This one of my short stories which appeared in my “Stories for Shut-Ins” series, sent to over 300 readers during the Covid Pandemic.
Stand-Off
We’ll call the place Perch Lake, Illinois, and the time is around 1:30 in the afternoon, early summer, 2011 or so, and what we’re watching is a man about the age of 80 driving a truck so dented and rusted and rattling it must be traveling on plain spit and spite. The driver is Chester Nash, former roofer who took a fall, former farmer who gave it up and sold off most of his land, former celebrated high-school athlete who gained 48 pounds since those days, and former infantryman in a war that’s so seldom mentioned these days, you’d think it never was, but it was, and he left his youth and some of his friends and some of his blood in the country of Korea.
Chester parks the truck in front of Tip Top Foods, a smallish two-checkout grocery, its windows jammed with sale signs and posters for the town’s “Summer Blast” and the fire department’s carnival, and the Rotary’s picnic, all of them out of date.
Only a few customers inside, and some nod to Chester, but he doesn’t seem to notice, moving toward the items he wants, carrying one of the plastic baskets and filling it as he’s watched by the store owner who stands operating the only active checkout, and this is Arnold Tattimer, who is 66 and thin and normally suspicious, but now expanding that part of his nature as he watches Chester pass up the cold beer case and reach high up on the wine shelf to take down a bottle of the store’s most expensive California red at forty dollars a pop.
This is a first, and raises Arnold’s worry, but he has to stay put and check out the items on his counter. By the time he’s done, his employee, Lonny Pulaski, returns from her break and Arnold is free to spy on Chester, whom he sees just leaving the meat counter. He investigates and learns from his butcher that Chester has not bought his usual chicken wings and ground beef but chosen two healthy cuts of fillet mignon. This is also a first, which quickens Arnold’s pace, coming upon Chester as the man places a box of candy in his basket, the store’s most expensive chocolate-covered brand imported from no less than England.
“Chester,” Arnold says. “You sell off those two acres?”
Chester barely glances at the man, ignoring the question, moving to the produce for beets and broccoli and then making his way to the front of the store. Arnold beats him there, and when Chester arrives at the checkouts, Arnold says to Lonny, “I’ll take care of this one,” and moves to the machine as she backs away. And here comes Chester with his groceries, not even pausing, not even glancing at Arnold, but simply walking out of the store, basket and all, getting into his truck and driving away, as Arnold, outside now, shouts something about the police, but Chester’s truck is making too much noise for the words to carry.
About forty minutes after Chester’s getaway, a county deputy is pulling into the driveway of an old well-kept home with a thriving garden and a water element. The deputy, Tom Basco, around 25, walks quickly to the door and rings the bell. The door is opened by a smallish woman of 84, wearing a summer dress, her white hair well-kept, and her eyes rather penetrating. She is one-half Native American, and there is a question in her manner, seeing the deputy at her door. Her name is Ella Dawn-Netter, and while she was teaching at the Perch Lake High School, before she married her fellow teacher, John Netter, she was called Miss Dawn, but the name soon coalesced into ‘Mizdawn’, and even throughout her marriage with Mr. Netter, now deceased, she was called that name. She taught history to generations of local teenagers for nearly fifty years, and if there is another quality about her beyond her knowledge and her depth, it would be called no-nonsense.
“Mizdawn, I’m deputy Basco, and the sheriff sent me out here to ask your help. It’s an emergency, and I’m to take you out to Chester Nash’s house.”
She stares for one second, then “Deputy, what’s the emergency? Why am I needed? I’m not a doctor, and I don’t suppose I’m to go out there to teach history, and why didn’t the sheriff call me to see if I’m available, which I’m not.”
Basco takes a breath. “Nash is holed up in his home and he has a gun and he…he robbed the Tip Top store and says he’s not coming out, and the sheriff said…”
But Mizdawn interrupts: “Why would Chester rob a store and then go home?”
“Well, Mizdawn, he’s cooking in there. He robbed groceries and…”
“Wait, you’re saying he stole food, and he’s cooking it?”
“Yes ma’am. And he says if anybody comes close to the house, he’ll shoot’em.”
“And the sheriff wants me to go ‘close to the house’ and do what?”
“Well, you can stand off to the side, where he can’t shoot you, and talk to him. Make him come out, or…toss out that gun.”
She shakes her head in wonder and says: “Let me talk to the sheriff. Shall I call him on my phone, or…?”
“Mizdawn, there’s no time. Gotta go now. Sheriff’s real busy out there. I have to bring you.”
“By force?”
Well…ma’am…I gotta bring you. Now.”
Mizdawn sighs, straps on her purse, locks her house and is taken away in the deputy’s car. They’re speeding toward Chester’s home when Basco says, “So…you were a teacher here?”
“Yes. You’re not a local boy, are you?”
“No, ma’am, and you… They say you’re part Indian?”
“You mean Native American, deputy. The Indians are people from India.”
“Oh, yeah…. What tribe?”
“Potawatomi.
“Uh-huh, never heard of’em. Where they from?”
“From here. Right here. Until they moved us out. Long time ago. Almost two centuries. Do you really need this awful siren?”
When they arrive near Chester’s home, there are four police cars scattered about and four other cars and trucks further back from the house with people outside their vehicles, watching and waiting for something to happen. Mizdawn spots the sheriff, hurrying toward the deputy’s car as she is stepping out. The sheriff’s name is Esther Ramirez and Mizdawn notices that, though she’s a bulky woman, she moves quickly.
“Come this way, Mizdawn,” she says, and leads her toward the side of Chester’s old house, which is badly patched and begging for paint.
“Thanks for coming out here,” the sheriff adds.
Mizdawn says, “I had no choice. I don’t know what the hell I can do for you, Esther, and keep this in mind, my great-granddaughters are coming from Chicago for a visit, and I will meet that four o’clock train.”
And Esther says, “Yes, Mizdawn,” the way she might have said it when she was Mizdawn’s pupil thirty years ago.
Esther is worried. “I’m just hoping I don’t have to call in SWAT and we can get him out…”
And Mizdawn stops and says, “SWAT? For Chester Nash?! Maybe a fly swatter.”
“It’s the gun, Mizdawn. He says he’s got a shotgun in there and nobody can come near the house.”
Mizdawn shakes her head. “You call his son?”
Esther nods, saying “He won’t come here, and it would take him an hour and a half, anyway, and Chester won’t talk to anybody on the phone.”
Mizdawn shakes her head again. “The man steals his lunch, and look at all this hullabaloo – police all over, and those people parking here and hoping to see somebody get shot. Who else is here? Jesus, is that Tattimer from the store? They hate each other, and why am I here? Because I taught him in high school?”
“He still talks about you – to anybody who’ll listen to him anymore. About how you two almost got married.”
Mizdawn looks to the heavens. “Hah! Still that same old tattered fib. Good lord…”
The deputy arrives and hands an electronic megaphone to the sheriff, and she holds it toward Mizdawn. “Just…get him talking. Here, I’ll show you how to use that.”
But Mizdawn just sighs, a long, heavy one, and begins walking toward Chester’s house. “Wait! Hey! Don’t Mizdawn!” the sheriff shouts, but Mizdawn keeps going, making a waving sign for all others to stay back.
She walks straight to the slightly leaning porch, steps up on the old boards, as Chester shouts from inside: “Who the hell’s there?! Goddamnit, I will shoot!”
Mizdawn answers, “Oh, stop yelling, Chester. It’s me. You going to shoot me?”
There is a long pause before Chester answers in a much softer voice, “You can come in.”
But Mizdawn has hold of an old wooden rocking chair and is moving it in twists and turns, stronger than she looks, until the chair is beside the screen door. Then she sits. “This’ll be fine. I can barely see you in there.” The sun is striking the back of the house, while the front is deeply shaded, so that the outline of Chester barely registers in the gloom. “Turn on a light or something, will you?” she asks him.
“No. If they can see me, they can shoot me.”
“Nobody going to shoot you, Chester. Do you really have a gun in there?”
Chester says, “Never mind,” and then, in heartfelt words, “Thanks for comin’ here, Mizdawn.”
“I was brought here--sheriff’s orders.” She looks over the worn-out house, fallow fields. “Why are you still here, Chester? Why not sell it off and get yourself to McHenry and that home there?”
“Where people go to die,” he says.
“Well you wouldn’t die alone.”
He pauses a while. “Used to think…maybe my son would have this place someday. Never gave him much. Did they call him, Mizdawn, about…all this?”
She answers “Yes,” and then, “He’s not coming, Chester.”
The man sighs. “Don’t blame him. I made a sorry father.”
She puts her hands on her knees, leaning toward the screen door. “Listen, now. Why did you steal those groceries? To get your son here?”
“No, Mizdawn, to get a good meal for once, a really good meal. That Tattimer is pricing me right out of his store, and my truck can’t make the highway all the way to Albertsons, so… I got a fine wine in here. I can pass you a glass.”
“Not in the middle of the day, Chester, and not in the middle of a shoot-out. So, now your good meal is over, what’s next?”
“I don’t know that, Mizdawn. I don’t much care. I ain’t goin’ to jail though.”
“So what does that leave, Chester?”
“I don’t know what it leaves, but I’ll shoot my brains out before I get arrested.”
“Shoot your brains out? What if you miss? That’s a pretty small target.” She doesn’t get an answer, and then hears a sound from deep in his chest, a quiet laughter.
“God, I still love you, Mizdawn.”
“Oh, that’s right,” she says, “We were going to get married – so you say. It was one brief kiss, old man, and that’s all.”
He seems not to hear that, going on. “Everybody in the school liked you, almost. We thought it was so excitin’ havin’ a teacher who was an Indian.”
Mizdawn breathes a tired sigh. “You mean Native American, Chester.”
“Aw, I know. It just takes too long to say that.”
“Listen, you’re not all that busy, old man. I think you have the time for three more syllables.” From the darkness inside the house, she hears his quiet laugh again.
“I could never get away with anything with you,” he says. “I could con the other teachers, and in the Army I could even con my sergeant. But not you. So…why didn’t you wait for me? Why’d you go marry that Mr. Netter?”
“Why? Because he was a good man and we made a good long marriage, raised a fine daughter. There was love there.”
“But you knew I loved you, Mizdawn, and I hoped…you’d wait.”
“And your hope was based on what, Chester – all the letters I wrote you?”
He half-shouts. “You never wrote me one!”
“That’s my point. I never led you on. I let you give me one foolish kiss, even then you tried for more: high school senior all hot with the girls – not with your teacher, not with this Native American.”
“So…Mizdawn…why’d you kiss me at all?”
“I didn’t. I let you kiss me.”
“But why?”
“Because you were going away to probably get killed in a war you didn’t even understand, and you started to cry, all choked up.”
“You enjoyed that kiss, too,” he says. “I know you did. I felt it. I…”
“Chester, you had a boy’s crush on your teacher.”
“Hell, Mizdawn, you were only five years older.”
“And you were a child. You’re still part child, aren’t you?”
“So…all you felt was kindness for me.”
“There was caring, too. And sorrow. I saw your parents, your meek mother, your angry father, I saw his marks on your face more than once. Yes, kindness, so that’s why I’m here, Chester, and I’ll go talk to the sheriff and say you’re giving up your gun and…”
“No! I’m givin’ up nothin! Let’em come for me and I’ll take some of’em with me!”
At this, Mizdawn rises, moves quickly to the screen door, pulls it open and steps inside where the sunlight doesn’t reach, and there he is, in a chair he has moved to watch the door. There is no gun in sight. She steps close and slaps his face, hard, his eyes and mouth opening wide as she rails at him, not shouting, but sharp-voiced with a flame in her eyes. “Goddamn you, Chester Nash, how dare you talk about killing people, killing deputies and a sheriff that never harmed you, killing people with wives and husbands and kids? That’s cowardly talk and ugly and stupid, and if that’s what you have in mind, I’ll get your gun and shoot you myself! Where is it? Show me!”
He stares without speaking, tears coming, filling his eyes and moving down his craggy face. He only breathes and swallows, and then, finally, he says a cracked and liquid word. “Sorry.” His chest shakes and he swallows again. “Sorry, Mizdawn.”
She slowly relaxes her body, taking a step back. Her voice is in a normal key when she asks, “Where’s the gun?”
“It’s… on the floor, by my foot. It’s loaded, too.”
She looks at the old shotgun, then studies him a while more. “Stand up, Chester.”
“I ain’t goin’ out there, Mizdawn.”
“Just stand up, old man.”
His standing is not fluid, but a series of stiff moves, and then he is facing her, a head taller, as she faces him, working on something in her mind. “I’ve got an idea,” she says, “how this can go, with nobody hurt and maybe you not in jail. You might lose an acre of land, but you have to do what I say.”
“An acre of land?!”
“Chester, you have to promise.”
“How can I promise if I don’t know what else you’re talkin’ about? I ain’t gonna ‘pologize to that bastard Arnold Tattimer. And I ain’t goin’ to jail.”
“Damn it, Chester, you just have to trust me.”
“Without knowin’ what you’re gonna do?”
“Yes.”
“Well, why should I do that, Mizdawn?”
“Because if you promise to do as I say – I’ll kiss you here and now. I’ll kiss you one more time, Chester Nash.”
He stares a long while, his eyes moist, and says only one word. “Really?” And she nods, and takes his heavy hands in her hands, keeping her stare on him.
“I haven’t always told the truth, Chester. Mostly, but not always. I didn’t admit to wanting you to kiss me that day you came to my house, and I’ve never said that…that it was a great kiss, and that I felt the tenderness of it and the need and the thrill of it, too. I was a lonely young woman and a plain one, and you were this…kind of child-god. You were beautiful and strong, and I was alone. People were kind enough to this Potawatomi girl, but they kept a distance. And there you were, loving me all-out in your young way and wanting me, and I joined you in that kiss. I know you felt that. I didn’t let it go further. I was your teacher, for god’s sake, but for that long minute I was thrilled, Chester. I told you that was the beginning and the end of us. I told you that, but you didn’t want to believe it, wouldn’t believe it, and I went on with my life and Jack Netter came along and broke through, broke through to me, and we fell in love, all the way, and that was that.”
“So…put your arms around me.” He does, gently. “Hold me tight.” He does this, his hands on her back, their faces close now. “Remember,” she says, “Your hands on my butt are not part of this deal. You tried that once.” He nods, smiling through his wonder, his wonder of holding her again after 60 years.
Their faces float toward each other, heads cocking to the side, mouths coming close, and then there it is, the second kiss between Chester Nash and Ella Dawn. He keeps his hands on her back as he was told and she has one hand on his shoulder and one behind his neck, pulling him down deeper into the kiss as he pulls her, until they make one mouth and she feels a fluttering in her chest and he feels a great pull of love and desire and they both close their eyes and swim for a moment in the past, becoming the boy and the young teacher.
It's she who begins a settling, a slight relaxing that signals the man, and so he settles, too, somehow easing himself back from that most splendid minute of fulfilled desire, and then they’re staring at each other, eyes full and minds slowly pulling them back from a summer day in 1950 to today, where the police and the neighbors are waiting and watching, and there is a loaded shotgun on the floor.
“Now Chester, you promised. I’m going out there, and you just have to trust me.” He nods, unwilling to speak, to completely give up the moment still filling him. She steps back and looks around, seeing a table still littered with plates and the leavings of his stolen lunch. She walks to the table. “You didn’t open this box of candy.”
He manages to say, “No,” still in a spell he doesn’t want to break.
“Well, that’s something.” She buries the candy box in her large purse. “Now you trust me and you don’t go near that gun.” He gives her a nod, but she doesn’t accept it. “Say it, Chester.”
“Okay, Mizdawn. I won’t touch the gun.” She nods then and turns, opens the door and moves down the steps. He has moved to the door and calls out to her.
“Mizdawn?” She stops and half-turns, waiting. He says, “About my son?”
“Yes, Chester?”
In a moment he adds, “I wasn’t a good father, but never hit’im. Never.”
She nods a while and says, “Good. That’s good,” and then she walks on.
As she reaches the side of the house, she notices they have all gathered around an old, forgotten picnic table which is a-tilt and covered with decades of bird droppings, and she joins the group there, facing the sheriff, two deputies, Arnold Tattimer, and a man taking photos for the local paper, and even the mayor, Nell Wentworth is among them.
The sheriff is speaking to Mizdawn as she joins them. “Jesus, Mizdawn, you scared the hell out of us. What kind of state is he in?”
And the mayor asks, “Did he harm you?”
“I am unharmed, Nell.”
“Did you see the gun, Mizdawn?” the Sheriff asks, and the young man there takes her picture.
“The gun is on the floor near where he sits. He never touched it, and I think we can resolve this whole mess in a few minutes.”
Arnold Tattimer points his finger at her like a pistol and says, “We can resolve this when Chester Nash is in jail and I’m paid back for every penny.”
“What’s the tab, Arnold?” Mizdawn asks him.
“One hundred thirty-six dollars and twelve cents, and I’m going to sue him for what he put me through.”
“He never even spoke to you and never touched you,” the sheriff puts in.
“Emotional trauma,” Arnold says.
The sheriff says, “Let’s focus on the situation,” and turns to Mizdawn. “What’s gonna get him out of there?”
But Mizdawn has a question of her own. “What’s the charge, Sheriff, and what’s the penalty?”
The sheriff takes a breath. “First time shoplifting, no jail, fine of $150, plus possible penalties and adjustments.”
“And I’m pressing for the full charges and penalties,” Arnold says.
The mayor jumps in. “Stop interrupting, Arnold. Let’s solve this. There’s a TV crew on its way from Waukegan and I don’t want to see our town looking its worst.”
“I agree,” says Mizdawn, rummaging in her purse. They all watch her. She comes up with two twenty-dollar bills. “Let’s pay Arnold what he lost and get him out of here. That’s a start.” She puts her forty bucks on the table and looks around at the others.
“Yes, fine, it’s worth it,” says the mayor, and places a credit card on top of Mizdawn’s bills. “Fifty out of that,” she says, and they all glance at each other.
The sheriff sighs and digs out her wallet. “All right, damn it, thirty more.”
Arnold is staring at the pile as he adds it up. “Still sixteen dollars short,” he says.
Mizdawn stares at him. “Among the wine and steaks, Arnold, wasn’t there a box of candy?”
“Hell yes, twenty dollars and change just by itself.”
Mizdawn digs in her purse again, brings out the unopened candy box and places it on top of the money. “You’re about four dollars ahead, Arnold.”
“Hell, what about what I’ve been through, and…”
The mayor cuts him off with “Damn it, Arnold you take off now! If you don’t, I’ll never shop at your store again and neither will my friends and I have a lot of friends, so goodbye, and I’ll come by for my card later. We have to move this along!”
As Arnold walks to his car, mumbling, the sheriff turns back to Mizdawn. “We still got a fine of $150 – and a hell of a lot of trouble caused and county resources used.”
“I know, Esther,” Mizdawn says, “but Chester is making a peace offering that’ll cover it all and more. He’s selling off an acre of this farm land. The one the high school wanted for an extra practice field, and the town of Perch Lake can now purchase that acre at half the going price. I’m sure that once the sale is made, Chester will pay back your money, and you’ll both get a thank-you from all of us citizens, and from the students at the high school.”
The sheriff stares at Mizdawn with a small smile. “Still looking out for your school, Mizdawn.” Then the sheriff and the mayor look at each other before they both turn and nod to Mizdawn.
Chester is still waiting behind the screen door when Mizdawn comes to the house and climbs up the stairs. He opens the door for her to come in, but she stays put on the porch. “All done, Chester Nash. You’re going to have to put up with the sounds of school children on that far acre that you’re going to sell at half market price, but that won’t be so bad, will it? You’ll make some money, buy a new truck.” He grows a smile, a loving smile, as she says, “Now hand me that gun, and it’s all finished.” He leaves the door and returns with the shotgun, hands it over. “It’s a heavy damn thing,” she says.
“Want me to carry it?”
“Oh no, Chester, we don’t want you carrying a gun to the sheriff. I’ll deliver it, and so long. You going to be all right, old man?” He nods. She turns and begins walking away.
He raises his voice to say, “I love you, Mizdawn. You sure are one fine Native American.” She stops and lets him see her smile, then moves off toward the sheriff and the mayor and the deputies and an arriving television crew that will have nothing at all to do.