Chapter 12

I knew about the trailer. I understood the need for the ugly green General Steel building. Did she have to go Avocado? The damn thing looks like a huge 1970’s refrigerator.

Pulling down the driveway, ... nice drive ... pea gravel ... feels rolled and compacted ... when did she do this?

Wendy going nuts over the tipis in the yard ... and that’s another thing ... plural tipis? Anyway ... the house on the north side of the drive looked nice. Glancing across the pasture, I noticed the fence ... white painted board fence ... and it just kept going north ... Circle K? Back to the tipis.

“Karen?”

“Hairy?”

“What’s with the lodges?”

“I’m a dealer.”

Well ... I spluttered a minute ... dealer?

I was getting ready for a full bore inquisition, when Karen parked and left us stranded.

“Band practice,” she said.

She walked over to the new house, banged on the door and opened it.

“Sally! Practice!”

An extremely attractive Spanish young lady stepped out the door, hugged Karen and the two walked east toward the Avocado ... great ... just great, David ... you’re already calling the garage by its color. The pair were half way across the pasture when a car came rumbling north on Wolf Creek road. It blasted across the cattle guard by the trailer and slid to a stop just as the girls walked up the concrete approach to the awful green building.

Even from here I could see it was Tommy and his brother Bobby. The center door rolled up and the quartet walked in ... my concentration was interrupted by a voice from the yard.

“David ... I’m sleeping here tonight.”

“That’s nice ... What?”

“I’m sleeping here tonight.”

A Wendy head peered out the painted lodge door hole.

“Watch out for the bears!” I said.

And then it was quite hard to hear anything. The band fired up.

A rather pretty lady stepped out of the house on the north side of the drive ... she was followed by a passel of kids. The trailer erupted ... a bunch of short hispanics evacuated and headed for the Avocado. John and Helen from across the road passed me by.

“Hi Hairy, been awhile.”

“John. Helen. Nice to see you.” I was going to quiz them but Helen forestalled me.

“Can’t stay ... we need to get a table,” she said.

My eyes follow the neighbors and I noticed the bunch of hispanics were hauling tables and chairs out to the verge. Then a dozen or so cars pulled across the trailer cattle guard and parked around the side and back of the building and girls were suddenly everywhere. More cars came ... and more people ... and more people ... and more cars. The topper was the station wagon of nuns and the priest from Holy Name Catholic that parked by the trailer.

Then the sheriff pulled down my drive. He got out, ran around to the passengers door and helped a lady out.

“Hi Hairy. You go to the party, Dear. I want to talk to Hairy.”

“Sheriff.”

“Hairy.”

“Come to check on us?”

“Never ... she doesn’t charge. Doesn’t sell ... she supplies soda and water. The kitchen is staffed by volunteers ... yes ... she has a kitchen in there. It’s all free. People come from miles around on Polka practice night. The Mexicans police their own. The Guatemalans police their own. We’ve never had a call to break up fights. Your girl had done more for community awareness than all the speeches the politicians spew. She does it and never brags. Great girl is our Karen.”

“Every night?”

“Once a week on Wednesdays. About 9 o’clock the place really jumps.”

“9 o’clock?”

“Wednesday night services,” he explained. “Who is this?”

Wendy tugged on my sleeve. “I wanna dance ... c’mon.

“Sheriff ... Wendy Austin. Wendy, the Sheriff of Sheridan County.”

Wendy acknowledged the sheriff. He tipped his non existent hat.

She tugged ... I made my excuses and we went to the dance.