The Jacket

...my first dive into short fiction.

Aug 11, 2024

“There is no political solution
To our troubled evolution
Have no faith in constitution
There is no bloody revolution

We are spirits in the material world” - The Police

Susana Clemente was a tiny thing. Born January 1st, 1959, on a citrus farm in Mérida, Mexico. All 4’11” of her would blow away on a semi windy day if it weren’t for her heavy black Timberlands. She wore them in every season.

The Central Valley provided very little nurturing to her stature with it’s 110 temps in full sun, 95 in the shade. The tiny trailer’s air conditioner put out more water from condensation than she often had to give the discarded and abused animals she rescued.

At present there were seven cats, mostly mothers, a few babies. Somehow she managed to convince the vet, an hour and a half away, to drive out and spay them. Most lived inside the 20 feet, and a few braved the elements, cause you can’t keep some cats from chasing mice, which was good in a way she thought. When the howls of dusk came, she called the mice-chasers in.

Then there were the dogs.

Susana Clemente, 64, had years on the dogs.

She was dumped too.

Susana’s father, Francisco Clemente, was only 18 years old, in the spring of 1959, when he brought his young bride and baby Susana to the “Heartbeat of Agriculture” in McFarland, California. Working on his father’s citrus farm back in Mérida, Francisco dreamed of a brand new beginning in America.

The family would add two sons and find success growing oranges on a small ten acre parcel Francisco purchased with the money he saved. The land came with an old farmhouse that Isabel Clemente proudly fixed up. Outdoor clothes lines blew with the smell of fresh laundry day in and day out, and family dinner on the patio, under several strands of old Italian lightbulbs, were tradition at the end of each working day, which was 24/7. The farm was full of beloved rescue animals, some working, most lazy, and all loved.

After Isabel passed away in her mid sixties, Francisco grew tired in his grief and was more and more forgetful. He sold the farm, asked Susana to take his beloved senior dog Milo, and moved to Clovis near her brothers. He would eventually need every penny for memory care.

Getting by working at the local auto shop didn’t afford much extra for the animals, so Susana finally began to sell various treasures she had locked away in a small shed. Ceramic pots, turquoise jewelry, an Acapulco chair her ex made for her, kitchen items, unnecessary dresses and high heels he bought her, where was she to go she thought, in those? and some jackets. Who needs six heavy jackets in the desert?

Except one, she thought.

The summer days began like all other days in Susana’s little town 40 miles south of McFarland. Cool mornings, stifling air by nine, dust kicking up small tumbleweeds across the highway, Susana’s thoughts on how many wayward pets she had saved over the years.

For now, she had Snow Cone, who was found half dead with a tuft of white hair left on his head. Turned out he was a six month old Great Pyrenees mix, probably a mistake, like she was to her ex, he said. Farmers pay a lot for them and fetch a lot for them. When they’re of no work or monetary value. Gone. And Dolly, who Susana saw thrown from a car at one of her various stakeouts. A tiny thing, she held a special place in Susana’s heart and fit perfectly into a basket, when she wasn’t on her lap. Chihuahuas, a dime a dozen at the local shelter, are put out of their misery daily. Or thrown out in the desert like rats, along with cats, bunnies, you name it.

Chuck, a Shepherd-Husky mix, arrived with his partner, Beauty, a White Shepherd mix, with six children. The nice SUV pulled up at the North stakeout. From below the back door, a pair of new Converse dangled as one at a time they were thrown behind the liquor store. After dragging mom and dad out, the car casually drove away.

Then there was Scruffy, Mighty and Sweet One. Susana watched from the self appointed South stakeout, through binoculars, a young rancher pull-up in an expensive new truck, step out, look around, tip his cowboy hat low, and one by one toss them out the back of his bed and then sped away. After the dust fell, Susana drove as close as she could without scaring them further into the abyss. It was an unusual 115 that day and she couldn’t believe her sore eyes. Three little babies whose eyes were barely open. They looked like they might be some kind of Terrier-Poodle mix. Probably rejects.

Lotta backyard breeding going on out in these places where the hiding is easy and money good. Designer dogs, like Labradoodles, White Golden Retrievers and Frenchies turn a decent profit. But when they aren’t perfect, or something goes wrong, they get a tail-wagging ride to Susana’s neck of the valley. She’ll never forget finding two Labradoodles with broken back legs hobbling down her unpaved road. Seemed it was a case of plain sinister abuse and dump. A passerby. Thankfully the same city vet agreed to fix them and they were adopted immediately by someone in the clinic.

Rescue is a 24/7 commitment. Susana rarely slept between working, feeding, caring, staking out and making phone calls.

On her way to work, one spring morning, she saw a few, what looked like Belgian Malinois puppies hanging out in the back of the auto shop. Police dogs? what on earth, she thought. Her boss knew nothing and looked away.

Somehow, Susana managed to get the thirsty and hungry puppies back to her tiny home and make some phone calls until she found a specific breed rescue to take them. They were willing to come to her and for that she was thankful. Where would she put three growing shepherds? A few days wouldn’t hurt. There were times where a rescue didn’t show up, so that also kept her awake at night, let alone the cute snores and never ending potty breaks in the desert night sky.

Recently she had to cough-up some money for cages to keep outside in the cooler evening temps to house some larger rescues. It wasn’t ideal, but they slept safe in them despite the coyotes. During the day, she took some to work and prayed the rickety air conditioner wouldn’t die along with her rescues at home.

The beauty in the story of the Malinois’ were all three found loving homes and to this day Susana stays in touch with the owners.

There are so many stories, but probably the one that really gorged her heart, tore into her faith, shattered her last name, meaning “gentle,” broke all she valued about life, was a stakeout one random Sunday morning on the hillside.

Years ago, a local fruit stand seller described a woman in her 30’s who seemed out of place for a town with one swinging stoplight. Unlike the casual tees, dirty jeans and boots that most women wear around these places, the woman casually wondered out loud, how long would it take to die in a place like this if you’re stranded? To which Donna, a nice, overly-rounded single lady, who sold mostly citrus and nuts, responded, “I reckon three to four days max,” pointing to the hills. “Why? ya thinkin bout standing outside in them rolling hills with them fancy shoes on?” as she let out a smokey belly laugh.

The woman huffed, took two plums without paying, and hustled away like a street walker approaching her highest payer. Speeding out in what looked like a newer Land Rover, Donna could barely speak through her laughter.

For Susana, the whole thing was odd and she sensed something as only those who know what it’s like to be dumped can. You see, her husband drove her to this town, from her family home and left her there.

They met in 1979 when he came to her family’s farm looking for work. They fell in love and six months later mom and dad threw a sweet ranch-style wedding, attended by about 20 family members, some who drove all the way from Mexico. It was truly Susana’s most favorite day ever.

One day, about a year later, he asked her to go with him for a ride, packing a tasty lunch of her favorite foods and a vintage bottle of wine. It was winter in the valley and he gave her a thick fur coat to wear. The one she kept. Although too big, it was nice and warm as they sat, legs dangling, in the back of his truck-bed dreaming of their future, staring out at the quiet golden landscape.

Heading home, Tony said he needed a repair part at the small auto shop, told Susana to wait at the counter for it, then went outside to use the toilet. Suddenly, out of the corner of her eye, she saw Tony backing their truck out with a glint of a smile. He never returned to the family farm.

It was at that point she decided it was time to move out of her family home. Two years later she bought an old trailer in that same town. Dad gave her a good farm truck and she got a job at the auto shop. What drew her back were the dogs. She noticed there were more dogs than people roaming the streets. She knew she belonged there.

Over the years, Susana had accumulated a diary of license plates, yet she knew no one cared. The police out there consisted of one 72-year old self-appointed retired security guard, Sam, who ate one too many jelly rolls, could barely keep his pants up, donned a Vietnam service hat, an old long sleeve button down, wore a hearing aid that passed his deafness onto anyone trying to communicate with him and even made a dog cower to the smell coming from the pools under his pits.

Reporting all the ~~plates~~ animal abusers to the big city sherif, that oversaw her area, pop. 4012, one hour away, was like filling out an application for a used car, cleaning out the one vending machine with every last quarter you owned, bunking down for the night in the dingy car lot, only to awake the next day with Sherif Harold looking over the glaring light hitting your side mirror, slowly shaking his head no. With no funds, Harold was relegated to desk duty where he could nurse a bad knee. Luke, the younger than Harold officer, snarky wannabe James Bond had no idea what he was doing.

Driving the highway, Susana thought back to her days on the farm with her dad and younger brothers shooting targets. That Glock 17 in Luke’s holster shone like the cans she took out with her dad’s prized Barrett M82. When dad put real life bullseye targets up, Susana nailed the center every single time, forcing her little brothers envy onto a soccer field where they excelled much better. Little did her dad know, as his memory began to slip, she kept it just in case. A lady needs a little protection in this valley and that particular gun poked business out the door of her abode.

It had been 30 years since Donna spoke with the nicely clad woman in the “fancy” high heels. Donna had long passed. Staring through her binoculars Susana watched an old Mercedes driving up the unpaved road at the end of her town. You know the kind you wonder how they keep working? Local kids would tear the area up with motorcycles using the self-appointed dumping ground for jumping over old car tires. Seemed early morning weekends, sitting in her truck overlooking the area, was the best time to ~~catch another low life~~ save another animal.

Susana had become increasingly overwhelmed and scared to live out there on her own, so she usually carried the Barrett for safety.

On this day something snapped.

Just as the car door opened, a pair of fancy heels stepped out. Susana Clemente fired up her engine and tore down the hill. Skidding to a stop in a cloud of smoke, she filled the tall lanky woman’s space with stunned amazement. Holding a filthy matted old dog by it’s upper legs, a female with mammaries hanging longer than her size, the overly botoxed face of the woman cringed in the hot sun ready to deposit her trash.

With nowhere for the woman to go, Susana got out of the cab, grabbed the Barrett, asked Jesus to forgive her, and with the slow approach of a mother lion said, “give. me. the. dog.”

The caught yet smug woman, a little older than Susana, handed over the small dog. As Susana laid it, barely breathing, on the dirt, she looked up, pointing the gun to the now frightened woman, and said, “take off your shoes. I’m not gonna hurt you.” The woman, hands in the air, nervously reached down and slipped them off. “Throw them to me.” While still pointing the gun in the direction of the woman, Susana grabbed a large heavy fur jacket out of the cab. That sucker never did fit her. She found out it was a reject gift her ex had given the woman she was now staring at. Tossing it, Susana said, “put this on. I’m not gonna hurt you.” Shaking, the woman put the jacket on as Susana said, “Zip it up.”

“I lost my business,” said the woman. “oh yeah,” asked Susana squinting. “I bred these things for years and got tired of it. Everyone wants fancy now. They don’t perform like I need ‘em to,” the woman said almost indignantly while grimacing.

With the look of fire, Susana said, “I’m sick and tired of mopping up after you people. Maybe you’ll think twice before you ever abuse an animal again to profit yourself. You disgust me.

Looking down the barrel of the gun Susana whispered under her breath “there but for the grace of God go I.”

“One more thing. Hand over your phone. And don’t mess me. I know how to use this.” As the phone flew threw the air, Susana blew it to pieces. She then proceeded to shoot the tires out of the woman’s old Mercedes.

Slowly walking to her truck, partners in rescue, Snow Cone, Chuck and Beauty looking on, she collected the used up and battered old dog in her arms.

Looking back, one last time, Susana said “I reckon it takes three to four days to die out here. But you already knew that… didn't you?”

THE FAMILY WE KEEP

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