Trust was invaluable.  My profession mandated I earn the trust of strangers, prime them to open their darkest closets and reveal the kinds of secrets reserved for true friends.  The reward for baring their hearts?  The revelation that I was a fraud.  An actor, playing the part of confidant.  What was it George Burns said?  “The secret of acting is sincerity. If you can fake that, you've got it made.”  I deserved multiple Oscars, if only these were movie characters I played.  But they weren’t.  The good friends I made didn’t ride off into the sunset; no, they were locked in jail cells and forever branded as sex offenders and child abusers. 

Had an ex-convict served his sentence and tracked me down?  Impossible!  The Feds had safeguards to prevent such a scenario.  If someone found me here, it would have to be dumb luck.  Incredibly dumb, monumentally bad luck.

I crossed Felton’s farm with the ignorant confidence afforded government employees.  He whistled a catcall from his window, then invited me for iced tea.  It didn’t matter what the thermometer read; to that fat old man, it was always summer.  A white pom-pom dominated his face and chest; if not for sleeves, I could’ve thought he was shirtless under his overalls.  Felton hugged me and poured from a pitcher.  He considered me a friend, and I returned the sentiment.

“How’s my favorite redneck?” I asked, taking the glass.

“Beautiful woman.  Beautiful day.  Life’s bee-yoo-tiful!” 

Domestic intoxication was not a crime, even this early in the day, and moonshine wasn’t bust-worthy.  I hoped he had a second bathtub for personal use while his main one brewed hooch.  He buried his hand into his hair cloud and scratched.  “Goin’ to the tracks?”

“There’s something serene about trains.  You want to come with?”

“I’d go anywhere for you,” he professed.  I joined him for the remainder of his sentence, “But for my arthritis and my sweet Earlene.”

She’d passed away last April, claimed by cancer.  Maybe that was the kindred bond we shared.  So long as he didn’t overdo the fire water and chase skirts at Lower Lee, I had no reason to worry.  I took another sip of weak Nestea, kissed his cheek fur, and waved farewell.

_____________________________________

“I don’t like her.”

Jessie dismissed his longtime friend.  “You don’t like nobody, Oz.”

Shelby Osgood sucked his toothpick.  “I found her purse.”

“You broke into her house?”

“Ain’t a damned thing broken ‘bout it.  I never touched a hair on that woman’s head.  Which I can’t say ‘bout how she’s been working with my boy.  You see this?”

Oz indicated a pink line along the side of his neck to Jessie and the Rathberger twins.  Jessie snorted, “She gave you a hickie?” and prompted a chuckle from the siblings.

Oz rubbed the mark, spat out his toothpick.  “Jake done tagged me with a switch!”

As the television commercial ended, Kevin and Keith reverted their attention to the Gamecocks.  If Carolina upset LSU, they were bowl eligible.  Keith willed Spurrier to call a run on first down.  Kevin compromised on Oz’s order to “Turn that off!” and muted the sound.  “Y’all want your kids learnin’ to sass?”

Jessie shook his head.  “But that still ain’t no reason to go breakin’ and enterin’.”

Jake’s father produced a credit card from his pocket.  “Uh-huh.  One more thing.  How do you spell Karen Barksdale?”

He flipped the card on the table.  A picture of Mrs. B’s face filled the top right corner, but the name across the bottom read Anita Denton. 

_____________________________________

Hobo life was merely another challenge, I presumed.  Having already been a nurse, a cafeteria cook, a telemarketer, and a schoolteacher (several times), how hard would it be to pack my belongings in a lone suitcase and let railways dictate my destiny?  Maybe, I decided, when this assignment ends, I’ll travel Europe.  Learn French.  They have lots of tiny villages too, with infinitely more culture than Mayesville, South Carolina could ever offer. 

When this assignment ends, I thought again.  According to Jake, the termination date was earlier than I expected. 

I watched freight cars roll by, covered in graffiti – the mobile gallery displayed street artists’ skills up and down the east coast.  The staccato clickety-clack resounded off the depot across the street, slowing gradually to a stop.  I shaded my eyes from the afternoon sun and made my way alongside the tracks until I located a spray paint signature: REDTOO.  I surveyed the perimeter and confirmed my solitary status.  What else should I have expected from the kind of town that didn’t show up on maps? 

The giant metal door opened smoothly, its sliders recently greased.  I climbed in and found the workstation that arrived on schedule, every Saturday at 1:35.  Powering the laptop, I perused clipped articles with highlighted information on Munchausen’s syndrome by proxy.  Janet Hill, Amy’s mother, didn’t show the signs of an abuser, but MSbP was on the table. 

I checked my email, journaled brief notes on three primary families, and paused when I opened the Osgood file.  I knew protocol dictated that I request backup.  Instead, I wondered if the setting influenced me – hobos are self-sufficient, I’d been working solo for fourteen years, and the cases that required reinforcement always ended in reassignments to desk jobs.  The agency hired me because I could handle anything. 

I updated the data on Shelby and Jake, replaying last night’s conversation over cocoa in my mind.  With thirty-four and a half hours left in the weekend, I worried if trusting myself was a bad idea.

Five minutes later, I powered down and stuffed the articles into my pockets.  They’d help start tonight’s fire in my stove.  Hopefully, that would be the only fire I’d have to contend with tonight.

As I walked back toward Felton’s farm, the train wheels subsided, replaced by the howl of an ambulance for the first time since Earlene died.