Sketch № 17: Mending Fences
Technically, “criminal trespassing” is the charge Clarke, Samantha, and Brandon got slapped with when they were caught breaking into the old O’Connor house in the early morning hours a week ago Saturday. I found that out after they were released last Monday, just after my last blog post. They stepped into quite the pit of quicksand when a cop car pulled up on them right as they walked inside, but then they were thrown a rope that saved them — while they had to wait locked up at the police station until Monday to even be arraigned, the judge ultimately decided that their heretofore clean records, and the circumstances of the arrest, warranted dropping the charge against all three.
In the end, they got lucky.
When the three joined the rest of Roscoe’s writing salon for their usual Wednesday evening meeting, before they got into critiquing fiction, our three jailbirds told us the real story behind their arrest. The cops had been tipped off to their arrival at the house — this we knew — but before it was unclear whether they’d been tipped off beforehand, or by someone who happened by and noticed three figures under the cloak of night creeping around the house of the woman, Edna Mary, who is still missing without a trace.
But the cops got to the house pretty quick if they were called by someone who just happened to notice the trespass as it was going down. In fact, they got there just as Clarke was opening the front door…with the key that was in the front door lock.
Now, the cops have scoured that whole area since Edna Mary went missing. I’m pretty sure one of Applewood’s Finest wouldn’t have overlooked a key sitting in its lock. Certainly, they wouldn’t have left it there.
So where did it come from?
The questions have been mounting over the past few weeks. Where is Edna Mary O’Connor and what happened to her? Who is the mole who spoke to The Applewood Timber and gave them a quote out of context that’s been haunting Doc Graham (who’s now losing patients and is all but blacklisted by his colleagues)? And now, why does it seem like Clarke, Samantha, and Brandon were set up?
I’d love to be able to tell you right now that this post will contain all the answers. Unfortunately, I can’t. Not yet. Unfortunately, the only person who claims to have all the answers really only has his own interests at heart, and he’s the only one doing much talking right now: Pastor Sweeney.
The core friends I’ve made since landing in Applewood back in April are not usually part of Sweeney’s flock. But Mrs. Creaverton — owner of the Café Confictura — Violet, and Roscoe agreed that they needed to attend yesterday’s mass at Sweeney’s Our Lord of the Ascension church. Like an aftershock of the mysterious 7.2 Quake that seems to have started all these strange events in town, rumblings from the last week couldn’t be ignored. The café shuddered with whispered and mumbled conversations about a change coming. If the tremors of speculation and rumor got any stronger, the coffee might have started slopping over the cups. No one knew for sure what was coming, but by the time Sunday rolled around, everyone had heard that Sweeney knew the answer and he’d be sharing it at noon mass.
Props to whoever’s running Sweeney’s marketing and promotions department for staring this particular “Pastor Sweeney will give you all the answers this Sunday, pass it on” advertising campaign.
I, of course, went with my friends and practically the whole of our side of town to get the skinny. Once we were all inside the glass chapel that reaches high, grasping heavenward, Sweeney started in on his sermon.
The sleeves of his dress shirt were rolled to his pointy elbows, and his toothy smile positively gleamed, almost as white as his perpetually windswept hair. He said, “Friends, the good Lord has visited me once again in a vision, and this time, He has seen fit to bless me with the answer we have all been seeking.”
Next to me, Violet muttered in her French accent, “That the only reason He agreed to make you a preacher was because He lost a bet with Satan?”
Luckily — or not — we were too far back in the nave for Sweeney to hear her. He continued, “It troubled me greatly to hear about three of our young people taking up for the devil last weekend and defiling our town’s beloved O’Connor house.”
Roscoe huffed and crossed his arms. “He makes it sound like they ripped the place apart,” he whispered.
“I prayed and prayed on it,” said Sweeney, and he raised his hands and pitiful face. “I said, ‘Lord Jesus, please send me the answer to help these young lambs escape the devil’s claws.’ And that’s when God’s vision showed me the way.” He gestured to a man in the front row.
From where I sat, all I could see was a big guy with a bad combover. “Who’s that?” I asked Mrs. Creaverton, sitting on my other side.
“Ricky Koche,” she said. “Chief of police.”
“God is Ricky Koche?” I asked.
She snorted. “Well, Ricky would like to think so. I know a number of good cops who work under him who would disagree.”
Sweeney said, “Our Lord of the Ascension and the police department have partnered to give our community the Mending Fences Program. Under this program, idle youths will have the opportunity to do the Lord’s work by helping our town rebuild from the rot left behind by the Quake. They will be paired with local contractors to do this work as a kind of community service that can fundamentally change the dangerously apathetic attitude that threatens to destroy our way of life.”
Roscoe stood up and said, “We already know how to rebuild. It’s been proven with the O’Connor house. Members of our community have to come together, of their own volition, to help restore our buildings. When the contractors try to do it on their own with their crews as just another job, the rot comes back again.”
Sweeney said, “Roscoe, as a member of this community, you are always welcome in our church, but I need to ask you to stop disrupting my sermons whenever you attend.”
“Stop giving me reason to,” said Roscoe.
“I don’t understand,” said Mrs. C, standing up too. “What did you mean by ‘idle youth’?”
“Too many of our young people have been misguided,” said Sweeney. “These teens and young adults have been unfaithful to our community and to our Lord by slothful inaction or entertaining the temptation of inaction. I have tried to engage this youth, lead them away from their daydreaming and leisurely pursuits. Sadly, my efforts have not all succeeded, as the incident at the O’Connor house proves. Mending Fences is an organized rehabilitation for those looking to repent for slothful behavior or intentions. Mending Fences will get you right with God.”
“So it is like an atonement?” Violet spoke up. “It is like rosary without the beads? Confession without sitting in the tiny box telling a hidden man your secrets?”
Sweeney seemed to stumble over this a bit. “Uh, if that’s how you want to think of it,” he said, his lip curling a little. “Individuals may sign themselves up for service, parents may sign up minors still under their care, or neighbors may nominate each other.”
This isn’t the first time Sweeney has tried convincing people of the “slothful” youth in Applewood. For some reason, he’s had Roscoe’s literary salon particularly in his crosshairs since the Quake. It’s like he wants to bust up the group. None of us is really sure why.
Chief Ricky Koche stood up then and turned around to face us. He wore his suit jacket closed, though it looked like the buttons might pop at any moment. “If anyone would like to sign up either yourself or someone else for this wonderful community-building opportunity, please see us at the back of the church after service today.”
The mass continued after that, but my friends and I left soon after. Outside the chapel, in the front vestibule, a long table was set up with sign-up sheets. It was manned by three cops in uniform and Nessie Fyne. I don’t think any of us were surprised she was there. If Sweeney’s preaching, her amen is never more than a few beats behind.
As we left, already several people stood in line to sign up — some alone, some with teenagers in tow.
A community-building program shouldn’t be troubling. But the suggestion of signing up neighbors for manual labor sounds a little too Patriot Act-ish for my taste. Plus, I’ve been in town long enough to know that anything with Sweeney and Nessie at the helm is never what it seems.
Sure enough, this morning we found out just what “voluntary” means to them, and apparently to this Chief Koche.
Not two minutes after Brandon came into the café for his morning espresso, Koche sauntered through the door, followed by two of his cops.
From behind strands of his blond hair, Brandon’s dark eyes gave them a suspicious once-over as he waited for his coffee.
“Mr. Mickelson,” said Koche. “Glad I caught you.” He laughed to himself. “Now that’s a funny phrase given the circumstances of our last meeting.”
A tepid smile flashed over Brandon’s lips.
“I was sorry to see your name hasn’t appeared on any of our signup sheets for Mending Fences,” Koche continued. “I think that’s a mistake. Just like I think the judge’s decision about you and your cohorts is a mistake.”
“The judge ruled,” said Brandon. “The charges were dismissed.”
“Still,” said Koche, stepping toward him, “I think it’d be good for you to volunteer. Program could do you a lot of good, son.” The cops stepped forward too, slow, stealthy, like a menacing snake before it strikes.
Then the front door opened again, and in walked two other cops. I know one of them as Portia’s boyfriend, Luis. The other was his partner, Jim. They walked up to their boss and colleagues.
Jim said, “Anything new here, Chief?”
Koche shook his head. “Just giving Mr. Michelson a chance to do right by his town and join us in Mending Fences.”
Luis nodded, and he said to Brandon, “So you know your options now, right? That Mending Fences is an option if you want? You know, if you decide it’s what you want to do?”
“Yeah,” said Brandon. “I know.”
With a smile, Jim said, “Great. Well, I’m sure there’s no need to keep you any longer then.” He added pointedly, “Right, Chief?”
Koche gave Jim and Luis a tight smile. “Of course,” he said, and then he and his two buddies ambled back out.
Brandon asked Luis and Jim, “What was that?”
Luis said, “I’m afraid it was a warning. Look, Portia told me why you guys tried to get into Edna Mary’s house, and I get it. But anyone who doesn’t want to end up on the wrong side of Koche or Sweeney needs to keep their heads down right now.” He looked at Jim, who gave him a nod. “We don’t know exactly what’s going on, but certain people are using the events since the Quake as a way to gain more control over this town. Don’t give them any more ammunition than they already have.”
I’d been sitting at my favorite table at the front of the café, listening to this. Never before have I gone undercover as a reporter or even misrepresented myself when trying to get a story. Well, not really. But an idea started to form in my head about how I might dig up more information on just what this whole Mending Fences thing was about, and how it fit into what I’m sure is Sweeney’s grander scheme.
I asked Luis and Jim, “When’s the official start date of Mending Fences? When’s the first time the volunteers are set to start work?”
“Two weeks from today,” said Jim. “They’ll be at Sweeney’s church at seven a.m.”
Then so will I.
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Clarissa J. Markiewicz is also the author of Christmas In Whimsy — a heartwarming, fun novel readers compare to Hallmark Christmas movies, and recipient of Readers’ Favorite 5-star Seal — and the genre-bending new-age mystery The Paramour Pawn.
This and any related blog posts are works of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Any reference to living or dead public figures, entities, places, events, and the like, are of a fictional, opinioned, and/or parodic nature. No healthcare professionals have been consulted in writing this. Any advice given or inferred is anecdotal and used at your own risk. Consult your doctor in all healthcare matters. ©2024 Clarissa J. Markiewicz. No portion of this or any related blog post may be used to train any AI application without explicit consent from the author.
