Rene Gutteridge: Listen

“No. Not directly.”

“How do you know he’s angry with you?”

The reverend glanced at his wife, who gave a small nod. “Well, um… there’s this Web site. It’s… I don’t know really what it is. But it’s got conversations on it from our town. One of them is Tim talking about me.”

Frank quickly jotted down notes. A slight stirring of the crowd and a timid scream caused them all to look toward the tree. Gavin hung from a limb, sawing the rope. It snapped and the cat fell to the ground. A poof of dust rose up around it.

Frank turned and marched toward Gavin, clutching his pencil like a weapon. Gavin was climbing down the tree. Frank grabbed him by the shoulder and yanked him off.

He fell to the ground and jumped up, looking angry and scared. “What?”

“I told you not to let that cat drop!” Frank yelled.

Gavin breathed hard. “I tried. Honest. But I couldn’t hold on to the limb, cut, and hold the cat. I would’ve fallen out.”

Heat flushed through Frank’s face. “Give me your coat.”

“What?”

“Your coat!”

Gavin took it off and handed it over.

Frank turned to the cat and crouched, searching carefully for any signs of breathing. He put two fingers to the small of its neck, then stood and laid the coat over the cat. And glared at Gavin. “You better learn to follow orders, son.” He walked back to the Caldwells, trying to compose himself.

Mrs. Caldwell looked away from where the cat lay, shaking her head. “How are we going to tell Gabriella?”

“Where might I find Mr. Shaw?” Frank asked.

Mrs. Caldwell pointed through the crowd. “That’s him. Standing on his lawn across the street.”

The reverend grabbed Frank’s arm. “But I know this man. He wouldn’t kill my cat.”

Mrs. Caldwell glared distantly. “Yeah, well, we all thought we knew Tim. Until we heard what he was capable of saying about you.”

Damien drove toward his work, glancing at Jenna every few seconds, trying to figure out what to say. She only leaned against her window, gazing out, seemingly not even there. “Do you want to tell me what happened?”

“No.”

“This is unlike you. You’re not one of those kids.”

“And what kind of kid would that be?”

“A kid that hits other kids. You were a pincher in preschool, but you got over that phase.” Damien smiled, but Jenna didn’t. “Look, why don’t you just explain it. I want to hear your side of the story.”

“It won’t change anything. I’m suspended. Probably grounded.” She looked at Damien.

“Well, um, yes. Of course. But still, you need to tell me what happened.”

A long, strong sigh escaped from Jenna, and she finally sat up. “It goes down like this. A girl was being mean. To another girl. So I hit her.”

Damien didn’t react. He wanted to listen, hear her out. “Okay.”

“That’s it.”

“That’s it?”

“This isn’t some epic tale.”

Damien took a deep breath, trying not to lose his patience.

Jenna turned the radio on, switching the channel to some horrid sound called alternative rock.

Damien pushed it off. “I don’t think so. I don’t know what’s going on with you and your attitude, but it’s not acceptable.”

“You want to give me some speech about the power of words, Daddy? Something about how I should’ve tried to use my words? You know what? Sometimes words are the problem. And sometimes they can’t fix things.”

Damien nodded, alarmed at her tone, but glad she was at least talking. “Okay. I understand that.”

“No, you really don’t.”

“Then help me understand.”

“Just ground me. And let’s leave it at that.”

“Fine. You’re grounded.”

“From what?”

“You pick, since you want to go this thing alone.”

Jenna’s scowl couldn’t hide the surprise. She attempted a halfhearted shrug. “Whatever. Fine. The Internet.”

“Perfect. One week.”

“Thank you,” she mumbled.

Frank told the Caldwells to go inside and wait there. He backed the crowd away to give them their space. Gavin was calling animal control and covering the cat with a sheet so he could take his coat back. Frank turned to cross the street.

Tim Shaw stood still, watching the scene.

A nearby man approached Frank before he got to the other side of the street. “I have some information.”

“About the cat?”

“Yeah.”

“What is it?”

“I work at Al’s Hardware Store. Tim’s a frequent customer.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, he was in the other day. And he paid with cash.”

“He paid for what in cash?”

“His items.”

“You’re saying he bought a rope?”

“No. He didn’t buy a rope. He bought some weed killer. But he paid in cash. He pays for a lot of things in cash. You know, maybe trying to cover something up.”

Frank glanced at Mr. Shaw, who was still standing there, looking worried. “All right. Thank you.” He started to walk off.

“It’s just, you know, there was a conversation.”

“On the Web site.”

“Yeah. Something about getting even.”

“How do you know it was Mr. Shaw talking about Reverend Caldwell?”

The guy shrugged and pointed to the tree. “The cat kind of says it all, doesn’t it?”

Frank continued across the street. As he neared Mr. Shaw, the man looked more and more alarmed. “You’re Tim Shaw?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s talk inside.”

He led Frank inside the house. A woman, presumably his wife, stood near the large front window, like she’d been peeking out the country blue curtains. She walked across the country blue carpet and stopped by the country blue couch. A collection of rooster images, from framed prints to metal-and-wire cutouts, hung on a far wall.

“I’m Officer Merret.”

“Darla.” She gave a limp handshake and sat down. “What’s going on?”

“You don’t know?” Frank asked.

“We went over this morning when we heard all the commotion, and Beth yelled at us to get off their lawn,” Tim explained. “I’m not sure why they’re so upset with us. We’re friends.”

Frank sat down in a dark blue recliner. Through the kitchen he saw two poodles anxiously panting at the door. “You’re aware their cat was hung-” he cleared his throat-“from a tree.”

“Yes,” Darla said, squeezed close to her husband on the couch. “That’s awful.”

“Did you have anything to do with it?”

Darla’s mouth dropped open, and Tim’s eyes widened. “They think we hung their cat?”

“That’s what they said.” Frank gave them a moment to process it, closely reading their reaction.

“Why would they think that?” Tim said, anguish in his voice. “I’m the head deacon at their church. We’ve known Ted and Beth for years.”

Frank wasn’t sure how to broach the next subject. He took his time figuring out how to say it right. “Okay, look; they mentioned a Web site. Are you aware of it?”

“A Web site? What Web site?”

“It’s called Listen to Yourself.”

“Never heard of it,” Darla said and looked at her husband. “Have you?”

“No. What is it?” Tim asked Frank.

“I’m not sure. I only recently discovered it myself. A fellow officer told me about it. Apparently someone is going around town recording conversations and posting them on the Internet.”

Tim and Darla stared at each other, then at Frank. This wasn’t sinking in.

“According to the Caldwells, there is a conversation on there-you’re talking about them. I don’t know the specifics because I haven’t seen the actual conversation. But whatever it was, they’ve concluded that you’re angry with them.”