a
stretch, don’t you think?” I started to answer, but he opened a file on his
desk, my cue to leave. “We’ll see what the State says.”
I went back to my cubicle and
photocopied the Registry report as Mac had asked, slipping it into the plastic
box mounted outside his door with a sticky note of explanation. Doing so
reminded me of something else I had to do.
I went to the fourth floor. The Adult
Services section was as empty as my own. I wound my way through the maze of
cubicles to Michele’s desk at Records.
She was putting things away when she saw
me coming. “Oh, no. I was just leaving.”
“Come on, one quick check. Please?”
She tapped her watch. “Time to go. Long
weekend. The kids are waiting on me.” Michele had two sweet, smart teenagers, a
boy and a girl. “We’re going to the beach.”
“Please?”
“Oh, all right.” She rebooted the
computer and we talked about her weekend plans while it warmed up. She handed
me the Request for Registry Check form and I wrote Jimmy Shelton’s name down,
aka James and Jim Shelton.
She took it from me. “That’s all you
got, just a name?”
“That’s it.”
She quickly entered the fields and we
waited while the computer searched the files. Michele’s feet tapped on the
linoleum tiles. The machine beeped and a blue message box flashed on the
screen, “No Record Found.”
“Nothing.” Michele said. She printed it
for me and powered down the computer.
We walked to the elevators together as
she told me more about the condo her family had rented for the holiday. At the
second floor we said good-bye and wished each other a good weekend.
I spent an hour clearing my desk and
attacking my to-do list, and by the time I packed up my briefcase and shut down
my computer, I felt like I’d gotten enough done to be able to relax some over
the Fourth. Traffic was horrid going home, the interstate crammed with families
going three hundred miles south to sun worship at Gulf Shores or Orange Beach.
It was almost six thirty when I pulled into my driveway.
My little house was a welcome sight, its
white paint and black shutters giving it a neat appearance. The black iron
scrollwork columns that supported the carport and portico were my favorite
features. I gathered the mail and inspected the small, sloped yard as I walked
the concrete path that led from the driveway to the front steps. The grass
needed cutting, which my father usually did for me, and the boxwood shrubs
against the house were a bit brown. The purple and gold impatiens I’d planted
by the stoop this spring were on their last legs. The plants looked tired, worn
down from the summer heat.
I unlocked the front door and dumped the
mail on the table in the small dining area. The house was cold, chilled by the
air conditioner. I shivered and turned the temperature up. After changing into
shorts and a T-shirt, I poured myself a glass of Riesling, then another, as I
channel surfed in the living room. Nothing good on. My mind wandered to the
barbeque at Royanne’s this weekend, and I took a few cookbooks down from the
cabinet in the kitchen and resettled on the couch. I’m not much of a chef,
lacking both interest and skill. I was browsing through a Southern Living cookbook and was about to break into my leftover cheeseburger when the door to
the carport opened and Dad entered, calling hello. He was in shorts and a
Cozumel T-shirt, his ponytail wet from a trip to the pool.
I called hi and put the book on the
coffee table. He spotted it and asked, “Are you cooking? ’Cause I brought stuff
from the diner.” He held up a white plastic bag with two Styrofoam boxes in it.
“No, no. Royanne’s having a cookout
Monday. I’m supposed to bring a dessert. I can’t decide between apple or cherry
pie.”
He walked back to my small kitchen and
put the bag down. “Both are good. And patriotic.”
I set the table with paper napkins and
plastic knives and forks and poured a glass of the Riesling for Dad as
stretch, don’t you think?” I started to answer, but he opened a file on his
desk, my cue to leave. “We’ll see what the State says.”
I went back to my cubicle and
photocopied the Registry report as Mac had asked, slipping it into the plastic
box mounted outside his door with a sticky note of explanation. Doing so
reminded me of something else I had to do.
I went to the fourth floor. The Adult
Services section was as empty as my own. I wound my way through the maze of
cubicles to Michele’s desk at Records.
She was putting things away when she saw
me coming. “Oh, no. I was just leaving.”
“Come on, one quick check. Please?”
She tapped her watch. “Time to go. Long
weekend. The kids are waiting on me.” Michele had two sweet, smart teenagers, a
boy and a girl. “We’re going to the beach.”
“Please?”
“Oh, all right.” She rebooted the
computer and we talked about her weekend plans while it warmed up. She handed
me the Request for Registry Check form and I wrote Jimmy Shelton’s name down,
aka James and Jim Shelton.
She took it from me. “That’s all you
got, just a name?”
“That’s it.”
She quickly entered the fields and we
waited while the computer searched the files. Michele’s feet tapped on the
linoleum tiles. The machine beeped and a blue message box flashed on the
screen, “No Record Found.”
“Nothing.” Michele said. She printed it
for me and powered down the computer.
We walked to the elevators together as
she told me more about the condo her family had rented for the holiday. At the
second floor we said good-bye and wished each other a good weekend.
I spent an hour clearing my desk and
attacking my to-do list, and by the time I packed up my briefcase and shut down
my computer, I felt like I’d gotten enough done to be able to relax some over
the Fourth. Traffic was horrid going home, the interstate crammed with families
going three hundred miles south to sun worship at Gulf Shores or Orange Beach.
It was almost six thirty when I pulled into my driveway.
My little house was a welcome sight, its
white paint and black shutters giving it a neat appearance. The black iron
scrollwork columns that supported the carport and portico were my favorite
features. I gathered the mail and inspected the small, sloped yard as I walked
the concrete path that led from the driveway to the front steps. The grass
needed cutting, which my father usually did for me, and the boxwood shrubs
against the house were a bit brown. The purple and gold impatiens I’d planted
by the stoop this spring were on their last legs. The plants looked tired, worn
down from the summer heat.
I unlocked the front door and dumped the
mail on the table in the small dining area. The house was cold, chilled by the
air conditioner. I shivered and turned the temperature up. After changing into
shorts and a T-shirt, I poured myself a glass of Riesling, then another, as I
channel surfed in the living room. Nothing good on. My mind wandered to the
barbeque at Royanne’s this weekend, and I took a few cookbooks down from the
cabinet in the kitchen and resettled on the couch. I’m not much of a chef,
lacking both interest and skill. I was browsing through a Southern Living cookbook and was about to break into my leftover cheeseburger when the door to
the carport opened and Dad entered, calling hello. He was in shorts and a
Cozumel T-shirt, his ponytail wet from a trip to the pool.
I called hi and put the book on the
coffee table. He spotted it and asked, “Are you cooking? ’Cause I brought stuff
from the diner.” He held up a white plastic bag with two Styrofoam boxes in it.
“No, no. Royanne’s having a cookout
Monday. I’m supposed to bring a dessert. I can’t decide between apple or cherry
pie.”
He walked back to my small kitchen and
put the bag down. “Both are good. And patriotic.”
I set the table with paper napkins and
plastic knives and forks and poured a glass of the Riesling for Dad as
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