over Mimi as she ran across the street chasing her boyfriend with a metal meat tenderizer.
“Goddamn it,” Thatch said.
I got out of the squad car. Tuesday ran around to my side of the car.
“What’s going on here?” I asked her. She’d been the one who made the call.
“Momma and her boyfriend got into a fight again,” she said.
Thatch took out across the road and into the empty field after Mimi and her boyfriend, one hand on his gun holster. He got about halfway across the field before he caught up with Mimi. Thatch tackled her and went down in the sick yellow grass with Mimi on top of him, her flailing her limbs in the air. The boyfriend was still running across the field, thinking Mimi was still following him. Thatch wrested Mimi underneath him and pried the meat tenderizer out of her hand. Mimi tried to scratch Thatch’s face. He grabbed her wrists and pulled them above her head.
It was about this time the boyfriend realized he wasn’t being chased anymore, turned around, and screamed across the field, “Yeah, teach that bitch a lesson!”
I moved to help Thatch. Tuesday reached out and took my wrist.
“It’ll be okay,” she said. “Momma gets tired easy. Don’t arrest her; I just wanted you to scare some sense into her. It’s been like this all day.”
“That’s not protocol,” I said. “We get a disturbance call like this, we can’t just leave.”
I pulled my wrist away from Tuesday’s grasp. I turned back toward the field.
Tuesday moved fast, grabbed my arm.
“Bill,” she said.
I looked back at her. She was bent down toward me, her spine twisted, the bones of her face and limbs hard and struck with half-light from the dog-tongued moon, and when she tilted her head and stared at me I saw right through her feral green eyes, right straight through, into that sticky hollow place where all wounded children lived. I knew this place. A place called, my Daddy left me before I could say goodbye, I live with a mother that doesn’t even exist, a place called, please don’t leave me.
“Bill,” she said again, “please don't arrest her.”
Thatch took Mimi back through the field and across the street to where the children waited on the lawn. We calmed down Mimi and her boyfriend and then we left.
“Hey Bill,” Thatch said on the way back to the station, through the fog-black tar road, “ did you notice there was only eleven children outside?”
“What? What do you mean only eleven?”
“I only counted eleven outside,” he said, “and I remember there being twelve.”
“Maybe one of them was around back, or inside the trailer,” I said, but when I said it my stomach bottomed out and I knew it wasn’t true.
“Hey, my wife Linda, you remember her, right?” Thatch said. “Well, she met a prophet of the Triple Goddess a few days ago and he invited us to dinner. You want to come along?”
I laughed.
“I’m serious,” he said, “Linda says this guy is legit. I mean, he’s a little strange, but all prophets are, you know, that’s part of their charm.”
“A prophet. In this damn town,” I said.
“Just tell me if you want to go. Linda says she wants you to go.”
Linda, I thought. Christ. The name for all blank-faced, beat-poor wives. The name for those who make cherry pies and wear aprons in the summertime.
“Bill,” Thatch said to get my attention.
“Yeah,” I said, “yeah, whatever, I’ll go.”
**********
The prophet of the Triple Goddess lived a few miles out of town beside a silo wrecked by an F-5 hurricane and a trash pit filled with Grandma’s furniture and glass Coke bottles warped flat by the heat. The prophet drove a Kia with a bumper sticker plastered on the back that read, “I’ll give up my gun when you pry it from my cold dead fingers.” He also had a lot of white, ragged-eared cats. Thatch and I, and Linda, dressed in a pink dress with ruffles and click-click-click heels, walked up to the door.
“Knock,” I told Thatch.
“You do
“Goddamn it,” Thatch said.
I got out of the squad car. Tuesday ran around to my side of the car.
“What’s going on here?” I asked her. She’d been the one who made the call.
“Momma and her boyfriend got into a fight again,” she said.
Thatch took out across the road and into the empty field after Mimi and her boyfriend, one hand on his gun holster. He got about halfway across the field before he caught up with Mimi. Thatch tackled her and went down in the sick yellow grass with Mimi on top of him, her flailing her limbs in the air. The boyfriend was still running across the field, thinking Mimi was still following him. Thatch wrested Mimi underneath him and pried the meat tenderizer out of her hand. Mimi tried to scratch Thatch’s face. He grabbed her wrists and pulled them above her head.
It was about this time the boyfriend realized he wasn’t being chased anymore, turned around, and screamed across the field, “Yeah, teach that bitch a lesson!”
I moved to help Thatch. Tuesday reached out and took my wrist.
“It’ll be okay,” she said. “Momma gets tired easy. Don’t arrest her; I just wanted you to scare some sense into her. It’s been like this all day.”
“That’s not protocol,” I said. “We get a disturbance call like this, we can’t just leave.”
I pulled my wrist away from Tuesday’s grasp. I turned back toward the field.
Tuesday moved fast, grabbed my arm.
“Bill,” she said.
I looked back at her. She was bent down toward me, her spine twisted, the bones of her face and limbs hard and struck with half-light from the dog-tongued moon, and when she tilted her head and stared at me I saw right through her feral green eyes, right straight through, into that sticky hollow place where all wounded children lived. I knew this place. A place called, my Daddy left me before I could say goodbye, I live with a mother that doesn’t even exist, a place called, please don’t leave me.
“Bill,” she said again, “please don't arrest her.”
Thatch took Mimi back through the field and across the street to where the children waited on the lawn. We calmed down Mimi and her boyfriend and then we left.
“Hey Bill,” Thatch said on the way back to the station, through the fog-black tar road, “ did you notice there was only eleven children outside?”
“What? What do you mean only eleven?”
“I only counted eleven outside,” he said, “and I remember there being twelve.”
“Maybe one of them was around back, or inside the trailer,” I said, but when I said it my stomach bottomed out and I knew it wasn’t true.
“Hey, my wife Linda, you remember her, right?” Thatch said. “Well, she met a prophet of the Triple Goddess a few days ago and he invited us to dinner. You want to come along?”
I laughed.
“I’m serious,” he said, “Linda says this guy is legit. I mean, he’s a little strange, but all prophets are, you know, that’s part of their charm.”
“A prophet. In this damn town,” I said.
“Just tell me if you want to go. Linda says she wants you to go.”
Linda, I thought. Christ. The name for all blank-faced, beat-poor wives. The name for those who make cherry pies and wear aprons in the summertime.
“Bill,” Thatch said to get my attention.
“Yeah,” I said, “yeah, whatever, I’ll go.”
**********
The prophet of the Triple Goddess lived a few miles out of town beside a silo wrecked by an F-5 hurricane and a trash pit filled with Grandma’s furniture and glass Coke bottles warped flat by the heat. The prophet drove a Kia with a bumper sticker plastered on the back that read, “I’ll give up my gun when you pry it from my cold dead fingers.” He also had a lot of white, ragged-eared cats. Thatch and I, and Linda, dressed in a pink dress with ruffles and click-click-click heels, walked up to the door.
“Knock,” I told Thatch.
“You do
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