Mountain Grace

Yeah, they call me “Mud Flap” – behind my back, mostly, although I’ve hauled in more than one drunk driver who’s called me that to my face.

Being a cop has its ups and downs in a mountain community.  When I’m on patrol, I’m pretty much on my own, no supervisor watching my every move and yammering about “civil rights” and all that drivel.  THAT’S the UP side, in case you’re wondering.

The DOWN side is that these mountain people don’t have the proper respect for law and order.  When you stop them for a traffic violation no one says “yes, sir” or “no, sir”.  The men just snap their red logger suspenders and adjust their baseball caps.  The women won’t flirt to try and get out of a ticket.  They just look at you in disgust; all narrow-eyed and tightlipped like you had something gross in your hair.

I got my nickname because I stop people who don’t have the proper equipment on their vehicles.  They just look at you in disbelief when you tell them you stopped them because they are missing a mud flap.  Shoot, half the time these hillbillies don’t even have a driver’s license or a current registration! . . .

People around here work in the timber industry, for the most part, although there’s a fairly busy tourist season during the summer.  Even some of the women work in the woods.  I like those rough girls, even asked a couple of them out a few times.  You’d think they’d be grateful to go out with a professional man after all those uncouth loggers, but  nooo!  One witch even spit on my shoes instead of just saying “No, thank you, officer.”

And they’re all related, too.  St. Regis has maybe ten main family groups.  Bunch of inbred hooligans, you’d think they’d be deformed and retarded, but a surprising number of them are pretty intelligent as well as good-looking.  The only ones around who are really trashy or lazy or stupid are “migrators” and “outlanders”.  The terms are not used as racial slurs; they are applied to anyone from “somewheres else”.  They tolerate outsiders with suspicion and it takes a long while to become a real local.  There’s maybe 2,000 people in St. Regis and the surrounding area.  It’s difficult to get an accurate count because they don’t like census-takers either. . . .

Probably the most interesting family in the county is the Guilson family.  Big, dark husky bunch who always seem to marry small, blond women.  Jules Guilson is no exception; he is married to Mae Mikins who is a tiny, mean, mean woman.  Her family is also one of the old-time St. Regis families.  Both groups have been here since about the time that priest, St. Regis DeBorgia, said his first prayer here.

The Mikins are mostly blondes, all rough, hard-working people who could outdo Paul Bunyan.  Like I said, Mae is mean.  I got a call from a woman who got off the bus and went home with Mae’s son, Eugene.  The woman said Mae threatened her with a chunk of firewood.

I believed her, of course, but I wasn’t about to go up against Mae Guilson over a tramp from the Greyhound!  I told her to get her trashy self back on the bus and get the heck out of town.

There was one time, though, that I had not choice but to go to their place.  Some yahoo named Manuel Evans disappeared without picking up his last paycheck.  He’d been going out with Esther, the oldest of the three Guilson daughters.  I’d heard (not from locals, of course – from a migrator) that Evans treated her kind of rough sometimes. 

The only plus about going to that house would be the chance that I’d see one, two or maybe even all three of those gorgeous girls.  Esther has curly, black hair like her father’s family even though she doesn’t look anything like them.  She’s tall and thin and a real lady.  Ruby, the next one, is shorter and better built and has this wavy auburn hair.  She’s the juicy one!  The youngest, Gemma, is a fox, a blond like her mother and just as mean as her mother, too.  None of the girls really look alike at first glance, all different hair and eyes and shapes, but somehow they seem completely the same.  It’s kinda creepy.

Anyway, I went up to the house and Jules answered the door.  Before I could set up the scene with a proper greeting, he was asking me what I wanted.

“Just a few questions for Esther, Mr. Guilson,” I told him, trying to look around him to see if I could catch a glimpse of one of the girls.  I’d noticed that all their beat-up cars were in the driveway, but I saw no sign of the actual girls themselves.  I didn’t hear anything except the country music on the radio.

Guilson didn’t invite me in, just stood there with his thumbs hooked in his suspenders, looking menacing.  “Go ahead and ask me your questions.  Esther isn’t here right now.”  He turned his head as his wife came to stand beside him.  He put his arm around her and she leaned into him, looking all pinched-faced and cranky.

“Do you know a man named Manuel Evans?”

“Yes.”

“He seems to have disappeared.  Didn’t pick up his last paycheck.”