The In Between

The day started with the lonely strains of 5 a.m. FM radio. Static. An aggravated preacher. An auto-tuned remix of a new pop hit. More static. The edges of night, black as Bessie Mae’s own complexion, black as the canteen of coffee in the console beside her, sifted through her truck’s high beams.

She pulled into the closed gas station, accompanied only by the gurgling engine of a cop car at the south end of the lot.  She’d come back in full light to fill up the tank, maybe buy a couple more packs of sugar. But for these few hours, the empty town was hers to wander.

“Excuse me miss,  you know it’s about five in the morning and this station doesn’t open for another couple hours? You should head back home. ” The officer was a small, stringy creature, brimming with disapproval.

“I am full aware of the time, sir. Though I ‘spose it’s ‘bout half past by now.” She didn’t wait for a reply, grabbing the canteen from the console and three extra packs of cane sugar from the glove box. “You should take a look at that engine, too, if you know what’s good for you.”

Maybe it was that four years on Iraqi soil make a soul a little uneasy, a little ill at ease with the security of sleep. Or maybe it was the years spent drowning in slick grease and spark plugs before dawn, working in what seemed to be the only mechanic shop in all of rural Alabama. Maybe it was the splendor of sunrises. Whatever it was, Bessie Mae hadn’t opened her eyes later than 5 a.m. since she could walk. She’d learned that those in between hours, the ones filled with dim light and shifting winds, were the only hours that felt like home.

And that is why she spent those early hours wide-eyed and wandering on the streets of that two-bit town. That morning, while the sunrise hid behind a veil of clouds and a moody layer of mist, Bessie Mae’s simple heart was content by sipping sugar-diluted caffeine and humming  strains of hymns she’d have to teach the little ones next Sunday morning:

I, the Lord of sea and sky, I have heard my people cry.

I, the Lord of wind and flame, I will tend the poor and lame.

It was walking east on Bond, about half past six, where she saw a familiar stringy silhouette bent over the hood of a cop car.

“Miss,  I told you these parts aren’t too great. You must go home.”

She paused a second. Controlled a creeping irritation with the small man. Looked into those beady little eyes. Took a glance into the matted knot of plugs in the hood of his car.

“Officer, the only parts that aren’t too great are the parts under this hood. If I weren’t walking ‘round here near 'bout this time, you wouldn’t ever get this poor engine fixed.”

He remained silent, his pointy features sharpening with an air of insecurity.

“Not like I was calling the shots or anythin’, but didn’t I tell you to check your engine? Now you leave me alone an’ I’ll have that car runnin’ in ten minutes flat. Mark my word.”