If You Can’t Quit Cryin’, You Can’t Come Here No More: A Family’s Legacy of Poverty, Crime and Mental Illness in Rural America by Betty Frizzell

Author:Betty Frizzell
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Feral House
Published: 2021-12-15T00:00:00+00:00

It became obvious that Kenny’s mental illness, regardless of whether he believed the doctors or not, was something I had to deal with. Kenny was approved for Social Security in the fall of 2013 and began receiving a monthly check and Medicaid. Now that he had a steady source of money his calls became infrequent and his behavior changed. The first week of January 2014, he called me at midnight, screaming that someone was trying to kill him. I called the Poplar Bluff Police, who found him intoxicated at his apartment but otherwise unharmed. Then on January 11th Kenny entered a convenience store on the east side of Poplar Bluff, across from Mom’s old house. He took a beer out of the cooler, began drinking it, and then walked out without paying for it. The clerk chased and confronted him, knocking the beer out of his hand. Kenny ran toward Mom’s old house where the police picked him up. The clerk described him as disoriented and clumsy. The Poplar Bluff officers showed Kenny the compassion that well-trained officers pride themselves on; instead of arresting him, they took Kenny to the local hospital where he was admitted to the psychiatric ward for evaluation. They issued him a summons to appear in court at a later date to deal with the actual incident.

Kenny called us from the psychiatric ward and claimed his tea was spiked with something. I called the police and spoke with the Lieutenant who took Kenny to the hospital. He said that Kenny was talking incoherently when they picked him up and was talking about aliens coming after him. The Lieutenant feared for Kenny’s safety. The Lieutenant also informed me that Kenny had called them a month earlier to report $635 missing from his wallet. Kenny claimed that he had accidentally dropped his wallet at the grocery store and that two men picked it up and took the money out of it, then threw the wallet back down. It sounded like an impossible story that something like that would happen in a crowded grocery store. I was furious and worried all at the same time. I talked to Jimmy about the arrest.

“How many lies can he get caught in?” asked Jimmy.

“It isn’t all his fault. He is probably off his medicine,” I replied.

“I wish Vicky and him would just tell the truth. Vicky would be home, and Kenny would be in a mental institution where he can get some help,” Jimmy said.

But Kenny’s legal troubles had just begun. The probate courts were still in the process of allocating Chris and Vicky’s shared property. The trailer, with the mortgage paid by the bank’s insurance, could be sold. Even in jail, Vicky retained ownership of her Park Avenue and the two trucks with the outstanding loans. We got the Park Avenue and one truck back from the Isaacs, but the other, older green truck was never located. Kenny claimed he didn’t know where it was, but the Isaacs wanted it.

While we were trying to get Kenny back on his medicine and in therapy, Cletus located the missing truck.

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