Barely Bronx: January 2012

Columbia is a very friendly town, until you begin asking questions about events that are less than a hundred years old. As Jordan walked the uneven sidewalks that passed in front of small shops, skirting eager tourists quickly became an uncomfortable task. The responses he was offered for his inquiries were beginning to get colder and colder. Quizzical faces began to appear in the windows of shops he hadn’t visited. If an “Out to lunch” sign didn’t quickly materialize, he was greeted with an “I don’t anything about what you want to know …” Word of his inquiries spread faster than his steps, and at once he was persona non grata. It seemed there was an instant conspiracy against him. He couldn’t tell whether people were protecting Tracy or whether they just had some unwritten agreement about strangers—cops or not. Information just wasn’t for sale—not at any price.

Jordan sat on an old-fashioned raised curb in front of a small shop where he had been able to buy a Diet Coke.

The clerk hadn't said a word; his expression had never changed. Jordan's change had been slammed on the counter—the emphasis obvious to the couple standing next to him. They stared at him for a moment, probably assuming he was a local malcontent. And since the clerk obviously knew more than they, they too found it easier to take the local’s side than to risk responding to Jordan's greeting with even a shrug of indifference.

Jordan’s feet barely reached the ground as he sat on the elevated curb outside the store. He was tempted to call Shelly and tell her of his warm welcome here in the town of Columbia that she had said he would find quaint and wonderful—rich in history and friendly people.

He didn’t notice the two t-shirts right away. They stood behind him for a bit, then their boots appeared on either side of him. Jordan first looked up to his left and then to his right. The men were inside his “safety zone” and he knew he had made the mistake of allowing his concentration to lapse, putting him at a disadvantage. His back and head were exposed. The steel-toed boots on the left belonged to a red AC/DC t-shirted young man who raised his Miller Draft bottle and took a long pull from it. He deliberately removed it prematurely from his mouth and allowed the brew to fall onto his t-shirt, his boots, and Jordan’s arm. The other man, whom Jordan couldn’t make out because of the sun's glare, began to laugh and spat deliberately on Jordan’s right hand. Jordan didn’t move, allowing the top of his hand to remain exposed as it rested, palm down, on the ground. He knew his focus had lapsed and that lapse was going to cost him. The only thing he could count on now was that they had had more than one beer and, more importantly, he could encourage them to make the first wrong move.

Jordan shook his head and looked over at the boots to his right. They were smaller than the ones on his left. He guessed … and then spoke. “You know, if I had those same two boots, I’d shit in one and cover it up with the other." The guy wearing the boots on the right took the bait. As soon as Jordan saw one boot withdraw for the kick, he quickly scooped the other boot from behind and flung it forward. The man was instantly off balance, in mid-air, and about to do the involuntary splits. His hand quickly came down to soften the fall, which left his face completely exposed and falling perfectly onto Jordan’s elbow. Whatever it was that broke against Jordan's elbow—nose or teeth—was enough to stop him from any further action. Jordan heard what was supposed to be a word from the man’s mouth. Jordan couldn’t make it out—he was already off the curb and hoping the other t-shirt would be jumping down from it; it was.

A shorter curb and the man would already have landed, the beer bottle planted firmly on Jordan’s head. But as the man cascaded down from the high curb, Jordan was already throwing his next punch. Both of the attackers' reflexes, thankfully, were dulled; his assessment of their condition, derived from the amount of beer being belched, was correct. Jordan’s roundhouse to the second man’s stomach caused the man to drop the bottle before his boots hit the street. The bottle creased Jordan's forehead and then broke at his feet. When the t-shirt landed he was already throwing up. He had landed wrong on his right foot—it was bent oddly the wrong way. The sound of its breaking, though muffled inside the boot, was clear.

Jordan took another defensive stance, expecting another attack. It never came. With a moment to begin paying attention to himself, he noticed his favorite golf shirt was covered in blood. His forehead had been cut open by the falling bottle. He suddenly wanted more from his two visitors, but the street was filling with curious onlookers. Whatever happened now would be what would make the papers. The other event had happened too fast for anyone to notice. Jordan removed his shirt and pressed it to the gash on his forehead. It bled more seriously than it deserved to; he was a bit embarrassed by it and began to walk towards his car.

He stopped suddenly and returned to the two men. A small crowd watching his return spread back in fear. Jordan figured he’d better settle this now or he'd have to come back and explain it to a judge. He pulled out his badge and, just above a whisper, told the two men he knew about their warrants and would give them one last chance to take care of them.

“Steeltoe” was able to grunt a “Yessir,” while the other character was still occupied by his dry-heaving.

How many years had he experienced similar encounters with these t-shirt types! Their crimes had ranged from traffic misdemeanors to murder, but they all had warrants out, guaranteed. No one ever cut them any slack—till they encountered Jordan, that is. Jordan never got physical and arrested them if he could avoid it. He liked them “owing him” for their freedom. They remembered him. If he needed something later, there was a debt he could collect. These two wouldn't be any different.

Jordan turned and left the friendly town of Columbia to the tourists.

The very last thing Jordan wanted to do was to bleed on or in his precious Vette. He turned the side mirror up and examined his forehead. A stitch or two would stem the bleeding, but that wasn’t possible. He leaned against his door, tilted his head back, and pressed on his forehead, cursing himself for allowing himself to be so lax.

“I got an Ace bandage here, mister. It ain’t exactly sterile, but it might stop your cursing for a bit."

Jordan looked across the street at a pickup that had to be 50 years old. The driver was shrouded in shadow inside; the only thing really visible was the bunched-up Ace bandage being offered out the passenger window. The hand that made the offering was old—very old—and shook gently from age, not fear.

Jordan walked over to the truck and let his eyes adjust to the ancient face behind the wheel. “I saw it all, young man," the old man said. "The one throwing up is my grandson. I wish I could say he takes after my dead wife’s side of the family, but fact is, my side boasts most of the ignorance. Don’t know why you did what you did. Figure it needed doing. Not interested either … There’s a bit of 'sheep' on the bandage, but it won’t kill ya. If you wrap that thing around your head, though, it's gonna look like a turban. In these parts, that would attract people like my grandson, if you’re understanding my meaning. So buy a hat.” The old man had engaged the floor starter and was grinding the column gear into first and moving before Jordan could manage a word.

Back in his own car, Jordan adjusted the snaps on his cap to accommodate his newly enlarged head. It looked perfectly ridiculous. When the pain in his head began to ease, he noticed an ache in his right wrist, which was swelling quickly and beginning to discolor. It stung sharply when he changed gears; something was broken in either his wrist or his hand. Worse, he was feeling a bit nauseated.

He turned right on the first road north out of town, Sheep Ranch Road. A few miles on Sheep Ranch Road and Jordan needed a rest. His wrist began to swell painfully. He tried calling Shelly, but cell phone service was unavailable. When he saw a small spring cascading down from the hillside and disappearing under the road, he stopped. As he climbed out of the car he absently pushed on his seat with his right hand. The experience made him dizzy with pain. He trotted to the small falls and pushed his hand under it. The water was freezing and, while excruciating, he could feel the benefit of the numbing immediately. He sat down next to the falls and rested his arm, from his elbow down, under the water. He was able to lean and rest his back against some wide, flat rocks that bordered the falls. Part of his bandage had fallen over his left eye and he began to appreciate the absurdity of the whole scene. A few hours ago he was hopeful, invested. Now he felt stupid and beaten. He needed to get to a land phone. He needed to tell Shelly that he’d decided to quit.

When his arm was nearly completely numb, he worked his way back to the car. He could see his hand covering the gear shift, but he couldn’t feel it. He pushed it into first and then second, turned on the air conditioning, and—when he could—pushed his hand directly over the vent in hopes that the cold air would sustain the numbness. It didn’t.

He swore at his choice of roads; this winding exit from Columbia would take hours, not to mention hundreds of shifts. It was the first time he could recall wishing he drove an automatic. When the pain started to take over again, he began to sweat. When it made him dizzy again, he pulled into the first driveway he found. He took the driveway nearly an eighth of a mile before he came to a house. A dog barked alongside his car for the last hundred yards. By the time he reached to turn off the ignition, two figures had exited the house. They both wore smiles and called the doubtful dog from the front of Jordan's car.

Jordan managed a weak smile and gingerly exited his car. As bad as he felt, he couldn’t help but note the new scratches his car had just sustained while driving down the shrub-lined driveway. He looked over at the station wagon parked next to the house. It was coursed with deep gouges, small scratches—the entire side of the car looked like a road map with all roads going east to west.

Jordan spoke first. “I’m in a bit of trouble and I was wondering if I could borrow your phone and get some directions …”

The couple before him resembled each other so strongly that he was sure they were brother and sister. Their hair was salted gray and brown, both faces clearly had no fear of the sun, and the deep lines about their eyes made them both look as though they were in a constant squint. They seemed to notice his wrist at the same time. The woman made an about-face and dashed into the house, while the man slowly walked over and squatted by Jordan’s arm. He examined it with his nose nearly touching it.

“Broke, huh?” His voice was low and soft and full of empathy. “Elisha’ll get some ice; we’ll soak it.” He walked over and picked up a porcelain pail, banged it against the bottom of his shoe, and pushed his hand around the inside to knock away some cobwebs. He ran some water over it, flung it out a few times, and finally filled it just in time for a bowl of ice cubes to be hastily thrown in it by the woman who had rushed inside. Jordan winced a little as the man set the bowl down hard on the hood of his Vette, the wince eliciting a low hum of compassion from the woman. Jordan played it off as pain; in reality it was painful for him to watch …

Jordan gratefully plunged his hand into the ice water and managed a small smile.

”Been one tough day.”

They smiled back just as weakly; the look of concern on their faces at once told Jordan they were good people. Very good people.

“I need to call my wife. I’d be more than happy to pay you for the call …”

They both smiled, the man replying, “And pay us back for the ice?” They both chuckled, and the dog between them finally began to wag his tail.

“Come on in the house, this is a sittin'-down situation.” They broke into identical smiles that turned to expressions of concern when Jordan's face became serious again. It was the dragging of the pail across the hood that created a fresh look of pain on his face—obviously the man didn’t know about fiberglass hoods. He got a gentle pat on the back from the woman and an encouraging nod from the man.

Becky and Lou Martin. Sister and brother.

“Been here all my life… and before, I guess, 'cause my father and grandfather had places on Sheep Ranch,” Lou recounted.

Jordan contemplated this statement, which somehow made perfect sense, and listened to his host, interrupted occasionally by his sister on a point of fact or exaggeration. They clearly didn’t get much company, but they knew very well how to treat guests: they simply adopted them. Jordan wasn’t any different.

The phone wasn’t a dial phone, but it was the kind that had push buttons on the phone with the receiver attached by a spiraling cord that had tangled decades ago and had never been replaced or corrected. The result was a cord that, though once able to stretch three feet, could now barely eke out a foot. Jordan found it interesting that it was a challenge for him to use a push button phone with his left pointer finger—it was no simple task.

Since he had already become like family, they didn’t leave the room while he was on the phone. In fact both participated in the conversation with some "uh-huhs," "yeps," and two "hallelujahs." Shelly, upon hearing this, quickly became concerned, asking, “Where the hell are you?”

Jordan described the lack of enthusiasm in Columbia, the t-shirts, the turban, and the narrow driveway that had led him to the two faces that now became more interested and a wee bit suspicious of their new guest. They listened without comment as Jordan told the phone he was going to give it up. That maybe history was supposed to be written this way, and who was he to try to challenge it? His hosts both sat at down at the table and leaned on their hands. Jordan, noticing their interest, suddenly stopped and told Shelly he’d call her back. He noticed that he was hunched over due to the short cord on the phone, and when he finally sat up straight the relief in his back allowed him a deep exhale. He looked at the faces of his hosts, whose smiles had returned, and decided he would trust them.

He took a deep breath, and began: "I’m a police officer. About a month ago I found this car …"

Supper happens at the same time every day on the Martin Ranch, no matter what or who. Becky rose in the middle of the story and told Jordan, “Don't you dare stop now …”

She went about the business of preparing food and cooking without ever giving Jordan the idea she wasn’t digesting every vowel.

"… So the last clue I had was an area code and number tracing back to Columbia—years ago. The area code has actually changed and the number has been disconnected. I came anyway, on a longshot."

They were all eating before they knew it, talking between bites. Becky cut Jordan’s food in small bites; she and Lou finally began asking questions to fill in blanks they didn’t understand about his story.

Jordan was either half-starved or convinced he had never in his life eaten lamb that good. The coincidence of having mashed potatoes and peas made him smile. The dog never took his eyes off him.

Lou Martin began clearing the table. Becky removed the Ace bandage and examined the wound. She cut the bandage at the wound, allowing part of the bandage to remain. Removing it would only cause the bleeding to begin again.

“So … is he innocent?”

Jordan noticed right away they froze for the answer. It told him they might know something …

“I’m convinced of it. I have hundreds of hours of investigation, details, evidence—all circumstantial, of course. But I’m sure—my wife and I are sure—he didn’t kill her. She died in an accident."

“Then how could you quit?” They said it as one. Neither seemed to notice the coincidence.

“Geez, look at me—I’m a mess! I’ve spent the last two months on this—every one of my days off. I haven’t played one round of golf, been fishing, out to dinner with my wife, to a movie …"

The two faces hadn’t changed expressions. They both stared at him without sympathy. In fact, a look of irritation crept onto their faces as he was pleading for sympathy. He looked hard into both faces and leaned forward. He suddenly knew—they knew …

“How do we know you’re not just telling us some story to find this guy?” Lou Martin’s eyes fell sharply on Jordan, who looked down at the worn wood of the homemade table and shook his head.

“I could leave the evidence with you. If you knew this person you might find a way to get it to him. Convince him it's real—that someone, a cop, knows he never killed his wife. You could leave him my name. He could call me—anytime. I’m not a religious man, never have been, but if I had a God to swear to, I would.”

The couple reached for each other's hand and gripped it tightly.

Lou spoke up. “We don't have a God either, Officer Jordan. If we didn’t trust the first stranger who came up our driveway in ten years, we’d be admitting to living in a world that would need a God."

“Georgia Ford is who you’re looking for," he continued. "Found herself a man some years back. Went looking to bring her brother home from some place in the valley—she never found him, and came back with some man instead. She was never much to look at. We none of us figured she’d find a man, but she did, and on her own, too.”

“And a good one,” Becky insisted.

“He’s quiet. Even for these parts. He treats her like gold, Officer."

“Please, call me Jordy..

“Like gold, She runs a boutique on Main. I mean, if you could have seen her before, well, you’d have some idea of how important he is to her—to us! You can tell he’s carrying something—something big …"