Page 17 of They Call Her Dirty Sally

“I don’t know, but I think so. At least, that’s how I remember my dad describing it years ago. ‘Back breaking and sweaty,’ he said. Don’t take my word for it, though. You should ask around. If you can find anyone to talk about it.”

“I’d probably have better luck digging around here, and don’t worry. I promise not to quote you as a source.”

At that, she sighs in very clear relief. “I hate that I have to care, but my dad would have a fit if I were publicly critical of anything in this town.”

“Because your dad’s…the mayor? Just taking a stab at it since Mr. Bailey mentioned he was an elected official.”

“Yep, he’s been the mayor of this town nearly my whole life. Once you get elected in Silver Bell, you tend to stay that way until you either retire or…I guess I shouldn’t utter that last part,” she mutters. “But just ask the school board. We have the same superintendent today that we had in the fifties. Talk about someone who would know the kids of Silver Bell High School more than just about anyone. You should book a meeting with that guy. See if he’ll talk to you.”

“You got his number?” I ask, pulling the cap off a ballpoint pen and positioning it over my notepad.

“No, but it’s in the yellow pages. If you can’t find it there, you can always ask the operator to connect you to his phone.”

In Houston, operators are going by the wayside in favor of the do-it-yourself wave. They even expect an electronic yellow pages app to crop up soon that will eliminate the need for people completely. I would ask what this world is coming to, but I’d sound like my grandfather, and I’m not ready to throw in the towel on my youth just yet. I scratch out a note to get in touch with the school superintendent and set my pen down.

“Here’s something,” Billi says.

I look up to see her concentrating on the screen. “What is it?”

“An article from 1968, where someone accuses the hospital of falsifying birth records. They debunked it pretty thoroughly, but I’ve never heard of it before. Seems weird that it’s never come up in conversation.”

“Does it say who does the accusing?” 1968. Only a coincidence it’s the same year I was born but tell that to my thudding heart.Considering they left town the very next week… Mr. Bailey’s offhand remark about my parents rushes back at me, but I quickly dismiss it. Not so easily dismissed? That odd birth certificate I found at the bottom of my mother’s memory box.

“A man I’ve never heard of, but Dirty Sally’s name is mentioned in the article.”

Now I’m frowning, both at the cruel nickname and at the fact that for all the collective dislike this town has for her—she sure comes up a lot.

“Mentioned how?”

“She was caught ranting about the ‘incompetent hospital staff ruining her life’ or some other nonsense. According to the article, people laughed. Considering the source, I guess I’m not surprised.”

“The source?”

Billi shrugs like it should be obvious. “Everyone knows she’s crazy. Besides, from what I hear, her life was ruined long before 1968.”

“Ruined how?”

This stumps Billi for a moment, her eyebrows pushing together in thought. “Her father was an alcoholic, that much I remember. But…I don’t really know much else. Just that she’s…crazy.”

“So, you’ve said,” I say, noting the sudden uncertainty in her tone, like maybe she’s on the cusp of realizing something she’s heard her whole life might not have a solid foundation. As a reporter, I’ve seen it before, mostly from the small-town folk.“Why do the Hatfields hate the McCoys? I don’t know, son. Because they always have, so stop asking questions.”

As an outsider looking in, it’s clear that Dirty Sally’s nickname and fate are nothing more than common knowledge. An accepted truth. A legendary fact. The way it’s always been.

Stop trying to rock the boat.

Once when I was a kid, an uncle made the comment that homeless people wouldn’t be homeless if they showed some self-respect and got a job. I took it as gospel, as one does when an all-knowing adult says something that sounds mildly authoritative. When you’ve been fed a skewed version of the truth your whole life, it’s hard to see through the cracks to find the lie. Dirty Sally is dirty because everyone says so. She’s crazy because everyone says so. It’s been that way forever, and it’s still that way now. So why would Billi feel differently? Still, the sentiment doesn’t sit right with me.

“So, is she crazy or dirty?” I ask.

She blinks. “What?”

“You’ve called her crazy and dirty in the past minute. Crazy implies mental, and dirty means she needs a bath. Which one is she?”

“Um…both?” I wait for her to hear herself.

“That your opinion or someone else’s?”

She looks at me wide-eyed as though another option never occurred to her. Don’t touch the unpopular kid on the playground, or you might get cooties. Don’t cross the boogeyman’s lawn, or you might get kidnapped. Haven’t we all been told those things at some point?

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