boxes were stored in the former oil change pit, which still smelled like mud and oil decades after it had been converted. Bobbie Faye sat at the little student’s desk the bank used for a table and stared at the box, her hands shaking. Melba turned her key and waited for Bobbie Faye to put her own key in.
When the box was unlocked, Melba said, “I’ll go cash this for you while you visit your box.” She turned to hurry out, then paused a moment at the door. “Your mamma would have been tickled pink to see you takin’ such good care of her tiara. I always figured you’da lost it.”
Bobbie Faye frowned at Melba as she left. She turned to the box and, holding her breath, opened it, moved the tissue aside, and lifted out the tiara. It was made from iron, moltenand beaten into shape with four odd half-moon curves at the top, two on each side facing each other, and a star in the center, taller than the half-moons. Nary a gem, diamond or otherwise, not a single ounce of precious metal, just iron. Slightly rusted, scratched and plain. Bobbie Faye stared at it, flabbergasted that someone could put so much value on something her great-great-grandfather made as a toy for his daughter; save that it was old, it had no more value than an antique horseshoe.
She held it tight to her chest a moment, getting a few rust marks on her white T-shirt. She closed her eyes, her thumb absently running across the first half of the inscription, the only part still visible: TON TRÉSOR EST TROUVÉ . The rest of the lettering was so worn, only faint marks remained. Her mother had made a little ceremony out of “passing the flame” when she first crowned Bobbie Faye with the tiara. There were flowers for their hair and beads and silly costumes. Her mom read the inscription, saying, “My little treasure,” and Bobbie Faye had imagined that’s what her great-great-grandfather would have said to his daughter when he first crowned her.
It was the only thing her family had passed down besides the gene that made them all screwups, and the tiara was worth more to her than gold. She remembered her very first parade as the Contraband Days Queen, stepping into her mother’s place, feeling wrong, out of sync. It was the first time she’d been forced to acknowledge that the cancer was going to win and her mother wasn’t always going to be there. Then she remembered her mother’s delight when she had first worn the tiara, and she blinked away the tears.
I’m sorry, Mamma
. She lifted her face to the ceiling.
Roy’s in trouble, and I need this
. “And then I’m going to beat the crap out of him,” she said, aloud. Catching herself, she looked back up at the ceiling and amended, “I mean . . . help rehabilitate him.”
By the time Bobbie Faye made it back to the lobby, Melba stood motionless at her desk, one hand holding out BobbieFaye’s cash from her check, the other hand hovering midair, holding a telephone receiver halfway to her ear.
“ ’Bye, Melba.” Bobbie Faye grabbed the cash and shoved it into a plastic bag with the tiara. She tied the bag closed as she hurried across the lobby floor, eyes down on her task, until she bumped into the twitchy guy, who was now standing in front of the line, twittering with nerves.
Bobbie Faye glanced over to Avantee, who held a wad of cash intended for the twitchy guy. She had paused there with her arm stretched halfway out, as if all of the synapses regulating efficient motion had finally short-circuited. Bobbie Faye rolled her eyes, snatched the cash from Avantee’s hand, said, “For God’s sake, how hard can it be to hand it over?” and turned to hand the cash to the twitchy guy.
Who was holding a gun. On Avantee.
“Thank you,” the twitchy man said. Then he yanked away her plastic bag and, waving his gun at her, added, “I’m very sorry. I’m going to be needing this as well.”
“Oh, you have so got to be kidding.”
He indicated his chest, beneath a lightweight windbreaker,
When the box was unlocked, Melba said, “I’ll go cash this for you while you visit your box.” She turned to hurry out, then paused a moment at the door. “Your mamma would have been tickled pink to see you takin’ such good care of her tiara. I always figured you’da lost it.”
Bobbie Faye frowned at Melba as she left. She turned to the box and, holding her breath, opened it, moved the tissue aside, and lifted out the tiara. It was made from iron, moltenand beaten into shape with four odd half-moon curves at the top, two on each side facing each other, and a star in the center, taller than the half-moons. Nary a gem, diamond or otherwise, not a single ounce of precious metal, just iron. Slightly rusted, scratched and plain. Bobbie Faye stared at it, flabbergasted that someone could put so much value on something her great-great-grandfather made as a toy for his daughter; save that it was old, it had no more value than an antique horseshoe.
She held it tight to her chest a moment, getting a few rust marks on her white T-shirt. She closed her eyes, her thumb absently running across the first half of the inscription, the only part still visible: TON TRÉSOR EST TROUVÉ . The rest of the lettering was so worn, only faint marks remained. Her mother had made a little ceremony out of “passing the flame” when she first crowned Bobbie Faye with the tiara. There were flowers for their hair and beads and silly costumes. Her mom read the inscription, saying, “My little treasure,” and Bobbie Faye had imagined that’s what her great-great-grandfather would have said to his daughter when he first crowned her.
It was the only thing her family had passed down besides the gene that made them all screwups, and the tiara was worth more to her than gold. She remembered her very first parade as the Contraband Days Queen, stepping into her mother’s place, feeling wrong, out of sync. It was the first time she’d been forced to acknowledge that the cancer was going to win and her mother wasn’t always going to be there. Then she remembered her mother’s delight when she had first worn the tiara, and she blinked away the tears.
I’m sorry, Mamma
. She lifted her face to the ceiling.
Roy’s in trouble, and I need this
. “And then I’m going to beat the crap out of him,” she said, aloud. Catching herself, she looked back up at the ceiling and amended, “I mean . . . help rehabilitate him.”
By the time Bobbie Faye made it back to the lobby, Melba stood motionless at her desk, one hand holding out BobbieFaye’s cash from her check, the other hand hovering midair, holding a telephone receiver halfway to her ear.
“ ’Bye, Melba.” Bobbie Faye grabbed the cash and shoved it into a plastic bag with the tiara. She tied the bag closed as she hurried across the lobby floor, eyes down on her task, until she bumped into the twitchy guy, who was now standing in front of the line, twittering with nerves.
Bobbie Faye glanced over to Avantee, who held a wad of cash intended for the twitchy guy. She had paused there with her arm stretched halfway out, as if all of the synapses regulating efficient motion had finally short-circuited. Bobbie Faye rolled her eyes, snatched the cash from Avantee’s hand, said, “For God’s sake, how hard can it be to hand it over?” and turned to hand the cash to the twitchy guy.
Who was holding a gun. On Avantee.
“Thank you,” the twitchy man said. Then he yanked away her plastic bag and, waving his gun at her, added, “I’m very sorry. I’m going to be needing this as well.”
“Oh, you have so got to be kidding.”
He indicated his chest, beneath a lightweight windbreaker,
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