Page 18 of Townshipped
I didn’t know that. I assumed we had landed on her name. What else have I assumed?
I suggest we move into the kitchen.
“Can I get anyone a coffee or water?”
“Not while I’m on the job,” Jesse says, not realizing how foolish he sounds, especially because it’s common knowledge that he stops by Pop’s Pizza for two slices and a large soda every night he’s patrolling town.
“I’d love some water, Aiden. Thanks,” Hazel says. Then she turns to Em. “I’d like to look you over before we get into the questions about your life and the accident.”
Em agrees and Hazel suggests the two of them go somewhere private for the exam. That leaves me and Jesse standing in my kitchen while he postures, and I take a seat on one of the barstools around my island.
“So, you’re the knight in white?” Jesse asks.
“Just doing my part to help her out.”
“Convenient,” he says.
“As convenient as it can be to open your home to a total stranger with injuries and no sense of who they are.”
“Don’t get smart with me, MacIntyre. I’m here on official police business.”
“I won’t.”
I shake my head lightly, muffling the smile that threatens to creep onto my face as I think of a retort I promise myself I won’t say.It would be unkind to get smart with someone of your IQ. He leaves himself so wide open. I think back to him as a teen. It’s hard to take a man seriously when you remember him having a serious adolescent obsession with Vince Gill, to the point of growing a mullet.
“I’m glad we got that established,” Jesse says, bobbing his head like a policeman bobble toy that got tapped one too many times.
Jesse remains standing in my kitchen with both hands hooked into his belt loops and his legs spread in a stereotypical policeman pose. Actually, he reminds me of the guy who dressed like an officer in the old Village People music video. All he’s missing is a handlebar mustache and some flashy gold chains.
I try to resist, but I can’t. I start humming the “Y.M.C.A.” song under my breath, avoiding eye contact with Jesse so I don’t lose it.
He looks like he’s about to call me out when Hazel and Em emerge from the guest bedroom together.
“No concussion as far as I can tell. And no broken bones,” Hazel says to all of us. “You lucked out, Em.”
Em smiles shyly and walks around to stand next to me. Hazel goes over some basic things to keep watching out for. She tells Em she can resume normal activity, but to be mindful of her need for rest and hydration as she continues to heal.
Jesse moves to the table near my kitchen windows and makes a show of pulling out his police notebook. Then he starts asking Em questions like,State your name.What is the last thing you remember? andWhat else can you tell me about yourself?
Em answers each one, looking to me each time. She doesn’t know much, not even if Em is her real name. The last thing she remembers is waking up in my guest bed yesterday morning. She can recall everything since then with laser-sharp precision, but before yesterday, her mind is a wasteland, vast and empty.
“Go Corn Cobs!” Jesse shouts in his indoor voice when Em recounts things I had shared with her. He lost his peace officer persona for a minute, but he regroups quickly. Can’t blame a Bordeauxean man for getting his school spirit on.
When Jesse asks what Em can tell him about herself, she says, “Not much. I’m probably not a goat farmer. I like scrambled eggs, blond coffee, and I love peach jam.”
“Oh, you had some of Rhonda’s jam?” Jesse surmises. The deduction might be the closest he’s ever come to cracking a mystery.
Em looks at me with a question on her features.
I answer for her, “Yeah. Rhonda’s.”
“Good stuff,” Jesse says.
Hazel excuses herself, leaving her business card with Em and saying she’ll check in at the end of the week unless she hears from Em sooner.
Jesse strolls down my driveway to examine Em’s car. He returns to the house about twenty minutes later and suggests we have the Sattersons come tow it to the junkyard and store it there. Em agrees. Then he takes Em’s fingerprints using an electronic scanner. Jesse explains the process he’ll go through to log Em’s prints in the national missing persons registry.
“If anyone’s looking for you, they’ll eventually go there.”
