I stood in front of the fireplace, warming my hands. Jeff would be home late, after a meeting at the Senate Office Building. I was used to the late hours he'd always kept, ever since he decided so long ago to go into politics. I contemplated the last twenty-five years, and decided that I was content, comfortable, even as I missed the fun and excitement of my college years. I normally don't dwell on things past, but tonight was different: an old acquaintance had called to schedule a time to see me, a time when Jeff wouldn't be around.
The doorbell rang, and I went to greet my late night guest.
His hair was streaked gray now, but his eyes were still a soft blue, his mouth accented with gentle laugh lines: no, he hadn't really changed in twenty-five years. He gripped my hand firmly and looked me directly in the eyes.
"Good evening, Mrs. Blakely," he drawled. "I appreciate your seeing me on such short notice, but I didn't know 'til this afternoon that the conference here in DC would be finished early. You certainly are looking fine!" He looked me up and down, nodding with satisfaction. His familiarity brought back many details of one long night long past that I hadn't thought of for years.
Ever the politician's wife, I was polite. "Well, sheriff, come on in out of the cold. " I took his coat, he insisted on holding on to his briefcase, and I led him into the study, where we could enjoy the fire. "Would you care for a drink? Whiskey, neat, I recall."
"No, thank you, I won't be staying long. I just wanted to return something to you." I motioned to an armchair and he sat down and opened the briefcase. He removed a manilla envelope, the kind with a string that goes around a little tab. As he handed the envelope to me, a ghost of a smile crept into his face, his eyes sparkling as with a secret joke. "I believe this belongs to you. Neither one of us has any need for it anymore, right?"
I took the envelope, my hand shaking slightly, and carefully unwound the string. I looked inside without removing anything at first. I saw a white tape cassette, a sheet of paper with single-spaced typed lines, and a plastic bag sealed with scotch tape. I pulled out the plastic bag, amazed after all these years that it still existed: two now flattened rolls of yellowed tissue paper, brown crumbs resembling dried herbs loose in the bag. I dropped it back into the envelope and took out the cassette: my name, Alice Blakely, neatly printed on the label with the words "Statement: May 23, 1977". I dropped that back also, and pulled out the typed paper, not bothering to read it, but noting my signature at the bottom, then slipping the sheet back. I said nothing, but stood and walked to the fireplace. I held the envelope deep in the fire, watching the paper flare up. When the cassette inside began to send out strange colored flames, I dropped the blazing mess onto the logs. Was it just my imagination, or did I catch a faint whiff of marijuana?
The top was down, the warm late May wind blowing in my short brown hair. I was whizzing south down I-75 in my new red Mustang, on my way home after an exciting, wild week in the big city. This time I'd gone on the pretext of a teacher's conference. True, I had attended conference sessions during the day, but in the evenings I met up with old friends from school. Last night, Thursday, had been especially wild: I'd partied a bit with some sorority sisters, drank a shit-load of wine, even smoked some grass. A little hung over today, I'd had a later start than intended. I called Jeff before checking out, fibbed about having one last meeting this afternoon, went shopping with Carol and Joan, and didn't actually get away until five in the evening. Jeff had suggested earlier that I just stay at a motel somewhere and get into Valdosta on Saturday, instead. "Don't try to call me tonight. The mayor, the asshole, has called a special meeting, and it may run late." So, about 6:30, I pulled off the highway somewhere south of Macon and followed a little two-lane road east, looking for a place to eat and sleep for the night.
"Damn! I thought the sign said 2 miles this way to a motel and diner. Shit! Where the hell am I?" The little highway was going through virtual wilderness, only scrubby pines draped with kudzu on each side. Finally, up ahead, I saw some civilization. First there was a little old-fashioned gas station, the sign above the quaint pumps proclaiming it "Soapy's Service Station". I even thought I saw a guy wearing a baseball cap, maybe Soapy himself, peering out the window as I drove past. Then I was in town, a sign next to the road saying "Welcome to Mayberry". It was a cute town, pedestrians walking about in the dusk, going about whatever business pedestrians have. I passed the bakery, the barber shop (with a couple of old geezers outside in chairs on the sidewalk), and a little brick building with the words "Sheriff's Department" emblazoned over the door. It was getting dark, I was tired, hungry, and headachy. I was glad to put Mayberry behind me, but anxious. Where the hell is the motel?
Then behind me were flashing blue lights, a brief shriek of a siren. It was a black and white police car, probably the only one this town owned.
I pulled over and looked in the rearview mirror as a uniformed man approached my car. He appeared fatherly, maybe in his late forties, hair dark and wavy, square jaw, dark brows, broad shoulders. He stopped behind my car, made note of my tag number, then approached my door in a shambling, casual manner.
"This is some little number you're driving, missy. Can I see your driver's license?"
"Officer, um, Sheriff Griffin," I glanced at his name-tag, "I'm sure I was only going 45!"
"47, to be exact, Miss, but this is still a 25 mph zone." He examined my license. "Did you know this expired last week? I'm afraid I'm going to have to take you in."
My jaw dropped. "You're going to arrest me for an expired license?"
"Well," (he pronounced it "way-ell") "I 'spose you might call it that, but we don't have any reason to keep you long. You'll just have to pay a fine and sign some papers that you promise to get that license renewed."
What a God-awful night this was becoming.
"Now, little lady, you just step on out of that pretty car and come sit in my back seat. I'll radio my deputy to come pick up your car and bring it on back to the station."
He politely opened my door, taking my purse as I got out, and walked me back to his car. After helping me into the back seat, still holding my purse and leaving my door open, he reached through his window for the radio.
"Bernie, you hear me back at the station? Over." Bernie, I assume, squawked that he indeed could hear the sheriff loud and clear. "Whyn't you get somebody to give you a ride out here on 21 east. You know where I mean. We gotta little lady here that needs her car brought in."
After signing off, Sheriff Griffin opened my purse and started digging through it. At that same moment I remembered something and suddenly felt quite ill. The sheriff whistled as he pulled out a little clear plastic box. I thought I'd put it in my suitcase, inside the lining, but obviously last night I had been either too drunk or too stoned, or both, to think that wisely.
"What have we got here?" He opened the box, which at one time had held throat lozenges. Now it contained two nicely rolled joints, a souvenir from Atlanta that I'd planned to enjoy tonight at the motel. He held one up to his nose just as a dusty brown pickup truck drove up, barely slowing down to let out Deputy Bernie.
"Bernie, come here and let me introduce you to this pretty little thing. It seems she's in a heap of trouble now, for sure! Deputy Bernie Sife, meet Miss, or is it Mrs., Alice Blakely of Valdosta. We're gonna be charging her with speeding, expired license, and possession of marijuana!"
Deputy Sife, a gangly little guy whose uniform looked a size too big, though neatly pressed and starched, shuffled over to my still open door and leaned in to shake my hand, his eyes glued to my T-shirt front. He responded "Whoo-ee" when he saw the joint the sheriff held out for him to examine.
"Ms. Blakely," the sheriff looked me coolly in the eyes, suddenly losing his good-'ol boy accent, "Is anyone expecting you tonight?"
I felt total despair. "My husband isn't expecting me until tomorrow. As a matter of fact, I can't even reach him tonight because he's at a city council meeting."
"A councilman, huh? And what do you do, Mrs. Blakely? Are you a housewife, any babies waiting for you down in Valdosta?"
"No," I answered, even more despairing, if possible, as the total extent of my situation sank in. "I'm a school teacher."
Sheriff Griffin nodded his head. His drawl had returned. "Bernie, bring the lady's car on back to town, but park it down by the VFW. They're having a shindig tonight and won't think a strange car in town is unusual. Then meet us back at the station." He scratched his head, then added, "Oh, and be sure to put the top up." Before shutting the car door, the sheriff had me lean forward, gently pulled my hands behind my back and clicked on handcuffs. As he did so he recited the "You have the right to remain silent" thing.
Bernie showed his teeth in a big horsey grin, eyes still focused on my chest. "OK, Andy, will-do!".
On the way back to town the sheriff tried to put me at ease, talking nonstop about his town and the various characters who lived there. I paid little attention to him: I was frantic to think of some way out of my predicament. As they say, I was up shit creek without a paddle. I'd taken some chances in the past, going up to Atlanta every couple of months for a weekend away from the Junior League ladies and their interminable projects and do-good attitudes. I had a separate circle of friends up there, and was able to let my hair down, but this time I guess I'd stretched my luck.
The brick building I had passed earlier had a tiny parking area behind it, and we entered through the back door. No one was inside, I thought at first, then I noticed that in the same room with the main office were three jail cells, one of them occupied by a large, maybe obese, man snoring very loudly, sound asleep in a sort of fetal position on a cot. I stood looking around as the sheriff let down the shades and locked the front door. There were two desks in the room, one of them nearly bare, the other one near the door displaying two framed photographs: a freckle-faced red-haired boy of about ten proudly displaying a large toad in his hands, and a stout gray-haired lady with a sweet smile displaying what looked like biscuits and a blue ribbon. I turned and looked more closely at the jail cells. All of them, including the one with the snoring man, had open doors. Each had frilly flowered curtains and matching comforters on the cots. One cell even had a recliner with a table, lamp, and vase of flowers.
