The Wind Blows Where It Will

By James Crouch

Everybody in Dumfries County knows that Otis Sanders will not be the sheriff forever, but not everybody believes it. Among the doubters Tim Sloan, the outsider living deep in the heart of Appalachia, is the most vocal. Neither of them knows that the growing opioid epidemic of 2012 will change their lives in unexpected ways.

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Crouch
• Release date: Jul 26, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463916230

James Crouch

Like the protagonist of his novel, James E. Crouch is an outsider living in Appalachia. In a previous lifetime he had an academic career in the field of religious studies, teaching in locations as disparate as Oklahoma and Japan. More recently he has been translating theological works, primarily from German to English. With the publication of Family Values he is beginning a new career.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

The trio sat comfortably in the living room of the old house on Maple Street looking into the fire and reminiscing about the passage of time.

The boy was drinking from a mug of hot chocolate. The man in his mid years with a receding hairline was drinking the second of the two beers he was allowing himself on New Year’s Eve. The older man had a full head of white hair, a bottle of champagne by his chair, and an occasional nightmare from his years in Viet Nam.

A DNA test would not reveal it; they did not even share a last name. But they were a family.

The beer drinking man looked at the clock on the mantle and said to the boy, Just forty eight minutes left in two thousand and eleven. Then it’s off to bed.

Aw, Dad. It’s New Year’s Eve, and we can sleep in tomorrow.

Well, maybe this once. Pops likes to turn on the TV and watch the party in Times Square. You can watch it with him.

The older man said. You still miss your mother, Tommy. It was more a statement than a question.

The boy thought for a moment, then said, I like living with you and Dad … but yeah, I still cry sometimes.

Looking into the fire he asked, Dad, do you think we’ll ever have another mom in the house?

I hope so, Tommy.

Will it be Miss Angela?

The Dad shrugged. Could be.

As the clock neared midnight it was the old man who kept the conversation going. You like bein’ a cop, the grandfather asked, more’n you liked preachin’?

Usually, the younger man said. Church life wouldn’t have been so bad if I could a preached only to my friends. It was the way some of the other people acted that got to be too much for me.

The older man nodded knowingly. Too bad yore best friend here is an atheist … How old are you now?

Just turned 40. Next November I’ll be 41.

An’ I’m almost 11, Tommy said without being asked. An’ Hasina’s 10.

After another long pause the grandfather asked. Yore boss gonna have another one a his special programs next year?

The other shook his empty beer can. Hope not. But you never know what the sheriff’s gonna come up with.

Then he ruminated. Hard to believe that I’ve been in Appalachia this long. Five years ago—New Year’s Day, two thousand seven—I’d never even heard of Cairns Grove and Dumfries County.

Before the grandfather went to his room to watch the Times Square celebration, he asked, You thinkin’ a going back east? Where you was before you came here?

The younger man shook his head. Not as long as I have you guys.

PART ONE

Despair is the sickness unto death.

SØREN KIERKEGAARD

CHAPTER ONE

Everybody knew that Otis Sanders would not be the sheriff forever, but not everybody believed it.

Among the doubters Tim Sloan was the most vocal. Otis, you’re the only sheriff I’ve known in Dumfries County. Can’t imagine the office without you.

Get used to it, Tim. Come November you’ll have a new sheriff in town.

Somebody may have a new sheriff, but I won’t. I may just go back east where I came from.

Why don’t you? said Lonnie Johnson. It was more a threat than a question.

Otis ignored the comment. Don’t have a choice, Tim. It’s the law.

Well if you ask me, it’s a dumb law.

Nobody asked you, Sloan. Once again it was Lonnie who spoke.

Tim looked at the other deputies in the room. He knew that most of them liked Otis Sanders. Wouldn’t they be sorry to see him leave? They nodded. A couple of them grunted their approval. Retta Dishner, the dispatcher, spoke for most of them when she said, We’ll be sorry to see you leave, Otis.

In the corner Travis Lawson’s silence spoke louder than words.

• • •

The three bachelors, who rented the stately, two-story house at the end of Maple Street from the Presbyterian Church, ate supper in the kitchen. It was plain but serviceable: a sink for washing dishes, a cabinet for pots, pans, and dishes, a refrigerator for keeping things cold, and a table large enough for four people.

The trio used the meal to catch up on the day’s activities.

On this evening it was the sheriff’s race, and with it Tim’s future employment, that was the topic of conversation. Wade Pendleton, erstwhile grandfather and wounded veteran, simply grunted, Shit happens.

But ten-year-old Tommy Lyons, who was not at all shy about telling anyone who would listen that he was almost eleven, took the news seriously. You mean Uncle Otis ain’t gonna be the sheriff no more? How come?

It’s the law, Tommy. The same as when your mother was still alive she had a rule that you weren’t supposed to say ain’t.

Well, I think it’s a dumb law, the boy said.

I do too. But when I said today that the law was dumb nobody cared what I thought. It’s the law that Otis can serve only two terms as sheriff.

Wade was still eating, so Tommy focused on Tim. Who’s gonna be the next sheriff?

Don’t know yet, Tommy. The people have to have an election.

When they gonna do that?

It’ll be in November. The same time the people decide whether Mr. Obama will be the president for four more years.

Tommy scowled. My teacher don’t like Mr. Obama.

How come?

She jest makes a face an’ says he’s a bad president.

"But why is he a bad president?"

She don’t say. She jest won’t put his picture on the wall with the other presidents.

An’ did she show you a picture of Mr. Obama?

She did. He’s a black man. An’ she says he probly just sits around the White House smokin’ dope, ’cause that’s what niggers do.

Tommy, we don’t talk that way.

But I’m just tellin’ you what she says.

Maybe that’s her problem, Tommy. Maybe she just doesn’t like black people.

When Tommy shrugged his shoulders, Tim went on. Around here some people voted against Mr. Obama just because he’s different. You know: Like some people don’t like our friends Abdul Salam and Hadaya and your friend Hasina. They’re from Iraq, they’re Muslim, and they look different, so some people don’t like them.

But Dad, Hasina is pretty.

Mr. Obama and his wife have two daughters, and they’re pretty too.

Tommy thought for the best part of a minute. As pretty as Hasina?

Tim laughed. Tommy, in your eyes nobody is as pretty as Hasina.

CHAPTER TWO

Otis Sanders was in a no-nonsense mood when he summoned people to the freshly painted interview room. It was a small room, devoid of furniture except for a table at which the sheriff and a few of his deputies sat. Other deputies stood around the walls, some holding the coffee mugs they had filled in the outer office. When one of them tried to break the tension with a joke, Otis snapped, I’ll talk. You’ll listen.

He looked around the room. Where’s Retta?

She’s out in the front room. Manning the telephone.

Go get her. I want everybody to hear this. Deputies and dispatchers.

When Retta entered the room, some of the deputies at the table stood, but she shook her head. I need to get back to the telephone when this is over.

This won’t take long, Otis said, "if everybody will just shut up and pay attention. I let some of you distract me yesterday by talking about how long I’ll be the sheriff. The answer is still that I’ll be here until November—no more and no less. But what really matters is what’s going to happen between now and then. And I want you to understand that—are you listenin’?—until I am no longer sheriff the entire force is, except for routine business, going to focus on illegal drugs … on selling, and on addiction.

We’ve been getting a lot of bad press recently. You’ve probably seen some of the articles in the local paper. And I hear there’s even a reporter from Charleston nosing around the county. Some of you may have seen ’im.

Or her, came from one of the deputies standing along the wall.

Whatever, Otis said. This isn’t a public relations issue anyway, no matter what you may have heard. It’s a health issue. And it’s an economic and cultural issue. Our country is going to be facing an opioid nightmare, and in some parts of the country it will be worse than in others.

A deputy at the table nodded his head. This is one of the places it’s gonna get worse.

Maybe it will, maybe it won’t, Otis said. Our job is to make sure it doesn’t—at least in our jurisdiction. But … he said, I suspect it already is. This is an economically depressed part of the state, and…

There was a long pause, then Otis said, "Here is your assignment. Unless I have something else for you to do, get out there and beat the bushes. Talk to people. Show some initiative. Keep your eyes and ears open.

If there are children in foster homes, find out why. Maybe it’s because the birth parents are doing drugs. Talk to veterans. There are a few in the county. Find out if they’ve been wounded, or if they’re unemployed. Talk to doctors. Find out who’s had surgery or who’s taking pain medication. Find out who’s writing a lot of prescriptions.

The earlier questioner was not finished with his objection. But Chief, isn’t that privileged information? We can’t poke our nose into a doctor’s business.

Why not? Otis countered. I’m sure you can find a way to find out who needs pain medication.

But Otis, that stuff’s personal.

There are laws on the books, Travis. Usually for a reason. Are you saying a man’s personal morality is off limits to us?

Well … yes. I think I am.

When it’s really a moral issue, I can agree. But first of all, it’s a legal issue.

He looked around the room. And if somebody’s making money by selling drugs illegally, I want you to bring me the evidence. You know they’re out there. Folks who are pulling in good money even though they don’t have a job. And if somebody’s addicted to Oxycontin, I want to know about that too.

Again he looked around the room. Is that clear?

It’s clear, Boss.

• • •

At the supper table Tim and Tommy competed for attention. Tommy was saying, Dad, I asked my teacher why Mr. Obama’s picture wasn’t on the wall, while Tim was saying, Wade, do you know any veterans who are doing drugs? Neither was listening to what the other was saying. It was Wade who finally said, Why don’t we all just eat? Then we kin take turns talkin’.

The problem was that Tommy was more willing to follow his grandfather’s suggestion than was Tim. The boy cleaned his plate and listened politely—or at least pretended to do so—while Tim continued to talk between bites. Can you believe that Otis thinks we’ve got a real drug epidemic around here? … slurp … And he wants us to spend our time between now and November … gulp … "chasin’ wounded veterans tryin’ ta find heroin sellers an’ Oxycontin users.

Listen up, Tommy! This is important.

I know it is, Dad.

Sheriff Otis, your momma’s cousin, thinks he has to go out in style. He’ll be the most famous sheriff ever in this county.

Is it really that big a deal? Wade wondered.

It is indeed, Tim said. Before I left the office this afternoon somebody told me that one of the deputies—Travis Lawson’s the guy’s name—told Otis that he was going to run for the office of sheriff. And Otis told him on the spot that he should hand in his resignation.

When Tim pushed his chair back from the table, Wade said, "I think the boy has somethin’ he’d like