The Outlaw by Jennifer Millikin
Wyatt
In a little old house,almost at the edge of town, lives a little old woman I've come to love.
Carol Calhoun.
She's funny. Feisty. Sweet as pie, and she doesn't take shit from anybody. Telemarketers beware, because Carol Calhoun won't be fooled by anyone.
Or so she says. Mrs. Calhoun's health has diminished rapidly. The time she used to spend in her front yard gardening is now spent sitting in her front porch chair. Words that came easily sometimes struggle to find their way into a cohesive thought.
I've been trying to figure out a way to get her the help she needs, but all I can think to do is hire a nurse. I can't put her in a home, where her needs can be met twenty-four hours a day, because I'm not family.
As far as I know, Mrs. Calhoun doesn't have much in the way of family. Her son isn't alive anymore. Neither is her grandson.
Thanks to the Hayden family.
That's not to say either one of the Calhoun men were innocent. Especially her grandson. Mrs. Calhoun being left without family was collateral damage. Doesn't make it okay, though. And that's why I'm here, and why I've been coming around for a while. Reparation.
Mrs. Calhoun's in her tan wicker chair, like always. Her white hair is combed, her clothes are clean and ironed. If I walk into her house, it will be immaculate. Completely out of date, but cleaner than any room at the homestead has ever been.
I pull up and get out, walking to her. She smiles when she sees me. I've seen pictures of her from back in the day. She was beautiful. She is now, too, but in an entirely different way.
"Hi, Mrs. Calhoun."
She nods at me. "Hello, young man."
There hasn't been a day since I started visiting her a couple years ago that she didn't greet me with those words.
I stop a few feet from her. "Do you have a list for me? I have those plants you asked for in the back of my truck."
"Oh yes, yes. On the kitchen table." She gets up slowly, and I lean forward, ready to help her if she needs it. I learned not to verbally offer her assistance, so instead I act like I'm not even thinking about it when really I'm paying close attention.
I walk in front of her and open the door. She may not like help, but she appreciates gentlemanly behavior.
Like she said, the note is on the kitchen table. She makes herself a cup of tea while I read her scrawling cursive.
"Shorter than a couple weeks ago," I comment, holding the slip of paper in the air.
She places a tea bag in the steaming water and smirks. "I'll make sure to think of more stuff for next time."
I laugh and get to work. Most of the work is minor, maintenance type things. A couple of trees are overgrown and need to be trimmed. Two of her wooden fence posts are broken and need to be replaced. I clean a few windows I know she cannot reach. When I see her bending down to weed her herb garden, I make a mental note to build her a planter box that is hip height, so she no longer has to bend over. I'll tell her I found it in a pile meant for bulk trash, otherwise she won't accept it, and I won't say a damn word about how she shouldn't be bending over like that anymore.
She's back in her chair on her front porch when I'm done. Like always, there is a crisp twenty-dollar bill on the table beside her. She picks it up and hands it to me.
"Thank you for helping me, young man."
"You're welcome."
"I'll be getting some company in a few days. Two of my grandsons are coming to visit."
Grandsons? I thought she only had one.
"That's nice, Mrs. Calhoun. What are their names?"
"Ricky and Chris Marks. Brothers."
"Good." I smile at her. "I'm sure it will be nice to see them. If you don't mind, I'm going to grab a drink of water and I'll get out of your hair."
I walk into the house, get a drink, and slip the twenty back into her wallet where it came from. Like always.
Later that night, when I'm by myself in my house, I search the internet for Ricky and Chris Marks. I don't like what I find.
The brothers, twenty-two and twenty-four, were found in possession of meth and sentenced to three years in prison. Everybody makes mistakes, I know that more than anybody, but something about the photo that accompanies the story rubs me the wrong way.
Maybe it's that they look so much like Dixon, if not by physical characteristics than by facial expression.
Arrogant. Entitled. Like the world stole something from them, and they're planning to get it back.
The date on the article is from just over three years ago.
I could give them the benefit of the doubt. Maybe prison changed them. Maybe they got degrees while they were in, or found Jesus.
Either way, I'll make sure I pay close attention when they get to town.