Thursday, June 13, 2013

Stultus Valley Days - III: Family Style

Daily life in Stultus Valley was defined primarily by its dense, overlapping web of familial ties.  One of the first questions invariably uttered by the natives when meeting someone new was, “Who are you related to?”

Extended family provided Valley dwellers with the sort of security ordinarily afforded by employers and public agencies in the broader world.  When minor disasters hit, such as summer wildfires and winter blizzards, folks sought the help of relatives rather than that of the county or the Red Cross.  A few extended families ensconced in the rugged draws of the surrounding hillsides were so self-sufficient you rarely saw their ilk in town.  It was probably just as well that the rest of us didn’t venture into those parts very often.  A lot of the people living along the rutted dirt trails supplemented their slender incomes by growing weed or, more ominously, cooking meth.    

Regardless of social circumstances, the Valley exerted a strange, centripetal pull on its natives.  I remember the case of one young lady who was fortunate enough to earn a full-tuition scholarship to a good private liberal arts college.  After graduating, she worked several months in Washington as a White House intern.  Most new college graduates would have parlayed these accomplishments into a solid job or getting into a competitive graduate program.  Instead, she returned to the Valley, unemployed, to live with her mentally ill mother and rehab failure father.  Family is family, after all, even when they poison your life.

It's little surprise, then, that kinship in Stultus Valley frequently took on an ugly cast.  In fact, domestic dysfunction was one of the Valley’s few spectator sports.  The first incident which comes to mind took place on my very own block.  My next door neighbor then was James Hall, the Stultus County sheriff.  James was a tall, burly man whose physical stature belied a teddy-bear personality.  James’ nice-guy demeanor and approachableness resulted in a steady stream of constituents coming to his front door with some grievance or other.

Early one morning, around threeish, I was roused from a sound sleep by a godawful ruckus.  This was unusual; the very best thing about Linden was that it lacked the street sounds you’d have to put up with elsewhere.  Ordinarily the only thing you heard in the dead of night was the occasional hooting of owls. 

A peek out the living room window gave me a front-row view of unfolding events.  The source of the commotion was a diminutive middle-aged woman shouting and pounding on Sheriff Hall’s front door.  Cattycorner across the street was a young man in handcuffs being led by two deputies to a cruiser parked at the curb, lights flashing.

I recognized the guy.  He was the unemployed live-in boyfriend of the checkout clerk at Linden’s hole-in-the-wall grocery, recently discharged from the military after a tour in Iraq.  It appeared that he’d taken exception to something his boo had said, evincing his displeasure by first beating, then choking her.  Fortunately, she managed to get away long enough to dial 911.  Before the cops arrived the boyfriend, this heroic combat veteran, called his mommy for help.

And so there she was, at this ungodly hour, demanding that Sheriff James Hall, clad in but a t-shirt and sweatpants and rubbing the sleep from his eyes, order his deputies to release her only child.  James, often too accommodating for his own good, normally afraid of losing even one vote on Election Day, this time put down his bare foot and said no. 

Mom was apoplectic.  “I’ll have your badge for this!” she screeched, as if she could somehow invalidate the will of the Stultus County electorate with her unbridled wrath. 

Peering through the drapes, taking it all in, I suddenly realized the harridan having an emotional meltdown on James’ front porch looked awfully familiar.  After a moment, I remembered who she was.  She was Belinda Marinero, the new administrator for the county domestic violence prevention program. 

If it hadn’t been for the harrowing ordeal her son’s girlfriend had just suffered at his hands, I would have laughed at the irony.  Not that I was surprised that someone in the Marinero clan had gotten into trouble.  One of the few entertainments in a town like Linden was the county court docket published biweekly in the Valley’s only newspaper, The Stultus Rooster.  The name Marinero appeared often, this one charged with burglary, that one with public drunkenness, another with assault, etc.  Word had it that there was a Marinero relative in state prison for manslaughter.  Still another was in the county lockup, indicted for child molestation and awaiting trial.  I guess you could say that being a Marinero held a sort of rural outlaw cachet, but I wasn’t terribly impressed.

Back to Belinda: I’d met her only once, and that was enough to form a bad impression.  About a week earlier, I’d attended a board meeting for the town community center.  Since it was noontime, a few folks arrived early to have lunch first.  When I got there, Karen, the center’s director, was sitting at the table with a companion who was wolfishly devouring what looked like fettucine alfredo from a takeout container.  The woman was fiftyish, haggard, with badly dyed auburn hair and a heavily lined, vaguely simian face. 

This, I was told, is Belinda.  Belinda ceased her pasta slurping long enough to nod and say, mouth still full,  something along the lines of, “You’ll get to know me soon enough,” whatever the hell that was supposed to mean.

It wasn’t long before I found out.  Belinda’s personality matched her swinish table manners.  I was at the meeting to discuss a recent study commissioned by the state concerning risk factors for child and spousal abuse.  The study found that these risk factors included low levels of educational attainment, economic distress, and substance abuse. 

All of this was pretty boilerplate stuff, conventional wisdom to anyone working in social services.  I was merely the messenger, of course, but Belinda seized upon my report as a personal affront.  She tore into me with an unexpected fury, red faced, voice increasingly strident, telling me with a near-murderous intensity that I didn’t know what the hell I was talking about.  Why, her rat bastard alcoholic ex-husband left her when little Jacob was still crapping his diapers, leaving her to support the family on a cocktail waitress’ salary.  She didn’t need some overeducated smartass telling her she was someone who might abuse her kid.

The room fell silent.  I’m seldom at a loss for words, but Belinda’s unprovoked, hate-laden tirade left me speechless.  Karen, normally quite friendly towards me, fixed me in a hard stare.  These people were exceedingly tribal, and I’d been in town long enough to know I was alone.  As the outsider, I was wrong.  Knowing it would make things worse if I actually tried to reason with Belinda, I simply closed my report and the meeting moved uncomfortably on.

I’d mostly put the incident out of my mind until young Jacob decided to use his girlfriend as a punching bag.  And what happened to the star-crossed couple, you ask?  About what you’d expect, actually.  The district attorney didn’t press the case against Jacob with much zeal.  After all, you don’t want to jail somebody who’s related to half the county and is Linden’s one and only Iraq war vet. 

In the end, Jacob was merely fined and given a year’s unsupervised probation.   Shortly thereafter he moved back in with the girlfriend, who was overjoyed to have him back. 

A true story, sadly.  But that’s what family means in Stultus Valley.     

Next Installment: The Business of Stultus Valley is…?   



© 2013 The Unassuming Scholar
 

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