by Mickey Hunt
A horde of blatting, deafening Harley motorcycles
rolled by Whatley’s Farm Supply, halting all conversation, all thought.
Barry Sullivan shook his
lanky blonde hair and clucked the tip of his tongue. “Miss Thurman, I’m not
working for you anymore on my day off,” he said to the woman beside him and
closed the hatch of her Subaru.
“Here, take this.” Miss
Thurman held out a folded $10 bill.
“Now, you know I’m not
allowed tips.”
“You’re a young man and you
need money for your future, for your braces when you get them. You should go to college.” She paused a moment
and said, “I couldn’t possibly lift those chicken feed bags when I get home. My
figure has turned into a dumpling.”
Barry pursed his lips over
his jutting front teeth. “I’ve saved money for braces. This is a good
job—Whatley’s pays for health insurance, too. Did you hear me? I won’t do your
yard work unless we clean up your house. You have a problem.”
Miss T’s lower lip drooped
like she might cry.
“You’re not getting younger,
Miss Thurman, and you need your house in order. You want to have company, some
visitors once in a while.”
“Are you going to load my
Rose of Sharons?”
The plants in two-gallon
liners waited on the wagon that Miss T. had dragged across the parking lot.
Barry peered into the back seat of her car and saw stuff piled up to the
windows. The front passenger side was the same. “No room. Like your house.”
Miss T. stood motionless,
helpless. “It’s not bad. I get by.”
“No you don’t. There’s
hardly room to walk.”
“Will you bring my flowers
on Monday? And plant them for me?”
“You’re impossible. I will
bring them over.”
“And carry the feed bags to
my shed. I go to the church at 10:00 a.m. to work in the memorial garden, so
come before, please.”
“You have a nice day, Miss
Thurman. Think about what I said.”
Miss T. drove away, and
Barry wheeled the wagon to his immaculately spotless pickup truck and loaded
her plants. He returned the wagon to its home by the annuals.
Whatley’s Farm Supply was
experiencing a rare moment when no customers demanded his services. Barry gazed
around the inside of the store, a warehouse with metal siding and roof. When he
had hired on in high school, the place was a mess. Tools were buried and tangled.
New seed got sold, and old seed got older and weevil-ridden. Spilled fertilizer
covered the floor. The store stank of noxious pesticide fumes. Rats pooped and
chewed everywhere. Worst of all, the maggot-infested hams hanging on the wall.
Outdoors, Whatley’s had been
a jumble of rotting fence posts, crumbling concrete statues, rusting farm
implements, and ripped-open mulch bags. In time, Barry organized and cleaned it
all and trapped the devilishly smart rats, even coming in on holidays and
working without pay. He had built a special room for pesticides and installed
ventilation.
He sighed in happiness at
the present neatness and then noticed a scrap of string on the floor near the
horse ration stacks.
“Barry!” It was old Mr.
Whatley yelling from the cash register. “Barry, Ms. Ledford wants four pounds
of hairy vetch seed!”
===
Whatley’s Supply closed on
Sundays and reopened on Mondays, but Barry took off Mondays except in
springtime. On his days off, he cut firewood, painted, and performed yard work.
He also substituted on a newspaper route, which often got him up early to make
the most of the day. Living by himself in a tidy, two-room apartment, he had expenses.
The following Monday, he
stopped by Denny’s for breakfast and waited until Miss T. was sure to have left
for her church, Fern Prairie Baptist.
He pulled into her driveway
and sat awhile, until he noticed the full chicken feed bags lying on the ground
in a heap.
Risky, he thought. Never have
done this before.
He unloaded her plants,
carried the dew-dampened feed bags to the shed, and walked up to the front porch.
Miss T. kept a key tucked under a weedy flower planter, but Barry had never
been in her house. Had looked in through the back door, but never had been
inside, not even for the bathroom, because Miss T. didn’t let him. Barry was
comfortable with the woods.
The front door barely
budged—there was stuff piled up behind it. Barry had forgotten she always used
the back door. He shoved hard, heard thumping, squeezed through, and gagged.
The house reeked of cat pee. With supreme effort, he managed to hold down his
Denny’s. On a narrow footpath, he crept through the rooms with an expression of
disgust and horror stamped on his face. Wild-eyed cats scatted. Cats, but they
didn’t suppress the mice, which had left calling cards everywhere. Heaps of
junk covered the floor, coffee table, couches and chairs, beds.
Where did she sleep?
The dining room and kitchen
tables were piled with elongated pyramids, as if Miss T. had been studying
angles of repose—Barry fancied he might be an Agricultural Engineer someday.
Partly empty food cans, crushed milk jugs, and unwashed dishes and pots had
been tossed into mounds in the kitchen.
Where did she eat?
Barry gingerly opened the
refrigerator and stepped back.
Smelled like sour,
fermenting pig slop.
Barry smiled. Miss T’s would
be a challenge to rival Whatley’s.
He took a last look around
to fix the effect in his memory, but something caught his eye. Something
unusual he had missed before, obscured by stacks of cardboard boxes. In a
corner of the formal dining room sat a card table faced by a folding chair.
Barry turned on the desk lamp. The tabletop was nearly clear, almost neat, with
ballpoint pens and sheets of stamps.
Miss T. worked here!
Barry picked up a gaudy,
printed sheet of paper from the table.
Miss T. entered sweepstakes!
This from Publishers
Discount House “guaranteed” an Alaska
“Hmm,” he hummed.
Outside again, he breathed
deeply to purge his lungs. He skipped the lunch hour and mowed his lawns.
Afterwards, he drove to the Fern Prairie Baptist, one of those churches that
started small in the city and when it grew beyond its walls, added on, and when
it grew exponentially, moved into the country for cheaper land. It was nearly 5
o’clock and surely Miss T. had long since departed.
At exactly five, a man with
a rounded belly approached a car parked in a space designated for pastors.
Barry ambled over. “Excuse
me, sir.”
The man glanced at his phone
and said, “How can I help you?”
“Not me, but someone in your
church. Miss T.—I mean, Miss Thurman.”
“Yeah, I know her. She does
flowers for the altar once a month.”
“Not just the altar. She
works in the memorial garden and takes care of your roses.”
“She does? I didn’t realize.”
“Miss Thurman has a problem.
She… Her house is a mess. She’s got a hoarding, saving, possessive sickness. In
her mind, you know. She can’t throw anything away. She likes to do crafty
things, and she’s bought tools and supplies, but they’re disorganized, and she
can’t find anything. So, she buys new ones and throws them down. Cluttered isn’t the word. She sees value to every bit of
junk and every plant. Plants to her are orphans. She finds them where I work,
the scraggly ones, and feels sorry for them, and so she buys them, but her yard
has no plan. She has me stick them in randomly, if they get planted—the roots usually grow out of the pots first.”
“Sounds serious,” the man
said and looked again at his phone.
“It’s worse. She never has
anyone visit. She’s lonely.”
“She’s embarrassed to have
anyone over.”
“Can you help her?” Barry
said. “I mean, um, with counseling? Or, I’ve heard of… intervention? Where her friends gather and give her therapy sessions.
You could pull a team together and clean out her house while she supervised.”
“In circumstances like this,
the person should be absent. They couldn’t handle seeing other people make
decisions about their possessions and property.”
“Makes sense,” Barry said,
convinced.
“Listen, I’m only an
associate, but I’ll ask Pastor Andy and see what he says. We have a staff meeting
first thing tomorrow. I’ll bring it up.”
“Okay.”
“What’s your name?”
“Barry Sullivan.”
The man shook Barry’s hand. “Good
to meet you. Do you have a church home?”
“No, sir.”
“Come visit us on Sunday. We’d
love to have you.”
===
In the evening Miss Thurman
called. Barry let his message machine answer because he knew it might be her.
“Barry, please help me in my
yard,” she said, dolefully. “I’m lost without you. No one else will work for
me.”
Barry moaned.
On his lunch break the next
day he called the church. A secretary answered.
Barry said, “I talked with
one of your preachers yesterday. Didn’t get his name, but he was supposed to—”
“Probably Richard Thompson.
He just left. Uh, he’s on vacation tomorrow and won’t be back for a couple
weeks. Can someone else help you?”
“Well… anybody.”
Music came on of a sort
Barry had never heard before. He listened to the bawled out, whiny words—like
love poetry—but then he realized they were about Jesus. It was a radio station.
Before the song ended, “Matt” the announcer came on the radio live, pushing
authority into his voice like a talk show host as he discussed an upcoming
concert, a fundraiser for the station.
A minute later, a deep,
soothing voice cut in and said, “This is Pastor Andy.”
“I’m Barry and I talked with
Minister Thompson yesterday. He said he’d mention Miss Thurman at your meeting.
She needs help with cleaning her house, and she’s lonely and needs, just needs
people to care for her. Did you all make a decision?”
“What was the name?”
“Barry.”
“The name of the other
person.”
“Miss Thurman.”
“Is she a member of our
church?”
Barry’s whole body clenched.
They had not discussed Miss Thurman, and this man did not know who she was. “Mr. Andy, Pastor
Andrew, I’m sorry for wasting your time. You have a good day.”
“Well, come see us Sunday
morning, young man. We’d be glad to have you.”
“Mr. Andrew,” Barry said
with heat, “Miss Thurman grows your roses and maintains your memorial garden.
She arranges your altar flowers.”
And then Barry hung up
before the preacher could say anything to make him angrier.
===
That afternoon at Whatley’s,
and while he cooked dinner and later washed and buffed the dishes, Barry stewed
over the situation. During the night, he dreamed a monstrously messy cruise
ship glided by, and on deck a crowd of strangers circled a frightened, weepy
Miss Thurman. In the morning, the shifting, twisting possibilities settled into
an idea.
After work he spent an hour
at the public library’s computer. Next day, he got off early and drove to a
print shop. Before long, he had his materials together and a short speech
written.
But who would give it? Maybe
Matt would.
He called the radio station.
Matt came to the phone.
Barry said, “I’m Barry
Sullivan, and I’d like to hire you as, as a voice talent.”
“Okay. What are you
considering? A commercial? My rate is $300 a studio hour. That’s inexpensive in
the business.”
“It’s um, a practical joke.”
“Okay.”
“I want you to call a friend
and tell her she’s won an Alaska
“What’s the purpose of the
joke?”
“Promise not to tell anyone?”
“That depends,” Matt said.
“Well, I’m really giving her
the cruise. I’ve saved up for braces, but this is more important. I don’t want
her to know it’s from me. She’s an older lady who needs encouragement. I work
at Whatley’s Supply and do her yard work.”
“Yard work? Barry, if you’re
legitimate—and you sound like it to me—I’ll call her for you, for free. Send me
the script—do you have one?”
“Yeah, and I’ll make a
donation to your radio station.”
===
Miss Thurman believed she
had won the Alaska sweepstakes, not at first
because she thought it was a scam and the free trip was to Las
Vegas ; she believed it when Barry’s fake literature and the real
airplane ticket to Vancouver
Barry hired his little
brother, Earl, who lived in a foster home (it was midsummer when school was
out); he rented a dumpster and took vacation days.
Barry and Earl started with
a general trash pick up and cleared the furniture into the yard, covering it
with tarps. Then they went room by room. They sorted by categories: obvious
garbage, sellable items, items to keep, and items for Goodwill. Barry bought
shelves and tubs and consolidated and organized her keepsakes and craft
supplies. The boys mopped, scrubbed, dusted, deodorized, sanitized, swept,
vacuumed, washed, wiped, shampooed, rinsed, dried, shook, folded, and aired;
and they trapped the mice. Barry posted duplicate tools and appliances on Craigslist.
They worked every day from early morning to late night. They fed the chickens
and collected eggs, as Barry had already promised while she was gone.
He carted two sick cats to
the vet and locked the others outdoors.
When at last they had
perfectly polished the interior of the house, Barry and Earl tackled the yard,
mowing, pruning, planting, weeding—work accumulated since Barry had gone “on
strike.”
The rental company hauled
away the dumpster, full.
===
When Miss Thurman arrived
back home, refreshed and energized like a filly, she was tickled to see her trimmed
and tidied yard, but when she entered the house she was amazed and scared, then
devastated, humiliated, and then angry beyond saying.
The police arrested Barry
for burglary.
He got out of jail later in
the day with a pledge to appear in court. Miss Thurman didn’t think it
important to prosecute Earl.
After all the help he gave
her, Barry was upset with Miss Thurman, so he intended to plead Not Guilty.
Their relationship was strained, but Miss Thurman still wanted him to do yard
work, and since the house was clean, Barry agreed. So, when he arrived, Miss
Thurman appeared to squash her simmering anger, but also not show how truly
pleased she was about her house. And Barry didn’t openly gloat when she let him
eat lunch at the kitchen table and use the indoor bathroom.
He looked around warily for
signs of growing mess. So far, everything looked fine.
Late afternoon, a Buick
pulled into the driveway, and from it climbed four women dressed for society,
wearing hats and perfume.
“Is this the residence of
Miss Thurman?” the first lady asked Barry.
“Yes, ma’am.”
She pointed her finger. “You’re
the criminal. We read in the paper.
Pastor asked us to pay a call.” She straightened her back and proceeded to the
house.
“Haven’t been convicted yet,
ma’am,” Barry said behind her.
The other ladies each shook
Barry’s hand. The last one whispered near his ear, “Good work, Barry. We should
have helped Miss Thurman a long time ago. Pastor Andy was embarrassed. Yard
looks great, by the way.”
At 5:30 Barry knocked at the
back door to be paid. Miss Thurman, flushed pink and at the tail of her laugh,
greeted him. She scowled when she remembered she was the victim. “Come in,” she
said, pretending resignation.
A tinkling from the parlor
told that the women were collecting their tea cups and saucers.
Barry said, “Here’s the
money my brother and I made selling your extra things.”
She shook her head
furiously.
He stood mute while Miss
Thurman wrote his paycheck. As usual, he peeked at the amount. He pursed his
lips and took a deep breath. It was twice what she ordinarily paid! She tore
the check from her book.
“Miss Thurman,” he said,
beginning a protest.
She stopped him by waving
the check in his face, the check snapping in the air. “Don’t think I’m letting
you off the hook.” Softer she said, “You have a problem, Barry. You need help
yourself.”
Barry didn’t know what he
could safely say. “Thank you, Miss Thurman,” was safe enough.
===
No one explained why the
trial date actually came speedily.
Itching from a
self-inflicted buzz haircut, Barry showed up at the courthouse on the appointed
Monday morning. He hadn’t hired a lawyer, and he didn’t want a public defender,
so he had to sit all day and hear the other trials—and a sorry lot of business
it was—while waiting for his name to be called. He should have brought the new Popular Mechanics his father sent by subscription.
About 4 o’clock, the
courtroom emptied except for the bailiff who eyed Barry with suspicion. A man
entered and whispered to the bailiff. The man—apparently the prosecutor—told
Barry his trial was beginning.
Then Barry’s little brother,
Earl, slipped into the seat beside him.
“What are you doing here?”
Barry whispered.
Earl just frowned.
Barry pulled in a small
breath and blew it out. He stood up and stretched. The courtroom was filling up
again, or at least with twenty people, among them Miss T. He collected his
materials and walked to the defense table.
“All rise,” a new bailiff
shouted and introduced the new judge auctioneer style, as bailiffs do. The
Honorable Herbert James Smith.
Miss Thurman testified
first. With tears in her eyes and indignation in her voice, she said she had
trusted Barry and he trespassed upon her person. That he had no right to
organize her life, that if she wanted to live in a messy home, it wasn’t his
business. Moreover, she said, the young man had discarded her valuable
possessions, some of which held precious memories for her.
Barry was moved. He hadn’t
really thought about this before. Well, he thought, but he hadn’t felt.
Maybe Miss Thurman was right.
When the prosecutor had no
more questions for her, Judge Smith asked if the defendant had any. Barry
jumped up and cleared his throat. “Um. Miss Thurman, um. What do you allege
that I threw away or sold, exactly?”
She glared. Then,
self-conscious, she said, “I’m not so sure. I can’t think of anything now.” She
laughed a little. “But you had no right.”
“I have an inventory, Your
Honor, of everything except for the plain garbage.” Barry held out a sheaf of
handwritten notes. “May I?” he asked.
Judge Smith gestured toward
the witness box.
Miss Thurman took her
glasses and silently read through the lists, her lips moving, hands shifting
sheets of paper. “Anyway,” she said, “most of this, I’d say good riddance to,
but… Oh, the bread maker. I’d like it back.”
“Did you ever use it?”
“No.”
“Did you ever open the box?”
“No.”
“When did you buy it?”
“I don’t know. Maybe 15
years ago.”
“Did I get a fair price?”
Miss Thurman glanced at the
list again. “Yes, but that’s not the point.”
“Is there anything else you
wanted to keep?”
She shuffled more pages and
stopped. Her eyes misted over. With her voice higher in pitch and breathing in
small gasps, she said, “It’s not on a list, but the silk Christmas wreath… My
father gave it to me when I was a girl. It had artificial holly leaves and red
beads. I know it was falling apart. It was rubbish, really, but it’s all I had
from him. All I had.”
She pulled out a
handkerchief.
Barry almost felt teary
himself.
“I’m done,” Miss Thurman
said, and the bailiff helped her from the witness box. As she passed Barry, she
said, “You looked nicer with long hair.”
The next person to be called
was a complete surprise. Mrs. Conley, the school psychologist, wearing a blue
skirt with a grey striped blouse and dangly purple earrings.
At the prosecutor’s
promptings, Mrs. Conley said, “Barry graduated from high school two years ago.
He was a much better-than-average student—B’s and a few C’s, but with A’s in
Math and Shop. Nevertheless, Barry had a problem. He bordered on clinical
Obsessive-Compulsive Personality Disorder. It never manifested as disabling to him, but it drove people—his sibling,
adults and other students, the people around him—crazy because he manipulated them into participating in his
neatness. He wearied people with tediousness about arranging the world to suit
his needs. It was a good quality gone awry. I encouraged his parent to find
treatment for him, but the parent was intractable.”
“Parent?” the prosecutor
said. “One parent?”
“His father. His mother died
when he was young, and the father never re-married.”
“Mrs. Conley, you have a
Master’s Degree in Psychology?”
“And a Doctorate in
adolescent social disorders.”
“Then, Dr. Conley, in your professional opinion, what are contributing
factors to Barry’s compulsive disorder?”
Barry jumped up. “Your
Honor, this is personal!”
“I believe,” Judge Smith
said, “the issue is relevant. Go ahead, Dr. Conley.”
“Barry’s father is a
convicted abuser of illegal drugs, and Barry sought to control the emotional
chaos around him by organizing his physical environment. It compensated for
what he lacked in family stability.”
Barry trembled and his face
twitched. He had heard people say this sort of thing about him before.
“One more question, if I
may,” the prosecutor said. “Can people with Barry’s condition find help?”
“Yes.” Mrs. Conley smiled at
Barry. “Once they recognize that they have a problem, the right kind of
counseling, and friendship, will help them identify and manage their compulsive
impulses when they arise.”
“Thank you.”
“Mr. Sullivan,” Judge Smith
said, “do you have any questions for Dr. Conley?”
“Um. Mrs. Conley, did you
know you have a lipstick smudge on your teeth?”
Earl in the back sniggered
and choked it off.
With eyebrows raised, and
mouth clamped shut, Mrs. Conley stared at Judge Smith who glanced away. He would not deny or confirm a smudge.
Mrs. Conley stepped down and didn’t smile again until she had looked into the
ladies room mirror.
To Barry’s astonishment,
Earl took the stand next. Then two of Barry’s buddies, then his boss, Mr.
Whatley. Even Amy from high school, who, with her sister, he used to take to
antique auto shows and bull riding competitions back when he had more time.
They all agreed Barry had a problem.
He didn’t have the heart to
ask any questions.
As if Barry hadn’t already
been beaten into the dirt, as if he had not been forced, more or less, to watch
a YouTube video of himself obsessing over everyone’s litter, lint, and clutter,
one more person emerged to testify, an emaciated prisoner sporting an orange
jumpsuit and dragging a clinking iron chain between his ankles.
Barry set his jaw to prepare
for further torment.
Once the bailiff swore in
the prisoner, the prosecutor said, “You’re Barry Sullivan’s father, correct?”
“Yes, sir, he’s mine. He’d
be a handsome boy, too, if he fixed his teeth.” Sullivan opened his mouth wide
to show his gums, the upper teeth gone entirely. “That’s what meth will do,” he
said, vaguely flipping one hand.
“Mr. Sullivan, to your
knowledge, did your son ever steal anything?”
“He stole my cigarettes and
drugs. But he threw them down the toilet, or in the furnace.”
“Did he break into your
premises to burglarize?”
“Yeah, he discovered where I
lived and stole stuff when I was asleep or high. He turned me in to the police,
too.”
Sullivan had been glancing
at Barry throughout, but now he focused on him. “Barry, I’m sorry for being a
bad father. You’re a good boy with good intentions, but you stepped over the
line at this lady’s house. I’m worried.”
Judge Smith had been saying,
“Mr. Sullivan, Mr. Sullivan,” but Sullivan kept talking.
“Take care of yourself, son,
and don’t fret over other people’s messes, people not family. You need help. Don’t be me, an addict in jail, old before
my time.”
The prosecutor had no more
questions for the witness, and Judge Smith asked Barry if he had any. He did.
“Hey, Dad, how’s it going?”
“Been clean a year, since I
was arrested. In a decent recovery program, finally. When will you visit?”
“Soon. My next day off.
Sorry I haven’t yet. When do you get out?”
“Six months.”
“Good to see you,” Barry
said.
“Hey, buddy!” Sullivan
called to Earl in the back.
Judge Smith gaveled this
drama to a close, disappointing the spectators, all of whom had been afflicted
with swelled throats and troublesome tears. A sheriff’s deputy escorted the
prisoner out.
“Does the defendant wish to
call any witnesses?” Judge Smith asked.
Under his breath, Barry
said, “You’ve talked to everybody I
know,” but out loud he said, “No, sir. I filmed the house before we cleaned, if
you’d like to see it.”
The bailiff rolled the TV
around so everyone could see. Judge Smith cringed when the disaster panned
across the screen, but he kept his face impassive. From the courtroom arose
grunts, gasps, and other vocalizations. No one had believed the house had been
that bad.
After the video, Judge Smith
said, “Then does the defendant wish to make a final statement?”
Barry stood up. “Um, Your
Honor. About the burglary. Our work was worth more than the junk we threw away.
And, I spent the money I’d saved up for my braces on her plane tickets and the
cruise. It’s all gone, the braces money. We—my brother and I—we really helped
her.”
From the back of the
courtroom (next to Earl) Miss Thurman said, “You had no right.”
Judge Smith gently tapped
his gavel.
“I know that now,” Barry
said, turning around. “I do know.”
“Okay,” Judge Smith said. “Closing
remarks from the prosecution?”
The prosecutor stood
half-way up. “No, Your Honor. I think we heard a confession.”
“I agree. Then…” There was a
long, long pause, while Judge Smith fiddled with his gavel. “Then, the court
finds Mr. Barry Sullivan guilty of Burglary in the Second Degree.” He thumbed
open a big book, read silently and said, “Class D Felony. Penalty is… 38 months
in jail, suspended, provided that Mr. Sullivan give 80 hours of community service,
that he receive court-approved counseling, and… that he buy back as much of
Miss Thurman’s property as is possible from the proceeds from what he sold. The
court so orders.”
===
Mondays, Barry began working
off his community service at the Fern Prairie Baptist memorial garden with Miss
Thurman as his supervisor. After he recovered what little he could of the “stolen
property” from the Craigslist sales, he told Miss Thurman he’d bring her those
items on his next day off. However, before the day, she called him at noon and
insisted he come to her house right away
after Whatley’s.
“Right away.”
When he arrived, the road in
front was packed with cars and the yard jammed with people. Barry thought maybe
the house had burned down or Miss Thurman had a stroke, but there were no fire
trucks or ambulances. The only similar vehicle was a van painted in outrageous
glossy emerald, scarlet, and gold. The house had been painted too, by the Fern
Prairie Baptist youth during his recent absence.
Barry tucked in his shirt
and wandered through the throng. It was a party, with people rosy-cheeked and
whooping. Neighbors, friends, church ladies, stray dogs, and total strangers.
Local reporters with notebooks and cameras. A beaming film crew. Even Amy and
her sister.
Was that really the
Honorable Judge Herbert Smith leaning against the powder-blue Mustang? Did he
just wink at Barry?
A man wearing a gray suit
and a pretty woman in a stylish ruby dress held a giant poster resembling a
paycheck.
Miss Thurman stood regally
on her front porch, the center of the festivity. When she saw Barry inching up
the sidewalk, she rushed down the stairs and gave him a bear hug.
“Barry,” she cried, “I won
the Publishers Discount House Sweepstakes and the Alaska
Barry froze in place,
blinking, his mouth open.
“Hey everyone,” she shouted
breathlessly and waved, “here’s the young man!”
The crowd cheered and
cameras snapped.
“Miss Thurman,” Barry said
quietly, “thank you so much for your generous offer. I’m shocked and truly
grateful, but I’m wondering about something. It’s been bothering me. The jobs I’d
like to have someday in engineering… They won’t hire a person with a criminal record.”
The crowd moved in closer
and hushed, so as to hear better.
“Stop obsessing,” Miss
Thurman said. “I was going to tell you anyway, so it might as well be now. The
trial wasn’t real, no more than your phony sweepstakes was. Some people in my
church put it on, like a charade. We have a trustee who is a County Commissioner
“Oh. What about the burglary
charges?”
“I had them dropped.”
She climbed up the steps and
held onto the porch banister. “Hey, everyone!” she shouted as she beckoned, “won’t
you all come inside for refreshments?”
Barry stepped aside and
watched the people herding into Miss Thurman’s neat and clean house; he grinned
big and almost sobbed.
END
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