No Daughter of the South (10 page)

“Yes, Sir,” said one of the others.

“Wait a minute, Bill,” said the older one. “Don’t you want to ask this young lady something?”

“Right. What’s your name?”

“There’ll be time for
that
later,” the older man reproved gently. He turned to me. “Tell me about the car.”

“Dark. Blue, I think. Beat-up, old, four doors. I can’t be more specific than that. At least five men.”

“License number?”

“I was too busy to notice.”

“Okay, fellows, you’re off.”

I got out of the car, moving awkwardly, glad my untucked shirt hid the open zipper. The old guy walked me inside, left me in a plastic chair in front of a desk, and disappeared in an office.

A friendly-looking woman sitting behind the desk asked if I wanted tea or coffee.

“Coffee, please,” I said, gratefully, and she disappeared, too, giving me a chance to zip up and tuck my shirt in.

She returned right away with a styrofoam cup of coffee, adulterated with some powdered “creamer” stuff and a lot of sugar.

I smiled and said thanks, and sipped it. Her simple act of kindness had a calming effect on me.

But she was looking at me funny. I put my cup down on the desk in front of me. Then I stood up and did my belt buckle. I buttoned my blouse and straightened it. Nothing I could do about my ripped bra.

I shrugged and sat back down.

“Should I call the rape team?” she asked gently.

I shook my head, “No.”

“Can I do anything else for you?” she asked. “Lieutenant D’Amato will be right out. He’s arranging for all other units in the area to assist in the search for the car that was bothering you.”

I sat there, too tired to be angry and too angry to be tired. My head buzzed with it all. I was angry at Johnny. He hadn’t told me that Forrest Miller was the “local guy” who was a big shot in the Klan. I also had my doubts about how seriously the cops were taking my complaint. I could see that, as far as they were concerned, I was crazy. I wanted to call Johnny on what was going down in the little town he policed, and I wanted to see what he was going to do about finding the goons Forrest Miller and George had sent after me. And if it turned out Johnny’s loyalties were with the bad guys, I planned to write a hell of a story about it, and to make sure everyone in Port Mullet saw a copy of it. If Johnny thought I’d inflicted my worst on him during our marriage, I planned to show him how wrong he could be.

“Where’s Johnny Berry?” I asked.

“Why, home in bed, I suppose,” she answered.

“Please call him for me.”

“We’ll have to let Lieutenant D’Amato make that decision,” she said. “Really, he’ll be right out.” She seemed to regret not being able to do what I asked.

“I’m his ex-wife,” I said.

She looked at me, openly surprised. Her sympathy was still visible, but so was her trouble believing me. I guessed I didn’t look a hell of a lot like someone the police chief would have married.

I pulled my New York driver’s license out of my wallet, and shoved it at her.

“See. That’s my name. Laurie Marie Coldwater.” It was clear that she didn’t see what that proved. I hesitated, and then gave in. “Coach Coldwater, over at Port Mullet High? He’s my father.” It felt like ashes in my mouth to say that.

She looked at my license, looked at me, and nodded slowly.

“Okay, I’ll call Chief Berry.”

She didn’t use the phone on the desk in the reception area. She went through one of the doors in the back. Almost immediately another officer came out to keep me company. He, too, asked if he should call the rape team. Then he asked if I needed any other medical attention.

Thinking of how many times I had screwed up in so many ways that day, I answered, “Just a brain transplant, thank you.”

He looked at me with suspicion. Then he said that Lieutenant D’Amato would be out in a minute.

The nice woman reappeared. “Chief Berry said he’s on his way, Mrs. Berry. He said to tell you to just wait in his office until he gets here.”

The officer looked very confused.

“Thank you,” I answered, “but my name is Laurie Coldwater.”

He perked right up. “Really? Are you related to Coach? Coach Coldwater, at Port Mullet High? I played for him. I was a tight end.”

I looked at the chubby man. Looked him up and down. “Never would have guessed it,” I murmured.

I tore into Johnny the moment he walked in. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me about Forrest Miller and the Klan? Goddamn it! I had a right to know. I had a right! I almost got raped. I almost got run off the road.” I jumped out of my chair, feeling like an avenging angel standing there, hands on hips, glaring at him in front of his yet open office door.

Johnny didn’t answer me, but his expression told me he was mad as hell, his face red and his jaw tight with tension. He shut the door, walked behind his desk, and sat down.

I collapsed into a chair across from him. I was feeling the superiority of righteous anger, but, at the same time, I couldn’t help admiring the way that Johnny had held his temper. We’d had some first class knock-down-and-drag-outs in our time, but clearly Johnny had learned something in the years we’d been apart.

He said, “I didn’t tell you about Forrest Miller because it didn’t seem relevant. I know you’ve always been real fond of Susan’s daddy, and you spent a lot of time over there when you were growing up. I didn’t see any need to upset you, to tell you something that might make it hard on you to visit your old friends.”

I took a deep breath, trying hard to remain calm. “Do you want to hear what happened to me tonight in your law-abiding little town, or not?”

He looked straight at me. “I certainly do.”

I told him about the rally, Forrest, George, and the car chase. When I was finished, he was looking down at his desk.

“You just asked me about the sign on Night Lake Road, Laurie. I had no idea you meant to take off on an investigation of the Klan. If I’d even suspected that, you can bet there are a lot of things I would have said to you, and Forrest Miller’s position would be the least of it.” His voice gained volume and momentum as he went on, “Dammit, Laurie, there’s lots of agencies that are dying to infiltrate the Klan, but none of them would send you out there half-cocked to do it! Yes, you could have been killed.” His voice cracked there, and he looked down at his desk. “You’re lucky you weren’t.” I could have sworn he was crying.

When he looked back up, his voice was clear again. “When we find this George guy, how are we going to pin attempted rape on him? By your own admission, you tried to turn the guy on. You voluntarily climbed into a car with him and drank bourbon. I want to kill him, but for Christ’s sake, Laurie! Use common sense. How would all that look to a jury?”

I got to tell you, it wasn’t pleasant listening to what I had thought of as brilliant and daring investigative work referred to in this derogatory manner. And the worst part of it was, of course, that he was right.

Besides chagrin, I was experiencing major exhaustion. I’d nearly been shot in my own home, and then nearly raped in my own hometown. I didn’t even want to think about what the guys chasing me had had in mind. Johnny got up and walked around to my chair, then squatted down beside me and picked up my hand. “Laurie, I’ll help you, I swear I will. Unless you don’t want my help. I’ll do what you want. But please be more careful. Don’t get yourself hurt.” His voice was low and husky.

Someone knocked on the door, and he dropped my hand and stood up, quickly. The door opened, and one of his officers stepped in to talk with him.

From what I heard it was clear that the police weren’t going to find the guys who were chasing me. They could have turned down any side street, in any subdivision, and pulled the car into a garage. Hell, they could have left the car on the street. The cops couldn’t knock on doors and question everyone who had an old dark-blue car parked outside.

Johnny sent some guys over to the rally to ask about the men who chased me. The party was just about over by then. Of the few people still around, no one had seen me. No one had seen a car take off after me. Nobody had seen Forrest Miller, nor a man with him named George.

Forrest was home in bed when the officers went by to talk with him. He hadn’t been at any Klan rally that evening. The very idea was preposterous. His wife confirmed they had gone out to dinner, then spent the evening quietly at home before going to bed. He was sorry to hear that Miss Coldwater had been mixed up in some trouble. He’d heard tell that she did drink quite a bit, and a young lady who does that, why she’s bound to get into trouble eventually.

Greg Johnson did admit he’d been to the rally. It wasn’t any big deal. Just went there to see some friends, have a drink. Nothing wrong with that, was there? Sure, he’d seen me. Worried about me, too. A woman alone, with all those men. Asking for trouble, if you asked him. Hadn’t seen Forrest Miller. Didn’t know anyone named George there.

I sat there while Johnny gave me the news. I wasn’t surprised, but it made me burn. “So they just get by with it? He gets by with it? Is that what you’re telling me?”

“No. I’m not telling you that. Don’t think it’s over, because it’s not. I’m the police chief around here and I plan to make their lives miserable. Every time they turn around, I’m going to be up their asses. I’ll ask around, I’ll find out who George is, and he and Forrest Miller and Greg Johnson are going to live to regret this.”

I was too tired to think any more about it then, and Johnny looked beat, too. It was three-thirty-five by the clock on Johnny’s office wall. I wasn’t looking forward to walking into my parents’ house. I was sure Momma, at least, would be waiting up for me. One look at the state my clothes were in and she’d be hysterical. I was too tired to fabricate a reasonable explanation, and much too tired to deal with her hysterics if I told her the truth. I just wanted to be left alone, and to sleep. I stood up, swung my backpack over my shoulder.

Johnny said, “Come home with me, Laurie. No use upsetting your parents. I swear I won’t bother you; you can sleep in my guest room. I’ll call your folks and tell them where you are, and they won’t worry. You can get cleaned up and face them in the morning when you’re rested.”

I knew I should say no, but it sounded so reasonable. I had been in a rough spot, and it felt like Johnny was the only person around who was on my side. And I was so drained. I nodded.

Then Johnny said, “You don’t look up to driving. Give me your car keys and I’ll have someone take your mother’s car over to her in the morning. I’ve already got a unit cruising by your parents’ house now and then, just in case your new friends go looking for you there.”

I wasn’t too tired to feel a shiver of fear crawl up me. That possibility had not occurred to me. That they might come to Momma and Daddy’s house. That my parents could be in danger because of me. But no, I thought, nobody would hurt Coach Coldwater, not as long as his football team kept winning.

Johnny drove me to his house. I fell asleep in the car, and he had to wake me up when we got there. I was too tired to notice anything else about it. I went into the guest room Johnny showed me, took off all my clothes, climbed into bed and went right to sleep.

I woke up to the irritating buzz of a lawn mower outside. At first, I didn’t know where I was. A double bed with nice sheets, a beige coverlet, beige blinds, beige carpet. No identifying marks of any sort.

Then I remembered. I knelt on the bed and peeked out through the blinds. Johnny’s place was a condominium in a large development, new, and well-maintained. The grass was short and luxurious, the way grass can be if dosed generously with chemicals and water. The edgings were neat, the common lawns were dotted with small bushes and palm trees. There were tennis courts and a pool.

I let go of the blinds and turned to the room where I had spent the night. It looked like all the furnishings had come with the condo. Everything matched. I couldn’t hear any other noises in the house, so I assumed Johnny had gone to work. I picked up my clothes from the floor beside the bed. I put on everything except my torn bra which I dropped in the trash can.

I went out in the living room. Same look as the guest room. Everything neutral and bland and matching. I wondered if that’s what being made chief of police did to a guy. When I’d lived with Johnny, his taste had run to tons of paperback books on shelves made of old boards and concrete blocks. Weird posters on the wall. Salvation Army furniture.

His new kitchen with almond appliances was spotless. Nothing at all on the refrigerator door. It made me exceedingly anxious. I couldn’t find any real coffee, so I made a cup of instant. Taking the foul-tasting substance into Johnny’s bedroom which was only slightly more lived-in than the guest room, I checked his night table drawer, and found an open box of condoms. I was happy to see evidence that Johnny was getting some.

The bathroom off Johnny’s bedroom was kept neatly, too. Funny, I remembered Johnny as a slob. We’d had some really good arguments over the dishes that had stayed in the sink for weeks. And the dirty laundry that had flowed all over the ugly little duplex we’d lived in.

Experiencing a strong desire to brush my teeth. I searched around, but couldn’t find an unopened toothbrush anywhere. At first I hesitated about using Johnny’s. But after all, I had once been in the habit of putting various other things of Johnny’s in my mouth on a fairly regular basis. And Johnny had put his mouth on some interesting parts of me as well. Should such close old friends stand on ceremony, I asked myself. No, they should not, was my answer.

After I finished freshening up, I was left with another dilemma. I really wanted to do a thorough search through Johnny’s drawers and files. After I’d done something as intimate as use his toothbrush how could I refuse myself permission to engage in a much less personal act? Of course, I couldn’t. Refuse, that is. If I was going to rely on Johnny, I had to find out what sort of person he’d become.

The dresser drawer in the bedroom contained clothes. What a surprise. But instead of the holey t-shirts Johnny used to wear, this could have been my father’s stuff. Almost.

A few suits were hanging in his closet. And, believe it or not, perma-press slacks for casual wear. There was one pair of jeans.

Boxes were stacked on the shelves over the clothes racks. I was a little nervous about getting started on those as I was going to have to pull down the boxes, spread stuff around. If Johnny should come in unexpectedly, I would have a lot of explaining to do.

I stood up, stretched, walked back to the living room and pulled up the blinds that covered the sliding glass door.

I had a good view of the pool from here. A few young people tanned themselves in recliners around the pool. But in the water were a crowd of what Daddy and the boys called “raisins.” Old people. Retirees.

The pool was teeming with them. They were more or less lined up. taking some kind of aquatic exercise class. The women all wore bathing caps—most covered with bobbing plastic flowers or ruffles. People from up north move down here, spend too much time in the sun, and it bakes out all their taste. That’s the only possible explanation for it.

From this evidence, it certainly looked like Port Mullet was attracting a wealthier class of retirees. Used to be the well-heeled ones bypassed Port Mullet on their way down to Sarasota. The first raisin colonies around Port Mullet had been trailer parks, where the raisins drove gigantic tricycles with flags on the handle bars. The flat, narrow, streets between the neat, precise rows of trailers (not yet called mobile homes) were posted with “No Children Allowed” signs.

The phone rang. In the kitchen earlier I had noticed that the answering machine was switched on.

“Johnny, this is me,” said a sweet feminine voice. I wanted to gag. “I know you’re not home now, but you will be when you listen to this.” He’s not dating a brain surgeon, I thought. “Give me a call when you get home and let me know if you can come over for dinner. I’ll make it with my own ten little fingers. Bye now!”

Well, I had work to do. First I checked to make sure the front door was locked. It was, but I fastened the chain lock, too. Then I stripped down to my panties. If Johnny came in unexpectedly, I wanted to have some means of distracting him.

Going back in Johnny’s room, I pulled over the chair from the desk. I climbed up on it and got down the first box from his closet, set it on the floor and began searching through it. High school yearbooks, athletic awards, report cards. I put it back up and got down another.

The second one was full of photographs. Some loose, some in albums. I picked up a handful of loose photos. They were elementary school pictures of Johnny. I picked the top one up studied it. Second grade, it said on the back. He was cute, dressed neatly in a matching outfit, with a short crew cut, and a cheerful grin.

I scrambled through the rest of them. I knew I shouldn’t be wasting the time, but I was hooked. I wanted to see when Johnny had started to become the guy I’d been crazy about.

I started to see signs of it in his junior high pictures. His hair a little shaggy, his clothes not so neat, there was something slightly self-mocking in his smile.

In his high school pictures he had long, flowing hair, ratty clothes, a sweetly ironic, just a bit dangerous, smile. This was the Johnny I had loved. I sat back for a moment, the picture in my hand. What had happened to him? Something must have. In the end, he’d become the man his elementary school pictures had foretold. Just like he’d never met me. Just like we’d never been crazy together.

The next box had old college term-papers and notes, a few snapshots, and the album from our wedding. I didn’t even open it. I didn’t want to be reminded of that now when I was betraying the last bit of feeling left between us.

There was another box full of receipts, cancelled checks, and stuff like that. Organized by year. It was frightening to think that there were actually people who kept this stuff. And he considered
me
perverse.

Then I pulled down the box labeled “Campaign.” There were stacks of campaign literature from the recent Port Mullet mayoral race—letters, notes, financial documents, all that kind of stuff. And a computer print-out of campaign contributions. I sat down and read it all.

Clearly, Forrest Miller and Johnny Berry had both worked on the mayor’s campaign. Forrest personally, as well as through his various business entities, had contributed heavily to the campaign. After the election, Johnny had been made Chief of Police. It looked to me like Forrest owned the mayor, and the mayor owned Johnny. So therefore, Johnny was owned by... I felt sick.