The Begging Tour, Part 4: Small Towns, Small Minds, Big Questions

We’re coming up on Sheriff Paul’s home, Brantley behind the wheel and me in the backseat with Bernie, who seems particularly reticent today.

Journalists are supposed to remove all emotion from their work. They’re supposed to be objective, to be the wide-angle lens on the events of the day. Near as I can tell, Bernie’s lens extends about as far as the tip of his nose.

As we pull into the driveway, Bernie is out the door before Brantley turns off the car. Brantley is startled by the flurry as he gets out of the car and opens my door.

“I’ll be waiting here for you, ma’am, when you’re done,” he says, tipping his hat in my direction.

As I walk up the pavement, Bernie is ringing the doorbell incessantly. Perhaps he wants this over as much as I do. I get to the door just as it’s opening.

“Trish,” he says to the woman. “Good to see you again.”

“Who are you?” the woman says.

“Bernie … Bernie Rossie. Chickotee Dispatch. We met years ago. I’m a friend of Paul’s.”

The woman nods slowly, her eyes sizing him up and down. She turns to me. “Who’s this?”

“This is Mayor Charlotte Granger.”

I lean in toward her and extend my hand to greet her. She raises both of hers in defense.

“That’s okay. Is there something I can help with? I paid the tax bill y’all have been bugging me about in case you’re here to collect.”

I shake my head. “No, no Mrs … is it Mrs. Wilson?”

“Not no more,” the woman says. “No.”

I look toward Bernie, who says nothing.

“Well, Mrs. … I mean, I guess you’re wondering why we’re here.”

Just then a young woman pokes her head into the doorway.

“Hi … you’re that reporter,” she says, pointing to Bernie. He nods. “You find out whose hand I stepped on last year?”

Ah, yes, Stacey, who stepped on the hand in the #NationalJennyDay parade that day.

“No,” Bernie replies, sheepishly. “I think you’re dad is working on it though.”

The older woman’s back stiffens. “Stacey, sweetie, go on back in. I’ll handle this.”

Dripping with drama, the young girl sniffs and turns away. “No one tells me anything around here,” she yells over her shoulder.

The older woman lights a cigarette and inhales. “I’ll tell you something, little girl …”

And this, dear reader, is why I never want children.

“Well, we’re here to … actually, we’re raising money for the Mick Righteous memorial and we’re hoping we can count on your support. The goal of the campaign is …”

“Mick Righteous! MICK RIGHTEOUS!”

Flush with rage, she turns to Bernie who, conveniently, is staring at the sidewalk. “I told your friend I never wanted to hear that name again, not in this house, not in this neighborhood, no where.”

At this point, I’m certain I am in the third circle of hell. Not only is this woman unhinged, but it seems Bernie knows her and is standing there saying nothing.

“Well. ma’am, perhaps our visit was ill-timed … perhaps we can …”

“Perhaps nothing,” she seethes. “You don’t know who Mick Righteous is … I do. I know the man, and I’m here to tell you … he don’t deserve no statue. After what he did to me, to us, he deserved to be shot down in the street like a dog.”

“Trish,” Bernie says softly. “Do you know where Paul is?”

I can see Trish looking him directly in the eye as she throws her cigarette stub on the front step, as if they both know something. She looks toward me. “What do you care?”

I can handle a lot of things – emotions, disagreements, mistakes. I cannot entertain disrespect.

“Your ex-husband works for me,” I remind her. “We don’t know where he is. If you are able to shed some light on that, I assure you that he will continue to receive a paycheck, which means, I assume, you will continue to get support for you and your household. Now, I will ask you … do you know where Paul is?”

Trish inhales deeply and sighs. “Yes, I do.”

Bernie’s eyes widen. “Where then?”

Trish turns in my direction. “Am I in some sort of trouble?”

At this point, my feet in these heels on this concrete are getting the better of my rational nature. “You could be if you don’t tell us what you know.” (A little snappish, I suppose, but at this point, I don’t care.)

Trish nods and motions us in. “That crooked SOB .. from the grave, he’s messing with our lives, I swear … you hear that, hon?”

“Paul, is Paul dead?” Bernie asks, holding the door for me.

I step in and an imposing figure stands before me wearing shorts and a sweatshirt, shrouded in shadow.

“Bernie, I’m fine,” Paul says. “I’m guessing probably in a bit of trouble, but then again you already knew that … honey, why don’t you get these two some iced tea and we’ll have a chat?”

I extended my hand. “Sheriff, nice to finally meet you.”