Winter’s Light

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

I reach the two-story brick building of the sheriff’s station on McMillian Road. Radio and TV antennas poke out from the top of the roof like something Ray Bradbury would describe.

Entering the building, I ask twenty-six-year-old Deputy Mark Samson at the front desk if the sheriff is available to see me.

Cora Hastings, the station’s clerical secretary, is out on her lunch break.

Samson busies himself with a mock phone call, pretending he does not see me standing in front of him on the other side of the desk. I am close enough to him to shake his hand. After he states an arbitrary, “Take it easy, Mom,” into the mouthpiece, he reluctantly raises his hard eyes to me. In a machismo gesture, he thrusts his jutting underbite out at me, as if he is going to ask me a long list of questions.

Mr. Tough Guy. Ruthlessly, almost barking, he says, “What can I do for you?”

I look over his muscular shoulders into the room where the unfriendly eyes from four other deputies glare my way, as if I were a stranger in Milestone County.

Behind the half-closed slats of the Venetian blinds in the sheriff’s office, I notice Philip pacing back and forth in front of his picture window, his right fist pumping the air signaling a heated discussion with somebody on the phone.

I look to where Samson glares at me with his stony stare. His chest heaves.

Taking charge, I lock eyes with the bullish man and say, “Deputy Samson, you know why I’m here. I stop in every day at this time to bring Philip some lunch. I’d like to see him, please.”

I hear the bodies in the room shift uneasily. Someone coughs mechanically; chairs scrape across the lino; and lingering murmurs fill the room.

“He’s busy at the moment,” Deputy Samson says, as if he were in charge.

Deputy Sheriff Leslie Roland stands in the doorway of the break room. “For Christ sake’s, Samson. What’s wrong with you?” She stirs half-and-half cream into her coffee mug. Her forceful presence directs the deputies’ harsh glance off me and down to the computer screen in front of him.

Deputy Sheriff Roland pulls back her shoulder-length dark hair into a tight ponytail and saunters over to me, looking disgusted by her fellow coworkers. She tosses me a tired smile. “Christian, if you’d like to take a seat, I’ll let the sheriff know you’re here.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it.” I take a chair from across Samson’s desk. He does not look up from his computer screen.

As a slew of chuckles erupt from a few other deputies, I shake my head in disgust.

A few minutes later, Philip waves me into his office. Passing through the cluster of chauvinists, I thank Deputy Roland with a tight-lipped smile.

Inside his office, Phillip looks happy to see me, his face lighting up at my presence.

“What’s wrong?” he asks. “You don’t look well.”

I shake my head and hand him the crumbled brown lunch bag. “A ham sandwich on rye. The way you like it with extra honey Dijon.”

Philip asks, “Did the guys say something to you on your way in?”

I shrug. “Just the usual homophobic brushoff from the typical narrow-minded Neanderthal.”

“Who said it?”

“It’s nothing, Philip. Forget it.” I shake my head. “I’m taking your advice and letting the small things roll off my shoulders.”

“Who was it, Chris?” he demands, and I am frightened for the first time at the sound of my partner’s gruff tone.

He exhales, and I can see the cogs of Philip’s thoughts tumbling and working overtime. He looks over my shoulder into the outer office. “Who was it?” he asked again, releasing short, reedy breaths.

“Philip, don’t—”

Philip tosses his lunch bag across the mountain of paperwork on top of his desk. He swings his office door open and flies out into the central office.

After a few moments of reprimand, Phillip stabs a finger at Deputy Mark Samson, motioning the gym rat into the lion’s lair for a quick, painful chastisement.

I watch Deputy Samson ambling gingerly towards Philip; I cringe, my posture stiffening at the uncomfortable sight.

Deputy Samson and I used to be friends when my former boyfriend Russ and I first moved to Milestone County. Mark was always quite hospitable whenever I stopped into the sheriff’s station to interview him, or the sheriff himself, for a feature story I was writing for The Milestone Review.

Mark would greet me with a chivalrous, “Hello,” and offer me one of the last remaining sugar donuts from the greasy breakfast box. But that all changed one day. Something snapped in Samson that day, and a new person emerged. I never understood why.

As Deputy Samson enters Philip’s stuffy office, he looks away from me, as if disgusted with my presence.

I lean up against Phillip’s overstuffed bookcase, my arms crossed over my chest.

“Take a seat,” Philip barks at the back of Samson’s head.

I watch as Phillip walks around his desk and takes a seat in his leather chair. He steeples his large hands in front of him and glares over at the deputy.

“Mark, do you understand our compliance regulations regarding homophobic behavior?” Philip asks.

Hands clenched at his side, Deputy Samson’s gazes around the room, up to the ceiling, and back to the sheriff. He nods.

“Good.” Philip pauses. “I’m glad to hear it.” He adds: “I will not tolerate any bigotry in this work place.”

“Yes, sir—” Samson starts to say.

Philip snubs him. “I’m not done talking.” He stands and pushes away from the desk. He pulls the shades open and a blinding white light streams into the room. He turns around and says, “You are one of my hardest working employees, Mark. But your attitude needs to change. You will treat everyone—including Chris—with respect.” He grips the back of the chair and his knuckles turn white, his fingers digging into the leather fabric. “Do I make myself clear?”

Deputy Samson nods.

“Good,” Philip says. “Now back to work. I have phone calls to make.” To me: “I’ll see you at home, Christian.”

As we leave the sheriff’s office, I can see uncertainty in the deputy’s eyes. He wipes his clammy palms on his uniform pants, turns to me, and mumbles, “I’m sorry.”

I step forward and pull up a chair across from his desk. I sit. I stare over at a crestfallen deputy. I say, softly, “Mark, I don’t know where it went wrong with us. But we used to be good friends.”

He is cagey embarrassed, as he stares around the room to see if any of his colleagues is watching him.

“Do you remember when I first moved to Milestone County?” I ask him.

Mark nods. “With Russ. Yeah, like it was yesterday.”

This is a delicate balancing act. “Do you remember I would interview you for a news story I was working on at the time. I’d get a few quotes for the article. You helped shape some of my stories back then. Do you remember?”

“Yeah.”

“Your quotes were always colorful and poignant.” I pause, staring up at the stucco ceiling, as if the words were written above our heads. I remember a specific quote: “At this time, there is nothing new to report regarding Mr. Fisher’s missing chickens. I’m sure they’re dead meat by now.”

This elicits a small laugh from Deputy Samson. “I remember that story.”

A smile. “The south end of town was a beehive of activity for several weeks, if you remember. Everyone and his bloodhound were out looking for those chickens.”

“I’m sure a wild animal wolfed down those dumb birds.”

“Or they’re still clucking away along County Road 11,” I volunteer.

Deep silence.

I lean my elbows onto the deputy’s desk. “Look, Mark. I know you’ve been—how can I say this gently?—depressed, since your father’s suicide.”

He scowls at me, and as his back stiffens at attention, his eyes dart around the room. “Leave my dad out of this.”

“Mark, what I’m saying is that our friendship has been tested because of your family’s religious beliefs.” I clap my hands together to emphasis, “You’re a good, hardworking person. Everyone in this room knows it, including me. So when I see you lashing out at people or treating them differently because of the color of their skin or s****l orientation, or because they don’t share the same beliefs as you do, I think of the man I met when I first moved here: a caring, honest man. And very funny.” Pause. “Don’t succumb to your father’s hatred. You’re so much better than that.”

I stand.

As Mark gets up, our eyes lock, and he stares at me, shifting nervously from one foot to the other. A muscle in the corner of his mouth trembles. In a surprisingly pleasant shift in movement, he throws his arms around me and hugs me.

He smells like sugar donuts and Cora’s bitter station coffee. “I’m sorry for being a jerk.”

When Mark releases me from his vice-grip, I crunch my face into what I hope passes for an encouraging grin. “Friends?”

Mark nods. “Definitely friends. I’m sorry. I’ll work on being nice.”

Quickly, Deputy Samson pulls open his side desk drawer and smacks a hardcover book down in front of me.

My latest novel: Buried Secrets.

“Will you sign it?” he asks, handing me a Ballpoint pen.

I smile crookedly.

He shrugs. “Do you mind?”

“Not at all.”

After scribbling a few words on the dedication page (For Mark: A good friend and deputy), I hand the hefty book back to him. Like an excited eight-year-old on Christmas morning, I watch Samson bury his nose between the pages of the book, reading the dedication page. He looks up at me and smiles.

Deputy Samson’s amused expression reminds me of my childhood enthusiasm for book reading. I smile at the long ago memory.

“I’m an i***t,” he says. “I’m really sorry.”

“Most people don’t realize that words are like weapons,” I say. “They can cripple.”

He hugs me again. “Thanks.”

“Take care, Mark.”

“You too.”

En route, I wave to Deputy Sheriff Leslie Roland, and thank her for earlier. She waves and smiles.

As I turn and walk outside, I hear somebody yelling my name behind me.

It is an all-too familiar voice.

I whirl around to see Cora Hastings, Milestone County’s main gossip source sauntering towards me with a half-filled box of fresh donuts from the local bakery.

She is out of breath and panting when she reaches me. She thrusts the box of tempting sweets inches away from my nose. “They’re calling your name.”

Cora Hastings, someone whom I have known for the last six years, puts a smile on my face every time I see her. When I decline a donut, she launches into her wonted soapbox spiel: “Now, Chris, you mustn’t stop eating all of life’s sweet treats. You need them to help you write your next bestseller book.”

Trying to get a word in edgewise when talking—or listening!—to Cora Hastings is impossible.

“I picked up a copy of Buried Secrets last week. I still haven’t had time to settle down to read it. My husband, Jerry, is a needy sort. You understand?”

“I, um—”

“But this evening belongs to me. Jerry is out of town with his buddies at a pool tournament.” She sighs. “Can you imagine? Jerry holed up in a pool hall?” Her voice is animated, zippy. “The old fool doesn’t like large crowds or loud music. I told him he either better prepare himself for the night out with the guys, or stay home. I said to him: you’re in for a rude awakening, dear. And he asked me: Why? And I tried explaining to that stubborn jackass that the place was going to be crowded with college students and roaring with hip hop music.” She laughs. “Some days it feels like I’m living with The Walking Dead. Jerry is an expired stick in the mud. But I still love him.”

“Cora—”

“Oh, Chris! I forgot to tell ya.” She slams the donut box shut and leans forward, grabbing my arm to emphasis her new revelation. “Melissa Dickinson, the woman who moved next door to us last year, is packing up and moving back to Seattle to be closer to her elderly mother. I guess Melissa’s mom, Judith, has taken ill and is being moved into an assisted living community. The woman is ninety-seven! Can you believe people live that long?” She barely pauses for a breath. “If I ever get that old and senile, pull the plug. I don’t want to live that long. It becomes such a burden for your family members to see you in failing health.” She waves a hand, as if proclaiming her sixty-plus years on the earth. “No, no, no. I don’t want to trouble anybody else with my senility.”

This makes me smile, but briefly, and I feel something clenching sharply my insides.

Cora slaps me on the arm. “Sure I can’t get you to take a donut for the road?” She pauses and tilts her head to the side. “You look tired, Chris. Are you feeling all right?”

I nod.

She wags a finger at me. “I know that look,” she says. “Something’s up. What is it?”

I am quiet. Then I say, “Deputy Samson and I didn’t get off on the right foot earlier. But everything seems to be fine now.”

Cora stares up at me. “What happened? What did that muscle head say to you?”

I wink at her dogged persistence. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

She pats my cheek.

The quiet tenderness in her eyes provokes me to say, “Everyone should have a friend like you, Cora.”

She blushes. Which, for Cora Hastings, is a rare event.

“Can I have a hug?” I ask.

She holds the box of donuts out to the side; we embrace.

She whispers into my ear, “Don’t worry about Deputy Samson.” She pulls away from me, stares in my puzzled gaze, and flicks my chin with her thumb. “If push comes to shove, I’ll fix his wagon.”

I toss my head back and stare up into the overcast sky, chuckling. “You’re one of a kind, Cora.”