Titus narrowed his eyes. “You get a license plate number? What the truck look like?”
“Nah, we was too busy laughing. It looks like every truck them kind of boys drive. Jacked up to the sky and not a lick of dirt in the bed. They do them trucks just like some of them fellas that come up on the bay in them big fancy boats but don’t never catch no fish. Use a workingman’s tools for toys,” Albert said.
Titus finished his coffee. He rinsed out the cup and set it in the sink.
“They don’t care about Benedict Arnold, Pop. He didn’t hate the same people they do. I’m gonna go get dressed. I’m on till nine. There’s still some beef stew left from Sunday in the refrigerator. You can have that for supper,” Titus said.
“Boy, I ain’t so old I can’t make my own supper. Who taught you how to cook anyway?” Albert asked.
Titus felt a tight smile work its way across his face. “You did,” he said. But, Titus thought, not until Mama had been in the ground and you’d finally found Jesus.
“Damn right. I mean, I’ll probably eat the stew, but I can still turn up something in the kitchen,” Albert said with a wink. Titus shook his head and headed for the stairs.
“Maybe I’ll get some oysters and we can put some fire to that old grill this weekend. Get your trifling brother to come over,” Albert said as Titus put his foot on the first step. Titus stiffened for a moment before continuing up the stairs. Marquis wasn’t coming over this or any other weekend. The fact that his father still clung to the idea was at various times depressing and infuriating. Marquis worked for himself as a self-taught carpenter. He stayed on the other side of the county in the Windy River Trailer Park, but he might as well have been in Nepal. Even though he made his own hours, they could go months without seeing him. In a place as small as Charon County, that was a dubious achievement.
Titus went into his bedroom and opened his closet. His everyday clothes were on wire hangers on the left. His uniforms were on wooden hangers on the right. He didn’t refer to his everyday clothes as his “civilian” wardrobe. That gave his uniforms a level of militarization he didn’t like. His everyday clothes were color-coordinated and hung in alphabetical order. Blacks first, then blues, then reds, then so on. Darlene had once commented that he was the most organized man she’d ever met. His shoes were ordered in the exact same manner. Kellie, his former girlfriend from his time in Indiana, used to rearrange his clothes whenever she spent the night. She said she did it for his own good.
“Gotta loosen you up, Virginia. You’re wound too tight, one day you’re gonna snap. I’m trying to help you with your mental health,” she’d say.
Titus thought she did it because she knew he hated it. She knew they would argue about it and she also knew they’d make up, furiously.
He let out a sigh.
Kellie was the past. Darlene was his present. And despite what Faulkner said, that part of his life was done. Best to leave it where he’d left it.
He pushed his regular clothes to the left. His uniforms were all on the right side of the closet. They were all the same color. Deep brown shirt, lighter tan brown pants with a dark brown stripe down the leg. He had two bulletproof vests that hung at the far right of the closet. Two pairs of black leather shoes sat on the floor. A brown tricorne hat sat on a shelf. Darlene called it his “Smokey the Bear” hat.
“Because you’re my big ol’ bear,” she’d said one night as she lay across his chest. Her fingers playing across the scar on his chest like a pianist playing the scales. The scar was a gift, of sorts, from Red DeCrain, white supremacist, Christian nationalist, militia leader, and for seven minutes a wannabe martyr.
Those seven minutes had changed all their lives. Titus’s, Red’s, and those of Red’s wife and his three sons, who all had been outfitted with grenade vests. The youngest boy had only been seven years old. His vest had hung loose on his shoulders like a hoodie he’d borrowed from one of his brothers. When he’d pulled that pin his face had been as blank as a sheet of notebook paper.
Then it had—
“Stop it,” he said out loud to no one. He rubbed his face with both hands. The shrapnel from the explosions had left that question-mark-shaped burn scar on his belly. The scars on his soul were not visible but were no less horrific.
Titus put on his uniform in an oft-practiced ritual that calmed him. First he put on the vest and strapped it in place. Then he grabbed his shirt. Then a brown necktie that hung next to its two brothers on a hook on the inside of the closet door. Next were his pants, then his shoes. He went to his nightstand, opened the drawer, and grabbed his service belt. He cinched it tight before grabbing the key from the nightstand and carefully dropping to his haunches. A sheriff couldn’t be seen in his county with wrinkled pants. A Black sheriff had to have an extra pair of pants in his office just in case.
He pulled a metal box from under the bed, unlocked the box, and retrieved his service pistol. The county would only pay for a Smith & Wesson nine-millimeter. Titus wanted something with more stopping power. He’d purchased the SIG Sauer P320 out of his own pocket. It was the same sidearm the Virginia State Police used. He checked the clip and the chamber before sliding it in the holster. There were two pairs of mirrored sunglasses on top of the nightstand. Titus grabbed one pair and slipped them in his shirt pocket. His radio was on top of the nightstand next to the sunglasses. He picked it up and clipped the transponder to his belt and the mic to his collar.
Lastly, he reached in the drawer and grabbed his badge. He pinned it to his shirt above his left pocket and headed down the stairs.
Albert was still sitting at the table, but now the newspaper was gone. In its place was an envelope bearing Titus’s name.
“What’s that?” Titus asked, even though he was pretty sure he already knew.
“It’s been one year. Reverend Jackson said last Sunday it was still a miracle worth praising. Who knew Ward Bennings getting hit by a logging truck would mean the first Black sheriff of Charon County would win the special election?” Albert said.
Titus picked up the envelope. He tore it open with his thumbnail. A greeting card with a comical penguin holding a devilish pitchfork was on the front. On the inside, an inscription read:
GUESS HELL REALLY FROZE OVER, YOU TWO ARE STILL TOGETHER! HAPPY ANNIVERSARY!
Titus raised his eyebrows.
“Walmart didn’t have a card for being proud of your son for being the first Black sheriff this county ever had. But I am proud. My boy back home and changing things. You don’t know how much seeing you in that uniform means to people, Titus. If you mama was here, she’d be proud too,” Albert said, his voice breaking around the edges. Titus’s mother had been gone for twenty-three years and yet the mere mention of her still wrung heartache from his father like water from a washcloth.
Would she be so proud if she knew what had happened in Northern Indiana at the DeCrain compound? I don’t think so, Titus thought. No, I don’t think she’d be proud at all.
“Not all our people are proud. But thanks for the card, Pop,” Titus said.
“You talking about that Addison boy over at the New Wave church? Pssh, ain’t nobody thinking about that boy. He thinks Jesus wears blue jeans,” Albert said. It was the worst insult his Pentecostal Baptist father who wore his best suit every Sunday could utter in reference to the dreadlocked New Age minister.
“He’s doing good work over at that church, Pop,” Titus said.
“You call that place a church? It sounds like a juke joint when you drive past,” Albert said.
“You don’t? Anyway, Jamal Addison ain’t the only person who thinks I’m an Uncle Tom,” Titus said with a rueful smile.
“Well, Reverend Jackson always preaching about being aware of false prophets,” Albert said.