Bumfoggled

By J. Lance Gilmer

The need to heal and reconnect with his parents after experiencing a life-changing tragedy Leigh Dorchester travels from California to Marshall, MO in the hope of finding peace. But it didn’t take him long to discover that beneath the veneer of tranquility lies the same violence, graft, corruption, and drugs that he witnessed while he was a cop in Southern California.

Despite not wanting to get involved in all of this “mess”, Lee finds himself teaming up with smooth talking and dedicated Det. Paul Counts as the pair attempts to solve the puzzle of why so many people in Marshall are just plain Bumfoggled.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J. Lance Gilmer
• Release date: Feb 8, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005829261

J. Lance Gilmer

Former sportswriter, columnist and investigative reporter (San Francisco Examiner) and managing editor for the Reporter Publishing Company. Has had four novels published ("Hell Is Forever", "Hell Has No Exit", "The Last Touchdown", and "Kabalyfach") along with having four plays produced ("The Wake", "Dreams Deferred", "The Death Of Bubba Louis" and "Nous Aurons Toujour Paris". Additionally he wrote and appeared in the nine-episode TV pilot "Paul and Paula". Presently working on the novel "Bumfoggled", which is a sequel to "Kabalyfach". Has also performed in numerous plays ("Raisin In The Sun", "Westside Story", "Crystal Palace", "Room Full of Fleas", "Bent", and "Our Lan"," Streets" and "Toujour Aurons Paris", to name a few.

Book preview

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locates or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2021 by Cre8tiveMedia (J. Lance Gilmer)

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

Jacket design and artwork by Dan Pergine

E-book formatting by Maureen Cutajar

Dedicated to my Great Aunt Opal, who had a gift with creating works.

Thank you Dear One, wherever you.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

There are two people who have helped make this work possible and I want to take this moment to single out and thank Rene Rodriguez, former police officer in Riverside, CA for his stellar assistance in getting the law enforcement procedures correct. Then there is NJB, whose keen eye caught mt many typos, misspellings, and verb tense errors. Much thanks to you also for suggesting some plot twists that helped so very much. Their efforts were invaluable and if any of my readers find errors it is because I overruled their advice, which proves once again that I know a whole lot less that I pretend to know.

The artwork for the jacket is from the magical mind of Danie Pergine. A gifted artist and person who worked tirelessly in creating just the right feel. Thank you, Dan.

CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

About the Author

CHAPTER ONE

Bum-fog-gle (bum-fog-gal) tr. V. To stupefy as if with an alcoholic drink.

HE HEARD THE POLICE dispatcher directing a unit to a possible domestic violence call where a wife had telephoned 911 saying her husband was threatening the family with a pistol. So, what the hell, he decided to roll by there since it was only four blocks away. Upon arriving he met Officer Donny Gallop, who had just pulled up himself, and saw the man standing on his porch, a bottle of Budweiser in his hand, wearing a dingy t-shirt, faded plaid shorts, orange flip-flops and an angry scowl. He told the cops that if they didn’t get out of his yard, he was going to take this 12-ounce bottle of beer and whip the hell out of them.

Our guy smiled, walked back to his squad car pulled out his shotgun that was loaded with rubber bullets and sauntered back. When the man, Juan Martinez, saw the shotgun and the large smile on the cop’s face he decided that maybe giving someone a Bud wasn’t such a good idea. He dropped the bottle, fell to his knees, and begged that they wouldn’t shoot him. Donny Gallop hooked Juan up, thanked his fellow police officer for his help and drove the man down to the Presley Center. Meanwhile our police officer walked back to his squad car and thinking he might need to display the funny shotgun to some knucklehead to quiet things down, he transferred his 12-gauge loaded shotgun into the trunk and slipped the rubber-bullet one into the rack between the two seats in the front of his squad car.

An hour later Riverside Police Department sergeant Leigh Dorchester, who had assisted in convincing Juan Martinez that he should accompany Officer Donny Gallop downtown, was sitting in his squad car sipping a cappuccino. He had been thinking about his three-day vacation that was beginning Friday, two days from now. He and his wife Ellen were going to spend a romantic weekend in Santa Barbara at a European-type bed and breakfast just a block from the beach. It would mark the first time the two of them would get away since their honeymoon 18 months ago.

His daydreaming was interrupted when he heard a voice over the radio calling for a unit to respond to a man brandishing a weapon near the University. Since he was in the general area, Dorchester drove there to see what was what. As Dorchester sped down University Avenue, he heard the dispatcher report that there had been a serious car crash on the other side of town near the Tyler Galleria and directed a unit to respond.

When Leigh pulled up at the parking lot near the soccer/softball field just a block from the University of California, Riverside, he saw Rufus Pennyworth, who was 5-feet-11 inches tall and tipped the scale at around 135 pounds, shirtless with raggedy jeans. He was shoeless, which was not unusual for him since he had decided long ago that having his feet kiss the ground was the only way he could be grounded. Rufus hadn’t shaved in three months or bathed in two. Also, he had a Buck Knife with a nine-inch blade.

Rufus was high on something, and it certainly wasn’t life. It wasn’t the first time Rufus had decided to take a journey somewhere in that addled mind of his with the assistance of, well, to be quite honest and probably quite correct, a controlled substance. Leigh assumed this because Rufus was talking to an invisible man about the aliens who were right in front on them. Sgt. Dorchester was joined by two other RPD units and the young officers hopped out and joined the sergeant. Then two university squad cars roared in and both those officers were out.

Dorchester knew Rufus, who had earned a doctorate degree in engineering from MIT, moved to southern California and got a job in Riverside. He married a brilliant and beautiful woman and fathered a son and two daughters. All was well with Rufus, formerly of Greensboro, North Carolina, until one day his supervisor, Nick Johnson, a recent transplant from La Grange, Georgia, decided to call Rufus a jigaboo, followed by a dumb coon and then to cap off the matter added the dreaded N-word. Now it wasn’t that the supervisor was a racist, it was just that his wife, Francine, had just departed for parts unknown with Milton Washington, a Black man who was light skinned but still black. Plus, Johnson’s 18-year-old daughter Hortense had announced the night before that she was coming out of the closet and introduced him to her new girlfriend Mildred Holloway, a rather attractive and very dark-complexioned woman from Jamaica or Kenya.

Thus after a twenty-second argument reached the level that Rufus called him an incompetent redneck, the five-feet-seven, one hundred and forty-two pound Johnson unloaded his racist song—but he swore later on he wasn’t a racist just happened to say a few words that were not so, well, nice—Rufus slammed Johnson against the wall a couple of times, slapped him upside the head with a telephone book, then began throttling the poor man with fist of fury upon his arms, legs, back and any other bodily part he could strike.

For his anger and deeds, Rufus was fired and given rent-free residence in Soledad state prison for three years, four months after being convicted of aggravated assault and assault with a deadly weapon. At Soledad, he was gang raped twice and met a psychopath who administered dental work via a lead-pipe massage to Rufus’s mouth extracting four of his front top teeth and two of his bottom ones.

By the time Rufus was released, his family had moved to Northern California. His wife had divorced him and married a corporate attorney. He returned to Riverside and spent his time talking with his invisible friends and mounting a serious campaign against the ever-encroaching aliens from the planet Nebular.

Poor guy was basically harmless.

Basically.

Leigh had 51-50ed—which is the state’s right to place a person under psychiatric observation for 72 hours to determine if he, or she, is a danger to himself/herself or others—Rufus twice and each time the man was back on the streets 69 hours after being placed in the hospital. The knife was a new wrinkle for Rufus, but Dorchester wasn’t too concerned. He wasn’t going to attempt to disarm the former engineer. No, he reasoned, he’d talk him through it.

Twenty-three-year-old Bill Brewer, who had been on the force for just thirteen months, asked Dorchester how they should handle the situation. Leigh started to tell the rookie cop he, Brewer, should just walk up to Rufus and disarm him but changed his mind. Cop trying to be sarcastic, you know, but Dorchester knew better since that trait escaped most of them. Instead he told the young police officer to go over to Dorchester’s squad car and retrieve his shotgun, the one with the rubber bullets.

Now everyone knows if one wants something done correctly, one should do it himself—or herself—and this could easily have become the poster child for that thought. Brewer raced over to the squad car and without thinking, popped the latch for the trunk, because that is where he, Brewer, always kept his rubber-bullet shotgun, grabbed the weapon, dashed back, and handed it to Dorchester, who racked a shell into the chamber.

Meanwhile Rufus was pointing the buck knife at something or someone threatening to cut out one of the alien’s three hearts.

Dorchester decided he could reason with the guy since it always worked in the past and began a dialogue by asking him how he was faring—the Sergeant said, How’s it hanging?

Rufus being a well-educated man took exception to the slang and admonished the police officer and explained that he, Rufus, was dealing with a space alien, a Nebularian if you please, and suggested the cop go fornicate himself.

"How about us handling it?" said Leigh.

Dr. Pennyworth rejected the offer, then took a jab at Dorchester, who was a good fourteen feet away. Then the rather mentally ill man looked around and saw for the first time all the law enforcement officers.

"You, young man must tell your Nebularians and he pointed to the other officers, to depart from my vision." Wasn’t a request, but a demand.

Can’t do that, Partner, so why don’t you just drop the knife and let us take you to a safe place where there are no…. Leigh couldn’t remember the name of the imaginary aliens. The whatever.

Yep, that should nail it.

All Dr. Pennyworth could see was a host of angry, vicious and most dangerous creatures gathering around him with the head alien holding a light saber. And with those images in his mind, he did what any self-respecting alien fighter would do: Charge.

It’s amazing how quickly a person can cover fourteen feet and Leigh did what he had to do, which was fire a rubber bullet at Rufus’s midsection. Except the round was a 12-gauge double-ought round that hit Rufus squarely in the chest. Then the other cops joined in. Of the twenty-eight rounds fired, fifteen including Leigh’s hit Rufus—which later many members of the city’s police department privately agreed was a pretty good fire-to-hit ratio considering the circumstances.

It was a day the sergeant would never forget.

Not because of the events leading up to the shooting or the image of Rufus’ bucking body being torn apart or the investigation and national news about another Black person being murdered by the police or that being the second police killing in the city in the last two years—the other being an 18-year-old woman who had been sitting in her car at a filing station—or the testimony of the other cops who said they were all in fear for their lives and that was the reason they fired so many rounds.

In actuality, what was the chisel that etched the pain into the marble of the very soul of Sgt. Leigh Cleveland Dorchester was Nathan Theodore Philpot, Junior, a 22-year-old college dropout from the University of Nebraska who had decided to pick that day to meet his potential girlfriend, Teresa Perez, at the coffee shop right next to Nordstrom on the ground floor of the Tyler Galleria.

Nathan, AKA Nate to his family and close friends, was excited about meeting this woman, who he had met on a dating website. Young Nathan saw the stoplight at Van Buren and Magnolia Avenues turn from green to amber to red and calculated he could get though it before the on-coming cars could turn left. Math and logic hadn’t been Nate’s strong suits and that was partially the reason he flunked out of the home of the Cornhuskers.

That and an accumulative GPA of 1.78.

The results of his miscalculations were Nate’s aunt Agatha’s Chevrolet Suburban broadsiding the Honda Accord EX that was being driven by Ellen Dorchester. Ellen’s 10-year-old son Billy was killed instantly. Ellen died an hour later, ten minutes before Leigh could get to the hospital.

That was a year ago.

CHAPTER TWO

MARSHALL, MISSOURI—PRONOUNCED MIZZ-ZOO-RAH by the natives—has a population fifteen citizens shy of six thousand and is nestled on the southeast tip of the state. That small geography lesson meant nothing to Little George Dupree, who had been watching the house on Main Street in the place too small to be called a town, for about 15 minutes and nothing seemed out of the ordinary was happening inside. At least as far as Little George Dupree could decern. The lights were on what should be the kitchen, living room and what was probably a bedroom of some sorts on the side of the two-story brick house that faced Archer Road. Maybe Delawrence was there, thought Little George. Hell, that dude has come here often enough over the last coupla weeks, Little George reasoned.

Little George was certain that the old couple were relatives of that lying, cheating, thieving, Delawrence Walters, otherwise why would they have anything to do with him. Same held true for the older lady who lived in that senior village a couple of blocks away and that other nice woman who worked at the food store on the corner of Marshall Road and Stuart Drive. No, Little George reckoned, they be his kin.

George Dupree, who was far from little, standing a shade under six-feet-six and tipping the scales at nearly 300 proud pounds, stamped his feet to chase away the February night cold. He inherited the name because Big George Oliver was eight years older, thirteen inches shorter and at least 146 pounds lighter. Age, you see, was what made Little George little. And what many thought he owned an IQ of about eighty-five—on a good day. He was loyal to Big George, much like Lenny from Of Mice and Men. And he followed orders well. That is, if you explained the instructions slowly so his brain could soak up the information. Oh, and do not confuse the issue with too much information. Just point in the direction of what you want done and he was the guy who’d do it.

It wasn’t that Little George was retarded or, for that matter, stupid. He was merely another pitiful example of the educational system in the good old U.S. of A. If you were male and Black and big and living in a small southern town where the only hope of advancement was to leave the area as soon as one was aware that one lived in the area, or you would be passed over and left to your own devices, which were nil. With proper guidance and hope, Little George could have used his limited potential to its highest potential. But that wasn’t the case here, so we shall move on with our tale.

You see, Little George’s maximum potential was to work for Big George who worked for Tom Goodly, who worked for Colonel Jefferson Davis Marshall, who didn’t work for anyone other than his wife, Martha, and his mistress, Virginia, who had died last year after a six-month battle with colon cancer and left The Colonel in a rather nasty mood. The Colonel had a secret and only his housekeeper Dahlia Washington, who was the first cousin of Virginia, knew about and that was The Colonel loved his meat well done, just like his women. Just like in Virginia—God bless her soul. And The Colonel mourned silently.

So, with all that going for—or to be more accurate, against—him, Little George was dubbed stupid. Slow. Two eggs short of a dozen in the brain department. The wick-less candle on life’s birthday cake. He was all muscle and no mind. Thus, being fully aware of the boy’s shortcomings, Big George had walked him through the instructions for tonight: Find out where Delawrence Walters was then report back to him. Him being Big George. Also, Big George said slowly, don’t hurt or scare anybody. Understand? He asked the question three times before Little George responded with a nod of his massive-shaved head.

And now here he was. Freezing his butt off on Main Street standing behind the tree that was across the street from the Dorchester’s red brick house. Big as the tree was, it didn’t hide him one bit. But in a town this small, there was hardly any auto traffic and even less foot traffic—and if the truth be known there was never much traffic at any time on Main Street—so no one saw him or if they did no one cared what that big, crazy-ass sombitch was doing out at ten o’clock at night in February.

Little George didn’t know why he had decided to wear those Nike running shoes instead of putting on his hiking boots. Maybe because the Nikes looked cool. Also, he chose to wear those blue slick Adidas warm up pants, which did nothing to shield him for the cold night breeze. But Little George was happy that he was wearing the heavy blue jacket his mother had given him for Christmas. He liked the down lining. It looked sharp when he left it open, and he knew the girls admired it. He glanced back at the bank and its rolling lights sign that announced new loans, the time, the weather and a biblical passage in the hopes of saving a few souls and bringing in a few customers. Damn, he mumbled as vapor escaped from his mouth, it’s 10:16 and its 24 degrees. Better do something ‘fore I freeze to death. Plus, Big George’ll be pissed if I don’t find out where Delawrence is.

Okay, he thought, how do I do this? Tough? Easy? Innocent? "Yeah, he mumbled, easy and innocent ‘cause Big George told me that I wasn’t s’pose to scare these people. I just have to go up to that door and ask them if Delawrence was there. I know he’d been stayin’ all night twice last week. Besides, the porch light is on so….

With that plan in mind, 19-year-old Little George Dupree pulled his black navy watch cap down over his ears, turned up the collar of his jacket, stuck his hands into his pockets, crossed the street, walked up the four steps, and tried to open the glass covered screen door front door. It was locked He waited. Nothing. Rapped twice more but a little hard this time. Nothing. Tapped even harder.

The main door—made of oak and painted red—opened and the woman

Yes? she said.

Little George couldn’t place the accent, but he was sure wasn’t from these parts. Can I help you. the woman said again.

Uh, mumbled Little George as he struggled to put things together.

Do you know what time it is?

The woman wasn’t white. Light-complexioned but not white. Almost though. Yeah, but she colored. And young. Maybe my age and pretty, thought Little George. At least the little bit that he saw struck him as very attractive. A nice vanilla color and those pretty greenish eyes, slightly slanted. Nothing like the other girls in Marshall. Or Raleigh. Or anywhere else he’d been. Which is not saying a lot since Little George had not ventured any more than 40 miles from town in his entire life.

Uh, he looked over to his left at the bank clock a block away, Yeah. It’s 10:19.

I don’t care what time it is. If I wanted to know that I’d looked at my watch. What I want to know is what do you want at this time of night?

So much for the fabled southern hospitality.

The woman, Samantha Clery, was irritated for a couple of reasons: One being it was 10:19 at night; but most of all this man standing before her was not the one she was excepting. Little George just looked at her as he pondered what to say and before he could say whatever it was he was about to say, the woman stated, What do you want?

Question, ah-ha, and it jogged the mind to snap to his mission.

Delawrence. I want to see Delawrence. He here? He owes me some money for…. Something clicked inside Little George’s brain that told him not to complete the sentence.

No, he’s not here and I don’t care if he owes you any money or not, said Samantha.

Well, uh, missy, do you know where he is?

I do know where the police are and if you don’t go away I’ll call them right now, that much I do know.

Another voice—older woman’s and even more authoritative, but pleasant—came from within the house. Honey, who’s there?

Over her shoulder, Samantha answered. Some man looking for Delawrence.

Tell whoever that is that Delawrence doesn’t live here, said the other woman. Why would anybody be looking for him here? Another pair of eyes in the opening. Older. Much older. Wearing glasses appeared through the opening. Young man, what do you want?"

Uh, I’m sorry, Ma’am. You see, uh, I’m lookin’ for Delawrence.

Well, he’s not here and you know he doesn’t live here. And I know you do because I’ve seen you sometimes over by the Rec Center so I’m certain you know exactly where Delawrence lives. And besides, a young man like you should be home this time of night instead of knocking on people’s door disturbing them.

Uh, yes ma’am, said Little George. You right. You right. Uh, sorry. Uh, night.

With that Little George turned and walked away. Mission, he thought proudly, accomplished.

CHAPTER THREE

HE HAD BEEN A mess both mentally and physically after the death of his wife and stepson, coupled with watching Rufus’s violent death. After the funeral, which Sarah and her husband attended—their parents were ailing and could not make the trip—Leigh told his family he was fine. He just needed some space and time to heal. At first they accepted it. Then the telephone conversations grew less frequent until there were long periods of not hearing from Leigh. That was when Sarah, who lived in Chicago with her husband, Roger and daughter, Samantha, decided to take things in her hands and come out to California.

When she arrived in Riverside, Sarah took one look at Leigh and shook her head. He was unshaved. Hair uncombed and uncut and the t-shirt, plaid socks and mint green flip-flops had seen better days.

Leigh saw Sarah’s expression and said with little to no passion, Oh, okay, well, fuck it all. Then he turned and walked back into the house, which, oddly, was as neat as the proverbial pin.

His older sister wasn’t going to buy into that mindset and told him that that attitude wasn’t going to work. She had had it up to here—and she demonstrated that by holding her left hand a good three inches or so above her head—with his self-installed pity party.

They argued. Hot. Heavy. With his words hurled to hurt; words from Sarah in the hopes to heal. Goddammit to hell, she had yelled, if you hurt that bad, little brother, if you really don’t give a damn about me or the folks then do us a favor and jump off the goddamn roof. Go on, buddy boy, do it.

Jump off my roof? Leigh asked.

Yeah, and since it’s not that high you gonna have to do it six times in a row in order to achieve the results you’re after.

It was then that they stopped and for the first time in a long time, Leigh smiled. Then grinned. Finally he laughed. A real one. Somehow Sarah had brought him back from the brink with that weak, silly joke.

And now, the two of them were driving, well actually Sarah was driving, and Leigh was staring out the window, on Route 57 heading south to visit their parents. He had departed from LAX at 6:30 that morning and arrived at Chicago’s Midway Airport at little after noon. His sister, Sarah Clery, was there to greet him, nearly eighteen months after his family had been snatched from him.

What really happened to them? asked Leigh.

The doctors said that Dad had a mild heart attack. They said Mom’ll be fine and maybe it was a stroke or maybe not. Sarah sighed. She—the doctor—said it was something like if you step on a hose and the water doesn’t go through for a moment. The good thing is that they’re both home. Samantha’s been there helping out. They fussed about her coming down from Chicago, but I know they’re glad their only granddaughter is there.

They’ll be fine, said Leigh after a long moment of silence. They’re too tough to let something like this to…. His voice trailed off. Yeah, they’ll be cool.

And Leigh hoped his statement was true.

The overhead light of their parent’s house was the Dorchesters’s signal that all were welcomed. Sarah and Leigh got out of the car, grabbing their luggage from the back seat. Leigh smiled as he looked at his parent’s house which they bought a few years ago when Cleveland retired from Sears in Chicago and decided to move back home. The lawn had patches of yellow brought on by winter and the shrubbery that stood along the wall was bare. He liked the house’s color: red with white trim. Leigh glanced at Sarah and shrugged just as Samantha opened the door. She waved and smiled. Damn, thought Leigh, she looks just like Sarah did 25 years ago.

Uncle Leigh, said Samantha as she raced down the steps and embraced her uncle. It’s so good to see. She had stepped back a step and took both his hands in hers. Cat got your tongue?

Leigh smiled and shook his head. Just amazed at how fast you’re growing up. How long has it been?

Over three years ago. It was my 19th birthday.

Sarah joined them. And while you two are babbling about the years rolling by we’re freezing our butts off. Can we go inside before we freeze to death.

Oh, mother, said Samantha as she rolled her eyes then winked at Leigh. C’mon, Unc, Gran and Gramps have been waiting for you all day. She giggled. Every time a car passed they’d ask if that was you. She opened the door. Then when you pulled up they ran to the TV room pretending they weren’t really excited about you getting here.

As they entered the door and into the kitchen, Leigh noted that it hadn’t changed much. Oh, there was a new range that his mother recently purchased to replace the old one that gave off a loud whoosh sound whenever the oven was turned on. The fridge by the door was still covered with photos of all the children including old ones of Sarah taken when she was 12 and Leigh smiling brightly as a seven-year-old.

Well I’d be goddamned! came the voice of Cleveland Dorchester as he rounded the corner and stepped into the kitchen.

There was no indication that he was ill or had suffered a heart attack. He still managed to stand to his full six-feet-two inches height and hadn’t gained weight. The old man prided himself for being the same size he was when he was 30. In a flash, Cleveland embraced Leigh with a strong bear hug and lifted the younger man off his feet. ’Bout time you got your butt here. Man has to have a heart attack to get you to visit. He released Leigh and stepped back. His smile faded and a serious expression took over. I’m glad you’re here. Your momma’s missed you.

Then get out of my way and let me hug my baby, said the woman, Louise, standing in the doorway. Leigh looked over his dad’s shoulder and saw his mother. She was smiling. Child, bring yourself here right now.

Leigh felt tears burning in his eyes and lump in his throat. The stroke had left its mark. She now supported herself on a dark brown cane. Leigh noticed that her right eye slightly drooped, and her once salt-and-pepper-colored hair was now pure white. He pulled away from Cleveland and hugged his mother.

Darn it’s good to see you. She felt frail in his embrace.

Leigh, I’m not made of glass, so go ahead and give me a proper hug, she ordered. I’m not dead yet.

Fifteen minutes later they were sitting in the dining room at the large rectangle table that sat eight. Cleveland was at the head with Louise to his right. Leigh was to the left while Sarah sat directly across from Cleveland. Samantha to her mother’s left. This was the way—except for Samantha—that the Dorchesters always positioned themselves for meals and family discussions. It was non-stop chatter with each fighting to have his or her say.

Leigh, said Louise, "How are you really doing, son?"

That question carried volumes of concern, volumes of love. It also was a question that would take hours to answer, and Leigh was not ready for that. He knew she wanted to know if he has gotten over the death of Ellen and Billy; if he had finally climbed out of the hell he had fallen to where he pulled away from everyone; wanted to know if her child was….

I’m back, Mom, he said. All eyes on him. He forced a smile. I’m...I’m just not ready to talk about everything that’s gone down. Okay?

Louise smiled and nodded. When you’re ready.

Yeah, when I’m ready.

And Leigh wondered when he would be ready. It still brought a lump to his throat and a tightening to his chest when he thought about Ellen. But the images and feelings for her were growing softer, rounder, the hard edge disappearing and that bothered him because he needed to feel the pain of the loss. Leigh wasn’t hurting like he was five months ago and that made him angry. If he loved her, he reasoned, then he must hurt and suffer yet there were times when he saw a woman that he wondered what it would be like to fall in love again, to be loved and made loved to again.

Honey, you hungry? said Louise.

Leigh shook his head. Not really. We stopped off and grabbed a bite. Figured it would be too late and—

Boy, your mom cooked quite a meal and now guess we’ll be tossing it. He laughed as did everyone else knowing Louise’s penchant for throwing away leftovers.

Just then the back door rang.

Now who could that be? snapped Cleveland.

Only way to find out is to go see, said Louise.

Cleveland grumbled something inaudible, stood and walked out the room. Louise looked over to Leigh as if to say, go with your father, son. Leigh nodded. He waited a beat so as not to give his father the impression that he needed someone to watch over him, stood and walked into the kitchen to the right. When he entered, he saw his father was standing by the door talking to Leigh’s great aunt Ruby’s son Delawrence.

Cleveland wore an angry expression and was nodding as he always did when he was upset. Leigh picked up bits of what his father was saying. Don’t like...all. Delawrence said something softly and Cleveland waved his hand in exasperation. Next time I’ll...police. Leigh grabbed mere snatches of Delawrence’s responses: ...worry. ...handle it. Please...call...talk...

Hey, cousin, how’s it hanging?

Delawrence’s smile died just before it reached his eyes. Only his lips curled upward. Leigh said nothing. Delawrence moved away from Cleveland, crossed over to Leigh and he extended his hand.

Long time no see, he said in a voice that was a mixture of Missourian and West Coast accented. Leigh took his hand and squeezed it once then released it. Delawrence’s hand fell to his side. He was visibly uncomfortable but was desperately trying to hide it. Good drive down? Uh, staying long?

Yes and yes, said Leigh flatly. He was startled by what he saw. Delawrence was once a very handsome man and was much sought after by not only the women in San Francisco but the men, who Delawrence actually preferred, as well. Now he saw a man who was much too thin with dark circles under his eyes. The lines in his once smooth face now were deep and ran from his nose to his chin. The mouth was turned down in a permanent scowl and there were valleys of skin lining his forehead. Delawrence’s hair was speckled with gray. He looked tired and beaten. The dark blue jacket he wore was too big as were the pants that bunched at the waist and was held in place by a belt that was tattered. His red and black-checkered shirt had seen better days and there was one button missing midway down and another one about to join it, hanging by a white tread. His overcoat was thread-bare and dirty.

You look good, Leigh. Really.

Leigh could not bring himself to lie, so he merely nodded. What’d you been up to? Delawrence shook his head and was about to speak when Cleveland said: Delawrence is just getting ready to leave. Right? Delawrence nodded. Glad you could come by, he said as he moved towards the back door.

Uh, Cleveland, I’d like to spend a few minutes with my favorite cousin, said Delawrence.

Leigh’s tired from his long drive, said Cleveland sternly. He needs his rest. A beat. Like I said, glad you could stop by, sorry you have to leave so soon. Cleveland opened the door and pushed open the screen door, which now had glass in it for the winter. See you.

Delawrence looked at Cleveland then to Leigh. He shrugged. Yeah, I was kinda in a hurry. He spoke to Leigh. Maybe we can hook up and talk about old times? Leigh nodded. Cool. Hey, Cleveland, you take care. See you soon?

Hardly. Bye.

Delawrence departed and Cleveland bolted the door.

Still can’t handle the fact that Delawrence is gay, can you?

Nothing to do about him being gay, said Cleveland. He shook his head. If that boy wasn’t my aunt’s son.... He let his voice trail off.

What’s going on? asked Louise as he entered the kitchen. Her husband was leaning against the back door and her son was standing in the middle of the kitchen. Was that Delawrence?

Cleveland said nothing.

Leigh nodded.

Oh, dear, said Louise. She moved over to the counter that divided the kitchen from the dining room and sat on one of the stools. What did you tell him? What did he have to say about...? Her voice trailed off to silence. The question was directed at Cleveland, who waved her off and shook his head.

Mom? Pops? said Leigh looking at his parents. Cleveland shook his head again signaling the discussion was closed.

A guy came by about a half hour ago and— began Samantha."

Child, no one asked you, snapped Cleveland. His tone startled everyone including Cleveland. After a beat, he sighed and made a gesture with his hand he was sorry.

Samantha’s eyes hardened the way her mother’s did was she was hurt. She looked over to Leigh, who nodded for her to continue.

He was looking for Delawrence, she said. It was around 10:30.

I told him Delawrence wasn’t here and why was he looking for him, said Louise.

And? asked Leigh. A frown forming on his face.

Said Delawrence owed him some money.

Louise knew that Leigh would not stop asking questions until he had an answer, so she said, Cleveland, tell Leigh what’s going on. He’s not going to stop asking questions until….

Fine, said Cleveland. Leigh, then almost as afterthought, and Sarah, your cousin is on drugs. Been on them for a long time. We’ve given him money from time to time to protect him from the dealers. So has your Aunt Pearl and your cousin Beatrice. I’m thankful his mother Ruby is no longer with us. Delawrence drove her half crazy."

Louise took over from here. After Ruby died we found out Delawrence had taken all her money, she said. We had to chip in to bury her. Your Aunt Pearl had to dig into her little savings to help out, too.

All because Delawrence had been using that rock cocaine and anything else he could find. That was Cleveland, who had decided he best add information to the pot—so to speak.

Drugs? You gotta be kidding, said Leigh. When I was staying with him in San Francisco he wouldn’t even smoke a cigarette.

I wish, said his mother. "No, honey, Delawrence came over one day and was crying his eyes out saying that the dealers were gonna break his legs unless he comes up with $300. I—we—gave it to him. He said he was gonna get off the stuff, but he didn’t. Week later he got 300 more from Beatrice, who certainly couldn’t afford that kind of money herself, and just last week he got a hundred from Pearl."

And this guy came over here to collect? said Leigh.

Louise thought a beat, nodded then shrugged. I…I…. Honey, I guess.

Gran was frightened, said Samantha.

Child, I wasn’t frightened. Maybe a little nervous, but certainly not scared.

Leigh had seen this scene too many times in Riverside. A relative gets hooked on drugs, gets in debt and the dealers go after family members who may have the financial resource to pay. And sometimes the dealer will hurt or kill a family member just to let everyone know that if you play somebody will pay. Leigh figured the dealers could see his parents as easy targets.

Can I help? said Leigh.

No, son, I’m capable of handling this, said Cleveland. There was an edge to his voice, and everyone noticed it. Damn, thought Sarah, Dad thinks Leigh thinks he can’t protect his family. Leigh, say something. Please.

Then her brother said, Pops, I know you can handle this. But maybe the two of us, heck, all of us, can work together to figure out what to do.

Cleveland bit into his bottom lip as his eyes were darting around the room, touching briefly upon the face of each person. He was studying them, measuring them to decide what the ramification would be if he told his son there was a lot he didn’t know about the situation.

Well, I don’t want you to think I’m not on top of everything that goes on around here.

Listen, everyone, said Louise breaking the tension. It’s late, glancing