her head, and had buttons everywhere for every band and 90s social issue. Her purse. Her jacket. The bulletin board above her desk in her office. Punk’s Not Dead. Nine Inch Nails. Only You Can Prevent Forest Fires .
I’m not like her. She had a big mouth and a huge heart and no fear. She would’ve punched Cash Wall in the face. And she would’ve dumped Toby Guilfoyle years ago when he started talking about how if I want to lose ten pounds—which I never said I did—I should cut out dairy.
She sure as shit wouldn’t have gone four years without ice cream for a man.
“Why the sad face, Rabbit?”
I scrunch it up real ugly. “That’s just how my face looks.”
He snorts. “Yup. Just like your mother. Always telling me what I want to hear.”
“What’s on the schedule this week?” I change the subject and dig out my phone, pulling up the calendar.
He strokes his beard. He’ll remember about half of what needs doing, and I’ll get a dozen panicked phone calls or long voicemails as the week goes on. He’s a predictable dude.
“I need you at the Historical Society meeting Tuesday evening. Get a picture of Kelly Wall and that new daughter-in-law of hers. I could use some more stock photos of the bridge and the river and town hall. You know, the usual. Make them seasonal. Throw a pumpkin in there.”
“Anything else?”
“Oh, and I need some shots for the ‘school’s back in swing’ stuff.’ See if Sophia Averly at the elementary will let you take some pics. She sells papers.”
Dad winks.
“Gross.”
“Got to give the people what they want. And you know Sophia won’t mind one bit.”
She won’t, but that’s beside the point.
“Is that all?” I hover my finger over the save button.
“Yup.”
I tap.
“Oh, and there’s a town council meeting Wednesday, but I only need you at the beginning to take a few shots, then you can go.”
I’m busy re-opening the note, so it takes a minute for what Dad’s saying to sink in. Then my stomach knots into a pretzel.
All the Stonecut bigwigs go to the town council meetings religiously—business owners, the mayor, the sheriff, head of the school board. It’s open to the public, but that didn’t stop them from having Dad removed from the last meeting after the article about Del Willis came out.
Dad got really pissed off, and his angina started acting up. I had to drive him to Stonecut General, and they did a stress test, and the doctors were saying things like “bypass.”
My stomach churns. Curry onion tart and cheap beer is not a stellar combination.
“Why don’t you let me go, Dad?”
He gives me a knowing look. “You don’t know what the issues are, Rabbit.”
“I’m not dumb.”
“You know I’m not saying that.” He reaches for his vape pen and takes a short puff. He promised me he’d look into edibles, but I guess vaping is a step up from rolling joints.
“I’ll take copious notes,” I lie. If anything, I’ll record the meeting on my phone. I’m a slow writer.
“I’m not gonna let them scare me off.”
My anxiety rises. I sit up and cross my legs. Now I can’t get comfortable on the comfy couch. “I thought it had all blown over.”
“It will, Rabbit. Eventually. This is a process. It’s quiet now because nothing’s going on since Del went out on leave.
Sooner or later, though, like I’ve said, the Feds will indict, and then we’ll get some blowback again.
” Dad’s using his “nothing to see here, no reason to panic” tone of voice. It freaks me the hell out.
“But folks will calm down,” he goes on. “Everything’s going to come out, and in the end, I promise you, people will be walking around talking about how they always knew the sheriff was crooked as shit. That’s how these things go.”
I tuck my hands in my hoodie sleeves. I just want this to be over. The past few months have been like the nightmare shift from hell that will never end.
I blame the internet.
A couple years ago, my dad found out about Federal Program 1033 from some blog.
That’s when the military sells surplus to law enforcement.
Dad filed a Freedom of Information Act request and found out that the Stonecut Sheriff’s Office had bought a whole bunch of armored vehicles.
Which, granted, is super weird. Car theft—as in theft from unlocked cars or cars with their windows down—is by far our number one crime.
I don’t know what this town would do with one armored vehicle, let alone a fleet.
At first, I thought it was great. It gave Dad something to sink his teeth into.
It was the liveliest I’d seen him since Mom passed.
He went about the investigation in maximum stealth mode, snooping around city and county owned lots until he found where the vehicles were being stored. And he took pictures for over a year.
Vehicles showed up. Vehicles disappeared. As far as he could tell, none were ever used by the sheriff’s office for official business. Kellum Wall and Ernst Fowler kept cruising around in their brown Crown Vics.
For a long time, I didn’t realize what was going on. I wasn’t paying close attention at all. Things were getting strained between Toby and me, and I was on edge twenty-four-seven.
And then Dad showed me the expose he wrote. He accused Sheriff Del Willis, the county’s most respected—no, beloved —citizen of inappropriately acquiring and mishandling military-grade vehicles.
His evidence was not rock solid. It mostly came down to pictures of vehicles that were there one day and gone the next. But he also had some documents. There was the approval from the state to participate in the program and the budgets with line items for shipping and storage.
Dad genuinely thought Del Willis was just stockpiling badass Humvees somewhere because he thought it was cool—same as folks around here collect guns and build bunkers—but after the article came out, the feds got involved.
They wanted to know where all the vehicles went. And the answer was not forthcoming.
Del Willis lawyered up. He was put on leave—with pay.
Folks got mad.
It was like we snitched on Santa Claus.
Del Willis coached every dude under the age of forty at peewee football.
He cut everyone a break when they were young, stupid, and drunk.
He stayed out all night to find lost dogs.
He made the loser neighbors cut their grass, and he rescued Fred Burnham from his tipped-over tractor.
Saved his leg. Everyone has a “Del Willis is a good guy” story.
And his wife, Lil, is genuinely the nicest person you’ll ever meet.
She’s been going through some health problems. They never had kids although they’d always wanted them, but they were surrogate aunt and uncle to the Wall kids, and Miriam Dutterer’s girl, and half the kids I went to school with, it seemed.
At Harvest Day and the Summer Arts Festival and the Christmas Bazaar, the Willis family always donated the biggest wreath or basket or raffle prize.
That’s who my dad’s paper took down. Santa Claus.
My dad loves people. I don’t know why, but he loves this town. He’s got that stubborn streak, though. He knew he was going to get shunned. He didn’t care. Right is right and wrong is wrong. I argued with him, but he wouldn’t give.
So, I snuck onto his laptop, and I swapped my name for his on the byline. He didn’t notice. Not until after the paper was printed and shipped.
He was pissed. He called me Glenna instead of Rabbit for a whole week.
I got called a lot worse by other people.
My car got egged. Idiots kept clogging the toilets at the coffeehouse with paper towels.
Nancy and Bev from the sheriff’s office both came in to curse me out.
Connie Murphy spat at me on the sidewalk.
Kids threw soda bottles at my back when I was walking. It went on and on.
Dad doesn’t know the half of it, but he got it pretty bad too, so I bet he can imagine. Things have calmed down, though, and Dad’s pretty good at forgiving and forgetting. The weed helps.
“Is Del Willis gonna get arrested?” I’m not sure what would be the better outcome for us at this point—if he’s exonerated or if he ends up in cuffs. Dad and I are probably going to be mud again either way.
“Oh, hell yes, he is.”
I sigh. “Soon?”
“Hard to say. The feds work slow. My guy says it’s only a matter of time now.”
Well, that narrows things down.
“Come on, Dad. Let me do the meeting.”
He waves his hand at me. “I don’t need you to fight my battles. Just take my pictures, okay, Rabbit?”
I sink back in the cushions and try to let the familiar smells of home unravel the knot in my gut.
Marijuana. Sandalwood incense. Old books. Wood. A faint whiff of onion. It smells like before life got complicated.
“By the way, that tart was delicious, Dad.”
He perks up. “Sold out, eh?”
“It’s all gone.”
Now he’s back to his grinning, mellow self. “I’m thinking for next week, I’ll do a sun-dried tomato and basil.”
“That sounds amazing.” Bummer. That’s actually going to sell out. “I should get going. You need anything?”
“Grab me another beer on your way out?”
“Okay.”
On the way to the kitchen, I sort through the mail piled up on the credenza. I recycle junk mail and solicitations and put the bills in a neat pile. There’s a light out in the hallway. Next time I’m over, I’ll change it.
I give Dad his beer and another kiss. He’s back on the internet, cackling as he types the world’s slowest clapback with his index fingers.
“Don’t stay up too late giving them hell, Dad.”
“I love you, Rabbit. Sweet dreams.”
As I pass the utility closet on the way out, I stop and check to see if I have to buy light bulbs. There are plenty on the shelf above the bin of tools.
And then my eye catches the bolt cutters. An idea leaps into my very slightly tipsy brain, fully formed. And brilliant. And totally unlike me.
I slip the bolt cutters in the back of my jeans, under my hoodie.
I’m careful to lock and test the door behind me, and then I trip down the stairs, excitement crowding out the worry.
I’m gonna get revenge.
Instead of heading west to my place, I head north toward the railroad bridge. It’s a cool night, and there’s a full moon. It smells like fall, crisp and delicious.
I pass the Methodist church and enter Cash Wall’s apartment complex through the back entrance. It’s only a few low buildings, mostly divorced men and folks my age. Toby’s friend Zane lives here. That’s how I know Cash does, too. I’ve seen him around.
I hope he’s home. What are the odds on a Saturday night? Not good, I guess. He parties. Everyone knows that. But maybe I’ll get lucky, and he’ll have a girl at his place.
My stomach sloshes. I’m such a lightweight that one Schlitz messes with me.
I turn as casually as I can from Bowfin Way onto Herring Court.
It’s a dead end. If I see someone I know, I have no excuse for being here.
It’s quiet, though. Lots of lights on in the apartments, but no noise.
No one out on their balconies. I bet the mosquitos are pretty bad this close to the river, even this late in the year.
I scan for Cash’s big ass truck. There’s nothing but on-street parking. If he’s home, I’ll see it.
My pulse kicks up. Bingo. There it is. Right under a street lamp at the end of the cul de sac. He’s parked up on the curb here, too. The truck nuts gleam silver in the light.
I slow my pace. There are eight apartments in these buildings. Two in the basement, and two per floor. The lights are on in the top two apartments, curtains wide. I can’t see anything from this angle.
Am I really gonna do this?
In general, I’m a rule follower. I never had that rebellious stage that other people do. Maybe because my parents were way further out there than me.
I have to decide. I’m ten feet away. Do I do this?
And then music blares from the top left apartment.
I vaguely recognize the song rattling the windows.
It’s one of those real “yeehaw” country songs that dudes have been blasting from their trucks with the windows down all summer.
A dog howls. A light in the apartment below flicks on. Oops. The neighbor’s awake.
It’s now or never.
I’m gonna do it for the neighbor. For everyone with the misfortune of co-existing with Cash Wall.
As I pass his truck, I squat, snip with all my strength, and drop the truck nuts into my pocket.
I smile all the way home. The moon is high, and there’s a cool breeze blowing up from the river. Everyone I pass says hello, and for once, the parade of high schoolers driving in a loop around town from Main Street to Bell Street, revving their engines and hollering, doesn’t bother me one bit.
They’re having fun. So am I.
I’ve never castrated a truck before, but it’s empowering. When I get home, I finally unlace my shoes and wriggle my liberated toes. Then I hang the chrome balls from my dresser mirror.
If I didn’t have three jobs, I’d make a mount for them.
I might anyway.
This was the most fun I’ve had on a Saturday night in a while.
I read until I fall asleep, occasionally pausing to picture Cash’s face when he discovers his Ram has been neutered in the night.
I sleep deeply and well, and I wake up rested.