Calamity Jayne by Kathleen Bacus Page A

road. Insufficient lighting. The imagination has a way of playing
     ugly tricks on a person. How many hours did you work today, Ms. Turner?”
    I was taken aback by the abrupt subject change. I resisted the urge to tick off my work hours on my fingers. “Let’s see, I
     opened up the Dairee Freeze at nine or so and worked ‘til almost one, then pulled an eight-hour shift at BC. Why?”
    “And the day before?”
    “Pretty much the same, except I didn’t get out of BC until after midnight because we had to unload a truck.”
    “So, you’ve been working two jobs on a pretty regular basis?”
    “When she’s not between jobs.” Townsend apparently thought he’d gone long enough without hearing the sound of his own voice.
    “I’d say drop dead, Townsend, but I’ve seen enough corpses for one day,” I snapped, and turned back to the sheriff, not liking
     where this line of questioning was going. “I suppose next you’ll be asking me if I’m taking any prescription or illegal drugs,
     whether I’m under the care of a physician for any psychological problems, if I hate my mother, suffer from acute PMS, or if
     I’m currently menstruating.” I straightened my work vest and fished my keys out of my pocket. “You have my statement, officers,”
     I said with as much dignity as someone who was padding around in dirty, bare feet could. “What you do with it is up to you.
     If there’s nothing further?”
    An uneasy silence followed. Sheriff Thomason finally shook his head and crossed the room to open the door for me. “We’ll be
     in touch,” he promised.
    Yeah, right, if they wanted to sell raffle tickets so they could buy new reserve uniforms, they’d be in touch. Or, if I had
     a delinquent parking ticket, I’d hear from them. Or the next time they needed a good guffaw, they’d look me up.
    “We’ll get someone to drive you back to your vehicle,” the sheriff said with special emphasis on your . He looked at Deputy Doug, who shook his head so violently I thought he’d give himself a case of whiplash.
    “That isn’t necessary,” I said. “I’ll walk.”
    All eyes in the room dropped to my feet. Townsend, who’d had a ringside seat in the corner, stretched and rotated his shoulders.
     “I’ll see she gets home.”
    I placed my hand against my chest. “Be still, my heart,” I muttered, and grudgingly accepted the ride. I’d need skin grafts
     on my feet if I walked much more.
    As we wheeled into the Bargain City lot, depression settled over me like a heavy shroud. Where before my it-could-have-happened-to-anybody
     defense seemed plausible, seeing my jalopy parked right where I’d left it back by the greenhouse gave me second thoughts.
     Townsend was right. Stuff did happen to me. All the time. Like the time I worked as a delivery person at Town Square Florists. Somehow I got the cards switched
     on the floral bouquets and ended up taking the “Long Distance Best Wishes to the Happy Couple: Today is the first day of the rest of your life” arrangement to the double funeral of an elderly couple killed in an auto mishap, and delivered the “With Deepest Sympathy at this Tragic Time” plant to the newlyweds.
    Or the time I was looking at bubble gum machines, couldn’t find where the balls went, and happened to look up and see another
     customer who appeared to be having the same problem. “I see you’re having the same difficulty I am,” I said to the other prospective
     gumball purchaser, only to find out I was speaking to my own reflection on the mirrored wall. Or the time I shut the light
     out on my mother in the windowless restroom of a Chinese restaurant, leaving her to grope for the toilet paper and perform
     her ablutions in the dark. To this day my mother will not visit a Chinese restaurant with me. Of course, that may be because
     of the time I stuck bean sprouts up my nose to entertain the grandson of one of mother’s friends. Several days later he was
     rushed to the hospital