Mark Costello - Big If

“We don’t lie to her,” said Christopher. “Everything we say is strictly true.”

The door opened and there was Little Flower, dressed in stretch slacks and a red-checked flannel shirt. Her hair was dirty, brown, and straight, wet-looking though not wet.

Boone said, “I thought you were in the shower.”

“I didn’t say it was— turned on .” Little Flower said this as she inspected her visitors, first Christopher, then Vi, a quick look up and down. As she said “turned on,” her eyes came around to rest, coquettishly, on Boone.

Boone said, “We don’t have time for your silly games. This is Agent Asplund out of Washington. Let’s have a little chat.”

“What have I been doing?What have I been doing ? This is a question, Boone?”

They sat in the front room of the cabin, Vi in a rocker at one end of the coffee table, Little Flower on the couch between Christopher and Boone. The little room was packed with bric-a-brac, glass poodles and glass dishes, an older woman’s taste, Vi thought. She wondered if Little Flower’s mother was alive and living here, or whether the bric-a-brac was posthumous. Christopher got up and roamed around the cabin, looking in the closet, pushing coats around to see behind them.

“Lately, I’ve been listening,” Little Flower said. “My ankle unit makes a noise, a high-pitched eeeek —it does , Christopher, I don’t care what you say, or Bri either, you’re both a pack of liars in my book. I can’t sleep, listening for it. When I can’t hear it, I get scared and think my bracelet is malfunctioning, and the cops are coming for me, and I panic in my bed. I can only sleep when I hear it nice and steady. Wait — there it is.”

“It doesn’t make a noise,” said Christopher. He was looking through the closet. “I told you that before.”

“You also said the ankle rash would go away, but you were wrong there too.”

“Use the ointment,” said Christopher, moving to the kitchen.

“Did you bring me some?”

“No, I brought you chocolates. They’re in the bag. Go ahead, indulge.”

“I don’t feel like it,” said Little Flower, asserting her authority. “Where is my probation officer? I called him fifty times. I demand to speak to him.”

Boone was spreading photos on the coffee table. “He’s a busy guy.”

Little Flower turned to Vi. “Busy guy, my ass. He was always after me to get a job. ‘Get a job’—that’s all he ever said. He said, ‘I need to check the box next to you’re gainfully employed, or else I catch hell from my supervisor.’ I said, ‘How can I get a job? I can’t go anywhere.’ He said, ‘That’s not true. You can shop for necessities, one hour, once a week, and attend the religious observance of your choice.’ I said, ‘What if I choose the Church of Blown-Up Buildings?’ He said, ‘What the heck is that supposed to mean?’ He said, ‘You can find a job that lets you work from your house.’ I said, ‘Like what? President?’ He said, ‘I know a man in phone solicitation. He’s reputable and desperately needs help.’ He said, ‘Most of the people who call you selling things are actually sentenced federal prisoners earning money from the comfort of their home confinements.’ So I called the guy and tried it. Turns out I suck at phone solicitation. They give you a written script, but I can’t read and talk and listen and think of a response all at the same time.” She itched her ankle rash, then picked a chocolate from the box, bit it, something white inside — she forced herself to finish it. “Yesterday, or I don’t know, it could have been last week — anyway, pretty recently I measured a hundred feet from the jack in my wall.”

Vi said, “Why?”

“Signal from my ankle, my wall dials Colorado, computer pages my PO — it doesn’t sound quite real to me somehow.”

Vi said, “You thought it wouldn’t work?”

“I knew it would work — honey, it’s the government. It’s just that I thought it wasn’t real. So I stood ninety-six feet from my phone. I marked it off exactly and I stood there waiting for the cops or my PO to come bombing down the road. Maybe I was lonely, I don’t know. I waited hours, standing there, and nobody came. Then I tried ninety-seven feet — nothing. Ninety-eight, ninety-nine — nothing. Then I got the courage — I tried one hundred feet. I was out there half the day and no one came. I laid out on this big rock and watched the clouds. My ankle was a hundred feet from the phone jack, so the rest of me was even further.”

Boone had his pictures set. “We’re doing names and faces, Little Flower.”

Vi recognized the pictures — rallies, protests, people in the street.

“We did these guys a million times,” Little Flower said. “That’s Dick Laurent. That’s Mater with him in disguise. Dick again. There’s Gordon, Gordo. That’s the kid with the Jesus Rocks tattoo. That’s Martin from the Army in the back. He’s the one who brought the fertilizer. What happened to Martin?”

“I told you,” said Christopher. “Shot by troopers in Nebraska. Routine traffic stop.”

Little Flower shook her head. “He wasn’t even twenty yet.”

Boone turned the pictures.

Little Flower peered at them. “That’s the kid, sometimes we called him Thad and sometimes Baxter, sometimes Jesus Rocks. That’s — him, I never knew his name. That’s Dick again, behind the car. We had that car when we lived in the cabin in Vermont. It was a pretty cabin. We were sad the day we torched it for insurance.”

Boone turned the pictures. “We’re doing names and faces, not cars and cabins.”

“That’s Dick again. That’s Baxter and that’s Mater with him. Is Mater dead too?”

“No,” said Boone. “Death row.”

“That’s Gordo with a beard. Is Gordo on death row?”

“No, he’s doing life.”

“That’s Baxter. Is he doing life?”

“No, he’s doing seven hundred months in Terre Haute.”

“That’s Dick. Is he in Terre Haute?”

“No, he’s on the Ten Most Wanted, presently at seven. We’ll get him, Little Flower, don’t you doubt it.”

“That’s Gordo, God I can’t believe it. That’s Martin, who you cruelly blew away. That’s Thad and Baxter. That’s Claudio and Norbert. That’s Timmy Tuckahoe. That’s Johnny Poopooface.”

“Stop it,” Boone said. “There is no Timmy Tuckahoe.”

Vi started for the bedroom down the narrow hall.

Little Flower said, “Where the fuck is she going?”

Vi turned and said, “Relax yourself.”

Little Flower’s bedroom was a miniature wilderness, limp curtains in the window, the mattress flopped over, clothes and pennies on the rug, jars of Vaseline, a TV on a milk crate, a lamp with a badly dented shade. Vi took out her cell phone.

Little Flower was standing in the doorway. She said, “My prison is weak signals.”

Vi said, “Let me make a call here, Little Flower. I’ll just be a sec.”

Little Flower whispered, “They come out and rape me. This is not my fantasy. Boone cannot control them — he has no idea. Brian was bad, but Christopher is worse. You have an honest face, lady. Help me. Help me.”

Vi looked at Little Flower. She said, “Yeah okay, just let me make this call.”

Little Flower went back to the living room.

Vi called Gretchen Williams, who was on the way to Rumsey Moose Lodge with the motorcade.

Gretchen said, “How’s it going there?”

Vi said, “This is bullshit.”

Gretchen told her to meet the team in Portsmouth.

Vi said, “If I get to Portsmouth before the rest of you, can I take an hour off? I want to see my brother. He’s just down the road from Portsmouth — it won’t even take an hour.”