The Widows of Wichita County

October 18

Meredith Allen curled into the shadows of her living room and watched as Sheriff Granger Farrington climbed out of his patrol car. He tossed his hat on the seat and headed toward her door. She glanced at the clock glowing from her VCR beneath the TV. Nine o'clock. Probably time for his final rounds, she decided. How did she get on his list? It must read something like "lock up office, check on fights at bars, drop in on pathetic widows."

Everyone in town knew his routine. Since being elected sheriff, he started each day at his office by seven and ended every shift by driving through town just after dark. On weekends he was on call, but most folks knew they could find him at his office on Saturday mornings and checking out the bars around midnight without taking the time to order a drink. Sunday was slow and he was a little harder to locate.

Meredith always thought he deserved his Sundays alone. Surely one of his deputies could handle things. But, in a small town you are what you do. Not just during work hours, but all the time. She had seen the town pharmacist cornered at church about a prescription and heard last week the home economics teacher was called at midnight because the Methodist Women's League had a canning problem.

The only unlisted number in town was the home phone of Hank Wilson, the TV repair shop owner. He figured in his line of work other folks' emergencies were never his. Rumor had it that the unlisted number made some people so mad they would buy another set rather than give Hank their business.

Just guessing, she would say Granger Farrington loved what he did. The paper had reported he worked ten years on the Houston Police Department and three with the highway patrol before running uncontested for sheriff. Most folks fell he had done a great job for the past four years.

Once, when Meredith had borrowed his copier at the courthouse, she noticed his rules posted on a wall beside his desk.

Farrington's rules

One: Know what's going on in town.

Two: Be professional.

Three: Never get involved personally.

As far as Meredith knew, he had followed every rule to the letter. He never dated any women in Clifton Creek, nor made drinking-buddy friendships with anyone in town. Some said he limited his friendships and his women to Sundays in Wichita Falls.

Meredith thought of his third rule as he knocked on her door. This was a professional call. Nothing more. The principal at the grade school probably phoned him, reporting no one had seen her since the funeral. Principal Pickett might be worried and influential enough to ask the sheriff to take action.

Meredith curled back into her chair. She was not interested in talking to anyone. No amount of talking would change anything. She just wanted the world to go away and let her be unhappy all by herself.

The sheriff knocked again, then tried the doorbell as if it would make any difference.

"Go away," she whispered. "I don't want to get involved personally." From now on she planned to take the sheriffs third rule to heart. A week had passed since Kevin's death and she could not stop the hurt inside. If she learned anything, she had learned caring is not worth the pain that follows. From now on no one would come close enough to be more then a "Hello" friend.

After waiting a few minutes, he finally stepped off the porch. He took a few steps down the walk, then noticed the old Mustang parked in the garage. The same car that was usually parked next to his at the courthouse when she worked on holidays while the county clerk's office was closed. On those days he would stop by to let her know someone else was in the building. She always passed his office and told him she had locked up when she left. That had been the extent of their communications before the night at the hospital when he held her tight to keep her from falling.

But, he had only been doing his job as he was now and Meredith did not want to be part of his duties.

They were considerate strangers, she thought. Saying hello to one another at work. That was enough.

She heard him step onto the back porch and knock at the rear door. The sound echoed through her little house.

"I'm not answering," she whispered once more. "I don't want to see or talk to anyone, Sheriff. Not even a considerate stranger like you."

To her shock, he ventured further without probable cause of crime. He tried the doorknob. She had seen enough cop movies to know he was not following the rules.

She closed her eyes, pretending she did not hear his footsteps coming inside her house.

"Meredith?" he called. "Are you home, Mrs. Allen?"

Don't make a sound, she thought.

The sheriff swore beneath his breath as he tripped over the mop just inside the back door.

"Meredith," he shouted as he moved through the clue tered house. "You've got to be in here. No one would leave the heater turned up so high. It has to be eighty in the place."He caught his foot on one of the kitchen chairs. "You must be alive. If you were dead, you'd smell in this heat in no time."

He drew a deep breath. "As it is, it smells like dying potted plants in here."

She wondered if he always talked to himself or if he was keeping a running dialogue so that she would hear him coming and not be afraid.

He rounded the bar and entered the shadowy living room. For a moment, he did not see her hidden within the furniture. She sat perfectly still hoping he would yet go away.

"Meredith?" His feet crunched atop dead leaves as he moved around crumbling sprays that had filled the church a week ago. White mums, limp and brown tipped, were all that clung to the wiring of once beautiful arrangements. "Meredith!"

She did not move.

Slowly, he neared. Crouching beside her chair, he touched her arm.

She finally looked up at him.

"Evening, Sheriff Farrington," she said in a voice that sounded dry.

"Evening, Ms. Allen." He smiled out of relief. "How are you tonight?"

"I'm fine," she answered, "and you?"

"I was a little worried about you." He moved so he could see her face better in the pale light coming through the Venetian blinds. "Folks seem to be having a little trouble reaching you. You're not answering your phone."

"I haven't heard it lately." She glanced at the phone on the table beside her. The cord was wrapped around it. The plastic plug that should have been in the wall reflected the streetlight's glow.

The corner of Granger's lip lifted once more. "Got tired of the ringing, did you?"

She nodded. "Everyone kept calling, saying how sorry they were that I lost my husband. I didn't lose Kevin. I buried him."

"I know. I was there. It was a real nice service." He patted her arm awkwardly. He looked as if he would rather be handling a bar fight than be here talking to her.

Meredith smiled up at him. "I planned the service all by myself. I figured it was the last thing I'd ever do for Kevin."

"You did a good job." Granger said. "You had anything to eat today, Meredith?"

She glanced down as she tried to remember. The area surrounding her chair looked like a snowbank made of tissues. Her legs were curled inside a huge jersey of Kevin's. She touched her long hair, now matted and plastered against her scalp.

"I had some of Mrs. Pickett's pie yesterday, I think." She closed him out and settled back into the folds of the chair. "I've been so cold. So cold."

Meredith folded into her own world, turning her face away from him. All she wanted was to sleep and make the world go away. She had been too tired to even think about her class. In truth, she felt too tired to even sleep.

Without warning, Granger grabbed her by the arms and pulled her to her feet in one quick jerk. "Meredith!"

For a moment she remained limp, like a gelatin doll. He tightened his grip, as if willing her to respond. "Meredith! You are not one of those wilting mums. Come on. Snap out of it. Kevin is the one who died, not you."

She took a deep gulp of air as though he had pulled her from beneath water. Awkwardly, she stiffened, bones straightening. Her legs took her weight.

She tried to pull away from him. How dare he come into her house and remind her that her husband had died? Did he think for one minute, for one second, that she had forgotten? She gulped in air wishing she knew how to fight Never in her life had she wanted to hit someone, to hurt someone, so much.

He backed away a few feet and watched her. "Sorry. I didn't mean to startle you." He tried to brush away the pain he had inflicted from her arms. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"

"I'm all right, Sheriff." Rubbing her arms she tried to decide if she hated him or needed to thank him. "You don't have to worry about me. No one has to worry about me." She suddenly wished she knew all the words to tell him to go away. Who did he think he was, breaking into her house, shaking her, reminding her she did not die with Kevin?

"Stop staring at me that way. I didn't mean any harm, Meredith. To tell the truth I don't even know what got into me, shaking you like that. I just couldn't stand seeing you curled up, giving up. Not you." He looked like he wanted to run, but he forced himself to face her. "How about I go pick up something for supper? Maybe if you ate somethingg you'd feel better."

She stared at him thinking he might just be the strangest man she had ever met. She would bet he never planned to touch her and the fact he did bothered him more than it bothered her.

"I thought, if you'd join me, I could be back in thirty minutes with some food. You'd have time to take a shower while I'm gone." She did not answer. "The hot water might warm you up and save a little of your heating bill."

When she did not comment, he unlocked the front door.

"If I come back and the door is locked I'll know your answer is no to my offer for dinner." He walked out without waiting for an answer.

Thirty minutes later he was sitting at her kitchen bar with hamburgers and malts when she walked out of the bathroom.

"I feel better." She admitted as she pulled her robe tighter and tossed her wet hair back. "What did you bring?"

He stared at her as if he'd never seen her before. Surely her thick robe was not that different from the sweaters she usually wore. But he seemed to be studying every detail about her.

"You did bring food?" she asked, as she moved around him and opened the sack.

"I didn't know what you liked," he finally said. "I picked up a couple of cheeseburgers from Jeff's."

Meredith climbed onto the stool beside him and waited.

He handed her a cheeseburger, then a malt. They ate without conversation. She had no clue about what to say to a sheriff. If she had ever committed a crime, she might confess. It did not seem polite to ask about his job. She was not sure she wanted to know who in town had been arrested lately.

When she finished, she went to the refrigerator and returned with a cake someone must have brought over. Funeral food, her grandmother used to call it. Friends and neighbors in small towns always baked their favorite dish and brought it to the house. It did not seem to matter that "the house" only contained one person who could not possibly eat a counterful of sweets and ten pounds of chicken. It was tradition.

She cut them both a slice and returned to her chair.

He pushed the dessert around with a fork without tasting a bite. Finally, he looked at her, and seemed to be studying her face with great interest. He lifted his napkin, leaned over and wiped the top of her lip.

Chocolate malt stained the white of his paper napkin.

She could have written the action off to instinct, but she guessed the sheriff had never done such a thing to anyone in his life.

"Thank you," she said.

For a moment, he did not say anything. He seemed io realize what he had done. He was not a man who touched easily and he had touched her twice in less than an hour. The cake forgotten, he stood.

"Anything else I can do before I leave?" he said awkwardly.

Meredith yawned. "No. I think I'll go to sleep now. Thanks for the dinner."

With him still standing in the middle of her kitchen, she walked the few steps into the bedroom. She lifted the covers and crawled into bed, still wearing her robe.

She heard him shoving food wrappers into the trash. Since he showed himself in, she figured he could show himsell out.

"I'll lock up when I leave," he said, the same words he had said to her many times when they both worked holidays at the courthouse.

When she did not answer, she heard him step to her door. She snuggled into the pillows too exhausted to care what he talked about.

He pulled the quilt over her shoulder. "Good night, Meredith."

"Good night, Sheriff," she mumbled, too near sleep to say any more.

A hand was dealt in a no-name saloon in '27. Three oilmen passed the time playing poker with a local farmer. Money centered on the table. Cards were shown. Guns were pulled from both boot and vest.

When the smoke cleared all four were dead, bleeding across the five jacks facing up from the deck. The deaths were ruled an accident.