By Peter B. Wylie

When Albert Driscoll died, he wasn’t drunk. He wasn’t even at fault. Some guy in a big pick-up ran a stop light and knocked Albert’s smaller pick-up into the middle of next week. The only witness claimed she didn’t get a good look at the offending vehicle. It had sped off without slowing down even a little.

Two years later the cops still had no idea who the driver was. During that time Calvin and I would talk about it, but not a lot. I think it brought some degree of closure for him and his family, but no way did it lay the thing to rest. You just had to look in Calvin’s and Marla’s eyes to see that. As for Mr. Tubbs? Don’t think I’ll ever know the chasm of pain he’d slid into.

By the end of those two years, Calvin and I had gone off to Brushy Mountain State (my parents’ alma mater) on football scholarships. As talented as we were, we knew our chances of making it to the NFL were slim. We also knew that at Brushy Mountain we could start all four years — he at outside linebacker, me at free safety. That, combined with their excellent program in criminal justice, pushed us away from the powerhouse schools that had sniffed at us since we were in middle school.

Maybe our yen for law enforcement studies got a little more solidified the afternoon Rufus Mayfield found us after a spring practice session before final exam week. Rufus was the only black deputy sheriff in Warsaw County. In fact, he was the only black employee in the entire department.

He was sitting in a mud splattered cruiser in the athletic department’s parking lot when Calvin and I strolled out into the balmy afternoon. He flashed his lights and waved at us out of the driver side window. Calvin waved back and the two of us trotted over.

“Damn, Rufus,” I said, “County doesn’t have a budget for washing vehicles?”

“Doubt it. Wouldn’t matter. ‘Less it’s sitting in a garage, no car in Appalachia stays clean more’n an hour or two in spring time.”

“That’d be true,” said Calvin. “We under arrest?”

“Probably should be. Get in the back. Need to talk to you about something.”

Once we’d climbed in, I said, “Don’t know, Rufus. What with this screen between you and us and no handles on the doors, feels like we been incarcerated.” Rufus shook his head and snorted as he edged out of the parking lot.

A few minutes later he pulled the cruiser up near a picnic table that overlooked Brushy Mountain. Rufus was a big man. Took him a while to pour himself out of the car and release Calvin and me from captivity. We made our way over to the table as he carried a brown sack and plunked it down as the three of us sat. He pulled out three cokes, smacked the tops off with his fist against the lip of the table, and handed one to Calvin and one to me. After a long pull on his own, he gazed out on the vista: “Hard for me to worry about my troubles when I look out on that. Oughta come here more often.”

Eventually he turned to us and said, “Here’s the deal. Sheriff Tilson and I been chatting. You boys know it’s no secret that if we got organized crime in the county, it’s Big Time and and it’s the Driscolls.”

“Yep.”

“As you might imagine, this is not a situation we’re pleased with. If we had our druthers, they’d both pick up their operations and move the hell out of the state.”

“Never happen,” said Calvin.

“Nope. And up to now, we think things have been reasonably tolerable. Big Time’s got his bars and restaurants where he sells ‘home made’ and runs some poker and roulette after hours. Does a little shylocking – nothing too heavy handed. Far as we can tell, he steers clear of drugs and prostitution.” Calvin and I nodded our agreement.

“Then we got the Driscolls. They’re mainly into stolen vehicles and guns. That’s way more serious than what Big Time does. Us and the staties and the Feds have been trying to get ‘em on all that. Truth told, we got aquat to show for it.”

“All that said, when Ernest Driscoll was in charge of the operation, nothing got too out of control. He’s a smart old boy in spite of he can’t hardly read nor write. He knew when too put on the brakes, stay under the radar, whatever you want to call it.” Rufus didn’t say anything for a minute.

Then he turned to Calvin and reached over and put a hand on his shoulder. “Then his son, Albert, gets killed in that hit-and run.” I was scouring Calvin’s face for a reaction. His eyebrows furrowed some, but mostly he just nodded.

“That took all the life out of old Ernest. Albert was a dim-witted, nasty son of a bitch shoulda been locked away in a goddam dungeon. Still, he was Ernest’s boy. And they say losing a child, even one like Albert, is the hardest thing any parent can go through.” After sucking in a deep breath, he said, “Hope none of the three of us ever has to find out.”

Calvin’s face hardened. “Can’t be much worse than having your sister get beaten and raped and the cocksucker who did it gets off without a wrist slap.”

Rufus leaned close to Calvin and softly said, “Won’t dispute that, son. None of us would.”

“Anyway …” said Calvin as he sat up and arched his back into a hard stretch.

“Anyway … and maybe you know this, maybe you don’t … Ernest has pretty much turned things over to Leroy.” Leroy was another son, some three years younger than Albert when Albert got killed.

“Shit,” I said, “Didn’t know that. D’you, Calvin?”

“No idea.”

“You’re right. ‘Shit.’ Leroy’s every bit as mean as Albert was, but he’s smart and crafty. Makes him worrisome to us.”

“He musta done something, Rufus,” I said. “Otherwise, why we having this confab?”

“That’s the thing. Something went down last night at one of Big Time’s bars, one used to be called Jimmy’s?”

I smiled to myself thinking about the love triangle incident. Calvin ignored me and scowled: “Big Time bought Jimmy’s? Musta just happened.”

“It did. Turned the deed over last week. Ain’t even put up the new sign yet. Gonna call it ‘Good Old Time.’”

“Good name,” I said, “But I … ah … can envision certain problems arising with the change of ownership.”

“Like rednecks not being too excited about drinking and dancing at a place run by a black man,” said Calvin. “Or socializing with colored folks that’ll start coming there.”

“Yeah, all that. Strangely enough, the first two nights, nothing much happened. Usual fights out in the parking lot, but nobody calling anybody a nigger or a cracker or nothing. Mighta had something to do with how Big Time gave away the drinks free the first night and made a big speech welcoming everybody. Stood up at the dance floor microphone to do it. Man coulda been a preacher or a diplomat.”

“He’s not?” asked Calvin. That pulled a chuckle out of Rufus.

“Then there was last night. About eleven o’clock or so these three big assholes come in all dressed in black with ski masks on. They’re carrying sawed offs with magazines in ‘em. They fire a couple of rounds into the ceiling and start yelling for everybody to lie down on the floor and be quiet or they’re gonna start killing people.”

“Holy shit!”

“Exactly. Well, seems that wasn’t such a good idea on their part.”

“Let me guess,” snorted Calvin. “Several of the patrons chose not to follow instructions and returned fire.”

“They did. Guess the good lord intervened because nobody got shot. Least none of the patrons or employees.”

“And the intruders?” I asked.

“We’re not sure.”

“What happened when you got the call?”

“Didn’t get the call. Found out about it through the grapevine this morning.”

“You’re shitting us,” I said.

“Nope. Seems Big Time got on the mike after the three of them hightailed it outa there and talked everybody into settling down. Said they could drink free just like the first night. Next thing you know they’re all laughing and dancing and carrying on like nothing happened.”

The three of us went silent for a while save for the occasional “Whew” or “Damn” or “Lord have mercy.”

Then Calvin leaned back, folded his arms, and said, “So, Rufus … how do Jacob and me fit in here?”

“’S’what I been working up to.”

After Rufus dropped us off back at the parking lot, we started strolling around the campus. It was after seven o’clock but with plenty of light left. Buxom girls in halter tops walking by and smiling at us — one stopped us and got up real close to Calvin to ask him a question about geography. Pretty sure she already knew the answer. Frisbees floating around all over the place. A mini softball game where the players looked too inebriated to hit a ball or catch a fly. Other kids just sitting on the grass and shooting the shit.

“Kind of nice.” I said.

“Yeah, it is nice. A bit different from the shit Rufus was telling us about.”

“For sure …”

“What you think we should do?”

“He didn’t insist on it, but you know he and the sheriff want us to do it.”

“Talk to Big Time?”

“Think he’ll go along with it?”

“Shit, I don’t know. Was me, I wouldn’t go along with it. But he’s older and wiser than us …”

“So we talk to him?”

“We talk to him.”

Four years ago, when we met with Bigtime to talk about Albert Driscoll, he didn’t have an office. So we used unsplit oak logs in his backyard to do our discussing. Now he had an office. It was in the back of a hardware store. Nothing fancy. Bigtime doesn’t do fancy. However, given the sensitive nature of the topic we had to broach with him, Calvin and I hoped we could use the logs again.

“Hi Calvin. Hi Jake,” said Charlene when she opened the front door. She was Bigtime’s youngest daughter. About fourteen and well on her way to becoming a woman.

“Where’s that little girl used to go running through the woods catching snakes and frogs?” asked Calvin.

“You want your best girlfriend out there chasing frogs and snakes, handsome?” she asked as she reached up and rubbed the back of her hand on his cheek. “Least you coulda shaved for me.”

“Bigtime, need some help out here. In a hurry. This child has gone and got grown up on me.”

“You do not know the half of it, young man,” bellowed a voice from way back beyond the kitchen. “Every morning ‘fore she goes off to school, she and her momma have the most godawful spat about appropriate attire.”

“You steer clear of that discussion, Bigtime?” I asked.

“I most assuredly do, Jacob. You two come on back. Charlene, you are not invited.”

Once we were on the logs, Calvin and I took a few minutes to bring Bigtime up to speed on our conversation with Rufus. He listened the way he always had when it was something important. Intensely, and not tipping his hand.

When we stopped, he nodded and looked out toward the thick woods surrounding his place. “Got a bit of an idea cooking. It’s not quite what Rufus and the sheriff have in mind.

“Jacob, your momma and Alicia Driscoll. They friends?”

“Ms. Driscoll’s a good bit older than Momma. Wouldn’t call them friends. But I’ve seen the two of them chatting now and again. They both like poetry.”

“Calvin?”

“Known Jacob’s momma since I was six. She’s always treated me like I was her own. Don’t come any classier than Ms. Thompson.”

“And Ms. Driscoll?”

“The mother of the man who beat and raped my sister?”

“Don’t like bringing it up, son. But I need to know your opinion. Otherwise, this little scheme I got simmering won’t fly.”

Calvin drew in a couple of breaths. “One day right after they decided not to prosecute Albert, I saw her walking towards me on the sidewalk. I was about to head for the other side of the street when she got hold of my hand. Real gentle like. And in the softest voice I’d ever heard, she said, ‘Calvin, I’m so very sorry.’”

“I just lost it. Right there in the middle of everything. Sobbing like I’d never stop. That woman held on to me for a good five minutes with one hand while she waved gawkers away with the other.”

“Well now, I believe that answers my question.”

The way the meeting between Mary Thompson and Alicia Driscoll got arranged was complicated. That didn’t matter. What mattered was that the two were sitting in a rarely used reading room on the third floor of the main branch of the Warsaw County Library. It was July. Two huge fans whirring away and a rattling air conditioner were losing out to the stifling heat and humidity. But weather seemed to be the last thing on their minds.

“You know my parents, especially mother, deeply disapproved of my marrying Ernest.”

“You were married right after the war, if memory serves.”

“We were.”

“Jacob’s father and I were married some twenty years later. I must admit my mother was also less than enthusiastic about my choice in a husband.”

“Interesting. We both wedded in tumultuous times. I when the country was still reeling from the aftermath of that horrific conflict. You in the midst of an upheaval in the south not unlike that of reconstruction. But …. I don’t guess we’re here to discuss parental disapproval of conjugal unions, nor the effect historical context might have had on those unions.”

“No. On the other hand, I do think the fact we are both spouses and mothers has bearing on what we need to talk about. Right now we’re just doing what we women were raised to do. Politely tip toeing up to the nub of the matter.”

“Wasn’t so terribly long ago two generals did some tip toeing on that April day at the Appomattox courthouse.”

Mary chuckled and said, “I don’t think I’ve ever told you about the trip Jacob’s father and I took to New Zealand a couple of years ago. We were on this cramped little train chugging its way up a beautiful mountain. Another lady and I were almost standing on top of each other waiting to use the facilities. We got to chatting and I discovered she was from Belfast. She had the most wonderful brogue.

“I asked her if things had quieted down in Northern Ireland. She replied, ‘Oh yes, dear. Quite considerably. Nothing like it was two decades ago.’”

“I asked to what she attributed this transformation. She didn’t hesitate an instant. ‘It was the women, love. Not sure of all the contrivances they invoked. A bit of face slapping of the lads here, some withholding of physical intimacy there. Whatever it took. Because they’d simply had had enough of the shite, if you’ll pardon my French.’”

Alicia nodded almost imperceptibly as a smile jittered the wrinkles on her lovely face. “Well, Mary, southern men are always talking about how afraid they are of us women and how they see us as being the boss of the household. If Irish women can use such perceptions to quell stupid violence, maybe we ought to go to school on that.”

It was now early August and Calvin and I were sitting in my parents kitchen having iced tea with Momma. The next day the two of us would be heading back to Brushy Mountain for the start of two-a-days.

“Funny how time passes so fast,” she said. “What was it, thirteen years ago?”

“Yes, ma’am. That’s when Jacob and I met.”

“And you’ll never stop calling me ‘ma’am’ anymore than you’ll ever stop calling my son ‘Jacob’ even though he prefers ‘Jake.’”

“No, ma’am.”

“Not to change the subject, Momma, but we understand you and Alicia Driscoll had a bit of a discussion not too long ago. Reason I bring it up is that we’ve been hearing Ernest is back to running things for the family. We’ve also been hearing Leroy Driscoll has relocated to the west coast.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, would you care to comment on any or all of that, Momma?”

“No I would not.”

“And us boys think we’re so big and tough,” said Calvin.

“Downright pitiful, you ask me,” I said.

“Don’t the two of you have to go off and pack?”