Turning Leaves

The Sheridan County Police Department had only one holding cell. This time, Riki got the whole thing to herself, chipping concrete walls, rat droppings, and all. The bare cot underneath her creaked threateningly when she rolled away from the wall. The flickering fluorescent lights buzzed in her ears, making her head pound.

“How many more times am I gonna pick you up before you get yourself on the straight and narrow, Jane?” Sheriff Simmons leaned against the open cell door, crossing his arms. Richard Simmons was a short man with a mustache as large as the comb he tossed to her.

Riki sat up, blinking the spots that swam in her vision away. “How many times am I gonna have to tell you it’s Riki? Rusty.”

He ignored her. “Brush your hair and splash some water on your face. I’m not booking you.” He said it like he was doing her some big favor. As if letting her off easy wasn’t a regular thing. If no one was around to see the mess she made or ask questions, he would pick her up and make her sleep it off in the cell.

He left her to it, leaving the cell door wide open behind him. Riki lazily picked at the mat of long brown hair and washed the nasty taste out of her mouth under the weak spray of the sink. When she was done, she wandered out of the cell, silently bypassed the desks, and into the front lobby. Carefully checking over her shoulder for the sheriff, she passed the receptionist, who didn’t bother looking up. Her luck ran out in the parking lot.

The sheriff leaned against his police-issued pickup truck, tapping his foot and giving her a knowing look. He gestured with his head for her to get in the passenger’s seat. She considered running, but she was too tired to argue and got in without complaint. She slammed the door in an attempt to get a rise out of him, but he didn’t comment, getting them on the road.

The small town went by outside her window: run-down gas stations, tall green forests, single-family homes, and empty parking lots. “I won’t go back there,” she told him when the truck pulled onto the main road through town.

Rusty sighed, shooting her a disappointed look. “I’ll pretend, for a second, you didn’t plan this stunt to get out of there,” he prefaced sarcastically. “You may be suprised to hear this, but Mr and Mrs Forester would rather never see your sorry ass on their doorstep again. That was a family heirloom you broke.” He referred to the fancy wooden liquor cabinet she had broken the glass panel out of.

“That was an accident,” she grumbled. There was no point in arguing with the rest.

He shook his head, “I’m sure it was. Just like I’m sure that the missing bottle of whiskey just grew legs and walked away.” He laughed despite himself, “Did you know that was a one-hundred-dollar bottle?”

In truth, she hadn’t known it was that expensive. She hadn’t even known it was whiskey. She’d grabbed the first bottle and didn’t take the time to read the label. She didn’t drink it, though she’d badly wanted to. Riki had smashed the bottle against the trunk of an oak tree instead of throwing it in the river like she’d planned. She hadn’t been convinced she wouldn’t jump in after it. She didn’t tell him any of that, though. Instead, she said, “If I admit to that, wouldn’t you have no choice but to charge me?”

He hummed noncommittally. “You’re lucky the Foresters didn’t press charges. You don’t have to explain this to me, but Winny and Maggie will want answers. I hope you spent the night planning your story.”

She sank into her seat; she didn’t want to think of facing them yet. “They can’t press charges,” she huffed. “Their liquor cabinet wasn’t up to standards.”

“It was locked up,” he said pointedly.

“No, it wasn’t. Hypothetically, I wouldn’t have realized that until after I smashed the glass.”

Rusty shook his head and heaved a heavy sigh. “Look, kid, I don’t want to see you in my police station anymore. Stay out of trouble. Every Judge in this town has it out for you; one more arrest and they’ll lock you up. You’re getting older, and soon I won’t be able to cover for you anymore.” He gave her a pointed look as he pulled into a long driveway. “They’ll send you to big girl jail next time. That means no getting off easy and no slaps on the wrist.”

Riki opened the door of the truck before he rolled to a stop and hopped out. “Thanks for the lecture, I’ll consider it.” She slammed the door shut before he could respond. She’d only wanted out of that house; she didn’t like how the dad had looked at her. She hadn’t intended for the foster placement to end like this, again.

It had only been two nights, but she could finally breathe being back at HOSA. The group home was a large brick house with dark green shutters and a garden filled with sun-bleached toys that the younger kids left behind over the years. The name of the house was technically The Home for Abandoned Children with a History of Substance Abuse, but they had been calling it HOSA for as long as she could remember. Short for T.H.F.A.C.W.A.H.O.S.A., Riki had been going in and out of the home since she was six years old; nowadays, she was spending longer and longer stretches in the home because she was seen as a high-risk foster child.

The relief quickly vanished when the large green door burst open. The first person out the door was Winny, who barreled down the steps out onto the yard.

“Winard Prewett-Love! You slow down right now, where are you going?” Maggie’s firm voice followed him out the door. She was on his tail, in the doorway just a second later, but stopped in surprise when she saw Riki on the lawn. Her eyes flicked towards the sheriff’s truck and then back at Riki with a sad look.

“Riki! I called you so many times last night!” Winny stumbled over his own feet but kept running towards her. When they’d first met he was a short little chunky kid, with blond hair, and the thickest bumpkin accent since Huckleberry Hound. Now he was the biggest person she had ever met, with mousy brown hair and a sweet disposition.

He enveloped Riki in a hug that swept her feet off the ground and then quickly righted her back on the rocky driveway. “What happened?”

“I just wanted out of there,” she told him, already feeling guilty. Winny looked so worried, and she’d let her phone die the night before.

“She broke into the liquor cabinet and stole a hundred-dollar bottle of whiskey,” The sheriff told Maggie, from behind her. “We picked her up by the river.”

Riki felt Winny’s response, but she couldn’t look at him. She knew how betrayed he would look, and the thought made her sick. Maggie sent him inside, saving Riki from his disappointment, but she swiftly replaced it with her own. After a hushed conversation with Rusty by his truck and exasperated hand gestures, Maggie sent him off down the long driveway, his truck kicking up gravel and dust.

Maggie was tall, dark, and slim, with greying thick curls, and was always wearing soft cardigans and worn jeans. Riki had always thought she looked just like a real mother might when she was younger. Now, the look in her eye was not motherly. Riki focused her eyes on her slippers and let her berate her.

The words washed over Riki, not quite reaching her ears until she finished with, “Do you think I want another Tristifer on my hands?”

“I am not Tristifer,” Riki’s response was automatic.

“I’m starting to have a hard time remembering that,” Maggie started towards the door. “If you so much as have another sip of alcohol after today, you won’t be coming back. This is a home for children who suffered from substance abuse at the hands of their parents, not a factory for substance abusers.”

The door shut softly. The youngest kids would still be in bed. Riki sat back on the grass. “I didn’t drink it,” she said to no one. She didn’t want to go inside, not after being compared to Tristifer, so she lay back on the dewy grass. She hadn’t realized she was falling asleep, but the next time she opened her eyes, she had to shield them from the bright sun overhead.

Winny was sitting on one of the children's sun-bleached plastic chairs. He looked ridiculous as big as he was sitting in a child’s chair, but she knew better than to comment. His head was in his hands, and he didn’t look up when she sat forward.

“I don’t understand,” he sighed, tired, rubbing at his face with his hands. The image provoked a memory of him in the same chair, much younger, his hands shaking. He’d been taken from his father and brothers for the first time. She’d let him cry to her, and she did every time his father got custody of him and inevitably lost it, getting Winny’s hopes up every couple of months or years. Now, it was she who put that disappointed look on his face.

Riki could have told him she had been trying, that she hadn’t drunk in over a week. She could have given him every reason for drinking, from the first time she’d picked up a bottle to the last. But now, he sat in a child’s chair, and memories flooded her head: Winny welcomed her into HOSA the day she arrived, and each day she came back, rain or shine, he did the same.

Suddenly, she couldn’t understand either. She had been drinking for years, but looking at him in that minuscule old chair, she could not imagine choosing the bottle over him ever again. Every pain she tried to drink away and every reason she had given herself seemed dull.

Riki did not tell him any of that. Any of her words would have been empty. Instead, she laced her fingers with his and leaned her head against his thigh. She vowed to herself that she would turn a new leaf, if not for herself, then for her brother. Their last fall as adolescents was coming in, and as the dogwood leaves turned, so would she.