If I involved myself in the duties of the mayoral office? If I got involved in politics? Or stuck my nose in the Sheriff’s investigation? His head would explode.
With a shake of my head, I assure her, “I’m sorry, my dad doesn’t talk to me about things like that.”
Iswear her eyes become slits as she studies me to the point I’m not even sure how she can still see me. But I know she can because I can feel her judgement and her disappointment as she takes me in.
“Surely, you’ve overheard something. A resourceful girl like you?”
She’s not wrong. I’m just not about to share what I know with an octogenarian. Especially not one whose grandson is the president of a motorcycle club with a dubious reputation and whose son is the former president. Talk about a family tree I’m not getting involved in.
If I wanted to kill my dad, I’d consider it, but since it’s not something I’m looking to do, I tend to keep my distance.
There’s no proof of what the SOMC does or doesn’t do in town. When the dog fighting ring was found months ago in Monroe County, Sheriff Lyons spent a lot of time looking at the club. And I know my father encouraged him to do so.
Nothing was found, and I’m pretty sure all it did was piss off the guys wearing the Saint’s Outlaws patches on their leather cuts. You can’t grow up in this town, where the roar of motorcycles filling the air has the same familiarity as cicadas, and not learn a thing or two about how it all runs.
But it’s not like my family is one that has any association with the club. Quite the opposite in fact. The rift between my family, really just my father, and the club, broke my little sister’s heart once upon a time. I’m not sure she’s gotten over it even now.
Honestly, I don’t think she ever will. There’s nothing I can do to help her and I hate it.
Even though I was only two when she was born, I’ve always felt a sense of responsibility when it comes to Jessi. I was four when my parents got divorced, my mom married again to start a new family almost immediately. Afterwards, no one could tell me Jessi wasn’t mine to take care of.
Someone had to do it.
Thankfully, there were enough women around us, since mom wasn’t an option by her own choice, to help and give us the basics of what we needed to know. First periods? Yeah, it wasn’t dad who stepped up.
It was the school nurse. She knew we were kind of floating out there on our own for certain things. At least we had someone at our back and a more clinical approach worked for me.
Mrs. Martin, though, she wasn’t exactly a woman in my corner. I get it since dad never hid his disdain for the club, regardless of which generation of her family wore the president patch.
“There hasn’t been a lot of talk about it, and everyone is frustrated,” I tell her honestly.
As much as I wish I knew more, I don’t. Knowing people were abusing dogs so close almost killed me. Dad wants people to think he cares about it, but I wish he was more concerned. When I bring it up, he brushes me off, but I also know he’s called Sheriff Lyons repeatedly about the issue.
Dad loves the optics of any given situation and is intent on spinning things his way, no matter what. It makes him a good politician, but it doesn’t make him a great father. Even at 30, I can still feel the sting of it.
“Okay,” Mrs. Martin concedes and knocks on the counter. “If anything were to change,” she speaks like she’s expecting to be swept away by James Bond or something, and I have to fight a giggle, “then you let me know.”
“Of course,” I agree, my face solemn.
When she winks, I can’t help but smile. I’ve never earned a wink from her before. Maybe things are looking up, and I won’t be judged by my father for the rest of my life, good or bad. Maybe Jessi won’t either.
After dealing with a few mail-in renewals for their car registration, I get ready to take my break and skitter out of the office. I head away from the square in the middle of town and down the block toward Bunz Out. It’s the perfect place for my break because a sweet treat has definitely been earned today.
As much as I’ve tried to shake off my conversation with Mrs. Martin, it’s not easy. I hate that damn dog fighting ring. The pictures in the paper of the dogs being rescued were horrible. My heart was broken. The worst part was the conditions of the dogs left behind. Some didn’t make it and the rest would need time to heal and recover.
Not that I was home enough for a dog. At least, it’s what I told myself whenever I wanted to head to the shelter and give an animal a good home. It wouldn’t be fair to a dog to just give them a bigger cage to roam.
Maybe one day a dog will be in the cards, but not today.
I don’t realize how mad I am until I stomp into Bunz Out and Lara, the owner, looks up at me with wide eyes. Her voice is teasing with a hint of curiosity, “What’s gotten you so mad, Helen? Don’t tell me it’s another issue with the printer,” she huffs.
Even though I’m still pissed about the dog fighting situation, I find myself laughing. The printer. Don’t even get me started. Between the paper jams and how it seems to always need ink, the thing is a menace; if the county could afford a new one, I would personally smash the one we have with a bat.
Lara has heard me complain about the printer more times than I can count.
And she’s relatively new to town, which should tell you something about the whole issue.
She moved to Dogwood Ridge about a year ago now and didn’t waste a lot of time in opening up her bakery. I love coming in here because it’s girly, smells amazing, and sometimes I catch Lara’s ten-year-old daughter, Vanessa, when I stop in.
