Marie Ferrarella - Lassoing the Deputy

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that Ken was about to throw his own cigarette on the ground and step on it to extinguish it. He wasn’t being perverse, like his brother, she realized. He just wasn’t thinking.

She relieved Ken of his cigarette, too, and put it out the same way. “And besides, it’s fire season,” she reminded the brothers. “You have to be extra careful that a stray spark doesn’t hit something flammable.”

Satisfied that both cigarettes were out, Alma looked at the two offenders. Most likely, this had been Kyle’s idea. He was the persuasive one of the pair. Ken would always follow him, afraid not to.

“Okay, I don’t want to see you smoking for another two years and, if you’re smart,” she added, looking at them pointedly, “never.”

Kyle bristled. He’d never liked being reined in. “Ain’t you got anything more important to do than to come by and make us put out our cigarettes?”

“Not at the moment,” she answered honestly.

Ken looked at her sheepishly. “You gonna tell our old man?”

Dan Winslow was known to be strict with his sons and there were no second chances. First offenses were dealt with quickly and harshly.

Alma saw no point in involving the man if she could get his sons to stop.

“Not this time,” she told Ken, breaking the cigarettes in half and then dropping them into the trash after she checked to make sure that the unlit ends were no longer warm. “But if I catch you at it again, then yes, I will. And he’s your father—call him that. Not ‘old man.’ He deserves your respect.”

Kyle laughed shortly. “You’ve never seen him getting out of bed in the morning.”

“No, I have not,” she readily agreed. “But just remember, we’re all going to get there someday including you—and that’s if we’re lucky.” She could tell that Kyle was eager to see her leave. I’m not stupid, boy. “Oh, and one more thing,” she said in her most innocent voice, “I’ll take that pack of cigarettes you have in your pocket, Kyle.”

She saw Ken flush. Kyle moved back, as if distance could prevent her from taking the pack. “It’s not ours,” he protested.

Good. At least she wouldn’t have to lecture the grocery store owner about carding his underage customers when they tried to buy cigarettes. “Oh? Then whose is it?”

“The pack belongs to our dad,” Ken blurted out even as his brother gave him a dirty look.

That means you’re going to get busted, she thought. She remained standing where she was, holding her hand out and waiting.

“If he misses them, tell him he can come by the sheriff’s office and get them anytime.” With pronounced reluctance, Kyle dug into his shirt pocket and surrendered the pack of cigarettes to her. She nodded and smiled. “Have a nice day, boys. And remember, keep your lungs clean.”

Alma got into her vehicle and drove away. In the rearview mirror, she could see the twins arguing with each other. Probably trying to decide what to tell their father when he questioned them about the missing pack of cigarettes.

Alma smiled to herself.

Having resolved the situation to her satisfaction for the time being, Alma was about to head back to the sheriff’s office, then changed her mind. It wasn’t lunchtime yet, but it was close enough to noon for her to take an early lunch. She decided that for once, she’d give in to herself.

Besides, she needed the sight of a friendly face.

The thought of stopping by the diner and seeing Miss Joan appealed to her.

The diner was like a second home to her, after the great many hours waitressing there. Granted, she wasn’t very hungry—seeing Cash had tied her stomach into a knot and killed whatever appetite she might have had—but she could do with the company. Female company.

She loved her father and brothers dearly and had done her best to keep up with the lot of them. For the most part, she’d succeeded and if they suddenly weren’t around, she would miss them more than words could say.

That being said, there were times when she found it nice just to let her guard down. Just to be a softer version of herself without having to prove anything to anyone—or feel as if she had to.

That involved talking to a woman. An understanding woman. And Miss Joan, despite the crusty exterior she liked to project, fit the bill to a T.

As usual, Miss Joan was behind the counter when she walked in. The woman looked up the moment she opened the door. One glance at her unlined face—remarkable considering her age—and Alma knew that Miss Joan knew exactly what she was going through. And why she was here at this hour.

“C’mon in, girl. Take a load off,” Miss Joan called out, beckoning her over to the counter. She glanced around and instructed the waitress closest to her, “Julie, go get Alma here a tall, frosty glass of lemonade, please.”

Lemonade sounded perfect. Trust Miss Joan to know just what to offer. Alma slid onto the seat at the counter. All she wanted to do was sit here quietly and listen to Miss Joan talk. About anything. There was something comforting about the woman’s cadence, as if just hearing her talk made everything better.

“That’s all right, Miss Joan,” Alma began. “You don’t have to go to any trouble on my account. I just want to sit here and—”

She got no further in her protest, but then, that was a given with Miss Joan. The woman overruled everyone, God included, Harry liked to say.

“It’s on the house, honey,” Miss Joan interjected. One hand fisted at her hip, she pretended to level a sharp look at Alma. “You’re not going to insult the bride-to-be two weeks before her wedding by turning down her offer, are you?”

Alma smiled. As if anyone could say no to the woman. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” she said with a smile. “Thank you.”

Julie came and placed the tall lemonade in front of her and retreated. Miss Joan waited until the waitress left, then leaned in over the counter and, in a low voice, asked, “So you saw him, didn’t you?”

There went her stomach again, Alma thought, annoyed with herself. It tightened so hard she found it difficult to breathe. Still, she feigned ignorance. “You mean Cash?” she asked innocently.

Miss Joan gave her a look that said she had no time for nonsense. “Don’t play coy with me, girl. Of course I mean Cash.” And then she laughed shortly. “Really doesn’t sound like much of a name for a grown man. Especially not for a lawyer.”

Alma recalled that Cash had once told her that when he reached his goal and finally became a lawyer, he was going to use only the initials of his first and middle names on his letterhead. His unfortunate first name arose from the fact that although his father was rushing to get his mother to the hospital on time, nature was against him and he didn’t make it. His mother wound up giving birth to him in the backseat. To distract her, his father had had the radio on. Johnny Cash was singing when the infant drew his first breath.

Since they’d been hoping for a girl and had no boys’ names picked out, his mother named him after the country-and-Western icon. Cash used to say that he was extremely grateful that Loretta Lynn hadn’t been singing at the time.

“Yes, I saw him,” Alma said quietly.

Miss Joan nodded. “Did you two talk?”

Alma held the lemonade glass with both hands, focusing on nothing else for the moment. She took a long sip through the straw, then shrugged as if talking to Cash or not talking to him was all really one and the same to her.

“A few words,” she acknowledged, knowing Miss Joan wasn’t going to let this go until she said something.

“So, you didn’t talk,” the woman concluded knowingly.

No, not really, Alma thought. Out loud she said, “There’s nothing to talk about anymore.”