streamers.
“Ma is just awesome at this.”
“I wanted ten, Russell. This is a dozen.”
“Sorry, Ma. I got you a couple of freebies.”
Her voice came out like the swing of my galley door, fricative dry aluminum. “There are no freebies, Russell. Not in this world.”
Russell fought off defeat and nudged me. Look. Her cone creatures were everywhere. Owls and more owls and spiders with pipe cleaner legs and hot-glued constructions of cones and cone scales amounting to deer and moose and skunk and porcupine and squirrel. There were even grizzly bears, rearing with a fair amount of malice despite their wibble-wobble eyes.
“She does almost one a day since we lost my dad. That’s over two thousand. She goes to the schools and shows the kids how to do it.”
“Ha,” she said. “The schools.”
“He’s a fly fisherman, Ma. You think you could make a pine cone trout?”
“I do not do fish.”
“You could try.”
Rita Crowe stiffened. She drew in a wheezy breath. “Russell, go downstairs and get me a jar of them cling peaches.”
Russell shot me a little grimace. “Hey, Ma, how about instead we thaw out that huckleberry pie? You know, the one Aunt Shureen dropped off a while ago when you weren’t feeling good. I know right where it’s at in the freezer.”
The woman deflated. Her eyes sank in her head. She rubbed her temples. She sighed as if this child of hers had just tapped the very dregs of her strength. “Russell …
please.”
None too soon we were seated at the Crowe family table around Hot Pockets and pickles, rustled up by the deputy, along with the canned peach halves and a huge bowl of potato chips that Rita Crowe said were not stale.
I started with the novelty of a pickle, spearing it with a plastic fork and counting it as my first vegetable in weeks. Rita Crowe opened with a cigarette and these words: “So I hear you’re not so happy with our wonderful sheriff.”
Russell bit a Hot Pocket, head down. “Ow,” he mouthed.
“You always do that.”
“I do not.”
“The man is on them cancer drugs,” she continued to me. “Heavy. Not that he would step down, of course. Not with all he’s got going on.”
The pickle tasted like paint thinner. Or maybe I was just out of the loop, taste-wise. I put the thing down on my paper plate and tried a chip. Stale.
“Ma did EMT for twenty years.” Russell supplied this around a juggled mouthful of Hot Pocket. “Now she’s finally on the county board.”
“Russell, get him some coffee.”
I put my hands up fast. “I’m fine.”
“Russell
…”
“Okay, Ma.”
Russell set down black coffee in a foam cup. Rita Crowe went deep into her cigarette. She filled the room with smoke. “Of course it’s a pity,” she said at last. “The whole thing. I don’t mean to say it’s not. But now there’s people coming in and out of that office got nothing whatsoever to do with Park County business.”
“Ma thinks Sheriff Chubbuck should step down.”
“Russell.”
“Sorry, Ma.”
She nudged the bowl of potato chips toward me. I tried another one. “They’re fine,” she said.
“Ma—”
“They are absolutely fine.”
I twisted, glanced toward the Russell Sr. photo over the fireplace. A hundred googly-eyed pine cone creatures turned me back around.
“I’m not popular on the county board,” Rita Crowe said. She shot a plume of smoke toward a dark spot on the ceiling. “But that man should step down. And he should have someone ready to take his place, someone who deserves it. That’s how it’s supposed to happen.”
“It’s emphysema, Ma. Not cancer.”
“Does it matter?”
“Probably to him.”
“You want to be smart,” she said, “you can go to your room and be smart.”
Now this was awkward. The deputy’s jaw turned red. He kept his eyes down on his plate while his mother served him a handful of chips. Russell’s chair squawked as he shoved away from the table. He stormed off all of ten feet to a chest
“Ma is just awesome at this.”
“I wanted ten, Russell. This is a dozen.”
“Sorry, Ma. I got you a couple of freebies.”
Her voice came out like the swing of my galley door, fricative dry aluminum. “There are no freebies, Russell. Not in this world.”
Russell fought off defeat and nudged me. Look. Her cone creatures were everywhere. Owls and more owls and spiders with pipe cleaner legs and hot-glued constructions of cones and cone scales amounting to deer and moose and skunk and porcupine and squirrel. There were even grizzly bears, rearing with a fair amount of malice despite their wibble-wobble eyes.
“She does almost one a day since we lost my dad. That’s over two thousand. She goes to the schools and shows the kids how to do it.”
“Ha,” she said. “The schools.”
“He’s a fly fisherman, Ma. You think you could make a pine cone trout?”
“I do not do fish.”
“You could try.”
Rita Crowe stiffened. She drew in a wheezy breath. “Russell, go downstairs and get me a jar of them cling peaches.”
Russell shot me a little grimace. “Hey, Ma, how about instead we thaw out that huckleberry pie? You know, the one Aunt Shureen dropped off a while ago when you weren’t feeling good. I know right where it’s at in the freezer.”
The woman deflated. Her eyes sank in her head. She rubbed her temples. She sighed as if this child of hers had just tapped the very dregs of her strength. “Russell …
please.”
None too soon we were seated at the Crowe family table around Hot Pockets and pickles, rustled up by the deputy, along with the canned peach halves and a huge bowl of potato chips that Rita Crowe said were not stale.
I started with the novelty of a pickle, spearing it with a plastic fork and counting it as my first vegetable in weeks. Rita Crowe opened with a cigarette and these words: “So I hear you’re not so happy with our wonderful sheriff.”
Russell bit a Hot Pocket, head down. “Ow,” he mouthed.
“You always do that.”
“I do not.”
“The man is on them cancer drugs,” she continued to me. “Heavy. Not that he would step down, of course. Not with all he’s got going on.”
The pickle tasted like paint thinner. Or maybe I was just out of the loop, taste-wise. I put the thing down on my paper plate and tried a chip. Stale.
“Ma did EMT for twenty years.” Russell supplied this around a juggled mouthful of Hot Pocket. “Now she’s finally on the county board.”
“Russell, get him some coffee.”
I put my hands up fast. “I’m fine.”
“Russell
…”
“Okay, Ma.”
Russell set down black coffee in a foam cup. Rita Crowe went deep into her cigarette. She filled the room with smoke. “Of course it’s a pity,” she said at last. “The whole thing. I don’t mean to say it’s not. But now there’s people coming in and out of that office got nothing whatsoever to do with Park County business.”
“Ma thinks Sheriff Chubbuck should step down.”
“Russell.”
“Sorry, Ma.”
She nudged the bowl of potato chips toward me. I tried another one. “They’re fine,” she said.
“Ma—”
“They are absolutely fine.”
I twisted, glanced toward the Russell Sr. photo over the fireplace. A hundred googly-eyed pine cone creatures turned me back around.
“I’m not popular on the county board,” Rita Crowe said. She shot a plume of smoke toward a dark spot on the ceiling. “But that man should step down. And he should have someone ready to take his place, someone who deserves it. That’s how it’s supposed to happen.”
“It’s emphysema, Ma. Not cancer.”
“Does it matter?”
“Probably to him.”
“You want to be smart,” she said, “you can go to your room and be smart.”
Now this was awkward. The deputy’s jaw turned red. He kept his eyes down on his plate while his mother served him a handful of chips. Russell’s chair squawked as he shoved away from the table. He stormed off all of ten feet to a chest
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