The Backwoods

(II)

Sometimes you just can’t win. The thought occurred to him when he opened his wallet and saw but four single dollar bills in there just after he’d walked in to the Donut King at the edge of town. A dozen doughnuts, by the way, cost $4.69, and he didn’t dare ask Trey for the extra.

That would be humiliating. After all, Sutter was the chief.

So he bought one doughnut and a cup of coffee and walked out.

“Cuttin’ back?” Trey asked. “Usually ya git yourself a dozen.”

“Yeah,” he lied. “Doc said to lose weight if I wanna live to collect my Social fuckin’ Security. I’ve been payin’ into the bitch for damn near fifty years, so I ain’t gonna let myself get ripped off.”

It would be just his luck, wouldn’t it?

Chief Sutter wasn’t generally prone to cynicism, an attitude he was inclined to regard as unhealthy. He was a levelheaded man, a fair one and probably more goodhearted than most police chiefs nearing retirement. Father Darren at church reminded them every Sunday that taking for granted what one had was a sin, sort of a slap to the face of God, Who’d made this world and everything in it as a gift to mankind. Every day above ground was a good day, a blessing and another opportunity to celebrate the joy of life, and most would probably agree.

Fuck me and the horse I rode in on, came the sour thought.

Even good men had bad days, and that was what Chief Sutter woke up to this morning, his three hundred-pound frame smothered in a swelter, and his wife, who weighed not much less, snoring like a mountain gorilla. The air conditioner had crapped out overnight—what a splendid thing to happen in the South, during summer’s tightest squeeze.

It would probably cost him two grand to replace, and with the two mortgages, property taxes going up, and a wife who’d maxed out the credit cards, Chief Sutter didn’t know what he was going to do.

Just ain’t right, he thought later, on his way to the station. I’ve worked my ass off my whole damn life helping other people, and what have I got to show for it?

Not much, right now. Just a lot of debt, and damn little satisfaction.

“Still bothered about your money problems?” Trey asked from the passenger seat. Sgt. William Trey was Sutter’s second in charge and officially the department’s deputy chief. Second in charge didn’t mean a whole lot on a two-man police department, but Sutter figured he deserved the acknowledgment. Trey was fifty now but tended to still act like the brazen, feisty cockhound he’d been when Sutter’d hired him almost three decades ago. A local boy with good intentions, and who respected his home. He sort of looked like Tom Cruise, if Tom Cruise had never made it. But he was still agile and fairly fit, which—considering his weight—Sutter sadly was not. When he needed someone to jump over a fence to run down some punks, Sutter was glad for such a deputy. And he had a way of painting a bad situation with a happier color. “Look at it this way, Chief. All married men got money problems. Take us, for example. We both got wives the size of a coupla full-grown Berkshire hogs, and the only difference is they eat more than a coupla full-grown Berkshire hogs. That costs money, Chief, and it’s the husband’s job to provide it. A fat wife is a sign that a man is providin’ for her, which is what God wants.”

Chief Sutter appreciated the spin but wasn’t sure if it was working.

“We‘se both married in the eyes of the Lord; that’s how it’s supposed to be,” Trey went on. “You’re not seein’ my point now, are ya?”

“Well . . .”

“Here’s what Father Darren would say. Why is it you think you ain’t got enough money?”

“Well, ’cos—”

“’Cos yer wife spends half the money you work your ass off for on food, and you spend the other half on keepin’ a roof over her head and her big ass in a car, right?”

Sutter gave him an alarmed glance. “Yeah, and it’s a right pain in the ass and it’s pissin’ me off.”

Trey nodded knowingly. “And here’s what Father Darren would say. He’d say that a wife who’s fat ‘n’ happy is the wife of a God-lovin′ man, a man who’s doin’ his best to live by His laws.”

Sutter blinked. “That what he’d say?”

“You can roger that, Chief, and here’s why. ‘Cos if yer fine wife, June, was bone-skinny and didn’t have no cable TV, or no car a’ her own, and had ta live in a shit little house, then that′d mean that you weren’t livin’ by His laws.”

Sutter sighed. “I hope you’re right, Trey, but what ya don’t understand is I’m chokin’ on a right shitload of debt, and now I somehow gotta find me two grand for a new air conditioner. I’m real happy that I’m livin’ by God’s laws, but I sure don’t see God buyin′ me a new air conditioner.”

Trey pointed. “But don’t ya see? He will. All you gotta do is ask Him. God provides to those who rightly deserve His provisions. Do it right now, in yer head. Ask God ta forgive ya for not managin’ your finances proper, and ask Him to help ya out. Go on. Do it. Remember what Father Darren says: A man should never be embarrassed to talk to God.”

Sutter slumped behind the wheel of the cruiser. Can’t hurt, I guess. He closed his eyes and prayed: God, what I’m askin′ ya to do is to forgive me for bein′ selfish ′n′ ungrateful ’n’ for takin′ your gifts for granted. Forgive me for not lookin’ hard enough to see how you want things to be, and forgive me for not managin′ my finances proper and for lettin′ things get outta hand. I need your help, God, and I mean I really, really need the scratch for a new air conditioner, ’cos if I can’t dig it up, June’ll be whinin’ worse than a truckload of weasels. . . .

When Chief Sutter opened his eyes again, he felt better. He didn’t feel any richer, but he definitely felt better.

“Good man, Chief. When you talk, God listens.” Trey sipped his coffee in some seeming assurance. “He listens to me, I can tell ya that. I ain’t braggin’, but let me show ya something.” He slipped out his wallet and withdrew two slips of paper. “Now, I make less than you, and if anything my wife, Marcy, eats even more than your wife, but look at this.”

He passed the slips of paper to Sutter.

Holy . . . shit! They were bank balance receipts. “Trey, I say you sure do manage your money proper. Jiminy Christmas.” Trey had five grand in his checking and eight in his savings.

Trey took back the papers, nodding. “It’s ’cos God listens when I talk to him. God looks at me and ya know what He sees? He sees a man who’s had plenty of chances to go astray but chose not to. He sees a cop, same as He sees you. He sees a man bustin’ his ass to uphold the law and maintain peace and decency. So God don’t leave a man like that out to dry. Instead, He helps him out every so often. Just like He’s gonna help you.″

Sutter reflected on the words. He remembered Trey back in his younger days, before marriage, before typical social and domestic responsibilities had come into his life. The man had been an absolute nutcase, a hard-drinkin’, hard-partyin’ character. Gals would follow that boy down the street, Sutter thought. Spent mos a’ his money on bar-hoppin’, hot rods, and women. . . . But life had changed Sgt. William Trey—a change for the good. He’d used the force of his will to change himself into a good man, and now good things were befalling him.

Would the same good things befall Sutter?

He needed some good things now.

It was almost as if Trey were reading his mind when he said, “Good things, Chief.”

“What’s that?”

“Good things happen to men who put their trust in God.”

Sutter stared out the window. What Trey was telling him just made him feel better and better. He shook his head. “Trey, I known you for goin’ on thirty years, and in all that time I had no idea you had so much religion in ya.”

“Ain’t no secret; ain’t no big deal.” Trey calmly sipped more coffee. “Live by God’s laws, and He will grant blessings upon you.” But in that same moment, Trey’s eyes shot wide out the window at a figure at the side of the road. It was a woman, a woman flagging them down, and that was when the very God-fearing Sergeant Trey exclaimed, “Holy sufferin’ shit, Chief! Would you get a load of the tits on that piece of ass?”