What I Remember Most (2 page)

Lincoln County Police

Incident Report

Case No. 82-9782

Reported Date/Time: June 10, 1982 12:30 a.m.

Location of Occurrence: Hwy 43, mile marker 15

Reporting Officer: Sgt. Joey Terrerae

Incident: Found Girl

On Friday night, trucker Alan Denalis saw a girl running along Highway 43 about midnight. He stopped the truck, then ran after the girl. She screamed and kept running, like she was afraid of him, so he kept a distance until she became too tired to run. He estimates that they ran close to a half mile.

When he caught up with her she was hysterical and crying. Her head was bleeding profusely. Mr. Denalis has children and said it was as if she was caught up in a night terror and didn’t know where she was.

He tried to calm her down, then carried her back to his truck. She kept pointing at the forest, but he did not know what she wanted him to do. She was too upset to speak. Twice she tried to get out of the truck when he was driving.

He brought her to Helena’s Café on Highway 99 where he met police. The waitress, Darlene Dilson, brought the girl a hamburger and shake, but she began screaming again. The waitress said it was like she wasn’t inside herself, like she wasn’t there. She kept trying to run out the door.

We worked with county and state police, as we thought that maybe she’d been in a car accident and had managed to escape. We also thought that perhaps she’d been running from an abusive home or situation, perhaps she’d run from a car, but there are no homes where she was found and we found no one who was looking for a lost girl. We didn’t know whether she spoke English.

She was brought to St. Clare’s Hospital, where she was examined. She has a concussion and a deep cut near her hairline that will probably scar. The doctor put in fourteen stitches. She continued to scream on and off and was not able to talk for a long time. She has green eyes, and they were blank, like she was staring off into the distance.

We will be working with local media to see if we can figure out who she is and who her parents are and what happened. We’ll be sending her photo to the FBI to see if she is a kidnap victim or missing child . . .

Lincoln County Police

Chief Liovanni,

I know you wanted me to keep you up-to-date about the girl who was found on Highway 43. She says her name is Grenadine Scotch Wild and she is six years old. When I talked to her after a couple of days in the hospital, she was still almost hysterical and begging me to find her parents. I told her we would.

We have not been able to locate the parents, despite help from city, county, and state police and the FBI. (For once I didn’t get any back talk from Jerry.) Grenadine doesn’t remember what happened. She said she remembers they were at a festival, she and her parents; they were going to fly her red kite, there was another man, and that’s it. Zip. Nothing else. She described her parents but could not describe the man except to say that he had curly brown hair and a big forehead.

As you know, her picture has been on local and statewide TV, but no one seems to know who she is. We are unable to locate any relatives. We asked her if she had grandparents, and she said no. A huge part of this problem is that she says her parents’ names are Freedom and Bear Wild. There is no record of anyone named Freedom Wild or Bear Wild.

The parents most likely made the names up. Plus, they named their kid Grenadine Scotch Wild? Who does that?

There is no record of Grenadine’s birth anywhere in America or Canada. It’s like she appeared out of the fog that night.

Grenadine is in a foster home and under the care of the Children’s Services Division. We will continue our search and work with CSD.

She seems like a good kid. It’s a terrible situation.

Sgt. Joey Terrerae

I stopped in a town named Pineridge next.

Pineridge is surrounded by mountains. Brothers, three mountains in a row, tower in the distance, lined up like mountain soldiers. Ragged Top, with a jagged peak, and Mt. Laurel round out the incredible view. The view would not buy me a job, but it’s always better to be broke in a beautiful place than an ugly place.

Pineridge was designed to resemble the Wild, Wild West. It had 4,500 people. It was a small town, but not too small. I could be there and not be noticed much. It was also almost four hours from my home and no one knew me, which is exactly what I need.

The 1850s buildings lining Main Street were somewhat fakey, with their cowboy and Indian days façades, but still appealing. There were balconies and boardwalks, brightly painted store fronts, old-fashioned lampposts and hanging flowerpots. A steel statue of a cowboy on a bucking horse divided the main street. You could almost see the horses, carriages, women with bonnets and bustles, and gunfights in the middle of the street, if you had an imaginative imagination.

Pineridge was charming, but within the charm I needed to find a job. I brushed my hair and pulled it back into a braid. I changed my shirt, as the other one had chili on it. I changed my jeans, as I’d worn them for two days. I pulled on my cowboy boots. I put on mascara, liner, blush, and lipstick to hide the gluelike color of my skin. I applied foundation to the purple and blue bruises.

I started at the grocery store. The manager said they weren’t hiring now, but she had a lot of employees, some of them teenagers, and said, “You never know when they’re not going to show up in favor of a kegger.”

I went to a quilting and crocheting shop. In the back corner they had shawls. I saw a red, crocheted shawl. I ran my fingers down it, and my eyes burned. I scooted out of that shop before I became too emotional about the red shawl. I could not work in a shop with a red, crocheted shawl, anyhow. Heck, no.

I turned the corner and sat down in a park on a bench in front of a fountain. The fountain’s base was a wagon wheel. I picked up the newspaper beside me for distraction. It told the usual—wars that shouldn’t be fought, budget issues, and another serial killer guy on death row appealing his sentence. The thought of the serial killer made me nervous.

I stood back up. Restaurant. Café. Hardware store. Another restaurant. A bookstore. Pawn shop. Antique shop. A sign shop and a copying place. An optician’s, a dentist’s, a doctor’s office, pharmacy, art galleries. All said no, in a friendly way. Hours later, I trudged back to my car, tired and discouraged. Rejection made me feel stupid, a familiar feeling.

“Lose the whine, Grenady.” I drove out into the country as the sun went down over Ragged Top, parked my car off a deserted street, and ate a can of pineapple and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I peed out the side, brushed my teeth with bottled water, then climbed into my sweats and sleeping bag in the back.

I hoped an ax murderer wouldn’t come along when I was sleeping. Couldn’t have been more than two hours later and I was woken up by cars flying by, engines roaring, music blasting.

Apparently I’d parked on a strip where kids from town like to drag race. They flew past, whooping and hollering. I moved my car. The next place was quieter. So quiet it was creepy and scary. I tried not to remember what happened that other time, years ago, under a bridge. I felt sorry for him.

The next morning—a whopping four hours of sleep under my belt—I went to McDonald’s and used their toilet, then quickly pulled my washcloth out of its baggie, rinsed it, added some hand soap, and cleaned up my face, my neck, my pits, and my chest. I wanted to strip, straddle the sink, and clean up my Big V, but that would have gotten me arrested if anyone came in.

With my luck, someone would have snapped a photo and my straddling butt and I would have ended up on YouTube.

I dried off with my handy-dandy hand towel and pulled my hair out of its sloppy ponytail. It looked simultaneously greasy and as if I’d been electrocuted. I brushed it out and braided it.

My eyes appeared almost drugged, I was so wiped out. “Well, now, shoot,” I said out loud. I was pale. Sickly. Cement and hay mixed together—that was the color of my complexion. “My, aren’t you gorgeous.”

I shut the door of a stall and changed out of my sweats and into a red cable knit sweater, jeans, clean underwear, a white-lace bra, and knee-high boots. My figure, as he said, “Curves. You’re not fat, Dina, but you have enough to put in a man’s hands. Put yourself in my hands.”

I stamped down a well of sweeping hatred that bubbled up like a volcano. I would spit volcano fire, lava, and smoke at that man’s ferret face if I could. I would kill him and hide his piggy body if I could.

I bought a large coffee and settled into a stall. I put in six creams. I wished they had liquid whipping cream—that’s what I like in my coffee. There is a lot I will give up when I am broke, but I will spend my second-to-last dollar on coffee. I will spend my last dollar on paint. Call me crazy and reckless, but I’ll do it.

I would try the other half of the street today for jobs, and if that didn’t work, I’d move on.

My cell phone and e-mail were burning up with their messages. Crying. Swearing. Yelling. Cancellations for my paintings and collages, deafening outrage.

I didn’t blame them at all.

“Hello. Can I talk to the manager?”

“I’m the manager. And the owner. Can I help you?”

“I’m Grenady Wild, and I’m looking for a job.” I shook her hand. It felt so odd to use the name Grenady, but right, too.

“Tildy Green. What kind of job?”

The woman staring back at me looked like she could wrestle a bull to the ground and win. She had thick, straight gray hair and a white streak arching from a widow’s peak in the middle of her forehead. She had strong features and broad shoulders, and was cleaning a hunting rifle behind the bar.

I didn’t know you could clean guns in a bar/restaurant, but there were only about ten other people in there at the time and none seemed to be bothered by it. I sure wasn’t. “Anything you have.”

“I don’t have anything. You’re new in town.”

It was a statement, not a question. She could meet someone and know she was new? I thought this town was bigger than that. “Yes. I am.”

“You came to town without having a job.” She peered down the barrel of the gun, searching for any problems, then waved me to a barstool so we could talk.

“Yes, I did.” I sat down. I could hardly stand anymore. I had been up and down the entire street asking for jobs. There were none. Or no one wanted to hire me. That was a distinct possibility.

“You missed the quilt show.”

“The quilt show?”

“Yes. Quilts all over the place. I love quilts.”

It was almost funny that a woman cleaning a gun with such care loved quilts.

This restaurant/bar was called The Spirited Owl. It had a lodgelike atmosphere with both log and brick walls.

It was a two-story building with a faux balcony on the second floor. There was a covered boardwalk out front with several Adirondack chairs on it. The original wood floors had been scuffed by thousands of cowboy boots; white tablecloths covered circular tables, each with a small bouquet; leather booths lined the walls; and a huge rock fireplace with a hearth warmed up the place.

It had the longest bar I’d ever seen—an exquisite, shiny piece of wood, built to seem old, with curves and scrolling and a gold foot rail. Behind the bar, a huge mirror reflected the expected, vast array of bottles of liquor. Above the mirror was a row of stuffed owls. The owls wore aviator sunglasses. It was a quirky touch.

There were fishing poles and black-and-white photos of the Wild West on the walls, and two canoes hanging from the ceiling, amidst several fishing nets. Comfortable, classy, not cheap.

I read part of the menu posted outside before coming in, so I knew a little about the cuisine: Tildy’s Wild Steak, Hail to the Hamburgers, Lusty’s Lasagna (I wondered who Lusty was), Cowgirl Calzone, Shooting Straight’s Chef Salad, Home on the Range Soup and Salad, I Won’t Club You Club Sandwich, Kickin’ Chicken, and Buckin’ Bronco Salmon. It also had an extensive alcohol offering, and the desserts, especially the pies, made me hungry thinking about them.

It was the gun-slinging west meets “I want my steak medium rare and I’ll have the house red wine with that.”

“If you don’t have a job, I’ll take a beer,” I told her. “Please.”

“What kind of beer?”

“What do you recommend?” She told me what they had, at length, with questions about my tastes and preferences. So complicated. But this is Oregon. We’re particular about our beers. “I’ll have a Sisters Pale Ale.”

“Coming up.”

I put my head in my hands for no more than five seconds. My spinning and fuzzied-up brain needed a rest. Good golly God, my face was horrendous.

“Here ya go.”

“Thank you.” I sucked some of that beer down and enjoyed the hell out of it. I did a Personal Financial Calculation. I was under $450 now because of gas costs and my coffees. I could not afford a hotel. If I was hired, I would probably not be paid for at least two weeks unless I had a job where I received tips. Like this one.

“Where ya from?”

“I’m from . . .” I’m from I Don’t Want To Tell You. “Portland.”

I could feel her sizing me up. “Born in Portland?”

I didn’t know where I was born. No clue. Two people knew, and they were long gone. “Near there.”

“Why you here?”

“I like central Oregon.”

“Why?”

She was trying to figure me out. I got it. “This is a nice . . .” What was it? “This is a nice town. I like the mountains. I like the space. I like the open air and the views.”

Her expression said, “Yeah, right.”

“You’re cagey, aren’t you?” She went back to cleaning her gun again. “Really, why are you here?”

“You don’t quit, do you?”

“Why would I? It’s my bar.”

“And it’s my beer, and if I wanted to answer twenty questions I’d put myself on a game show.”

“I haven’t asked you twenty questions yet, now, have I? I’m on number seven. Besides, you asked me for a job, so I can ask you some questions.”

“You said you didn’t have a job.”

“Maybe I will soon. So quit dodging around and tell me about yourself.”

Tip money would be helpful. If I ran out of money, I’d be out of coffee and cream. That would be bad.

“I need a job. I was a waitress for eleven years and tended bar for four of those. I can handle multiple orders at one time and multiple assholes. I make an excellent martini. I prefer to shake them, but I’ll stir it if it must be done. My specialties are mint juleps, cosmopolitans, Singapore slings, blood and sands, and black bombers. My Bloody Marys are outstanding, and I make a pretty tasty Ginger Rogers, Galapagos, and Sex on the Beach, which is the most asinine name for a drink on the planet. People order it so they sound cool, and I think they’re idiots. Not a bad drink, though.

“The bars I’ve worked in had rednecks and convicts, millionaires and college professors. I can handle anyone who comes in here, sit them down, shut them up, and get them their order on time. Sometimes I even smile. I don’t take any crap from anyone, even the customers, so if you want some sweet little thing in here who will smile even when some slovenly, sweaty-palmed creep is trying to grab her ass, you don’t want to hire me. Someone pulls that on me, I will punch first and ask questions later.”

I saw a slight smile. “Sugar, I don’t expect any of my employees to take any crap. None. You could swing if you want, and I’ll back you up with the baseball bat behind the bar.”

I wondered why she didn’t say she would use the gun instead of the bat, but I didn’t ask. “I work hard and I’m on time. I’m efficient. I know how to listen to people who want to bend the ear of the bartender back one hundred and eighty degrees. I’d like the job.” And I needed the money. I didn’t want to resort to Dumpster diving again. I will if I have to, I’m not above it, but I’d rather not.

“I might hire you, but I don’t need anyone right now.” She smiled. It softened her face.

“If you do need someone, will you call me?” I scribbled my number and e-mail on a napkin. “My bartending and food handlers licenses are up-to-date.”

“Any drug problems I should know about?”

“No. None. I don’t do drugs.”

“You have a criminal record?”

“No.” Not quite officially. Not
convicted
. Only arrested. Done only a small amount of time. Innocent until proven guilty, and all that is American and red, white, and blue. I went back to my Sisters beer and studied the suds. She heard the pause, I know she did.

“What happened to your face?”

“A woman decided she didn’t like me.”

“Stole her husband?”

“If you knew me, you would know I’d sooner swing a rattler than take someone’s husband.”

“I don’t mow other women’s grass, either. Why’d she hit you?”

“Because I hit first.”

Tildy raised her eyebrows.

“She called me Barbie Princess.”

Tildy made a hissing sound. “That would tick me off, too. How insulting.”