“How many chickens was there?”
The chicken truck driver, a man in his twenties, looked to have aged thirty years in the last half hour. He swallowed an’ said, “Five hundred.”
The mayor said, “Holy shit!” His Sunday suit was dotted with white specks of feathers.
“No,” I told him. “Chicken shit. Everywhere.”
Our mayor’s a short man with thinnin’ gray hair an’ a beaky nose. He’s generally good-hearted, but political to the bone. He’d appeared, suddenly, while I was writin’ up the truck driver, to ask me where I got off pushin’ everybody around. It seemed his car was one of the first to be involved, an’ he didn’t want to take his turn for service.
“And what makes you think you can discharge a gun on Sunday?” he axed.
I didn’t have time to play games. “Get in line, your honor, or you could be the last one I get to.”
“Who died and left you king?”
“Well, last time I checked, I was charged with traffic enforcement an’ maintainin’ the peace.”
“You were. You’re fired.”
“Fine with me.” I held out my bullhorn an’ clipboard. “Have fun.”
The mayor took a step back an’ said, “Get back to work. We’ll discuss this later.” He stomped toward Nina an’ her number dispenser.
I had to grin, ’cause she jerked it away from him an’ pointed to the end of the ever-lengthenin’ line.
At that point, Rye showed up. I give him my deputy’s badge an’ said, “By the power vested in me as actin’ sheriff of Boone County, I hereby deputize you. Get yourself a safety vest an’ get out to County C an’ divert some of this traffic.”
“Ten-four,” Rye said an’ took off the way he’d come.
One of the volunteer firemen came back to say they’d found four casualties. Three was minor, the fourth had a possible concussion. All of ’em were on their way to the hospital. He give me descriptions an’ license numbers of their vehicles so I could keep my records straight. I sent him off to the other side of town from Rye to direct traffic.
Nina’s line thinned out, an’ she drifted over to where I was still writin’ up the chicken truck driver. In that dress, she was incredibly distractin’, so I deputized her, give her a fistful of accident report forms, an’ the instruction: “Don’t get too creative.”
It was a warm mornin’ an’ looked to be a long one, so I broke off from my writin’ to arm-twist the Baptist an’ Congregational ministers into vyin’ for title of best Good Samaritan. In no time, they had housewives in their Sunday finest hurryin’ home to make iced tea an’ lemonade, an’ Sunday-suited husbands cookin’ up a barbecue. I finished writin’ up the truck driver an’ told him to start roundin’ up his stock.
Dwayne showed up with a borrowed stock van that looked like he’d drove it off-road across the state. I had him leave it by the Civil War statue in the park, an’ gave him a stack of report forms. “You’re deputized,” I told him. “Find out what number Nina’s workin’ off of, an’ take the next customer in line.”
We made slow progress. By the time we’d gotten sixteen vehicles wrote up, the volunteer firemen’d got back from their hospital run an’ had dispatched all the injured chickens. They’d also plucked an’ cleaned ’em, an’ were commencin’ to make lunch.
The flood of “foreign” cars through town slowed to a trickle, which changed to a trickle of local folks as word got ’round that somethin’ was doin’ in town. Rye meandered in with the last of ’em an’ gave me back my badge an’ traffic safety vest.
“How’d you get us outta the detour business?” I axed.
“I jus’ blocked the road an’ put up a sign pointin’ the detour back to the highway. People don’t seem to care much where they’re goin’ long as they keep movin’.”
“You got that right. Good work.”
“Thanks. Now, if you don’t mind, I got some business to conduct.”
“If you’re gonna sell your stuff on Sunday, you gotta pay the Sunday tax.”
“Sunday tax? What kind of flimflam is that? If you want a cut, jus’ say so. Don’t gimme no Sunday tax.”
“I ain’t foolin’, Rye. You wanna sell your stuff here today, you gotta supply paper goods an’ plastic forks for this picnic.”
“Whyn’t you jus’ say that?”
“I just did. An’ I don’t want Burt or the Reverend Elroy on my neck, so keep a low profile with your merchandisin’.”
“Teach your grandmother to suck eggs!”
Rye stalked off, an’ I took stock again. The Chinese fire drill was beginnin’ to look more like a down-home Fourth of July picnic. The chicken truck driver had managed to get a dozen or so hens in the stock truck, though it looked like corrallin’ the other 450 might do him in. The park was still full of people an’ loose chickens, but the chickens was scratchin’ an’ the folks was standin’ ’round socializin’. Father Ernie’d showed up with more volunteers, includin’ Ben an’ Martha Rooney, an’ refreshments. The Reverend Elroy’d sent a crew to bring tables from the church basement, an’ the ladies from all three congregations was loadin’ ’em with food. The whole show reminded me of the poster Father Ernie keeps in his church vestibule: If life gives you lemons, make lemonade.
The last driver I had to write a report for, even though his car was the first to be flattened by the semi, was last ’cause he didn’t understand about the number thing. He was waitin’, with his wife an’ kid, like they had the whole afternoon. I axed him his name, an’ he looked around to see who was I talkin’ to. The second time I axed, he handed me his wallet an’ said, “No hablo ingles.”
I understand enough Spanish to get that. I looked at his wife—eight months’ pregnant, if she was a day—an’ said, “Do any of you understand English?” All I got was a blank stare.
I yelled for Nina to find me the Spanish teacher.
She said, “Sure, Homer.” She was bein’ unusually cooperative, but I didn’t have time to wonder why.
While we waited for the teacher, I thumbed through the wallet. There was some Mexican money an’ a couple of things in Spanish, one looked like a driver’s license with his pi’ture. Apart from the fact his name was Lopez, I couldn’t understand a word.
The Spanish teacher eventually showed an’ jabbered with Lopez for a while, then told me, “This gentleman’s name is Haysoos.”
I showed her the license. “It says here, his name is Jesus Lopez.”
“That’s English. In Spanish it’s pronounced HAYSOOS. They were on their way from Texas to Chicago to visit relatives when they got turned around, and ended up on the Pennsylvania turnpike—two days ago. They used the last of their money this morning, to fill up their tank.”
An’ I thought I was havin’ a bad week.
I finished fillin’ out the report an’ gave Mr. Lopez back his wallet. Then I axed the teacher to tell the family to enjoy the picnic. It was the least we could do to make up for their inconvenience. The four of ’em wandered off together.
The chicken truck’d turned over on four cars, two of ’em local folks’, but the others belonged to outta-towners; fourteen other vehicles got caught in the chain reaction. The two West Wheeling fellas who do odd jobs for a livin’ an’ act as an unofficial taxi service for the town were in hog heaven shuttlin’ the stranded out to Motel Six. Dwayne resigned as deputy to handle the overflow towin’ business from the Shell station, an’ the two younger Truck brothers got in some overtime doin’ emergency repairs. Still, five of the drivers involved found theirselves with no wheels an’ no rooms. When the local ministers got done exhortin’ their flocks to take in the strangers, everyone got parceled out but the Lopez family. As they were foreigners, they ended up bein’ without a chair when the music stopped.
I felt for ’em. Their car was totaled, an’ their paperwork highly suspicious. But short of lettin’ ’em camp in the park, or callin’ immigration—which would’ve made me feel as bad as turnin’ Rye over to the ATF—I couldn’t see what to do. It was time to ax for advice.
I found the Rooneys near the barbecue. When I explained the Lopez deal to Martha, she axed to meet the family. I went to get some food—chicken an’ tater salad, greens an’ corn-bread, chocolate cake an’ the best iced tea this side of Atlanta. After I finished, I located the Mexicans.
They was trailin’ after the Spanish teacher like ducklings followin’ their mother. I explained to her that Martha wanted to meet ’em, an’ she made a beeline for the Rooneys with her charges trailin’. After she made introductions—Mrs. Lopez was Maria an’ the kid was Jose—an’ a brief speech in Spanish to Lopez, he took off his hat an’ she skedaddled.
Martha held her hand out; Lopez shook it. Maria looked from Ben to Martha an’ smiled shyly. I knew they were all gonna hit it off when the kid trotted over to Ben, patted his knee, an’ said, “Abuelo!”
“They seem like real nice people,” Martha said.
“Yeah. I’d take ’em home with me if I was on my own.”
She knew what I meant. I live in my ma’s house, the same one I grew up in, with my sister Penny an’ her husband an’ eight kids. I share a bunk bed with two nephews—they got the top. The oldest boy sleeps on the couch.
Martha said, “Don’t worry about them, Homer. They can come home with Ben and me.” She looked at Ben. Jose was huggin’ the sheriff’s leg an’ the old man was as near to grinnin’ as I’d seen him since his stroke. Martha added, “He misses havin’ grandchildren.”
After a while, Rye come hurryin’ up. He seemed to have gotten over his mad at me. “Homer,” he said, “we got a problem.” He wouldn’t tell me what, made me come see for myself. He pointed at a van that had broke open in the pile up.
I leafed through the report forms on my clipboard ’til I found the paperwork. The driver was a Ken Worth, suspected of havin’ a concussion, “found semiconscious and incoherent, transported to the hospital for observation.” The van was empty.
There was tracks leadin’ away from the back of it that looked like the ones Nina’s cat makes, only these was big as dinner plates.