~ The Skipworth Summer ~
by
Jan Netolicky
Caught Red-Handed
1975
My hands were stained red once before. Only then, the stains weren’t blood. They were indelible red ink.
Bo gave me the idea. He was always thinking of ways to cause trouble, but K.D., Major, and I put the plans in motion. We were in town that Saturday on leave from the county boys’ school. Believe me, I use the term “town” loosely. Berryville, Arkansas, is not exactly the Las Vegas hot spot of the South. Anyway, Bo thought we ought to paint the town red—literally. We figured a gallon of bright crimson enamel and four brushes were beyond our financial means, and even though we’d had some experience in the delinquency department, defacing public property in broad daylight would be a little tricky.
So we opted for the subtle approach. I had seen Charlton Heston play Moses in The Ten Commandments. My favorite scene was when he turned the waters of the Nile blood red with a touch of his staff. The fountain in the middle of the town square was definitely not the Nile, and five bottles of red ink from the Berryville Drug wasn’t the blood of a persecuted people, but the effect on the local yokels was about as dramatic as it had been on Egyptian royalty. I sat nonchalantly on the edge of the limestone, emptied the bottles into the water and waited.
Fred Kirkpatrick was the first to notice the Technicolor treatment of the fountain. He was on his lunch break from his job as the county auditor. Every work day he ate his lunch on the bench facing the courthouse, like some Islamic disciple bowing to Mecca. When he saw that red ink drifting toward the pump in the fountain, Fred almost passed out. Probably nothing since the last county election, when he defeated Clara Matthews by a thirteen-vote margin, had caused him such agitation.
Waving his arms and shouting frantically, Fred finally caught Sheriff Stoner’s attention. Berryville’s one-man law force left the comfort of his squad car and strolled over to Fred, who was gesturing helplessly toward the fountain. By this time, pink water was gurgling into the lower basin.
With no help from Fred, Sheriff Stoner sized up the situation. Although the guys and I had long since vamoosed to the corner booth at the Berryville Drug, Stoner was like a bloodhound. He found us eating potato chips and drinking Dr. Peppers and trying to keep straight faces.
“Okay, buzzards. Who’s the wiseass?” Stoner demanded.
“Sir?” D.J. snickered.
“Who dyed the water in the fountain?”
“Give a guy a break, sheriff. We’ve just been relaxing. You know we like to make the most of our Saturday visits, sir.” D.J.’s inflection made the “sir” sound like a four-letter word.
“Oh, yeah. I got it,” snorted Stoner. “And you get this. I’m through with the lot of you. So help me God, I’ll get the county attorney to issue an injunction to keep you and the rest of the creeps at that school permanently. If that doesn’t work, I swear I’ll look the other way when the people of this town get a craw full of you low-lifes and take matters into their own hands.”
Big deal, I thought. The sheriff had no proof. Nobody had actually seen me dump the ink, and even if someone had noticed a dark-haired kid perched on the edge of the fountain, so what? Berryville kids met at the center of town all the time to hang out, especially on the weekends, and there wasn’t much to distinguish me from them. I may have been a little scrawnier than other fifteen-year-old guys, but because I don’t look too intimidating, that probably works to my advantage. That, and my best feature—hazel-colored eyes that seem to disarm people. I’ve been told when people look me in the eye, they’d believe me if I said I was President Ford. Trust me, I wouldn’t be the first guy picked out of a lineup, and that ain’t bad. Without an eyewitness who could mark me as guilty, Sheriff Stoner couldn’t do a thing. The smirk on my face must have irritated him something fierce.
He slammed a fist on the table in front of me and shoved his big ugly face in front of Major. “Go ahead and laugh, scumbags. I’ll see to it you’re processed in my jurisdiction instead of Eureka. We’ll quit screwing around with this kid glove treatment.”
It was an empty threat, but something spooked Major. I knew he was a big talker, but when the pinch was on, he usually was out to save his own skin. “I swear I didn’t know what he was going to do,” he mumbled.
Stoner pounced. “Okay, spill it, moron.” He was practically spitting at Major.
K.D. and Bo kept quiet. I knew they would have stuck by me even if Stoner shoved bamboo under their nails. But the sheriff wasn’t going anywhere. Not this time. I had to set things straight before Major had a coronary. Technically, the ink was mine and so was the responsibility. Besides, we were drawing quite an audience, including dark-eyed Sara Greenwoldt who worked behind the lunch counter. Might as well play this to the hilt.
I raised my hands—only slightly ink-stained—dramatically in the air, rose from the booth, and swaggered toward the door. On a whim, I winked at Sara. She blushed and pretended to look busy, but I think she thought I was holding my own with Stoner.
“Figures,” Stoner observed. “In a hole of skunks, Benedict, your stench is the strongest. Let’s go, punk.” He barked at the trio still seated in the booth. “You three hightail it back to the school. I’ll have my secretary call the head man with a full report. Don’t let me catch you back here again. You show your faces, you win a one-way ticket to the state correctional farm. Got it?”
K.D. and Bo stood by the door, deliberately ignoring Major. Nodding to the two of them, I left with Stoner close behind me. I kept my hands in the air until we were out of Sara’s line of vision. Then, somehow, the whole charade just didn’t seem worth the effort anymore.