The Folds Read online

  He leaned in through the open window and grabbed the handset. “Two-two-nine-nine, yes, copy that.”

  Butch stood behind his desk, reading from a stack of papers in his hand when a familiar voice echoed in his ears.

  “Man, alive! They got you all setup!” Chester declared proudly as he entered Butch’s office, admiring the plaques, pictures, certificates, and fine furnishings. “You doin’ good, boy!”

  Butch remained focused on his paperwork as his estranged father kept the compliments rolling, feeling the leather winged chair.

  “Big chairs and couch! Man!”

  “What’re you doin’ here, Daddy?” Butch asked bluntly, flopping the paperwork on the credenza behind him. Unmoved by his presence, he crossed his arms and stared at his father with deep, unforgiving brown eyes.

  “What’m I doin’ here?” Chester asked nervously with a small chuckle. “Wh’ kinda way is that to talk to your daddy? Do I gotta have a reason t’ see my boy?”

  “Yes, yes, you do!” he answered coldly. “All these years and you just up and decide to come to my office?”

  The two men looked each over.

  “Well, I was jus’ out drivin’ ’round and thought I’d stop by,” Chester said.

  “Drivin’ around, huh?” the Doubting Thomas commented.

  “Hey, what’s with ‘Butch’ on the door?” Chester inquired, thumbing over his shoulder. “We named you Cleo.”

  “I like Butch!” he replied anxiously, then immediately tried to calm himself before continuing, tilting his head back. “I go by Butch now, all right? Cleo is in my past.”

  Chester began to cheerfully explain, saying, “You know, we named you Cleo ’cuz you was just like—”

  “Look! I’m busy! I don’t got time to stop and play your father-son catch-up thing.”

  “All right. I, uh…I guess I be goin’ then,” Chester painfully acknowledged. Before passing through the doorframe of the office, he added, “I’m guessin’ you got more important things to do.” He turned the corner into the hall and was gone.

  Butch reached for his stack of reports and resumed his reading. Not more than two minutes had passed before he slammed the paperwork on the credenza and shouted, “Dad!”

  He bolted out of the office, hopped down the front stairs, and looked for signs of his father. He spied Chester halfway down the block and sprinted to catch up to him. He finally caught up, grabbed him by the arm, and turned him around.

  From across the street, under the shade of a large oak tree, Danny proudly watched as father and son smiled and shook hands.

  THIRD TIME’S A CHARMER

  Butch passed a large crowd of people on Friday morning as he turned on to LBJ Avenue. They were gathered near the alley, just outside the diner he and Danny visited nearly three weeks before. He slowed down to take a look, and then suddenly, from somewhere in the crowd, Danny emerged holding three fingers in the air, smiling broadly. Laughing to himself with a shake of his head, Butch immediately pulled over and parked the car across the street from the scene with the emergency lights flashing.

  “Shame to hear about good ‘ol onion burger Bob, huh?” Danny called out to Butch as he exited his car.

  They met in the middle of the street, shook hands, then headed toward the gathering crowd.

  “Oh, let me guess what this is!” Butch patronized as the duo casually walked side by side. “Hmmmm. Could it be that he may have slipped on some mayo?”

  “Uh…” Danny began with the same play in his voice, trying hard not to laugh. “No…no, sir! No dairy products involved whatsoever.”

  The two smiled at each other as they approached the restaurant.

  At that moment, an ambulance pulled up behind them and made with a quick blast of its siren. The two men jogged a few paces out of the way before Butch continued with his exaggerated hypothesis. “Or maybe they were being robbed and he got shot?”

  “Oh…” Danny winced with clenched fists. “Sooo close! But

  ahhhh… No!”

  Two EMTs with a gurney rushed past them and then another one darted by carrying a large medical toolbox. “Hey, Butch, ain’tcha goin’ in?” one of the technicians hollered, turning to walk backward.

  “Don’t need to!” Butch hollered back, glancing at Danny with a smile and nod. “The guy slipped on spilled fryer grease.”

  “Yeah!” Danny finished with the full, morbid description, “Slipped and broke his neck. Burned up his whole face!”

  The EMT briefly stared at Butch and Danny with a puzzled look on his face before turning back to race to the restaurant. Butch and Danny slowly strolled past the mayhem to the town square and it’s early morning shoppers.

  “A man of many talents you are, Mr. Albright,” Butch complimented as the two looked into one of the storefronts, taking their time to pause, talk, and window shop.

  “Heavy on the ‘mister’ please,” Danny insisted.

  “Mister Albright, excuse me,” Butch retorted.

  “That’s better! Talented you say? Explain ‘talented.’”

  “Talented, gifted, blessed?”

  “In what way would you imply that I be talented, gifted, or blessed, sir?”

  “First of all, that’s Sir Farley to you,” Butch demanded politely.

  “A thousand apologies, Sir Farley,” Danny corrected himself, bowing deeply.

  “Thank you! Thank you!” Butch answered, returning the bow. “Talented in the sense that not only can you determine the exact ending point of someone’s life, but you’re also good at bringing ’em back from the dead!”

  “Well, I do have to admit, Sir, that I have no earthly idea of what you’re talking about!”

  “You know darn well what I’m talking about.” Butch stopped walking to look squarely at Danny.

  “Well,” Danny tried to justify, “I just thought, you know, you ’n I…we ain’ had our daddies since we were ten. And now I’m back with Mom. I…” he hesitated, feeling his emotions beginning to surface, “…I never knew how much I loved and missed her ’til I came back. So…” He finished with a shrug and both men resumed walking.

  “Feel strange being back?” Butch asked.

  “Yeah…but after a few days it was like I had never left. We just picked up where we left off. You know you can, too,” he suggested with a smile of encouragement.

  OIL AND WATER

  D anny rolled back the heavy metal door, bathing the inside of the barn with bright, early morning summer sunlight. He stood there momentarily, and hearkened back to the days of long ago when he and his friends had their sleepovers in the upstairs loft. But now the paint, life, and glory of the two-story barn had faded from years of neglect. Spider webs, nests, animal droppings, dust, and dirt encapsulated the contents of the barn, as if frozen in time. He approached his father’s workbench, pulled back the shutters on the wall, and flicked on the overhead work light. The tubes flickered briefly and made a low hum as they illuminated the paint- and oil-stained tabletop. Above the bench was Tommy’s old stereo, still covered with a plastic trash bag. He blew off the dust before taking off the sack, exposing the high-fidelity eight-track player. Under the sack he also found a box of old tapes: Elvis, Live from Hawaii; Neil Diamond, Gold; Roy Orbison’s Greatest Hits, Waylon Jennings’s Greatest, and Frank Sinatra’s Songs for Swinging Lovers. He removed the Neil Diamond eight-track from the dusty box, gave it a good wipe down, and turned on the stereo. The stereo came to life with bright, miniature orange bulbs illuminating the knobs. He gently pushed the tape in. After a moment or two, the speakers began pumping out “Cherri, Cherri.”

  Sarah heard the music blaring from her upstairs bedroom. She got up out of bed, leaned her head out the window, and watched as large plumes of dirt and dust billowed from the barn. After a few vain attempts of yelling at Danny to turn down the music, she donned her robe and made her way downstairs. Danny, who was completely oblivious to Sarah’s presence, joined Neil’s backup singers and shook his rear as he danced and swep
t. Noticing Sarah’s shadow by the open door, he turned to see her holding her hand over her mouth, trying to suppress her laugh. He strutted toward her, wiggling his hips in rhythm to the music, and took her hand. He gave his mother’s arm a mighty tug and yanked her toward him. She lunged slightly off balance into her son’s arms with a small squeal and began to jitterbug. A broad smile gradually crossed her lips as she gaily danced and sang. After a couple of spins, Danny turned his mother loose and watched as the greenish-purple fold above her right shoulder suddenly faded to white. His heart sank with despair as waves of nervousness and nausea rippled through the backs of his knees and stomach. He stopped dancing and solemnly walked the few paces to the workbench to turn down the music.

  “Whoo!” Sarah yelped, breathing extremely heavy. “I haven’t danced like that in years!”

  Danny offered no response as he stared out the window.

  “Danny? Hon, what’s wrong?” she asked and began walking toward him.

  “Ah, nuthin’,” he replied with a wipe of his eyes. “It’s just all this dust in here.” He turned away from her, picked up his broom, and quickly changed the subject as he resumed his sweeping. “Did ya hear Chester came to see Butch at his office?”

  “Chester?” she asked, leaning against the bench as Danny swept. “Who’s Chester?”

  “That’s his father.”

  “His father? I thought his father died?”

  “Well, evidently he got better.”

  “Wait a minute,” she inquired. “How’d you know that?”

  “When I came by to see you the other day. You were somewhere, so I talked to Butch for a sec.”

  “I was somewhere, huh! When was I somewhere?”

  “I don’t remember exactly,” he falsely admitted, then again changed the subject. “Hey! I got an idea. Why don’ you ’n I take Butch and his dad to the Longhorn for dinner? You know, a kinda dual reunion thing?”

  “Oh, I dunno!” she said, puckering her lips and biting her inner cheek as she thought aloud. “When other people get involved with separated families, those old feeling that haven’t been laid to rest? It can get pretty intense!”

  “Not Butch!” Danny scoffed. “You and I will be there to kinda act as a buffer if things gets outta hand. I think it’d be good for us all.”

  “Well, let me think about it a while. Now, don’t you go sayin’ anything to him. Ya hear?” she finished, turning with a pointed finger.

  “Oh, yes, ma’am!”

  A few days later, Sarah was covering a lunch shift for two dispatch operators when a call came in. She connected the line, answering calmly and professionally. “Department of Public Safety, what is your emergency?”

  “I need help! Quick!” came a panic-stricken voice over the speaker. “You gotta send someone out here! Oh, my God! Oh, my God!”

  The two other dispatchers, upon returning from their lunch break, leaned over to listen to the exclamations.

  Sarah tried to calm down the unidentified caller. “Okay, sir. I need you to settle down and tell me what’s wrong.”

  Heavy breathing and suppressed weeping masked the words, “It’s horrible! Oh, it’s so horrible!”

  Sarah tried again to ascertain the information from the caller. “Sir…sir, please calm down. What’s horrible? What’s wrong?”

  “It’s…it’s my gravy!” the weeping voice lamented.

  Sarah looked at the other operators for confirmation of what she just heard.

  “I’m sorry, sir, your what? Did you say gravy?”

  “Oh, my God. It’s too clumpy!” the caller cried out. “It’s crushing my biscuits!”

  “Danny Lee Albright!” Sarah yelled into the headset as she turned off the recorder. “You idiot!” She leaned back in her chair, obviously irritated, but laughing in disbelief at the joke played on her. Glancing over to her chuckling coworkers, she ran her hands through her hair and took a deep breath before lambasting her son. “Don’t ever do that to me again! This line is for emergencies!”

  “Well, it is clumpy. How do you thin it out?” he asked as he stirred the skillet over the fire. Spilled milk and flour covered the stovetop and kitchen counter.

  “You don’t have enough milk and your fire’s too high!” she pointed out. “Did you use the bacon fat to the right of the stove in the coffee can?”

  “Uh…okay and, no,” he replied as he turned down the gas under the cast-iron skillet, opened the can, and scooped out a spatula full of fat. “Hey, I was just calling to ask if you’d like to meet me for dinner at the Longhorn?”

  “Uh, sure, I guess. What’s the occasion?” she asked as she sorted through her paperwork.

  “Well…why not? We ain’t been out since I came home. Besides, this gravy is beyond saving. You could patch drywall with this stuff. C’mon, please?!”

  “Um, okay,” she finally agreed. “You want me to meet ya when I get off?”

  “Yeah, just give me a holler when you’re leaving.”

  “Okay, that’ll be in ’bout three hours. I love you!”

  “I love you, too!” he replied, then quickly hung up. He immediately picked up the phone again and dialed a number written on a sticky note on the refrigerator. Once the line was connected, he requested, “Detective Farley please.”

  Several hours later, Sarah entered the Longhorn restaurant, the town’s best and only diner. The early evening setting sun bathed the west side of the dining room in brilliant orange light. The walls of the restaurant were covered with the mounted heads of game the local hunters had downed and donated over the years. Joining the ranks of deer, bobcat, javelina, and mountain lion, stuffed and mounted largemouth bass and catfish also hung on the walls. The prized catches came from places as close as Lake Texoma, south to the rivers near the Gulf Coast, and as far away as Lake Allan Henry, just outside Justiceburg. Collections of barbed wire, branding irons, lassos, and metal tractor signs were also scattered throughout. Old coffeepots, hand-cranked cherry pitters, cowboy hats, and worn-out boots dangled from the rafters. Pictures and posters of John Wayne, Mac Davis, Waylon Jennings, Buddy Holly, Gene Autry, and Willie Nelson hung in handcrafted wood frames.

  For dessert, the Longhorn boasted a menu of eleven kinds of pie, all handmade and available pretty much every day. They made chocolate, coconut, coconut crème, and lemon meringue pies with meringue thick enough to sit on but melted in your mouth like air; fresh fruit pies, pumpkin pie, and their signature deep-dish pecan pie. When the Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter holidays rolled around, you couldn’t even get a piece of pecan pie unless you ordered a whole one at least a month in advance. Or by some act of God, an order was canceled or not picked up.

  Sarah could hardly see the customers in the dining room from the glare of the sun. On the far side of the restaurant, however, she spied the silhouette of Danny, waving his hands in the air. She crossed the room and greeted several of the patrons, treating each and every one she encountered like a lifelong friend.

  “I tried calling earlier,” she said as Danny pulled out her chair. “Where’ve you been?”

  “Oh, I had errands to run and came straight over,” he answered before giving her a large hug and kiss. “Had a good day?” he asked as she sat and he pushed in her chair.

  “Stellar!” she answered flatly, already suspicious of his overboard behavior. “What’re you doin’, chicken fox?”

  “Doin’?” he replied, chuckling in denial and confusion, looking above her head. “What do ya mean what am I doin’?”

  As she opened her mouth to speak, Sarah was suddenly interrupted by a deep and scratchy, “‘Scuse me?”

  Before she could turn to respond and get a full visual of the man standing next to her, Danny stood and cried out excitedly, “Hey! Wow! Chester Farley! What’re…what’re you doin’ way out here, you ol’ rascal?” He shook Chester’s hand aggressively and smiled at his mother, but was met instead with a puckered lip with a raised eyebrow. “You wanna join us? Here, give yourself a rest,” he
suggested, pulling out one of the chairs.

  “Oh, thank ya! Don’ mind if I do,” Chester accepted gladly. He was dressed in faded and worn brown, pinstriped trousers with the hem of the legs frayed at the bottom. His shirt was rose colored, embroidered with a small floral print and faded at the cuff and collar. His long hair, even though unwashed, was slightly kept and his scraggly nest of a beard had flecks of white and gray. His fingernails and teeth also appeared to have been neglected for the longest of time.

  “Hello, Mr. Farley, I’m Danny’s mom, Sarah,” she greeted confidently with a handshake. “You’re Butch’s father, right?”

  “Yes, ma’am, and may I say, Miss Albright, it is a divine pleasure!” he replied seductively with a sly smile and a small pat of his free hand on top of hers. Then he exclaimed, “Whoo! What a handshake!”

  “Watch’er, Chester!” Danny butted in, nudging him on the shoulder. “That’s her shootin’ hand!”

  At that moment, Danny noticed Butch entering the foyer of the restaurant and began waving wildly. Sarah glared intensely at her son, shaking her head with a not-so-amused look on her face. Danny rose slightly out of his seat, looked at his mother, and whimpered a guilty sounding, “What?” He turned to Butch and hollered playfully, “Come on over, ya workaholic!”

  The other patrons took notice of Butch standing at the door. Chester stood next to Danny and motioned for Butch to join them. Butch moved not a muscle. Sarah shrugged and pointed at Danny as if to say, “It was all his idea!” Butch forced his concrete-encased feet across the old plank wood floor, feeling his stomach tighten as he drew closer to the table.

  Sarah was first to greet him, albeit semi-enthusiastically. “Hey, Butch.”

  “Sarah, Danny,” Butch solemnly said and paused before acknowledging his father. “Daddy.”

  “How you doin’, boy? Good to see you!” Chester sugarcoated his greeting as he patted his son’s back. “You lookin’ good! Don’ he look good?”