Sheila
by
Rick Ready
1979
The first time I met Sheila, she kicked me in the balls. I recall her asking me in a rather loud voice what I thought I was doing and telling me she didn’t give me permission to stare at her chest. At least that’s what I thought she said. For several seconds I’d lost the ability to breathe and I stumbled to my knees as a black mist with red and gold flecks danced across my eyes. I sounded like a ship’s fog horn when I finally sucked in enough air to inflate my lungs. As the mist receded, my eyes teared, my nose ran, my skin felt clammy, and goose bumps crawled up my arm. I wanted to puke and I wanted it to get all over her.
I stared into the prettiest green eyes I’d ever seen as I staggered to a standing position, desperately wanting to cover the offended area with shaking hands, deciding not to give her the satisfaction. I stared at her, my eyes narrowing and nostrils flaring, a sign for her to run for her life. She looked at me and laughed.
Sheila was twelve and wearing her first bra. I guess she thought it gave her super powers. I was thirteen and just starting to notice that girls were built differently. The black searing pain receded enough for me to hear all my friends laughing. I felt my embarrassment change to bright red as it raced to my hair. I needed to regain situational control and my dignity. My reputation was at stake.
I decided to assume she knew she’d made a mistake and was waging an internal battle between shame, guilt, and sorrow. Perhaps a fresh start was in order and a gesture of peace needed to allow a graceful exit from her predicament. Good upbringing always shows, and I knew my parents would be proud. I bit my tongue trying to smile. The sharp pain caused my right eye to close. When I extended my hand to introduce myself, she punched me in the nose and yelled I was really going to get hurt if I winked at her again.
I went down and stayed down, one hand covering my face and the other reflexively forming a protective umbrella over the area my mother told me to never touch in public. Tears streamed down my cheeks and a trickle of blood touched my lips. My first coherent thought was I would have to have a closed-casket funeral. My second was that my dad was right—I was a slow learner. I forced one eye open, peeked through my fingers, and saw her circling me like a buzzard around roadkill.
“I know who you are, Raleigh Boone,” she said. “I know all about you.”
I gave her that “you’re nuts!” look. When she stopped circling, I gave her the evil eye.
“What are you talking about?” I asked, my voice sounding a lot like Wayne Newton in his early years as I wiped my upper lip with the back of my hand. “I’ve never even seen you! Who are you?”
“I’m Sheila Keaton.”
My parents raised me to be polite and to never, ever hit a girl, but this one needed to be taught some social skills and I determined I’d be the one to teach her. I struggled to one knee, breathing slowly, waiting for the dizziness to pass, praying I wouldn’t faint when I stood. A deep breath later, I stood, thanking God for not passing out. Sheila stood just out of arm’s reach, feet apart, prepared to defend herself. I couldn’t fight a girl! How embarrassing! I needed to defuse this situation.
“What zoo did you escape from?” I asked.
I think she’d had karate lessons because I never saw the kick coming. As I crumpled to the ground. I remember thinking about my family and wondering if they’d miss me.
Of course I survived—the kicks and the embarrassment. Even worse, I followed her around all that summer and, in retrospect, am not sure who taught whom. I know that it was the fastest summer of my life. Daylight didn’t last long enough. Nights were filled with dreams that sometimes left embarrassing reminders. I rarely joined in the baseball games or built forts in the woods or went swimming in the lake. My friends made fun of me and said I acted like a puppy following its mother around. I didn’t care. All I knew was my heart flipped every time I saw her, especially after she quit kicking me. I couldn’t get that stupid grin off my face. My dad threatened to have a specialist look at me. My sister teased me and I buried her Barbie dolls in the backyard, the little snot. My older brother kept talking about a lot of fish in the sea and told me to leave that trashy girl alone. He’s the one my dad should’ve taken to a specialist. If he hadn’t been older than me and bigger than me and stronger than me I’d’ve whupped his ass. My mother kept glancing at me and smiling. Mothers are strange.
Sheila turned thirteen on August 9th and I kissed her for the first time. It was the best birthday present I’d ever given someone, even though she wiped her mouth with her arm and spit on my Nikes. An hour later she kissed me. When she touched my tongue with hers I felt like someone had stolen my bones. With soft fingers she touched my face and told me I just might do. I took her actions as a sign we were now officially boyfriend and girlfriend.
The next day she went back to Dallas. I wrote her, but she never wrote back. The next summer we moved. I thought about Sheila off and on, wondering where she was, how she was doing, what she looked like. After college, I joined the navy and worked for the Naval Criminal Investigative Service in Pensacola. There I met Cooper Crockett, a Texan with a sense of humor and a knack for solving cases. Eight years later, we left the navy and opened our own private investigation office. Business was steady and our reputations grew. Often, we helped the police on cold cases, and twice we did some leg work for the FBI.
2005
Coop and I were having lunch in the office, shaking our heads at the fact we’d now been doing this for nine years. We talked about taking vacations, recharging our batteries, wondering if we’d ever get married and raise a family. We heard the office door open and Gail, our receptionist ask, “May I help you?”
The female voice said, “I’m here to see Raleigh Boone.”
“May I have your name?”
“After I see Raleigh.”
I looked at Coop, rolled my eyes, and shrugged, another lunch interrupted. Gail stood in the door to my office and said I had a client. I asked Gail to tell her to come in. When the woman entered, I suddenly couldn’t breathe. Twenty-six years had passed when Sheila walked back into my life.
“Hello, Raleigh.”
I stood and stared at her. The years melted away as the memories hit me.
“Hello, Sheila.”
“I’m surprised you remember.”
I smiled. “You shouldn’t be.”
Her smile was genuine. She remembered, too.
“What can I do for you?” I asked. I resisted the urge to rush around the desk, take her in my arms, and kiss her. I wanted to know if the reality matched the memory.
Her smile vanished. “I need your help.”
I gave her a puzzled look. “You need a P.I.?”
She nodded. “Yes, but I also need a friend.”
“Why?”
“I killed my husband.”
She had killed him—three shots to the head. She claimed battered-wife syndrome. Coop and I did the best we could for her but the two extra bullets and the million-dollar insurance policy did her in. When the verdict was read, she laughed. Her lawyer appealed. The judge denied her bail for her appeal and she changed her wardrobe to prison orange. She wrote me from her cell. After all these years, finally, a letter from her. She stayed in my thoughts and I wondered how I could be so wrong about a person. The present and the past melded showing me sweet teenage lips, soft and inviting beneath the hard eyes of an adult woman who’d seen and done unspeakable things.
I sipped my coffee as I perused the monthly statement showing our profit margin. Only three client checks had bounced and those had been turned over to a collection agency. Coop stuck his head, holding the newspaper.
“Have you read today’s paper?” he asked.
“Not yet. Wanted to finish this first. Things are looking good for us.”
Coop walked over and placed the paper in front of me. He’d circled the article.
The headline assaulted me, and for several moments I felt nauseous.
Prison Inmate Killed
I read the article twice. Sheila Keaton Edmondson had been stabbed repeatedly by another inmate, apparently a lover’s quarrel. The prison coroner pronounced her dead at 4:05 p.m.
There was no obituary and no funeral, just a burial in the prison graveyard. Only Coop and I showed up, besides the gravediggers. No words, no prayers, only the sound of dirt covering the casket.
Poets, romantics, and wiser men than me have said you never forget your first love. Now I could visit mine any time I wanted.
