We’d all stared at him and shaken our heads while he did what he did, and none of us complained, not until we saw the blue lights on the top of the cop car.
We’d gotten caught with him driving his daddy’s car while not having more than a learner’s permit, and Junior hadn’t been able to get his license for two more years, long after we all had ours. The police had delivered us one by one back to our homes, and they’d impounded Junior’s daddy’s car. And that hadn’t been the only time. Junior was known for his inability to turn down a challenge.
And then last night, when one of us had said, “We should go paint the side of the Jacobsons’ barn at Lake Fisher,” Junior had agreed, saying he always thought of it as like a big blank canvas and it was our job—nay, our duty—to fill it with “art.” Then he drove us to the local variety store so we could buy spray paint, and then drove us straight to the big white barn, where we proceeded to write and draw stupid shit on the outer barn wall. And that is why we’re here now, because Junior Adams isn’t a good influence even when he’s sober.
I can’t think of a single benefit there would be to marrying Junior Adams, unless a lifetime supply of distress was what you were after. “You need a new husband,” I say to Barbara-Claire.
“Nope,” she replies. “I just got that one trained.” She looks into my eyes. “It only took me twenty-five years.” She shakes her head. “No way I’m letting some other woman reap the benefits of my hard work.” She leans close to my ear. “Besides, he’s really good at working downtown, if you know what I mean.” She winks at me and looks down at her lap, then winks again. She grins.
I could have lived my whole life without knowing that about Junior. And I wish I still could.
“Clifford,” Grady hisses right next to my ear.
I ignore him and stare straight toward the wall in front of me. It’s dirty and streaked with some kind of substance that makes me afraid to learn its origin.
“Clifford,” he says again. He nudges me with his elbow.
I guess I should be glad they hadn’t put me in a cell with Grady because if they had I’m not sure I would have been able to keep from scratching his eyes out.
Instead I lift my elbow and jab it hard into his side. He doubles over with a grunt. “What was that for?” he asks petulantly as he rubs his ribs.
Barbara-Claire leans across me to look at him. “You know she hates it when you call her that. I don’t know why you insist on doing it.” She sits back with a huff, crossing her arms. She glances down at her watch. “I have to get out of here soon. Marcy is going to get out of daycare and no one will be there to pick her up.”
Junior and Barbara-Claire have three girls. They’re all a perfect mixture of the two of them, with their dark eyes and cheeky grins.
“I’ll text Mama,” Junior says, and he pulls his phone out of his pocket and starts to type. He waits a beat for a response. “She’ll pick up all three, but she said she wants you to make some of that apple cobbler this weekend.”
Barbara-Claire rolls her eyes. “Extortion,” she says, but I see a smile tug at the corners of her lips as she too stares toward the dirty wall, her head tilted like she’s trying to figure out what’s on it.
An officer I recognize as being from the Sherriff’s department stops next to our bench. “You four can follow me,” he says.
I get up to follow the uniformed officer, and Grady leans down close to my ear again. “Psst,” he says. I rub my ear, but I refuse to look at him. He grabs my elbow to slow me down, but I jerk it out of his hand.
“Do not touch me!” I hiss at him. I follow closely behind Barbara-Claire, who is holding on to the back of Junior’s shirt like she’s afraid he
’s going to run away without her.
“How do you want to play this?” Grady asks, his head suspiciously close to my face.
“Play what?”
“Are we going to blame Junior and Barbara-Claire? Or take responsibility ourselves?” He stares at me, almost no expression on his face.
“What?” I am thoroughly confused by the question.
“We were drunk,” he says simply. He looks at me like that’s going to clear everything up.
“So?” We still did what we did. There’s no chance of disputing it, not with the surveillance camera evidence.
“So, we were drunk, and they were sober.” He motions toward Junior and Barbara-Claire. “It’s their fault. But they have kids, so that doesn’t feel quite right.”
“God gave you absolute shit for brains,” I tell him. “I think you should file a complaint with Jesus next time you go to church. You got shafted, you shithead.”
“I’m serious,” he says. “I mean, it’s partially their fault. They could have stopped us at any time, but they were so busy getting it on in the backseat of my Jeep while we painted that barn that they didn’t care what we were doing!” His voice is nothing more than a soft hiss.
“They were not getting it on…” My voice trails off as the memory assails me. They had let us get out of the Jeep, and then I’d seen Junior climb over the front seat into the back, and he’d pulled Barbara-Claire back there with him. A minute later, the whole Jeep had started rocking. “They were totally doing it,” I admit. I scrub at my forehead.
“So you do remember,” he says.