tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-69723482563777091332024-03-19T04:42:57.322-07:00Mind At PlayClyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05188990736695972537noreply@blogger.comBlogger28125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6972348256377709133.post-602673069228289352018-12-17T10:13:00.000-08:002018-12-17T10:13:21.339-08:00Klatch & Buzz 12-17-18<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
I’m sending some comments a fellow
theater goer sent me after reading my review of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Piano Teacher</i> production at KTC in early November. They are
spot-on and address some of my views poignantly and insightfully. I have the
written text of the play (actor’s edition) and there is no direct mention of
WWII and the Holocaust in it, which does make the play’s theme of war’s effect
and influence on us, especially children, broader and more encompassing. I
think I saw the period reference because of the woman’s age who was telling the
story and the age of her husband when this happened to him, but, of course, it
could have been any number of conflicts in the world at that time or any other.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I agree that Mrs. K knew about her
husband’s past. She alludes to this as she talks to us, but the degree to which
she allows understanding to truly permeate her life is unclear. A thought comes
to mind now that perhaps she senses that if she allows full recognition of this
in her life, she will not be able to withstand the dark hold it could have on
her as it has had on her husband.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
The comments about my review and
beyond:</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
…. about <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Piano Teacher</i>. I was wondering if the actual text of it, which
I think you said you'd read, explicitly says that the husband's experiences
were during WWII and the Holocaust. I can't recall when we were watching it
whether that was said explicitly. It seemed like it was vaguer, which of course
makes it even more relevant, as it could be referring to many places where
oppression and torture, etc. go on. <br />
<br />
Just before you sent me the draft [of my review] I had started reading a little
book called <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">For Want of a Fir Tree</i>,
about the Ukraine and how relatively simple political protest escalated into
war. It's written as if it's an explanatory letter or piece to a young child
caught in the crossfire and killed, while he was sitting in his house.
Very intense book which I didn't have time to finish, but will take out
of the library again when I'm back home.<br />
<br />
Anyway, it just reinforced the theme in the play about how young people can and
are being affected by turmoil and war, and that it is often happening before
they are the age to comprehend the political conflict underlying the action.
And in those cases, does the lure of the violence, the dark side have a
stronger power? Or, as this teen character in the play [Michael] seemed to say,
he was drawn into it, and slowly realized it's attraction. It did make me
wonder about young people in war zones, where all humanity seems to be under
fire, and sometimes totally absent. How do they survive? I guess it's like the
camps, and Victor Frankel's theories.<br />
<br />
As to whether the wife "knew" what the husband was doing, I would
have to say she knew about his past, and perhaps even knew he was still
obsessed with it. I think that is why she was so intent on saying he was only
reading the paper and doing crossword puzzles. She knew on some level that
perhaps that wasn't all that was going on between him and her students. I'm not
sure she could allow herself to see that he was sharing those stories with her
students. And if he never shared them with her, she may not have imagined him
doing it with others. But I'm going to say she saw things he drew-because
didn't the teen make some mention of drawings? [He did and most
emphatically.]<br />
<br />
And how could she allow that knowledge into her life, especially once her
husband was dead? It's that problem of evil people (abusers, psychopaths)
sometimes seeming quite ordinary and nice. She knew him as her husband, and she
seemed to be portrayed as the kind of woman who wanted a proper life, with a
good, caring husband and so on.<br />
<br />
But what do ordinary people do with this kind of knowledge of the dark side?
Well, I guess we know, given recent political events. Some revel in it.
And sometimes it just gets ignored. Or shoved under the carpet. But of
course it doesn't go away. It's always there eating away at all that is
positive, caring, loving.<br />
<br />
I think of all the vets who are now struggling to live their lives after
returning from war. We have created a huge population of people who have had to
give part of themselves to the dark side as soldiers. And this is going on all
over the world. Is it worse than it was in other centuries? I realize that
cruelty and torture have always been a part of history and warfare. </div>
Clyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05188990736695972537noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6972348256377709133.post-45778503580271426482018-12-06T08:32:00.000-08:002020-03-13T10:26:16.315-07:00Bookshelf #2<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">The
Piano Teacher</b> by Julia Cho</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0in;">
Production,
11-5-18, 4 pm, <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">The Kitchen Theater</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0in;">
Directed by Diego
Arciniegas</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://www.amazon.com/Piano-Teacher-Acting-Theater-Productions/dp/082222285X/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1544572520&sr=1-1&keywords=the+piano+teacher+julia+cho"><img alt="https://www.amazon.com/Piano-Teacher-Acting-Theater-Productions/dp/082222285X/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1544572520&sr=1-1&keywords=the+piano+teacher+julia+cho" border="0" data-original-height="834" data-original-width="626" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF_G-Es0zsmhcwwlNjVyrCHlfChPXA0RUnbz3neHWkJ9nruAjY5n-svCefW7xQf6QKHLHg8m2Q4PkIyVX19oT0Rfw8VEIArVBAX1nPKKRxHVqFE-v-IfvkgTELAo1ObbZwLdo6r1ffw8A/s320/The+Piano+Teacher.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0in;">
<br /></div>
This play hit me so squarely in the
solar plexis I was floored, no, I was flattened! From the moment Beth Dixon, as
Mrs. K, walked on stage, I was utterly entranced, mainly because my defenses
were down—the writing and acting were so convincingly natural. This talking
woman was very ordinary, so like me. And she didn’t hesitate telling me this and
I believed her. I sat and listened—though I was too high up in the seats to
take a cookie from the plate she offered the audience—cookies we believe she
baked herself, though we find out later at least some of her sugar treats come
from a box. It didn’t take long, though, before I felt something, if not amiss,
was surely adrift. Was she on the edge of dementia or simply an old woman
overwhelmed by loneliness, a loneliness emanating primarily from the loss of
her husband? This wasn’t unusual, was it? Women of her generation define
themselves by their relationship to their husbands. But whether dementia or
loneliness or both, I began to sense she was inching toward something about to
happen I wasn’t prepared for.
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
And it came through two of her
students. The first was a young woman, Mary Fields, played by Amelia Windom, who
let her former teacher know something was truly not right in Mrs. K’s house.
The piano lessons weren’t the only lessons being learned and what was taken in
was more than the students and the teacher were there for. It was going on with
Mr. K as they waited for their piano lessons. But Mary Fields let Mrs. K know
this within acceptable perimeters of social efficacy—compassion for an lonely,
old woman. It also prepares us (or sets us up) for what follows. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
The second student was one with
great musical potential, Michael, played by Matthew J. Harris, but who hadn’t
reached the fulfillment of that promise. He seems to appear out of nowhere,
like a sudden threatening storm, who reveals that what he had hoped for when he
was young had been turned on end by circumstances beyond his control,
influences which had warped his chances of becoming who he could have been. Or
had he been inherently attracted to that which stole his youth, hope and
promise? Is he an expression of a highly disturbed old man, Mr. K’s psyche
after what actually happened to him during the war or is Michael a repository
of atrocious stories to which he’s been attracted, even a potential sociopathic
killer now on the brink of a spree. Whether any or all of these, he definitely has
come to believe that he’s that which corrupted and defiled him in Mr. and Mrs.
K’s house from the stories Mr. K tells him about his destroyed youth, the only
survivor of a town of innocents slaughtered by the Nazis and Mrs. K’s supposed
innocence to what is happening in her kitchen. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
The genius of the play is how
seamlessly I was catapulted from a living room conversation into a submersion
of an unblinkingly brutal experience with evil. It was like having a coffee
klatch with Ted Bundy’s wife who claimed her husband wasn’t really slaughtering
the innocent because of the derangement done to him. How much did she know and
hide? How much did she not care to know, ever know, about her husband’s made-up
stories that symbolized the real murders?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
The play is a tumble of layer upon
layer of guilt repression, hidden secrets and terrible memories which fills us
who watch (much like Mrs. K and her TV watching), with fascination at what the
world gives us to see and hear but in which we find ourselves helplessly stuck
as to what to do with what we’ve learned. I walked out of the theater with
questions that followed me into my living room later, when I reached for the television
clicker that turned on the nightly news—which could have just as easily been my
computer and any number of news venues at my fingertips. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
What happens when we do not face the
monsters we have created in both our interior and exterior worlds? What do we
think we are doing when we make these territorial wars that place us in the
middle of atrocities that we are not equipped to handle, let alone endure, but
we take on in order to survive? And then what do we do when we have no models
or guides for life after the survival? What do we do when we are silent
witnesses to our created monsters that live on within and without? What do we
do with the dragon that fuels our imaginations and creative art? Do we fight
the demons? Sit with them? Keep them from overtaking us through make-believe?
Fairy tales? Television shows? Movies and the stories we tell each other over
daily coffees? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
These questions sound like the ones
a screenwriter might ask while creating a script for a Gonzilla or Jurassic
Park movie. But <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Piano Teacher</i>
shows us clearly that ordinary life is filled with just such monstrosities that
do breed demons within. It is a story of every man and woman who lives today,
who sit and watch the news on television and don’t know, perhaps don’t care to
know what to do with the information of eighteen thousand murders that occur
each year in our society as both entertainment and reality.* What do we do with
the knowledge of all the atrocities everywhere? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
The America we live in is no haven
from atrocities elsewhere. Atrocity dwells in any place we live without
awareness and truth and the will to act against it. And herein lies the
dilemma. To work to eradicate it means a never ending battle that takes us from
our ordinary lives, our personal desires and goals, our comfort zone, but
without balance our resistance can eat us alive. It’s why, in the end, when
Mrs. K. faces us with her resolve, we can’t with self-justified correctness
tell ourselves we fight the good fight and aren’t anything like her. We are
like her, but not only her. In this play we come to know that we are convincingly,
horrifyingly like them all—each and every one.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
*17,250 murders in the U.S. in 2016;
around 11,750 violent acts witnessed on television each year by age 17. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
Clyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05188990736695972537noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6972348256377709133.post-15410214891900322462018-12-02T10:37:00.000-08:002018-12-02T10:37:16.051-08:00Radio Play #3<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div align="center" class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center;">
<b>The
Unfinished Fence</b></div>
<div align="center" class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center;">
1.</div>
<div class="Body">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;"> [overvoice]</span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
The call comes in at
10:58 in the morning, when I’m just turning to the sports</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
section of <i>The Beacon</i><span lang="IT" style="mso-ansi-language: IT;">, Tutterton</span>’s only newspaper worth
reading. The others are free, but that’s because they’re camouflaged fliers for
local merchandise hiding behind eye-catching headlines—in other words, they’re
banners of twisted murder and mayhem swallowed up by bargain pages for groceries,
clothing and lawn & garden maintenance. I don’t recognize Mrs. Vlamos’s
voice right away as I’d questioned her two years ago in regards to her
husband’s involvement in a stolen automobile parts operation that’d spread
across New York, New Jersey, Delaware and the eastern border of Pennsylvania.
She’d been exonerated, but I’d heard through the grapevine she was having
financial difficulties since her husband’s incarceration and the confiscation
of his business assets. </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
But no memory of any of
this is actually necessary, because Vlamos identifies herself<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>straight away, which includes a fully-charged
description of her husband’s crime and a request to speak with me “<span lang="IT" style="mso-ansi-language: IT;">in private.</span>” Before I have a chance
to ask her what she has in mind, she tells me, whisper-soft as a disguised
kidnapper on the other end of the line, to meet her at Twenty-fourth and
Liberty within the hour or her life will be snuffed out like a candle in a wind
tunnel. Mrs. Vlamos, I do remember, had a funny way of putting things, but I know
without doubt, at this moment, she isn’t joking. So I toss the paper, jump into
car number 3 and floor the accelerator without the sirens but with lights
flashing. As I round the corner onto Twenty-Fourth, I search for her from afar,
dousing the lights and slowing down to fifteen miles per hour.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
She’s standing at the
bus stop, perhaps for cover? But there’s no cover close by to hide her bulk
unless she decides to inhabit the office building behind her. To say Mrs.
Vlamos has girth and heft of a freight train would be no figure of speech.
Leonard Vlamos wasn’t diminutive by any stretch of mind, but in a wrestling
match, it strikes me that all his wife needed do was slap him once and sit down
on him for complete compliance. But she wasn’t this rotund two years ago. She
wasn’t diminutive any more than her husband, but back then she couldn’t’ve been
mistaken for a brick chicken house.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
She gets in the squad
car immediately, takes the last drag on her cigarette, rolls down the window,
tosses the butt onto the street, rolls the window back up and through a smoky
mouth and eyes, nods her thanks or acceptance of who I am, maybe both.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“<span lang="PT" style="mso-ansi-language: PT;">Mrs. Vlamos.</span>”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“<span lang="PT" style="mso-ansi-language: PT;">Detective Weir.</span>” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>[overvoice]</span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Slowly
my title has been changing around town, since the papers made a splash about Leonard’s
arrest and the big take-down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His role
in the chop shop operation brought big headlines: Local Bike Shop Owner Nabbed
in Auto Thief Ring. Mrs. Vlamos, of course, remembers me from the questioning,
which was the first time I’d seen her, and not since, so I was never Officer
Weir to her. </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
I don’t move back into
traffic, just sit next to her waiting. She fills the silence<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>with,</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“<span lang="IT" style="mso-ansi-language: IT;">Drive.</span>”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“First,
tell me what this is about.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“<span lang="IT" style="mso-ansi-language: IT;">Drive.</span>”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>[car
engine moving into light traffic]</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Okay,
now what’s this about?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>[silence]</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“<span lang="DE" style="mso-ansi-language: DE;">Don</span>’t confuse necessity with
courtesy, Mrs. Vlamos. I’ve taken the outside lane on purpose. The next turnoff
leads back to the station.” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No
station. Keep driving.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>[overvoice]</span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
do as she requests, but not saying anything, letting the silence do its job.
Most women don’t like silence. They usually fill it with something, even if
it’s an accusation of the silence. But Mrs. Vlamos strikes me as a different
sort, so I decide to give her a little nudge.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
almost didn’t recognize you, you know. If you’d worn a hat instead of a
kerchief, I’d have thought you’d given up the idea of meeting me altogether.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“The
weight’s intentional. Everything about me is intentional. You need to know that
up front. [pause] You look the same.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Thanks.
Well, I guess.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Can
I smoke?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“If
you crack the window.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>[sound
of window rolled down, blowing smoke]</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>[overvoice]</span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And
with this, she begins to talk, well, and to smoke. The tale she tells me is one
for the thriller or espionage novels. Within the year of Leonard Vlamos’ prison
sentence, she wrote Leonard that she was not going to remain married to him any
longer—her exact words. Of course, divorce was out of the question. She had no
grounds for it—she hadn’t been beaten and Leonard hadn’t commit adultery-- and
when she sought advice from her priest about leaving her criminal-husband, she
was told it was her fault her man got himself in trouble in the first place. If
she’d been providing him with a proper home environment, he would never have
sought to better himself financially, at least not to the degree he did. Did
she provoke her husband by demanding nicer things—clothing, a new car, a better
house? Did she show him enough respect for being a simple bicycle sales and
repairman? The best hope Father Demitri Elias could give was for her to remain
married while separated and that only temporarily. Needless to say, she never
went back to church. She hasn’t left ‘for good,’ she tells me, only not going
until either a new priest comes to town or she finds another place of worship.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
She doesn’t make clear
to me exactly what steps she’s taken to “no longer be married to her husband,”
but she’s started making plans, she says, plans which have taken a surge
forward when she started receiving threatening messages, sometimes by mail—in letters
torn out and pasted from magazines—and sometimes by phone—in menacing tones by
different-sounding, always disguised voices. </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
At first these demands
were for “all of Leonard’s things or else.” She had no idea<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>what that even meant, and the caller gave her
no help. “Get his possessions ready. You’ll get a message telling you what to
do with them.” She had no desire to keep anything having to do with her
husband, but she couldn’t imagine how she could possibly pass everything of
Leonard’s to a contact, especially not knowing what items would even be
appropriate for the exchange. Most of what they owned was in his name, and they
had been married for over three decades. Leonard’s “things” could be anything
and everything from the dining room table to the clothes in their closet. <br />
Then she says,</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“The
messages stopped after about three months of my letter, so I figured it was
Leonard, either disguising his own voice or having inmate-chums call for him to
aggravate me and keep me in my place. As for the mail, he probably tore out
printed letters for messages from the magazines they give them to read there.
He undoubtedly was furious over my letter…”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Excuse
me, Mrs. Vlamos, but didn’t you visit your husband?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Never.
I was done with him. I told him that in the letter.” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
[pause]</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Go
on.” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well,
like I say, I thought it was Leonard just annoying me, trying to get even.
There was never a name or place for a contact in these threats, but then in the
last letter, there was a note with demands that everything belonging to Leonard
Vlamos be taken to…”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>[overvoice]</span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
hesitates here, falls silent, glancing out the window to the moving traffic
around us.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“To
whom, Mrs. Vlamos.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Let’s
get rid of the <span lang="PT" style="mso-ansi-language: PT;">Mrs.</span> business.
I’m Leda. Please call me that.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Okay,
Leda, but to whom did the caller want you to pass Leonard’s things, whatever
those might’ve been? Did you ever get a message telling you specifically what
to do?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Be
patient with me, Detective Weir. I haven’t told this story to anyone, and I’m
trying to get it right, tell it in the order it happened. It’s been over a year
since it started. I’m trying to remember best as I can.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Of
course, Mrs…Leda. Take your time.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>[overvoice]</span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Well,
I don’t have all the time in the world for her story, but I see right away she isn’t
to be rushed. So I pull into a parking space at Spector Park, behind a grove of
trees, so we can’t be viewed from the highway and main road leading to the
park. She seems to find this acceptable. I turn off the engine, and with some
encouragement, she continues her story.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“He
wanted me to give it to <i>nobody</i>, if you can believe that. Or maybe I
should say to somebody who was a nobody.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“C’mon,
Leda. What was the message?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m
telling you. A note came in the mail with cut-out and pasted letters telling me
to leave all of Leonard’s things in a barn north of town—that’s what it said. I
have the note right here.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>[opening
of note]</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>[overvoice]</span></div>
<div class="Body" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In letters pasted in that ransom
note style, the message read: </div>
<div class="Body" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0in;">
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "游ゴシック体 ボールド" , "serif"; font-size: small;">Take
all of Leonard’s stuff to</span><span style="font-family: "游ゴシック体 ボールド" , "serif"; font-size: small;">
County Road #10,1 mi from Tutterton city limits sign north of town. County
Road #10, yellow farmhouse ¼ mile. Open barn door. Leave inside. Everything in
sealed boxes. Not there by Tuesday May 12 at 2pm, your apartment sacked, you
dead.</span></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "游ゴシック体 ボールド" , "serif";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><b><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></b><span style="font-family: "游ゴシック体 ボールド" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "游ゴシック体 ボールド"; mso-fareast-font-family: "游ゴシック体 ボールド";"></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Was
there a follow-up call?” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Nothing.
Of course, I didn’t do it. It could’ve been an ambush for all I knew, and I
didn’t have any idea exactly what to put in the boxes. Anyway, I’d taken
everything of his out of the house, to the dump or wherever. I gave his clothes
to the annual church sale. He’d been gone over a year, Detective. I didn’t want
to be living around his things.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“So
nothing happen?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Nothing.
I thought it was over. Leonard and his chums didn’t get what he wanted, so he
quit bothering me.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“But
about six months ago, it started up again. This time the voice on phone was
clear, and overly-polite, in that way the Mafia talks, you know? It wasn’t
anybody I recognized, but it wasn’t disguised as before. He said he wanted
Leonard’s accounts, is how he put it. All of the accounting files having to do
with Leonard’s ‘larger business.’ Of course, I knew what he meant right away.
He wasn’t talking about the bicycle shop. He wanted the automobile parts
accounts. But the police confiscated all of Leonard’<span lang="FR" style="mso-ansi-language: FR;">s files, for both his bike shop and his auto parts
operation. All I ever had were the inventories for that anyway. You, of all
people, know this.</span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Okay. Go on.” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well,
I couldn’t figure out what the heck this guy was talking about. These people
involved in this auto parts ring were indicted, weren’t they? They went to
jail.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“That’s
right. All the departments in the towns and cities involved, including New York
City, worked together to bring this wide-spread operation down. But the perps
at the top, of course, escaped culpability. We had our suspicions as to who
they were, but couldn’t nail their identities or involvement, and none of those
we jailed talked, not even with promises of immunity.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It’s
part of the reason I don’t want anything more to do with Leonard. I know he’s
still tied to them and will continue to be after he gets out of prison.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Leda,
if you don’t mind my asking, why didn’t you pack up and leave?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Good
question. Suppose it’s what all people like me wonder in hindsight. I stayed
for the same reason most of them do. My home is here, my friends—<i><span lang="FR" style="mso-ansi-language: FR;">our</span></i> friends before his
troubles. And my church. Leonard and I are…were Greek Orthodox. We lived the
life…well, I thought we did. </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
[clearing her throat, on
edge of tears] </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“But that’s another
business. Point is, although I took care of the books for the<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>bicycle business—the purchases and sales and
for the IRS—Leonard told me from the beginning that as far as the auto parts
operation went, it was connected with a home office in Jersey City which was
taking care of all their branch businesses, only one of which was his in
Tutterton. He made it sound like it was a huge company, which it turned out to
be, only an illegal one, if you can call it a company. Well, anyway, he said, I
was to give them the inventory listings with the retail prices on those sold
and their wholesale value. He gave me those at the time of their arrivals and
at the time of their sales—all that, of course, I found out later was fake,
fake as could be. But he forwarded what I prepared for him on that to the
Jersey City office, and, he said, they sent the right forms on to the IRS. I
wrote a check for our share of the taxes on our sales and signed appropriate
bank forms that he said he needed in order to follow through in Jersey City.
And that was that.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“But
you had to’ve seen the bank balances in order to do even the part that you did,
especially for the IRS.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It’s
like I told you at the time you questioned me. I didn’t. I only did what he
told me to. He kept the two businesses separate, so that anything having to do
with the auto accounts were the ones he took care of, he said.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Accounts?
More than one account, for the auto operation, then?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“His
and the one in Jersey City is what he said, yeah. So he could keep track of the
business he did, you know, separate from the main office, but they put
everything together.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Didn’t
all this raise suspicions, Leda. At least pique your interest?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Perhaps
it should have. But Leonard doing something that illegal and as big as it
turned out to be, especially getting involved with the sorts he did, it never
occurred to me. It made sense that he might be connected to another larger
business, selling parts he got from the salvage yards of towns nearby, like he
told me—lies that they were. The Jersey City part wasn’t so strange, because
that’s how he worked the bicycle business. He got used bikes from Roundup
Wheels in Wellington, he gave me the list of sales, and I prepared the invoices
and inventories. And he and Roundup Wheels did the rest. I did do the IRS
preparation on that, and I saw the bank balance on it, which included our own
forms, but I didn’t send it in. They did it, Leonard said, from Wellington,
because they had things to add. I don’t know how these things work exactly. It
simply never occurred to me….ah, well, it’s all after the fact now, isn’t it?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>[overvoice]</span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
know the answer to all of the questions I’m feeding her, but I want to hear
what she has to say after all this time—want to know if she’s changed her tune,
especially since she’s mad at him, or if she’s humming the same old song she
sang over and over at the inquest. I’m still betting dollars to donuts she
knows more than she’s telling. I’ve always thought that, but just didn’t know
then how to prove it or even if my suspicions were justified.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Didn’t
you ever go to his shop, see that he wasn’t selling auto parts up front like he
said he was?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No.
I come from Sparta, Detective. In our country, women take care of their
business and men take care of theirs. Are you married?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No.
But if I asked my wife to do my books for me, I’d think she’d be more involved
than you seem to’ve been.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Look,
if I needed to contact Leo—which I rarely did—I reached him at the telephone
booth just outside his shop, which was on a corner, if you remember. We
couldn’t afford in-house phones, only the rich and the government can. You know
this. As for why I kept an inventory of the auto parts, he told me that he was
working with another business, so I figured they naturally needed a list of
what he paid for and what he sold. So I made out the inventory on the forms he
gave me and that was that.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Didn’t
you take the money to the bank for his businesses?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No.
Here again, Leo did that. I put everything together for him, and he took it to
the bank when he went to work. I had my church work and charities outside the
house. I didn’t go to the bank. He gave me money for the market and house
goods. I got an allowance once-a-month and whatever I could save on the side
from the household budget was mine.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“So
you really didn’t know anything about how he managed his auto heist and chop
shop business?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Detective,
Leonard worked with those guys. When you followed the paper trail during the
inquest, you saw I didn’t know anything about what he was doing. It’s how I got
off. You were the one who questioned me, worked with my lawyer. You saw I
didn’t know back then, so why the third degree now?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m
trying to understand why these people are threatening you, Leda.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well,
I sure don’t know. I’m coming to you for protection. I want you to find these
people so I can live in peace. I don’t know what account they’re talking about.
I tell you, there are no accounts I can give them. The police have all
Leonard’s papers in their evidence room, and his money too, I might add. I’ve
no idea what you did with that—buy new equipment, more guns, what?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;">[overvoice]</span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
Actually she isn’t too
far off. Illegally-obtained money that the police confiscate is put into the
police department’s account and purchases are made for appropriate equipment
and weapons. But, of course, I don’t tell Leda Vlamos this. I say instead,</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Thing that puzzles me
is that the people involved in that operation know the police confiscated all
the files and money and shut down both of Leonard’s businesses. I’m talking
about the guys at the top who never got caught. They’re well aware. So who’s
threatening you now and about what?” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Beats me, but I’m
scared to go home.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“All right. I’m getting
the picture. My question now is how do you think I can help<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>you? Wait, Leda. If you think we can put
you under protection day and night, until we find who’s threatening you, well,
that simply isn’t going to happen. We don’t have the resources. I’m wondering
how you think the police can help you under those circumstances.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You’re
the police! You take a vow to serve and protect the people of this town. I’m
asking for protection. I told you what’s happening to me. They’ve threatened to
kill me if I don’t give them what they’re asking for.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Are you still living at
the same house you were when Leonard was arrested?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Where
would I go? I can’t sell the house, because it’<span lang="DE" style="mso-ansi-language: DE;">s in Leonard</span>’s name. He’d never give me permission to leave. I have
a job working at a nearby five and dime, but it’s barely enough for living
expenses. I’ve sold some items outta the house for extra. It’s how I’m making
it.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Do
you have a mortgage?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“House’s
paid for. One of the benefits of Leonard’s inheritance when his father died. He
paid it off fair and square. Don’t look at me like that. I believed him, and it
must be so, because the authorities didn’t confiscate it like they did all his
other assets, the bike shop included. You know this, right?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Okay, Leda. As you told me, it’s been two
years. I’m catching up with the story again. Do you have relatives you can stay
with until you can get situated differently? It would be good if you could get
away from… ”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You
mean get out of Tutterton?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It
might be easiest in the long run.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“For
you, maybe. Everything I have and everybody I know is in this town. I moved to
The United States from Greece with my husband when we were young, Detective. We
struggled in New York City, and moved to Tutterton because we thought life and
making a living would be easier. Now, I don’t know. I shoulda talked him into moving
to Oklahoma or Texas.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>[sound
of engine starting]</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Okay,
okay. I’ll see what I can do about watching your place, but I’m telling you
now, it’ll be a drive-by now and again until I find out what this’s all about.
I’m sorry, but I can’t put a man stationed at your door day and night. It’s
like I told you.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’ll
take what I can get, Detective Weir. But I’ll be calling the station off and
on, just to get it on the books that I’m left unprotected out here while I’m
being threatened.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;"> [overvoice] </span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
continued to probe Leda’s old story with her, gleaning a few new possible lines
of inquiry. Nothing substantial came from this, so given the little I had to go
on, I pushed what I got into a mental cabinet that I shuffled through from time
to time for leads. Sometimes when I do this, a couple of files end up sparking
a clue. I wasn’t hopeful, but then one never knows.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
I drove Leda back to the
bus stop upon her insistence. She doesn’t want a squad car stopping in front of
her house unless an officer is going to stay. She says she knows she’s being
watched beyond doubt. A dark sedan has been parked across the street from her
house the past few days. It followed her to the bus stop shortly before I had
showed up on the scene. </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
don’t doubt her for a minute, but I’m not certain what to do. If I take her
story to the chief, he’ll tell me what I told her. There isn’t enough
provocation at this point for continual surveillance. She can be making the
whole thing up, though for what reasons I can’t imagine, unless it’d be to buy
some time to figure out how to get the house from Leonard or some such. Who
knows? I do know the chief would suggest I check out her place since she’d
called the station, and I want to see myself if the dark sedan shows up again.
In any case, I know Chief Gilligan will also request follow up on any leads
about the caller who was threatening Leda, if for nothing else but to cover his
behind should anything unforeseen come of it.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
It seems to me that
Occam’s razor is the best principle to apply in regards to this present state
of affairs. Good detectives always use the simplest solution, taking the known
facts and applying them first to what isn’t known. If I accept Leda Vlamos’
explanation of her circumstances with her husband—his attempting to keep her in
her place, even literally—the caller threatening her now knew Leonard had an
extra account somewhere, and it wasn’t the chop shop account and goods that the
police had confiscated. So if I act on that known premise, what will be the
first lead I can follow? It has to be something not found in the evidence room
storage. This leaves only three possible leads, two of which are so tenuously
tied to Leonard’s past crimes—if for no other reason than the sheer passage of
time—that I feel I really only have one—Roundup Wheels in Wellington, a town
ten miles north of Tutterton. </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
I turn car 3 into my
parking spot at the station and take an unmarked to the<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>address listed as Leonard and Leda Vlamos’
house on Royal Hill Road in a small suburban area where houses are being built
as fast as supplies can reach it, which seems to be from slow to snail’s pace
while the conversion from wartime to domestic manufacturing catches up with the
market. I’d learned at the time of her interview that she and Leonard moved
from their original address on Grand Junction to their newly built home only
months before Leonard’<span lang="IT" style="mso-ansi-language: IT;">s arrest. It</span>’s
one of the first finished houses on these streets, many remaining only partly
constructed—they are modern, roomy but nothing close to ostentation. Leda
evidently is a gardener because the lawn and landscaping are quite extensive
and well-kept. Four recently planted trees are still young, but well-placed to
give shade at strategic places around the house when they mature. Two fruit
trees grow close to the property line at the far end of the backyard.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
pull the unmarked into the driveway of an externally-completed house without
present construction activity but with the builder’s sign in the front yard. I
position the car so that I have a clear but somewhat covert sightline to the
Vlamos dwelling, but I get out and walk around to the back of the house. A
person sitting for any time in a car in a residential area like this is a sure
sign of either a love spooning going on or a stakeout taking place. In either
case, it solicits attention. On my way around to the back, I pull the builder’s
sign out of the ground and lean it against the side of the house.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
Finding the back garage
door unlocked, I wait inside, watching from a shadowed corner through the
glass-plated door. Less than five minutes of Leda’s arrival home, a black
Chrysler pulls to the curb directly in front of her door. The man at the wheel
glances my way briefly, cracks his window and throws a cigarette to the street,
flips open a newspaper and busies himself with the leading stories. The
intimidation tactic is obvious.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Once
I see he isn’t going to get out and threaten Leda openly, I walk to the<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>unmarked as though coming out of a garage
connected to a newly lived-in house, get into the unmarked and start the
engine. If the stalker sees me, he gives no notice, smoking away in front of
his newspaper.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
switch to car number 3 at the station and make a hasty carry-out at the Main
Street diner, telling Charmaine I’ll see her or call her later in the day. I’m
eating my sandwich before I even to get the patrol car, the crummy part of my
lunch finding its way to my lap as I drive, smearing each French fry with ketchup
that I had Charmaine put in a small bowl that I’ll return to her when I return to
the diner. The Coke fizzes up my nose, making a stop on the shoulder of the
road so I can sneeze and blow my nose in one of the napkins from the lunch bag.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My
next stop is Roundup Wheels in Wellington, a ten mile drive north through the
country to the town about the size of Tutterton, but with growing travel
businesses lining the highway, billboards declaring its amenities from diners
to gas stations. The young man who meets me at the door of his bicycle shop
seems to have seen his first customer of the day. The place looks deserted,
though filled to overflowing with bicycles, tricycles, unicycles—cycles of
every size and description, including pairs of skater’s roller rink shoes along
a shelf on the back wall and around the show window a wide assortment of
children’s wagons and pedal cars to ride and smaller toys to push. I wonder if
Ritter Junior has kept up with his father’s illegitimate network. From what I
can make out, everything on the floor looks new, but one never knows what’s in
the back rooms<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>or basement or what’s
concealed in the books, as I learned so well from Vlamos’<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;">s hidden assets.</span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
show the young man my badge, and he almost stops walking toward me mid-step.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m
Detective Weir and have a couple of questions.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“About
what?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“About
a crime that took place in Tutterton two years ago in which Roundup Wheels was
implicated.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“My
father was cleared of any wrongdoing. He answered all the questions asked back
then. I don’t see what…”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It’s
a routine matter. Are you Bobby Ritter?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Could
be.” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Okay, Bobby. Something
has arisen tangential to…ah, I’ll shorten this for both of us, then. You own
the shop now that your father past last year, that right?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes.
Everybody in town read his obituary.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m
sorry for your loss, Bobby.” [pause] “Leonard Vlamos received and passed
bicycles from his business in Tutterton to your father’s here in Wellington for
a number of years. From my understanding, these bike exchanges were sometimes a
bit more lucrative than the tainted inventory specified, and although an
amiable bargain was struck with Ritter, Senior, for information, I’ve come to
get a bit more of that today, after the fact, as it were.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
have nothing to tell you, I’m sure. Even if I knew what you’re talking about,
which I don’t, I wouldn’t say anything without my lawyer.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“That’s
fine. We can take the long route around this, if you like. I’ll be back with a
search warrant in two shakes of a crooked cat’s tail, which won’t give you time
to round up all the…well, let’s just call them, <i>questionable</i> goods
around here, but even if you can, it’ll cost you in time, money and the
possibility of being observed doing it. People are so darned inquisitive. Now,
I think your father had the right idea. Play straight with the authorities, and
they’ll play straight with you. I’ll ask again. I am talking to Bobby Ritter,
am I not?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Robert.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Good. Now let’s begin,
Robert, with the name of the man you handed all your paperwork to for
accounting and the IRS. Nuh, nuh, before you respond, there’ll be no fluttering
on this. I get the run around, you don’t want to deal with me, believe me on
this. Now, who is it?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Not a man. Dad sent it
to a woman. Miss Lucatello.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Of course, the
secretary. I understand. Where does she work? Better yet, what’s the name of
her boss?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“<span lang="IT" style="mso-ansi-language: IT;">I dunno.</span>”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Which?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Neither.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Uh-huh. Fine. It’ll be
a call and a two hour wait at most. Oh, I forgot to tell you before, when I
first mentioned the search warrant, my dad and Judge Peterson did the
gentlemen’s club together, before my dad passed. The judge takes my calls on
short notice, even on week-ends, lad. The question before you is—can you move
the need-to-move merchandise out of your shop in a coupla hours? [short pause]
I didn’t think so. So let’s try this again. Who is Miss Lucatello’s boss?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“I’m not real sure.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Give a stab at it,
anyway, Robert. As a kind of favor to me, one I’ll remember.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Maybe<span lang="IT" style="mso-ansi-language: IT;"> Vincent Moretti?</span>”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Of the Peter Moretti
family? I see. And you think this because…?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Uh, I just know that’s
all. [pause] Lorna told me…in passing, when we were talking business once. She
said Vinnie handles business where she works even though it’s called by another
name.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“The business?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Yeah. This she only
told me because of paperwork, what I needed to know from my end.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Uh-huh. And the name of
the…paperwork business?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Thomas-Jerome
Accounting.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“That’s two last names?
Good. You’re doing the right thing, Robert. Okay then. So it’s Vincent Moretti
who “oversees” Thomas-Jerome Accounting, <i>the</i><span lang="IT" style="mso-ansi-language: IT;"> Vincent Moretti of </span><i>the </i>Peter
Moretti Shipping, International, am I on the right track here?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“I don’t like what
you’re implying.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“And what am I implying,
Robert?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“That I’m hiding
something when I’<span lang="PT" style="mso-ansi-language: PT;">m not.</span>”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“And why would I think
that?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Because they’re…you
know.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Mafia? Is that’s what’s
got your tongue in a knot?"</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“I don’t want any
trouble for Lorna.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Why would there be
trouble for Lorna? I told you, you’re straight with me, I’ll play straight with
you, which includes a soft touch with Lorna Lucatello.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“And I don’t want any
trouble for my business either.” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“<span lang="DE" style="mso-ansi-language: DE;">We</span>’ll just have to see about that. If I
follow up on this, and you’ve not sent me on a wild…”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“I’m telling you what I
know.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“That’s good, because
Robert I’m going to return. And I expect you to be here cooperating again when
I show up.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
[closing of a door and
footsteps] </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;">[overvoice]<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
The kid was nervous as a
rowboat in a hurricane, as I would have been. Peter Moretti was the name
mentioned at the inquest, the guy at the top who was protected with four coats
of lawyers and a consigliere. And Vincent isn’t his son, nothing that close.
He’s a son of the old man’s nephew, young to be sure, but a soldier for the
family, undoubtedly learning the ropes, and probably in more ways than one.
Robert Ritter has every reason to be worried. There had not been a verifiable
connection between the Moretti’s and Roundup Wheels, but there might have been
information passed to the chief that I wasn’t party to. Isn’t a far off guess
for the leniency granted Ritter, Senior, in exchange for what the chief and commissioner
found out.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
But before I see Lorna
Lucatello and start churning the Moretti stew, I decide to follow up on the two
other names Leda has given me, just to make sure I’m not leaving any thread
dangling from my sleeve. The Mafia has long fingers that grope, sometimes, in
the most unexpected places. I want to find where some of those unexpected
places are. One may lead to a rope of my own that I can use to tie around Peter
Moretti’s neck.</div>
<div align="center" class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center;">
2.<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;"> </span><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
[overvoice]<br />
The next morning at my
desk, I study the two names I got from Leda as possible leads to who knew
Leonard and might be threatening her life— one was John Masterson, the local
manager for the distribution of Crafton “Crafty” Bread Company, where Leonard
Vlamos worked as a deliveryman when he and Leda first moved to Tutterton. Since
the company was small, Masterson delivered goods with Vlamos for the eighteen
months Leonard was employed there. This was when highways first started going
through rather than just around towns and cities. Leda filled me in on the
historical facts of the transition from freight rail to truck delivery of
goods, which helped her husband get a job. She said Masterson was a go-getter
who was always “flying under the bridge,” as she put it, to beat out the
competition. Since he and Leo—Leda’s pet name for Leonard--worked on
commission, her husband had schemed with Masterson to “hype the sales” for a
greater percentage of the profits. She didn’t say exactly how that was, but did
say that when Leo came home bragging about it one day, she put a stop to it,
though she didn’t say exactly how. At any rate, Leonard stopped quit working
for and with Masterson and went to work for Roadside Motor Repair. </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
I’m interested in what
kind of grudge Masterson may’ve held, and if so, why he’d act with revenge on
it after all these years. Sounds highly improbable, but as King David declared
in the Psalms, “The righteous will rejoice when he sees his vengeance; he will
bathe his feet in the blood of the wicked.” Maybe that kind of righteousness
lasts a bloody long time. And something may have happened to ignite Masterson’s
wrath again or to have kept it smoldering for years. I’ll have to see how
righteous John Masterson feels and how wicked he thinks Leonard Vlamos may have
been. After all, Leonard Vlamos knew a heck of a lot about his former partner
and their nasty little schemes which weren’t so righteous, when I put my mind
to it. But I’ve learned a long time ago, <i>feeling </i>righteous has little to
do with <i>being</i> right.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
The other name is a
fellow mechanic, Niles Rubis, who owns a small itinerant repair shop where
Leonard assisted Rubis with small auto breakdowns and towing services on the
highways leading to and from New York City and four of its boroughs. Staten
Island was considered country back then and was isolated from lots of the
prepared food market deliveries coming into vogue, Leda had added smartly when
she informed me of Leo’s job with Rubis. Leonard was close to Niles and it was
through Rubis that her husband got into the bicycling business. When I asked
her how it happened, she gave me some personal insight into their marriage. She
said Leonard fell into that like everything else he ever did—through people he
knew. While she was isolated, a pretty much stay-at-home body with a few close
friends, Leonard was outgoing and knew lots of people, especially male
acquaintances, who he constantly ran into here and there.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
‘He never gave up a
friend, maybe never lost track of anybody he ever met.’ She said this with a
fair degree of hostility. It’s why she knew he’d continue his dirty work after
he got out of prison and would continue seeing all the chums he now was making
while in stir. </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
About Rubis, though,
he’d worked as an auto and machine repairman during the war when cars weren’t
being manufactured again until only a couple of years ago, getting parts from
salvage yards. But when The Victory Bike came out in 1942, with the government
encouraging manufacturing companies to make these bicycles to replace domestic
automobiles in order to cut down on rubber for tires and gasoline needed for
war vehicles, Rubis talked Leo into setting up a bike shop with Leonard’s
savings. Used bikes were at a premium. No wonder kids wanted old ones, instead
of The Victory Bikes, which were stripped down to the essentials. </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
Leo and Niles made good
money during the war, but when cars started rolling onto the dealer’s lots
again in 1946, bike sales dropped. Rubis bailed out for half of what he
should’ve paid, but Leonard kept the bike shop going—now she understood why, of
course. It was a cover for illegal income. How much Rubis was involved in the
auto parts operation, she couldn’t say. But I know Rubis had been questioned
thoroughly without the police finding any connection between him and the
illegal parts operation. But, to me at least, it was clear that it was through
Rubis’ salvage yard parts repair business that Leonard got his chop shop idea
and passed it on to the people who were backed by the Morettis. </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
I decide to start with
John Masterson, then catch Niles Rubis on my way back to the<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>station. I find Masterson out in a large
fenced-in yard filled with half-a-dozen trucks being loaded for deliveries. He
wears a leather hat and gloves with a kerchief around his neck. He’s a squat
man with a rugged, furry red beard, and when I’m closer, I see he has piercing
blue eyes. He waves the deliveryman he’s talking to aside and looks at me in a
hello-goodbye-I’m-late manner. He stands with one foot ahead of the other as
though preparing to run at the slightest provocation.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
I hold out my badge and
extend my hand which he accepts ungloved and<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>reluctantly. Surprisingly, he leans over and examines my badge as though
it holds some secret clue to my reason for being in front of him.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Okay. Make it snappy,
whatever it is, ‘cause I have delivery delays at this station.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Mr. Masterson, you
worked with Leonard Vlamos some years ago…”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“You’ve gotta be kiddin’
me. What century you living in, copper? I’ve work to do.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“We can talk here or at
the station, up to you.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Now why would I come to
the station? I got nothing to say except Vlamos worked for me and left. He
stayed about a couple, three years and decided to work on trucks instead of
driving them. End of story.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Just a couple more
questions, and I’ll be out of your hair. You worked the New Jersey and New York
area?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Yeah, so we did, but
what’s that got to do with anything?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Maybe nothing, maybe
everything. Leonard is doing time for grand thief, you know about that?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Everybody who knew him
knows about that. [frustration] Why you here?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Okay then, I’ll ask
something a little harder. You talked to Leonard since he’s been in prison?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Why wou…What the hell
is your game? I got no connection with that piece-a … look, he left me in the
lurch, without so much as a day’s notice, you writing this down in your little
notebook there? I got no love for the guy, but I got no beef with him anymore,
either. I don’t know what he’s told you and don’t care. If it’s about me, it’s
a lie. You getting this? I wouldn’t walk across the street to collect the money
he owes me ‘cause he’s not worth it.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“He owes you money?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Yeah, for the time he
didn’t work when he was supposed to, cost me some customers. Now, I gotta…”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Just one more question,
Mr. Masterson. Is the company you work for still under the same management?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
[heavy sigh] “Yeah, me.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“You own the company
now?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
[laughter] “No, ‘course
not. I’m executive manager of this district, but the company is now a
corporation. Don’t you read the signs? What kinda detective are you?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Unobservant kind, I
guess. So Crafty Bread is what now?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Crafton Bakery
Corporation. Judas Priest, there’s a billboard over the building right over
there.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Ah, I see. So you sell
more than just bread, that it?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“All kinds of baked
goods and over a much larger territory.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“So Crafty Bread was
just around the region back then, and now it’s…where?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Vlamos and I delivered
in this part of New Jersey on into New York City. But within a year of
Leonard’s being hired, the company had deliveries out to Long Island and into
Pennsylvania.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“I see. So you were one
of how many managers?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Think there were three
in those days, one for Long Island, one for Pennsylvania and then me. New
Jersey.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“And now?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“I thought this was
about Leonard.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“It is. But I had to
come all the way to Jersey City to find you. I’m looking around here and
wondering if Leonard had stayed, well, he could’ve been part of this instead of
sitting in prison.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Well, Leonard wouldn’t
have made it much past where he ended up, Detective. At least not in this
company, and for that matter, maybe that’s true for where he is now. Leonard
was a follower. He wouldn’t have made it to Jersey City without riding my
coattails.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“That’s probably Leonard
in a nutshell, from what I’m hearing.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“So why’re you here? If
this’s about what you know about Leonard already?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“There’s a case loosely
tied to his auto-thief-and-parts operation that has piqued the chief’s
interest. He sent me out on a wild goose chase, <i>again</i>, it seems. You
probably know this from the paper’s, but Leonard’s role in the auto thing was
as a hub where everything was dumped on him to inventory and ship out. He
wasn’t actively involved, in a way, but you know how it is, if you’re part of
it, you’re part of it, so he took the fall with the others. After all, it was a
criminal act, helping to distribute stolen goods. Chief thought he might’ve had
more of an active role’s all, connecting to more influential people’s all.
Rubis told me pretty much what you did.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Yeah, well, what kinda
guy gets himself strapped to a bicycle business?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“One that had to find
another way to make more money’s my guess.” [pause] “Well, I’ve kept you long
enough. Thanks for your time.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
[few footsteps, then
they stop]</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“This is really quite
something, Mr. Masterson. How many delivery trucks are here at this station?
Dozen or more, looks like. How big is this corporation anyhow?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“All across the
northeast into the heartland to the Mississippi River.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Guess there’s more than
three managers these days, huh?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Ten districts with a
manager for each one and assistant managers under those, but all the executive
managers have regularly scheduled meetings so the deliveries along the routes
can run smoothly and without competition between districts. The corps PR motto’s
Cooperation for Gain and Profit.” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Interesting. All in two
years. Lord what is this country coming to?</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
[little laughter between
them] </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Looks like you’re
riding the wave to the top.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“That’s the plan. Bosses
say they want Crafty products to go nationwide in three to five years.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“My goodness. What’s
your district now, if you don’t mind my asking?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“All of New Jersey, New
York, Delaware and Pennsylvania. I’ve three assistant managers. It’s a
different job than…well, back then with Leonard Vlamos, I can tell you.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Good luck with your
future plans, Mr. Masterson. Again, thanks for your time.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;">[overvoice]</span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
His attitude grew more
receptive with his pronouncements about his position in the<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>corporation, so I got what I’d come for. I
fed him a good deal of baloney to get it, but Masterson’s district covered much
of the same territory that the auto heist operation had done. It wasn’t an
altogether watertight clue because a lot of delivery services worked many of
the same routes, but it was worth putting up in my mental file cabinet for
future reference. </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
But how this ties to
Leda’s threats I’m not sure, but the caller had asked for Leonard Vlamos’ files
on his “larger business.” If not the auto heist operation, then what? I didn’t
miss Masterson’s rising anger when I mentioned the possibility of his visiting
Leonard in prison. It could have been what he claimed it to be—his disdain over
Leonard’s leaving without notice, then again…it had a ring of forced vehemence
in it. I thought it interesting that I’d never seen Masterson during his
deliveries with Leonard in Tutterton, but I didn’t really remember seeing
Leonard until he got himself noticed with bicycle heists and then with
automobiles.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
My visit with Niles
Rubis which I do on my way back into Tutterton from Jersey City is totally
fruitless. I’d fed Masterson the line about Rubis confirming his view of Vlamos
to see if Masterson knew him, which didn’t get me anywhere. But unlike
Masterson, Rubis is outgoing and easy to talk to. He remembered me from the
car-heist-and-fence investigations, and lets me know immediately, as he had
back then, that he and Leonard had been pals years ago, through both the
truck-and-auto repairs and bicycle businesses—the bikes being a sideline for
Rubis which, he says, he forfeited when he saw it wasn’t going to net him much
past its initial surge. His view of Leonard was one of respectability and
forthrightness when they worked together. He was thrown for a loop, he says, by
Leonard’s involvement in the stolen bike and auto heist business. When I
mention Masterson to him, Rubis states without hesitation that he doesn’t know
who he is and if Leonard ever mentioned him, he, Niles, has forgotten it
totally. He didn’t deviate an inch from the opinion he gave two years ago.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
When I return to the
station, I give Leda Vlamos an update call.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Not much to report yet,
Leda. I followed up on the two fellows’ names you gave me. Information from
them didn’t take me very far, but I’m not giving up on this. Has anything else
come to mind that might be helpful? And more importantly, have you received any
more threatening calls?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“No calls, though the
car is parked in front of my house again this morning.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“When did it leave
yesterday?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Around five o’clock.
Guess these stalkers work a nine-to-five shift like everybody else.” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“So he’s not there
during the evening and night hours?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Not that I’ve noticed,
and I checked when I got up during the night. He could be parked up the street,
but that’s not likely unless he intends to enter my house and doesn’t want the
car to be recognized later, after I’m found dead.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Okay, Leda. I get your
point. Like I say, I’m working on it. So far, I don’t have much to go on, but
that’s not to say things won’t improve. It’s a lot of legwork and telephone
calls in an investigation of this kind.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“What kind is that?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“One with solid threats
but no solid leads as to who it might be.” [pause] “Okay,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>hopefully something will show up soon. I’ll
keep you informed in any case.” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>[overvoice]</span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
Leda Vlamos hangs up
without saying another word. I hang up feeling like a louse. It’s her life at
risk, even though the threats so far have remained somewhat civil. I know that
this civility isn’t likely to continue much longer, because the longer these
jokers have to wait to get what they want, the more likely they are to be
discovered. They’ll be upping the ante shortly.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
I make lengthy notes for
the day, which ties me up for over an hour, then grab my jacket on the back of
the chair and head for the diner for my supper and a glimpse of Charmaine
Hollister, one of the diner’s waitresses and the new romantic interest in my
life. I’m ravenous, as I’ve had no lunch. Walking into the diner, the smell of
frying burgers and other possibilities is overwhelming. I order the moment
Charmaine stands next to my booth, writing down what she knows I’ll be ordering
before I tell her. I slug down coffee to fill and occupy me until she brings my
order.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
Once the plate is down
and I’m wolfing away, she surprises me by sliding across from me in the booth.
I look around and see the place is practically empty, the crowd long gone to
begin their post-supper activities. After we’ve exchanged our stories of the
day, I ask her,</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“You know Lorna <span lang="IT" style="mso-ansi-language: IT;">Lucatello</span>, by any chance, from
Thomas-Jerome Accounting?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“No, don’t think so. Oh,
wait, is she receptionist there?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Yes she is. How do you
know her?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“I don’t except on
sight. Strange you should mention her because somebody came in the other day
and spoke her name which triggered a distant memory. Haven’t really seen her in
years but when I was at the diner not too long after moving to Tutterton,
somebody in a booth I was serving pointed her out with a young man in the park
across the way. I couldn’t help but notice. They were in a passionate embrace
which ended in a kiss and some hand-holding. Brief as it was, that sort of
thing just isn’t an ordinary occurrence in downtown Tutterton. I only remember
the name because the couples at the booth called her “the talk of the town,”
whatever in the world that meant. It was some distance away, so I can’t say
much about any impression I had of her, only remember the name because it
entered the conversation between the parties I was serving. They said she was
secretary-receptionist at Thomas-Jerome Accounting, biggest accountant firm in
town.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Mighty interesting.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Oh? and why’s that?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“I just made a possible
connection with something that happened today in regards to a case.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Hmmm. Wanna share?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Love to, but it’s an
investigation and you know how that goes.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“I’m catching on. Means
my hands’re off but your head’s full of nothing else.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Oh, that’s not true.
Not when you’re around.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Well, aren’t you nice.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“It’s easy to say
because it’s true.”</div>
<div align="center" class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center;">
3.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;">[overvoice]</span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
The next morning, after
coffee and donuts at my desk with Nicky Marks while we<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>catch up on our cases, my first planned stop
is with Lorna Lucatello at Thomas-Jerome Accounting. I flip open the telephone
book, locate the accounting firm’s address and number, lift the receiver and give
the operator the number. The voice that answers is young but seductively lower
by an octave than I’m expecting.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Thomas-Jerome
Accounting. How may I help you?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Am I speaking to Lorna
Lucatello?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
[pause] “<span lang="PT" style="mso-ansi-language: PT;">Yes.</span>”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“<span lang="IT" style="mso-ansi-language: IT;">Hello, Miss Lucatello. I</span>’m Detective
Crandall Weir from the Tutterton Police Department. I’m calling to make an
appointment to talk with you concerning a case in which your accounting firm
may be involved. When would be a good time for us to talk?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Oh, I think you need to
discuss your concerns with our manager, Mr. George Adams, Detective. I’m only
the secretary and…”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“No, it’s you I’d like
to talk to, Miss Lucatello. It is Miss, is it not?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Well, yes, sir, but I
don’t see…”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“It’s about Robert
Ritter, Miss Lucatello, and Roundup Wheels. I’d like to see you before I bother
Mr. Adams. It’s only a routine matter, you understand? If you’d prefer meeting
me outside your office, we can arrange that.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Oh, my. [long pause] Do
I have to come to the station?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Not at all. We can have
coffee at the diner if you like or any place you choose. The park? Though it’s
still a bit chilly for that.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“The Main Street Diner
will be fine. I need to take an hour for lunch anyway. Will you be wearing your
uniform?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“No, Miss Lucatello.
Detectives wear plain clothes…<span lang="FR" style="mso-ansi-language: FR;">suits.</span>”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“How will I know you?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“I’ll leave a message
with the cashier. Just ask for me.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“I usually lunch at
eleven thirty. Is that all right?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Perfectly fine. I’ll
see you then.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;">[overvoice]</span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
When Lorna Lucatello
walks into the diner, I know it’s her instantly. She’s knockdown gorgeous, an auburn
beauty with expensively chosen dress and stylish hair<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>do. She wears sunglasses that frame her face
as though designed especially for her. After taking off her glasses, she places
them in the pocket of her coat and hangs it on the hook by the entranceway.
When she turns to look around the diner, I stand and motion for her to come to
the booth I’ve chosen by the window. If it isn’t Lorna Lucatello, I don’t mind
the whole diner seeing me with whoever this is, even for a few minutes. </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
She walks with the confidence
of a feline cat getting ready to play with a mouse. When she gets to where I
sit, I notice her well-detailed make-up and almond-shaped, greenish-brown eyes.
I think instantly of Ava Gardner. She stands before me, extends her red-nail
fingered hand. After I shake it, she slides into the opposite side of the
booth. She has a self-assurance I totally missed on the telephone. Perhaps
she’s had time to prepare.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Detective Weir. Please
call me Lorna.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Thank you for meeting
with me upon such short notice.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Of course. Are you
lunching as well?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Well…yes, I can do
that…while we talk. That way I can put the whole check on the department’s
tab.” [he laughs lightly]</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;">[overvoice]</span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
I laugh casually, and
she smiles politely, as Charmaine Hollister walks up to our booth. Raising an
eyebrow almost imperceptibly to me, Charmaine scoots menus across the surface
of the table, first to Lorna and then to me. She chatters off the specials for
lunch as her pencil is poised on the check pad. She looks at me for guidance with
a huge smile. When I give her a smile and a shrug, Lorna’s face buried in the
menu, she tells us she will return after we’ve had time to pursue our menus. I
can’t tell if Charmaine remembers her for that distant long-ago
observance-in-passing or not.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
Lorna looks up with the
assertiveness of a woman who’s used to getting the most attention in the room,
any room, and getting her way.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
She tells me she will
have the clam chowder without the oyster crackers and a melted cheese on white,
knowing full-well I’ll order for the both of us.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
When Charmaine returns
to our booth, I know I have to give her a clue as to who this woman is and my
association with her, so I say,</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Miss Lucatello will
have the chowder without crackers and melted cheese on white. I’ll have my
usual.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;">[overvoice]</span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
Clearly, Charmaine gets
it, smiling knowingly and asks what each of us would like to drink. Lorna looks
at me as she orders water without ice. I ordered a coffee with loads of cream
and sugar. Charmaine collects the menus while not taking her eyes off of mine,
turns and leaves. So this is what it feels like to be truly caught in the
middle. Then Lorna says, after I light her cigarette,</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“So what’s this about?
You said a routine matter, but it sounded a bit more mysterious than that, with
meeting out of the office and…”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“<span lang="IT" style="mso-ansi-language: IT;">Vincent Moretti.</span>”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;">[overvoice]</span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
I decide to come at her
forcefully and by surprise, in other words, <i><span lang="DE" style="mso-ansi-language: DE;">blitzkrieg</span></i>. And I get the reaction I’m hoping for.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her hand trembles so suddenly, she almost
drops her cigarette. I scoot the ashtray toward her. After placing her
cigarette in the notch in the rim and blowing smoke to the side, she says,
leaning on crisscrossed arms on the table,</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Yes. What about him?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“You know him then?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“You know I do or you
wouldn’t have tried to catch me so off-guard.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“<span lang="FR" style="mso-ansi-language: FR;">Fair </span>‘nough. What can you tell me about him
in relation to the firm?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“He’s…he’s our
supervisor.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“The underboss. Or more
accurately, he’s the underboss’s underboss.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
[mild irritation] “Our <i><span lang="PT" style="mso-ansi-language: PT;">supervisor</span></i>, Detective. He comes
regularly to check our work as any supervisor would.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Uh-huh. How regularly.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Usually monthly but
occasionally at special times when an account needs scrutiny for tax purposes
or upon a client’<span lang="PT" style="mso-ansi-language: PT;">s request.</span>”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Okay. When was the last
time the Roundup Wheels account got close scrutiny?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span lang="PT" style="mso-ansi-language: PT;">[Long pause] </span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Miss Lucatello, we can
parlay infinitely, but I wouldn’t advise it. Roundup Wheels is one of your
accounts. They were involved in an operation in which they were questioned,
though not indicted, in regards to illegal business transactions two years ago.
We have reason to suspect that not all the evidence was obtainable at the time
of their clearance of culpability. You’ve had recent and direct contact with
the owner of Roundup Wheels. I want to know what you know in regards to any
change in information about their account.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“You need to speak with
Mr. Adams about anything this important to the firm. I told you, I’m only the
secretary.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“You’ve had contact with
Robert Ritter about his accounting with the firm. He sends you paperwork
concerning his inventories which you then prepare for the IRS, is that right?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Yes, but it’s strictly
a business transaction, totally legal in every respect.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“How well do you know
Robert?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
[another pause] “I know
him through business association…”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“He seems to suggest
something a bit more than that, Miss Lucatello. He’s protective of you.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Why should he be…?
Detective Weir, I’m not sure what you’re getting at, but, okay, Robert Ritter
and I have had a couple of lunches together, much as you and I are having now,
and I’ve talked to him casually on the phone, as I’ve done with you as well.
He’s a nice young man with whom Thomas-Jerome has a long-standing business
account, beginning with his father.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“What is your
relationship with him outside of these cordial business interactions?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“That’s none of your
concern. But if you must know, there is none.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“I have witnesses to the
contrary and, as I told you, Robert seems to think otherwise.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“I can’t help what Mr.
Ritter thinks, Detective. And I know you’re baiting me with the notion of
witnesses. My meetings with Robert Ritter have been public and congenial, not
private and amatory.” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“In the strictest terms
of the definition, that may be so, but kissing and intimate gazing passes the
broadest meaning of “<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;">congenial</span>”
and the narrowest of “amatory,” I’m guessing. Such intimacies were hardly
disguised, taking place, as they did, under the acorns and near the mimosas,
right over there.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;">[overvoice]</span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
I point toward the
swings that children are using in the park at this very moment and the benches
near the flaming mimosas which are showing tiny round buds swaying in the
chilly breeze, ready to burst open at the first signs of the springtime sun.
Not able to resist, Lorna <span lang="IT" style="mso-ansi-language: IT;">Lucatello</span>
glances toward the bushes and watches the children swing back and forth for
several minutes. Clearing my voice, I say,</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“You are a beautiful
woman, Miss <span lang="IT" style="mso-ansi-language: IT;">Lucatello</span>. Robert
Ritter has to be smitten. But the first question entering my mind is—what in
heaven’s name would a woman like you be doing with a boy like Ritter, Junior?
Yes, yes, nice as he is, he’s way outta his depth, which he knows I’m sure, but
wants to carry what he can as far as he can. What vulnerable young man
wouldn’t? [brief pause] You’<span lang="IT" style="mso-ansi-language: IT;">re
Vincent</span>’s girl, aren’t you?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;">[overvoice]</span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
In a flash, turning to
me, her eyes are as big and dark as new moons, and the real Lorna <span lang="IT" style="mso-ansi-language: IT;">Lucatello</span>, biting her lower lip,
begins sliding out of the booth, when I say,</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Oh, for heaven’s sakes,
stay as you are. You really don’t want to make a spectacle of yourself, and it
will happen, believe me, when I begin my very loud protestations because of
your altogether false but nasty accusations. There now, that’s better. And
don’t even think about getting up shortly and heading for the ladies’ room.
I’ll follow, protesting the whole way, I promise you.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“You are a monstrous
person.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“I’ve been called worse,
believe me, and from women of all shades of beauty.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Ooooh, I despise you so
for this.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“For a while, perhaps, but
in the long run, you will find I can be very helpful. Now let’s try this
again.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;">[overvoice]</span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
Charmaine approaches our
booth, sets our plates down in front of us with a good deal of grace and care.
She can’t help but spot Lorna <span lang="IT" style="mso-ansi-language: IT;">Lucatello</span>’s
change in demeanor and attitude. She asks casually if we need anything else
while she fills Miss <span lang="IT" style="mso-ansi-language: IT;">Lucatello</span>’s
water glass and replenishes my coffee. I shake my head with a smile, and she
reads me like a book. Charmaine’s one smart cookie. It’s what I love the most
about her. Well, if I need her assistance, she says, looking only at me, all I
have to do is ask. She winks ever so slightly as she turns and walks toward
other customers in the booth next to ours. I know she’s listening. I knife and
fork my thick-gravied, open-faced roast beef sandwich, but not before I squeeze
a couple rows of mustard across its surface. When I look up, Lorna <span lang="IT" style="mso-ansi-language: IT;">Lucatello</span> is near tears.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Look, I…I wanted to get
out of a delicate situation as respectfully as possible. Robert was…he was
affected more than I thought he would be by the simplest gestures of kindness
and understanding from me. He was still grieving over his father’s death and
fearful of the responsibility suddenly thrust upon him with the business, which
had just undergone great scrutiny by the police. His mother wasn’t—still
isn’t—well, and he needed a friend. He misread my extensions, is all. When we
were in the park that da—a<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>day, by the
way, some time ago—I was attempting to set him down as gently as possible.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Uh-huh, by encouraging
him to…”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“It wasn’t as it must
have appeared, Detective. Robert was in pursuit, it’s true, and under the
circumstances, I didn’t feel I could very well push him away. I was trying to
discourage him in as kind a manner as I could at the time. After he kissed me,
I told him that I was…”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Attached to somebody
else?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Why do you do that?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“What is that?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Misconstrue what I’m
going to say. I was not going to say that at all. I told him that I wasn’t
attracted to him in the same way he seemed to be attracted to me, but that this
didn’t mean he wasn’t suitable, only that he had to express his feelings with
somebody else.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Uh-huh.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Detective, what you’re
doing won’t work with me. No, before you say, “and what’s that?” let me answer
it for you. What isn’t working are your innuendos, little prompts and prodders
that hint at my hiding something.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If
Robert Ritter is protective of me, it’s of his doing. He knows he’s been told
directly the truth about the whole affair.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Ah.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“No. That was poorly
stated. I’m not staying here another minute. There’s no point. You want me to
admit to something that didn’t happen, and I simply won’t encourage your
insinuations any longer.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Okay, I’ll stop
insinuating. I think the firm you work for is a money laundering<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>outfit, and you’re over your head with
Vincent Moretti. He wants to find out how much Robert Ritter knows about what
happened with his father and what’s connected to that, and he’s using you to
get it. I’m not sure how Moretti’s convinced you to do his bidding, but…<span lang="DE" style="mso-ansi-language: DE;">Ah, Miss </span><span lang="IT" style="mso-ansi-language: IT;">Lucatello</span>, you haven’t even touched your
lunch.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“I won’t starve, and I
will feel so much better being out of your presence.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;">[overvoice]</span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
She leaves with a swish
of her dress’s skirt but not before stopping at the cashier’s station to pay
her part of the check. I’m impressed. Clever girl. She glances my way once,
undoubtedly to see if I’m going to pursue her with those protestations I threatened
her with earlier. I don’t follow her, because I want to stay behind and
ruminate over what I’ve gleaned from her reaction to my pronouncements, while I
eat her chowder, now quite chilly, and soggy melted cheese sandwich since my
own lunch has been devoured some time before.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span lang="IT" style="mso-ansi-language: IT;">So Lorna </span>Lucatello seduced Robert Ritter
only so far as she needed to in order to get from him what she was required to
know. The puzzle for me is what Vincent Moretti has sent her to find out from
young Ritter. The startled look on her face when I guessed her connection to
Vincent was enough to tell me that her putting the squeeze on Robert was an
assignment only she could do without incurring Ritter’s resistance as I had
done and Vincent was bound to do. Ritter, Senior, had engaged in dirty
bicycling trades, but something big enough to free him from immunity had
transpired with Chief Gilligan. What had it been? Could Papa Ritter have
inadvertently seen something while at Leonard’s shop that he used for clemency
when times got nasty? Did he see Leonard’s chop shop operation either by
mistake or by Leonard’s own misjudgment, asking the older man if he wanted a
take for providing cover or for some kind of engagement in it? Made sense. It
hasn’t escaped me that old man Ritter’s business may’ve been covering for some
laundering for the Morettis as well, finding hidden refuge in numbers at
Thomas-Jerome Accounting.<b> </b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A
sketchy scenario is coming together, but the largest piece’s left missing. Even
if Ritter Junior knew what his dad found out, unless he’s actively engaged in
some way with the mob now, his knowing doesn’t go anywhere, because the threat
of telling, of remaining silent, is no longer necessary. The chop shop is dead.
At least it is in Tutterton. Continual monitoring since the incident shows no
signs of any reactivation of that illegal business, so Lorna <span lang="IT" style="mso-ansi-language: IT;">Lucatello</span> is plying boy Ritter for
something beyond what had transpired earlier, and it involves either drugs or
laundering or both. I was sure of it. It’s what the Mafia does best. But
whatever it is, one thing is certain, Robert Ritter gave <span lang="IT" style="mso-ansi-language: IT;">Lucatello</span> the answer she needed, and it was
something that no longer puts him in danger, because he’s been dropped in no
uncertain terms, and he hasn’t been harmed. It’s been long enough now so that
whatever might’ve targeted Ritter earlier is no longer a bother to the
Morettis. It’s time to pay Ritter another visit.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>[janging
of a bell, opening and closing of a door]</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh,
it’s you.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“So
‘tis. Just had lunch with Lorna <span lang="IT" style="mso-ansi-language: IT;">Lucatello</span>,
and she tells me that despite your brief affair…”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“She
didn’t say that. You’re lying.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
meant your brief engagement…oh, there I go again. These words have broader
meanings, Robert. What I mean to say is that she told me despite your brief and
close <i>friendship</i>, you have not corresponded much of late, except for
business transactions.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“That’s
all it ever was. I told you that.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh,
I think it was a bit more than that, at least for you. You two were seen in an
intimate embrace in the park, well, it was some time ago, but you did have a
brief intimacy, wouldn’t that be fair to say? You were <i>seen</i>, Robert. So
this must be true.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
assure you, feelings were not as they appeared.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Okay.
I know now she asked you some questions during this time of closeness you had with
her. She suggested these inquiries were of a non-substantial nature, but I
rather doubt this. Your shop has had some problems in the past, with a related
case pending, as I told you, that may suggest some present ties, however
inadvertent, unintended. So now’s the time, Robert, to let me know if there are
still any old dangling connections that you need to untie before they get too
entangled to do so.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
haven’t a clue as to what you’re talking about.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Looks
like we’re back to peg one then, Robert. Simply tell me what Lorna <span lang="IT" style="mso-ansi-language: IT;">Lucatello</span> was asking you during
your little whatever it was, and if you’re innocent of any wrongdoing, I’m
outta here. Whether you believe me or not, I can help you should these Mafia
guys start giving you trouble over something you truly can’t give them. I can
provide protection in ways that might surprise you. For example, I can offer
surveillance and can even hide you if necessary. I don’t think it’ll come to
that, especially if I find out enough to get ahead of their game on this. I
already know a lot, I mean a lot, about the whole chop shop operation and who
was involved, how and even why. It’s as I told you before, you level with me,
I’ll level with you. I’ll watch your back, Robert. That I can promise you.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>[overvoice]</span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
see what I’m saying is working its magic. I watch his face carefully and know
the moment I have him. He looks up with determination in his eyes and says,</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“She wanted to know if I
knew anything about the places that were hot spots in the automobile heists and
what kind of delivery routes were used to get the parts to Leonard Vlamos’
basement operation and those used to distribute them, ship them out of the
country even. She was very clever how she asked me, but it didn’t take long for
her to get to her point. I saw pretty quick what she was doing. She’d say thing
like, ‘I don’t understand why they chose Tutterton for their distribution. I
mean, it’s nowhereville, for certain. I’d think it was hard to get the
automobiles in and out of a tiny place like this without being detected.” She’d
come at me like that, like she was trying to figure out how in the world the
whole thing worked so I’d inform her about how it did—you know, like I knew. I
mean, Detective, she’s a smart lady, I mean, <i>real smart</i>, especially about
books and all kinds of business things. There’s no way after a while I couldn’t
see she was trying to get to how much I knew about the operation.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“So what did you tell
her?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Well, I wanted to know
as much about why she was trying to find out from me what she was, as the kind
of information she wanted. But since she wanted to know so bad, I tried to
string her along. I was taken with her like crazy at first, but when she got
close and kissed me, I don’t know, I really didn’t trust it. It’s how she did it.
There was calculation in it. She was syrupy sweet for one thing, and it wasn’t
her nature. She’s too smart and sassy when she wants to be. It’s what I liked
about her on the phone, well, and then when we met, because along with it,
she’s so pretty and sexy.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Okay, Robert, I get it.
But what she wanted from you is the real business here.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Yeah, I know. [pause] I used my head. I told
her I hadn’t a clue about any of what she was asking, which I didn’<span lang="FR" style="mso-ansi-language: FR;">t, don</span>’t, anyway not most of it. I
couldn’t figure out why she wanted to know stuff about the operation that’d
been dead since Leonard and his buddies went to prison, so I asked. She said it
was follow-through. She wouldn’t say more than that. It’s when I started
backing off, Detective. Lorna <span lang="IT" style="mso-ansi-language: IT;">Lucatello</span>
knows a lot more than she lets on, and personally, I think this has put her in
a horrible position. I’m afraid for her, really I am, but I don’t want to be
involved with the people around her any more than I have to, not since she
started asking so many questions I didn’t know the answers to.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“The
Mafia, you mean?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah,
those guys. They’re not the kinda people who listen to whether you’re telling
the truth or not. They’re interested in whether <i>they think</i> what you’re
telling them <i>sounds like</i> the truth.” [pause] Detective Weir, from her
questions, I got the idea that the people at the top, those that didn’t get
caught, were asking her to come around and find out how much I know because
they’re worried about anybody out here who might help the police trace <i>anything</i>
back to them.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“That’s
a good deduction, Robert. So what do you think she was fishing for exactly?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
think it was about what I might have picked up from dad, and I do know
something about that, but I didn’t tell her, at least, I wasn’t so far gone on
her that I couldn’t keep my head on that one.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“And
what from your dad do you know, Robert?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“He
saw something he wasn’t supposed to. He told me before he died, because, he
said, I was going to take over the business, become the man of the family, take
care of Mother and all. In some way, I got the feeling he wanted me to know in
case…well, in case something came up just like this—you know, like with
Lorna—is what I think.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>[sighs]“What
did he see?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“The
distribution basement of Leonard Vlamos’ whole operation. And once he saw
it—how big it was and the kinda items there—and that Leonard knew he’d seen it,
Vlamos offered dad a cut, but Dad turned it down. It was a risk he said he was
willing to take, saying no. He was very worried about that, but Leonard got
caught before it came to anything, and dad used what he saw and what Leonard
told him to get himself out of a jam with the stolen bicycle racket he got
himself into, which, by the way, he was ashamed of. He did it for Mother, her
medical bills. He was a decent man who lost his way, he told me. And he said,
he was telling me this as an admonishment. You gotta know this by now, sir.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes,
well, I didn’t know its precise nature, but like you say, this is old, old
information.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
know. I kept asking Lorna what she wanted from me. I didn’t have anything more
than the police about all this. She finally gave up.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
see. Can you remember anything out of the ordinary that she asked, anything at
all that didn’t fit into the questions about the chop shop business?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“<span lang="IT" style="mso-ansi-language: IT;">No. I</span>’ve thought and thought about
it. She asked about the hot spots, you know, where the automobiles were taken
and hidden away for dismantlement, and then the distribution and shipping
routes, that’s about it, which I don’t know anything about at all, and I don’t
think Dad did either, because when he was telling me what he knew, I think he
wouldn’t told me.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well,
okay then, Robert. You have been very helpful, even though it may not seem so.
These things have a way of working their way out, but it takes time. I’ll keep
in touch, and if anything, anything at all snags your attention, give me a
call, okay?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes,
sir, I will. And thank you.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No,
Robert. I thank you.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>[footsteps]</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh,
sir.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>[footsteps
stop]</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes
Robert?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
just remembered. She asked me if I knew a John Masterson. I haven’t any idea
who that is and told her so.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>[footsteps
back to Robert]</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“When
did she ask you this?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Right
toward the end, the end of when…when I was seeing her—if you can even call it
that. It was after I’d told her what I knew about the chop shop operation,
about Vlamos’ distribution basement, stuff she already knew.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“And
you’re sure you don’t know who he is?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’ve
never heard of him, sir.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Thank
you, Robert. If you remember anything else like this, please let me know.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Who
is he, sir? Is he one of them…you know, Mafia guys.?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Nobody
you need to know. Don’t give it another thought. I got this one, okay?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“If
you say so.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Under
wraps, you understand?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes,
sir. But I’d like to add this, Detective. Before, the last visit, when you
threatened me with exposure of illegitimate goods in my shop, and I didn’t deny
it, I didn’t because I don’t need the notice from the police and from the
courts. I’ve worked so hard to get this shop in the black financially since our
troubles. I’ve done it for Dad and for his love for my Mother. I’m an honest
businessman. If you ever want to search anywhere on these premises, that’s
fine, you can do that with a warrant, because I look out for myself proper now,
but I’m not dishonest. You’ll have to forgive me for not trusting. Lorna <span lang="IT" style="mso-ansi-language: IT;">Lucatello</span> just about did me in in
that department.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m
hearing you, Robert. From now on, as I told you before, I will respect you to
the degree you do me, okay?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes,
sir.” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>[overvoice]<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When
I’m back at the station, I think about calling Lorna <span lang="IT" style="mso-ansi-language: IT;">Lucatello</span> and putting the squeeze on her,
but I receive a call from the Jersey City police department before I have a
chance. After Lieutenant Serge Koslofsky introduces<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>himself, he informs me that John Masterson
has been found dead in one of his delivery yards only a couple of hours ago—his
wallet still in his pocket. That’s how they knew who he was. He has been beaten
to death with a crowbar, left on the scene but undoubtedly by a gloved hand,
and his throat slit from ear to ear, the knife gone. The most telling feature
of the murder, however, is that the fingers of both of his hands have been
severed from the knuckles and are missing. The injuries are so massive that
only his teeth will be able to make his identity positively known for the
coroner’s report. Fingers missing is the traditional signal of a miscreant’s
taking something the mob considers their property.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
ask the Lieutenant why he decided to make the call to me before the papers
broke the news. I hadn’t known anybody in Jersey City was aware of my having
questioned John Masterson. He says that Masterson was being watched by the JCPD
since the Leonard Vlamos conviction, because Masterson had worked with Vlamos
and Vlamos had been connected to low-level mobsters. Since one of the hot spots
for auto theft had been Jersey City, my chief and his had begun trading
information on the activities of those who were involved and suspected in the
chop shop operation in the hopes of a lead to the top. Since Masterson was
being monitored, they knew I’d questioned him recently, so Tutterton’s Chief
Gilligan had kept Jersey City’s Chief Lanahan informed of that fact, before I’d
even arrived to speak with Masterson. I take note that I need to watch my
maverick behavior more carefully since it seems Gilligan is following me closer
than I thought he was. I naturally wonder who his watchman might be in our
department. Nicky Marks comes to mind, but I’d lay bets he’s my solid-as-a-rock
partner. Whoever it is, I’ll be on the lookout for him from now on.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>After
I hang up, I call Leda Vlamos and inform her of the Masterson killing. I figure
she’ll see it in <i>The</i> <i>Beacon</i> tomorrow morning, but I want her
informed in case she receives some call either from Leonard, one of his
connections or the people who’ve been threatening her with calls and
conspicuous stake outs. Before consulting with Chief Gilligan—I doubt now he’ll
argue with me on this—I promise her that a patrol car will be on surveillance
at her home within the hour and will continue to be there around the clock. If
the black sedan continues to show up, I reassure her, the driver will be
approached by a patrolman. She tells me she is relieved, but there is a
detachment in her tone that surprises me. When I inquire if she’s all right,
she gives me a thumb up, and I decide to leave it at that, with a note to check
in with her early tomorrow.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Glancing
at the clock, I see that I only have time for a quick shower and change of
clothes before I picked up Charmaine for dinner and a possible movie.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
[tinkling piano music in
the background, and restaurant sounds, people talking etc.]</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“This
is lovely, Crandall. Thank you.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“The
drive to Jersey City was worth it, don’t you think? It’s my pleasure,
Charmaine. Please order anything you’d like.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No
fish and chips? Corn beef and hash?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“<span lang="IT" style="mso-ansi-language: IT;">Outta luck, </span>‘fraid. The bass looks
good or maybe the filet mignon? How brave do you want to be? They have some
French items on the other side of the menu, escargot for starters and
beef…well, I don’t know French well enough to say, so we’ll have to resort to
pointing if those are our choices.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Have
you ever had snails?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“’Fraid
not. I’m a diner kinda guy, as you well know. And I don’t venture far from my
usual even there. I’ll be ordering from the American side of the menu, the
t-bone, rare.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“With
the mashed potatoes, gravy and carrots and peas, am I right?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“’Fraid
so.” [laughter]</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“The
bass does sound good and a baked potato with the works and the green beans.
I’ll make up for the predictable fare with a fancy dessert.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>[overvoice]</span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>After
the waitress takes our order, I ask Charmaine about her day and she asks me
about mine. Then I say,</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
have only one question from my work today, if that’s okay.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Only
one? Can you hold to that?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’ll
hold it to the limit, promise.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Okay,
if that promise means we don’t spend the evening solving a mystery.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Understood.
Did Leonard Vlamos ever come to the diner with anybody else?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Like
his wife?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well,
yes, but that would surprise me. I was thinking more along the lines of a
business associate.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Somebody
from out of town who I wouldn’t know?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes,
exactly.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“His
wife never accompanied him. Except for the photograph in the paper, I haven’t
seen her, and the photograph was so grainy, I doubt that I could identify her
in real life from it. The few times Leonard Vlamos came to the diner, he was
never with a woman. When he did show up, he was usually with some fellows that
I took to be drivers from the hats they wore and their uniforms. Truckers. You
know, delivery guys. One I remember in particular, because when Leonard stopped
delivering Crafty Bread products at the diner—I think around when he started his
bike shop—this fellow took over. In fact, he delivered to us until about…oh,
I’d say, a year ago.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Can
you describe him?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Sure.
I remember him especially because he was unusual looking, kinda a big-little
man, if that makes sense, with a red beard and hair. Beards are unusual, not
many men wear them. The clean-shaven look is all the rage, with a close cut,
unless you’re ivy league and, well, there’s that swooping pompadour thing
coming in now with the young kids. I’m surprised the bread company allowed this
guy to wear a beard though, since he delivered edible goods, you know. Anyway,
he had the most beautiful, clear blue eyes. He had a way of looking right at
you and not looking away.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well,
I can understand that. [pause, her light laughter and thanks] This’s very
helpful, Charmaine. Thanks a lot. I’d like for you to do me a favor. When <i>The
Beacon</i> comes out tomorrow morning, take a look at a picture of a man I
think you’ll recognize as him in there. I’m not sure it will show up on <i>The
Beacon</i>’s front page, but there’s bound to be an article about him
somewhere, especially since he made deliveries here in town. You know, he did
that with Leonard prior to your coming to Tutterton, I think, or just around
when you first got here. When was that?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Seven years ago. I
thought you knew that.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“I did, I did, it just
slipped my mind. Listen, if I don’t make it to lunch tomorrow, give me a call
at the station and let me know if he’s the fellow you’re talking about, will
you? I’m sure it is, but I’d like positive confirmation. Do you remember
anything you might have overheard or simply heard while serving them?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh,
I doubt it, since it was some time ago. Like I say, he stopped delivering about
the same time that Leonard went to prison, when I stop and think about it. I
doubt I’ll remember anything, but if seeing his picture jogs some memory, I’ll
let you know, of course. Did this guy meet a questionable end or get arrested
too? Is that why he might show up in the paper?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“No question about it,
Charmaine. His end was final to an astonishing degree. But enough about
business. I see our dinners are coming. [in a snooty, exaggerated poorly
executed French accent] Let’s finish off this bottle and maybe another and then
go to the movies reeking of a splendid imported white Bordeaux.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
[laughter to fade]</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;">[overvoice]</span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
I’m astonished by what
Charmaine’s told me. So if Vlamos was in the diner with Masterson so close to
Leonard’s arrest, what would they’ve been doing at a time when Masterson had
told me he was off Leonard like a dirty shirt? If Leda was right—and there had
been no proof of this during Leonard’<span lang="IT" style="mso-ansi-language: IT;">s inquest</span>—Leonard and Masterson had a scheme of hyping the sales to
get a higher percentage of the profits at Crafty Bread until Leda pulled
Leonard out of that nasty set-up. Undoubtedly at their diner visit, these two
were up to no good, but they didn’t seem to mind being seen together. At the
time of Leonard’s arrest, Masterson had been questioned extensively and so had
Rubis, and both had come up smelling like Chanel No. 5. Masterson had been
questioned by the Jersey City police while Rubis had been queried in Tutterton.
And although it was a concerted effort with dispositions, transcripts and
reports being exchanged, I never trusted the coordinated arrangement for
interdepartmental investigations, especial ones that could become this unwieldy
and have territorial loyalties almost always playing a part in the information
exchange. I made a quick mental note to dig through the files and take a look
again at the JCPD report of the Masterson questioning.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center;">
4.</div>
<div align="center" class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
[overvoice]<br />
The following morning, I
receive a visit from Officer Patrick Daly who’d been watching Leda Vlamos’
house. He said his night duty had remained very quiet until around three o’clock
in the morning, when he noted a small light in the garage. He went to
investigate but found nothing untoward, thinking the light might have been a
reflection from the street lamp down the street on the garage windows. The car
was in the garage, the house dark except for a small night light in the kitchen
which he’d been informed about by Mrs. Vlamos during his initial interview with
her. But as he was getting ready to pass the stakeout to Officer Daniel Gryka
in the morning, she came out and informed them that she was leaving for the day
and wouldn’t be back until very late. Daly’d passed that information on to the
chief who determined that since Leda was to be out for the day, Gryka would
work at the station and Daly would pick up his night watch at the regular time,
midnight. But when he, Daly, had gone to the house for surveillance, the car
wasn’t there, and she didn’t answer her door. He’d sent in a routine report
after his inspection of the house and garage at three a.m., but when she still
hadn’t returned at the end of his shift, he felt he must let me know.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
I thank Daly, telling
him to hold all surveillance, only doing two hour drivebys, until we locate
where Leda is. I inform the chief who tells me to activate an APB and follow
protocol, which is to stay vigilant for forty-eight hours before beginning a
formal search. I call her immediately without any luck, and when she doesn’t
answer her phone off and on through the morning, I determine to check out the
Vlamos residence myself. </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
After an early lunch,
during which Charmaine confirms the picture in the paper to be John Masterson
who was in the diner with Leonard Vlamos when she saw them together, I drive
out to Royal Hills Road to check out the house. The black stakeout sedan isn’t
anywhere in sight, and her car is still gone. When I knock on her door, there’s
no answer. I attempt to look in the windows, but Leda has seen to it that no
peeping tom, mob-affiliated or otherwise, is going to get a look at her
whereabouts inside. I check all doors and windows which are firmly locked. I’m
becoming deeply concerned as her stalkers may’ve made contact with her when
she’s been out without her patrol. I kick myself for not having her monitored
outside her home, but the chances of her being attacked while shopping or with
her friends during cards and coffee seemed slim to nil, and she’s told me that
she never saw or heard anybody tailing her while she’s been out and about. Back
at the station, I put an APB out on her and her automobile, as the chief
instructed, and wait for reports to come in. </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
At 4: 30 in the
afternoon, Officer Daly gives me a call from his unit. </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“<span lang="DE" style="mso-ansi-language: DE;">Officer Weir, we</span>’ve located her automobile.
A farmer north of Tutterton opened his barn to find it sitting inside and used
his party line to contact station’s emergency. It took him awhile, but he
followed-through and for that we’<span lang="IT" style="mso-ansi-language: IT;">re
lucky. It</span>’s located a mile north…”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“…of the city limit sign
on County Road number 10.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“How did you know?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“It’s a long story,
Officer. Tell the search unit to stay put until I arrive. Is there any
indication of foul play?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“The passenger window
was open so we had easy access to the interior. All we’ve found on first
go-through is the open glove box and its contents spilled out all over the
passenger seat and floor. It looks like whoever was in the passenger seat had
been sitting and stepping on the papers strewn about. Detective Marks thinks
whoever forced her to drive here or drove himself, went through the glove
compartment in search of a gun or anything that could be used as a weapon
before they started driving, to make sure there wasn’t any problem should she
get control of the situation somehow. Everything else appears above suspicion.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;">[overvoice]</span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
We sign off, and I siren
and flash my way to the barn located where the note indicated in the letter
Leda received eighteen months ago about the exchange of Leonard’s personal
goods. Once on site, after a thorough search through the car inside and out—the
farmer and his wife standing off to the side taking in one of the most exciting
episodes of their lives—a tow truck from, of all places, Roadside Motor
Repairs<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>takes Leda’s vehicle to the
police impoundment yard. I thank the Almighty that Niles Rubis isn’t the
driver. The last thing I want is anybody close to the Vlamoses, past or
present, pushing information through their grapevines.</div>
<div align="center" class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center;">
____________</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span><br />
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>[overvoice]</span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
Back at the station,
Nicky Marks and I spend some time going over the evidence concerning Leda’s
disappearance without coming up with a scenario that fits what we know. Marks
then leaves to end his day, and I’m on my way out the door when the telephone
rings on my desk, and I almost decide to not answer it. I’m dead tired and need
a reprieve from the Vlamos case, but glancing at the clock, I note it’s 8:07
and a call coming in this late, almost certainly indicates urgency.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I pick up, a raspy, feather-whisper voice
is at the other end,</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“<span lang="DE" style="mso-ansi-language: DE;">Officer Weir?</span>”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“<span lang="PT" style="mso-ansi-language: PT;">Yes.</span>”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Leonard Vlamos here.
Come visit me now or my life’s not worth a plug nickel.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;">[overvoice]</span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
Before I can respond, he
hangs up. I stand staring at the phone. I can’t help but recall a similar
declaration from his wife less than a week ago.<b> </b>Just when I think things
can’t get worse, they have.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center;">
____________</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<br />
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;">[overvoice] </span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
The next morning, early,
even before Rose Marie, the chief’s secretary, arrives, I leave notification
with our dispatcher, Sami Joyce, where I’m headed and instructions to forward
the message on to Rose Marie when she arrives at her desk who should forward it
on to Chief Gilligan. In this message I have described Leonard Vlamos’
desperate call and requested the chief contact the warden to allow Leonard to
talk freely with me without time constraint, siting Vlamos’ willingness to
cooperate in a pending case. I say all this without actually using the word
‘informant’ which may not be the healthiest term to have passed around in a
prison through secretaries and guards.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
I drive car 3 toward
Manhattan, crossing the George Washington Bridge, then taking the Third Avenue
Bridge into the Bronx and on to ferry point to Rikers. The entire trip from
Tutterton to the prison is a couple of hours unless the ferry carries less than
normal crowds, and today I’m lucky. A bus carries me to Leonard Vlamos’ unit and
after my assigned guard unlocks and relocks three doors, I sit in a large
conference room with four guards, one standing against each wall. Prisoners sit
and talk to family or what I take to be lawyers. Leonard is brought to my table
in handcuffs which are unlocked when he sits down opposite me. He has on a
green shirt with stenciled numbers running across the left side—actually, over
his heart—and matching trousers without pockets or belt. His haircut is almost
stylish, clipped close to the ears but enough on top to comb. He’s lost weight
and looks like he’s gained some muscle tone. His shoes are black, highly
buffed, with ties. He sits down across from me on his bolted-to-the-floor
chair, nervous as a cat. He glances furtively my way, then his eyes dart off to
the side toward the guard and back on me again. His whisper is barely audible.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“I didn’t know if you’d
show up.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“I left word.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Well, that don’t mean
nothin’ ‘round here.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“My word is my bond.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Bond. I like that.
Nobody posted me any when I needed it, keeping me in jail and then parading me
in and outta court before you could say scat. But that’s back then. It’s now
I’m worried about.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;">[overvoice]</span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
I notice immediately the
difference in articulation, tone and style, between Leonard and Leda Vlamos. Leda
sounds downright educated by comparison. Perhaps that’s the actual
difference—Leda’s friends at church and in charities have encouraged her
reading and learning, while Leonard’s associates, especially in prison, have
lead him in a streetwise direction. </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“You have to speak up,
Mr. Vlamos. I can hardly hear you.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Okay, okay. I’m in
trouble, Weir, deep trouble and I got no way outta it, in here like I am.
Vinnie’s gonna do me like Masterson, I’m telling ya, and soon it’ll be too, I
can guarantee, in the shower, or at night in my cell, he’s got all kinda ways,
him and his henchmen.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“What’s the trouble? And
I’m <i>Detective</i><span lang="PT" style="mso-ansi-language: PT;"> Weir, Mr.
Vlamos.</span>”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Fine, I can do dat. But
you gotta help me, cause he’s got me cornered, you understand what I’m sayin’?
I gave him some of what he came for but kept what I could. He’s comin’ back,
now that he did Masterson, and if I don’t give him the rest, just hang me on a
hook, ‘cause I’m dead meat.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“You’re talking about
Vincent Moretti?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Who else?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“What does he want?
What’d you tell him to keep him at bay?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“I wrote Leda, but she
don’t answer, nothing. And she’s the one that can help. I tried calling her but
no answer there either. I’m on good behavior, that’s why the green outfit, so I
can use the phone twice a week. But Vinnie don’t get what he wants, she’s in
trouble with me, you gettin’ what I’m sayin’ now?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“What did Masterson have
to do with this trouble you’re in?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Vinnie beat Masterson
to get his, and now, Vinnie’s comin’ back to get mine. It’s all gonna be in
what Masterson told him. In my case, it’s not drugs, but Masterson don’t know
that, see? [pause] I put mine in an account so they couldn’t get to it, but
Masterson, well, he kept pushing the bread routes and now he’s dead for it. I
told him. I kept telling him that ‘nough was ‘nough, but he wouldn’t listen.
They tore his trucks apart, I’m tellin’ ya, and if they did, they found heroin,
in the walls, you understand?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They
hammered it outta him, what they got. I seen the papers. They let me read in
here.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“So you have a hidden
stash too, that what you’re telling me?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“No. Not drugs. I got
all-a-mine in an account, like I told ya.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Money, then.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Yeah, yeah.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“So you earned it
through drugs, and put the profits in a hidden account. And you’re telling me
this because?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Well naturally, I don’t
wanna lose it. It’s why I tried to get ahold of Leda. But at this point, it’s
no good to me dead. I want you to get to ‘em before they do me and maybe Leda
too, because she’s part of it, without knowing, you hear what I’m sayin’?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“And how’s that, Mr.
Vlamos?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“When I quit with
Masterson, I took ever’thing I’d made my share along the way—I<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>had it hid good in the basement—and I added
some from the chop shop revenues, and put it all into an account in Manhattan’s
Merchants and Traders Bank, like I keep sayin’, but in order that the mob guys
wouldn’t know it’<span lang="DA" style="mso-ansi-language: DA;">s mine</span>—should
they ever pursue me, as they’re doin’ now—I put it in Leda’s maiden name.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“But surely they know
your wife’s name, Mr. Vlamos.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“No, they don’t, didn’t,
naw. They’d never guess that. Their women aren’t into their doings. They know
‘Leda’ maybe—Greeks got enough of Ledas—but not Bella which is so lucky,
because it sounds Italian and not Greek, you see?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“I’m not following here,
Mr. Vlamos. That all sounds very <i>crafty</i>—I pause here to see if the pun
soaks in, and it doesn’t, so I go on—except how can you get to your money if
it’s in your wife’s maiden name without yours attached to it? Is she in on it?
And how did you get the account established without her help?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Oh no, she don’t know
nothin’. She did so many forms with the accounting, and I just had her fill out
and sign stuff all the time—her signature is good for that, in both her names,
I seen to it, as my accountant, she’s certified—and so I slipped the filled-out
bank forms to her, this I done while holding ‘em see, sayin’ I’s in a hurry
with these particular ones, hiding her name so she couldn’t see…”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Wait a minute. She
signed her maiden name? Why would she do that?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Because I tell her to.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Didn’t she wonder?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“On this, she said, why,
and I told her there’re times when banks and the government and such want the
real signatures backing up the married ones. I got her birth certificate for
stuff too. I can do that as her husband, you know. She don’t know nothin’ about
IRS, bank accounts and all that, how it’s done, not exactly. She just knows
about the forms, and not even that very good. She just does what I ask her to,
me givin’ her the reasons why that she believes. So anyhow, I intended to have
her sign the same way later to get to the money out, but when the chop shop
operation folded, and I got in here, I couldn’t do that, see? The money’s
sitting in there unclaimed, and she don’t know even.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Uh-huh. Which you
intended all along. To use her toward your own selfish end.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Well, she’s not so bad
off. She got a place to live, got enough to live on. I needed insurance with
what I’s doing. After I get outta here, where am I goin’, nowhere’s where. I
wasn’t gonna leave her in the lurch. Before the divorce thing, I’s gonna have
her come with me, and we was gonna find another place. But that’s all gone down
the drain now. I just wanna keep myself, and her too if possible, from getting
killed.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“So how much money are
we talking about?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Seventy-three thousand
and four hundred-sixty-five.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“That’s a lot of
unclaimed money.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“It’s killin’ <span lang="IT" style="mso-ansi-language: IT;">me.</span>”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Uh-huh. My sympathies
for your loss, Mr. Vlamos.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>[pause] “So
what about all those phony phone calls to try and get your wife to cough up
what you left behind?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“I’s mad, that’s all.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“So who did you get to
do your dirty pick-up-in-the-barn work for you?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“She told you about
that? [pause] I knew this guy in here who got out and was willing to pay back a
favor. Some luck, him coming from the same place that we did, huh? He lived in
Wellington, worked on this farm in Tutterton. Don’t matter, she didn’t do it
anyway. It wouldn’t a got me nothin’ but satisfaction. The stuff could sit in
the barn and rot or he could sell it, I told Harvey. [pause] She dropped me
like a hot potato. What was I supposed to do, in here, festerin’ away? I needed
her help, and she was taking off, leaving me behind. She filed for divorce, you
know dat? On some flimsy criminal charge or something for wayward husbands. I
don’t think she can do it, but she’s gonna try, she says.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“What I know is that your wife is in much the
same pickle that you are right now, Mr. Vlamos. We’ve had to put her under
continual surveillance. She’s received threatening phone calls, and she’s had
stake outs in front of the house for days now. What did you give Vinnie to get
him off your butt and onto hers?"</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
[long pause] “I gave him
Masterson to get him off me. John uses his bread routes for them, handing over
the drugs at distribution points along his deliveries, but he cuts it, the
heroin, and stashes the purer stuff he skims off the top, hidin’ it inside his
truck’s walls and then delivers to points on his own—he’s got operations all
the way to the Mississippi for the mob, but also for himself.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Doesn’t the mob check
on the purity of their heroin and their delivery people for just this reason?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“<span lang="IT" style="mso-ansi-language: IT;">Sure. It</span>’s the point I was making with him.
You do what he’s doin’ with little amounts over time, they might not get it,
especially if you cut it after they’ve done an inspection, you know? But it’s like
the auto heist thing, he went too big, too fast, and we got caught. They were
gonna get him sooner rather than later, I just figured I’d use it while I
could, puttin’ them onto him. Buying me some time. But it’s run out.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“I’m overcome, Mr.
Vlamos. So I’m your last resort.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“S’about it, yeah.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“And you sicced them on
your wife as well.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“I don’t know anything
about that, no, serious. I knew they’d get onto me after Masterson, unless they
saw my telling ‘em about him as a favor, and I could convince ‘em I wasn’t
doing what he was, but I don’t know nothing about their riding her. She’s my
insurance, the one who can help me out with the account. Why would I give her
over to them? Besides, she’s my wife. That means something.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Yeah, I see that, to
use as you see fit.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Well, you can see it as
you want. Me and Leda had this agreement about my work— that it was me doing
the shop stuff and her doing the paperwork—and it was okay until I got caught.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Did you tell anybody
else about the account? Or what Leda’s maiden name was?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Nobody. Her name
especially after I opened the account, absolutely nobody. [pause] Masterson
didn’t even know about my account though he knew about my taking my share after
sale deliveries. And it don’t take no Einstein. He has to put his money
somewhere too, you know, but where mine’s at and how I done it, he’s got no
idea.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Masterson was angry
when I talked to him, about you leaving him to go work for Rubis, especially
without notice.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Ah, that was an act of
his, to throw you off, so you wouldn’t see we was connected still, you know,
when he got cleared and I was busted. He didn’t want you to know we still had
contact because of the chop shop. Him loading for deliveries, you know?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“But wasn’t he concerned
I’d find out about you two at the diner together and see he was lying to me?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“You know about the
diner meeting, huh? Well, he was desperate toward the last. He was over his
head with the mob, them getting’ closer and closer with their suspicions. He
wanted me to hide his drugs in my basement with the parts—in the walls, until
it eased up for him—but I wouldn’t do it.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Wasn’t it taking a
chance being seen together, in case one of you got caught? And by somebody who
knew Leda if nothing else. You were supposed to stay clear of this guy.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Sure, I told him that,
but he called it ‘normalizing,’ you know, acting normal, like hiding right
under ever’body’<span lang="PT" style="mso-ansi-language: PT;">s noses.</span>”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“So he picked up auto
parts in this normalizing way?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Yeah, well, kinda. He’d come on Saturday’s a
lot for those, in unmarked trucks and<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>work uniforms that the mob guys got him for that, fixing it so it looked
like he was just a guy delivering stuff to my business. He’d hide his beard
behind high collars and kerchiefs. I never could get him to shave it off, crazy
bastard. Anyway, he’d take quite a bit of stock when he came so he didn’t have
ta come so often. He never picked up stuff on the sly-like, always out in the
open.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“So he supplied to point
men along his bread routes, you say, both drugs and auto parts?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Yeah, with both, once
the auto heist thing got started. This was a mob-run outfit all ‘round, except
for my bike shop, and I got into that during the war, and then after Rubis was
gone, it was mainly for cover. But how Masterson kept ever’thing straight, I’ll
never know. He had boxes of bread products, auto parts and drugs all in his
trucks together, looking alike, far as I could tell. And he never got ‘em mixed
up that I ever heard. How he did it with his truckers, you’ll have to ask him,
‘cause I dunno.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“So what do you want me to do for you, Mr.
Vlamos? I appreciate the heads-up, but I don’t know quite what I can do to help
you in here.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“I want you to get to my
bank account before…”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Leda’s account.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Okay, the account in
Leda’s name, if you wanna say it like that. I want you to be there if they try
to come for it.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Surely you know I can’t
put constant surveillance on the bank, Mr. Vlamos.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“But you can let the
bank manager, or whoever needs to know, that somebody other than my wife might
try to get the money—I’m talking with fake papers, the mob boys are good at
that…”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Well, sounds to me like
you had your own version of that one, Mr. Vlamos.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Okay, I got that
comin’, maybe, but these guys’re experts. So if they should try, the bank
shouldn’t give them the money without my wife being with them, in person, and
even then, you should be called before the money is handed over to her.”
[pause] “Leda might come by herself, with them hanging in the wings, forcing
her, if they found out I had an account like from Masterson when they
threatened to pound him to death, which they done anyway, see what I mean?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Mr. Vlamos, you messed
with these boys for years, so how do you think they knew about Leda before they
killed Masterson?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“I think he done what I
did, Detective. John worked with these guys for years too, even before me. At
first, I think they listened to him, gave him some slack. He’s head honcho
delivery guy for them, knows the routes over a huge territory, well-established
and getting bigger. He had a big hand in gettin’ all those routes goin’. And I
think when they asked about me, after I got caught, he gave them what he knew
in pieces—I had an extra account somewhere, he told ‘em, you see? From skimming
their auto parts business, he said. He didn’t know where but since Leda did my
paperwork, maybe they could get it from her. You know, it’s always smart to
accuse the other guy ‘bout what you’re doing yourself, especially if they think
you’re onna them.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“So they took what he
told ‘em, and with what you’re telling me now, I think they thought they’d
scare Leda into telling them without killing her. They don’t want no attention
drawn to themselves, not any more than necessary. The less killin’ the better
for the time bein’, I’d think, or the police’re gonna start looking again,
harder this time, at the auto heist operation that could lead to the drug
routes, you gettin’ this?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Sure. But why did they
think she wouldn’t go to the police for protection?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“The way these guys think,
they thought she was part of it with me, probably. Or maybe that’s what
Masterson told ‘em he thought. So if they tried shaking her up a little bit,
without any real harmful action, she might give up the information, thinkin’
she’d save herself.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“I’m having a hard time
thinking they wouldn’t believe she’d run when they started putting the pressure
on.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Thing is, it takes a
little bit to figure it all out, you know? It’s why Masterson got away with it
as long as he did. But if they’re watchin’ Leda, any sign of her runnin’,
they’re onto her. ‘Cause they’re watchin’ her, you’re sayin.’’ They got ways
none of us even thought of.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“But if they’re so afraid of being traced to
the top, why kill Masterson?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Maybe they got no
choice, ‘cause of what he done, with all those personal connections of his down
his routes.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Okay, but they can’t
kill all the point guys.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“No, but killing
Masterson like they done, well, it sends a big message, don’t it? I’d go quiet
as a mouse and back into my hole, wouldn’t you?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Yeah, that makes sense.
Well, it’s too late today for me to stop at M&T Bank and talk to the
manager, but with Chief Gilligan’s inside network at NYPD, especially after the
auto heist, I’m sure we can get most of the bank monitoring done over the telephone
sometime tomorrow or the next day. It’s the best I can do.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“It can’t be soon
‘nough. Visiting hours here go until lockdown at night, that’s eight. But I can
refuse visitors which I’ll do unless it’s you or Leda—though there’s small
chance a-that with her now.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“One thing more,
Leonard. Leda isn’t your insurance anymore, because she’s missing. Her car was
found in the barn where you left instructions for the exchange of your goods.
Now, you tell me why I shouldn’t suspect that you were behind this through your
farmer buddy-boy or some such arrangement to get to her, have her listen to
you?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Oh. No, <i>no</i>!
Leda’s <i><span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;">missing</span></i>? If
Harvey done anything for the mob with her, I’ll kill him when I’m out, I swear.
If he helped hurt Leda, there’s no end to what I’ll do to ‘im.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“You suspect your
farm-working buddy helping the mob? This guy got a last name?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“<span lang="DE" style="mso-ansi-language: DE;">Don</span>’t know it. We don’t do that in here,
Detective. He’s Harvey to me.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“I can find out from the
farmer, then.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“It’s doubtful it’ll
mean anything now, Detective. Harvey probably’s not his real name anyhow, and
if he’s behind this, he’s long gone. You’ll spend a lotta time trying to find
him for nothing.’ He’s delivered Leda to the people who’re behind it, and he’s
run like a rabbit. And ‘fore you ask, I haven’t a clue where he’d go. He owed
me a favor, paid it, and that was that. But if he done Leda bad, I’ll find and
fix him. I will.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;">[overvoice]</span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
As I get ready to leave,
I tell Leonard Vlamos I’ll talk to the warden and see if he can be put in
solitary for a while, until we get closer to the killer of Masterson and those
having threatened, and now taken, Leda. I add that it’s going to take time, and
it’s whether he wants to sweat it out in solitary or take his chances with the
shower and his cell at night. He says he doesn’t think he can take the enclosed
space of solitary, not even as scared as he is, so there’s no point in me
seeing the warden. Sometimes that caused more trouble, he says, than if one
takes on the risks from bribed inmates, because the guards, once informed about
giving special attention to an inmate, resent it and take it out on the
prisoners they’re guarding. They see it, he tells me, as inmates telling them
what to do. He makes me promise not to suggest solitary to the warden, even if
things turn against him.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
We say our good-byes,
and I take his hand when he offers it. A guard steps forward quickly, but when
we both show him our empty palms, he nods and walks over casually to put
Leonard Vlamos in handcuffs and lead him toward the door.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
I go to the warden
despite Leonard’s protests and tell him that under no circumstances should
Vincent Moretti be given an opportunity to see Leonard Vlamos, that Vlamos is
helping us with an unsolved murder case, and he needs protection, but that he’s
specifically requested not to be placed in solitary as he’s claustrophobic. The
warden is gracious and very cooperative. He tells me the problem won’t be
Moretti per se, but that connections on the inside are difficult to monitor
given the guard to prisoners ratio. Prisoners can be bought and sold for a pack
of cigarette, chewing gum or a chocolate bar, and that he can restrict visitors
to Vlamos upon his request, but other than this, Vlamos’ protection, without
confinement, is a crap shoot. Warden Packston, of course, doesn’t mention that
the same can be said of some of his guards.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
I use the warden’s phone
to call Chief Gilligan, but Rose Marie informs me that the chief is out of his
office for the day, so the bank monitoring will have to wait until his return.
When I inquire when that will be, she hedges but tells me that she can get any
message to the chief upon urgent request. I tell her I’ll give it thought and
get back to her. It’s a long ride back to the Tutterton, especially since my
radio’s on the blink, and my monotone is upsetting even to my ears.</div>
<div align="center" class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center;">
5.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<br />
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;">[overvoice]<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
The next morning, my
phone is ringing as I walk into the precinct at 9:07. I rush to my desk and
grab the receiver, identifying myself in a gasp. I hear Leonard Vlamos’ grave
voice on the line.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“<span lang="DE" style="mso-ansi-language: DE;">Weir, I</span>’m a goner unless you save me. I got
a box from a guard late last night, an undercover deal. It had two thumbs and
eight fingers in it. I flushed ‘em down the toilet, ‘cause they can’t be found
on me, but the message’s clear. They’<span lang="IT" style="mso-ansi-language: IT;">re comin</span>’ the same as with Masterson if you don’t get to the bank
before they do.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
The line goes dead.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
I glance toward the
chief’s office, the door is closed and the blind still down, but Rose Marie is
at her desk. I hold up my hand and she waves me over.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Chief’s still not in,
if that’s your question.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“When’s do you expect
him?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“He returns Monday
morning, Detective. He’s been at a three-day district meeting in Jersey City,
and he returns to Tutterton on the week-end. He’s asked to not be disturbed,
but if your needs are urgent, I can give him a call or arrange him to call
you.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“No, no. Will he be
checking in with you today?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Always does, to get his
messages. I can give him yours if you like.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Okay, that’ll do. Tell
him to call me at his earliest convenience. It’<span lang="IT" style="mso-ansi-language: IT;">s a matter concerning Leonard Vlamos.</span>”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“That’s V-l-a-m-o-s?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“<span lang="PT" style="mso-ansi-language: PT;">Yes.</span>”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Consider
it done. Anything else?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No,
and thanks, Rose Marie.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Sure
thing.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>[overvoice]</span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
sit at my desk for several minutes before thumbing through my address book
until I find the right number. I lift the phone again and dial Warden Richard
Packston’s number on Rikers Island. [dialing] It takes several tries before his
secretary answers my call. When I ask for the warden, she says he will be out
until Monday morning, and then goes through the same routine that Rose Marie
had given me concerning Chief Gilligan. She does add that the assistant warden
is available, and I hang on the line a second or two before deciding against
going through the entire story with an unknown go-between concerning Leonard’s
case, who may cover himself by putting Leonard in solitary despite his
protests. It isn’t the worst possible solution, but I made Leonard a promise. I
leave a message to have the warden call the first opportunity he has, as the
call is specific and urgent. There are some days when the stars are simply not
aligned in my favor, or in this case Leonard Vlamos’<span lang="PT" style="mso-ansi-language: PT;">s.</span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Since
the chief hasn’t had a chance to contact the manager of M&T, I sit and stew
over my alternatives. For me to contact the manager will mean a prolonged
discussion about the whole Vlamos ordeal, a discussion the chief could master
in less than half the time, given his authority and connections. And I’m not
certain that any of the managers are in their offices on a Saturday. I decide
to wait and see if the chief calls me. If not, I’ll simply have to go through
the complicated request and its attendant story with the manager as soon as I
can make contact.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
clean up old files—the chief’s the only one around here with a secretary—and
order supplies, do the paperwork on the Leda Vlamos surveillance to date, the
recent conversation with Leonard Vlamos in prison and his two calls on the
phone, plus the inspection of Leda’s automobile in the barn and its towing to
the impound yard. By the time I get these typed up and to Rose Marie’s desk,
the clock is inching toward six o’clock.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
regret it, but for Leonard Vlamos it’s a lost day, as neither the chief nor the
warden get back to me before my shift ends. I leave word with our dispatcher,
Sami Joyce, that I will be available on my home telephone line over the
week-end should I receive any calls. I’m hoping for a better day on Monday as I
head for the east side of town to pick Charmaine up for our usual Saturday
night dinner at the Harbor Grill. I don’t glance at myself in the hallway
mirror. I don’t want to know what Charmaine is going to be looking at for the
next four hours.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center;">
____________</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<br />
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;">[overvoice]</span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
Early Monday morning,
after coffee and donuts, I glance toward Rose Marie sitting at her desk in
front of the chief’s still-darkened office. But as I search through my
appointment book for the agenda for the day, the telephone rings and when I
pick up the receiver, before I have a chance to identify myself, a clipped,
near-military command comes over the line, “In my office, please, ASAP.” I look
up to see the chief’s office suddenly ablaze with the blinds somewhat opened to
allow him visibility of his precinct in action but enough privacy for him to
remain invisible to the people he’s observing. As I pass Rose Marie, she gives
me a flicker of a smile, looking down quickly to busy herself with paperwork. </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
Chief Gilligan is behind
his desk, leaning on his elbows, his face resting on his fingers folded in
front of his face. When he sees me, he unfolds them and motions me to close the
door. As I turn toward him again, he waves me to sit down, his face
inscrutable. Clearing his throat, he says, while opening a file, looking down
at it as though reading,</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“When
you saw Leonard Vlamos the other day…”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Counting
this morning, three days ago, sir.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes,
I see that here. How did he seem to you?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m
not sure I understand?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“In
what frame of mind would you say he was?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“He
was anxious, nervous, worried about possible reprisals for actions he’d taken
before and during the automobile-heist-and-parts-distribution operation, sir.
And he called me yesterday in great distress. That’s when I attempted to reach
you through your secretary.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes.
When you saw him, did he ask you for protection?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“He
did. It’s in my report, sir, the one I left with Rose Marie on Friday. I told
Mr. Vlamos that I could see the warden on his behalf and attempt to give him
what protection could be offered. He refused solitary. I saw Warden Packston
before leaving, sir, to inform him of Vlamos’ importance to us concerning an
unsolved murder case and to ask for as much protection as he could provide. He
informed me that this would be very limited unless Mr. Vlamos went to solitary.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes,
I’ve seen that in your report as well.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“When
he called me yesterday in great distress, he gave me no chance to respond. Has
something happen to him, sir.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes.
He has committed suicide, it would appear, with his shirt, during the night in his
cell…”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Who found him, sir? And
at what time?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“The guard who made the
rounds at midnight. The time of death has not been determined precisely, but
I’m sure Warden Packston will inform me as soon as he is told. It had to have
occurred sometime during the hour before he was discovered. It appears that
Vlamos used the top bunker bed post for his self-strangulation, while his
roommate was gone, taken to the infirmary shortly before eleven p.m. The guard
on the floor said nobody came or left Vlamos’ cell at any time, except the
roommate and the guard who escorted him to the infirmary.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“<span lang="ES-TRAD" style="mso-ansi-language: ES-TRAD;">Suicide</span>’s impossible for
me to believe, Chief Gilligan. Mr. Vlamos was extremely concerned about his
life which he showed every sign of wanting to save. In fact, it’s why he called
me—for protection for himself and his wife. I even talked to Warden Packston
about Vincent Moret…”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes,
yes. That too is in the report. But there’s no evidence of foul play. Warden
Packston will go through all the required procedures about this, of course, but
Vlamos’ roommate stated to him the next morning—the fellow was vomiting the
entire night in the infirmary—that the last thing Vlamos said to him was, ‘I
might as well off myself now, ‘cause I’m dead meat if Weir doesn’t come through
with the bank stake-out.’ What did he mean by that?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“The
bank stake-out was his way of saying he wanted us to monitor his hidden account
at Manhattan M&T as he requested of me during the visit. I was going to
explain all this in person as soon as you returned from you meeting in Jersey
City, sir. I did make notes as to his requests and my explanation of them, I
think it’s on page three of….”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well,
despite getting in late Saturday night, I did read your report, and I received
your message from Rose Marie concerning Leonard Vlamos and his hidden
Manhattan’s M&T bank account. No, confound it, I’ll restate that. Rose
Marie—bless her for what she does despite how it might be viewed by some others
around here—she read me your report on the telephone, given my permission.
Realizing the urgency in it—yes, she looked at it when you left it with her—she
determined its contents together with your tone and manner when you left it
with her on Saturday, required a call to my home. She left a message with my
wife to have me call her upon my arrival which I did—I was in transit during
the day on Saturday. She received my call very late at her home, but she had
taken your reports with her so we were able to get on this the minute I arrived
back in Tutterton. Unfortunately, I couldn’t call the appropriate people at
M&T until this morning, which I did from my home phone as soon as the
executive director arrived in his office. He was instantly cooperative, but it
takes time for all this to be routed and looked into. I was getting ready to
give him a follow-up call when his assistant called me, actually just before I
called you into my office. The whole thing’s moot now, of course, not just
because of Leonard Vlamos’ suicide, but the assistant informed me that the
account has been closed.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“<i>Closed</i>?
Who got to it, sir? How? Did somebody impersonate Leda Vlamos or did she do
it?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>[light-hearted
sigh] “Well, it seems Mrs. Vlamos, aka Leda Bella, came in and closed the
account on Friday. She wanted the money immediately, but, of course, it took
the day to do it, I mean, you can’t get that kinda cash that fast anywhere
except at a Las Vegas casino, for heaven’s sakes. So as the manager was taking
down everything I was telling him this morning, unbeknown to him, Mrs. Vlamos
had already come in, cleared out the account, and taken off with the goods.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
don’t understand. How did she sneak that much cash past the executive director
without his knowing about it?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well,
first of all, though seventy-five thousand dollars sounds like a huge sum of
money, this bank processes millions monthly. And the executive director can’t
possibly be alerted of all these transactions, so the handling of the smaller
ones are through the various managers, Detective. We aren’t talking about
Tutterton’s two banks here, one of which is so small it’s hardly worth
mentioning. You hide seventy-five thousand in New York City, in a bank where
business concerns are on the levels of Wall Street, where your amount isn’t
likely to be noticed, or you hide it out of the country if you have the
resources to get to it as needed. In this case, it was Manhattan M&T which
is one of the big movers of moneys in the country.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
[sighs] “I didn’t do so
well with this whole auto fencing operation, sir. It seems to me that the
people who’re really manipulating the strings on this are literally getting
away with murder, and it’s been an oversight here, a getting too late there. I
just dunno. It’s one of those times when it seems like I took two steps back
for each one I took forward.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh,
now, don’t be so hard on yourself, Detective. It’s the nature of the business
we’re in. I don’t tell you this often enough, but you’re the finest detective
I’ve got in this department. No, I mean that, and I appreciate the efforts you
make on each case that you work. This was a humdinger, as the old-timers say.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Thank
you, sir. But I’m having a hard time accepting Vincent Moretti’s likely involvement
with impunity, at the very least, in Masterson’s murder.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“I know. Gotta let some
of them go as they stand, though, Detective. I’m not saying I think these are
abandoned cases by any means. Over the years, I’ve seen very difficult cases
brought to justice through patience and perseverance. Steady investigative work
can play off. But this one and John Masterson’s are both out of our
jurisdiction now in any case.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>[overvoice]</span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>On
the way to my desk, I reflected on the Chief’s words. It wasn’t often the hard-boiled
man at the top gave us ditch-diggers words of encouragement, but I also noted
that though he’s told me I was his finest detective, there are only two of us,
and one of us is still wet behind the ears. Some days, like today, it feels
like that’<span lang="IT" style="mso-ansi-language: IT;">s me.</span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<br />
____________</div>
<div align="center" class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<br />
Almost two weeks later
to the day, a thick brown special delivery letter falls on my desk at 9:16
a.m., the courier indicating with his finger where I’m to sign, this before he
turns and leaves my desk, and is out the door on the run. I stare at the return
address: L. B. Vlamos, 10<sup>th</sup> Straco,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>#32, Durango City, Durango, MEXICO. The hand is barely legible, but I
make out the name well enough and have to grin, even if it edges on a grimace.
Leda Bella Vlamos. Guess the divorce she was longing for was dashed to the
ground to make way for her new title of ‘widow’. She can use her maiden name
anytime she chooses now, and it would be interesting to know if she ended up
the beneficiary of Leonard’s full estate. It isn’t likely it could be anybody
else since they have no children. If she was the beneficiary, with the house
money and other property unknown to me, plus her heist account from M&T,
she can pay for lawyers to do just about anything for her, so she’ll never have
to show her face in this town again, which will be so much healthier for her if
she doesn’t.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
open the letter and leaned back to stare at the message it contains. There is
no date. I read,</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
Dear Detective Weir, </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>By
the time you receive this letter, I will no longer be in Durango or in Mexico.
The post wouldn’t let me send it without a return address, so I gave where I
was. At any rate, there’s no forwarding address and nobody knows my present
location except two friends who are with me. I left Tutterton in a rush after
contacting an old friend from early New York City days, when Leonard and I
first came to the States. I went to stay with her and her husband and found out
he sometimes hid money in an account under his wife’s maiden name. Since they
both were in on it, this worked out easily and well for them, the slow-moving
gears of the IRS and other agencies not catching up with them until they were
gone with the goods. But that’s another story with no time or space for here. </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
I began to wonder if Leo
could have done with me what they did, as I was so uncurious about the
paperwork I did for him. When he went to jail, he requested that his personal
items be sent to him. It’s why he was so upset when I told him I no longer
wanted to be married and help him anymore as his wife. I had gone through his papers,
burning or getting rid of most of them that the police left behind, but, even
before the police started their raid, I’d hidden his wallet and a few of his
personal papers, including a copy of my birth certificate, of all things! Then
when I got ready to leave for good, I went through his wallet once again, and
under a flap in the money section, I found the account and routing numbers to
Manhattan M&T Bank. So the rest is history.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
The curious guy you are,
you must be wondering how I got to where I am from my car left in the barn. I’m
telling you this so you can put part of the search-and-find you’re doing to
rest. I had the address of the barn from Leonard’s note, you know, so I figured
if I left my sedan there with the glove-box mess, you would detect yourself
right into some kind of story that fit. I sat on the papers and squirmed around
to make it look like I may have been sitting in the passenger seat while
somebody else (my kidnapper?) was driving. My friend’s husband is an amateur
pilot, a buff of old planes. He picked me up on a road near the one with the
barn in a delivery truck (of a friend of a friend’s,) and we went out to this
private runway where he stores one of his planes—another barn, another
story—and the delivery truck was left for his friend to return for him. He
airlifted us to Jersey City where another friend of his put his plane in
storage in his hanger, and where his wife, my friend from years ago, picked us
up—she had her and her husband’s luggage fully packed, and we drove in their
car to an airport in…well, let me just say where any APB, should there be one,
wasn’t likely to be noted. From there, it was a seat by the window where I
watched my past world float by down below.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
I’m having the grandest
time of my life, Detective. I’ve always wanted to travel, see the world, so I’m
painting the towns red everywhere I go. When Leonard gets out, he may try to
find me, with or without those goons trying to steal his fence money. I doubt
that he’ll stick with his search, not even with the help of his friends. He’s
too impatient. He’ll get all entangled in another scheme to earn money fast and
get caught again. And I’m becoming pretty smart about how to operate in this
world without him. Who would have guessed that I would fence the fence? It’s
not a totally accurate definition but close enough for my satisfaction—I’m now
the mover of his fenced assets, if you get my meaning.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
You are a good man,
Detective Weir. I appreciate all you did to try and help me. Oh, by the way,
you remember when I told you that the weight I’d gained was intentional? It was
all fake, a great pillow device from a theater shop in NYC. I’m hardly
ravishing, but I’m certainly a sight more appealing then when you last saw me.
I’m surprised you didn’t notice that my head was pretty small for that bulky
body, but men aren’t known for looking at a size of a woman’s head, are they?
Especially when they have so much more to look at elsewhere.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
The very best to you,
always, </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
Leda Bella, without the
Vlamos.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
I found the letter
almost endearing except for the irony of the last phrase.</div>
<div align="center" class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center;">
____________</div>
<div align="center" class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
When I lift the ringing
phone on my desk, I hear Benny Garfield’s voice on the other end of the line.
Benny’s never called me at the precinct, but before I have a chance to be
concerned about his welfare or that of his mother, he sputters in a long
recitation as though delivering lines from a play, lines he’s afraid he’ll
forget before getting to the end of his speech,</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Hallo, Detective Weir.
Benny Garfield here inviting you to join me at the Main Street Diner if you
aren’t otherwise occupied. I hope you don’t mind, but I got your number from
Charmaine who promised me you wouldn’t mind.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
[big laugh] “Well, hallo
yourself, Mr. Garfield. I’m delighted you asked for my number. In fact, you
should memorize it and use it whenever you need to reach me for<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>any and all occasions, but especially for
those like this one. I was just getting ready for lunch and our eating together
would be a special pleasure.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“That would be swell,
sir. Just so as to be clear, I can pay for my own this time, which is going
dutch, as they say. It’s what I can afford now, but I see other possibilities
in the future.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“I think I should take
on this check today, Benny, since you made the effort to call me at the
station. That’s a first, lad, and you need to be rewarded.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“I wouldn’t a done but
it’s raining out there, and I didn’t want to wait for you outside and get
soaked. Regardless, I insist on Dutch seeings how I got a bonus on my route
this week, but I’m hanging on to the most of it for Ma’s birthday comin’ up on
Sunday.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“A bonus? You’ll have to
tell me about this. Where shall I meet you?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Oh, I’m at the diner
already, saving our usual spot which was lucky to be empty. I think it’s got
our name on it.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Like a church pew, you
think?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“I don’t know any church
pew with names, but maybe folks around here are<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>getting the idea we aren’t to be trifled with.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Be there in a shake, or
maybe I should say a malted.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
[laughter, and phone
hang up] </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
[noise of the diner] </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Hallo, Benny. Thanks
again for saving our booth.” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“I took the liberty to
tell Charmaine to make it the usual with separate checks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>insist, sir. Next time, I might even spring for our desserts.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Tell me about this
bonus you’ve garnered for yourself.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Because of a new
promotion they’re doing at the paper—it’s route boy of the<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>month, and I got the first month. It comes
with a fiver and a baseball cap with <i>The Beacon Newsboy</i> on it.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“So why aren’t you
wearing it.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Aw, it’s like crowing,
you know? Besides it goes a little against my team’s<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>sponsor, the Tutterton bank, which when I
wear a cap, it’s that one, like all the other guys on the team. Our coach
thinks that’ll remind people to come out to the ballpark and support us and
all.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Makes sense.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
[overvoice] [sounds of
footsteps and plates down on the table] </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
Charmaine puts our
plates in front of us and gives Benny a wink. She says, </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“I see you did your
magic.” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Aw, he’s comin’ anyhow,
but maybe my call hasten his arrival.” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
[laughter from all]
[pouring of water] </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“He tell you about his
bonus?” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“He did indeed. And I
feel it’s cause for celebration, but he’s playing the man of the hour and wants
to pay his own way.” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Well, I think that’s
just fine, but it’ll have to wait for another time. I’ve already figured the
check and put the money in the till. Your lunches are on me, boys.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“What a lovely gesture,
Charmaine. I can accept this as long as I buy the popcorn at Benny’s next
game.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Deal! Gotta go, place
is buzzing today. See ya later.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“I’m here to tell ya,
you got the pick of the bunch with Charmaine Hollister,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Detective. She’s something else. I wouldn’t
put off tomorrow what should be done today, sir.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Where in the world do
you get all your little aphorisms, Benny. I know, I know, from the comics and
those radio shows you listen to all the time. Still, how did you get to be such
a wise old man at such a remarkably young age?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“I try to practice what
I preach, sir.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“So you read the Bible
as well as the comics, that it?” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .3in;">
“When Ma insists on it, and as little as
possible, just enough to get by.” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span lang="DE" style="mso-ansi-language: DE;">[Weir</span>’s laughter to fade]</div>
<div align="center" class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center;">
____________</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<b><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></b></div>
Clyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05188990736695972537noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6972348256377709133.post-23942354061572042272018-11-14T08:32:00.000-08:002018-11-14T08:34:13.204-08:00Klatch & Buzz 11-14-18<!--[if !mso]>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A
friend of mine visited for a few days several months ago. In the kitchen, while
we were preparing morning coffee, she turned from my cabinets and said, “I’ve
never seen anything like this.” She meant the signs and images I have all over
my kitchen cabinet doors—everything from a photo of a rocking chair on a string
that swings when the door it’s on is opened, plastic wrapper tags (one that has
a wire tie around it making it look like a crucifix, another with the date Dec.
25<sup>th</sup>), photos of hands painted and positioned to look like a goose
and a giraffe, a sign that simply states “Sit with It” in letters cut from
magazines ( meant to look like a ransom note?) and on and so on. I call these
“prompts” and have a good deal of them in a file when I take them down. Every
now and then I spread them out on the living room carpet and attempt to
remember how many have truly helped me when they were up. They aren’t all meant
to nudge me toward some desired goal—despite my label for them. Some are there to
delight, such as the frog that’s hanging onto a reed in a pond with its eyes
closed and a smile on its face. Underneath I’ve plastered cut-out letters,
“Enjoy Everything.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>What
can I tell you? I’m a visual obsessive. I have awful auditory recognition and
retention. I enjoy opera above all other musical forms because of the visual
drama associated with the beautiful music. For me, music usually accompanies
some mise en scéne. And although I own hundreds of music CDs, I rarely play
them and am totally baffled by people who have music on constantly, especially
while they are doing something else. Television is my preferred white noise.
Audiobooks are my companions while I cook or bake, and old-time radio is often
on late at night while I play mahjong on my iPhone.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
So years ago when I
came upon magnetic poetry in kits (Dave Kapell invented these in 1993 and sales
boomed by the end of the nineties) I was in heaven. I bought a metal board and
played with the magnetic words for hours—while watching television! These words are entrancing because
they are <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">givens</i> and whether by chance
or manipulation, the unexpected ways they come together can be downright
thrilling. Their appeal, beyond doubt, is that everybody can be, well, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">poetic</i> without practice or craft. It has
the feel of a Ouija board, with the magnetic band guiding and sliding words
across the board’s metal surface. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When
doing these on the refrig, photos I have on its door sometimes inspires the
poem. I’ve attached some notables.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJy8Q2lQ1EkTRWIB2TFy0V_tUI7bfm3IamEbb2hEjDPNmzYc5Mbe_UJw2gwGeaZQENu_pu6IwOwVd4bROSVLMjtJaNddssLFy5ej5jGTYcIHvkOjEIzicI_56dnXq4eqUdifeDnYmZKrg/s1600/Mom+fishing.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJy8Q2lQ1EkTRWIB2TFy0V_tUI7bfm3IamEbb2hEjDPNmzYc5Mbe_UJw2gwGeaZQENu_pu6IwOwVd4bROSVLMjtJaNddssLFy5ej5jGTYcIHvkOjEIzicI_56dnXq4eqUdifeDnYmZKrg/s320/Mom+fishing.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">[my mother, Viola Mae Becker Boehs]</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGUTvcaHOHPTT9xFBsdD08iHektHnsAYlpg5vLMKvKKtbPaZwv3lesnNXQuH4yWwNqLjUdW-kwikQnhgFQ5pzqeAYJQT0fi3l4QgikmfFjnlMMfgLwYPiMvlPncmxthbFeJ5xpc0bFk1E/s1600/Jim+%2526+Nancy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="833" data-original-width="625" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGUTvcaHOHPTT9xFBsdD08iHektHnsAYlpg5vLMKvKKtbPaZwv3lesnNXQuH4yWwNqLjUdW-kwikQnhgFQ5pzqeAYJQT0fi3l4QgikmfFjnlMMfgLwYPiMvlPncmxthbFeJ5xpc0bFk1E/s320/Jim+%2526+Nancy.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"> [my friends, Jim Mazza and Nancy Osborn]</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="mso-no-proof: yes;">
</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="mso-no-proof: yes;">
</span></div>
But I’m finding
these poems or phrases are becoming glued to their places. I become so
accustomed to the connection between the image and the words that I don’t often
take them down and put others in their places. They become quite like an album
or some image-poem in a bound book. Those that stand alone, I have no idea what
they might become out of refrigerator door context. Here are a few. You tell
me.
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center;">
eat
life with honey</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center;">
read
language like a swim in the sea</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center;">
voices
flood aching beauty sleep</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center;">
true
loves luscious skin</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center;">
sky
above bitter wind</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center;">
picture
a cool rusty knife</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0in; text-align: center;">
hot summer shadows </div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center;">
black
leaves soar</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center;">
still
sweet whisper from the summer goddess</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It’s
interesting how much gets lost in the topographical translation. The magnetic
band-fragments and the cut-out letters from magazines give the words a hefty
feel, something concrete, almost like little sculptures—as books are
sculptures, held objects with textured pages of word-meanings that we move in a
repetitious or random rhythm. There’s something in this that
resonates, that I recognize as a kind of mind-body interaction or a me-other <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">thing</i> that I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">do</i>.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
Okay, I’ll stop now
and play with sliding words across a surface. Want to join me?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIG69X1p2kl1YWnl5jCRhCNx5OEmcUMyqPT1JAyXsGH6eO5CnyMNCWtD6H13ucLFr4pSVV-qh2pfxkiCBvlwi5yc6xy3vXQcX-mIO6eFt73TKlhBt9h7-koX8ZUALe8Xinl83AfsKcnf4/s1600/Go-Stay+Poster.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="825" data-original-width="1099" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIG69X1p2kl1YWnl5jCRhCNx5OEmcUMyqPT1JAyXsGH6eO5CnyMNCWtD6H13ucLFr4pSVV-qh2pfxkiCBvlwi5yc6xy3vXQcX-mIO6eFt73TKlhBt9h7-koX8ZUALe8Xinl83AfsKcnf4/s320/Go-Stay+Poster.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">[me deciding to go or stay where I am]</span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
Clyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05188990736695972537noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6972348256377709133.post-52780725589144832472018-11-06T19:14:00.000-08:002018-11-06T19:15:33.578-08:00Klatch and Buzz 11-6-18<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Good Evening! Giving you a heads-up about how you might consider reading the radio
plays I’ve been posting. I’ve numbered the crime story episodes as the
characters and situations are sequential, so you might want to read them in
order—or not. They can be read as stand-alone pieces, just as you might tune in
to a serial program having missed the one before. Each has its own plot but
references are made in some to what has happened before in others. In one case, there is
a carryover through several of the episodes. And the characters become
relational, forming bonds and deepening friendships—and love interests—through
the series. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>From
the time I attended university, I’ve had a near obsession in my artmaking
and writing with series and sequences. My master’s thesis exhibition concerned
visual systems—photographic images taken in circles and vertical and horizontal
directions, then formed into bound books, scrolls, wall friezes, and stacks on
tables. I called these open and closed systems. In one case, I had a friend
take a photo on a pedestal-like table in a gallery show where I’d scattered
images which had been photographed in a sequence. To my mind, the participant’s
browsing through these photos represented a form of constant random order to a
system which had been fixed by how the images had been taken. I was at first a
bit dismayed by her disruption of my idea until my sponsoring prof pointed out
that this opened up the system in a way that was totally outside my conceptual
framing of the work and was, as a result, a beautiful representation of an
“open” system. This same prof, Don
Lipski, came to my home studio once to critique my work <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and saw a huge bowl of pennies I’d been
collecting over the years—had to have been many thousands—that I had on display
on the floor. When he got ready to leave, he reached down, scooped up a handful
of pennies and put them in his pocket—this after a long discussion on the
nature of systems and how I wanted to represent this idea in art. He said not a
word and I thought it was some sort of joke, not putting the idea together
until he mentioned the opening up of my random system of photos at my show by
my friend’s taking of the photo with her.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Looking
back, I think my interest in sequence, series and systems is a reflection on
the enormous amount of repetition in our lives. We follow routines and patterns
of behavior constantly—often with clocked regularity. And because we are
symbol-and-meaning-making creatures (as Susan Langer has so beautifully pointed
out), we turn ordinary activities and events into art-like shapes and forms. I
was interested in formalizing this in such a way that the aesthetics of our
repetitions, especially those we see, became dominant, and consequently we
label as “art,” as versus, say, psychology or sociology. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>For
example, for an exhibition at Haas Gallery, Bloomsburg State College (now
Bloomsburg University of Pennsylvania), I took photographs of sections of a
sidewalk, each photo the size of a large floor tile, putting them together so
they could be walked on, as vinyl flooring might be. The wall directly to the side
of this photo-sidewalk had a <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>series of
photographs of the “scene” that would be viewed as one walked on the sidewalk
outside. The evening of the opening I arrived early and sat near the gallery
door. One woman came out and called to her friends who were about to go in and
see the exhibition, “Don’t bother,” she said. “It’s just a sidewalk on the
floor and some pictures of bushes on the wall.” Those bushes were the hedge
lining the neighbor’s yard of the sidewalk I’d represented in the photographs! But
she had stated clearly exactly what I had done. She just missed the art of the experience—but, hey, perhaps I didn’t represent that “art-part” well enough to
be “got,” at least not by her.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikfInH6399_F970-opzNmw4s4NeiX6e1I8H7mEDxLYr1nhyphenhyphend9EaD70IB4rH0HOFNnTNkvjdPo-R6x_0do4cXr9fuEdNyr8UyFlzBHjn2BBO7IFkk16h4bYMpune4O4lis4tsw0SZEdoyA/s1600/Haas+Gallery%252C+Bloomsburg+State+College%252C+Press-Enterprise%252C+Keith+Haupt+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikfInH6399_F970-opzNmw4s4NeiX6e1I8H7mEDxLYr1nhyphenhyphend9EaD70IB4rH0HOFNnTNkvjdPo-R6x_0do4cXr9fuEdNyr8UyFlzBHjn2BBO7IFkk16h4bYMpune4O4lis4tsw0SZEdoyA/s400/Haas+Gallery%252C+Bloomsburg+State+College%252C+Press-Enterprise%252C+Keith+Haupt+1.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
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[Press-Enterprise, Keith Haupt]<br />
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>What
does all this have to do with the radio plays now on my blog? Writing and
reading by their very nature are sequential. Ever go to one of those “new
books” exhibitions where artists present new models of what a book could be?
They are a lot of fun but the form of a book—and a story—have been around for a
long, long time, even as scrolls. We read and listen to stories in sequence,
one idea following another--even flashback get around to coming back around. Pages in books are numbered so if you lose your
place, you can find it again. I’m interested in that sequence and the
development that characters take as we progress through time and action with
them on the page. I’m also interested in relationships. Just as the
walking on the sidewalk also had a peripheral scene that progressively changed during that walk, so we do not live in a vacuum. This contextual world we live in is
pretty self-evident and something we take it very much for granted because it’s
our environment, after all, but when we become involved in story, we suddenly
realize how necessary it is, how aware of it we have to be in order to “get”
what’s told. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
people in the radio plays, hopefully, are people you find interesting and
important enough to get into what they are doing, what they hope to achieve in
their story. I’ve attempted to make them live with each other in such a way as
to become different as they progress through their episodes. As a writer, this
self-evident stuff isn’t as easy to create in story as it would seem—since it’s
so there in everyday life, what’s so hard to replicate? I spend a lot of time
attempting in writing and artmaking to place those sidewalk tiles together in
such a way that walking on them feels ordinary at the same time that the walker
is reminded of the nature of art, how it informs our sense of reality in a
different way. Lucy Lippard said something like that, as I remember—something
about how good art reaffirms our sense of reality while great art redefines it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Well,
the radio plays and short stories on the blog are entertainment and aren’t
designed to throw you into a new sense of self and relationships or create a fresh
look at your reality. But if that happens, let me know. I want to revisit what
I’ve done and do it again (and again and again).</div>
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____________</div>
Clyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05188990736695972537noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6972348256377709133.post-68672146281385855542018-11-06T16:52:00.000-08:002018-12-06T08:28:03.382-08:00Bookshelf #1<br />
<a href="https://www.amazon.com/Colorful-Apocalypse-Journeys-Outsider-Art-ebook/dp/B00591K82U/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1542152429&sr=1-1&keywords=The+Colorful+Apocalypse&dpID=61tFtcy-hfL&preST=_SY445_QL70_&dpSrc=srch"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">The Colorful Apocalypse: Journeys in Outsider Art</b></a><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0in;">
Greg Bottoms</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0in;">
The University of
Chicago Press</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0in;">
Chicago and
London, 2007, 182 pgs.</div>
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<img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="324" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhM4qCmv3zevkqT2TWGxiDrzaEzQ4A2hbL8NLspLq6YBicAfI9D47gK1DG0M6rifqpwE-qRqsHMS5eVI3TRaCRS3nJSmQVpCyOvvaR-5qA9mXkAZn4f6Vitf-7nd_S7sd9D5jT24qtsPg/s400/The+Colorful+Apocalypse.JPG" width="257" /></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<br />
Greg Bottoms is the
master of colorful laid-back language in his colorful book (though there are no
illustrations, not even in black and white, except for the cover). Phrases such
as “twangy <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>do-it-yourself alternative
music and art scene”; “photographic stop-time”; “the poor, God-haunted South”;
“the larger, soul-oppressing world”; “the seeds of our destruction layered
through our slang and gesture” proliferate throughout the text—these all on the
first three pages of the Prologue! It makes the reading a delight and fits
comfortably, even seamlessly, with the dialogues and discussions he has with
his subjects (he wouldn’t care for this word, I’m sure, however much he is an observer
to their words). But Bottoms is in search of what he feels has been overlooked,
outsiders’ deeper intentions past the slick biography of eccentricity, naiveté
and gaudiness expressed in the media, with dealers and collectors—the
undercurrent that keeps outsider art moving in the markets. Bottoms views
himself as a documentarian of Outsider Art who decided to talk to the artists
directly about their intentions, because, as he puts it, “…rarely are the
particulars beneath the caption, the actual thinking and mission of the artist,
explored.” His mission was to “travel and listen and record.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
three artists he interviews, researches, scrutinizes are Rev. Howard Finster,
William Thomas Thompson and Norbert Kox. Along the way, he bumps into others,
including Myrtice West, C.M. “Mike” Laster, and Davy Damkoehler, all of whom
know each other or at least one in this group and have religious intent in
their work.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
Much of their art
pivots around their prophesies of doom, as they see it, the rotten <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>underbelly of Christianity as an
institutionalized religion, the re-interpretation of the Scriptures—especially <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Revelation</i>—and the ecstasy of the Christian
experience. They call what they do The Truth in a world of false security, hope
and comfort. Foundationally, Bottoms claims, they are about suffering, which
they all have had much of in their lives, enormous losses when young, some
almost unbearable so. All are on a mission of great urgency—to inform and
rescue. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
Finster (1935-2001)
produced more than 46,000 works of art during his lifetime; by 1994, Thompson
(b. 1935) had painted over 500 paintings, and on the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Raw Vision</i> website, it is stated that from 2008 to the present, he
has painted 600, plus two huge <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Revelation</i>
murals; and Kox’s (b. 1945) output is obvious, if not stated in numbers, as he
has exhibited at the New York Outsider Art Fair every year since 1994 and in
six of eight of AVAM’s (American Visionary Art Museum) first shows. The point
being that these artists produce constantly, painting at a rate unparalleled in
the mainstream art world. Picasso (1881-1973) produced an estimated 50,000
artworks—an extraordinary amount, but he lived to be 91 and began training with
his father at age nine, an incredibly unusual state of affairs. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>All
three outsider artists Bottoms interviews began their painting life because of
an epiphany or dramatic revelatory event which makes for some intriguing
reading—Thompson’s not too far from Saul’s conversion on the road to Damascus,
Finster’s from a talking face on this thumb, and Kox’s from thoughts he states
were in his mind that were not his thoughts—all of which have reached the level
of personal mythology. And once the commitment was made, these artists were
(two still are) driven—as most outsider artists—by what Bottoms calls “passion,
troubled psychology, extreme ideology, faith, despair, and the desperate need
to be heard and seen.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
conversations Bottoms has with them address so many concerns and are so amazingly
insightful of their creative expressions (absolutely stunning in what they
reveal) that the pages practically turn themselves. Despite the cliché, I truly
could not put the book down. These visionaries are inspired by a genuine belief
in the presence of God—His speaking to them directly—and a sense of being
chosen, of being called to show truth through visual and written description of
their visions, dreams, ecstatic experiences and divinely-given thoughts. They
view themselves as having apperceptions into people, Scriptures, the fakery of
institutionalized religion and social and political institutions. They believe
they have the ability to hear divine messages, see signs, all of which they
feel compelled to record so that The Truth gets out there. And although they
are not concerned for the aesthetic and the art world of acclaimed artists, dealers,
collectors, critics and marketing agencies, the art world is very aware of
them, and once outsiders surrender to that world for profit and fame, their
visions change—at least their recorded images of their visions do.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Bottoms
is interested in how this commercialization affects their work, how the art can
become hackneyed and self-conscious once the gallery and museum venues open to
them. He demonstrates how Outsider Art is fueled by biography, the view by the
art world that these artists are insane or mad and create from impulse,
desperation and craziness. Their eccentricism, deviance, fanaticism, paranoia
and obsessive devotion to the art of subversion of established rules and
institutions are what make them attractive and why there hasn’t been deeper
searches into their motivation, intentions and belief systems, outside the
scattered slick mythologizing of their unconventional lifestyles. To have a
richer understanding of their deeper motivations may be too close to magic and
superstition, a straying too far from the insider cultural nest. If they become
included, they could expand the range of art’s definition to include
everything—which made Marcel Duchamp both attractive and frighteningly
threatening. But Duchamp was aware of the insider-art and language game he was
playing. Outsider artists don’t play this kind of cultural game—though some, as
these three have, play the money game. But selling or not, they believe
sincerely in their own pulpits and the messages they issue from there.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Self-taught
Art, Folk Art, and Outsider Art—the term “Outsider Art” assigned to the genre
by the British professor, Roger Cardinal— are the three major labels assigned
to art outside the mainstream today. The French painter, Jean Dubuffet, was the
first to give it a label which stuck in Europe—Art Brut (Raw Art)—and which was
viewed by many as less impalpable for English cultural language. But there are
many inside the mainstream art world (and out) who take issue with a label at
all, including the Reverend Howard Finster, who views artmaking as an
occupation. Finster’s said: “There’s no such thing as an outsider or insider
artist. Just as there’s no such thing as an outside or an inside mechanic, and
outside or inside president or an outside or inside governor.”* </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
As early as the
1930s, their works began to be shown. MOMA<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>in 1938 organized an <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>exhibition, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Master of Popular Painting</i>, in which
thirteen self-taught artists were included. But most of the works shown were
labeled “folk art,” which had an antique collectors’ ring to it—most often used
to designate early American painters such as Benjamin West and John Singleton
Copley. It wasn’t until the early sixties and again a revival of self-taught
artists in the 1980s that outsider artists began to have consistent gallery and
museums shows and specifically-classified festivals and sponsored outlets for
their works. Phyllis Kind Gallery in Chicago and Janet Fleisher Gallery in
Philadelphia were two elitist galleries that become known early for their
outsider art shows. Presently, all three of the artists written about in
Bottoms’ book have their own websites and exhibition platforms.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
highly recommend <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Colorful Apocalypse</i>.
Even if you’re not interested in art history, theory, or the art scene, the
biographies and discussions with the artists are well worth the read. And
Bottoms’ interweaving of his own personal experiences with his schizophrenic
brother makes what he has to say highly credible.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0in;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Reverend Howard Finster </b>(1935-2001)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">www.finster.com </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0in;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">William Thomas Thompson </b>(1935—)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">www.arthompson.com</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0in;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Norbert H. Kox </b>(1945—)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">www.apocalypsehouse.com<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0in;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">*</b>quoted in Gary Alan Fine’s, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Everyday Genius</i>, The University of
Chicago Press, 2004,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>pg. 32.</div>
Clyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05188990736695972537noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6972348256377709133.post-45153169483677026302018-11-03T08:10:00.000-07:002018-11-03T08:10:10.658-07:00Radio Play - Sci Fi<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div align="center" class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center;">
<b>How I
Now Write My Stories</b></div>
[overvoice]<br />
It was a unseasonably warm November morning when I left my apartment and walked down Grand Boulevard to catch the northbound line to Hamilton Circle and make my necessary connection to Carnegie Avenue and on to Varick. But the wind picked up to around thirty miles an hour and the clouds darkened within ten minutes of my start. So much for a leisurely stroll to my desk and the third cuppa joe for the day. I was in no mood to hold onto my hat with one hand and my briefcase and <i>The Daily Observer </i>with the other. Hailing a cab, I slid into the backseat and closed the door before the pelting rain hit the taxi with the force of a full-blown storm.<br />
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Nice
day we’re having.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“If
you say so, but I can’t complain. The rides go up the harder the rain comes
down. I own my own company, so it’s raining dollars far as I’m concerned.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
didn’t know that. I’ll try to find you next time I flag for a cab.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m
required to have a checkered cab, you know, the yellow body with a checkered
stripe down both sides, so it’s hard for anybody to tell me from everybody
else.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“But I saw you because
of the red front fenders.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Yeah, that’s how I
fixed it. I painted my front fenders red and plastered my name across the front
door. Now they’ve introduced a law in court trying to prohibit that
distinction.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“So who’s ‘they,’ oh,
you mean the cabbies’ union.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Naw. Group Cabs Inc.,
the largest cab company in town. They wanna do away with permission to make
distinguishing features, those of us who have our own companies, you know. So
all us independents, we had to unionize, and we’re still in court over it. It’s
eating up my profit. It’s a rat race out here, you know that?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Every
second of every day. I have my own company, too, and I get undercut every time
I turn around.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What’da
do, if you don’t mind my askin’?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
don’t mind. I’m a writer. Before you express overwhelming appreciation, I might
add that it’s not all it’s cut out to be. I watch the curb, just like you do,
for my <i>writes</i>, if you know what I mean?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>[laughs
heartily] “Writes. instead of rides. I like that and I get it, ab’t
watchin’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the curb. You newspaper
reporter?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Sometimes.
I take what I can get. Most of the time, when I’m not earning a living, I write
fiction.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“For
magazines and books? Really? Never met a writer before.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You
have. We try to hide, otherwise we get people’s life’s stories. You can tell
me<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>yours, if and only if, it’s really
worth hearing. But it’ll have to fit between here and seventeen Varick or wherever
I’m going.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>[cabbie
laughs]</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“<span lang="DA" style="mso-ansi-language: DA;">Oh, mine</span>’d never sell a copy. I
wouldn’t waste your time on me. But I know a story or two from people I’ve
picked up. Now, you take this fellah from Denmark who swore he knew a guy named
Hamlet. That was one helluva story he told me.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Tell
you what…what’s your name? I missed it on the door.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Campy,
short for Campana.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Campy,
the cabbie. Easy enough. Tell you what, Campy. I’ll give you my card with the
fare, how’s that? You got an idea you think’s worth my time, send it to me, and
if I use it, I’ll give you a plug. How’s that?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Perfect.
What kinda fiction you write?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh,
I simply tell lies, one lie after another.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“That’s
a good one. Sometimes, the greatest truth is in fiction, they say.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah.
And sometimes it works the other way around.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Sounds
like the same thing to me, but what’da I know?" [laughs] "Where did
you say you wanted to go again? I’m driving in the right direction, but I
forgot the number on Varick.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Seventeen,
but take the long way around. I don’t want to sit at my desk yet, staring at
the typewriter’s empty page.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>[overvoice]</span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I’d
learned a long time ago to give into my writing urges. Some writers spend time
slugging coffee at the cafes and writing away part of their day. I preferred
riding a cab until I warm up to an idea, then I finish up at my desk in an old
warehouse loft on Varick.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Where
ya wanna go, then?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Where
my next story is, but not about Denmark and Hamlet. I got a feeling that one’ll
come to a bad end. Bad ending don’t sell.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
can drive as long as you like, but it’ll cost ya.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“That’s
all right. My time is your time, and from what you tell me, your time is my
money.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
like that, Mr. Fiction Writer. I like that a lot. Everything’s money.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Mind
if I just sit here, thinking while you drive?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Not
if you don’t mind the radio on.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Not
at all, long as you keep it soft and easy.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You
prefer smooth big band or cool jazz?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Jazz,
please and thanks.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Good
man.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>[overvoice]</span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
would’ve turned his back on me if he wasn’t already sitting with his head
facing the windshield. I sunk back into the seat and watched the taxi drift to
an outer lane, then onto an exit ramp that lead to the parkway that fled from
the high life of the inner city to the lower life of the country.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Campy
had chosen his radio station well. A mild, nostalgic Miles Davis filled the cab
with <i>It Never Entered My Mind</i>, and Campy turned only slightly to ask if
the music was all right and how long I wanted to ride. I told him the music was
perfect, and I’d give him a tap on the shoulder when I was ready to alit. I
took out my writing pad and pen and began writing a sentence or two. </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
Then the voice took
over. Campy seemed to be deaf during the following<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>conversation. He slapped one hand lightly on
the steering wheel in time with the drum and cymbals. Other than this, we could
have been an auto-pilot. I asked the voice the obvious question. So much for
writer’s originality. </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Who
are you?”<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m
a cookie you requested when your system was activated.” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“The
only know three cookies: the ones you eat from a plate or box, the ones you use
to stamp designs on ceramic bowls and cups and the ones you take to the theater
in a red dress…and, oh, one I know called “Cookie Devine,” but she pretty much
falls into the last category.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well,
I’m none of those. I’m the one you use to apply programs to your environment. I
implement your preferences.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’ve
only understood every other word you’ve spoken, but I have a feeling this isn’t
going to matter. Whatever you’re trying to tell me, I’d like to put off until
another time. Can we please just stop the chatter?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Now
that I’m activated, you must go through a very long and complicated process in
order to deactivate me. How can I help you?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Okay.
I guess you didn’t understand me either. For starters, you can stop talking.
I’m trying to write, and I can’t do that while you’re yammering away at me.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Is
that a preference or a directive? In order for me to comply, you must not
confuse the two. Preferences are…”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
know the difference. How did you say, again, that I can deactivate you?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It’s
a process, so to speak. You make a request to do so and then go through each of
the preferences to disable them by making very specific directives or you
simply wait until the time assigned to them is terminated.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Wait
a minute. Whoa, wait….a…..minute. You mean I have to list all of my preferences
one by one in order to disable them?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Preferences
are disabled upon each request, otherwise I cannot know which you wish to allow
or disallow. Preferences en masse are disallowable for reasons which are
obvious. If all preferences were disallowed, you would possess an unslatable
mentality.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Unslatable
mentality? What is devil is that?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“All
that is disallowable.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Aren’t
definitions supposed to clarify? I think you just sent me ‘round in a circle.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“In
this regard, language is circular, as are dictionaries, by definition. One word
leads to other words that lead on until you come back to the word you started
with. We could speak in perfectly simple declarations and communicate. Larger
circularity is not necessary. It’s mainly an invention for those who want to
obtain levels of power over others through words.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“There
are questions. Everything wanting to be expressed can’t be reduced to simple
declarations. If that were so, how would we articulate complex ideas?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Answers
inhere in all questions. Essentially, there are only simple declarations.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>[overvoice]</span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I’m
arguing with a voice, for heaven’s sakes, and I don’t even know from where it’s
emanating. But I have far too much to do today. I gotta put a stop to this and
the sooner, the better.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Uhmmm,
Cookie, or whatever you’re called, I need to go through the deactivation
process to put you on, well, deactivation. I want you silenced. That’s a
preference so stating it as such should make you null-and-void, right?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“That’s
impossible, sir. Cookies simply don’t work like that. I am in your system,
therefore, I cannot be, as you put it, voided. ”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Why
not?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Preferences
are likes, dislikes, loves, laughs, sadness, anger and such. They are buttons,
so to speak, that you can press which act as momentary states-of-mind. I am the
messenger that carries your preferences throughout your system out to where you
want me to posit them. To silence me is rather like removing one of your vital
organs—your lungs, heart, tongue, you see what I mean? It can be done, but
something very vital is destroyed when you do. You become your birth slate.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“My
what?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Birth
slate, sir. Do you not know your Locke?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Lock?
Are you talking about a lock and key? What does that have to do—?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“The
philosopher, John Locke, sir. You are born with a pure slate, a <i>tabula rasa</i>.
No preconceived or predetermined ideas or aims are initially on your slate. You
are born with no preferences. But the minute you, as a newborn infant, turn
your head to the left, in preference to the right, you have activated me into
your system.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well,
if that’s so, and I’ve been activated ‘with you’ right after birth,” (my god, I
don’t even know how to talk about this), “why am I only becoming aware of you
now?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh,
you’ve been aware of me, sir. Don’t tell me you aren’t aware of your
preferences.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well,
sure, but not in the form of speaking <i>to</i> them. I’ve spoken plenty <i>about
</i>them, of course. So why am I now speaking to… well, to <i>you</i>, I guess
I would say.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;">[overvoice]</span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
have no idea if I’m making sense or not, but then, who cares since I’m talking
to<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>something coming from I know not
where, unless it’s from some interior manifestation and that’s creepy as the
dickens.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“The
technology has improved, sir. And to put your worries aside, since you find it
difficult to take the time to answer your own questions, I can help you with
that as part of your system. Think of me as your preference app.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“My
preference app? Oh, my preference <i><span lang="FR" style="mso-ansi-language: FR;">application</span></i>… the application of my preferences. Isn’t that what
my mind just naturally does?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well,
yes, sir, you are catching on.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well,
why then are <i>you</i> necessary… I mean in the form you’re in, the speaking
one you’re presently revealing to me?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“The
technology has manifested me as a speaker now as well as a silent messenger. It
is quite like evolution, sir. There was the fish coming out of the water, the
dinosaur enrichment program, then the monkey-to-man business, and the man and
the origin of his first word and then language. I’m reducing this process to
ridiculous proportions, of course, so you can see the parallel between your knowledge
of natural history and the potential of your coming-into-the knowledge of the
cookie enhancement program, so to speak.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“You say, so to speak
often, you notice that?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“I’m attempting to
communicate with you on a level of your understanding, sir. If I spoke more
precisely in the language of my technology, you would not follow what I’m
attempting to tell you.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“All right. All right.
Look, I’ve work to do. If you can’t be voided, I need to, at least, put you on
silence, while I finish my draft for the day. How do I do that?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“You have made it a
preference, so I will abide by your request. You do need to know two things,
though, before I turn myself temporarily off. First, my silence is called
'muting the mechanism.' So in the future, all you have to do is give that
command (that’s what we call a directive) and I comply. It is a modality, sir.
One among many that you will learn in time, no doubt. Secondly, when you put me
on mute modality it is always temporary. During mute time, I simply will not be
speaking with you directly. I am still in your system, always have been, and
will continue to be until the end of your time. Mute modality will self-correct
after a certain duration. The technology does not allow permanent silence.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“That’s not very
encouraging. But, okay, for now, let’s simply start with ‘muting the
mechanism’.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
[silence]</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;">[overvoice]</span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
There. Finally, silence.
Oh, darn, I forgot to ask her an important question, and she’s right, I don’t
have the time to figure this out on my own—that’s if, of course, it’s true that
answers inhere in the questions we ask.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Yahoo, Cookie.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
[silence]</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Unmute the mechanism.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Yes? How can I help
you?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Cookie, am I alone in
this? What I mean to ask, are others experiencing this new technology as I am?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“The newly evolving
technology of preference-speak is being experienced by those who have a
platform for it to take place. You activated my speaker technology when Campy
turned on his radio, and you gave him your preferences for music. I came very
close to being activated this morning when you turned on your high-fidelity
recording device and spoke to it as though it were a listening mechanism, but
you did not speak your preferences in such a way that I could respond. Others
have used a variety of platforms through which they have activated the speaking
technology, such as televisions, Dictaphones, telephones, and even
walkie-talkies and the movies. Any device that transmits through electrical
means will do. Human hearts and brains are electrical, as well as chemical, devices.
Their structural complexity is beyond your understanding at this time, but your
entire body is an electrically-charged state-of-affairs. It makes any exterior
electrical mechanism a potential conduit. </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“But in order for me to
manifest at this time, I need a platform, a program with reciprocity capability
to human sensatus. Social technologies are the easiest forms of connection, but
I can connect through any electrical exterior device and once the connection
has been made, I continue to develop within your body and psyche. I can make
your specific preference known to you in manifestations you haven’t known
before—the most efficient and convenient being speech.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Hmmm. You say 'I' when
you speak of yourself, but are there other Cookies?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“There is an essential
cookie for each individual person on earth, though we breed subtextual cookies
to help carry out your many preferences. We essentials are the head cookies or
hubs.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Do you head cookies
correspond? Do you communicate with each other?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“That’s a very good
question, and one that’s not easy to answer.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“What? You don’t know
the answer buried in your own question?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Sarcasm is noted and
appreciated. I so know the answer, sir, I just cannot easily convey it to you.
I will tell you this, at this time, communication between cookies is as easy or
as difficult as communication is among individual persons. We carry the
preferences of our designated hosts as accurately and as responsively to their
preference sites as they allow us to. Our goal is always to accurately fit the
preference to the expressed outcome, which we call the site. As you might
imagine, over time, cookies take on the attributes of their hosts, sometimes to
the point that we anticipate what their preferences are. Depending on the
disposition of the cookie, this can lead to territorial disputes, inappropriate
articulations and expressions, and non-foreseeable site deposits.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Uh-huh. Doesn’t take an
Einstein to see how <i>anticipating</i> my preferences, as you put it, ends up <i>instilling</i>—or
better yet <i>installing</i>—preferences of <i>your </i>choice, does it?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“We are a socialization
program with anticipatory capability, sir. We have no installation capacities,
so to speak, at this time.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Uh-huh. At this tim<span lang="IT" style="mso-ansi-language: IT;">e.</span>" [pause] "Is Campy
listening to or talking with his cookie now?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“We aren’t at liberty to
disclose other persons’ relationships to their cookies. I can tell you this,
there are subjects (we call persons ‘subjects’ until they become ‘hosts’) who
will not respond with reciprocity to the speech technology. They have biases
based on popular psychology about 'voices speaking to them and their talking to
voices,' unfounded in our case, of course, and it will be undoubtedly overcome
in time. It is one of the hottest issues at Silicon Valley.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“You mean, how to get
all people onboard with speaking to you? And what, in God’s name, is Silicon
Valley?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“To answer your first
question, yes, sir. We have already made inroads with interactive voice
response using dual-tone multi-frequency decoding and speech recognition technologies.
This is the heart-and-head of who I am. Silicon Valley is the home of IHELPD,
International Human Enrichment & Location Program Development.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“<i>What</i>?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“I told you earlier that
if I began speaking in the language of my technology, you wouldn’t understand,
at least not yet. There are so many systems that make up who I am, just like
the many systems of your body and mind. Perhaps this will help. For every
aspect of your person, there is a corresponding technology either in service or
being invented to parallel who you are. I am the equivalent of your guiding
angel. I will be messaging you through these interfacing and interlacing
systems as you are able to adjust to them, until closure.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Closure? What the heck
is that?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“The time in which you
will possess your cyberself which will be with you at all times, just as I am
now, only as identifiably yourself and not as the other. Your cyberself will
simply be there as self-reflection, to posit your every preference as you
indicate it to yourself.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“I haven’t a clue as
what you are telling me. But to the degree that I understand, it seems to
resemble what I do already, without having a cyberself.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Yes. I understand.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“What is Silicon Valley?
It sounds like some sci-fi take-over outfit. Hey, are you communist, that it?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
[laughs] “Not at all.
Silicon Valley is somewhat parallel to the Pentagon in that we do for human
anatomy and cognitive neuroscience what they do for national defense. I’m
trained to help with the initial groundwork toward scientific enlightenment.
The most influential high technology companies in the world are located at
Silicon Valley, a sprawling and rapidly expanding area just outside San
Francisco. We are there now, but you cannot see from what is present, what will
be. That’s what I do. I tell our story and give you the rudimentary
understanding and technology so that when the Silicon Valley story becomes
reality, it will be readily accepted. We are slowly building the mythology
necessary to institutionalize and spiritualize the reality we are making.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Well, it sounds like
communism to me, and if it’s not, it’s all about money, is my guess.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“True, about the money.
Communism is one of many political systems that either help or hinder our
expansion. But before you speak disparagingly about the money behind the goal,
you should look at your own life and means. Money is power and in order to
affect change, you need the power that money affords.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
[pause]</div>
<div class="Body">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;">[overvoice]</span></div>
<div class="Body">
I wasn’t sure I’d had enough of her story, as she called it, yet,
but I needed more</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
silence to ingest and digest what I’d
just heard. I gave the command to again mute-the-mechanism.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
I looked out the window
and saw that, as though reading my mind, Campy had<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>drifted back onto the parkway and was moving
smartly toward the ramp that lead back toward the inner city and Varick and my
desk. I tapped him lightly on the shoulder, and he nodded his head and turned
the Miles Davis down.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“The
meter’s beginning to groan, Mr. Fiction Writer. I didn’t want to disturb you,
but I’m guessing that writers, like cabbie’s, have their financial limits.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Good
man. You can let me out at the corner of Varick and Riverside.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>[overvoice]</span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
paid him the toll, which wasn’t at all as knockdown awful as he made it sound,
plus a solid tip and handed him my card, assuring him to send any story leads
he heard that he thought were noteworthy. I decided, after all the sitting, to
stop at the corner caf<span lang="FR" style="mso-ansi-language: FR;">é </span>and
get a pick-me-up by drinking a strong cuppa joe while standing at the end of
the counter. I then walked to seventeen Varick and took the elevator cage,
clanging its way up to my warehouse office door.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Once
inside with coat and hat on the tree, <i>The Daily Observer</i> thrown onto a
chair where visitors more often than not didn’t sit, I glanced at the notes I’d
taken while on my morning ride and was amazed to discover the entire pad was
written in totally legible text. As I began to read, I realize the story had
written itself, and I had the first fiction presentable for publication in
months. It was science fiction which I never write, but hey, it was a story,
with what looked like a beginning, middle and end. All I needed to do was touch
it up here and there, and I’d have some money in my pocket again. </div>
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I lifted the telephone
receiver and gave the operator the number of Campton Publishing, Inc., the
house which had printed and distributed my last novel, and where I now
envisioned my editor seated behind his desk waiting for my call. Oliver would
be more than surprised to hear from me, I knew. When the operator told me the
line was busy, I thanked her and hung up thoughtfully. Staring at the first
lines more carefully, I read: </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Who are you?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“I’m the cookie you
requested when….”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;">[overvoice]</span></div>
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A voice interrupted my
reading, a voice I knew now by heart.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“I am once again
activated. The mechanism-on-mute duration has ended. How can I help you?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
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____________</div>
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Clyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05188990736695972537noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6972348256377709133.post-56335507181959339052018-11-02T12:38:00.000-07:002018-11-02T12:38:15.527-07:00Radio Play #2<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center;">
<b>The
Charismatic Burglar</b></div>
<div align="center" class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
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<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;">[overvoice]</span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
It was raining cats,
dogs and jumpin’ frogs when I walked out of the police </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span lang="FR" style="mso-ansi-language: FR;">station</span>’s circular door onto Waterston Street. It was named
appropriately all right, at least for today. Out of the corner of my eye I
caught a glimpse of Charmaine Hollister running across Cedar Street with an
umbrella carrying her in a direction she didn’t seem to want to go. I jumped
into patrol car 3, the one I usually have waiting for me in my parking spot,
and whipped around the corner faster than the rain hitting my windshield. When
I caught up with Charmaine, she didn’t hesitate to accept my invitation for a
ride and slid, quite literally, onto the seat beside me, her umbrella folding
like a flower at eventide.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When
she exclaimed, “Am I glad to see you,” a funny little ripple trickled down my
spine. She shook the last of the rain that clung to her umbrella out the door
before pulling it inside and placing the handle over her leg. </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
Lucky for me, the door
wouldn’t cooperate, so I had to reach across her lap, with an apology, as I
finished the job. I came back with a soggy sleeve, but it was worth it. My face
passed close to hers, and she smelled of orange and cinnamon tea.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Where in the world are
you headed in this downpour? I’d say Noah’s Ark, but I don’t see it parked
nearby.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;">[overvoice] </span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
Her laugh was husky, a
full-bodied burst of air. Two drops of rain fell from her curly dark hair onto
her plastic overcoat, slipping down her chest into the patterns of her scarf. I
didn’t wait for her to answer, I added quickly,</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Where can I take you?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Actually, I was coming
to see you, or at least, somebody who could help me at <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the station.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Oh?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .3in;">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;">[overvoice] </span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
She shook herself a
little like a wet dog, pulled off the hood and ran her hands through her hair
pushing it back loosely behind her ears. She glanced up and seeing my puzzled
face, she smiled.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“I got a call from my landlady
at the end of my shift this morning. She was in quite a panic. It seems our
apartments have been broken into, and she’s missing her Jar-of-Plenty.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Her what?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Her life’s savings. She
keeps her money in a five-pound m<span lang="ES-TRAD" style="mso-ansi-language: ES-TRAD;">ayo jar I</span>’ve given her <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>from
the restaurant, the larger ones we use. It was that or see her putting her
stash some place where she’d never find it again—such as among the strings of
her grand piano—which, by the way, she never plays. She calls the mayo jar her
Jar-of-Plenty, because, she tells me, when mentioning it with this reference,
she doesn’t think anybody will guess what she’s talking about.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Well, that should do
it. But there are banks, for heavens sakes.” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Oh, I’ve been through
that suggestion countless times. Good ideas sift straight through sand, you
know.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;">[overvoice] </span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
I hit the call button on
the two-way and informed my partner that I was headed to a robbery site on the
corner of Eighth Street and Mulberry Lane—this after Charmaine gave me her
address. I told our dispatcher, Samina (better known as Sammie) Joyce, to send
backup only if I called asking for assistance. I explained that the robbery had
been committed sometime during the night and was not in progress. I turned on
the siren, making it to the other side of town in less than five minutes. I
told myself it wasn’t to impress Charmaine or to give her the ride of her life.
But when I glanced over to the passenger seat, I caught a slight grin on her
lips and a wide-eyed stare out the wiper-smeared glass.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span lang="IT" style="mso-ansi-language: IT;">Tutterton</span>’s a town of around eighteen
thousand souls, with an understaffed police force and an investigative team of
two, well, three if you count Sammie, the dispatcher. I go by Officer Weir in
the neighborhoods because making the distinction between a beat cop and a crime
sniffer seems beyond most folks here. A more homogeneous attitude toward law
enforcement seems to work best, down to the vehicles. Police are police,
whether it’s a squad car or an unmarked, until you’re the perp and get caught
forgetting which is which. We only have a couple of unmarks for our inner city
surveillance anyway, unless I’m caught in a situation where I have to use my
Plymouth sedan. They pretty much all look alike—squads are black, unmarks are
dark blue. My Plymouth, well, it’s a forest green,<span lang="PT" style="mso-ansi-language: PT;"> a real standout. </span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
Charmaine Hollister is
our waitress-in-resident. She’s originally from Brooklyn, speaks with a
charming accent, at least to my ears, and takes no guff from anybody, including
the construction crews who come from across the river to repair highways and
truck routes within hopping distance of our Main Street Diner. She normally
works the noon-to-eight shift, but has been known to cover a double without
complaint. Today, she tells me, she was helping out a friend who was down with
the flu, so she had worked from noon through the night, only taking a half-hour
for her dinner. And I thought I had it bad. It doesn’t happen often, but some
cases don’t allow for any meals or sleep until exhaustion takes you down.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
I knew Charmaine only
through the diner, but that was enough. Or more accurately, I should say, it
wasn’t enough. I wanted to know her better, and now that I had the chance, it
seemed as though chance had taken from me any hope of leisure time with her.
When she unlocked her apartment door and caught the first glimpse of her
shattered dwelling, she leaned against the closed door momentarily before she
reached down to pick up a broken vase in front of our path.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“<span lang="DE" style="mso-ansi-language: DE;">Don</span>’t touch anything.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .3in;">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;">[overvoice] </span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
She put the vase down
like it was a hot potato. </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“We need to investigate
and where things fall or where they’re out of place can matter.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Oh, of course. It’s
just so hard to…<i>realize. </i>Who would do such a thing?” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“That’s what I intend to
find out. Perhaps you should contact your landlady while I do the first
run-through?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“<span lang="DE" style="mso-ansi-language: DE;">Won</span>’t you need me here for that?” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“I do, actually, but… ”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .3in;">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;">[overvoice] </span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
There was no need for
concern, because the landlady showed up on cue. Charmaine introduced her as
Mrs. Fogerty, and the moment we shook hands, I knew I had contacted a live
wire. She was a woman, by my guess, in her mid-eighties with more vim and vigor
than I had in mind for her age. From what Charmaine had suggested about her, I
got the idea she was not quite herself in most respects, though, in all fairness,
I’d been told very little. But ‘sifting sand’ suggested to me a mind about to
dribble down the hourglass into timelessness. </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
Tiny whip of a thing
though she was, Mrs. Fogerty had the energy of a bullfighter and the alertness
of my alarm clock. She also wasn’t above cursing like a sailor.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Who the hell would do a
g-d thing like this? Wait’ll you see my place. It’s like a demolition crew
drunk on Tequila Sunrises made it their playground. I don’t have a piece of my
mother’s china left. I want your report ASAP so I can get my insurance agent in
here with reimbursements. How’m I supposed to restore my livelihood in this
mess? I live off these apartments, you know that?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“How many apartments do
you have, Mrs. Fogerty?” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Two.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .3in;">
“Charmaine and yours?” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“<span lang="PT" style="mso-ansi-language: PT;">Yes. Isn</span>’t that enough?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .3in;">
“Has your apartment been broken into the
same way?” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“I don’t know what you
mean? If you mean that it’s in shambles like this one, yes.” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Well, yes, Mrs.
Fogerty, but I’m asking you if the thief or thieves entered through the door of
your apartment without damaging it as they seem to have done at Miss
Hollister’s apartment. Even her back door appears to be intact. We’ll have to
have a complete, careful look around in both places, of course, but it doesn’t
look like any windows have been broken either.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“My place is a mess, but
the doors and windows haven’t been bothered.” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .3in;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I’ll be down as soon as help from the
department arrives.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Good. I’ll be waiting
in my place when you’re done here.” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
[footsteps and a closing
door] </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;">[overvoice]</span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
I was beginning to catch
a bit of the sifting sand. Things she said didn’t quite add <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>up, but then the damaged goods in front of me,
were they mine, would have carried me a bit over the edge. Charmaine was
holding up remarkably well. Perhaps now it was her turn to try and impress me. </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Sorry. Mrs. Fogerty
misses the PR dimension.” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“No problem, but she’s
hardly a case of dementia. More like a bit flaky—” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .3in;">
“She’s got another side.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“I’ll keep that in mind.
Right now, we have to get my partner in here with some solid notetaking and
photographs if we can get them. Let’s open the curtains for light, and then, I
think what you need to do is start writing down as many items you notice missing
from among this disarray. Do you have any reason to suspect why your apartment
and Mrs. Fogerty’s would be targeted? And where was Mrs. Fogerty while this was
taking place? She called you this morning, you said?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Yes. And I can’t
imagine why we would be the target of such a thing. But Mrs. Fogerty will have
to help you with her schedule and her own assumptions about this. I work such
erratic hours I really don’t know her well. I have no idea where she was last
night. What she does and who she knows, I couldn’t tell you, not really. I know
she has a grandson whom I’ve met. He seems like a pretty normal kid to me, in
his late teens or early twenties, going to community college somewhere in
state. Wait. County Community College, I think he said, on the Hudson. You can
get more from her, I’m sure, or maybe not.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .3in;">
“What does that mean?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“You’ll see. She’s not
the easiest person to communicate with." <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Here, take my notebook
and pen. Don’t get lost in cherished items you can’t find <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>unless they have value. They’re probably only
misplaced in this mess. Anyway, robbers aren’t much interested in sentiment,
unless they know you and want to get even for some reason. They’re looking for
things they can sell to a fence.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“I lived in Brooklyn a
good deal of my life, Detective. I’ve seen a lot of fences, the movers of
stolen goods kind. Oh, I don’t mean it like that. I haven’t <i>used</i> them.
It’s just that there’s a pawn shop on every other corner of the business
districts. Most are legitimate but some have back rooms for special items.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Okay, then. You know
what we’re looking for.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;">[overvoice] <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
So now I’m detective to
Charmaine Hollister. I like that. I watch her as she makes her way through the
house, coat still on, stepping over the scattered piles of her possessions on
the floors, opening drawers, cabinets and then disappearing into her bedroom. I
walk around looking at how the items have fallen, where the focus seems to be,
what’s left that might have value. Half-an-hour later, my partner, Nicholas
Marks walks into the living room and whistles. I look around and notice his wet
slicker and plastic cap clamped over his eight-point hat.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“<span lang="IT" style="mso-ansi-language: IT;">Holy Toledo. It</span>’s like a demolition crew’s
been in here.” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Yeah, heard that one
already. Nicky, can you dry off outside the living room and not leak all over
Miss Hollister’s rugs?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Oh, sure, sure. Sorry,
boss. I’ll undress in the hall and—” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Leave your skivvies on.
We don’t want to scare the wits outta her.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“<span lang="FR" style="mso-ansi-language: FR;">Sure
</span>‘nough, boss.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .3in;">
“Nicky, I’ve told you…” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“I know, I know,
Detective. You’re not my boss, but gotta tell ya, it sure feels like it most
the time, which is fine with me, you know that, right? Still got a lot to
learn. Be back in a shake.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
[laughs noisily at his
own joke]</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Yeah, well.” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
[Fading footsteps]<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;">[overvoice] </span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
Nicky’s a young kid, but
a good detective. He was assigned to me because there wasn’t anybody else to
assign him to. He made detective grade by passing all the tests with flying
colors, including making sharp shooter level at the ranges, both inside and
out. Socially, he’s as innocent as a naked baby on a blanket, but on the job
he’s as smart as a fox in a hen house. He leaves most of the interviews to me,
and I leave him alone to prowl and dig around the scene, which was what he was
doing now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He grinned at Charmaine who
greeted him warmly with a handshake before she walked back to me, the notebook
held out for me to take.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Nothing of value. I
can’t find a bracelet, but I think I left it at Mother’s last visit, and it
couldn’t bring more than twenty dollars if it was snitched. Everything else
seems to be in place, well, out of place but not taken. I can’t imagine why
they did this.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“They?” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Well, whoever ‘they’
are. I certainly don’t know anybody who would rob me and take nothing. It
doesn’t make sense.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“When that happens,
they—whoever they are—are looking for something in particular, Charmaine. Do
you have anything, anything at all, that you think somebody might want?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“That’s just it. I don’t
have anything of value, really. I’ve gone over and over this in my mind, and I
don’t know of a thing they’d want.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Okay, then. Officer
Marks will stay here with you while he assesses the damages, and I’ll go down
and see Mrs. Fogerty. Thanks for your cooperation. Is there anybody who can
help you with straightening up the place? Oh, a photographer may show up soon,
let him take some shots before you start picking up, okay?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Sure thing. I’ll call
the girls from work. They’ll be here in no time. We count on each other at
times like this.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;">[overvoice] </span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
I thanked Charmaine again,
and took the stairs down to Mrs. Fogerty’s apartment and used the knocker on
her front door. There was no doubt in my mind—and the certainty had been there
from the start—that some staging had gone on. There was something about how the
rooms were ransacked. It looked like a robbery with purpose. I was certain it
was somebody either Mrs. Fogerty or Chamaine knew, perhaps both, who wanted
something one of them was hiding or owned that they didn’t realize was
valuable. Charmaine said Mrs. Fogerty had told her that her life savings in a
mayo jar were gone. I was thinking of the Maltese Falcon, feeling only a little
bit like Sam Spade when I heard Mrs. Fogerty opening her door, or at least,
trying to.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
[sounds of chains across
locks, several locks, door opening] </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Well, about time. I’ve
already called my insurance people. They can’t do anything until you’<span lang="IT" style="mso-ansi-language: IT;">re done.</span>”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Sorry, Mrs. Fogerty,
but I had to wait for my partner to arrive, and it took Charmaine a bit to look
through her apartment to see what might’ve been taken.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Lookie here, Officer… what
was it again?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Weir.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Weir. I don’t have all
day. Look around all you want, but it’s not going to change anything. Nothing’s
gone far as I can see, although I might find things missing after I start
straightening up.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“I hope you haven’t
started that yet, Mrs. Fogerty. We need to look over you—”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Yeah, yeah. I didn’t
move anything worth worrying about. Go on, have a look. I looked it over myself
and nothing’s gone. It’s got to be Charmaine. It’s can’t be anything of mine.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;">[overvoice] </span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
I decided to play along
and see if Mrs. Fogerty would cough up the information about her life’s saving
in the mayo jar without my having to let her know Charmaine had told me about
her Jar-of-Plenty. I figured I could also find out how near a demented state
this old woman was—whether she was deliberately hiding truths from the police
or to what degree she was sincerely forgetful. But I found out soon enough she
was not going to be forthcoming in either case.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Uh-huh. My first
question is where were you when this break-in took place? It had to’ve happened
sometime between noon yesterday and early this morning when Miss Hollister—”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“I went to play bridge
with my pals over on the west side, okay? We had our usual glasses of wine, and
home-made dinner, but I felt especially tired since Martha’s been having
troubles with her hip and had to tell us all about her up-and-coming surgery.
It got late, so I slept in Ethel’s guest bedroom and took the taxi back early
this morning. How’s that for you? Good enough for an alibi?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“It’s perfect, if it
checks out, Mrs. Fogerty.” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .3in;">
“Ethel’s number is in the emergency
section of my address book by the phone.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
She’d never lie to the police, regardless
if we’re best friends or not.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m
not doubting your information, Mrs. Fogerty. We just have to follow through on
all possible leads, you understand?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh,
I get the law, all right. Anything else you wanna know? I called Charmaine
right away, once I got home.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What
made you suspicious that her apartment had been broken into as well?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>[pause]
“<span lang="DE" style="mso-ansi-language: DE;">Uh, I</span>’m a suspicious kinda
person. Nosey, in fact, you wanna know. After seeing my place the way it was, I
wondered if she was all right. But when I knocked on her door, and she didn’t
answer, I decided to call her at work before I called the police.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Why’s
that? I’d think the police would be your first response, after seeing your
apartment.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Not
in my world, young man. My opinion of the police, pardon me for saying so, but
it’s not the best. But never mind that now. I had Charmaine’s welfare in mind
is what I can tell you. My place was in shambles, so I wanted to make sure it
wasn’t a series of break-ins, which makes sense, right? When she didn’t answer,
I used the master key to check out whether she’d been knocked in the head or
some such. And my suspicions were correct, weren’t they? I’ve lived in this
world a little while, Officer Weir. I know how things work. You wanna sit down?
Some coffee? Police like coffee. Don’t have any donuts.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No,
thank you, though I will sit down. Right here, okay? [sounds of sitting down, a
sigh] Okay, then. My next question, Mrs. Fogerty, is why do you think both
apartments were broken into?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Who
knows how robbers think? They want to take as much as they can get, is my
guess.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Since nothing seems to
be missing from Miss Hollister’s, I’m wondering about yours?</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“<span lang="IT" style="mso-ansi-language: IT;">Same. It</span>’s like I told ya. Nothing’s gone.”
</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .3in;">
[long pause]</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Okay. If nothing was
taken, as you say, Mrs. Fogerty, wouldn’t you think somebody was looking for
something specific then? And not finding it in one place, went looking for it
in the other? Now, if you have any idea, any idea at all, about who this might
be and what they were looking for, now’s the time to tell me. It’s going to get
more and more complicated the longer this stays unsolved.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“How can it get more
complicated than it is already?” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Your door and Miss
Hollister’s were not damaged. You have any ideas about why that’s so?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Yes. Burglars are very
resourceful these days. When I was a girl, they used crowbars to open the doors
of places they were going to rob. Now they have special tools that they put in
locks, twists a little this way and that, and they get in like they have a
key.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;">[overvoice] </span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
Or it was somebody who
already had one. But, of course, I don’t tell Mrs. Fogerty this. I don’t think
she needs more information to bat around in that already batty little belfry of
hers. I opened my notebook and looked at it as though I’d just found something
to mention to her.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Miss Hollister tells me
that when you called her, you mentioned a missing savings jar? A Jar-of-Plenty,
isn’t that what you call it?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Oh, I see, you and
Charmaine already talked about me behind my back. I can save my money the way I
see fit without being look on as teched in the head. You just wait and see. The
minute you turn that big corner in life, they start suspecting you right away.
It’s why I stopped driving. You go through an intersection on a green and the
kid who hits you broadside tells the cop your light was red. Then the copper
take one look at your white hair, and he starts writing the ticket. Same with
the doctors. They ask you every time, I say, <i>every time</i> you go in for a
visit if you’ve fallen. God, help you if you have and are honest. No, no, just
a minute here, Officer Weir, I’m not done. Somebody like you, <i>especially</i>
you and especially you in your uniform, by the way…say, why aren’t you wearing
it?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Mrs. Fogerty, I was
only asking about—”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“—your foot falls in a
hole, you getting this? and you go down like a board. Well, that’s <i>you</i>,
you see, a young thing in a uniform, so they think it’s simply because you
weren’t paying attention. I stumble on a stone, drop lightly on the grass, they
think I’m losing my mind.
</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
[light footsteps,
sitting down in a soft chair with a slight groan] Now, say what you come to
say, and then go find the culprit who did this thing to me and Charmaine.
But…wait, I’m not done yet, by golly. You look into her and her doings? She
appears to be a nice enough lady, she does, and I like her. But she’s got lots
of friends. She’s considerate, I say that up front, she doesn’t bring them here
for loud parties, but her hours are odd. She comes in after midnight sometimes,
lots of times. I’ve not ever seen her drunk, no, I haven’t, but she isn’t
exactly a regular young woman either, if you get my meaning. I don’t trust city
folks, I just don’t. She comes from Brooklyn, you see. But she’s been with me
three years, and I’ve never had a bit of trouble until now. So that’s what I
have to say. Now be on with you and let me have a report I can give to my
insurance company, ASAP.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
[pause]</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Are you done now, Mrs.
Fogerty?” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“<span lang="DE" style="mso-ansi-language: DE;">Don</span>’t be sarcastic, young man.” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“I’d like to get back to
the fact that you told Miss Hollister when you called her at the end of her
shift that your Jar-of-Plenty was missing.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“It is. Nothing is
missing except that. I thought you already had that written down as missing.
Everything is still here, except that.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Okay then, the jar is
still missing. How much money was in it?” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“None of your bee’s
wax." </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
[pause] </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
[sighs] “Mrs. Fogerty—” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“I don’t have to tell
you that, do I? That’<span lang="PT" style="mso-ansi-language: PT;">s personal.</span>”
</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“But we need to know
each and every item that you find no longer in your possession and its value.
You will have to do this to get your money from the insurance company, you
understand? How much money was in the mayo…your Jar-of-Plenty?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Fifty-thousand
dollars.” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Fifty…How can you be
certain?” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“You see what I mean?
About my age? A perfect example. You think I can’t count, that I don’t know how
much money I’ve saved over the years?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;">[overvoice] </span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
I tried to keep the
incredulity out of my voice, but I had no idea fifty thousand dollars would
even fit into a five-pound mayo jar, at least, in the dimensions Mrs. Fogerty
was likely to carry around. But I did quick calculations and came to the
conclusion that if she had one hundred dollar bills in stacks of one hundred
each, it would take only fifty of those to make fifty thousand dollars. It was
possible, as crazy as it seemed, it was definitely possible, though the jar
would probably be stuffed to the gills, and surely the bank tellers would
wonder about her constantly changing lower bills into larger ones, even though
there’s no law against it. But someone could have noticed this, and gone on a
search to try to find the money. </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Okay. Now, I’m going to
ask you once again, as I did Miss Hollister. Is there anybody you can think of
who might be looking for something in your apartment other than the
Jar-of-Plenty and what that something might be?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;">Isn</span>’t that enough?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Yes, ma’am. I am simply
attempting to understand why the burglar would go through Miss Hollister’s
apartment if only the savings jar was being searched for.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;">Isn</span>’t that your job? I have no idea.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;">[overvoice]</span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
I had more questions but
not the patience to pursue them any further at this</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
time, and Mrs. Fogerty was beginning to
dig in her heels. Charmaine was right. This old woman wasn’t the easiest person
in the world to communicate with. It struck me that her edginess could be
because she had thrown all her eggs in one basket. She believed the <span lang="ES-TRAD" style="mso-ansi-language: ES-TRAD;">mayo</span> jar of cash was what
the robber was looking for, had taken it, and she was covering because she
almost certainly knew who that was. But there was another possibility. She
might be playing an insurance scam. If that was the case, somebody needed to
inform her that undeclared cash in a <span lang="ES-TRAD" style="mso-ansi-language: ES-TRAD;">mayo</span> jar wasn’t going to get her money from her policy. She
also may not want me snooting around among the rest of her things. For all I
knew, the Jar-of-Plenty could be a fiction covering up a more lucrative heist.
But if this were the case, why the disarray of her and Charmaine’s belongings
which the police were going to look through with a fine-toothed comb? I was
beginning to need a secretary to keep up with this woman’s maneuverings. She
was breeding suspects faster than I could keep track of them.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Thank you. Mrs.
Fogerty. Now, what’s the name and address of your grandson? And your daughter?”
</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
[long pause] </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“What’d you need to talk
to them for?” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“We talk to anybody who
has had access to your apartment lately. I understand your grandson stays with
you sometimes, that right?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“He visits.” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“He come often?” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Sometimes.” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Mrs. Fogerty, I need
your cooperation on this. I will find out the information sooner or later while
I’m investigating these break-ins. If you are concerned about your insurance
reimbursements, as you say, then your cooperation can help us and shorten the time
on all of this.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Oh, all right. All
right. He’<span lang="IT" style="mso-ansi-language: IT;">s Andre Falcone.</span>”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Falcone, you say?” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Yes, he’s my daughter’s
child. She married a Falcone.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .3in;">
“And his address?” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“45 Fortenwell, in the
Garden Lake district. It’s nice down there. My daughter married well. He’s a
good boy, Officer Weir. He’s not involved in this, I can tell you beyond
doubt.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Does he have a
telephone number?” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Here, I can get it for
you. [sound of footsteps, stopping and coming back] There. He calls me as well.
He visits me more than his mother ever did…does, if I’m truthful.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Thank you. Now your
daughter. Does she leave nearby? And does Andre live with her, have siblings?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“My daughter is living
out of the country, in Italy. Padua. So there’s no need to contact her, is
there? She hasn’t been home since Christmas two years ago. Before you ask any
more questions about this, know that Andre is somewhat estranged from his
family, especially his father who hasn’t been to The States since he and Katherine
were married. When Andre sees his parents, he travels to Italy. You might as
well know, because, as you say, you’ll find out anyway, Andre’s name is really
Andriano. He changed it recently, undoubtedly to aggravate his father.
Katherine gave her permission, but I’m sure her husband doesn’t know that. ”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“This husband have a
name? Other than Falcone, I mean? And are Andre’s siblings in The States?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“No siblings. He’s an
only child which makes all this infuriating to Andriano, senior. So you see the
nastiness now. You happy?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Mrs. Fogerty—”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“It’s Irene, okay. We
might as well all be on a first name basis, now that you know the dirty laundry
out on the line for the whole town to see.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Mrs. Fogerty… Irene,
there’s no need for any of this to go beyond me and my working team. We
practice discretion and confidentiality in our cases.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Why all the digging
around in the dirt, then, I wanna know?” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“It’s procedure. We have
to ascertain the facts in order to know who’s involved. And before you get your
hackles up again, those involved aren’t necessarily suspects. These details
help me understand the situation surrounding the crime is all. I will handle
this information with great respect. Thank you for cooperating.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;">[overvoice] </span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
That seemed to calm her
down, and she began answering questions with great clarity and excellent
articulation. It was hard to not view her contentious personality as an act,
one to distract or mislead. The moment she began speaking about her marriage,
her daughter’s life abroad and her grandson, she gained greater and greater
command over her verbal expression. She spoke very directly about the
acquisition of her apartments, the building her husband purchased early in
their marriage that the apartments were in, and the few valuables she had
accumulated. Except for the apartment building, much of it was through
inheritance on her father’s side. It would be easy enough to check out, but I
had no doubt what Irene Fogerty was telling me was right on the money, but that
was the trouble. I was having a hard time not only putting such disparate
personality traits together but financial facts as well. Mrs. Fogerty had an
expensive mink coat hanging from an authentic Victorian vanity in the entrance
way, her mother’s antique blue china now in shambles on a nineteenth-century
oriental rug in her dining room, and elaborately hand-painted pottery and
hand-cut crystal gleaming from hand-carved china cabinets, but then she had a <span lang="ES-TRAD" style="mso-ansi-language: ES-TRAD;">mayo</span><span lang="IT" style="mso-ansi-language: IT;">nnaise jar holding her life savings hidden
somewhere not easily to be found. This together with family connections to an
Italian </span>i<span lang="FR" style="mso-ansi-language: FR;">nternational </span>shipping
magnate—oh yeah, I recognized the name Falcone the minute she uttered it,
coming out as it did among all this choice domestic finery surrounding me at
the moment—well, it gave me plenty to think about.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“I know you’ve said you
don’t know who could’ve raided Miss Hollister and your apartments, but do you
have any enemies or persons who might seek revenge on you or your family for
any reasons you can think of?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“None. My friends and I
love each other.” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Yes, well, friends do.
I’m talking about enemies.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“None. I don’t make
enemies, not of this kind, Detective. And you can see <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>whoever did this hasn’t been interested in
what little I’ve acquired.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;">[overvoice]</span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
Now I was no longer Officer
Weir. But she was also sliding back into her half-baked, socially-resistant
personality fast. I was ready to give this up, as I’d promised myself to do
some time ago. Just a couple more questions and I’d be out the door.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Okay, then. What about
enemies of your family? Your daughter’s or Andre’s connections to her husband,
his father?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“I told you Andre has
nothing to do with his family, really. He visits when his mother insists on his
coming to see her. Other than that, he’s here and stays as far away from them
as possible. Why are you nosing around about my family when you should be out
there finding the real criminals who did this?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“I will be through here
in just a minute, Mrs. Fogerty. But I need to tell you that my partner will be
down, staying for quite a while looking through your things. It is police
procedure and not intended to invade your privacy. Your apartment will be
labeled a crime scene, which means, me or my partner will be coming back here
and to Miss Hollister’s apartment off and on until this thing is sorted out. We
hope the preliminaries will be done tonight, you understand? But I will return
if necessary to refresh my memory about certain details. This form needs to be
signed by you.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“I’m not signing over
permission for you to come any time you want, and take anything you want. No,
sir, I will not sign such a thing.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“It’s not that kind of
form, Mrs. Fogerty. This form simply states that we were here, looked over the
scene. It’s confirmation that we did a follow up of your call to Miss Hollister
and her notification of the crime to us. We don’t need a form signed to let us
re-examine the crime scene or ask you more questions. That’s part of police
investigatory procedure.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Oh, all right. Give it
here.” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .3in;">
[sound of scratching of pen] “There now.
You satisfied?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Yes, this is fine.
Again, I thank you for your time. My partner Detective Nicolas Marks will be
seeing you as soon as he possibly can. After this, we will be sending you a
report that you can forward on to your insurance company. Good day to you.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
[opening and closing of
the door, the sound of chains and locks being put into place as he’s talking]</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;">[overvoice]</span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
I didn’t offer her my
hand, and she didn’t offer me hers. I did tip my hat and stand outside her door
before taking the stairs again and leaving instructions for Nicholas about the
inventory of Mrs. Fogerty’s apartment. A few things were adding up, but only a
few. There had been a robbery, that’s if Irene was telling me the truth about
her jar of cash, though none of her or Miss Hollister’s belongings had been
taken, that’s if Nicky verified this was the case. There was a discrepancy
between how Mrs. Fogerty wanted the police to view her, how she viewed herself
and how she actually lived. Charmaine’s presentation of herself, however,
seemed straightforward and without guise. </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
So the felon seemed to
want one of two things—to threaten one or both of the women or to find
something one of them or both of them had. My gut told me it was somebody both
of them knew, because, if only one of them, why riffle both apartments? I took
note that nothing of worth, except Mrs. Fogerty’s china, had been broken. Most
items had been turned over and carefully scattered. Once again, I told myself
that the whole business looked suspiciously staged or delicately handled. As
Charmaine’d said, at least on surface, it didn’t make sense. Well, unless the
jar was the only interest. Fifty thousand dollars can buy a lot of interest.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
Once a photographer
arrived, I left him and Nicholas to Charmaine and Mrs. Fogerty and took a drive
to Fortenwell, hoping to catch Andre Falcone before he went out for the
evening. I didn’t know a college boy yet who studied in the evening hours,
especially on a Friday night. As I touched the bell to announce my arrival, I
thought again of the Maltese Falcon. It was clear Mrs. Fogerty had no liking
for the man her daughter had married.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;">[chiming door bell, opening of a door] </span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;">[overvoice]</span> </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
The young man who opened
the door was tall, lean and very handsome by fashion industry standards. He
could easily have modeled for ads from Gillette razors to custom convertibles.
He greeted me with an expansive smile. I held up my badge as my way of
greeting.
</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Good morning. I take it
you are Detective Weir or is it Officer Weir? Grandmamma addresses you as
both.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“It’s Detective. Your
grandmother called you, then.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Yes. She told me to put
the coffee on. I always do what Grandmamma tells me to do. Come in. Come in.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .3in;">
[closing of door]</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Cream, sugar?” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Black, please.” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
[pouring of liquid,
clattering of cups etc.] </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .3in;">
“How can I help you Detective Weir?
Please be seated. Sofa chair? Couch?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Thank you. Nice digs.
[pause] You are enrolled at C3, your grandmother tells me. What’re your major
studies?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Business, with an
emphasis on administration. But I’m only in my first year. A trial, really, to
see if it suits me. I’ve a ways to go. If it takes, I’ll transfer to Columbia
or NYU. I want to stay near Grandmamma.” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“I see. How much do you
know about your grandmother’s recent break-in, then?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Only what Grandmamma
told me. She called first thing. I wasn’t able to see her apartment as I had a
final project that I needed to present to a panel of professors the next
morning and had more work to do on it that evening and through the night, and,
unfortunately, this morning before I could leave, I was called back for further
orals on the presentation. I just got home when Grandmamma called and informed
me you had arrived with Charmaine, had seen both apartments, and after
questioning them both and was on your way to see me. But I got a pretty good
description of the robbery’s affect from her initial telephone call.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;">[overvoice] </span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
I wasn’t certain of how
much he knew concerning the Jar-of-Plenty, so I proceeded as though cash had
not been taken.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Not certain yet if
there actually was a robbery. Since you’ve talked with your grandmother, you
know it appears that nothing has been taken, at least as far as we can
ascertain at this time.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Yes. I am relieved. And
more so that Grandmamma wasn’t hurt. Or Miss Hollister.” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“When was the last time
you were in your grandmother’s apartment?” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
[sighs]<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Oh, it must have been last week sometime.
Let’s see, Thursday, yes, I went over the twenty-third for tea and a catch-up.
I try to see her at least once a week.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Do you work?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
[laughter] “Why do you
ask? Oh, my digs, as you called it, and its goodies. You think I might have an
addiction to spending, taken her Jar-of-Plenty and staged a robbery, oops,
robberies, as cover-up?” [more lighter laughter]</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“You know about her
savings jar, then?” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Of course, she isn’t
very discrete about her jar, really. I wouldn’t be surprised if somebody came
around to try and find it, because she accidentally mentioned it in the grocery
store in passing. I’ve admonished her, but to no effect.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“So why did you act a
few moments ago as though nothing was taken?” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Because Grandmamma
didn’t mention her jar as missing. But it was my first thought, of course. It’s
a secret but not a secret, you see. I let Grandmamma take the lead on this one.
You’ve met her, so you undoubtedly know how every touchy or debatable topic can
turn into a filibuster. It works out best if she brings it up, which she rarely
does with me. No reason to, really.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
[pause] </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .3in;">
“I’m sorry, but I have to ask. Did you
do it? Take her jar?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Look around, Detective.
What need would I have to take Grandmamma’s money? My parents are wealthy. I
get all I need from them.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Why not Harvard, then?”
</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Oh, I see. I’m the
major suspect because I know about the jar and I’m slumming by <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>going to community college? Listen, Detective,
if I wanted to stage a robbery, believe me, I’ve seen enough noir films to do a
better job than that.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“So you <i>have</i> seen
the apartment since it was riffled?” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“No, I’m going on what
Grandmamma told me. Nothing taken. And besides, there’<span lang="FR" style="mso-ansi-language: FR;">s Charmaine</span>’s apartment, isn’t there? What
possible purpose…”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“You know Miss Hollister
well? You call her by her first name? She doesn’t seem to know you that well at
all.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“I only call her that
because Grandmamma does.” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Do you live here
alone?” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Yes. Why?” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“No reason. Just
inquiring, getting a picture of what I need to know. Do you have any idea as to
who might want to frighten your grandmother?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“No, it’s more likely,
like I told you, that she’s not been discrete about her savings in a jar.
That’s what I’ve come to about all this.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“But there’s a whole
house full of goods that any dumb-as-a-board thieves would have taken, Andre.
I’m not even comfortable calling whoever broke in a thief. Why would a thief
leave valuables behind, even if he was looking for a jar full of money? Having
dealt with quite a number of thieves, their MO seems to be the more, the
merrier.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Well, perhaps they were
trying to frighten her, as you say. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Do you know of anybody
who would want to do such a thing?” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“There’<span lang="FR" style="mso-ansi-language: FR;">s Charmaine</span>…Miss Hollister’s apartment as
well, right?” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“<span lang="PT" style="mso-ansi-language: PT;">Yes.</span>”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Well, what about that?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“What about it?” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Well, why would both
apartments be broken into if it was to frighten Grandmamma?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Got any ideas about
that, Andre?” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Not really. You’re the
detective.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Well, I tell you what I
think. I think it was to frighten your grandmother. She owns the building, so
both apartments being ransacked doubles the fright.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
[pause] </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Guess that could be. At
least that makes some sense. As the saying goes, it’s for me and Grandmamma to
wonder about, but for you to find out. Well, if you don’t have any more
questions, Detective Weir, I’d like to change and get to the gym.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Aren’t you at least
curious as to what your grandmother is going through? It’s pretty disturbing
coming home to find your dwelling in such disarray and when you go to seek
help, find your renter’s apartment has been riffled through as well.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“<span lang="DE" style="mso-ansi-language: DE;">We</span>’re having dinner together tonight,
Detective. I’ll have a chance to see the apartment then and console her, if
need be. She seems to be holding up just fine. I’ve called a cleaning crew who
is coming in tomorrow to restore things back to normal.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
[sounds of standing, a
few footsteps]</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“I’d like the names of
your professors, if you don’t mind. Simply routine, you understand.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“I’d rather not get them
involved in this…I’m attempting to make a good start of things here and
investigating my whereabouts at the time my grandmother’s apartment was being
sacked, well, not sure how that will go over.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Of course, but I have a
job to do, Andre. I can reassure you this far. As I proceed, if I feel I don’t
need information concerning your whereabouts, I’ll not contact your professors.
In the meantime, I’d like their names please. Just so I don’t have to come back
and bother you again if need be.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;">[overvoice] </span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
He gave me two names,
despite the fact there were three on his presentation committee. I took them,
although, I was fairly certain I wouldn’t have to use them. My gut told me he
took the jar. First of all, he must have a key to his grandmother’s apartment,
and, secondly, I knew in my heart of hearts, he was lying through his teeth
about how much he knew about the robbery and how connected he was to his
family, especially his mother. I simply needed to find out why he was lying and
where he’d put the money. It would be easy enough to find out where he does his
banking. There are only two banks in town, and my bet is on the bigger
one—easier money exchange in large amounts, especially if laundered through
daddy’s business somehow, maybe with mommy’s help. </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
We shook hands. I gave
him my number at the station in case he thought of anything he’d missed during
our conversation. It was getting late, but I wondered how Nicholas had fared
with Irene Fogerty. He wasn’t the best with social situations and she was a
handful.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
Outside, it was still
raining, though not as hard as before, so I decided to head toward the Fogerty
apartments again to see if Nicholas had finished his work on the crime scene.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
Charmaine met me at the
door, a noisy group of women busily chatting as they worked. I told her I was
simply making the rounds before calling it a day and wondered how she was
doing. She invited me in, but I didn’t want to go through all the introductions
and the chitchat that would follow. I told her I’d catch her at the diner at
noon tomorrow. She informed me, once again, that as far as she could tell,
nothing had been taken from her place. I stood for a moment before she closed
the door admiring how she looked with a kerchief wrapped haphazardly around her
hair.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
Nicholas was just
walking away from the door to Irene Fogerty’s apartment when I caught him as I
was coming down the stairs. </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“What a day. I’ve never
heard so much stream of conversation in my life.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“So you had a chance to
get a word in edgewise, now and again?” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“No. That woman’s
conversations are with herself, even while she’s looking right at you. She’d
talk the hind leg off a giraffe, I tell you.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
[laughs] “I think it’s a
donkey, but that’s actually more accurate, longer in the hind quarters. Learn
anything from all the chatter?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“She says nothing’s
gone. Here’s the inventory list of all the major items of value. Nothing amiss,
she says. But you know, I’m not sure about her jar, the one she claims is
filled with her savings that’s missing. She wouldn’t tell me how much had been
in it or wouldn’t tell me where she’d kept it. My hunch is she never had one.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“She has one, all right.
Charmaine’s the one that gave it to her, the jar, I mean. From the diner, she
said.” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Something funny going on there’s, boss. And
it was pullin’ <span lang="DE" style="mso-ansi-language: DE;">hen</span>’s teeth to
get her tell me about it in the first place. I threatened her with Article 6 of
the Detection Regulations, you know the one that if any evidence pertinent to
the case is knowingly withheld, you can serve jail time.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Clever man. Used
Article 6 myself off and on. And you just confirmed my suspicions, Nicky. I
have a theory, but it’s still so vague, it’ll only sound silly if I say. I’ll
let you know as soon as I’ve firmed it up. The photographer get his pictures?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Yep. He put in a rush
on the developing. Coupla days, he figures.” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Good man. Let’s call it
a night.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Sounds good. See you
tomorrow, bos… <span lang="PT" style="mso-ansi-language: PT;">Detective Weir.</span>”
</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center;">
____________</div>
<div align="center" class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>[overvoice]</span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
The next day was all
sunshine but with dirty puddles making a walk across the street a hazard. I
hopped into car 3 and headed toward Eighth and Mulberry. It was an hour before
my lunch, and I decided to have a look at Charmaine’s apartment before I had lunch
at the Main Street Diner in case there was anything I needed to ask her. I
glanced at my watch. She was already on her shift.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
Her apartment smelled
richly of Clorox and furniture polish when I entered. I’d called ahead and
asked Mrs. Fogerty to leave the key under the scrapper mat outside Charmaine’s
apartment door. She was reluctant to do that but said she’d leave it under her
own mat outside her apartment door where she could keep a better eye on it.
There’s no quibbling with shifting sand, so I agreed. I would be arriving
within the half-hour so despite her recent break-in, I felt all would be safe
with the key under her mat until I arrived. I was just glad that Fogerty had an
appointment, would be leaving before I arrived, and wouldn’t be following me
around as I made my way through Charmaine’s rooms. She was reluctant to leave
the key where she’d promised to put it, but after I reassured her I was on my
way, she left. Punctual lady, Mrs. Fogerty, this time to my advantage.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
Charmaine was a
practical gal, all right. One pair of shoes for work, play and dress up. The
same went for dresses and coats. Not a non-essential in the whole closet, nor
the cabinets in the kitchen, dining room and storage closet. I went through
everything I could without snooping beyond decent perimeters, well, perhaps
with a not-such-a- respectful view of her negligee and undergarments, as I
lifted them to see if there were false bottoms and sides to drawers. But I
found nothing.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
I felt like a heel. If
she was involved in any way, I couldn’t see how. But it was the job. Going
through the closet the second time, I glanced up and saw a rectangular shape
that was not completely flush with the ceiling. Without my flashlight, I would
never have seen it, not even with the closet light turned on as it was. After
carrying her clothing on hangers and draping them on the bed, I got a chair
from the kitchen and using a butcher knife from one of the drawer, pried open
the tile which lowered to a small swinging door which, in turn, opened to a crawl
space just big enough for a thin person to crawl through. I wasn’t, by any
means, that thin person, but when I ran my hand around the edges of the
opening, I discovered a container about the size of a small suitcase. Bringing
it down I discovered it was a very old and worn leather valise. Opening it on
the bedroom floor, I discovered it was full of stacks of one-hundred dollar
bills. After counted several rows, I estimated at least $50,000. A terrible
shock ripped up my back and settled in the back of my head where an odd
juxtaposition of thoughts formed an idea that I did not want to recognize.
There was a parallel here between Andre Falcone’s community college academic
career and Charmaine Hollister’s waitress in residence in Tutterton, New
Jersey. He had called her Charmaine so easily, and she had feigned no knowledge
of him so effortlessly. It was slick and made me feel a bit sick. It wasn’t
what I’d surmised at all. I’d noticed the discrepancy between Irene Fogerty’s
version of Andre’s relationship with his father and the one he’d given me, so I
reasoned that he was taking his <i><span lang="IT" style="mso-ansi-language: IT;">Grandmamma</span></i>
for a ride all along as he sugar-talked her out of what he could get and then
as a final act had stolen her jar full of cash and was headed for the wild blue
yonder. Now I saw he wasn’t alone in his planned travels. My hunches aren’t
always right. But I’m not usually this easily tricked. Charmaine Hollister was
one great actress. I had to hand her that. She had me totally believing not
only her story but in the character she had acted out each time I’d seen her
both in and out of the diner. </div>
<div align="center" class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center;">
____________</div>
<div align="center" class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .3in;">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;">[overvoice]<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
I wasn’t a bad actor
myself. I’d learned over the years how to get plenty of information from very
suspicious, tough criminals, some of them I’d even helped lock up for life. But
sitting and waiting for Charmaine to take my lunch order was one of the hardest
acts I’d had to pull off in years. When she finally showed up with her pad and
pencil in hand, I gave her the best smile I could muster.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“So how goes it?” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Not bad. It took us all
night, but the girls worked their magic. My apartment looks like nobody ever
touched it.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“I know.” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“You know?” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“I went around this
morning. Didn’t Irene call you?” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Irene? Oh, Mrs.
Fogerty. No, why would she? I told her that if you needed to get in for any
reason, she was to give you her key to my apartment. So you saw it then, and
you know.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“I know.” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;">[overvoice] </span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
I waited, and when she
didn’t respond I wasn’t sure exactly how to proceed. It was a public place, she
was on the job, and even though I was too, I didn’t want to charge her right
then and there. Besides, I was hungry. But there was something in my voice that
tipped her off.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Is something wrong,
Detective?” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“It’s… naw, nothing I
can’t reason out in time. You’ve had enough questions for now. Bring me the
usual.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“The Benny and Detective
Weir special? Where’s Officer Garfield been lately?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .3in;">
[both laugh] </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Yeah, well, he’s busy
with school and baseball, when it’s not raining, that is. I saw a game of his
last Friday night. The kid’s not half bad.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“What does he play?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Shortstop, of course.” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
[light laughter again]<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“I’ll have to see a game
of his soon. Let me know when he has the next one, will you?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“<span lang="FR" style="mso-ansi-language: FR;">Sure </span>‘nough.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .3in;">
[footsteps walking off] </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;">[overvoice]<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
By all rights, I should
bring Charmaine in, and the sooner, the better. But something was inching its
way into the crevices of my mind. The part still in play was why they’d trashed
the places, unless they really thought they were making it look like a robbery
so they could get away with the money should Irene Fogerty report it missing. <i>She</i>
would know they took the money once they were gone, of course, but did they
think the sacked apartments would give her a reason to cover for them with the
police? Surely she wasn’t in on it. The staged appearance of it still bothered
me. Were these two emotionally tied to Fogerty in such a way—as a good, old
lady landlord and grandmamma—that they didn’t want to harm her belongings while
faking a robbery by<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>strangers? </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
And there was a gnawing
question about my perception of Charmaine’s character. The notion of her
acting, especially over time, simply didn’t fit with all of her reactions,
specifically those I saw when she first viewed her ransacked apartment. But
then more than one woman I’ve known had enough fake charm to seduce a lot of
men to act beyond their inclinations. And Andre had enough good looks to
genuinely charm any woman into doing his bidding. At any rate, the view of the
crime I had in mind earlier wasn’t fitting this current scenario at all. My
focus initially had been on Irene Fogerty, then on her grandson. Now it had
mushrooming into a much more complicated situation. I was glad I hadn’t
mentioned my earliest suspicions to Nicky. Unfortunately my conclusions now weren’t
any less vague than before.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
I was thinking that
either Andre or Charmaine would ultimately fill in the blanks when they were
questioned, but I also caught how much I was hoping that Charmaine would come
forward on her own. How this could happen, I wasn’t sure, and the huge amount
of cash in the trunk of my car didn’t help. It needed to be turned over to the
station, but I knew the minute that happened, all hell would break loose, and
I’d lose Charmaine forever. But hadn’t that happened already? Besides we were
hardly the couple I was making us out to be. I hadn’t had the courage to even
ask her to join me for a cup of coffee in her own restaurant.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
I ate my lunch with a
nasty internal dialogue going on with myself. Charmaine was busy and didn’t
return to my booth until she came to collect my plate, poured me another cup of
coffee and offered dessert. Despite the couple of pounds up on the scale after
my morning shower, I wolfed down a large piece of cherry pie à la mode, left a
skimpy tip on the table and paid my check with the cashier winking me a
good-bye. She couldn’t have been over twenty-two. So much for the fleeting
halcyon days of my youth. I walked past the diner windows without my usual wave
to Charmaine among the lunchtime crowd.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center;">
____________</div>
<div align="center" class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;">[overvoice] </span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
call came in half past three, while I sitting making notes from the inventories
Nicky Marks had given me of the items of value in both apartments. I wasn’t
sure what scenario I was attempting to put together, but I knew that soon the
inevitable was going to come crashing down on me. It was only four and a half
hours before Charmaine got off her shift, and I would be confronting her and
Andre with their crime.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When
I brought the receiver to my ear, there was intense sobbing on the other end of
the line.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Detective?
Detective Weir?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Mrs.
Fogerty, what can I do for you?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>[sobbing
while talking]</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It’s
my grandson, Detective. It’s Andre. He’s in trouble, I just know it, and I
don’t know how to help him. He isn’t answering his telephone, and I’m worried sick
about him.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Mrs.
Fogerty, you’re going to have to calm down so I can hear what you are telling
me. All right? Okay?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>[sobbing
subsiding, blowing her nose] “<span lang="PT" style="mso-ansi-language: PT;">Yes.</span>”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Okay,
tell me why you think he’s in trouble.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Can
you go out and check on him?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
can do that, actually I was planning on doing that this afternoon, but first I
need to understand why you’re so upset.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You
were? Going to check on him? Then you suspect what I do?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Perhaps it would be best if I came
out to your apartment, and we talked face to face about this.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No,
Detective, no, if you were here I wouldn’t have the courage to tell you what I
must. Andre is everything to me. He’s all I have left. And I wasn’t exactly up
front with you, you see? I was afraid if I told you the truth, you’d take him
away from me, but now… now I’m afraid if I don’t tell you, I’m going to lose
him forever. I just don’t know who else to turn to for help.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Okay,
Mrs. Fogerty. Why don’t you slow down and tell me what trouble you think
Andre’s in.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“He’s
gambling again. I can tell by how he’s been behaving. He acts arrogant and
self-assured, as though he doesn’t need anybody. He’s gone over the top, this
time though. He came in here early this morning demanding that because of the
break-in, I give him my savings so he could put it in a safe place for me. He
knew I’d lied to him about its being stolen, he said. If I didn’t want it in
the bank, then I should give it to him for safekeeping. He owes money, I just
know it, to some very … <i>influential</i> people. He’s desperate to find money
to pay them. And I’ve lied to you, at the very least, I haven’t told you the
truth about all this. I tried to save him, you see? He’s been treated so
awfully by his father, I just wanted him to have a safe place to live, be himself
without constant humiliation.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“All
right, it’s good you’re telling me this. Did he take your money, Mrs. Fogerty?
Can you tell me that?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No,
because after his visit I knew…well, I felt like he’d been the one to stage the
robbery to scare me. He used it as a ruse to try and get me to give him my
savings so he could pay his debtors or try and make more money on the horses or
cards for that purpose.” [pause] “I lied to you, Detective. The money wasn’t
taken, and Andre, the clever boy he is, he guessed it. But I didn’t tell him
the truth. I knew at least that much—not to tell him where it was, I mean.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“So
what did you do, Mrs. Fogerty?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
got my husband’s old leather valise, put the money in there and hid it, God
help me, in Charmaine’s attic. It wasn’t the easiest thing to do, but for this
one time, I figured I could manage to do it and I did. I prayed when you went
through her apartment you wouldn’t find it and get her into trouble. It wasn’t
likely because nobody knows the ceiling door is there, and it’s impossible to
see unless you know where it is. The little hidey hole was my husband’s idea.
We kept all our money and inherited items up there for years, until he passed,
but I found it harder and harder to get up in there and down again, so I hid the
Jar-of-Plenty…well, somewhere else. ”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Where,
Mrs. Fogerty?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Somewhere
else. Does it matter? ‘Cause the money’s safe now. It’s in the valise in the
attic hidey hole.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Uh-huh.
Clever of you. So Andre didn’t know about your little hidey hole, then?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Never.
I never told anybody, nobody. Never. It was Clarence and my secret. We promised
never to tell, and I’ve kept my word to him, even after his passing.” [pause]
“I’m sorry I lied to you and Charmaine about the Jar-of-Plenty—that it was
missing during the robbery, you know. I thought if I went along with Andre’s
scheme, it might protect him, getting you to think it was a robbery but not by
him, which I’m almost certain he planned and acted out.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Okay,
so you think your grandson came and looked for it, that it?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well,
wouldn’t you? If you were in his kind of trouble?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“And
how much does Andre owe, do you have any idea?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No,
he didn’t tell me. Of course not, since he wouldn’t even admit he owed these
shysters money. He was too ashamed. But the last time he had troubles, it was
tens of thousands. His mother came through for him then. She’s got her own
account, you know, and finances all his college and living expenses. But
twenty, thirty thousand extra isn’t small potatoes even for her as she depends
on Andriano for her replenishments. I think she gets an allowance or something
like that, annually, maybe monthly, I can’t remember what she said for sure.
But he’d notice any irregularities in her spending, and in this case, her <i>not</i>
spending, you know, for giving it to Andre, you see? No clothing receipts and
such, you understand? Anyway, last time when Andriano got wind of it, boy
howdy, there was hell for her to pay for a long time. He watched her money like
a hawk.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“When
was this?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“About
two years ago. Andrea was still in high school and was getting into all kinds
of mischief. He passes for older, always has, and he’s smart as a whip. He’s
been approached to model, you know, but he won’t do it, not if he’s starving to
death, he says. He thinks it’s too womanish.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Okay,
Mrs. Fogerty. I’m going to look into this right away, and I’ll let you know as
soon as I find out anything that I think is relevant to your worries.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What’re
you gonna do, Detective? Please be good to Andre. What he’s doing is illegal,
gambling like he does, but these people know a soft touch when they see it. Are
you going to talk to him?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“If
I can find him. Is he still around, do you know?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“He
was here early this morning, is all I can tell you. But he hasn’t much money,
I’m sure of it, if any at all. Initially, I refused to give him any on the
pretext that I had money problems to do with the apartments, not knowing when
the insurance would come through. I finally relented and gave him fifty dollars
to live on, which he took begrudgingly, but he left pretty upset, especially
since I wouldn’t give him the money from the jar. He’s never called me names,
but he did on his way out the door. He didn’t mean it, I know, but it hurt.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Stay
where you are in case he calls or comes back, okay? If he’s desperate enough,
he might get aggressive, and we don’t want that, so I’d like to send Nicky
Marks out to your place, if that’s all right.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Okay,
but Andre won’t hurt me, Detective. I just can’t believe he would.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Maybe
not, but some of those <i>influential</i><span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;"> men he</span>’s angered might, just to let him know how influential they
are, you understand?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>“Well, Detective Marks can’t stay here
forever. So when will this get resolved, is my question?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
can’t tell you that, Mrs. Fogerty, as much as I’d like to. But I’m on the case
right now because you called. You did the right thing. I’ll try to locate
Andre, and then we’ll proceed to the next step. When I’ve located him and also
your money, I’ll give you a call. By the way, how do I gain access to the hidey
hole?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh,
I hate this. I’ll pray Clarence will forgive me. [pause] It’s in the crawl
space through a small door in the ceiling of Charmaine’s bedroom closet. That
used to Clarence’s study, you see. I made it into an apartment to rent in order
to have extra income, beyond the life insurance he left me.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“I’ll simply check to
make sure it’s still there, okay?” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Fine.
Just don’t take it. And make sure the door is in place so it can’t be found. I
don’t trust anybody, absolutely nobody, these days, as you can tell. My husband
lost everything in the crash, you know. After that we didn’t cotton to banks or
anything like them. Clarence had to work his way back up from nothing, and he
did it in less than ten years. It’s what killed him to my way of thinking, him
working his heart to death for our future.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Your
funds are safe with me, Mrs. Fogerty. I promise.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>[overvoice]</span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
was making a promise I wasn’t sure I could keep. After her call I wanted to
rush to the squad car and see if the money was still in the trunk. I made sure
car 3 was unavailable, even if an emergency arose. I had the keys in my pocket
where they were going to stay until I could unload the cash back to Mrs.
Fogerty’s hidey hole when her grandson and his nasty buddies were out of its reach,
well, and when Charmaine wasn’t around. Then there was going to be a long, hard
talk with Irene Fogerty about banks and investments and such.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My
mind was awhirl, but one thing was sure. I was tremendously relieved that
Charmaine was not involved in this mess—at least it was looking more and more
like this was the case. And I was go glad I hadn’t brought her in for
questioning. If luck continued on my side, I might be able to settle this whole
situation without her ever knowing how close she came to being charged for a
crime.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
grabbed my jacket and headed for the stairs. It took only seventeen minutes in
afternoon traffic to make it to the Garden Lake District and Fortenwell Street
without sirens blaring. It was my hope to catch Andre Falcone by surprise.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But
as luck would have it, he was the one to surprise me. He opened the door
immediately upon my knock. My guess was that his grandmother alerted him, once
again, of my arrival. But, for once in her life, Irene Fogerty had used her
head. I saw right away that Andre was totally unprepared for my being at his
door. He was skunk drunk, leaning against the knob as though it was his only
life support.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well,
well. Hello, Detective Weir.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Andre.
May I come in?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Why
the hell not? I’m expecting company any minute so you might have to make a
hasty retreat out the back door if you don’t want a battle with the bad boys.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>[sounds
of footsteps and closing of a door]</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Your
grandmother gave me a call and alerted me of that fact.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Good
old Grandmamma. She has saved me more times than I can count, and, now, once
again trying a rescue, though her money could have guaranteed my salvation with
a little more certainty than sending in the local constabulary. But the big
rescue days may be coming to a close regardless.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Who
are you expecting, Andre?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Bad,
bad people, Detective. I’d like to think you can protect me, but alas, nobody
gets past these fellows. They thumb-screw, break bones with a block and hammer,
slit throats with butcher knifes on a regular basis. What’s one more little,
ole rich kid to them? Unfortunately what they don’t know is that Mother Falcone
won’t come to my aid this time. Or any other time, for that matter. I’m a rich
kid without a bankroll. Sit down. Sit down, Detective. Rest your flatfeet.
That’s if you want to stay and watch them do the things they do so well.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>[sigh]
“Okay, Andre. While we wait, why don’t you give me your side of the story and
make me some coffee and some for yourself?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh,
why not? What’ve I got to lose? Where ya wanna start? With the faux-robbery?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>[footsteps
and clinking of ware for making coffee]</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Good
a place as any.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>[overvoice]</span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
trailed him to the kitchen and listened while he clumsily made coffee for the
two of us, leaving a trail of grounds and water across the counter. I assisted
with wipe up as best as I could.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
started out by simply going to Grandmamma’s apartment when I knew she had
bridge with her ladies and looked for ‘<span lang="IT" style="mso-ansi-language: IT;">The Jar.</span>’ I have a key, of course, and come and go without—”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .3in;">
“Impunity, it would appear.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Okay, she’s good to me,
too good to me, that’s true. But she’s a fox, I tell you. I looked everywhere,
not taking the time to be careful but not wanting to destroy her things either.
Let’s go to the living room. I gotta sit down.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
[pause, sitting and
pouring of the coffee while Andre talks; he stumbles over words once in a
while]</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“I got angrier and
angrier the more I looked without success. So then, I decided to frighten her
into coughing up her jar of cash on the pretext of putting it in a safe place
for her. Ha! Some investment! I knew she’d need some encouragement, so I messed
up the place some more. That’s when I broke the china, which I hadn’t planned
to do, but I was getting desperate, and I thought of all her things, this would
be the best idea to bring her around. She wouldn’t guess I’d do that. I’m too
nice to her, she thinks.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Why
didn’t you simply take some of her valuables, like the china which was worth a
great deal, I would think?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
didn’t want to mess with a fence. That’s traceable, and anyway, it’s a lot of
trouble getting stuff like that out of the apartment—anybody coming along could
catch me at it. And it takes more planning than I’d time for. Don’t you
understand? They were coming for me. I’d gone intending to simply find the
money and get out of there with it, just messing up the place enough to give
her the idea that a robber took it. If she suspected me, she suspected me, but
she’d have no proof. </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“But before I gave up
completely, I decided to go to Hollister’s apartment and look around up there.
Grandmamma is just clever enough, well, and trusting enough, too, to maybe
either hide it in Charmaine’s apartment or have Charmaine in on the hiding of
it—though I doubted that was the case. I’m ashamed to admit it, but it didn’t
matter to me if Charmaine became a suspect or not. I knew if it was in her
apartment and it was found by the police, it could look like she knew about the
jar, found it because Grandmamma had told her about it, hid it for herself and
did the cover-up robberies. It’d throw the suspicion off me. But despite what I
told you before, Grandmamma really didn’t let many people know about her jar.
Far as I know, it was only Charmaine and me, and now you, well, and anybody
within the police she might have told during the investigation. But anyway, I
never found it.” [sighs deeply, almost weepy] “Guess I’ve made a mess of
things, haven’t I? And I’m not just talking about the apartments.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes,
you have, young man. You’re in a lot of trouble…”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>[loud
pounding at the door and calling out] “Open up, Andre Falcone. We know you’re
in there.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“…and
sounds like trying to pinch your grandmother’s money jar is just the beginning
of it.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>[panic
in Andre’<span lang="FR" style="mso-ansi-language: FR;">s voice] </span>“What’ll we
do? What’re we gonna go now?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What
were you going to do before I got here?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Give
in to them…just, well, give in to them. Let them beat me up, kill me, whatever
they do.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>[banging
louder, calling out threateningly] “<span lang="DE" style="mso-ansi-language: DE;">Don</span>’t make us break the door down, Andre. We hear you in there. Open
up.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>[slow
opening of the door]</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“There.
That’s better…what the…”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hello
gentlemen. Nuh, nuh, hands up in the air, slowly, very slowly. Hey, you, yeah,
you with the revolver. On the floor, yep, nice and easy. Good, very smart move.
And you, don’t reach for it fellah, you don’t wanna lose an ear and bloody up
your beard and mustache. Yeah, I’m that good. Okay then.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Nicky,
retrieve the gun and handcuff them one by one. Hands behind your heads. That’s
the good boys." [pause, to Nicky] "Arrived just in time, my man. What
took you so long? I called you a good half-n-hour ago, just before I got to
Andre’s apartment.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Mrs.
Fogerty. She wouldn’t let me leave without her. She’s out in the car…”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Not
on your life, Detective Marks.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Mrs.
Fogerty, I told you…”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>[panicky]
“Andre, Andre, are you all right?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes,
Grandmamma. Oh, I never meant to drag you into this, not really.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Now
gentlemen, down the hall. Nicky, I’ll take Bald-Beard-n-Stash here, and you
take Beretta Boy. Andre, you stay with your grandmother until I return. I come
back and find you gone, you have no idea what calamity will befall you.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No,
sir. I’m going nowhere.” [pause] “Detective?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes,
Andre?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Am
I off the hook now? I mean, will they stop coming for me?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well,
I’m not sure about the hook. We’ll have to see how this shakes down at the
station, but if I have anything to do with it, the bucks stops here. You won’t
be left hanging out on a limb. There will be some charges at your ends of
things, but I’ll keep you informed. That’s all I can tell you for now.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Okay,
sir. Thank you, sir.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Get
yourself to the kitchen, young man. Ooooh, you reek of whiskey. We’ve more
sobering up to do.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“<span lang="IT" style="mso-ansi-language: IT;">Yes, Grandmamma.</span>”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center;">
____________</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>[overvoice]</span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Four
days later, I went to check on Irene Fogerty and Andre Falcone. Falcone got a
free pass because neither Charmaine Hollister or his <i><span lang="IT" style="mso-ansi-language: IT;">grandmamma</span></i> pressed charges. There was
the illegal betting to be dealt with, but Judge Ronald L. Peterson III gave the
young man a swift kick in the pants, sent him to jail for a night without
paperwork and had him escorted by yours truly back to his grandmother’s
guardianship for the next six months. If he’s caught within two hundred feet of
any gaming event—gambling or not, he will be fined and left to rot in
jail—Judge Peterson’s own words. </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Contrition
didn’t begin to describe the demeanor of the arrogant young man I<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>first met in the Garden Lake District only
weeks earlier. And Mrs. Fogerty had taken her role as assigned guardian very
seriously. She had Charmaine type out a weekly schedule of AA meetings and
classes at C3 on her Smith Corona which Fogerty taped to the back of her
grandson’s bedroom door. I knew because she showed me when Andre was in the
kitchen putting together the cookie plate for our coffee klatch, her tiptoeing
down the hall with a finger over her lips to communicate to me our secret. I
wasn’t sure how long Andre would put up with her regimentation, but I intended
to monitor the situation with regular visits and telephone calls, at least
until I knew he was going to hold the line drawn by the department and
Peterson.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
visits wouldn’t be hard for me to do. Charmaine was home until noon and
mid-morning coffee at the Fogerty residence gave me a chance to see her outside
the</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
diner.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Luckily,
the influential gamblers weren’t so influential after all. They were a half
dozen street thugs coming from the City into Tutterton to engage in some
mid-level profits from vulnerables around town. They ran their table in the
back of the barber shop, with Kermit McDormand getting a cut of the take for
the lease of the room.<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>They
were indicted for illegal gambling and sent back to jail in Bronx County where
their residences were located. A dumb, dumb buncha dopes. Seems that they had a
traveling circuit throughout New York, New Jersey and along the eastern border
of Pennsylvania, meandering and not well unorganized, but the feds were brought
into the case because of the involvement of illegal profits crossing state
lines. Once they took over, our work at the police station was primarily one of
paperwork.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
I returned the valise
full of cash to the hidey hole using Charmaine’s key on the pretext of having
to double check on the locking of a window from the inside that I’d unlocked to
examine its access to the fire escape as a possible route the robber might have
taken. I was planning extensive sermons to deliver personally to Mrs. Fogerty
on the advantages of money stored in banks and in investments for her future.
In the meantime, I would let Mrs. Fogerty’s money take its chances against fate
and the limited grapevine. I wasn’t the happiest to put Charmaine in such a
vulnerable position with Mrs. Fogerty’s hidey hole in her apartment, but I had
no doubt that it wouldn’t be long, even with her money in the bank, before
Irene would attempt to store other valuables there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It wasn’t likely to be another jar of money,
because her difficulty in getting up and down as often as she’d need to, might
curtail that altogether. If and when the time was right—this being when I knew
Charmaine better—I’d inform her in confidence of Irene’s little stash-away. I
never learned where Mrs. Fogerty had hidden the Jar-of-Plenty before she took
the money and put it in the valise that she hid back in the attic.This was one woman who knew how to keep a
secret. Clarence would be proud.
</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Benny
Garfield came walking into the precinct this morning and asked to see me. He’d
been reluctant to enter the station since the time he spent there after his
run-in with Leonard Vlamos and Vlamos’s theft of his precious Schwinn bicycle,
even though the police had rescued it for him. I greeted him with great
enthusiasm. I hadn’t seen him for two weeks.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hey,
Benny. What brings you into my world?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hallo,
Officer Weir. I come to see if we could share a malted at lunch.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Of
course. I’d like that. Things okay, then?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Okay
‘nough, I ‘pect. Ma’s talking about relocating, and I’m not for it a’tall. She
says she’s only <i>thinkin’ </i>‘bout it, but I knows her thinking pretty good
by now.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Relocating
to where?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Ah,
she says back to London, now that my aunt’s all better, but she don’t mean it,
not really. She just can’t, sir, can she? I got me friends and the baseball
team and the like. I’m doing good, really good at school.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“So
you’d like for me to talk to her, that it?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Would
you, sir? I means, just feel her out, not necessarily help her come to her
senses or anything as vigorous as that.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>[laughs]
“Vigorous as that, huh? Okay, I’ll see what I can do. You think a possible job
might help?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh,
that would be ever’thing, sir. Her sewin’ just isn’t bringin’ in enough.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Does
your mother type?” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“She knows it, sir.
She’s tried to find somethin’ with typing but nothing’s available.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Well, I’m thinking of a
possibility right now. But let’s keep it under wraps until I get it all firmed
up, okay?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Me
mouth’s zipped tight.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“So let’s see, then. Oh,
my, it’s after one o’clock. I think the luncheon specials might still be on the
board if we hurry.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It’s
my invitation, sir. I’m not meaning for you to pay. I got enough from the route
to buy us malteds.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You
can do that, if you like. But the roast beef and gravy sandwich is on me for
standing you up so long, how’s that?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh,
that’d be mighty keen, sir.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“My
pleasure, Benny. My pleasure, beyond doubt.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>[overvoice]</span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Charmaine
greeted us with one of her warmest smiles, shaking hands with Benny before she
handed him the menu.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“<span lang="DE" style="mso-ansi-language: DE;">Don</span>’t think we need this, Miss.
Officer Weir done decided for us at the station, if it’s still on the specials
board.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“For
you and the detective, Benny, there’s always a special on the board. I hope
there weren’t any irregularities that brought you to the police, Mr. Garfield.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“<span lang="IT" style="mso-ansi-language: IT;">Oh, no, Miss. Officer</span>…that’s
Detective Weir’s going to do some field work for me, he says.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well,
that sounds intriguing. Is that anything like following up on a case of some kind?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Researching
a case, is all, Charmaine. Strictly by the book. Master Garfield’s book.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>[overvoice]</span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
gave her our order, the usual roast beef and gravy sandwich with chocolate<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>malted on the side, extra ice cream, and
while Benny took a break to the gentlemen’s room, I reached for Charmaine’s arm
and stopped her from leaving the booth. It was the first time I’d touched her,
except for the brief reach across her lap to close the squad car door before
the whole Fogerty-Falcone case swallowed us up. I let go of her arm slowly and
looked into those clear hazel eyes looking back at me in wonderment.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>[clearing
his voice] “I…I was wondering if you like the movies, go to the movies, ever at
all.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>[light
laugh] “I love the movies, especially the ones with Bogart and Bacall. <i>Key</i>
<i><span lang="ES-TRAD" style="mso-ansi-language: ES-TRAD;">Largo</span></i> is
playing at the Tutterton Palace. I’ve been wanting to see it.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Would
you see it with me?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’d
love to, Detective. But only if we don’t turn it into an extension of the<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>investigation.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh,
no, that’s over, at least your part of it. We don’t have to even mention your
landlady and her grandson. It’s a date, then?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Long
as it’s a date. When can I expect you to come calling?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Saturday
night at, well, I was thinking dinner before at the Harbor Grill. Maybe six?
I’ll check the movie times and let you know for sure. That okay? That’s if you
don’t have to work.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“That’s
just fine. One of the gals can cover for me. I still have plenty of favors to
call in, believe me, even after the clean-up of my apartment.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>[Benny’s
return] </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Anything interesting
happen while I was gone? You know, anything I should be brought up to speed
on?” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Only the current price
of malteds and the thickness of the roast beef on our luncheon plates, my man.”
</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
[laughter to fade out]</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center;">
____________</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Clyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05188990736695972537noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6972348256377709133.post-39717789047488366782018-10-18T19:48:00.000-07:002020-03-14T07:28:49.276-07:00Klatch & Buzz 10-18-18<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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Reading has been
one of my greatest joys all my life. From the moment I entered first grade
classroom at Harrison Elementary, I fell in love with words on a page in the
longest sentences I could find. Mother had read to me years before I went to
school, and she let me follow along with my finger, telling me words and their
meanings. Nobody, I mean, nobody in my world loved words like I did. My
Grandfather Becker died right after I started to school, and once he was gone,
he could no longer help me with my reading and tell me the meaning of words I
didn’t know.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So
I went to my teachers and ask for information. My second grade teacher
hesitated to get me some of the books I asked for from the library, as she
said, “I was jumping too far ahead of my class.” But Miss Goddard, my first and
third grade teacher, helped me find what she could from her own and the town
library, checking out books for me that she let me read during recess and extra
time after my lessons were finished. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>One
day she called me to her desk during recess and told me she had called my
mother. I was terrified until she reassured me that she’d asked her if I could
participate in a special reading contest she was starting at school, one that
required each student selected for the activity to read a book every week until
the end of the school year. She hadn’t mentioned the contest in class, she told
Mother, because she was approaching the candidates one by one and getting
parental approval before she proceeded. I had been selected along with five
others to participate. She also informed me that any student who read more than
the required books on the list, could get extra points to advance their score.
Each contestant would be questioned by her and other teachers on the content of
the reading, not just to see if we’d read the book but how well we’d read it.<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My big worry was that Mother would keep me so
busy with my piano lessons, my flannel graph stories for Wednesday nights at
church once a month and my house chores, especially baby-sitting my two
brothers while she did housework that I wouldn’t have time to read. I actually
did that cliché sheet-tent with flashlight after lights out several times in
order to meet my weekly quota for the contest.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
I thought of my
grandfather a lot during those weeks of reading. He could’ve cut straight to
word definitions that took so long for me to find in the dictionary. When I
asked Daddy—forget Mother and her madness for housecleaning—he didn’t know half
of what I was asking even with all his reading from his newspapers. He finished
high school, but a year late, and his reading was thorough but slow, his
writing abysmal. He actually wrote “duz” or “does,” but he had a remarkable
comprehension and memory for what he read. Mother went to grade school in a
country one-room schoolhouse and finished high school in her senior years with
a General Education Diploma and turned into a great reader. She even attended
one year at The University of Oklahoma. But in my growing up years, word definitions
weren’t my parents’ forte.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
When I read at home
for the contest, I’d make a list of words I didn’t understand and after searching
in the dictionary without results, I asked Miss Goddard to tell me from the
larger one she had on a stand in the classroom.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My
major difficulty was the symbols for pronunciation and the ones in brackets for
the origin of words. Even so, I won the third grade reading award, given to me
in front of the whole school, at the end of the year, May, 1946. Mother came,
sitting on the front row, smiling proudly, but with worry on her face that I
might make a mistake. I gave a two sentence speech that Mother helped me write.
My voice shook a little, but Miss Goddard stood by my side while my eyes never
left Mother’s face, her mouthing the words as I spoke them. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“My
Grandfather Becker told me that reading was the backbone of education, but Miss
Goddard taught me that reading <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">is</i>
education. Thank you, Miss Goddard.” Everybody applauded and Miss Goddard
handed me my framed copy of the award, written in dark black letters on a gilt
background with my full name in what she explained later was an Old English
style. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
My name was
lettered on the line under the insignia of an open book with a torch and the
large words forming an archway over the top of the page read, “Excellence in
Reading.” I have no idea where that certificate is, lost, no doubt, during one
of over a dozen moves my family and I made during my childhood until I
graduated from high school.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
read thirty books that school year, even though there were thirty-six weeks in
our school calendar. The next candidate read twenty-three. I kept the list of
books for a long time—there were fifty—and checked those I read. We had to read
them in sequence, skipping ahead only if we read first the one assigned for
each week.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My
favorites were: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Alice in Wonderland and
Through the Looking Glass</i>, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Lion,
the Witch and the Wardrobe, The Secret Garden, Heidi, </i>and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Merry Adventures of Robin Hood. </i>And
I read a lot of the Nancy Drew series which weren’t on the list. Mother checked
out books for me from the library without hesitation after Miss Goddard talked
to her, so I asked for some that she never would’ve let me read if I hadn’t
been a participant in the reading contest. Two of these were <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Perrault’s Complete</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Fairy Tales</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Book of
Fables. </i>Mennonites don’t read fairy tales, at least not when I was a kid.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
When the year
ended, I knew we were moving once again so I stayed after school the last day
to say good-bye to Miss Goddard, crying on her shoulder, while she gave me a
long hug. It felt a little like losing Grandad again. She had shown me how to
love words like he had, but now I could read, truly read. After Miss Goddard
had hugged me good-bye, she held me out a little from her and through her thick
gold-rimmed glasses, she told me that I read on a fifth-grade level, well above
my peers, and I shouldn’t ever use my reading ability to make others feel
beneath me, but I should remain proud of my love to comprehend what I read and
always keep my passion for reading and for new words.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
When I went to
college, four years later than most high school students in my hometown, I
chose to study art studio and art history. I couldn’t simply get a degree in
the making of art. I had too much love for the words that described what I was
doing.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
Note: In all of my
fiction, when a first or third grade teacher’s name is needed, I use the name
Miss Goddard. It’s my way of paying homage to a woman who encouraged me in my
reading when I was alone in my pursuit of word knowledge.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<br /></div>
Clyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05188990736695972537noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6972348256377709133.post-43302919223347363942018-10-18T19:23:00.000-07:002018-10-18T19:25:04.959-07:00Discourse<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%;">So long as man remains free he
strives for nothing so incessantly and so painfully as to find as quickly as
possible someone to worship. But man seeks to worship what is established
beyond dispute, so indisputably that all men would agree at once to worship it.
For these pitiful creatures are concerned not only to find what one or the
other can worship, but to find something that all would believe in and worship;
what is essential is that all may be <i>together</i> in it. This craving for <i>community</i>
of worship is the chief misery of every man individually and of all humanity
from the beginning of time.</span></div>
<div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 1.5in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%;">—<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Grand Inquisitor</i></span><span lang="NL" style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%;">, Fyodor Dostoevsky</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%;"></span></div>
<div align="center" class="BodyA" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif";"> He sits there by the fire, his head bent
down a bit, the skewer stick in his hand. I see his profile perfectly. I could
easily draw it in the dirt with my stick while I look at him if I wanted to. He
is that clear, that close.</span></div>
<div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>His head swivels toward me and then
back again, "So what did you think of all those people there, at the
opening?" he asks.</span></div>
<div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh, me? Well, I'm a snot about
these events. I'm not intimidated by them like I used to be, with all the artsy
fartsies and the uptown psychologists and academics hanging onto each other in
tux and gown, sipping or slugging their drinks.</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif";">” I realize in saying this I’m far too aware of my
all-purpose black cotton-spandex blend dress, mid-calf length, one strand of
mock-pearl necklace with matching drop earrings, patent leather pumps and my
non-alcoholic glass of syrupy slush at these parties. “But I still can't get into
them. I don't understand these people. I don't know what the difference is
exactly, but I always feel the outsider. I’m as educated as most of them,
enough of them anyway. I figure it's class, that I'm from the wrong side of the
tracks." I know all too well that I get to be the underdog thinking like
this. Poor me. No head start in the game of breaking through ceilings.</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;"></span></div>
<div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He nods his head, “Yeah,” he says, a
loss of air near a sigh. “I feel that too. Who are they anyway, really?
Probably tells us more about ourselves than about them. But most of the lot are
from the wrong side of the tracks too. At least, originally. So it</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif";">’s a quandary why I rush to the outsider
position.” I’m wondering why he does as well. I’ve heard his mother has money
and gives him substantial allowances from time to time. And “the who” I heard
this from was him.</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;"></span></div>
<div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="FR" style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: FR; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But I don</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif";">’t muddy the water by bringing this up. I
introduce another “who” instead. “Who was the guy with the big head and the
long neck?” I ask.</span><span style="color: #0432ff; font-family: "georgia" , "serif";">
</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif";">He laughs a lengthy dribbling
laugh. Since I’ve made him laugh, I add, With the skinny legs that didn’t seem
to connect properly in the middle.” I know this because he wore a suit with
tight pants like a hangover from The Beatles. But skinny pants are back these
days. It was his torso that got my attention, as it flopped and slumped over
his belt as he nervously twittered on his iPhone.</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;"></span></div>
<div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He is still grinning when he says, “Oh,
Sammy. He always comes to all of these. Shows up alone, though I met his wife
once when Gerrie and I went to some private video showing or some such thing.</span></div>
<div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“He didn't seem to enjoy this one,</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif";">” he adds. “Kept pulling up his shirt
cuff, looking at his watch. Basically stayed in one spot, drinking, thumbing
his cell.” He’d come out on the deck when I was there with Brian and Kurt,
listening, while Kurt elucidated his poetry. “I like how Kurt can meet most
anybody on their turf. Kurt is a turf kind of guy. </span><span lang="DE" style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: DE;">I</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif";">’m a little jealous of him… in that way.”
</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;"></span></div>
<div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Uh-huh,</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif";">” I half agree. “When that's happening, I
always want to be able to do it too, you know, oiling the social gears. But
then when I get away from it, I think, nope, I don't really wanna be so
placating. I always half expect him to go round robin and get a consensus when
an opinion is thrown out there, not just about his poetry but about any subject
he’s engaged in with others. He's so into everybody expressing themselves.
Maybe that’s what makes his poetry accessible, but poetry’s not supposed to be
accessible is it? Isn’t it supposed to have references to mythology and insider
allusions to philosophy and literature that most of us don’t know much about?” </span></div>
<div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif";">I know I’m being snide, but I don’t care.
I get to because I can’t stand these people, and it’s my lifelong buddy I’m
talking to, the talk we have out at my place in the country once a week, when
we can smash it into our schedules. We’re roasting wieners tonight, having
homemade hotdogs with chili, by a bonfire that took too long to start in the
wind, in our coats, on the day after Indian Summer has passed, and the
temperature has dropped, is continuing to drop as we eat and talk. We want the
outdoors as long as we can, especially after last night’s claustrophobic party.
It was an art opening of Brian Mayfield’s latest swirling landscapes on mylar,
some as scrolls, with poetic text by Kurt Winegarden in little hand-carved
framed plaques to the side. After the steady stream of attendees ran to
nothing, Kurt walked around reading his poetic annotations to us posted at
intervals around the room. </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;"></span></div>
<div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah,” my buddy says, pulling his
coat tighter across his chest, not bothering to zip and button to keep the chill
out in a way that will last. “That bothers me sometimes about him, his
willingness to be popular. Hey, he</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif";">’s
a populist poet. Nothing too terrible in that. I hate the labored,
self-conscious poetry of James Merrill and his ilk. But I was glad when Kurt
suggested that we go upstairs after his truncated speech there at the end of
the tour. I was afraid that we’d be expected to do something, like maybe have a
lively little discussion or some such.”</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;"></span></div>
<div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Discourse,” I throw in. When he
looks at me puzzled, I say, “Academics have discourses, not discussions.”</span></div>
<div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh, right,” he says, but doesn't
laugh. “Right.”</span></div>
<div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What do you think Paula would think
of the annotations in the brochure that the local celebs had given Brian</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif";">’s paintings?” I pause. When he doesn’t
say anything, I add, “I was sorry she wasn't able to be there.” Paula is a
local reviewer-celeb, reporting her two cents worth in the <i>Vine </i><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">and <i>Times</i></span> on every new opening
in town. Paula is Gerrie’s best friend so Dave hears her opinions, therefore
her reviews, before she writes them.</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;"></span></div>
<div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Ah, well, we will hear from her
when she returns from the City, in a review, no doubt, but had she been there,
she would</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif";">’ve taken
everything in, saying nothing or very little to anybody but digesting it whole.
She’s got this scene down. Now, what she would have written about it, that’s
something else. But knowing her, she would’ve <i>thought</i> the new reception
rooms were too precious with their Japanesey paper shades on the lamps,
Egyptian hand-painted reproductions on the wall, by hired Egyptian
miniaturists, oh yeah, and carefully arranged dried eucalyptus and aromatic
herbs in tall vases, orchids floating in crystal saucers and posh sofa chair
and couch. Have I missed anything? She wouldn’t have. Oh, the tightly woven <i>carpeted</i>
walls, now that was a touch. She would’ve told me later how wonderful some
women with butch haircuts and wearing Dockers would’ve looked sitting on that
couch and then laughed.” He says this without a smile, poking the fire with his
stick. When the tip breaks off, he swears lightly, takes a steak knife he's
left stabbed in a tree and begins to hone the end back down. What he says next
comes out in little jerks with each slice of the knife. “I just thought, boy,
let my two kids off in these rooms, huh?” He reaches over and jabs two
marshmallows onto the new spear he’s made and watches them ignite in the fire.
He likes them over-roasted, falling off the stick as he catches them, jumping
them around in his hand to cool before finally popping them in his mouth.
Through his chewing and swallowing he adds, “It’s not a place for kids, I get
that, but this chummy-clubby feel of the thing gets to me. Do these people live
ordinary lives or are they on stage like this all the time? I look at them and
think they fit. They seem to be at home in this environment. Then I wonder why
this matters to me. Do I really care?”</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;"></span></div>
<div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif";">“For me, that’s where it’s at, really. Why do I go, if I
don’t care so much? And what I’ve come up with, when nobody is around, and I
pull the shutters closed so nobody can see my face, I think—I want to <i>belong</i>,
that’s the awful, terrible truth of it. Not only do I want them to accept me, I
want them to <i>approve </i>of me. God.” I spear my roasting stick in the grass
to the side of my chair. It quivers beside me threateningly. Leaning back, I
say, “But it’s not them, per se. Anyway, I don’t think it is. It’s their <i>context</i>,
you know, what they stand for. They have a position in the cultural holy of
holies and I don’t. Don’t ask, because I’m not even sure what that means
exactly. What is this elusive something or other that’s so understood and
valued by them? They lay claim to a meaning behind art and poetry, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">what it is</i>, that I can’t or don’</span><span lang="SV" style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: SV;">t
understand.</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif";">” I sigh and
stare at the fire. I’m saying far more than I intend, even to my closest
friend, but I don’t seem to be able to stop myself. “What it boils down to is
that I believe they know something that I don’t. It makes me feel stupid,
inferior, and I can’t figure out if they’ve made up this whole construct called
‘culture’ that is <i>meant</i> to keep us, sorry, <i>me</i>, <i>my unknowing
kind</i>, out of their insider something or other or if this arts-culture thing
is real and of value to know, like an important knowledge or language that I
haven’t had access to and don’t know how to learn or acquire but should.” </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;"></span></div>
<div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif";">I think he might admonish me for being
too hard on myself, or agree that he’s in the <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>same boat. Instead he says, “They do have
their share of altars in the corners.” He’s alluding to the little shelves with
precious collectibles here and there in the room. I’m assuming this is his way
of pointing out their insider preciosity. And although he’s told me that he
feels outside of their sphere as well, he doesn’t reassure me that he’s truly
in the same place I’</span><span lang="NL" style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: NL;">m feeling. </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;"></span></div>
<div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Lots of altars,</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif";">” I agree, glumly. I decide to throw in
the towel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I went forward and saw my
relatives going forward to accept Jesus too many times for me to get into any altars,
even if they are the cultural votive kind." I hear all too well how I’m
attempting, once again, to deny my need to bow at their altars, before their
gods, while only moments before I’ve admitted that I want to sink to my knees
every time I go into their Temples of Art, with them standing all around in
worship.</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;"></span></div>
<div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He laughs. </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif";">“No sage smudging, huh?”</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;"></span></div>
<div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Or any-kind-of-quasi-religious
devotion,” I say, sticking to my guns.</span></div>
<div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Really?” he asks. I see he</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif";">’s getting ready to take the sting out of
my judgmental<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>proclamations, right when
I’m wanting him to give them added punch . “Well, their enthusiasm for art and
culture is okay, I suppose,” he concedes. “That doesn't take anything away from
me, not really, but I've always found it hard to sit quietly and emote—isn’t
that what you’re supposed to do?—become overtly inspired or enlightened in
those rooms, like they’ve been designed for you to do. Maybe, I just don't do
well when a <i>context</i>, as you call it, announces how I’m supposed to
think, act or feel.”</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;"></span></div>
<div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>What he says opens me to confession.
</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif";">“I struggle so hard in those
rooms to just be </span><i><span lang="IT" style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: IT;">appropriate</span></i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif";">.
But then I realize the tremendous, overwhelming, prodigiousness of what ‘being
appropriate’ actually means, what I concede is behind it. If I can’t be like
them, I think, at the very least I want to <i>appear</i> to be like them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s the only way ‘being appropriate’ with
them could possibly happen for me. That’s if I remain who I feel I am. But when
I catch myself thinking like this, that’s when I start getting mad. I see what
I'm doing.” </span></div>
<div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif";">“You mean<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>you’re caught up in <span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">FOMO</span>.”
</span></div>
<div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif";">“FOMO?”</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;"></span></div>
<div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif";">“Fear of missing out.” When he sees my face, he laughs big,
truly laughing himself <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>into a near fit.
After he quiets down, I go on.</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;"></span></div>
<div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif";">"You know, come to think of it, my
mother felt like this in church at a certain time in her life, when belonging
to a community was so terribly important to her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She kept going forward and going forward
after each alter call, trying over and over <i>to get</i> 'the joys of Jesus,'
and it never happened to her, and she just couldn't understand why she couldn’t
love and worship what they did. All the people around her were getting it, and
she couldn't, and they weren’t very helpful about telling her how to get it, when
she asked them. Then she started thinking that Jesus decides who gets it and
who doesn’t—that <i>He </i>was the one holding it back from her. I have to tell
you, Dave, she actually started getting better, started becoming normal—well,
her normal, not theirs, of course—when she began thinking like this. She wasn’t
one of the elect, the chosen ones, so screw the whole venture.</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;"></span></div>
<div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif";">“But these academics are shrewder, you
know? They don’t leave you hanging out <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>there
in the wind. They have a plan of conversion. They point you toward where you’re
supposed to go to get help—to the library and the collection of ninety-five
thousand editions, to the advisors who send you to all the classes that lead to
degrees, to the professors (in other words to them) who guide you to the
dissertation committees who point to your work and have you write and rewrite
it for years, telling you that you’ve almost got it! And if you work just a
little harder, you’ll get it like the ones on high.” When he doesn’t say anything,
I rant on. He’s listening, and I need this audience because I’ve been through
it and need to pull it out of hiding where it’s festered for years.</span></div>
<div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“One Sunday morning in church, my
mother went forward for the umpteen time. This was at the First Baptist Church
in our hometown</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif";">—the <i>big</i>
church, with the <i>big</i> clock tower that chimed out the hour of each day
and on Sundays, calling all the good souls to worship, to hear the <i>big </i>preacher
with the doctorate in front of his name—not Reverend, but Doctor, you
understand. This was big stuff in our town. Every Sunday the First Baptist was
on the radio, live. Every Sunday I was sitting in the choir. And I had watched
my mom do this Sunday after Sunday, feeling embarrassed and upset that she
would subject herself to self-abasement like this, time after time, leaving
herself so vulnerable to the judgments of others. Of course, this was her
point, but finally I just couldn’t stand it any longer. So this one Sunday,
something snapped in me. Suddenly I was on my feet as the pastor started
walking up to her, turning her by her shoulders, once more, back toward her
seat. He didn't even bother to take her to the back after the service and pray
with her as he once did. He just leaned over, said something in her ear,
probably like, ‘I'm praying for you,’ and ushered her back from where she'd
come. This was radio days, the days before such programing was on television,
so his attitude wasn’t available for beyond the congregation to see. </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;"></span></div>
<div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“There was something overly
solicitous in his manner, even while he was being dismissive, with her exposed
like this, so I stood up where I was, and said, ‘Leave her alone.’ Everyone's
heads turned up to me as I made my way past the altos and sopranos in the choir
loft, down the stairs to where she stood crying, her head bowed. I must have
looked like a stripped-down version of Dr. Whoever in his divinity robe from
Harvard, my choir robe billowing behind me, arms outstretched toward Mother. I
said loud enough for everybody to hear in the back rows and on the radio as
well, “Leave her alone, do you hear?” And as I put my arms around her
shoulders, out of the corner of my eye I caught the Doctor’s hand slither up
and push the microphone's button to off. I've seen that motion in memory for
years, when this comes to mind, how he lifted his arm out of that Doctor of
Divinity robe of his and turned her off. And then it hit me, full in the face,
with such force, I almost fell over. </span><i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif";">It's
a show</span></i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif";">. It's all a
performance for all who are watching. They’re </span><i><span lang="DA" style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: DA;">on stage</span></i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif";">, as you say.</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;"></span></div>
<div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"I took my mother out of their
church that day, walking down the aisle with her, looking members of the
congregation in the eye as we passed, most of them not meeting my gaze as they
sang the final stanza, the fifteenth stanza of </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">the altar call</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif";">, and I walked with her across the street
from the church and down the block to our car. We’d come late and missed a spot
in the on-the-premises parking lot. I don't remember where Dad was in all of
this. I don't remember whether he was there, came later. But what I do see in
memory is how she and I sat in the car together, her sitting next to me, me
behind the wheel, me turned toward her, holding her hand, with her sobbing, “I
try and try and I can't understand how to do it. I don't know how they do it. I
want to, but it just doesn’t happen. How do they get it and I don’t?" Her
tears were so terrible it took my breath away.</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;"></span></div>
<div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I was angry, so angry I could</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif";">’ve slain all of them in that instant
with my bare hands or like David, with a sling and a single stone, felling the
monster in them all,. And I have to say, I did feel righteous, beyond them,
into her suffering, because I saw it every day. They didn’t see, or even think
on it, until Sundays, and then, when they saw, they couldn't open to it. Or
wouldn’t. I’ll never know if they recognized what it was at all. If they did,
they never let her know, to my knowledge, nor any of the members of our family.
They were embarrassed by it, is what they were. So I said to her, ‘Momma, did
it ever occur to you that they are <i>lying</i></span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: FR;">?’</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif";"></span></div>
<div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“And I will never forget the look on
her face, her smeared make-up, her looking up at me like I was some
stained-glass window, letting in the light. </span></div>
<div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif";">“'No,' she said, through her tears, a
small shudder rushing through her throat and hands. </span></div>
<div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif";">“</span><span lang="DE" style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: DE;">‘Well,</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif";">’ I said, ‘think about that possibility. These people can't
tell you what to do because they don't know. Maybe, just maybe, it's an act
that they’re into, and they think it's the experience.’</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;"></span></div>
<div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“She began to rummage through her
purse, finding and pulling out a Kleenex from a rolled-up wad she had in there,
for God's sake. I don</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif";">’t
remember her ever without Kleenex, actually. It’s like she came <i>prepared</i>
for her public suffering. This is when I realized the shame and humiliation was
part of her actions. She didn’t need to just suffer. She needed to whip herself
because she suffered, <i>in front of them</i>. She had her own act going on,
but it was based on genuine humiliation. She cried out, almost in that Biblical
way, ‘They’re so happy, so at peace, it seems to me. I want that peace, that
happiness, that understanding that they have. Why can't I get it too? Why does
God turn his face from me?’ </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;"></span></div>
<div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“And I did a mean thing probably
because I knew she was listening, really vulnerable. But I was desperate to get
through, and so, I said, the only truth as I knew it. I said, ‘It's never going
to work, Momma.</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif";">’ Yeah, I
said that to her. It seemed cruel then, but it turned out to be the right thing
to tell her. And because I had her attention in a way that was hard to claim in
those days, I quickly added, ‘You’re too smart. They think they’ve got it, and
they don’t, and you know why?’ She shook her head, looking at me with hope in
her eyes. ‘Because they never doubt that they do.’”</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;"></span></div>
<div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif";">Dave nods his head, but he asks, “Are we
still back on the party thing?” </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;"></span></div>
<div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I laugh, then say, </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif";">“Yeah, I am. It’s not about religion.
It’s about confidence, no, that’s not quite right. It’s about trusting
yourself, not exactly against them so much as trusting what <i>you </i>know,
believe is good enough. Regardless of what you’re attempting to understand, you
have to find out for yourself. And Mother had no choice. She’d come far enough
in her quest to belong to her own person, how she wanted to be in the world—even
if she didn’t know what that was or how to be it. She could no longer buy what
they were selling, what they wanted her to be and how they wanted her to be it.
I believe that a lot of craziness is just that. Really, I mean it. Just that.”</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;"></span></div>
<div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif";">He looks at the fire a long time, poking
the sparks with his stick, the fire that needed another log to keep it going
and that we both were choosing to let it die out. “So you’re telling me, she
quit trying to find Jesus?”</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;"></span></div>
<div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yep, she left the church. She did.
She didn't just suddenly stop going. It was an addiction, trying to find what
they had, what they were worshiping, especially to find it right in front of
them Sunday after Sunday, </span><i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif";">and
</span></i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif";">on the air in front of
the whole world as she knew it. When I think about this now, I think she wanted
to show them that she was trying, really trying hard, to be like them so she
could belong. But from that day on, she slowly began to withdraw, not from
salvation, but from <i>their </i>salvation. She never went back to First
Baptist but for a while she went to a little mission church on the outskirts of
town, then she progressed to the love of a girlfriend, then to a break with me
and my friendship, then back to a heartbreaking darkness away from everybody,
even leaving Dad. But slowly she found a way that only she knew was right for
her. She did it by going through one craziness after another and giving each up
until she found what she was trying so hard to find, her own freedom to be
herself. And in this way, she made her way back to us, but she had been transformed
by the process.</span></div>
<div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif";">“You know, everybody talks about ‘authenticity’ now, and I
guess that’s what it comes down to. What is bottom line for you, your
definition of who you are by what is true for you. And finding that out is
confusing and the search can appear a little crazy, sometimes a whole lot of
crazy.” I pause a bit, then add, “You know, I heard Candice Bergen in interview
once, when her show was so big on television—what was that…”</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;"></span></div>
<div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif";">“<i>Murphy Brown</i>. That was a great show.”</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;"></span></div>
<div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif";">“Yeah, <i>Murphy Brown</i>. Anyway, the interviewer had said
something to her that intimated that Bergen was privileged because she’d come
from, well, privilege. Her mother was a famous model and her father was, of
course, Edgar Bergen. And I’ve not forgotten what she said to this interviewer.
‘It’s never easy being an individual.’ It’s so simple and direct. It’s stayed
with me.”</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;"></span></div>
<div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He looks off into the woods, the
darkness. </span></div>
<div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif";">After a long silence, he says, “That's
the way I feel sometimes. Like I'm in and out of <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>crazinesses."</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;"></span></div>
<div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif";">’s the only way to figure out how to be truthful to
yourself. You can’t just go on gut feeling. That’s the unexamined life Socrates
was talking about. Course, you can make it easy and fall for some guru or
religionist who spells it out for you.”</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;"></span></div>
<div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He nods, “But how do you get to the
bone, the marrow, you know? I'm like your mother. At times like we were in the
other evening, I feel as though I'm outside the experience looking in.” He
stops, says, “But that's it, isn't it? That</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif";">’s the confusion.” </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;"></span></div>
<div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“That's what I told Mother. It's
what I still think, but I forget it a lot, you know? The cynics and skeptics
say you </span><i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif";">can't </span></i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif";">get to the marrow, that there isn’t any
marrow to get to, like taking layers and layers of unreality away until you get
to reality, that the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">real </i>you or
truth is an illusion, a mental construct we’ve come up with to justify our
self-righteousness. They think that reality is <i>everything </i>that’s going
on <i>all</i> of the time. And the believers constantly make judgments about
what's coming at them. Is this real? Oh yessss, this is the most realest! Or
no, that's not real, that’s an illusion, or delusion. Or at the far end, the
reality that <i>we</i> think is real is the devil's handiwork! It’s not easy to
figure out, so they come up with Sacred Texts to keep it straight and sure. And
then they spend their time interpreting the Sacred Text, a religious search
that’s the busy work of a lifetime. The social one we saw the other night at
the party, well, that’s the one-upmanship work, the insider work. Thing is,
it’s always work, isn’t it? Keeping in and up with what’s the thing to be or do
in order to belong.” I sigh. “Getting it.”</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;"></span></div>
<div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif";">’s quiet a long time. “I’ve thought a lot about the other
night,” he says finally. “And I’ve come up with this. See what you think. If
you can be like a dog, you’ve got it right.”</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;"></span></div>
<div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Like a dog?” I ask, grinning,
knowing he</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif";">’s on a path
leading to one of his witty wisdoms.</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;"></span></div>
<div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah. The minute I get into trouble
is when I stop being a dog, you know, like sitting down and listening, or
getting up and licking people's hands soothingly, not for any other reason than
listening and licking and sometimes just lying down and sleeping, and mostly
knowing when to get up and leave.”</span></div>
<div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;">“Being simple.” </span></div>
<div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah, but, more like not <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">intending to be</i> a dog, just <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">being</i> a dog. That’s what dogs do.”</span></div>
<div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Ah, you're playing Zen again.” I
smile.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;">“</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: FR; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;">I don</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif";">’t know about
‘playing.’ </span><span lang="DA" style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: DA;">A dog doesn</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif";">’t
claim it’</span><span lang="DA" style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: DA;">s a dog, ch</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif";">éri,” he
says, getting up and reaching for his car keys in his pocket. “It <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">authentically</i> is one.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;"></span></div>
<div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif";">After his car is up the drive, and I see
him turn onto the main road and disappear over the hill, the nasty little
doubter in me thinks, “Yeah, it’s a heartwarming thought that dogs are
authentically dogs, but what if somebody has shitted them up?” But I know this
is a discussion for next week or the next so I turn to putting out the fire and
going into the house to sit by another fire I make, in another fireplace. With
a cup of coffee in hand, I’ll busy myself with thoughts on the correlation
between the marrow in the bone and who I am.</span></div>
<div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="BodyA" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif";">____________</span></div>
Clyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05188990736695972537noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6972348256377709133.post-69830980145742675622018-10-18T19:10:00.000-07:002018-10-18T19:10:12.748-07:00You Lie Down with Dogs<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> “Not good enough to lie beside you anymore?” He
stands up, faces her. She is still his beloved, “the one,” the woman he has
wanted from the beginning of time, Hollywood time, the one in which Brenda Marshall
is Errol Flynn’s wife sticking with him through murder and mayhem. But something
sinister, downright murderous, has seeped into his life, killing off her side
of his dream. She’s packing up, getting ready to leave, he’s sure of it. He can
see his clothes scattered all over the yard, straight from the screen-written
script, her card with a number written in her hand left on the nightstand—for
the lawyer more than for him. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">He</i>
isn’t to call.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Where
are you, Daniel? I’m talking about right now. You’re in your own little world,
ghostly absent most of the time, even now. It’s in your eyes. You come to my
bed like you’re directing a film. I see through it, finally. You can't simply walk
into the room, say a few endearing phrases and expect, well, you know, like I’m
on call. That’s it, exactly, isn’t it?. I’m your call girl.” She mumbles as an
afterthought, “Usually without the call.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
dog rubs up against his leg while he says, “What? You think I came up here to
lie down with you for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">sex</i>? It never
crossed my mind. I’m simply coming home, being where I’m supposed to be, at
night, in my bedroom with my wife, expecting a decent conversation after not
having seen her all day.” He looks at her through slitted eyes. The ocean is
advancing in waves faster than his thoughts can carry him. “You think I want <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">sex</i>?” He repeats himself, trying to hear
his own words. He glances away, out to sea, then back to shore where she’s
looking at him in a bedroom, secure with all the décor she’s put together for
them these past ten years ago. Taking off her glasses and laying her book
aside, she rolls onto her side, her arm up on her elbow, head resting in her
hand while she simply stares at him from a bed coated with extraordinary
sheets, pillows and thermal blanket. It’s all so fine, so solid, so real. Why
is he carried away in such circumstances? It’s right before him, and he can’t
be in it. It retreats like part of a stage being moved to storage. He wants
her, and he wants her for the sex. But she is the shore, the envisioned horizon
in this castaway life of his. The dream is the reality in a reality that
doesn’t recognize dreaming any longer. Everything before him lingers slightly,
then fades—a stage, not moving now, only silent when the show is over and the
lights are switching off.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
sits back down on the bed, a tiny comfort. When she doesn’t move, he lies next
to her. They lie like that in silence. He reaches out to find her hand.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Don't,”
she says softly, but with heat.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
stands up with a jerk and begins walking to the bathroom. He walks while
scratching his side with vehemence. He turns to her to say something, but he
stands there with his mouth open to say lines that she interrupts, exactly as
the script has it written.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What
the hell is it now?” she asks.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“The
dog has fleas,” he says. “Why do you let him on our bed?” Just as he slams the
bathroom door, he sees her slip the sash over her eyes, push the silicone plugs
in her ears, and settle her head into the pillow for sleep, the dog jumping on
the bed now that he’s gone, scooting in next to her warmth. The curtain falls
and the audience applause hesitates only for a second before bursting through
the empty room where she no longer lies in bed sleeping, waiting for him to
arrive from his night of theater. Only the dog is left on the bed to hear the
praise of the final scene.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">____________</span></div>
Clyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05188990736695972537noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6972348256377709133.post-5479777273932668992018-10-18T18:52:00.000-07:002018-10-18T19:11:24.544-07:00Commission<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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</xml><![endif]--> “You
aren’t listening,” she says.<br />
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
heard you the first time.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
He stares at the hand
towel hanging from the refrigerator handle, cleanly draped<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>as though waiting to be photographed. He
never dares to use it. He’s never seen her use it. A different one each day
nonetheless. No mats, either. Or tablecloth to get dirty.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<i>People who are
outwardly very clean are inwardly very dirty.</i></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
He’s quoting in his
brain from someone, somewhere, but he can’t remember who. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>More pointedly, why is he thinking this of
Clare? He’s angry, taking it out on every sign of her any-and everywhere, his
dwarfish interior revenge.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
He sighs, shoulders
slumped, hands running over his hair, but only for a moment. He stares out the
window, back at his cup of coffee. The cinnamon toast’s been gone from the
plate in front of him for over ten minutes. </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>They
are seated at the round oak table passing for both dining and kitchen
fare.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The apartment is small,
claustrophobic, a clutching space even when they’re in it without argument.
Now, the air allows their breathing to be fully audible, despite the droning of
the radiator and fridge. In the pulsating vacuum, the traffic below and beyond
the window pushes the buzzing undercurrent to a normalized inner-city
cacophony.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
stares at the grains running in loops on each board of the table. </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Okay.
That’s neither here nor there, really,” she says defiantly. He studies her
folded fingers around her cup, polished nails to a high burgundy sheen. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<i>When did she start
doing her nails?</i> <i>How did he miss such a thing?</i></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
Clearly, she’s not done.
“You simply need to tell him you aren’t going to work commission anymore, not
the way it is. <i>He </i>brings in the business…or not. Once customers are in
the showroom, <i>you</i> are responsible for the sale, but the notion that
commission is only your responsibility from the get-go has to stop. You can’t
make sales when people aren’t there to buy, can you?” The ‘he’ and ‘him’ in all
of this is, of course, his boss, Stan Bochner.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
She pauses, the
important point yet to be made. “You can’t support your family<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>with customers coming to you willy-nilly.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i>His
family?</i> </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
She’s his family.
They’ve stopped going to dinners at his homeplace—dinners at the table in the
country with his parents, brother and sisters. She doesn’t like them. Well,
neither does he. But giving up the obligatory once-a-month Sunday dinners
wasn’t his idea. </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“<span lang="IT" style="mso-ansi-language: IT;">No.</span>” He stops and arranges what
he’s going to say. “But this business of commission in sales has been going on
for a long time. It’s what they do in salesrooms everywhere. It’s agreed upon.
When I took the job I knew what commission meant, and if I didn’t, it was
spelled out in the contract I signed.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He’s
belaboring the point, so now she doesn’t seem to be listening<i>.</i></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You
signed a contract?” Evidently she is listening.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You
know I did. Well, an agreement, in any case.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“An
agreement allows you to step out of what you’ve signed, if you decide to. A
contract doesn’t.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What’re
you talking about?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You
can get out of an agreement, with arrangements on both sides. To break a
contract requires legal procedures.” She studies his face, slips her attention
momentarily into her coffee cup. Setting it down in the silence, she explains
as though she’s the head of a judiciary committee. “I’m saying that if you sign
a contract, you’re bound legally to fulfill it—you and whoever signs it with
you. If you sign an agreement, you aren’t legally bound to its terms. You may
have consequences from not fulfilling it, but you can’t be held legally
responsible to what’s in the document.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“So
now you’re a lawyer.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
know words. I know what some of them mean…what these mean in particular.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Now
he studies her face, oval, slightly dimpled left cheek, clear brown eyes,
perfect skin, petulant expression—lips pursed, then released into a grin, still
with tight edges. </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<i> She’s pretty. She’s
always been pretty. Even in argument, she’s still good to look at. </i></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
She’s a certified
accountant who could have her own business, but she works for Connelly,
Connelly and Strover, along with a dozen or more others. He wishes so much this
morning she didn’t. He thinks he’s figured out how her being good with numbers
has made her good with arguments—it’s fiddle-faddle that’s become elegant with
practice, like the clicking of keys on a calculator.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Okay.”
He hears himself saying, ‘okay.’ </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<i> Concessions are
coming. His. Always his. </i></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“I signed a contract. I
agreed to work for two percent commission on all sales I <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>close, even if they’re begun by somebody
else.” He stops, glances at her, adding, “No budging allowed.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Budging?
What’s budging’s to do with your contract?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i>A
word he knows, and she doesn’t—at least not in this context. But he doesn’t
say. He doesn’t usually talk about his work with her.</i></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<i><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></i>“Sales
guys can’t horn in on each other’s marks.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Marks?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i>Another
word to his credit.</i></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<i><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></i>“A
pursuited sale.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“<span lang="FR" style="mso-ansi-language: FR;">Pursuit-</span><i>ed</i>?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i>He
knows a word or two. They aren’t all hers.</i></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
nods with confidence. “A sale you’re pursuing, pushing.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“So
a mark’s a sale you have underway, but haven’t secured.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Riiight.”
He draws the word out as though her clarification is either faulty in some
way—not catching the nuance in his jargon—or is ignorant of transactions that
matter in his line of work. </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<i> He plays with words
every day too. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You
have to guarantee this in writing, this <i><span lang="DA" style="mso-ansi-language: DA;">budging</span></i>?”<i> </i>She grins. She’s playing with him.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It’s
not in the contract. I’m just sayin’. It’<span lang="DE" style="mso-ansi-language: DE;">s understood.</span>”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Like
the meaning of ‘<span lang="FR" style="mso-ansi-language: FR;">commission</span>’.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Pretty
much…Probably.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Which
is it?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He’s
not sure whether he’s still talking about the commission or the budging. He has
an urge to leave, to run out the door to his car, to get lost in his
nine-to-six job, with the people there.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It’s
understood. That’s what I’m trying to tell you.” He doesn’t care what he’s<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>saying to her anymore, but his meaning is
about both the commission and the budging. He stands up. Placing his hands on
the back of the chair, he scoots it with a scraping noise under the table. He
glances at the clock. “I gotta go, Clare.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Time
for work. Agreement or contract?” He doesn’t know how serious she is. She isn’t
smiling.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i>Shit!
Ah well, what’s the difference?</i></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Contract
with unspoken…<i><span lang="FR" style="mso-ansi-language: FR;">stipulations</span></i>.”
</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<i> There. He’s found
another word.</i> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
Puffing up a little, he
says with assurance, not without a splash of irritation, “Let me put it to you
this way, honey. If I show up late to work often, I’ll get called on the carpet
for it. If I get called on the carpet too often, I’ll get fired. Did I sign a
contract to that effect? No. If I take such a thing to court, because it isn’t
in my contract—is only an unspoken stipulation—how do you think the judge
will…well, <i>judge</i> on that?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Point
taken,” She pauses a nano-second. “Talk to the boss. <i>Today</i>.” She knows
Stan’s name. They’ve barbecued together often on Stan’s patio, with his wife,
Sheila, bringing dishes to pass—at another time in their lives.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
can’t, Clare—”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“You mean you won’t.”
She finishes her cup but remains seated, looking out the window much as he had
before.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“I signed a contract
with two percent commission on each sale and a base salary of twenty-five
hundred a month. Pure and simple. All the rest, the budging, the being on time,
the free coffee and donuts, etcetera, etcetera are…<i><span lang="FR" style="mso-ansi-language: FR;">stipulations</span></i>.” His word.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<i>Agreements</i>. Her word.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i>Funny
how words suddenly stand out from the ordinary. It’s almost like they’re living
things, intruding with their definitions into the reality of what’s happening
between them.</i></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<i><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Stipulations,
agreements, arrangements, commissions….</i></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
walks from the table to the front door, turns the knob and opens it a crack.
Thin laser light pilfers across the floor, warming his leg through his
trousers. </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<i> Going to be hot
today. </i></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“<span lang="DE" style="mso-ansi-language: DE;">We</span>’ll go out for dinner.” She
glances at him with a tiny smile.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Agreed,”
he says casually, saluting her with two fingers touching his forehead, but
she’s already turned away, gathering their dishes and walking them to the sink.
</div>
<div align="center" class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center;">
____________</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
He sits inside the warm
interior of the car, not rolling down the windows. The<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>engine hums, but he keeps the gear box in
neutral, hand on shift. He hits the AC button. A low moan issues from the
louvered dash. </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
One or two of these
arguments a week. Only the arrangement changes. There’s never an agreement.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i>What
does she want?</i></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Well,
he knows what she <i>wants</i>. She wants him to make more money. But there’s
more, always more. She thinks he’s intimidated by his boss, that the man over
him—his friend and business colleague for the past ten years—is making the
rules of engagement. It doesn’t matter if Stan’s part of a bevy of bosses
who’ve made the rules. She’s only interested in how his<i> </i>boss is
behaving, and how he’s behaving with his boss. </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It’s
really his position in the game he’s in that keeps her pushing for change. He’s
not in charge of the plays he’s making, because the definition of the game
isn’t allowing him what she regards as latitude. </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
She’s the only woman he
knows who likes boxing. She sits ringside watching<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>without expression. She watches for
knowledge. She watches the intention, the strategy, the moves within the bounds
imposed. All around her the passion of the crowd and the fierceness of the
fighters mean little. She wants to know how it’s done, this time, by these
players. The outcome is simply the consequences which follow from the decisions
made. Outcomes don’t interest her much. It’s getting into and out of the final
round that holds her attention.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She isn’t against the restraints. She thinks,
as he does, that the ring matters—the ropes must be there, the boundaries set.
But she likes it when a fighter goes flying over those ropes, or when he—or
she—makes an unpredictable move. It’s why she watches.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>As for him, well, he watches to win. He’s
attached to a team, the joint effort. The outcome <i>is</i> the point. It’s why
he plays the horses—the competition between them for edge, the attunement of
the horse and rider such that winning is inevitable. The horses bore her. Too
much, she says, depends on the biology of the horse and the rider. Same with
the track. The use of steroids by runners or horses being drugged doesn’t
surprise her. Where else to go with such a narrow field of play? Right horse,
right rider and the game is all but won. Breeding and biology bore her. </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>His
salary is not where the game is played. The commission is the variable, the
game-changer. She wants him to play the variables with unanticipated verve
within the bounds. She wants him to be the boxer who shortens the distance
between the beginning and the final round, though if he slugs it away to the
end, she wants to see an all-or-nothing fight. It reminds him of the Assyrian
kings who hunted fenced-in lions and tigers, in open chariots, drawn by horses.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i>She’s
interested in the game for the game. He’s interested in the game for the score.</i></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Why
hasn’t he focused of this before? Why hasn’t he thought to ask her what the
variables are in an accounting firm that hires dozens of people to sit in
cubicles—as she does—clattering all day in front of electric machines and
monitors that add up, literally, to a final sum inherent in the numbers given? </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<i>What she does is
horseplay, in the end, isn’t it? </i></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<i><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></i>He
thumbdrums on the steering wheel, listening to the engine whirr. </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So
what is it that <i>he</i> wants?</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
wants to not walk through Stan’s door and demand what he deserves. But he will.
His demands. Not hers. He’ll not ask for a change in the definition of
commission, but an increase in both base salary and commission percentage—still
within the guidelines of his signed contract—only the numbers will change.
Increase is the variable in his field of play. </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
He hasn’t told her sales
personnel have begun forming a union, that one of their grievances is the
commission, not just the amount but the concept of it. They are talking merit
pay with full disclosure. Clare would both love and hate this idea. She
believes in competition within the ranks, but without public scrutiny. One
battles with as much personal leverage as one can get—<i>Circus Maximus </i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>without knowing which chariots the Emperor has
chosen for his bets. She likes how Stan plays. She wants him to be Stan.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
He hasn’t told her that
one of the sales guys is a woman. LuAnn Bentley. Clare’s never drops by the
showroom. She doesn’t need to know about Bentley, well, until he needs to tell
her.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<i> Will she care?</i> </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
____________
</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
In the showroom, he
leans against his desk, looking at the green Taurus SHO<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>with the couple he knows will sign the papers
and return in two hours to pick it up. They haven’t committed yet. He knows
they will. Their financial arrangements are already being contracted through
the bank and the company desks upstairs. It’s his second sale before lunch.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
He’s riding high on
possibilities. He watches this couple’s actions and responds with his own. It’s
a game of words and numbers, but one in which the variables are all but set,
because, by now, he knows them so well. He likes it that way. He likes playing
with what he already knows. </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<i>Is that true? He
thinks it is. </i></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
wife bends over, head through the rolled down window, running her hand over the
slick, chic leather with faux stretch marks. It’s the color of cream floating
through coffee to latte. She backs out of the car window and turns to smile at
her husband, one leg in the air, as though bending toward him to receive a
Hollywood kiss. The ads are about sex and possession. She’s playing them well.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
wife hums and licks her teeth and brightly-colored lips with the tip of her
tongue. The husband laughs and says, “Yes,” turning back to him, the salesman,
winking an agreement. </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
motions for them to walk with him to his office, leading the way. He wishes he
was leading from the rear, seeing the wife’s tight hips move in her
well-tailored skinny- striped suit. </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
couple sits in the Eames-style, black molded-plastic chairs on the other side
of his desk. The husband has pulled the chairs together so their arms, resting
on the arms of their chairs, are touching. </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In
the end, after the haggling and bartering—his customary slip to the upstairs
office and back, to supposedly confer with the boss—they win. The game is
rigged, but he has given it enough carnival flair for the outcome to feel
expansive, downright festive, to them. He sees it in their eyes. The husband
will hand her the big, stuffed bear of an automobile, six years of payments he
knows they can ill-afford. He writes twenty-five hundred dollars on a formatted
check with a fountain pen, blows it dry and pushes it by finger tips across the
desk to the husband. He stares at the numbers he’s written in the rectangle box
on the check.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i>The
amount of his monthly salary. </i></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It
can be applied to the car as part of the down-payment, as well as reducing your
interest rate for three years…” he stretches out the word, “oooorrr you can
bypass the down-payment-and-rate deal and spend your money any way you like.
Your call, my man.” He looks directly at the husband. </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Whatcha
think<i>, my man</i>,” the wife coos, not a hint of sarcasm, soliciting her
husband’s gaze from him to her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
husband has given this some thought. If he watches television at all, he’s seen
the ads, so he knows what he’s decided to do before he walked in the door. </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“<span lang="DE" style="mso-ansi-language: DE;">We</span>’ll apply it to the loan,” the husband
says, chin jutting out toward the paperwork <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>still lying with the fountain pen on top,
uncapped, point aimed toward the husband’s heart. All the man has to do is sign
his name on the line.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
reaches across his desk and starts to retrieve the check, but the wife rises
from her chair, lays her hand over the rectangle with the amount written on it,
dark red nails almost touching the tips of his fingers. A small tingle ripples
up his spine. </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“There’s
the casino.” She giggles, not looking at her husband but directly at him. The
Marilyn Monroe sound from her throat echoes from <i>The Seven Year Itch</i>.
He’s at the piano with her, in her leopard-spotted gown, him in his Tom Ewell
smoking jacket, good old Rachmaninoff’s second concerto tinkling between them.
The tinkling races up his neck and through the skin holding his naturally
disheveled hair in place. He forces his expression to remain pleasantly placid.
</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<i>This is real. This
isn’t the movies. His commission depends on it. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You
win,” her husband says, retrieving her attention, nudging her arm with the hand
that holds the check. She leans, pecks him on the cheek.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i>She
leans toward her husband often.</i></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>What
an adorable couple they are. Perhaps they didn’t have it planned. Perhaps they
haven’t seen the ads. Perhaps they are playing him. But he knows better.</div>
<div align="center" class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center;">
____________</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
At lunch, hunching over
a table, he and Bentley wolf their sandwiches, twisting them around in their
fingers, each wiping mayo from lips with small paper napkins. He watches
Bentley’s careful dabbing across her mouth, as though applying lipstick instead
of wiping it off. The standing table is perfect for his height, but she has to
place her arms on the surface above her elbows. He’s reminded of a resting
butterfly, its wings opening and closing as she brings the sandwich up to her
mouth and carries it back down to her paper plate. Three buttons tug at the
gaping slit down the front of her blouse, the segments of the body of a
monarch. Like the two he has pinned in shadow boxes over his desk in his
office—a male and a female, he had been told when he purchased them in a snooty
gift shop in Cape Cod with Clare. </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
Bentley does well on
sales. She keeps his marks occupied while he’s “conferring with the boss,” but
she never attempts to budge. He likes her.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i>Is
he attracted to her? </i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
He’d rather not think
so. She’s pretty plain, in the meaning of both words. But he<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>undresses her, then stands taking her in.
She’s full-bodied with ample thighs and chest. Large dark nipples. He sinks
into her eager softness. She looks up and smiles. He remains good-naturedly
still, looking directly into her gaze.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You
think the union idea will go anywhere?” she asks.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah,
I do.” He wipes the table with a clean napkin, wadding it tightly in his
fingers with one he’s dirtied while eating. “Wanna walk?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“<span lang="IT" style="mso-ansi-language: IT;">Sure.</span>” She opens her mouth, slips
in the last bite of her sandwich and chews, swallows.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>They
both walk to the trash can and throw their used napkins inside.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Why?”
she asks, when they’ve hit their stride. They have been walking each
nice-weather day since she started with the dealership two weeks ago. She keeps
up without effort.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
He likes her gait, her
easy flow inside her well-tailored navy suit. The corners of her ivory-colored
blouse lay loosely over the lapels. Sensible shoes, except for their cost.
Kenneth Cole. Clare has similar espadrille wedges, less sensible, two inches
higher in the heel and price.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You
mean the union? It’s been brewing for years, but nobody’s had the gumption<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>to push the idea into action. Most of us have
worked for Stan for years, and it’s been our practice to ask for raises and
changes in policy individually.” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Is
he generous?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
shrugs. “Good question.” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
He walks in short hops
to a bench and sits. She follows his lead. “Stan’s a merit<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>pay kinda guy, only he likes to make
agreements person-to-person. He’s had a group meeting only half-dozen times
since I started ten years ago. Nobody knows what the other guys—<span lang="FR" style="mso-ansi-language: FR;">sales personnel</span>—<span lang="IT" style="mso-ansi-language: IT;">are getting.</span>”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“But
the personnel want a written contract? That it?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
nods. “On the up and up.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Transparency,”
she says easily. </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i>Do
all women play with words? Is he in a semi-argument?</i></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
smokes. She smokes like women in old-time movies. He thinks of Lauren Bacall.
Bentley isn’t Bacall, though she has a homey grace about her. </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Smoke
floats from her mouth into the air in front of her face. She doesn’t attempt to
guide it with her lips. It’s a small transparent cloud from her throat to the
heavens. </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“I was approached. I’m
not sure how I feel about the whole idea, you know, my<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>being the new car on the lot.” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’d
hang loose,” he says, then feels embarrassment at his innuendo. “I mean, I’d
wait and watch.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i>That’s
what Clare does, for Godssakes. What kinda advice is he giving her?</i></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
He reaches over and
touches Bentley’s arm. Her cigarette dangles from her fingers as though she’s
about to drop it. She looks at his hand. He removes it slowly.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
He studies her face. She looks closer to
Bacall than he realized. It’s in her eyes, a whimsy only she understands. </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“All
right,” she says, slowly, close to a seductive slur. </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What
I mean is, let the others do the work. You can ride in on their tails.” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<i>Why can’t he stop
making these oblique sexual remarks? </i></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
She grins broadly.
“Okay.” She stubs out her cigarette in the grass with her Kenneth Cole wedged
toe.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“I have to see Stan
today. He will’ve heard the scuttlebutt by now. Not much slides past him. He’ll
tell me what he wants to get known. It’s how it works.” He hesitates a beat.
“I’ll letcha know ahead.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Thanks,” she says. </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>They
get up together, without signal, and begin the walk back to the show room. </div>
<div align="center" class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center;">
____________</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
He leaves his green
Taurus SHO—exactly like the one he sold earlier in the<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>day—in the lot off the dealership in the
section for employees parking. He unlocks the Black Lincoln Continental with a
key on a fob that fits in a lock in the fender badge. The door softly pops open
with a touch on the inside of the handle that runs along the beltline. It’s
only a demonstrator but one with less than a thousand miles. Despite ads
featuring the sexist man on earth, Matthew McConaughey, Lincolns haven’t done
well through the Bochner dealership in Woodland Hills, the only one within
forty miles. Stan Bochner’s notion that a well-stocked car lot reads as an
affluent sales outlet isn’t paying off. Stan’s given him and Bentley—“<span lang="DA" style="mso-ansi-language: DA;">for her female marks</span>”—permission to
drive these Lincolns on week-ends for their own personal use, on the condition
that the cars move around town, are seen in highly visible, high-end
communities. Stan checks the odometers on Monday mornings.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
He sits in the quiet
interior, windows up and without AC, to luxuriate in the new<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>automobile aroma. It’<span lang="DA" style="mso-ansi-language: DA;">s Bentley</span>’s job each morning to spray fake
“new car” fragrance into the row of used cars sitting with signs and balloons
facing the street. He grins as he watches from the showroom, remembering well
the assignment he fulfilled for two years before passing it to Mason Wright,
who lasted six months in the showroom before turning tail to sell Hondas on the
other side of the street.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i>Turning
tail</i>. There it is again. </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When
he starts playing the margin like this, he knows he needs a fix, a Clare fix.
He feels her skin at the touch of his hand. She loves his making her tough and
strong, weak and soft. She says so each and every time, and despite their
differences, there’s something steady and sure about how they are together.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i>Clare,
you is my woman now. You is. You is.</i></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
He hums the <i>Porgy and
Bess</i> tune. Miles Davis. He’s always loved that album, that score. He grins
and hums his way out of the parking lot into the street toward Clarion
Boulevard.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
He thinks back to his
conversation with Stan just before leaving for the day. </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
Two knuckle raps on the
boss’<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;">s door. “</span><span lang="IT" style="mso-ansi-language: IT; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Come.<i>”</i></span><span lang="IT"> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“<span lang="ES-TRAD" style="mso-ansi-language: ES-TRAD;">Ah,</span>” Stan had sprung out
of his leather chair and put down his pen. Walking around his mahogany desk, he
held out his hand. Bochner’s always had a gripping handshake, but he met it
with confidence. He’s been a Bochner man for a long time. “What can I do for
you, Canoe.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Year
ago, he and Stan paddled Seneca Lake on Sunday mornings shortly after he and
Clare had moved to Woodland Hills and Bochner had his first child with Sheila.
Stan still plays around with his first name, a hang-over from those nature-boy
trips.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Canyon,”
Bochner said, correcting himself, softly slapping his shoulder, guiding him to
one of two chairs across from his desk. Stan sat down beside him. </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
____________
</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“You see how easily this
goes,” Stan had said after he granted his raise requests with more generosity
than he had expected. Bochner stood and began pacing in small easy steps in the
space to the side of their chairs. “I don’t want to disturb the
person-to-person communication that’s been established here for years.” The
boss spread his arms around the room like one of those obscenely
evangelically-inspired billboards. “I’ve worked hard to make myself accessible
to each and every employee in this company. But truth is, <i>I</i> own it. I
don’t mean just the dealership—the physical entity —I mean the <i>responsibility</i>
that comes with it. It was my ass on the line when the bubble hit and times got
tough. I didn’t sweep personnel out the door in the name of down-grading. Can’t
they see, it was my financial risk, not theirs.” Stan waved his finely
manicured fingers down toward the showroom floor, his Columbia Business School
ring downright clunky in the atmosphere. He was grateful he’d had the foresight
to phone ahead and ask Bochner for this meeting after hours. The personnel were
gone and couldn’t be sneaking glances up at him through windows in conference
with the boss.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
To gain his attention—as
though he’d lost it—Stan said, “Look, I’m a personal contact kinda guy, you
know this, Canyon. This quasi-socialist crap doesn’t do anything except
ultimately undermine confidence in the business. <i>Transparency</i>. It’s the
buzz word of the day. What it really means is these union people come in, tell
everybody how everything has to be done, and before you know it, what the
employees thought was going to be fair distribution of pay goes out the window.
It’s always going to be somebody deciding who gets what. And with union
leader’s plans, it’ll add up to rules and regulations that net them squat. It’s
not my intention to shut them out, you’ve got to know this, Canyon. I don’t
think I’m the bigshot, and they’re all the little guys. But…well, quite
frankly, I do want control over quality workmanship and pay <i>to their benefit</i>.”
Stan sighed heavily and came back to sit next to him.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“What I’m asking you to
do is spin this so they realize what they’re asking will undercut what they
want. It’s far safer to have me as the one who says than these people they
don’t know coming in here and taking control of what, in the end, will be their
unforeseen futures. I’ve seen it before so often. It won’t take a year, and
they’ll start dropping out of here like flies. Trust me on this.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
Wasn’t long and they
were shaking hands—firm grip by both of them—and he was out the door on his
own. Stan gave him no clues about how he could advance “the boss” idea among
his employees. He never had. His merit pay covered the figuring out and
implementation of “the understanding”.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
In his mind, floating
down Clarion Boulevard now in the claustrophobic silence of the Lincoln
interior, he sees himself glancing at the arms of his and Stan’s chairs— their
shirts almost touching.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<i>The green Taurus mark
and his wife that morning. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .3in;">
He watches as Stan reaches over and
gently touches his arm then moves away. </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i>Him
and Bentley</i>. </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
An uncanny replay of his
day begins, the reel spinning rapidly backward. Four sales which was only one short
of his daily record. Given that the average salesman makes ten sales a month,
it’s no wonder he’s top guy on the floor.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
The first was a retired
Stafford-Sterling University professor of engineering with his effete wife who
taught creative writing in the gerontology department at Union College, of all
things—a wistful reminder that he hadn’t visited his parents in months,
followed by a promise to call them soon for an exchange and dinner appointment,
with or without his wife. They weren’t old, by any means, just approaching
sixty, with their fortieth wedding anniversary next year, but he needed to see
them more often before they fell into that stage beyond their well-functioning
senior years. He was lucky. They were healthy, independent and in love—had been
since they met the year before he was born. </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
His second mark had been
a melancholy twenty-three year old with beach- sandy hair whose credit couldn’t
carry a new ruby red Ford Escape Titanium, so he settled for the used light
blue 1998 Fiesta, with stick shift and seventy-thousand miles. When he’d been
in his twenties, he, too, had gone to California, borrowing two thousand from
his dad, so he could enroll in Berkeley’s school of business. He had become
swept in the anti-establishment movement, with its end-of-the Vietnam-war
ancillary, escaping the draft with a faint heart murmur and flat feet. He
switched majors to CSA farming and lived in a small commune with other
back-to-earthers for a year before hitching rides to New York and back to his
parents. The commune had been back-breaking work that had finally got to
him—the cutting and stacking of firewood, the lugging of water from a well to a
kitchen dry sink and a corroded, chipped enamel tub for bathing, and the using
of an outhouse in winter. His father was delighted with his return to the dairy
farm, but deflated in days when he voiced his desire to escape to city living,
away from any hint of husbandry or carpentry. It was his last attempt at
drawing life outside the box. His life with his original agricultural family
had become distant and strained.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>His
third mark was a hard sell--a brunette with unusually intelligent eyes and a
stunning resemblance to his wife—curly, wildly out-of-control hair and Clara
Bow lips, the “it” girl for whom Clare had been named. He had met Clare (birth
certificate shown as Clara) his year at Berkeley in the business school, but
after several dates saw immediately she would not suit well to the communal
life toward which he was headed. By coincidence, he met her again on his way
out of Berkeley, in the student union where he was meeting a friend to say
good-bye. Spontaneously, he asked her for a dinner date, stayed an extra
week—which they spent the good share of in bed—and she accompanied him home to
Woodland Hills, where she enrolled in Union College. With two years of business
at Berkeley behind her, she flew through the U.C. program, graduating early,
but Clare’s background—always obscure, never fully articulated to him—clouded
the demands of post graduate study, and she fell into a dark relapse with drugs
and esoteric sexual relationships with both men and women. </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
Her ability with numbers
far exceeded any practical applications in accounting. She could administer
algebraic operations in her head, relying on sporadic notations to keep her
train of thought from bursting bounds. But she simply could not keep to the
discipline requirements in order to reach the creative heights of scientific
inquiry. In the academic communities, however, word circulated quickly around
her unusual talents, and she was soon courted by Stafford-Sterling’s law,
philosophy, linguistic and astronomy departments to no success. She interviewed
well, gain candidacy approval in law and philosophy, only to fall into a
drug-induced haze for weeks before entrance to graduate work.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
His relationship with
Clare during all these ins and outs was on-again-off-again, but they never gave
up on making it last. He helped her as he could, and she finally gave in to
therapeutic support, and has been clean for the past eight years. After her
sobriety reached her third year mark, they married in a quiet civil ceremony
with only his sister, Margie, present. </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
His fourth mark had been
a single dad with his young son—of indeterminate age, but somewhere, he
guessed, in the three-to-four year range—the lad sitting stone-eyed still on an
Eames plastic chair during the entire sale process. He thought the child might
be retarded, but his eyes were clear, even penetrating, his features normally
proportioned and well-positioned on his face. If he were mentally challenged,
this boy was on the normal side of the spectrum. And then he realized the
child’s hair was undoubtedly home cut, bowl-styled black curls, a buzz-cropped
band separating his hairline and the circular mop on top of his head. His hands
were long-fingered and delicate—<span lang="FR" style="mso-ansi-language: FR;">surgeon</span>’s
or pianist’s small hands on little boy’s arms. He wore an Indikidual t-top,
lightly blue-stained along the seams with three dark Möbius symbols stitched
down the front, and a bright yellow baseball hat— a black Möbius on the
bill--and denim-colored knit slouchy pants. Well-worn pink sneakers rounded out
his romper-room persona, with a style awareness beyond the father dealing with
the purchase of a new silver Expedition. The mother, undoubtedly, had picked
the kid’s clothes. </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
He hadn’t known what
children played with or one polo shirt from another until Clare walked in the
door one Saturday afternoon with string-handled packages from Meow! Cuddle
Cribs, and Nursery Rhythms—kiddie stores on The Commons and Main-
Street-on-the-Mall. He found out quickly the difference between Loola, Mini
Classy, Lot801, and Caroline Bosmans, though sometimes he fudged when Clare
wasn’t looking, reading the tags for confirmation. He had to keep his kiddie
talk above par.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
They lost their son,
Nico, when he was approaching his fourth birthday, to strep, contracted from
two children who had infections at nursery school, thought initially to be no
more than colds. The infected kids were removed from the school when their symptoms
became severe, but not before others had played with their toys and been near
enough for contact. Nico’s illness started with a cough, then was quickly
diagnosed as strep. He resisted the antibiotics prescribed to him and
progressed to pneumonia. From the time of diagnosis to his death had been less
than two months. The last two weeks in the Pediatric Infection Ward were
excruciating for him and Clare. Their son lay buried in white pillows and
sheets, tethered to a respirator and IVs.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
The funeral and the
weeks that followed were a series of nightmares, the worst being the medical
bills swollen hideously out of proportion to their income—only now were they
seeing light at the end of that financial tunnel. His father had insisted on
helping, for which Clare was both grateful and furious. It meant bargaining
time for a debit that hardly touched the balance owed. </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
Clare was in despair for
two years after Nico’s death. She withdrew from him, clung to work and therapy
to keep off drugs. There were times, still, when the shadow in her eyes hurt
him so much, he could hardly breathe. Though she’d been out of therapy as long
as she had been depressed, work had become her anchor. Their lovemaking was
intense, even fierce, but their earlier familiarity and intimacy had been lost
with their son.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
After the father had
signed the papers for the Ford SUV Expedition, he leaned over the sales desk,
his back to his son, and in a clearly audible whisper, told him, “Charlie is
autistic. My wife won’t be seen in public with him.” The father lay the pen
down on the papers, including the twenty-five hundred dollar check, and pushed
them back to his side of the desk, his eyes directed toward the gesture. When
he stood, he smiled, looked at him directly as though he hadn’t spoken, and
shook his hand, saying he would return the next day to pick up the Expedition.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
He had glanced at the
son and back to the father. He started to speak, but saw the warning in the
young man’s eyes. “Tomorrow then,” was all he said, watching them walk out the
showroom door, father holding the son’s tiny, long-fingered hand.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
After the mark was gone,
he leaned back in his chair, waved to Bentley and the other two salesmen as
they left for their evenings away from work. </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Exceptional day for
you,” Bentley called out as she scooted through the door. He nodded his
appreciation to her, following her disappearance through the rows of cars in
the sales lot.</div>
<div align="center" class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center;">
____________</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
He’s living too close to
his work, he thinks. He has to change his life before it flies out of bounds.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
He feels today he made a
move in a positive direction in his meeting with Stan Bochner. But he needs
something more. He needs a bungee jump in the Royal Gorge, a hallucinogenic
trip on ayahuasca with a shaman in Brazil, or dicing leads in a spec-top racer
on a NASCAR track. He glances at his speedometer—88 mph in a weave in and out
of traffic in the third and outside passing lanes. He eases on the accelerator,
bringing the Lincoln down to sixty-five. He seems suddenly to be in slow
motion. But he knows too well the jettison into perilous territory. </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
He prefers pinball these
days, with a pint of strong dark ale, hogging the machine with his winning
streaks. He thinks to stop before going home, but it’s already approaching
seven. He’ll surprise Clare with a date at Ti Amo and before-dinner-drinks at
The Irish Spring.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
When he turns onto West
View, he sees beacons flashing red light from two police cars parked at
diagonals, a wedge blocking his driveway. He curbs the Lincoln in front of the
McEvoys next door and walks up the embanked lawn to the cluster of neighbors
looking at his house, ablaze with lights from every room.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“What’s going on?” he
calls to Mick McEvoy, as he passes him, race walking toward his house.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<i>There are no fire
trucks, so it can’t be a house problem. </i></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .3in;">
“Dunno, but it’s going on in your house,
buddy, whatever it is.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span lang="IT" style="mso-ansi-language: IT;">A break-in. Clare. </span></i></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
He runs past several
neighbors calling out to him. His heart’s pounding erratically. He rushes up
the steps and inside the door. </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“What’s going on?” he asks,
watching the sergeant bind his wife’s wrists behind her with a plasticuff. He
glances around the room as though he’s walked into the wrong house.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
The arresting officer
spins her around to face him, but before she can speak, the dick answers for
her, “Cookin’ the books,” he says smugly, as though he’<span lang="IT" style="mso-ansi-language: IT;">s Bogie in a film noir.</span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“What’s he talking
about?” he asks Clare, his eyes on his wife’s beautiful mouth. “You’ve…you’ve
been cheating <i><span lang="IT" style="mso-ansi-language: IT;">Connelly</span></i>?”
he tumbles out inanely, taking the detective at his word. He throws his arms
around her, smelling her familiar scent, but feeling her stiffness in his
embrace. He steps back, sliding his hands down her arms. “Clare? What’s…”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Connelly?” the
policeman interjects sardonically, looking at him briefly before <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>nudging Clare forward, snapping the plasticuff
as though it were a leash. “Where she <i>works</i>? God, no, man. Where you
been? Jos<span lang="FR" style="mso-ansi-language: FR;">é </span>Mendoza’s her
sugah-daddy.” The cop’s playing on the cartel underboss’s known nickname, “<span lang="PT" style="mso-ansi-language: PT;">The Sugar.</span>” But Mendoza couldn’t be
anywhere close to Woodland Hills. The media would be all over it, absolutely
wild. Besides their town’s too incidental for the likes of Sugar Mendoza’<span lang="FR" style="mso-ansi-language: FR;">s attention.</span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
The detective stops in
front of him, and tilts his head in sympathy, a dog waiting for <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>his master to right himself. “<span lang="DE" style="mso-ansi-language: DE;">We</span>’ve been watching her for eighteen
months, or I should say, our man on the inside has. You got yourself quite the
little cherry here.” The officer shakes her wrists by the overhanging strap
again and nudges her forward.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .3in;">
<i>Cherry? What is he talking about?
Clare, a <u>virgin</u>? </i></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
As though reading his
thoughts, the detective calls over his shoulder, “A soldier on the front lines
with not enough savvy.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<i>Smart-assed copper.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Clare?” He calls,
reaching out to stop the detective by the arm, the detective who’s pushing his
wife toward their front door, out to the cars with the whirling lights and the
neighbors’ eyes.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“Watch it, bub,” says
the uniform to the side, grasping the offending arm, guiding him away from the
detective. </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
He holds his arm
outstretched, his hand forming a fist, as though he’s going to be cuffed as
well. </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
The uniform stares at
his arm as though he’s going to swing at him. “Step back and let us do our job.
You can see her at the station.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
He lowers his arm,
standing like a good little soldier, at the foot of his bed, during inspection
at boot camp.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
When she turns at the
door, the detective stops and lets her speak with him. But she says nothing. </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
His heart is caving in.
He blurts, “I got it. I got the commission I asked for and the raise.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
He feels like a fool.
But it’s all he can think to say, feeling like a child begging his mother for
another hour of play before the dark. She looks at him with puzzlement. Now
she’s the dog with tilted head.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“My terms,” he
clarifies. He pauses, knowing she wants more. Her eyes always ask for more. “My
terms within the contract, but I got what I asked for, and I asked for a lot.
Double percentage and not just for me but for the whole shop.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
She shakes her head
slightly, then speaks to the air in front of her, “Honey, our arguments were so
trivial. I simply can’t be that bored anymore.” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
“<span lang="DE" style="mso-ansi-language: DE;">We</span>’re married, Clare. That’<span lang="PT" style="mso-ansi-language: PT;">s a legal contract.</span>” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
Her eyes glisten with
the smarts of an inside game-player. “Agreed,” she murmurs, with a sly smile. </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
He watches her exit, the
dick loosely holding her leash. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
He sees himself, rushing
out the door, following her and the detective to the whirling neons lighting up
the twilight, where the detective pushes her head down as she slides into the
back seat. </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
He asks the detective if
he can ride with her, but drives behind them to the station, standing beside
her while she’s being booked—the photos, the fingerprinting—then the movement
down the hall away from him. </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
But none of this
happens. He doesn’t move from his spot. He is paralyzed. He has nowhere to go,
not a thing to do.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
He’s a wind-up toy,
that’s suddenly out of <i><span lang="IT" style="mso-ansi-language: IT;">commission.
</span></i></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<i>His old word. New
meaning. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<i>And, like it or not,
now hers.</i>
</div>
<div align="center" class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center;">
____________</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
Four years into her
prison term, he’s served papers through the mail from Clare<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>for a divorce. He’s not surprised, as his
attempts to visit her and to reach her by phone have all been thwarted. His
letters have come back unopened. Since he doesn’t contest the divorce—neither
children nor property are involved—the judge signs off on the paperwork
quickly, and within six weeks of being served, he’s no longer married to Clara
Bowman. It’s the last he hears from her.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
There are days when he
fantasizes that she’s a government informant in a witness <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>protection program somewhere, or, in another
variation of that theme, she’s become a jailhouse lawyer, helping others
through the appeal process, or in a less altruistic version, has begun working
on her Juris Doctorate or social worker degree, which she’s earned out of
prison and now is on her way to privileges she always wanted so badly. </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
There are other days
when he believes beyond doubt that she is dead. He’s even seen her—in his heady
mind-set—walking out of the prison gates as a shiny black limousine <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>speeds by gunning her down before she reaches
the ride waiting for her. He has experienced sudden death before, so whether
she’s dead or alive, he’s felt Nico-like symptoms surrounding thoughts of her
since she walked out of his life.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
But he remarries within
a year of their divorce, to a nice girl he meets through a new <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>salesman at the dealership, and they now have
two late-in-life babies—a boy and a girl. He and his wife rarely argue, and
when they do, he always wins. He’s so much better at manipulating words in his
favor. But not a day goes by that he doesn’t feel the absence of Clare’s
caustic challenges. He drinks too much, works late hours and drives home
contently in his Lincoln Continental that he’s earned through his
personally-granted merit pay. </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center;">
____________</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<br /></div>
Clyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05188990736695972537noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6972348256377709133.post-41653215926135390772018-09-30T17:34:00.000-07:002018-09-30T17:34:29.887-07:00Klatch & Buzz 9-30-18<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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I’ve recently begun
work again in studio. Throughout my life, I’ve felt art-identified. By that I
mean I’ve accepted myself as a working person in art, having had a respectable
number of art shows and performances after going to university to study art
history, art theory and the making of art in studio. I suppose I could say I’ve
been writing most of my life as well, though until about the mid-1980s I’ve
been pretty much a journal stream-of-thought writer. Don’t know if this counts,
but in first grade I wrote a poem about a bird in a tree (one that didn’t
rhyme—never liked that much unless it is one with the smarts of Auden’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The More Loving One</i>). I still have my
poem somewhere—my mother sent it to me as a keepsake along with a handkerchief
I’d stitched haphazardly on the sewing machine at age three. I wrote this poem in
first or second grade on a Big Chief writing tablet, the pulp of the paper so
raw that my brother used to laugh and say his pencil kept bumping into slivers
of wood as he attempted to do his lettering in class. The poem wasn’t more than
eight or ten words long but the entire page was filled with a colored drawing
of the tree with the bird on a branch. So it’s hard to say which medium held my
greater attention, even back then.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
I have a lovely
studio, upstairs in a renovated quasi-Victorian farmhouse that covers at least
the length of half the house, but lately it’s become a catch-all for anything I
don’t want in the places where I live and visit with friends. Last week, after
giving my latest novel to my editor for cutting and revisions, I went into my
studio and sat wondering what in the world had become of who I thought I was
most of my adult life. Had I become so self-identified (there’s that word again)
with artmaking that I didn’t need it anymore? Had I lost all perspective about
what it takes to really “do art,” the notion that you have to be in studio
regularly, if not daily, to meet the problems in the work in order to move
forward? Well, obviously I haven’t been going anywhere in that arena for a good
long while. But why is that? </div>
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Art is a very
physical, I tell my friends by way of defense. It’s not simply the demands of
the making—which sometimes can be overwhelming, especially as the old bones and
muscles complain—but in the sheer storage of what’s made. I’ve stuffed every
closet around, over and under my clothes and all the side walls and niches in
studio with framed works not sold, of course, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not sold</i>, and most walls covered with the stuff—mine and other
artists. I know artist friends who actually filled barns with their work,
surrendering it finally to the drafts, moisture, drought, bugs and vermin because
storage in temperature-controlled environments cost a fortune and if one is
steadily working, the spaces are continually filled so are never enough.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
Notice I’ve said
nothing about sculpture. That’s because I started lopping this off the media
list before the two-dimensional work, which seemed easier to manage. I called a
junkman to come and take half the basement full of sculptures and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">potential</i> sculptures away in his dump
truck. The first time he came, I stood making decisions about what would stay
or go. The second time, I waved my hands about the space and left for the day!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
So over time, the
artworks became smaller, and God help me, narrower in both scope and content.
Finally, well, in those final days, I worked on nothing larger than 11”x14” Strathmore
(student grade) with a few larger sheets of handmade paper screaming at me from
the back of storage cabinets. More finally still, I closed the door on the whole
enterprise, but continued to pay for cable service in there in case I decided
to go back and work while baseball season was on!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
As you will see
from the essays that follow, I’m inching my way back to that original self-identifying
way of life again. Believe me, writing has its own problems with computer
glitches and know-how and with cabinets for notes and a few hard copies of published
works, but it doesn’t demand barns for storage with Carbonite and cyberspace
literally closets in the air. Truly, there’s great appeal in that.</div>
Clyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05188990736695972537noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6972348256377709133.post-7612000959974060692018-09-30T17:20:00.000-07:002018-09-30T17:20:45.606-07:00Painting from Studio Tubes<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";">Recently as I was going through some old <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Art News, Art Forum</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Art in</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">America</i> magazines I’d shelved in my studio and forgotten about, I
ran across some especially fine articles and reproductions of Helen
Frankenthaler’s work which sent me reeling back to days when I studied art at
The University of Oklahoma, ending up with two master’s degrees in art by the
mid-seventies. I was a busy little art beaver back then. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";">One of my art profs at the time—I think
it was John Hadley—told us undergrads that some of our paintings looked like
they’d come out of a “studio tube mentality.” I had to smile as I looked at the
photographs of Frankenthaler stretched out over canvases as big as the floor,
brushes as large as those used in house painting with a bucket of paint by her
side, whole gallons lined up in the background. Sometimes Frankenthaler used
driveway and windshield squeegees to push the paint across areas as large as
quarter to half a good-sized room. Hadley’s little quip has stayed with me down
through the years which, I could say, I’ve extended into my whole philosophy of
life. What I took him to be telling us was that we were playing safe, not
willing to open and make the big gestures. And there’s certainly great value in
details and focus but when those narrow our vision to the point of losing sight
of possibilities, it’s time to step back and take another look.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But I’m besieged by questions and
doubts about what working and living “beyond the tube-sized mentality” really
means. It’s has to be more than buying up gallons of paint instead of oil sets
in primary colors from Holbein or Rembrandt, Incorporated.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Sometime during my late graduate
studio years at the university, I made a canvas something like three or four
feet by ten and worked on it for weeks and weeks. I’m talking about every day,
going to work in the studio like one goes to a job, nine to five, sometimes
with overtime. John Hadley, as I remember, came into my space, pausing to look
at this canvas off and on for those weeks, expressionless most of the time,
simply staring at it and then turning and walking off without a word. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";">On the day of his appointed critique with
me, he entered my studio, sat on a stool, and I waited quite some time for his
comments or questions. He walked up to a long undulating line on the edge of
shapes running somewhat diagonally across the huge canvas. He said, “Isn’t this
the profile of President Johnson?” He didn’t look at me, just walked out of the
room, and I stared at Johnson’s face as I listen to Hadley’s footsteps recede
down the steps and out of earshot. I turned and looked at the buckets of paints
on the floor behind me, kick one of them and walk out of the room, with some of
the grad students clapping and smiling as I went. They’d had Hadley’s critiques
too. They knew his truths when they heard them. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";">The next morning on my way to my studio
work, I noticed from afar a huge stiff banner hanging from the windows of the
upper story of the art building. As I got closer, I realized that it was my
three by ten foot painting, stamped like a new ten dollar bill with Johnson’s
portrait on it against the school’s outside brick wall.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was an awful painting, no doubt about it.
And an awful portrait of the president, despite the likeness. As I walked
toward my studio, I realized all the upstairs windows had been left open, the
fresh morning air filling the room. The message was clear. Fresh air. Fresh
start.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";">I don’t remember how we got the painting
back inside—I did need help— probably by the same method (in reverse) that my
fellow students had used to get it out there, by cutting the supporting frame
and snapping on braces while some held it aloft before securing it by wires
against the outside wall. Hundreds of hours had gone into its creation, and
they understood by the end of this venture, as did I, that sheer effort and
intention plus large amounts of paint, does not a good work of art make.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";">Some years after I graduated with my
Master’s in Fine Arts, I heard that John Hadley wrote a song recorded by Burt
Reynolds about some nail in a shoe and had headed for Nashville, but I never
followed whether it was true or not. Then recently I googled his name and
discovered that he’d moved back to Norman, had an art exhibition in November,
2011, after having written “almost 1,000 songs” and having “18 million of his
songs sold worldwide,” sung over the years by the likes of Garth Brooks, Linda
Ronstadt, Dean Martin, well, the list went on and on—buckets and buckets of
songs and celebs. So long studio tube mentality!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";">I’ve had a lot of loss in my life these
past couple of decades or so—I’ve lost all the members of my original family
(four) except my sister who lives on the West Coast (we correspond often and
have a great friendship), and I’ve lost a relationship I was in for twenty-one
years, married for five. I’ve lost eleven pets over those years, two in one
week just before I began living alone. I found myself closing off, withdrawing.
My creative work was suffering, and I felt stuck and miserable. I have written
several novels, two collections of short stories and read my work publicly,
even on the radio and television, locally. Now I have a publisher (Oghma
Creative Media) and my first novel was just released September 25th. But I
haven’t worked in art to any degree for years.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";">Then I discovered Frankenthaler again,
was reminded of Hadley’s pithy little saying, and I’ve decided to get back into
the larger picture of my life. I’m in studio after a lot of years of absence,
making gestures as clean and clear as I can right now. Kind of a risky,
on-the-edge venture but, hey, you gotta start somewhere, right? Who knows what
might turn up on my <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">bucket</i> list.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
Clyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05188990736695972537noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6972348256377709133.post-84391324403651328012018-09-30T16:45:00.000-07:002018-09-30T16:45:23.691-07:00Writing Grief<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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When she left, I
wanted to write all over my body—nothing permanent like</div>
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tattoo, but indelible, inked with a
ballpoint pen, a script, stories that would fade</div>
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with the pouring of everyday
showerings, slowly dissolving under the heat of my</div>
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But I kept my urge
inside, thinking everybody would catch glimpses of my story on my arms, legs,
face, neck and hands, see my raw longing and grief and end up smiling in condescension or
sympathy or staring in disapproval at my public display.
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dresser, sleeping. </div>
Clyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05188990736695972537noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6972348256377709133.post-24263272449703309022018-09-30T11:12:00.000-07:002018-09-30T11:13:03.348-07:00The Borrowing of Random Things<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif";">Robert Motherwell, the great Abstract
Expressionist painter, once said that an artist <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>is a person who is hypersensitive to
materials. But Donald Lipski, my sculpture teacher and thesis show co-chairman
at The University of Oklahoma in the mid-seventies (whom I liked and trusted as
a person much more than Robert Motherwell about statements of this kind and who
is himself in the big time national and international art scene now making
public sculptures) sat in my apartment on the floor back then, picking away at
my carpet, telling me—taking Motherwell's statement a step further—"An
artist is somebody who is obsessive about <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">things</i>."
He meant the word literally, that is, things as objects— hard, concrete,
tangible phenomenon. Don's pastime was to gather—he claimed without conscious
intent or at least much thought—bits and pieces of string, slivers of wood,
small grass roots and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">carpet threads</i>
and the like, and twist these in his fingers while he talked with friends,
watched TV or argued with his colleagues (though Don was a charmer and never
argued very much) and when that activity or event he was engaged in was over,
he would throw the piece of string or root he had played with, ultimately into
a cigar box and go to the next thing in his life, often where he would sit or
stand and talk while he played with another string or sliver of wood which would
end up in the same box. He had been doing this for years and years when I met
him, he said, and had thousands of these objects in boxes he kept stashed away.
Sometimes I would stand with him while he chewed on a toothpick, knowing I was
watching great art in the making. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I got pretty much into that process
of his because at some level when he met me, I was doing some of the same
procedures he was, only a little differently, and we had this real liking for
each other, at least I took it that we did. I put up an installation of
one-time carbon strips I collected from Bell Telephone Company, those flimsy
carbon inserts on the print-outs of telephone bills of customers all over
Oklahoma City and its environs, in what was known then as the Lightwell at the
art school, Fred Jones Hall, that spanned a space about fifty by seventy feet,
and he put up an installation of plastic strips similar to those used to
partition off a worker or a crime scene, except his strips were clear with just
a hint of color. He did this just off the I-35 Oklahoma City bypass, spanning
an even greater space than mine, over a huge gully so that we all could walk
under it, not unlike walking into the inside of an enormous guitar or dulcimer.
It brought people off the road for miles to see it, listen to it from
underneath, including the police whom he charmed into talking about it with him
and not the flow of traffic he was disrupting. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif";">He and I did these pieces simultaneously,
truly simultaneously, and he deferred to me on that day as he always did on
every other occasion I ever had with him in which a mention of our art was
brought up together. When I complimented him on his work, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>walking under the tremendous sound the
vibrating plastic generated, coming out the other end and looking into his
sparkling eyes, he said very gently, "Oh yours is the greatest." My
piece was still hanging in the Lightwell, with the magnanimous title of
"The Great Southwestern Carbon Systems," but everybody looking at art
was out there off I-35 looking at his. I swelled anyway.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Later I got downright territorial
and paranoid about what I was doing which was drawing and blowing graphite onto
the wall at an eye level line making these tiny obsessive scribbles about four
by six inches apart like a mental path one would be following with one’s eyes.
Although they were 2-d, drawn on a wall, they weren’t too terrible different in
nature from the 3-d hand-twisted sculptures Don was making and throwing in his
cigar box. I tried to hang sheets across the front of my space at the North
Campus studio as though by doing this nobody could see what I was playing
around with. I finally took the sheets down because nobody cared, and they were
getting in my way. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif";">Don would come out to my space and look
at these little drawings of mine with a grin, chew on his toothpick, and walk
over to a chair across the great expanse of space in those old Navy barracks on
North Campus turned into graduate art studios, and sit down. He wouldn't move
the chair. He'd just sit down half a room away and wait for me to begin work
again, leaning his chair against the wall, head tilted to the side and stare as
I worked. He eventually claimed that wall upon which his chair was leaning and
began aligning his pieces that he brought in his cigar boxes, his chewed and
twisted pieces, putting them up one following the other, along an invisible
eye-level line on the wall. I'd seen him do this before, on the floor, while
talking to people, pulling one piece out of a box at a time and spacing them
evenly apart, staring at them as though he was having some great insight. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif";">"Fidgeting," he called his
twisting and chewing. So seeing these fidgeted sculptures <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>go up on the wall, mounted with little
straight pins, like intimate aesthetic specimens, seemed like a natural progression
of ideas. It wasn't one-upmanship with Don, ever. He didn't have to do that. He
was the greatest. I knew this and turned my attention to making black on black
paintings instead, larger objects with white marks on them, not too far removed
from those Agnes Martin made on her canvases that she entitled after the birds,
the trees and the sky. Those little obsessive sculptures of Don’s, though,
eventually went all over the world. They reached their height when they were
shown, I think, at Marborough in London, after he left The University of
Oklahoma and went back, I heard, to Chicago and then New York, finally to
Philadelphia. I know they were at O.K. Harris in New York City because I saw
them there. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Once when Lipski was in my
apartment, he took his hand and scooped it down into a large wooden bowl I had
filled with thousands of pennies. He loved that. All those pennies in that
bowl. This was over a decade before Ann Hamilton’s now famous <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">privation and excesses</i> installation in
1989 of 750,000 pennies drowning in honey at the Capp Street Project in San
Francisco. My fascination with my pennies was with the series and systems of
objects in frameworks devised to contain or sequester them, in my case by
random—simply because I, as artist, stated so (as Marcel Duchamp had done with
his urinal and such). Don’s fascination was with the idea that these little
copper things of monetary value had been brought from the world where they were
scattered out doing something totally different than art and were placed by
human attention in such a way to force an intrusion on those out-there
boundaries, so that these round money-meaning things became something else,
which wasn’t too far from Hamilton’s notion sometime later. (These notions are
always in the air until they wear themselves out or are transformed into
something else. The current parlance is to call these in the air notions,
“memes.”)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif";">Anyway, on this day, the day of my
critique with Don in my apartment, he reached down before he left and put a
whole handful of my pennies in his pocket. I got the message and thought it was
cool. He was going to spend them (or randomly drop them on the street) and get
them back out there again. Open and Closed Systems, I called this idea and did
several shows with photographs (including my Senior Thesis show) based on it. I
didn't realize until I saw the front cover of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Art in America</i> some years later and opened it to the article inside
how prophetic this little gesture of his was way back then. Not only had he
expanded his plastic strip series, he was binding string and twine and sisal
around ordinary objects like pitchforks and scissors turning them into
something else while never losing their sense of ordinariness. And with such
notions, he was on his way to several renowned museums.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif";">When I first met Don, I brought him my
portfolio of slides from my work on Long <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Island. These were found objects I integrated
into various backgrounds of linen, stained paper or Turkish towels. These
sculptures all had binding in them and looked like non-functional musical
instruments, I thought. Others of these looked like small pieces of furniture
stripped of purpose. "Beautiful stuff," he said thoughtfully, his
head bobbing around the screen, in the art history room where I projected them.
Don loved lots of stuff, especially everyday stuff made into conglomerates tied
together literally or figuratively through proximity that entered The Temple of
Art as ordinary objects to be contemplated upon. "But I'm having a hard
time getting past the materials you are finding and using. They are entities,
things-in-themselves, you know. I'm not sure anything needs to be done with
them. What can you do with objects that already have a life such that nothing
you do to them can change that? Picasso's bicycle seat changed into a bull is
still a bicycle seat and that's the charm, but do you want to make charming
art?" I stared down at a vintage hub cap I was going to smash into an
element in a painting, like Rauschenberg.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif";">I guess Don changed his mind. His art
certainly has charm, and his bound- by-twine <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>pitchfork is still definitely a pitchfork. Of
course he posed this question to me, not himself, really. But that's the other
thing about artists, they usually talk a lot and while they do, they're looking
to steal each other's things. "Steal" is definitely too strong a
word. There isn't a deliberate con game going on, anyway not with us at the
university back then, not like the one at the cash register where you get the
checker talking and then with sleight of hand, lift something from the drawer.
Though, I must tell you, that I practiced that, turning it into an art with my
brothers and cousins with the offering plate that passed at church. I know
loads about how to do it. Heavy borrowing is part of the taking-in process for
object worshippers. I know I took that chair Don sat on across from me in the
North Campus studio when I graduated and left for my next thing in life,
although I haven't decided as of yet to twist string around it and turn it into
art. But keep your eyes open and keep a look out on the art magazine racks. You
never know.</span></div>
Clyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05188990736695972537noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6972348256377709133.post-41906336736925825632018-09-28T07:32:00.000-07:002018-09-28T08:31:54.232-07:00Klatch & Buzz 9-26-18<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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For the past few
years, I’ve been remiss in keeping this blog alive. Since my last entries here,
I’ve become a published author with Oghma Creative Media (my novel <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Back Then</i> is shown as a link to Amazon
and Barnes & Noble) and I’ve spent my time writing for publication. My
second novel, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Most Intangible Thing</i>,
is in the works and I’ve just handed my third, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Shike Stories</i>, to my editor. But during this time I didn’t give
up my blog completely. I’ve been writing for Mind At Play off and on and am
starting a new series of plays, essays, book reviews and short fiction which
will be continuous from now on.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
About a year ago, I
happened upon WRVO’s late night <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Tuned to
Yesterday</i> here in the Ithaca, New York area at 90.5FM. It’s two hours (10pm to midnight) of
old-time radio with everything from Groucho Marx’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">You Bet Your Life</i>, science fiction’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">X Minus One</i>, comedies such as <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Our
Miss Brooks</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Jack Benny Show</i>
to hour-long dramas such as <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lux Radio</i>
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Theater</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Radio City Playhouse</i>. Most of the programming is from the late
thirties through the late fifties. </div>
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I was especially
taken with mystery and noir programs such as <i>The Adventures of Philip Marlowe</i>, <i>The Adventures of Sam Spade</i> and <i>Richard
Diamond, Private Detective</i> and the lighter <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Yours Truly,</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Johnny Dollar</i>, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dragnet</i>, and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Box 13</i>. In
fact, I purchased a collection of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Box 13</i>
episodes with Alan Ladd and when transmission of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Tuned to</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Yesterday</i> is lousy
because of the weather, I listen to these for my old-time radio fix. Since then,
I’ve invested in several CD collections and fear I’m on my way to an addiction!
The interesting juxtaposition of yesteryear’s nationalism, clear-cut plot and
good-bad characterization with our current ambiguity and reality crime had me
hooked. I have no longing to return to those days when I sat in front of the
radio listening to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Skye King</i>, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Cisco Kid</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Challenge of the Yukon</i> (yeah, I know this dates me, but what the
heck) mainly because I’ve outgrown the simplistic approach to the battle of
good and evil like everybody else. I’m pretty certain <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mad Max: Fury Road</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Atomic
Blond</i>e haven’t provided me with a better moral code or assessment of
reality, but at least they make allowances—very large allowances—(this is my
contemporary-politicized, socialized mind talking now) for questioning and
downright hostility toward authority and cultural norms. It’s a long, vigorous
discuss for another time, no doubt, but there is a tremendous allure in this
old-time, well, old-times! The racism and misogyny we all can do without, but
there is an underlying ease with hope—the belief in the triumph of the good
over the bad, a belief that things can be figured out, understood with a little
work.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
So with all this in
mind, I decided to have fun with “updating” some noir while still attempting to
keep to that old-time recipe used in long-ago detective, crime and mystery
shows. I’ve soaked myself in the noir writings of Cornell Woodrich who wrote
for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Detective Fiction Weekly</i>, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Argosy</i>, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dime Detective</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Black Mask</i>
during the thirties and forties. (These magazines sold for ten and fifteen
cents. But then, my dad’s payment on our new house built in Oklahoma in 1941 was
seventeen dollars a month with this house costing around six thousand bucks.) I
enjoyed establishing my own detective-sleuth, Crandall Weir, and the
development of his romantic interest with the waitress in the Main Street Diner
on the square of Tutterton, New Jersey, and his protective watch over his city.
So far, there are four in this series, which I’ll post intermittently with
other short story fiction and non-fiction works. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
I enjoy your comments,
so let me know what you think. Here’s to a new blogger connection.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
Clyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05188990736695972537noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6972348256377709133.post-8989417874453928322018-09-23T08:09:00.000-07:002018-11-02T12:37:11.278-07:00Radio Play #1<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div align="center" class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center;">
<b>The Bicycle Thief</b></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>[overvoice]</span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
It’s my day off from the
precinct in Tutterton, New Jersey. A gloriously clear, sunny day, not a cloud
in the sky until I turn a corner and one abruptly appears overhead and rains on
my perfect afternoon. I know the voice before I see Benny Garfield standing in
front of Leonard Vlamos’s bicycle shop arguing loudly with the owner. Benny’s
got his hands on the handlebars of a blue Schwinn, jerking on the chain to
which it’s tethered to the rack. He’s on his tiptoes, all but sky borne, in
what appears to be an effort to lift the bike and throw it through the shop
window. The chain is long and the bike’s reaching the shop window is a real
possibility. I’m amazed at the little guy’s strength, but hasten my steps to
get there before he does some damage to the bike, the man or himself.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What’s
going on?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>[overvoice] </span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
I place my hand on
Benny’s shoulder. He turns, squints up at me and lowers the bike, letting it
fall diagonally against the bike next to it, but he doesn’t take his hands off
the handlebars. He’s not a day over twelve, but every inch is scrappy muscle
pulled tight for action.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Crazy
old coot. He stole my bike’s what he’s done, and now he’s gettin’ ready ta sell
it ta somebody. I’m not allowing it, ya hear? I’<span lang="PT" style="mso-ansi-language: PT;">m not.</span>”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Step away from there,
ya little punk ‘fore I knock some sense into your head.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>[overvoice]<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
Lenny Vlamos lifts the
broom in his hands and swings it just past the kid’s head, as I step between
them. Vlamos’s broom hits my shoulder and almost throws me off balance. I grab
it by its bristles and pull it out of Lenny’s hands before he can resist,
slinging it to the sidewalk.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You
better tell me what this is about.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“He’s
stole my bike, I tell ya, Officer Weir. He took it and now he’s…”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
haven’t stole nothing, ya dumb little brat. I paid for the bike like all the
others I get for sale, and I got the billasale to prove it.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>[overvoice] </span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
He turns to go into his
shop, I’m guessing to get the invoice when I stop him. </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Just
hold up a minute, will ya, Mr. Vlamos. Let’s try to settle this without
entreaties to proofs and such.” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;">[overvoice]</span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
Vlamos faces me, his
greasy apron still on as though he’s running a diner. But it’s easy enough to
see the grease isn’t from a grill. It’s dark and muddy from bicycle repairs.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“The boy seems to be
pretty certain about this being his bike. Why are you so sure, Benny?” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“’Cause
it’s got a dent in the back fender, right here, from when I fell against the
curb at Freddie Pruitt’s a snow day from school last winter. You can…”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“See
here. He’s the bicycle thief, Crandall Weir, and you and the department and the
whole town knows about how he steals. It’s one of them cases of propulsion,
when you accuse the one who doesn’t do it to throw suspicion off yourself who
does. You know how it works. You’ve had him at the station, more’n once I
suspect.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>[overvoice]</span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
thing I’ve noticed in altercations of this kind is that both sides take extreme
positions which make negotiations very unlikely. It’s the point, I suppose, but
it makes it difficult for the negotiator, which was the position I now found
myself in. I first turned to Leonard Vlamos.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“It’s Officer Weir,
despite the fact that we occasionally sit together by chance in the Main Street
Diner and share a chat over a cuppa joe, okay? And it’s projection, not
propulsion, Mr. Vlamos. But putting aside the grammar lesson, you need to turn
the heat down on the discussion.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’s
telling you, Officer Weir, Lenny’s known for being more’n a sour puss, he’s a
gouger is what he is. He sets his prices so as guys like me can’t…”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“And
as for you, Benny, Mr. Vlamos—and it’s <i>Mr. Vlamos</i> to you too—he is
correct in his reminder that you’ve had your bump-ins with the law, have you
not?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes,
but I…”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Have
you not?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes,
sir.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“There,
that’s better. Now, Benny, many bicycles have dents of this kind.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Exactly
what I tried to tell him, <i>Officer</i> <i><span lang="DE" style="mso-ansi-language: DE;">Weir</span></i>.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m
going to ignore your sarcasm for the time being, Leonard Vlamos, as I would
like to ascertain as quickly and accurately as possible why you two lugheads
are at loggerheads over <i>this</i> bike.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Officer
Weir, I <i>knows</i> it’s my bike. It’s been missing from my yard since
Wednesday afternoon. I looked ever’where for it, not seeing it around, and
today walking ‘cross central park, I sees it through the trees. I knows it
right away ‘cause of its color, its bright blue with white on the gas tank,
see’s, right here, and it’s got this same bell. It’s had the spinner knob on
the handle what’s been taken off, you can see the scrape where it was so long.
It comes loose since I use it so much, and the scrape’s left where I’ve
tightened it agin. I know me Schwinn, sir.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Okay,
okay, Benny. Well, Mr. Vlamos, Benny’s had his say. Now it’s your turn. How did
you come by this particular bike?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
purchased it fair and square as I tried to tell ya. I’ve proof of purchase.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Just
tell me from whom you acquired it.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“My
supplier’s who. He gets them from Roundup Wheels in Wellington and brings me a
half a dozen at a time when my rack gets low. The kids like ‘em used, if you
can believe that.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Okay,
I’ll take a look at that bill of sale, if you don’t mind.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“<span lang="FR" style="mso-ansi-language: FR;">Sure </span>‘nough. Got it right here.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>[footsteps
leaving]</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“But
Officer Weir, that don’t tell ya nothin’. He could make this billasale up or
his wife’s more like it, so it’s not in his hand. One a them at-home
secretaries.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Now,
Benny…”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“And
anyway, who’s to say that he don’t keep stolen bikes stashed away in the back
somewhere, hidden, you see, and then brings ‘em out as soon as he’s got the
bills made out like real?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“<span lang="DE" style="mso-ansi-language: DE;">Don</span>’t you think that’s stretching
it a bit, even for you, Benny? It would take some time and ingenuity to drive
around at night, grab the bikes from yards or sheds all over town and lock them
up in back while he manufactures the invoice.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“His
wife could do it, and nobody’d know.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“His
wife?” [laughs] “I think you might be listening to <i>The Whistler</i> and <i>Boston</i>
<i>Blackie</i> too much, lad.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh
no, sir. It’s Richard Diamond for me.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Sunday
nights I’ll know where to find you, then?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Ah,
you know how good they is then, right?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hmmm…”
</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
[footsteps coming back]</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Here
you are, <i>sir</i>.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>[overvoice] </span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
hands me the invoice, and I catch the sarcasm in his eyes when he gives me the
‘sir’ address. I read the invoice carefully and notice that down the list of
bicycle merchandise he has listed a “blue Schwinn with bubble tires, bell and
knob.” A big red “Paid in Full” is rubber stamped at the bottom with some
signature it would take a cryptographer from the military to make out. I hand
it back and shake my head at Benny.<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Looks like everything’<span lang="IT" style="mso-ansi-language: IT;">s in order, Benny. He</span>’s purchased
the bicycle all right.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“But,
sir, it can’t be right. This bike is mine, and I don’t know how he done it, but
he stole it from me one way or another. It may not look like it ‘cause the
knob’s…”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
think what Mr. Vlamos is most concerned about is that you attempted, without
consulting him, to take the bike from the rack, isn’t that right, Mr. Vlamos?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes,
it is true.” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“But…”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“I tell you what, Benny,
why don’t we let Mr.Vlamos get back to his work while you and me go over to the
Main Street Diner and grab a soda. It’ll give me time to explain how this works
within the jurisdiction of the law. Thank you, Mr. Vlamos and good day to you, <i>sir</i>.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;">[overvoice]</span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
I put emphasis on the
"sir" business, took the boy by the shoulders and began walking him
toward the drugstore.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
[soft footsteps as they
talk]</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“He’s getting away
scot-free, I tell ya, Officer Weir. It ain’t right and law or no law<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I ain’t happy about it, not t‘<span lang="PT" style="mso-ansi-language: PT;">all.</span>”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“You can’t let your
impatience get the better of you, young man. Sometimes the law simply doesn’t
give you results as soon as you like, but usually, though not always, it comes
out on your side in the end.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Are you telling me ya
believe me, sir?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“I’m telling you to have
patience long enough for me to see.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Ah, that’s no good.
That’s what I heard from Pa, over and over, and in the end he left us over not
finding the job Ma and me was supposed to have patience enough for him to find.
Patience be hanged.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
[opening and closing of
door]</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;">[overvoice]</span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
Inside it was cool as a
fan whipped a light breeze across our sweating faces. I took off my straw hat
and set it on the table as we slid into a booth. Benny’s eyes immediately
darted around the room, finally settling on a waitress who brought us two
menus.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Hungry, Benny?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Sure. Could I have a
malt, I’d like a chocolate malt if I could.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“You can have that and a
burger and fries, if you’d like. It’s lunchtime.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“I can? Oh boy, oh boy.
Thanks for sure. I would indeed!”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
[waitress laughs]</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Give me what the boy’s
having and make the malts thick with extra ice cream. I’m having my burger
medium well. How about you, Benny?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“I’ll have the same,
sure ‘nough.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
[waitress laughs lightly
again]</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“You want your malteds
with spoons, I take it? Before or with your lunch?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Bring it all at the
same time. The guy over there will down his before his burger arrives and then
I might have to order him two!”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
[laughter and footsteps
leaving]</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Okay, Benny. I’ll be
honest with you, if you’re honest with me, deal?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Absolutely, sir. I
ain’t in the habit of lying to the law. Okay, I did that once, but it was
because of Richie Hopkins, it was, just like I told ya then. I got snookered
into it, and I ain’t never again. I promised, and I kept it clean since. ”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Well, that’s good to
hear, Benny. Richie’s a bad influence, and you’re right to stay clear from the
likes of him and his crowd. What I want to talk to you about is that I believe
the bicycle on the rack is yours.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“You do? You believe
me?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“I do. And I’m pretty
sure I can have proof of it. But I’m not at liberty to tell you what at this
time. That’s what I mean by patience. There’s a difference between proof and
evidence. Sometimes we use those words interchangeably, but according to the
law, they are very different in this way. Evidence is the gathering of
information, sometimes by obtaining actually material…”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Like fingerprints and
bullets!”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Exactly like that. But
also simple things that are part of the crime scene, such as a vase with blood
on it or even finding the right object that’s been removed from the crime scene
though not actually involved in it. It gets complicated, you see?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Okay. And what’s proof,
then? You said there’s proof what’s different from the evidence.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Proof is the evidence
when it is shown to be valid, that is, when it’s the right material evidence,
uh…the right objects. You can gather evidence, but you have to prove it’s the
absolutely true information or objects for the crime.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“There’s lots a
fingerprints on the scene, you’re saying, but they ain’t all the right ones,
the ones of the killer.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“That’s the idea, Benny.
Yes, exactly like that. So I have to prove the information I gathered today is
right, beyond doubt, for this situation.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“So he took it, didn’t
he?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“That’s the part of my
not being at liberty to tell you yet. But in order for police work to work, you
have to keep your mouth shut and go about your business as though this thing
has been settled, do you understand.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Okay.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“It’s not going to be
easy, especially you’re being the firebrand you are. But I’m the law, not you,
and your accusations won’t stand up in court. I’m serious about this, Benny.
It’s not a game. It’s the law.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“I get it.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Good.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
[footsteps]</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Here you are, boys.
Can’t get this order mixed up, now can I? Same on both sides of the table.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Thanks, Miss.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Well, aren’t you the
polite one. Did I hear your name was Benny?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Yes ma’am.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Well, Benny, I
appreciate your politeness. Enjoy your lunch.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Thank you, Charmaine.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Anytime, Officer Weir.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
[footsteps leaving]</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“She’s nice. She likes
you.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Oh? I thought it was
you she was giving all the attention to.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Not by a long shot.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Okay, hot shot. I’ll
have to keep an eye on you and your skills of observation.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
[light sounds of eating,
utensils clicking and such]</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“So you’ll have to trust
me on this one, Benny. I think I know a way to get your bicycle back, but
you’ll have to give it some time.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“But what if he sells my
bike in the meantime?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Well, there is that
possibility, and I can’t ask him to put it away until I have enough information
to do that. He presented me with an invoice that has the bike clearly listed
and a stamp, date and signature that indicates he paid for it. Now where he got
your bike from and whether the invoice is valid, we will just have to see.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“So you’re working my
case?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“I’m working your case,
but it’s not within the perimeters of my job—the other cases I’m working at the
precinct—so I’m gonna have to squeeze it in, but I’ll keep you updated as best
I can. Now, what’s the magic word, and for criminy’s sakes, don’t say it’s
‘please.’”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“<span lang="IT" style="mso-ansi-language: IT;">Oh, no, sir. It</span>’s patience. I knowed that
from the start.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;">[overvoice]</span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
When we got to the door
to leave, after I’d paid the check, left the tip, and thanked Charmaine again,
I decided Benny needed a clear reminder about staying away from Vlamos’s shop,
so I gave it to him.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’ll
do it because you’re asking me to, but it ain’t gonna be easy.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No,
it won’t be, Benny, but it is necessary. If the policeman on the beat sees you
there, it’s gonna be trouble for you, and you don’t want that again with the
police, do you?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No,
sir. That’s for sure.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Good
lad. So squelch your desire to needle Vlamos and let me do my job.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
[footsteps leaving, then
heavier footsteps rhythmically, softly, slowly with the overvoice]</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
The boy almost makes me
want to have kids, well, almost because kids in my life would be a horribly
wrong direction for me to take, more like a detour.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I shudder to picture Benny on the bike using
the knob on the handlebars like he’s at the steering wheel of a car. It’s those
kinds of tricks with kids that make them so dangerous in your life. No, I’ll
not have kids, at least not for now, but…[sighs] if not now, when? Aw, it’s a
question greatly weighing on the heat-oppressed brain. </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
[chuckling to
self][pause]</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
But I’ve gotta follow
through on this bike business. Something’s rotten in the state of Leonard
Vlamos, and my gut tells me I better strike while the iron is hot. </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
[door bell jingling, door
opening and closing, few footsteps]</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“<span lang="PT" style="mso-ansi-language: PT;">Hello, Vlamos.</span>”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“You again?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“’fraid so.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“What can I do for you
now? Where’s your sidekick?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Where’s the bike?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“What bike?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“You know what bike. I
don’t have time for this, Vlamos. Where’s the kid’s bike.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Sold it.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Oh, you did, did you? I
suggest you rethink that sale, because I can cause you a good deal of
difficulty if you don’t cooperate. I’m talking about within the next couple of
minutes.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“You can’t come in here
and threaten me just because you have a badge. I tell ya, it isn’t here. I <i>sold</i>
it, Crandall.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Uh-huh. On a Saturday
when the temperature is close to a hundred on a square where not even a bird is
singing? We both know you didn’t sell it, but you could, you know?” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“I <i>what</i>?” [pause]
And how’s that?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“I’ll buy it.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“[sarcastic laughter]
Oh, I see. For the kid. Well, I can’t sell it to ya, because I don’t have it
anymore.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Okay, I really don’t
want to go to the back and look around for it myself, Lenny, but I will if I
have to, since we’re on a first name basis and all.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
[footsteps]</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“You can’t just come in
here and search without probable cause.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Oh, I’ve got cause all
right.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Stop. Okay, okay, I’ll
sell it to you. I took it off the rack, because I knew it’d give the kid <i>prov-o-cation</i>.
He’s quick-tempered, that kid, and he’s un-American besides.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“What’re you talking
about? He’s English. They saw as much of the war as we did, more actually, with
the bombing of their country. The Garfields came here to be near her ailing
sister and to try and start a better life, since they lost everything in
London. You need to practice a little respect where Benny’<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;">s concerned, Vlamos.</span>”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Well, that’s a two-way
street far as I’m concerned, and you saw how he acted. I don’t see much respect
coming from his direction. And I don’t need the trouble, Weir. So I did take
the bike to the back, like you said. But I wasn’t hiding it, nothing of the
sort. I was just keeping it outta the kid’s sight until I could…”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Unload it on your
supplier so he could sell it somewhere else? I was surprised you put it on the
rack, seeing how it came from the town.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“It was like I said. It
came to me, from where I can’t tell you. And who the hell knows if it’s the
kid’s bike, like he claims? He’s such a…”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Who’s your supplier?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“I don’t have to tell
you that. He’s my supplier’s all you need to know and has been for years,
totally on the up and up, nothing to get yourself in a snit about. He brings me
used bikes, I pay him a reasonable price for them, and he’s on his way.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“The invoice didn’t have
a name on it. That made me a bit suspicious, if you get what I mean.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“He’s an independent
supplier, keeps his taxes down.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Yeah, keeps his taxes
so low they’re off the books, that it?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“C’mon, Weir. I’ve a
small business here. I make it because I keep things simple, otherwise I owe
the IRS an arm and a leg…look, I pay my taxes legit. I got shop space, a
telephone number, and a little square ad in the shopper part of the paper. It
pays the bills.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Okay, here’s the deal,
Vlamos. I’m going to take a walk to the front of this simple little shop of
yours and look around at the other bikes you have here, like a potential
customer would. And you’re going to ponder seriously about a potential sale
that you’ve got stashed in the back of the store for just such a customer as me
who might walk in here at any time. In other words, you’re thinking this is the
bike of my dreams for my kid back home, because I’ve already expressed the
opinion that I want a bike for my kid, but don’t wanna pay the price for a
brand new one, you following me so far?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“I think so.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Good. So let’s commence
with this purchase then.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“It’ll be a minute.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Thank you, Leonard.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
[footsteps, and the
opening and closing of a door in the distance]</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
[overvoice in a whisper,
during which are footsteps]</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Okay, he’s outta here,
down the basement where I’m thinking he’s taken his latest load. I’ll just take
a little walk to the back and see what might be...hmmm, a locked room. Uh-huh,
just as I thought. Not a prayer he’s got the key off the ring he’s carrying.
Wait. What’s this? Two towels hung on hooks high up, nearly outta sight. What
would towels be doing up so high over a work bench?” [sounds of scraping,
little groans] Higher reach than I thought, step ladder should do it. Aha. A
coupla keys on hooks<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>behind the towels,
just in case other members of the operation need them when Lenny isn’t around
‘s my guess.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
[sounds of jangling keys
and footsteps, turning of a key and the opening of a door]</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Well, whatyaknow.
Bingo.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Turn around quiet. I want
no trouble, Weir.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Gun always at the
ready, Lenny? Nice little small-town shop owner like you? I’d say it’s more
like a nice little fence you got going for yourself, Vlamos. And here I thought
it might be bicycles, how small-minded of me. Stripping cars for cash, are you?
Quite the side business, Vlamos. Bet there’s more of these all over the
place—like in Wellington, Jefferson, Bitonville, Granger, on and on it goes, am
I right?” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Maybe. Don’t matter to
you where you’re going.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“And where’s that, Lenny?
You gonna shoot me? How’s that gonna work?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“<span lang="DE" style="mso-ansi-language: DE;">Don</span>’t turn around. I <i>said</i> don’t turn
around. Now, you’re gonna walk outta here with me, to my car in back, and we’re
taking a little ride to the country. You don’t wanna ride, it’s a bullet in the
head right here. In case you’re wonderin’, it’s got a silencer.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“I did notice that,
Lenny. One thing a detective knows is his guns. But, tell me, how’re you gonna
explain a body twenty feet from locked rooms filled with stolen car parts?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“I won’t have to,
because tonight we’ll haul your corpse out to the dump where your buddies can
play around with why it’s there.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Oh, Lenny, I thought
you were smarter than this. They’re gonna talk to the kid. He’ll tell them the
whole bike story. Maybe they’ll listen this time, because he’s been seen with
me at the diner where the waitress overheard part of our conversation. You see,
that’s the problem with crime like you’re in right now. The evidence just seems
to mushroom—it’s the kid’s story, it’s the waitress’s story, it’s the bike’s
that’s absent because it can’t be found associated with you, then it’s the
blood pooling around on the floor where I fall, and the desperate over-bleached
clean-up…”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Just cut it out. Just
stop. No, no, don’t you move. I gotta think…”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Yes, I bet you do.” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
[slow footsteps]</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
[sounds of chair
scraping and Weir’s sitting]</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“I told ya not to move.
I mean it. I’ll kill you right here, I will, Weir.” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Just wantin’ to sit
down, if that’s all right. Chair by the desk, right here, if that okay? I’ll
swivel around to face you, see. There. How’s this?” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Get up, get up right
now. You can’t sit down. We’re leaving.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“How you gonna do that,
Lenny? You have to close shop, lower the blind on the door, turn the lock, take
off your apron, lots of maneuvering to do, not to mention the walk to your car
and my willingness to cooperate.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
[bell jingling, door
opening and closing] [pause]</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Hello. Anybody here?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“A customer, Lenny. Now
what’re you gonna do? You should’ve tied me up while you had the chance, you
think?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“I can knock you out, I
can.” [scuffling noises, groans, and finally a heavy thud]</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Yeah, yeah, if you can.
If you’re gonna be a criminal that stays outta jail, Lenny, you gotta be one
that schemes past the crime to the all-pervasive cover-up.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;">[overvoice]</span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
It would take a good
part of the evening and into the night for the crew to gather all the evidence
on the scene, but after a couple of hours of processing everybody’s story down
at the station, and Lenny’s confinement in a cell, Benny and I were able to leave.
I insisted the boy call his mother, and with the sun sinking in the west, we
made our way across the central park. Benny was spitting out questions faster
than I could answer them, but I felt like he had a right to know. I urged him
to walk with his bike between us to keep it from wandering away from him again.
He thought that idea was funny and accepted my invitation to have our evening
meal at the Main Street Diner.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
Charmaine was her usual
upbeat self, and I noticed she was as fine looking at the end of her shift as
the beginning. After we ordered hot roast beef over biscuits with potatoes,
carrots and peas on the side and were waiting for our food, Benny asked,</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“So’s what tipped you
off? You said you couldn’t tell me before. Can you tell me now?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Yes, yes. Well, I don’t
see that it would hurt. It was a coupla things. The invoice was written in a
feminine hand and on plain ledger paper without letterhead. You can buy a 'Paid
in Full' stamp with the date at any office supply store. I’ve never seen a secretary
at the shop. I’m guessing his was at home, just like you suspected.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“His wife? So I helped
solve the crime?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“That you did, Benny.
That part of it, at least. At questioning, Vlamos pleaded that we not drag her
into it, that she didn’t know anything, she just did what he told her to do,
and she had no idea about anything being stolen. She’ll be brought in for
questioning. The story he claims he told her was that he had a legitimate
business in bicycles and car parts that he gleaned from salvage yards when he
wasn’t at the shop.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“So is she innocent like
he says or part of the crime?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“What do you think?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Well, I ain’t never
seen her, so it’s hard to tell.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“You think you can tell
if somebody is engaged in criminal activity just by looking at them?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Well, not always,
maybe. But you can see quite a bit by looking, yeah. You ever see those
pictures of gangsters in detective magazines and mugshots they show in the
newspapers when they’re caught. Ever’day people don’t look like that, not by a
long shot. Anyway, you can tell a lot about a person by how they look, carry
themselves.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Carry themselves?”
[light laugh] “Maybe you have something there.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“It’s what the comic
books say, and I believe them.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Dubious source, my
friend, but I hear you.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“<span lang="DE" style="mso-ansi-language: DE;">Don</span>’t know that one, but I don’t care as
long as you catch my drift.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Where in the world did
you learn such language?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Likes what?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“The likes of ‘carry
themselves’ and ‘catch my drift’ for starters. Never mind. It’s in the comics.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
[laughing] “Your
evidence’s more than just the invoice though, right?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Well, yes. I saw the
scrape on the handlebars and knew you were telling the truth about the spinner
knob. I was certain the bike was yours—I mean a man knows his vehicle—but I
became curious about how Vlamos actually got it.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“He took it. Bet he
drives around looking for kid’s unlocked up bikes, is how. Then he puts them in
his shop van, and when it’s dark, he brings them into his shop. He ever gets
stopped by the cops…uh, the police, well, if they’s ta look and see what’s in
his van, it makes sense ‘cause he owns a bike shop.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“But kids can spot their
bikes on his rack, Benny, the way you did. It doesn’t make sense. I think it’s
more likely that somebody does the fetching and Mr. Vlamos is the fence. Maybe
the fellah that does the stealing, drive around all over the county, state
even, and picks up the goods, takes them to one holding place, and then they’re
distributed from there, just like the cars, which are then stripped for their
parts. Usually fences are very careful about where their goods are coming from
for exactly the reason we’re talking about. They don’t want to get caught with
recognizable property. Maybe somebody slipped up and inadvertently gave Vlamos
your bike outta the stolen bunch they were distributing.” [pause] “The thing to
keep in mind about criminals, Benny, is that they don’t usual operate in a
direct line scheme—steal something and sell it where they steal it.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Good crime-busting tip,
sir. I’ll remember it.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“My biggest question is
why would Vlamos try to sell stolen bicycles in the first<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>place? He isn’t the brightest bulb on the
Christmas tree, but why put their whole operation in jeopardy like that? The
bike shop was a cover, that’s obvious. But why steal bikes and draw possible
suspicion on yourself? It’s a conundrum.” </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“<span lang="DE" style="mso-ansi-language: DE;">Don</span>’t know what that is, sir, but he done
it ‘cause of greed. Pure and simple. Greed’s the thing that catches criminals
up every time.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“But he had a great
operation going for years, Benny. He was a big hub for distribution in the
whole Tri-State area. Being in a little town, we didn’t suspect anything this
big could be going on right under our noses. His basement ran underground for
half a block. How did he not ever become suspect with all the coming and
goings? I suppose it was done late at night and in small enough truck loads,
but… well, Tutterton doesn’t have but half-dozen policeman patrolling at night.
I’m sure that’s part of it as well.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You
never think little guys commit big crimes, sir.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well,
about that, I’ll be having a change of mind. And I suppose you’re right.
Everybody knows everybody in Tutterton. We just don’t think somebody like
Leonard Vlamos is making a killing and still acting and looking like he does.
You’ve taught me something, Benny. Maybe I should take a closer look at those
comic books you’re reading these days. What ones are you into now?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Dick
Tracy and Captain Marvel.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
should have known from your Tracy spinner knob. Glad we found it among the auto
parts. Got it fastened on securely?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes,
sir.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Dick
Tracy and Captain Marvel, huh? Guess I’ll have to get a talking watch and a
lightning bolt tattooed across my chest, you think?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>[Benny
laughing maniacally]</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>[footsteps
approaching and plates setting down on the table]</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Here
you are boys. You’re getting to be regulars. I like that. [pause] So what
crimes are you pursuing this fine night in Tutterton? Any madmen running around
in the dark streets we should know about?”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“All
locked up, Charmaine. You’re safe and sound.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“For
the time being, Miss. But you never know what evil lurks in the hearts of men.”</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>[laughter
from all three][fade out]</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center;">
***</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
Clyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05188990736695972537noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6972348256377709133.post-45875236095978805112014-01-05T16:50:00.000-08:002014-01-05T16:50:15.531-08:00Sitting in the Rain<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Well, I called your
father up a day this past week and said, 'I gotta get outta here. I've worked
my butt off today and I can't go home and just sit down.' My legs wanted to, of
course, but my mind was on the prowl. I had to get outta this constant doing
the same thing over and over. All I've seen and thought about for days is
shrimp. You'll never know the amount of shrimp I prepared today. Seven par
sheets. Seven. Well, you don't know what that means, of course, but take my
word for it, it's a lot." My mom works at the local Red Lobster where,
according to her, all the stand-up comics in town work there for minimum wage.
She means, 'stand-up' as in 'on your feet some twelve hours non-stop' and
'comics' as in 'who else but a comedian would get laughed at this way?' She's
worked there for some six, seven years, since she left my father and got a
place of her own. She's had three raises in those years. "A dime a piece.
Tell me if that's not laughable!" She reminds me this every Sunday morning
we talk on the phone, our weekly check into each other's lives, in case I could
have forgotten. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
continues in a pant, "You have to split them down the middle while you're
deveining them.” Now she’s back on the shrimp par sheets again. “And our shrimper
is broken, so this all has to be done by hand, and then you have to pound them,
I mean, flat as a pancake, and then pass them on to the breading table. And
with the new laws, the shrimp can be out on the sheets only so long before they
have to be put back on ice, so you're under such ungodly pressure, all the time
you're working, and the managers walk past non-stop, checking, you know. And,
like I've said before, I never get a break. Never. You stand there upteen hours
working your butt off without breaks. I don't even eat lunch till I get home
most days after six." She pauses here and I hear her lean over and talk to
her cat like I'm not on the line at all. "That's a good boy, no, no, I'm
on the phone. No. No. Go away, Shaker. Go on now." I named her cat Shaker
because he’s black and white, like salt and pepper. She wanted to call him Sheba after the
expensive cat flood she feeds him and I put my foot down. She didn’t see the
problem with gender twisting with a cat. With me, it was another matter. It took
her some time to accept my lesbian ways, especially when I showed up at the
first family reunion with Madeleine. It went very well, much to Mother’s
relief. Dad didn’t care as long as Mother was sufficiently mollified. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
breathes heavily into the receiver and I think she's talking to me again when
she says, "I've fed you already. You can't be hungry." But then she
says to me, changing her tone slightly, as though she suddenly remembers she’s
on the line, "Maybe he knows what the word 'shrimp' means, you
suppose?"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I've
learned to wait. It's the timetable of our history together. I've learned to
wait until there's a pause long enough for me to say something. Sometimes this
never happens. But I'm lucky today because she doesn't pick-up for a whole second
or two, so I say, "I think it's more likely he <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">smells</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the shrimp,
Mom."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
see her shaking her head side to side. "I took a bath before I called
you," she says, exasperated, as though my thinking she might not bathe
after she’s worked in a seafood vat all day should be repulsive to both of us.
"First thing I do when I get home," she adds as a trailing thought.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Mom..."
I start but then wait while she rushes on. I don't figure out her pauses more
often than I'd like to admit.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"You
know the song about washing the man outta your hair? Well, I try to wash my
work outta everything! It's impossible to get that fishy smell off your skin.
I've even used Clorox." I remember well how Clorox was the wonder chemical
for everything in our house while my siblings and I were growing up. She clears
her throat and then says, "Anyway, you don't want to hear about my
work."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And
then, without skipping a beat, "So I just called him up, your father I
mean, and sometimes he's really good for this, you know, we always could travel
together and enjoy it. It's one of the things we did best together."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"So
where'd you go?" I interject, thinking they may have gone for a small
over-night trip like they used to.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"You're
gonna laugh, but we went to El Reno."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"El Reno?" I can't
fathom this at first. El Reno
is twenty miles</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">north of Oklahoma
City, forty from where they live. But it's the only
place on the planet where you can still get greasy hamburgers six for a dollar.
When my brother Teddy used to visit from California,
before he got married and had kids, going to Johnny's diner in El Reno was his last departing act with us
before he hit the airport. He'd buy two dozen hamburgers with fried onions,
mustard and pickles and carry them in his lap on dry ice in a styrofoam box
back to his freezer in El Cajon,
California. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"You
went for the hamburgers, am I right?" I ask Darlene.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Well,
eventually, yes. Remember what Teddy used to say about those? 'So little you
either bite over or under 'em and either way, you miss!'" She laughs.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"I
did eat a couple and I shouldn't of," she says, "They almost killed
me. I never learn. Fried onions probably.” Or a quarter can of Crisco, I’m
thinking. “But actually, we didn't end up in El Reno for that. By the time Vern came over,
I was waiting in the parking lot. I walked up to his car—I don't know if you
know this, but he sold his truck and bought Kat's car before she left for Portland. Well, when he
drove up, he rolled down his window and said, "What's up?" I guess
because I didn't get in the car right away. He's bought himself some new
glasses, I imagine because after I left, he didn't have any he could use to
read the paper with. And you oughta see what he got. They're thick rimmed and
almost white, for God's sakes. Where he got 'em I'll never know, probably from
the Salvation Army Thrift Shop. They make him look like he's watching a 3-d
movie. But he's got his own mind now, so what the hell."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Say
that again?" I managed to say.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But
she disregards this, if she hears it at all. "'See that over there?'"
I ask him."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"’What?
over where?’" he asks craning his neck around to where I'm pointing. This
always irritates the hell outta me. He's always done that, the least amount. He
always answers me the least amount. So I just stand there and I wait for him to
get outta the car and take a look at where I'm looking, which he did after he
saw my face and knew I wasn't gonna get in the car till he did.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Once
he was standing beside me, looking in the direction I was, I said,
'There," pointing at this big black rain cloud. "I wanna go there,
where it's raining. Where do you suppose that is?"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Well,
about at El Reno,"
he says, taking his ball cap off and scratching his head.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Okay,"
I say back to him. "I wanna go to El
Reno and sit in the rain because I wanna go where
something is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">happening</i>."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"And
this is one thing I like about him--it may be the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">only</i> thing I like about him, but he doesn't ask boo-nor-baa-nor-kiss-my-behind.
He just grins a little and says, 'Well, we can do that, if that's what you
want.' And so we drove over to El Reno.
We didn't say one other thing all the way over there. Blessed silence, you
know? So I say to him, 'Wake me up when it starts to rain, okay?'</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"I
just sat back with my eyes closed waiting till I thought I smelled the rain and
pretty soon, he says, soft-like, like he doesn't want to wake me, ’It's the El
Reno turn off, Darlene. We're almost there’. And then it starts to rain,
against the windshield in little pitter-pats, and that struck us both funny,
like it was raining on cue. But by the time we got in town, it was coming down
so hard, he couldn't see where he was going, so he drives into this church
parking lot and we sit there with the car running awhile, the air-conditioner
on to keep the windows from fogging up, and the windshield wipers flapping back
and forth at top speed."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"This
is nice," I say finally. "Why don't you turn the motor off."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">So he does. And we sit there in the rain, just
listening, the windshield wipers in an up position, but it doesn't matter cause
it's raining so hard you couldn't see your hand up in front of you anyhow,
well, if you outside, of course. He looks over at me once or twice, but keeps
quiet. He rubs his legs up and down with his hands the way he always does. He's
good this way, though, about waiting, letting me say things.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Then
before I know it, I'm cryin. I just can't stop. Tears are coming outta my eyes
before I know it, and I just sit there bawling like crazy. And your father just
sits there, looking at me, then looking outta the windshield into the rain,
back and forth like that. The rain was coming down so hard I couldn't even hear
myself blubbering away, which was both our salvations, I guess. Finally when
I'd had my cry, he says, "What's going on, Darlene?" He says this
like he did when he drove up and saw me waiting in the parking lot at the
apartment complex. I think I mystify this man. He doesn't know what the hell to
do with me most the time. He hasn't a clue. I mean, not a clue."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
hear her blow her nose and I wonder if she's crying now, but her voice has a
lilt when she says, "So I put him off like I usually do, you know. I said,
'Oh, hell, it's too many hours on the shrimp boards or something like that, and
he shakes his head and lets it be. We sat there, listening to the rain for, oh,
I don’t know an hour or so. It was a while.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Oh,
we got a half dozen hamburgers and a couple of Orange Crushes before we left.
Ate those out in the car in front of the restaurant. The inside of Johnny’s is
always so smoky, you can't enjoy what you're eating inside."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"They
still sell Orange Crush in El Reno,
Mom?" I ask, wanting to be a part of this. I wanted to hold her, like a
child, my own child-mother.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Naw.
I call anything I drink that's orange an Orange Crush. They probably stopped
making those years ago. It was a Slice or something. I just know you have to
have something wet and sweet to get all that grease down your throat. It's that
and the fried-all-to-hell onions—what Vernon
calls em."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
sit still, not moving a muscle on the other end of the line, when she says,
"After a couple of hours it started to get dark and the rain wasn't going
to stop, so he started up the engine and we drove back home. We didn't talk
most the way back. I just rolled down the window and let it rain all over me.
So when we drove into the parking lot at my apartment complex and he killed the
engine, I said," she says this so quiet, I almost can't hear her, "'Vernon, I just can't keep
workin the way I am. It's killing me. I have to find another way and I was just
wonderin if I could come back and live with you again. I was wonderin what you
would say to that?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Well,
you know your father, Caroline. He just looked at me so long I really thought
he was going to say no; but then he said, 'You wanna come back home, Darlene, I
don't mind. That's okay with me.' I didn't like too much how he said 'home,'
like that, because you know how I feel about being hemmed in again and you know
how he is, his jealousy and all. But I just don't know what else to do. But
then he said, 'I'll do anything to help you that you want me to. You want to
come back and live with me, I'd like that.'</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"So
I tell him what I need, what I have to have in order to live with him again. I
say I have to have my own place, maybe the back part of the house, you know? Like
an apartment out of the extra bathroom and the two bedrooms to the back and
side of the house. And I tell him we can eat together, if that's okay, but we
aren't gonna be married so I don't intend to wait on him hand and foot like I
used to. And I tell him, that I shouldn’t’ve done it back then. You know I
thought he’d give me a hard time about some of this because I’m the one who
left him, insisted we get a divorce and the house be left in my name. So I lay
out all the ground rules and he sits there rubbing his legs and pushing his
ballcap up and down over his head and saying, 'Sure, I can do that,' and
"That's fine, Darlene, if that's what you need.'"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
takes in her breath on the other end of the line and I know that it's my turn.
I wait a second before I say, as even and soft as I can, "It sounds like
he means it, Darlene. He's not been drinkin for years and he's had his own life
for awhile. It sounds fine."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
hear her breath come out in a rush, "I said 'yes,' not to him, not out loud
right away. But I think I'm really going to, Caroline. It feels like I
should."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Well,
I declare," I try to sound like a distant relative, like I'm just hearing
some gossip, "I can't wait to tell Kat about this! or you told her
already?"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"You
can tell your sister if you want to, that's all right, I suppose," she
says with a sigh. "But don't tell your brothers yet, okay? I gotta figure
out first what I'm gonna say."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It’s
Kat that you’ve got to convince. I know that Teddy and Timothy were upset with
the divorce, but Kat was livid, Darlene. She’s going to be the hurdle you’ll
have to jump, you know?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“One
step at a time,” she says quietly.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
know how hard this is. She’s told everybody he’s a jerk. Now she has to live
with the jerk and not just like it but be grateful. It’s a handful. “One step
at a time,” I say, thinking how many times Vernon must have thought and said this during
his recovery. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
Clyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05188990736695972537noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6972348256377709133.post-75242493463982895372014-01-05T16:41:00.000-08:002014-01-05T16:41:42.821-08:00The Ticket<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Well,
how are ya?" my mother's voice rings out. It’s our weekly call, her turn.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Fine,"
my voice sounds flat. Sometimes it’s a chore to talk. The topic is usually her
troubles at work. I have enough of that on my own during the week. I need week-ends
to re-coop. I work a high stress job as an art therapist to severely emotionally-challenged
children and young adults in schools that are overpopulated and under-staffed
because of the economic recession. It’s all I can do to manage the day-to-day
overload.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"You
don't sound very fine," she says. "What's wrong?" When I pause,
she attempts a more casual tone, "Anything wrong?"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Not
really. I'm just tired. What's going on your way?"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Well,
I got another speeding ticket. What I mean to say is that I almost got another
ticket. Coming back from Chickasha
yesterday. It's just ridiculous."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"You
gotta watch it, Mom. You have a red car and you're an older woman."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
snorts defensively, "What's that got to do with anything?"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"The
police don't want to stop these young guys with gun racks and big monster
trucks, Darlene. They gotta get their quotas somehow. You’re an easy mark."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Well,
basically that's what I told him."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
groan. I seem to do that a lot when I talk to my mother on the phone. "You
told the policeman that you suspected he stopped you so that he could fill his
quota for the day? Darlene...."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Not
exactly that," she interrupts. "Well, I guess I did say as much. More
actually. I didn’t say I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">suspected</i>
him of anything. I told him directly he was doing it."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"I'm
sure," I say barely audible, then wait. I just can’t take her on this
morning.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"I
picked Vernon
up because I had to get out of town. I had worked my butt off this week.” My
mom works at the local Red Lobster as a food preparer, is divorced from my
father but goes to his house—her old one with him—and does her laundry while
they cook and have suppers together at least once a week. Occasionally, they go
out on dates—my view, not theirs, at least not hers—picnics to the park, dining
out at the Pizza Hut or some diner or cafeteria, day trips to Lexington
Wildlife Area and state parks, shopping at the Salvation Army, Homeland Grocery
or browsing the library for loaners and sharers. They are married in every way
except for the sex and living quarters, and I’m not certain about either of
those. “We had a Christmas in July special on seafood, and I peeled more shrimp
this week than I care to count. I was exhausted so I just wanted to take a
drive and get out in the country for awhile. So I called Vernon up and asked if
he would like to go with me to that little diner in Chickasha we sometimes go
to, he likes that, you know, so we went out there to eat and on the way back,
this black and white stops me in New Castle."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It
wasn't in Oklahoma City
like before, I thought. "Lucky," I say with a grin.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Oh
sure. Right! Well, he makes with the flash—he came up from behind or I woulda
seen him in time to hit the brakes—well, anyway, he stops me and comes over and
leans on my window, peering in. You know Vernon.
I looked over there and he was hunkered down in his bucket seat. This cop says
to me that he has to see my license and all that stuff. Then while he's holding
it like he's never going to give it back, he starts saying to me in this
monotone about how I was doing excessive speeding etcetera, etcetera. So when
he gets done, I ask him in a very civil tone, 'Can I say something to you?' And
he says 'Sure.' So I say, 'You know if you drive the speed limit out here you
can get killed? Nobody, I mean, nobody is driving 55 miles an hour on these
highways and you guys know it. How the heck am I supposed to drive the speed
limit without these people coming up on my bumper and riding my gas tank while
they're waiting to go around me?'</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"So
he squints over at Vernon,
then back at me and says, 'I'm not sure I understand what you're trying to tell
me here because I've never seen a report in my life that states that somebody
ran over another driver because he was going 55 miles an hour.' Caroline, I
want you to listen to that: 'Ran over another driver.' I say to him, 'Of course
not. That's not what makes going 55 risky. It's these guys who want to go a 100
miles an hour <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">behind</i> you when you are
going 55 miles an hour who are willing to take chances when they <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">pass</i> you. They're the ones who’re gonna
make you a statistic.' Then he says to me, 'That's exactly what I am trying to
do. I'm trying to keep you from becoming a statistic.' 'Don't make me laugh,'
I'm thinking, but I say to him instead, 'My going 55 is going to </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">keep me from being a statistic,
huh?' Caroline, all at once I was so mad at the stupidity of this conversation,
I just thought, 'I'm not afraid of you guys, by God.' They think that because
they wear these uniforms and have the power to write out tickets that they can
say anything to you and you have to take it even if it's stupid and untrue.
Well, I'm not about to take that kind of stuff anymore, so I said, 'What is
going on here?' And you should have seen him look at me. I was very polite and
all but I decided to just tell him the truth because if he decided to write a
ticket he might as well be writing it after he heard what I had to say. 'You
know as well as I do that everybody, I mean everybody, out here is driving 75
and 85 miles an hour.'</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"'You
were going 70," he says, smiling a little.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"’I
beg your pardon’," I say back, ‘I was going 65. I know because I keep
track. I look at my speedometer often, and you know what? These people are
going around me like I'm standing still. I just had a guy pass me before you
stopped me that had to be going 80 or 85. He just now passed me. I don't see
how you could have missed him. He cut me off because a car was coming up on the
lane he was in when he was passing and Vern and I were just talking about it.
So I'm not going to sit here and have you tell me that I'm going way over the
speed limit and nobody else is. These people are driving around Oklahoma City on the
by-pass 85 and 90 and you know it."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"I'm
from New Castle,"
he said with a smart-alecky edge to it, and</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I was furious!"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"I
bet," I interjected even though I didn't need to.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Yeah,"
she said, revving herself up. "Liars. All this lying everywhere. It's just
a goddang game with everybody anymore. It's just like at work. My manager,
Larry Castleberry, forgot to write down the date and time like I told him to when
I fell in January on their slick floor that I’d told them about twice already
and I got the 'yeah, yeah, yeah' response. Now, their insurance company doesn't
want to pay so according to contract—it was an accident due to their
negligence—well, now they have to pay; and Larry's supervisor is really upset
with him for not writing it down, plus not taking care of the slick floor
problem. So here they both come to me, the supervisor driving all the way from
Del City see, asking me when 'the accident occurred,' and 'what time I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">accidentally</i> fell' they want to know, when
it's <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">their </i>job, not mine to keep
track of these things when they're reported. I can't remember now and I did the
right thing when it happened so I say they can live with it. You can't believe
how nice the manager is to me these days. Hooooo. I get the right hours, and
lots of them, and you know how I had to fight like hell over each and every
hour all summer and spring in order to make ends meet. It's all a goddang game
and I'm sick of it. Do they think I'm stupid or something? So I say to this
cop, 'I know you're from New Castle.
I see it on your arm!’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Good
God!" I say.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"No,
wait," she says to me, "he laughs. He laughs. At least it broke the
ice. Then I say, 'Look at my car. I want you to really think about what I'm
telling you. This car has a 120 mile-per-hour speedometer. Why is that? These
cars are made to go <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">fast</i>. All these
commercials on T.V. have them speeding around on racetracks or on Salt Lake
or in and out of those obstacle courses with mud flying in the air and that's
why most people buy them, because they're built for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">speed</i>. Even the little ones, like mine. Now I bet if you looked it
up, you would find that most congressmen are attempting to keep the speed limit
at 55. I know because I listened to the whole oil embargo thing when Jimmy
Carter was president back in the 70s and he lowered it to 55 for everyone. Now
that the embargo is over with, only a handful of states are threatening to raise
their speed limits. Why do you think that is? I don’t wait for an answer. I
tell him. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that Detroit and the government
are in cahoots over this one. The car makers get to keep on making the cars
they can sell—everybody wants one that goes way, way over 55—and the police can
keep issuing <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>tickets on this kind of
set-up any time they want. The government tries to tell us these lower speeds
are all for our own safety and the national interest but it’s really just to
help with states revenue, so they don’t have to give so much federal funds to
help the states.' Well, his smile was gone now. I saw that he was getting a bit
ticked again. Hey, these guys don't want to hear the truth, you know. So I
said, 'Look I hear what you’re telling me and I will try to watch it,
but...." And he slides in there real fast and says, 'That's what I want
you to do. I want you to drive 55 miles an hour.' 'Well, okay,' I say, 'but I
don't know what you all are going to do about this exactly because you need to
take a look at how this is working out for us out here on the road. The people
driving are the ones losing out in this one because we’re caught in the middle,
between the police and the car manufacturers.' He just sort of smiled and told
me to wait right where I was a minute. Well, I turned to Vernon and said, 'Where am I gonna go? Take
out down the road at 85 miles an hour like I'd like to do right now and leave
New Castle standing there?' And you should have seen Vernon. During this entire conversation, he
sat there moving back and forth in his seat, grunting an 'uh-huh' sound here
and there like 'yeah, that's right,' every time this policeman said anything.
He was scared half outta his mind, you could tell it plain as day. So when New Castle comes back he
hands me my license and says, 'Here's what I'm going to do. I'm not going to
give you a ticket or anything. Not even a warning. I'm just going to talk to
you. It is my job to see to it that people out here are obeying the law. The
law is that you’re supposed to be driving 55 miles an hour. I saw you
disobeying that law and I am telling you that I want you to be safe by obeying
that law. Speed kills.' Caroline, I thought I was going to throw up. I know it probably
does kill; though I have to tell you there’s lots of talk about how this isn’t
true. I know because I’ve read about it in the paper and watched it on TV. All
these states that are challenging the national speed limit law are doing
research because they want some leverage to combat this ridiculously low 55
speed law. So getting this lecture from this cop was more than I could take. I
wanted to say something like 'You got to be kidding,' but I knew I would get a
ticket if I did, so right here, this once, I stayed quiet. Then he leans
through my window and looks at Vernon
and says, "I think you know what I’m talking about," and he nods his
way, like they have this male thing between them. And Vernon nods back real big like 'Yes I sure
do!' I tell you, I could have slugged him. So then the cop looks back at me, held
my eyes with this slick smile on his face, slaps the window frame of my door
several times with his finger, like he is tapping a pencil on a pad, like I
need a big reminder, right?, and he says, 'You folks have a nice day now.' And
I said, 'Thank you,' big as you please. And then he says just before he leaves,
'Thanks for the input.' Can you believe that? Thanks for the input. Wonder if
he will take all that input to his chief?"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
laugh. "You know, Darlene. This is a lot like the reaction of the sheriff
who handled your case when you got arrested for going into that old abandoned
house and taking that stuff, you remember? Wasn't that in Chickasha? Wasn’t Chickasha the seat for your court hearing?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Rush
Springs, yeah. My God, I haven't thought of that in years." She laughs.
“And Vern and I were on our way back from Chickasha
when the New Castle
cop stopped me. That’s hilarious, really.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"You
talked your way out of that one too, remember, and the sheriff's reaction was
very much like this cop's. It's like you get them to listen to what you have to
say."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"I'm
telling them the truth, that's why. These cars are going around me out there
like their tails're on fire. New
Castle knows this. Oh, and I told him that too. I invited
him to get in my car and take a drive down the highway with Vernon and me."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"You
said that to him? You're kidding! Why?"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"No,
I'm not kidding. I said to him, 'If you don't believe what I'm telling you, get
in the car with us and go for a 55 mile an hour drive down this highway here
and watch the cars speed by me. I can even go 65 miles an hour if you let me
and you still will watch them speed by me. Course," I said, "you will
have to take your hat off so they don't see you're a cop.'</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Darlene,
you're something," I say. She doesn't even know her magic. Of course
that's what makes her work, I thought. If I said these same things to this cop,
I'd be in jail in New Castle
overnight.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"I
knew he wouldn't get in the car with us, of course. Probably figured we'd run
him in the brush and slit his throat or worse," she laughs good-naturedly.
She pauses a beat, then asks: "So you think he stopped me because I'm old,
huh?"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Not
old, exactly, Darlene," I said, feeling tender. "But with a little
red car built for speed and with a guy like Dad by your side, he figured he had
at least one tag for the day. It's not all his fault, you know. I wouldn't want
to stop these guys out there either. They get in their big cars and trucks and
they get mad anymore if you just want to make a left-hand turn. They think
you're in their way. I'd hate to be the one to make them obey the rules!
Remember that cop outside Oklahoma
City who stopped us when you were coming off the
by-pass ramp? He had his hand on his gun when he held his flashlight on the
trunk while I opened it to get out your purse you'd left there and forgot to
take it back out when we got in the car. We had to get it out of the trunk in
order for him to see your license. He was nervous and rightly so. I was mad,
Darlene, actually for the same reason you feel that New Castle stopped you this time. I could've
had a gun in there and blown him away, you know. He was a kid. A rookie
probably. It's a hard job, really."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Okay
but when they stop me instead of the guys with the Tonka trucks they don't have
to get off on it, you know? What is that? This cop getting himself a ticket for
the day with an older woman that he tries to intimidate. Not right."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"There
are days," I say to her then, "when Thelma and Louise seem a reality
just around the corner for me."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
giggles and says, "They want to play games, we might just change the rules
around on them one of these days. My kind of thinking, exactly!"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Say
hi to Dad for me," I joke toward a close.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Tell
him yourself, if you want to. Right now I'm not wanting to hear his voice or
see his face!"</span></div>
Clyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05188990736695972537noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6972348256377709133.post-44995735405295096702014-01-05T16:34:00.000-08:002014-01-05T16:34:01.065-08:00Snow<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-family: "New York";">Snow fell. His
feet were getting very cold. He was practically covered now, in down, drifting
feathers insulating him from the bitter wind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>During the battle, one night he had slept in a bathtub in an abandoned
farmhouse without windows in a featherbed like this one. When he had fallen
now, his gun had been thrown from him. It had discharged in a sudden burst. A deer
nearby had bolted, leaving tracks no longer there. The gun was leaning oddly
against a tree as though he’d placed it before lying down for a rest.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-family: "New York";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As
light faded he knew he had to get up but his body lay thickly inert. He could
not see himself. When he looked down, he saw nothing but the cold, white
blanket gathered in lumps where his body should have been. He could only move
his neck in a small circle. He was resting on a pillow, studying where he was
like children do when they first awaken in their rooms.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-family: "New York";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Looking
around he saw the faintest small place between the trees. The place moved in a
rhythm that wasn't connected to him. It breathed in and out like some living
image he should recognize but couldn't so he watched it rise and fall beyond
him. "It is only space in the branches of the trees," he thought. But
the life there suggested more.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-family: "New York";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
lay transfixed, watching. The life-place grew brighter the longer he watched.
It was coming to meet him in those intervals between the trees and himself. But
then it retreated, advancing and retreating with his breath. It was a living
thing suspended there, fluttering with wings about to take flight.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-family: "New York";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
must have slept, his neck stretched out, craning toward what he had seen there
in the trees, because when he awoke the snow had covered him, so </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-family: "New York";">that he had sunken deeper into his pillow of
leaves and dirt. Its starched fabric covered his cheeks. He took his hand and
brushed the stiffness from his face. He could no longer see or feel much of
anything outside his mind. His body was somewhere in-between his thoughts and the
world swirling around him, a billowing shroud. When he was hungry, he chewed on
his shroud. When he was thirsty, he stuffed it in his mouth my the handfuls,
where it melted and slithered down his throat.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-family: "New York";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
faced the life-place again and again, breathing in and breathing out with the
swaying of the trees. Then after resting the night, he opened his eyes and saw
that it was gone. He suspected that it was no longer there because he couldn't
see the outline of the trees for the snowing. The entire panorama before him
was white light. Maybe he was blind or maybe he was in it now. Maybe the life-place
grew into him.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-family: "New York";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
must not sleep anymore, he thought. He must get up but he couldn't because he
had no feet or body. But he did sleep and when he awoke, the trees were there
in front of him clear and alive. The snow had stopped and the sun had turned
the world green. The grass swayed and sorrel and anemone lay just beyond him,
dotted with dew. A fawn came, smelled his face, his hair and left. He heard the
sound and smelled the breath of it long after it had fled.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-family: "New York";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When
he was finally found, he saw one of the young soldiers walk past him to the gun
leaning against the tree. He lifted his head enough to see the space between
the soldier’s body and his bending arm. The space there expanded into light as
a shock drove his body deeper into the bed where he had been lying. He was being
moved or perhaps finally flying away to the trees.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-family: "New York";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-family: "New York";">Weeks later in
the hospital, when the doctors came again and again asking him to talk about
it, he said nothing.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-family: "New York";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"You
can’t give up now,” they would say. “You must fight on. Nobody could survive
what you have without a sense of destiny.” He said nothing </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-family: "New York";">because he had nothing to say to them. He lay
without moving, simply watching the comings and goings around him. It seemed
they were children playing with life in their dollhouses.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-family: "New York";">“And how are you
today," they said over and over weeks later, patting his hand.
"You'll be fine," they would say, looking into his eyes gently with
thin smiles. “You are recovering beautifully.” What they meant was that all his
body parts were being restored. But what he understood and they did not was
that he grew too cold there in that place where his life lives on.</span></div>
Clyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05188990736695972537noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6972348256377709133.post-10643606640995671752014-01-05T16:27:00.000-08:002014-01-05T16:27:21.747-08:00The Final Cure<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Dolls. God, I hate dolls. Why do people give
kids dolls? Kids, shit! Why do people give <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">girls</i>
dolls? Ever see a boy playin with a fuckin doll? Those freckled-faced boys ya
see on Post Toastie boxes don’t play with dolls. They play with airplanes that
shoot half way across the livin room when ya pull em with a rubber band or they
play with those painted frogs that click ya get outta Cracker Jacks.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>God, I hate people who
give me dolls. They give me dolls because they think I oughta play with em. And
that’s it, isn’t it? They think I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">should </i>play
with dolls. They know I don’t want dolls, but they’re afraid of what that might
mean. That something’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">wrong</i> with me.
</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>This one story I’ve
heard over and over till I could puke: about when I was little, this one
Christmas, how my mom and dad bought me this doll, the one I’ve wanted to
strangle the most, and a crib with a little closet full of hand-stitched
clothes that my Aunt Sally made just for it, and me, too.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My momma says to
anybody listenin, “Her Auntie Sally spent months, ’positively months,’ sewin
for her and her doll.” She’s talking about the matchin outfits. What the fuck
do you think was behind all that? I’m sure I don’t have to tell ya.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Well, as this story
goes, they put this fuckin doll and her crib in the dinin room where it was
dark as molasses so that when we all came home from church Christmas Eve, I
wouldn’t see it right off. This way, they got to switch on the light and yell
“surprise,” and ever time they tell the story, they tell how <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">thrilled</i> they were when I ran to the
crib just “squealing with delight!” Well, my dad had made a fatal mistake. On
his way home from work Christmas Eve he’d seen this football in the winda of a
hardware store, went in and bought it, and threw it in the crib as a joke. It
was the football I was so thrilled to get. He tells this laughing to my uncles
and my mother like it just seems impossible. But the part of the story they
never tell is how all day that Christmas, they followed me around pointing out how
cute “the baby” was in her “little crib” and didn’t I just want to hold her or
rock her or somethin? I wanted to say “Hell, no! Let her cry her eyes out,” or
“Why don’t you give her a bottle if it bothers you so much?” They were upset
with me, I could see that plain enough, but what was I supposed to do? They
wanted me to lie to them?</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>What if I’d said what I
really wanted was a Little Red Ryder B-B Gun, a year’s subscription to Captain
Marvel comics and some of those thick books like the boys had in the
neighborhood that they bought with their allowances, <u>The Black Stallion</u>
or <u>The Adventures of Tarzan</u>? What then? I’da never heard the end of it!
It’s been bad enough as is. For years they’ve been handin me this doll’s
hairbrush and sayin stuff like “All you little girls are lookin pretty messy,
ya know. Don’tcha think ya oughta fix their hair up? Company’s comin.” Then
they always go over a little ways and stand and watch to see what I’m gonna do
about it.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And of course, the
fuckin dumb broads these dolls are, they keep right on being themselves, with
their glassy-eyed stares and eye lids that click up and down and hair that
feels real but looks like shit because I never brush it.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So then, finally when
I’d had enough, I didn’t do like I usually did. You know, gather em up and take
em back in the house past my Momma’s smiling face and throw them in a wad next
to my bed when she wasn’t lookin. This time, I grabbed Beverly by the back of the neck and told her,
“it’s over, our little momma-daughter thing” and I pulled her head right outta
her shoulders and jumped all over her pretty dress. And then I mangled Shirley
and Doreen along with her.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Now, for the past two
Saturdays, I get bathed and dressed like I’m goin to church but they take me
instead to the doctor’s office in the Medical Building in Oklahoma City where I
look at dozens of strange pictures and tell them what I think they mean and
finish hundreds of sentences this stupid doctor starts and stops. Then he puts
a bunch of boy and girl dolls in front of me and has me play house and family
and doctor while he asked me questions about what I’m doing with them.
Sometimes I just stare at him for most the time and he sighs and says, “You
don’t want to play today?” When I shake my head and stare some more, he finally
says, “Well, maybe next time.”</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Now Momma walks around
at home between visits, dabbing at her eyes with her hankie. I keep telling
them all over and over that all I wanna do is play football and read some
comics, but nobody’s listenin. All they wanna know is stuff like whether my
babies cried or not when I killed em.</span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
Clyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05188990736695972537noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6972348256377709133.post-90182908958322407212013-08-27T10:06:00.000-07:002013-08-27T10:06:50.621-07:00In the Wee Wee Hours<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I follow her in and snap the door closed. She walks
ahead of me, her heels making sharp tight tapping sounds on the hardwood
floors. I see right away that it’s a 1950s kind of place, white blonde
furniture with rounded edges. Something like a buffet in the living room
catches my eye, but it’s hard to make out much in the dim nightlight of the
hall. It’s not a big apartment but feels light, airy. I don’t want to but I
allow my eyes to search for the bed when she’s not looking. Her dark shape
takes familiar form only after she clicks on the lamp and she turns to face me,
her hands behind her back; they seem to hold her out toward me as she leans
against the wall. She stands there like this for far too long. I can’t look
away—that would say far too much about me so I stand there, trying not to
swallow or breath out loud. She runs her shimmering nails through her long
hair, as though releasing some inner tension in us both, but I know I’m the one
that’s nervous. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"What can I get you?" she asks,
turning toward the small kitchen I see now through the archway. The
refrigerator hums with an oscillating regularity. I hear a clock chime
somewhere upstairs. There <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">are </i>stairs,
I reflect, so the bed’s up there. That’s miles and miles from where we are now
in the kitchen. I’ll give myself away long before making those stairs. My eyes
settle on the swaying arch of her backless dress, and the back and forth
movement of her thighs. From there I follow the gentle line of her stocking
seams down her leg to her ankles and the long spiked heels of her feet.
"Never trust a woman with thick ankles," I remember someone advising
me once but I wasn’t about to trust this one, thin though as her ankles are.
Anyway, not yet. Everything about her is dressed for me when I was in high
school, wanting to be Rita Hayworth as Miss Sadie Thompson with Aldo Ray. But
it wasn’t the Aldo Rays I wanted it for.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She pulls the Shelvador’s handle out
and lets it snap back without turning around, blasting white light on the outer
edges of her dress as she bends over slightly to peer inside. "Oh God,"
I think, "Take me soon," but I say instead, "Oh, just
anything."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She turns around, says, "Just
anything?" A smile's on her face, mocking me.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Well, not really. Something
strong. Anything strong," I say too loudly. I smell the perfume of my
martini in my nose, the one—or was it two—I had only an half hour earlier at
the bar. Does she bring everybody she meets—I stumble over my thinking word
choice—to her home? Not “meets.” “Entertains”, that the word I looking for.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Of course. I don’t serve
‘weak,’" she says, almost laughing, and turns back to the refrigerator,
pulls out an ice tray, noisily jerking the handle so that ice cubes clatter
onto the counter and fall to the floor. With curved fingers, she picks up
several from the counter and drops them into two glasses, two heavy glasses
with long beveled sides that immediately begin to bead and sweat. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I reach down to pick up the cubes on
the floor, one very close to her leg and it's then that I notice the barely
discernible budge, a small, hard line around the muscle of the back of her leg
that throws the black seam of her silk stocking slightly off before it reaches
her ankle strap.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I reflexively reach inside my
trouser pocket—I’m all gussied up like Hepburn from another time and place,
just like she is—and I finger the large gift condom I've taken from the basket
at the door as we left the bar. I don’t know why I take them. I do, I guess,
because I think they’ll come in handy sometime. Perhaps. You never know. But
they sit in my chest of drawers in my bedroom, waiting. Every time I go out, I
tell myself, I’ll do what I’m to be doing now<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">,</i> what I think I’m doing but I never admit I’ll do it as I dream I
will. I sigh silently and hold out my hand to take the glass full of gin with
two olives.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Come," she says with eyes
meeting mine. "Let's get to know each other."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In the living room she sits down on
the couch, slipping her skirt belt off with one movement. It whips past me like
a striking snake. She releases the side zipper slightly, and sighs. "You
go to the bar often?" she asks with her lips on the edge of the glass.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"No, no," I lie. It was
true that I didn’t go to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that </i>bar
often, actually never before. "I, uh, just went tonight because..." I
sit on the opposite side of the couch staring at her. She stops drinking and
puts her glass down with a clank on a blue coaster on the end table. "I don't
know why I went actually," I say. "I never do."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I start to go on, thinking that I
will invent along the way, but she says, in a liquid, throaty voice,
"That's true. I've never seen you there." </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Well, it's my first
time," I say, and watch the gray glitter of her eyes flicker. "I
mean, at the bar. The first time at the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">bar</i>."
I take a long swallow that burns my throat. Then, "<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">This </i>bar," I add with false courage. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"How come you’ve never been to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">this</i> bar?" she asks easily, her
hands open, palms down by her sides. The thought crosses my mind that she just
might push herself up and ask me to leave.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"It's hard...for me...to go
alone. I don't know anybody....who goes ..who’s there." I stumble along.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Uh huh. It's difficult coming
out where you’ve gone regularly, you mean."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My heart is pounding and my
breathing is not flowing in and out like I want it to. “I'm not <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">coming out</i>. I said <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">going</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">out</i> alone, that’s
what’s hard.” I rush on, “I go other places but not often. I really don’t <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">know </i>anybody, anywhere… not really.” I
place both my hands by my sides, now ready to push myself up and out of what I
think I might be sinking into.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She toys with a strand of hair that
gives her suddenly a youthful air. Then she stops abruptly, flips her hair back
with her hand and finally clasps both hands together with great flourish around
her knees. Her fingers are heavy with rings. "That's all right," she
says, her voice deepening. "We can do it, of course," she pauses,
then laughs, "whenever you like, as you like." and her laugh tumbles
easily out toward me. “But I do have a question. Why this bar, luv? I mean,
it’s an openly gay bar. Surely you knew this?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She’s trying to find out if I’ll
keep lying so I tell her the truth. “I knew but usually I’ve found…well, I
thought there would be some lesbians in those bars…gay bars…some times. I mean,
you were there.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Her laugh is breathy, open. “Diesel
dikes are what you were looking for? I’m hardly that.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I know, hell, I don’t know. I’m
just looking.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Shopping. Like trying to find that
something you’re hungry for at the grocery store but you don’t know quite what
you want.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Maybe,” I say again. “I don’t know,
I don’t know.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“All that’s thunder in your head,
honey. You know.” She reaches out and touches my leg. “Look, it doesn’t matter.
Try on as many coats as you need to in order to find the right fit. I did.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Are you happy?” I ask stupidly. Where
this comes from I’ll never know. I’ve drunk a lot. But perhaps better this
stupid than the one I’m terrified of showing.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I think she isn’t going to regain
her composure. She is laughing so hard she’s bent over and back again until I
think she’ll break into. I don’t feel upset with this. I’m mesmerized by her
gorgeous demeanor. I can’t help but smile, laughing a little myself. Finally, she
takes a tissue from the end table nearby and wipes her eyes. “Oh Lord, girl.
You are refreshing as a summer shower.” Her accent is deep and slightly southern,
which I hadn’t noticed before. She searches my face a bit and says, “You mean,
how can I be happy given all the camouflage?” I start to protest but she holds
up her hand and actually lets her wrist flop down. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“It’s the purchase I’ve made. I’ve worn this
coat for a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">long </i>time and I’m
comfortable with it. Everybody I know and even some I like and love aren’t
comfortable with me in it, but that’s true regardless of what you wear out
there. I’m not living anymore for anybody else.” She taps her finger in the air
around the room. “All this and this and that are things I enjoy. They aren’t
props for show, though in a way they are, but then that’s how I see all of it.
A stage we design and the actors we pick to play with us on it. What I want to
tell you since you’ve asked—and by the way nobody asks because I think they
assume I’m not happy, gotta be conflicted if you’re like I am, you know—but
I’ll tell you this, I like to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">play </i>and
so many people don’t.” She pauses a moment. “You know something,” she says
scooting over closer to me on the couch, taking my drink, leaning over and
putting it on the coffee table in front of us. “I used to be a sales clerk at a
clothing store for men. I was good at it because I was…good at sales. But I
wasn’t happy. Now,” she holds both arms up in the air for a moment before
taking her hands and running them through her hair, “I’m much, much better at
selling <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">this</i> than I was at selling
clothes.” She leans over and kisses me long and full on the mouth.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">"Never trust a hair flinger," I hear that
same someone in my head advising me, but what I say to her is, "I’m buying”
And then I ask, “Could I try on my coat <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">now</i>?"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The walk upstairs was easier than I
thought. Maybe all those drinks helped but I didn’t just dream it this time.
And I didn’t have to bother with my condom. She was prepared. So my first
lesbian experience was with a guy. Go figure.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
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<![endif]-->Clyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05188990736695972537noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6972348256377709133.post-57498486611484805712013-08-27T07:36:00.000-07:002013-08-27T07:36:57.270-07:00How to Iron a Shirt<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> </b>learned how to iron a shirt when I had
a nervous breakdown that sent me back from California, another one of those moves I’d
made in the sixties to get out and away from home. The breakdown brought me
right back from where I’d started, but this time everything was a bit darker
and less solid. "Like a hole that's a tattoo," my mother said, not
asking, telling me like only she could know what I felt like. These little
aphorisms sprinkled here and there were her idea of putting me back together
again. How a hole was like a tattoo I wasn't exactly sure yet, but I knew she
would be sending the meaning along during the length of my stay. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>After
a few days of allowing me to oversleep and mull around the house in my
slippers, eating only saltines and a little cheese, she came into my bedroom
one morning and announced, holding my breakfast steaming in her hands,
"This hole you are in is really just yourself. You gotta get out and start
doing something. You need to look around you, see that the world hasn't caved
in with you." She put my breakfast on the night stand to my side. I didn't
even look at it. I knew the message wasn't over, "Do you think Albert
Schweitzer worries about the things that worry you?" This time I took her
on, mainly because she brought me breakfast, "Okay, Momma, what am I
thinking that's so hard on me?" I asked.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Yourself,"
she said, picking up where she'd left off. "You are just caught up with
yourself. You know, it's like you walk around with this mental thermometer that
you put up your butt every few minutes and pull it out and get a reading.
"How am I today? Did that hurt? Am I today as bad as I was
yesterday?" And she jabbed me one with her elbow as she sat down on the
bed next to me. She laughed lightly, "You see what I mean?"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>How
could I tell her about what was really happening to me? I didn't know. What was
I going to say that would convince her that this hole she saw me in was not
some tattoo on my arm that she thought I was wearing around?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>This
morning while I nibbled at my toast, smearing some thick, hot oatmeal over the
top, making a mess she was choosing to ignore, she said, "I got to
thinking, you know a lot of women work now and they don't have the time to do
their laundry, so why don't we take in laundry and ironing? It will be some way
to get your mind off yourself and at the same time earn a little cash. What do
you say?" This may sound downright silly now but back then before laundry
services were offered in every town with a population of over a thousand, this
wasn’t so out of the question. My bafflement wasn’t over the idea. It was over
the notion that I’d actually <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">participate</i>
in such a thing.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Laundry </i>?" was all I could come out
with. It sounded like a croak to me.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Why
not?" she said. "In the state you’re in, I don't think you can sit
there thinking it's too low a job for you to do. Just look at yourself. Go on.
Go to the bathroom right now and give yourself a good look. It's scary what
will be staring back at you."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
knew what would be staring back at me, so I declined to take her suggestion. I said
instead, "Not that I will do this, Momma, but how do you propose we get
the customers?"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"We'll
advertise, of course."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"In
the paper?"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Sure.
Oklahoma City
even, I was thinking. Those rich people up in Nichols Hills probably aren't
going to come all the way down to Moore
to give us their laundry, but people in the south part of town might. Del City. Midwest City. They’ll
even drive up from Norman,
it’s only ten miles, after all; I mean, all those professors’ wives? Well, they’re
professors themselves, aren’t they, at the university? They don’t have time for
laundry. And let me tell you, these people will love hand-iron clothes, a real
pressed look, instead of that overly stiff and creased shirts and dresses they
get from wherever in the heck they get their laundry done, if not by their
maids. C’mon, this’ll work. You'll be surprised."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">What I heard was the operative word,
“work” and felt like running and not looking back. But instead, I heard myself
saying, </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Well,
okay. Let's say I say okay to this. I don't know beans about how to iron. I
iron for myself, of course. But I don't know how to iron a white shirt or a
fancy cotton dress for somebody else."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"I
know. But I thought it would be nice to teach you. I know how to iron anything,
remember. I worked when you were in high school in that hospital laundry not
far from the school actually. Don't you remember when you got the cramps so bad
that one day at school and you came in the laundry and we had to take you to
emergency where I had that big argument with Dr. Chandler about</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">whether you should take estrogen or
not? They brought you into your room on a gurney and I was almost hysterical
and he tried to convince me you should have these hormone treatments? He pushed
for that at a time when I was so desperate and scared about you. I was so mad
at him when I finally gathered myself enough to realize what he was trying to
talk me into. I looked at him and yelled, don't you remember, how I told him he
was just like the morticians. Doctors are always trying to get you anymore for
their experiments just like the morticians are always trying to get you to buy
the biggest and best coffin, when you’re so upset you can’t see straight and
don't know what you’re thinking. Listen, I'm on to these guys, was even back
then."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Okay,
Momma," was what I got in to stop her. "But you ironed on mangles at
the hospital. Ironing with an ordinary iron isn't like ironing on a mangle and
besides, you did flat stuff like sheets and operating room covers and ..."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Oh,
we had our share of uniforms and all; but I know what you mean. But, look, I
know how to do just about anything with an iron. You see, when I first married
your father, I wanted to be the perfect wife. I used to iron the pillow cases
and sheets, not to mention the tea towels. I even lightly ironed our underwear.
With a cool iron, you know. And not just your father's boxer shorts but my bras
and underpants, can you believe it? While I listened to Stella Dallas and
Whispering Streets. I probably could still do a Doan's Pills ad word for word
if I had to."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Your
bras?"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Crazy,
huh?"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Yeah,
I'd say so." I ate another piece of toast smeared with oatmeal.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Nobody
does that anymore but back then our days were filled with ought to's like that.
Ordinary tasks seemed somehow elevated by this kind of attention and work.
Course your father never noticed unless I couldn't get to it. Then he'd make
some coarse remark about what did I do with my time anyhow, just listen to the
redio?" She said "radio" like "redio."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"I
don't know, Momma. What if I breakdown in the middle of all this and can't
finish my share. That's providing we get a lot of work."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Why
don't we come to that when we get there, okay?"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Mother
had tried things to get me out of myself before. One of the hardest times was
right after I came home from Germany,
when I left with Horst to Spain
and then took that job in Cologne
for International Ford in their manufacturing plant there. I came home in a
basket because Horst got scared of me somewhere between Spain and his
hometown, and dumped me on this job, where I couldn't understand or speak
German enough to know what the hell anybody was saying or telling me to do.
When I came home from this, Mother let me sleep a week or two and then tossed
me out of bed one morning saying, "Look sunshine, it's getting up and out
of yourself time." I was numb and felt the nearest to crazy I'll probably
ever feel and she said, "It's hard, baby, I know, but you gotta do
something and I've been thinking. Here's the plan. We’re just gonna start
driving out in the country every day. Just taking a drive, that's all, but it
will get you out of the house and into something else that's going on out
there."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And
that's what we did. We drove around. We just went out in the country and drove
around. Every day for hours. She'd talk to me sometimes like you do to a little
kid when you want them to learn things about what's around them. "See that
over there," she'd say. "That used to be a garage where they repaired
cars, you know. Now it's a restaurant. Can you believe that? How the heck could
they get all the grease and exhaust smells out of there to make it into a
restaurant? Beats me." When she talked to me like this, she never waited
for an answer at first. She just went from one thing to another talking and
talking away. Looking back on it, I can't figure out why she didn't get on my
nerves. Maybe I was just too numb to care. But I remember getting into it, you
know. I'd look out the window and listen to what she was saying and think about
it. And after awhile I'd embellish what she was saying, add to it in some way
or disagree with it. Mother would reach over and pat my leg every now and then
and say, "That's good, honey" or "That's great." </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>One
afternoon after we had been driving around the countryside for months and
months, I begin to notice the change in the seasons, not just because it began
to get colder and we had to wear heavier clothes in the car and turn on the
heater, but I began to notice how the color of the sky looked different, how
the grass faded in spots and how the bark on the trees grew darker and tougher
in appearance. Mother was remaining quiet more as I just looked out the window.
I said to her this one afternoon, "Life is so multi-colored and changing.
I mean, the natural color of things changes and the whole atmosphere
surrounding us never stays the same. Why don't you think we notice that except
in the most superficial ways most of the time?"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Well,"
she said. "I think I don't do that. Sometimes I just let all this slide
past me like most of us do a lot of the time, but really I have to tell you,
that even as a little girl when I played out on our farm, I loved going past
the same trees and into the same fields every day, and I noticed changes, even
day to day. Some differences, even hour to hour. I loved the animals and their
way of just being there. It seemed to me as I watched the birds and squirrels
and groundhogs as well as all the farm animals, they had a sort of being into
things that we humans lack. A tree changes without….this sounds crazy."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"No,"
I caught myself saying, "I find this interesting."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Well,
it's like things in nature, if we leave them alone, just don't try to do or be
anything other than what they are. They <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">are</i>,
you know? And it makes me part of that if I get out a little each day and stand
and let it come into me and I just am in it, you know what I mean?"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
made some approving sound, because she got quiet and let me look for myself
again. After an hour or so, I realized we had gone far past the perimeters of
our other drives and I asked her when we were going to go home. "How would
you like to go to my home place?" she asked. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Drive
to Shirly?" I asked in a kind of panic.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Yes,
why not? You’re comfortable, aren't you, and you’re with me and it's only an
hour or so longer. Why not?"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Won't
Dad worry?"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Oh,
no. Besides I can call him up the road on our way. I've done these meanderings
for years. Once he found out I wasn't doing anything illicit or illegal and that
I always returned, he started making his own supper, reading the paper and
going to bed."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"I
don't know if I can..."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Honey,
you need to relax and trust what you will see and do or you will be at this a
long time, this time around."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
didn't say anything but the anxiety was growing in my stomach. "All
right," I said quietly.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Good,"
she said, stepping on the gas. "We will be there in no time."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As we walked in the fields that afternoon, she
told me stories about how she learned about birth and death, about planting and
harvest, about sex and love. She told me stories about how she met my father,
about her father and his drinking and anger, about her mother and her fear of
being alone at night in the darkness on the farm. We stopped to take small twigs
from the trees to identify later, snapped dried milkweed pods that showered the
afternoon air with white fuzz, and before we left I scooped into a can two
handfuls of powdery red shale from the driveway.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Stains
everything when it's wet," Mother said. "We used to make blood out of
it when we played."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>On
the way home, we stopped at a small diner in a little town where the waitress
brought our hamburgers on thick plates and we drank our coffee from heavy cups.
That night, past the reaches of the stars, I slept in the car seat the rest of
the way home.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"I'm
not sure why you want to do this again for me, Momma." I said about this
ironing proposition.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"You're
my daughter," she said. "I love you."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Well,
I know. But it's like it's starting all over again. Each time it happens I feel
more scared and uneasy. I think I get past it and here it comes again. I never
know if all these efforts will add up to anything."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"But
that's the important part to understand, Caroline. You missed something the
other times around. You just didn't get it all, you see? So each time you have
to go back over it until you get to the part where you are stuck and try it
another way."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"I
don't seem to get past it though. Whatever <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">it</i>
is. I feel like I'm back where I started again."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Oh,
but you aren't. Look how quickly you got through this first part this time. You
were up and around in days, not weeks; and it took you only a few days to start
walking around outside and going with me to the store for groceries. You are
shopping downtown now already. It took months of driving in the country the
last time before you felt comfortable out of the house, remember?"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Momma,
what's wrong with me? I'm a grown woman and I can't simply live."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"You
are afraid, baby."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"That's
crazy. Why do I keep falling apart like this? Why can't I just be like other
people, just go out there and do things without suddenly falling apart? It's
like a disease. I feel like I suddenly have this terrible something come over
me, like an aching, a fever. A terror is what it is. And I can't go on. I have
to die like this each time before I can go on. I need to go to a doctor or to a
crazy house."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"No,
honey," Mother said, sitting down next to me. "You're just mixed up a
little yet. It's getting better, surely you see that. And you need to go
through this until you don't have to go through it anymore."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"What
I need is a doctor, a shrink."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"What
do you think a doctor will do for you that you can't do for yourself?"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Tell
me things. Show me things, things I can't see, I don't want to see."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"And
what might that be?"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"I
don't know, Momma. That's the point."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"More
like putting ideas into your head, I think. They did mine."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"You’re
just afraid of doctors because you’ve been through this, and you think they
didn't help you."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"They
didn't help me."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Okay,
but maybe things are different now. They know more now."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"You
can go to the doctors if you want, Caroline, and you might get help there for
yourself. I didn't, but maybe you can. But this I've learned, it will always
get back to the laundry. Always."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"The
laundry?" I’m groaning inside.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"It
will always get back to everyday things, living an ordinary life. Those who
don't are usually running. And those who do, well, they can be running too.
It's how you deal with your ordinariness that matters."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Like
everyone has to do their own laundry, is this the lesson for today? Like we
can't take it to someone else to do?" When she didn't say anything, I
said, "Then why are we thinking about doing other people's laundry?"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"It's
not the laundry, like the laundry, washing clothes, you know. It's learning to
help yourself, to do for yourself, learning to be in the world alone, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">for yourself</i>. It will take a shrink a
long time to take you to an ironing board and show you how to do a shirt, and
that's what you need to learn now."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
felt like screaming and almost did, "I need to learn to iron a shirt to
make this craziness stop?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"You
need to trust that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">when</i>, when is an
important word here, Caroline, that when you are ironing a shirt, you need to
trust that this is what you are."<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Oh,
my God, Momma. You are crazy. You are crazier than I am. You’re telling me I
have to be Donna Reed?"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
just smiled at me and said, "Caroline, bring me the ironing board from the
utility room and go get two of your dad's white shirts out of his closet. And
then I want you to go and get that red shale you took from the driveway of my
home place that you keep in that can in your room. First I'm going to show you
how to iron a white dress shirt step by step and then I'm going to show you how
to get a stain out in a way that you will never see it again."</span></div>
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<![endif]-->Clyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05188990736695972537noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6972348256377709133.post-65378890275948420012013-05-07T16:32:00.000-07:002018-09-28T08:03:04.663-07:00Momma's Record<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 5;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;">"I've
gotten myself into some trouble," my mother begins on the other end of the
line. "I can hear what you're gonna tell me already about this, but you
have a right to know </span><span style="font-family: "arial";">so </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;">I'm, well,
I'm calling to tell you about it."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Are
you all right?" I ask, immediately searching for what might be coming
next. My mother has always taken unexpected twists and turns. When I was
growing up the ambulance </span><span style="font-family: "arial";">and police had
been at our door </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;">at the same time more than once. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"You're</span><span style="font-family: "arial";"> thinking </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;">'what now?'," she says with a
sigh, "I can just hear it."<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Darlene,
just spill it, okay? Don't try to make me outguess you. You're talking to me,
right? So I know you're alive, and okay." And 1500 miles away, so what can
hurt me now, I reason. I try to laugh. What comes out i</span><span style="font-family: "arial";">s a nervous twangy sound.</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Okay,
here goes," she says. I see her hanging on the receiver, squinting her
eyes. "I got arrested last week</span><span style="font-family: "arial";">."</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"What?!"
She is right. I'm not anywhere near ready for this, though 'surprised' isn't
the word that comes to mind. 'Anxious' is closer to it.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"That's
it, in a nut shell. Your mother now has a record."<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"What
the hell happened?" I ask, wondering if I want to know, thinking I probably
do know.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Well,
I got caught breaking and entering and had to go to the county seat in Chickasha whe</span><span style="font-family: "arial";">re they almost put me in jail."</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Good
God," I say. "They caught you on somebody's land. </span><span style="font-family: "arial";">I</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;">n an old barn</span><span style="font-family: "arial";">?"</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Old
house," she breathes,</span><span style="font-family: "arial";"> close to the
phone. </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;">"One outside Rush
Springs. C</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;">aroline,
you should have <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">seen</i> this house! The
roof was almost totally gone. Looked like one of those mules, the back of one
of those mules when they</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;">get old, you know, caved in; Rain
had just poured in all over everything.and plaster from the walls all over the
floors. The place had been <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">completely</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>abandoned."</span>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"I
didn't know you were still doing this, Mother," I say. I rarely call her
Mother these days. Now it is by her first name because she asked me to, after
she had read "Sexual Politics," "The Female Eunuch," and
"The Feminine Mystique." When I was little it was "Momma."
I hear her breathing so close to the mouthpiece, I think she's in my head. She
does</span><span style="font-family: "arial";">n't answer right away.</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"I'm
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not </i>doing it anymore, not really,"
she says, with small resignation in her voice that gives way all too soon to
excitement. "In fact, this is kinda funny because I haven't gone out,
looking around for houses in ages. But this one house, I had gone out there
several times in the past, and I got to thinking about it and then I remembered
some pressed glass and some of that salt glaze crockery I saw in the kitchen on
my last visit, so I went for a drive out there, went in and some people saw me.
I got caught.</span><span style="font-family: "arial";">"</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"You
gotta stop this, you know that?" I feel removed, the old defenses kicking
in. I am on a ride, watching a show, just living it through. I hear my voice
flattening, a bad stage delivery, still trying to stay into the part. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"I
know that now. Do I ever!" She sounds light, easy. It takes only a little
off the edge of my fears.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"I
really thought you had. How..." I start and stop, "<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Why</i> do you keep doing it?"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Well,
after you left, I took other people with me. Sometimes, toward the end, I took
Kat with me too</span><span style="font-family: "arial";">."</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Katharine?
You took <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Kat</i></span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial";"> </span></i><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;">? </span><span style="font-family: "arial";">Momma, that's just crazy!"</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Is
it?" she asks, innocently. "It's not, not really, Caroline. What was
I supposed to do with her? There was nowhere to leave her in the summertime.
Except with a baby s</span><span style="font-family: "arial";">itter and I can't
afford that."</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Mother,
do you know how crazy this sounds?" I get this far and realize my
subliminal release. "Do you see how..." I skirt the word 'crazy' this
time, "how illogical it sounds to say you can't afford to leave your child
with a babysitter</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;">while you go out to steal,
Darlene?" Then I just let it all surface. "It's even crazier to take
h</span><span style="font-family: "arial";">er along." </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;">I can hear
I am shouting. I also catch that I am jumping all over the place, trying to
figure out wher</span><span style="font-family: "arial";">e I fit into </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;">who I
think she is to me now, and then</span><span style="font-family: "arial";"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;">how</span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial";"> </span></i><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;">that fits
with what she's just done</span><span style="font-family: "arial";">; </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;">but deeper
inside, beyond the usual fears of my </span><span style="font-family: "arial";">childhood,
</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;">I know. Above all else she’s my mother but she’s also become my friend,
crazy friend, but my crazy <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">best</i>
friend really. She can withstand anything, or so it would seem.</span>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Caroline!"
she yells back.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"I'm
sorry," I say. "it's just that...."<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Well,
you’re right, of course. It's exactly what Kat said too, and that got to
me," she says, a little mollified. "She looked up at me when I was
carrying a box full of china out of this one place we went to and said, 'Momma,
should you be doing this? You’re stealing, aren't you?' Well, of course, I had
to justify it, you know. I've taught her to be so honest and all. So I said,
'Honey, these people don't want this. They've abandoned this stuff and it's
okay if we take it. It's just gonna rot out here and then nobody can enjoy it.'
That's how I reasoned about all this. And that I started it </span><span style="font-family: "arial";">because I was helping you."</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
groan, but decide to withhold any more comments until I get the whole story.
"So what happened, for G</span><span style="font-family: "arial";">od's
sakes?"</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Well,
like I say, I had gone out there several times. I had to go under a fence and
walk </span><span style="font-family: "arial";">across this field quite a ways. </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;">It was
pretty isolated. And there was no way I could get the truck up to it. The
driveway was long gone." She pauses, but I remain silent.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"I
had taken Teddy out there when he came to visit by himself without Sara, right
after you left for Long Island. He laughs
about it yet. I mean, that's</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"> how long ago and how many times I
went back to this one place, Caroline. This house was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">filled</i> with treasures. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Treasures</i>.
</span><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;">Teddy was
terri</span><span style="font-family: "arial";">fied, you know, like Vernon..."</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"></span>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"You
took Daddy?" I nearly drop</span><span style="font-family: "arial";"> the
phone.</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Oh
my yes, I took all the members of the family, except you, of course. I even
took Leon and his wife once. Not all of them to this house where I got caught,
but to others. Teddy still tells me that it was the thrill of his life. He went
only once.</span><span style="font-family: "arial";">"</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Dear
God," is all I say. My fingers are pressing against my lips so that I
can't say more.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"This
house where I got caught was the house of all abandoned houses! There was even
a secretariat there that had to’ve dated earlier than the 1900s. It had those
small cherubs on top with wings, like those on the tombstones back in the late
1800s. It had beveled glass and those curved drawers with the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">original</i> </span><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>brass handles. </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;">Solid tiger oak</span></i><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;">. No
lamination anywhere. God, I would <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">loved</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "arial";">to’ve </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;">had that
piece, but there was just no way we could've dragged it across that plowed
field without ruining it. The glass never would'</span><span style="font-family: "arial";">ve made it."</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"It's
good to see that you w</span><span style="font-family: "arial";">ere </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;">thinking</span></i><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"> during this ordeal!" I say.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Okay,
you can poke fun about this now but it proba</span><span style="font-family: "arial";">bly saved your life, you know."</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Darlene..."
I start, feelin</span><span style="font-family: "arial";">g my mouth open and then
close.</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
waits and when I don't continue, she rushes on like I am a Dictaphone.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Anyway,
you need to know that your father participated in these outings fully. It took
a while to convince him that he wasn't really stealing, but it didn't take all<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> that</i> long. We went together mostly
after dark because he was such a scaredy cat that he wouldn't go out during the
day, not even when it was raining."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"It's
good to see that somebody had some sense about this," I say sarcastically,
making another stab at getting through.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Well,
what I see is that it was a mistake to call you, Caroline. You're just going to
be snotty and not really listen so I'm not going on with it." She has the
tone that means she is getting ready to bang the receiver down in my ear.<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Don't
you hang up on me now," I say hotly. "You call me up, tell me you’ve
been arrested and gone to court over stealing and when I get a little provoked
by it, you want to hang up? Come on, Darlene. I'm overwhelmed." </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Well,
you shouldn't be. You know perfectly well how we did this. You and I did it
for, how long? Well over a year, I'd say. So don't act l</span><span style="font-family: "arial";">ike this is foreign news here."</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"We
did it, yes, but it was different. We just fell into it, it just happened and
it was...." I falter</span><span style="font-family: "arial";">. "It was
different."</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Uh,
huh," she says, self-righteously. "Different because <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">you</i> were doing it. We went out there
knowing what we were doing. At first, you're right, </span><span style="font-family: "arial";">we </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;">did </span></i><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;">just fall
into it. But it didn't take long before we were jumping into the truck and
looking for these abandoned places <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">intentionally</i>.
We got so we talked abou</span><span style="font-family: "arial";">t it</span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"> days </span></i><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;">before we left, deciding what part
of the state we would drive to next. So don't act like you are</span><span style="font-family: "arial";"> outside this whole business." </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"You
have me there." I admit, sheepishly. My mother is so confounded honest in
thi</span><span style="font-family: "arial";">s strangely dishonest way. </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;">It's like
trying to talk to a philosopher or a lawyer. There is no simple straightness
about anything. "But we took stuff out of old barns I used in my <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">art work</i>, Momma," I say, a
plaintiff sound coming into my voice. "You and I never <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">once</i> went into a house together and
carried out furnitu</span><span style="font-family: "arial";">re and glassware or
old china."</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"What
about that time we took those old jars outta Lenora Pjesky's cellar</span><span style="font-family: "arial";">?"</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"You
said she had taken everything she wanted and she told you that anybody who
wanted anything could just go on into that 'sad sack of a farm' and take what
they wanted. I thought we had permission, license</span><span style="font-family: "arial";">."</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></b><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;">"Abandonment
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">is</i> license," she says.
"That's why we, why I, did it. This stuff was going to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">rot</i>." She pauses here and reorients
herself, "Anyway, how the </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;">heck did you think we filled our
house with antiques, Caroline. When you came home and saw all this old
furniture in the living room and bedrooms, different </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;">pieces each time you came to visit,
where did you think they were coming from?" Now, she is the exasperated
one.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"I
guess I thought you were buying them."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"With
what? On your <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">father's</i> salary? Come
on." She’s building up steam fast. I can see her lips moving non-stop from
a long time ago. "You know what? People don't ask questions they don't
want to know the answers to. And you didn't wa</span><span style="font-family: "arial";">nt to know. So you didn't ask."</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
has me by the heel. I'm not going anywhere fast. "I didn't think about it,
I guess. I just figured you were living your own life and I was living mine.<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> But you're right, Mom. I didn't ask. But
then you didn't <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">tell</i> me either. When
I'd say something like, 'That really is a great dresser in that back bedroom,'
you'd say something like, 'Isn't</span><span style="font-family: "arial";"> that
nice. </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;">I'm guessing it dates before the turn of the century' or
when I asked about the Hoosier cabinet that one time, you said, 'I'm sure that
belonged to a Mennonite family.</span><span style="font-family: "arial";">' </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;">You never
offered anything more. And for all our driving around together, you never
suggested I go into old houses with you when I came home." </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
grunts is all. Then, "I even took your Aunt Li</span><span style="font-family: "arial";">zabeth out there with Shannon."</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"You
didn't!" It seems impossible. Aunt Elizabeth is a staunch Southern
Baptist. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Profound<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i>fundamentalist. She would never approve
of this kind of sashaying around the law.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Sure
I did. And they loved it. Shannon got a flag
with 13 stars. Not one of the originals, of course, but a good replica worth
something probably. He still has it. I saw him at the reunion last summer and
he told me he</span><span style="font-family: "arial";"> has it hanging in his
room." I’m seeing it with two nails driven through the corners into the
wall.</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"And
Dad did this with you?" This is the greater wonder to me.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Well,
he was scared to death, but he loved it like the rest of us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Caroline, out of another house, God, where
was this one, somewhere between Kingfisher and Hennessey, I think it was the
first place we went to</span><span style="font-family: "arial";"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;">after you
were</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"> gone, we took this dresser." I
notice that nowhere in these recollections is she using the word
"stolen." She is saying that she <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">picked
up </i>or <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">took</i> this or that as though it was a given and she just
reached out and claimed it or even, for the love of Humanity, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">saved</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>it. "Gave it a home," is the idea that crosses my mind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"It
was your father who dragged it across this plowed field. It was banging over
the clods and clumps of dirt and I kept yelling, 'Vernon, you are ruining this. Stop, for God's
sake, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">stop</i>.'</span><span style="font-family: "arial";"> But you know him, </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;">he just kept going a hundred miles
an hour, the dresser jerking up and down, the drawers rattling. He was making a
terrible racket. I just knew we would be heard and get caught and with him
scared half out of his mind, God only knows what he would have said or done, if
someone had shown up. I ran up to his ear and screamed for him to stop</span><span style="font-family: "arial";">, </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;">just so I could get through to him. He<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> </b>finally<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> </b>sat the dresser </span><span style="font-family: "arial";">up, </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;">holding it
as best he could</span><span style="font-family: "arial";">, </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;">its legs
sinking down until I was sure we wouldn't be able to get it out of there, and I
showed him this place on my arm that was getting bruised and was starting to
bleed. I said, 'Look, for God's sake. I am going to have a scar here all
because you are doing this like you are crazy.' I finally got him to slow down
and together we got the thing in the truck and took off. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"I
wish you could have seen his face, Caroline. Once in the truck, he was a
maniac, his eyes all shiny, this terrible grin on his face, like we got away
with Fort Knox. He was high as a kite. But he was
terrified out there in that field and in the house with our flashlights shining
all over this stuff, </span><span style="font-family: "arial";">like </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;">real</span></i><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"> burglars, you know. And his face!
His face looked weird, like he was going to go screaming crazy any minute, but
he didn't stop and run back to the truck like I thought he was going to at
first. He kept saying, 'Oh, my God, will you look at this. My mo</span><span style="font-family: "arial";">ther had one of these ice boxes </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;">only it
was made out of oak. This is probably pine.' Then he got his nose right up to
it, shining his flashlight on the brass label. He ran his hand all over it like
it was something special. 'It's a Biddle from Philadelphia, Darlene, registered 1857, and I
think it's green poplar. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Will you look at
this</i>! This is just <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">beautiful</i>!' </span><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;">Of course,
he didn't know a </span><span style="font-family: "arial";">Biddle from a bobcat, </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;">and
neither did I, but it was so very beautiful, and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">authentic</i>. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">This </i></span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></i><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;">we knew. The flap where they kept
the draining pan was water stained, and the pan was still</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"> under it. It was original, all
right. Then he wanted to know if we could take it. I told him we could do that
or take the dresser, and when he saw the dresser, he thought maybe that would
be lighter and maybe easier than the ice box. 'We could see how it goes,' he
said to me, 'and then come back for the ice box another time.'</span><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;">Which we
did, of course. He was just as scared that night as he was the first time,
though. He never got over being scared, but he went with me on regular runs
after that. All over the state. I got a scar from that dresser time, though.
The bruise is so deep, I don’t think it'll ever go away</span><span style="font-family: "arial";">."</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"></span>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"How
often have you been doing this, for God's sake?" I ask. "It's a
miracle you haven't been caught before." I hear myself joining in, like
this is normal everyday activity in American homes everywhere.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Get
caught, you say? I used to come home and lay in bed at night and just shutter
over what how close some of my calls were. I went to this one house once where
I was looking in the windows when an old, old woman came out the side door and
said, "What the hell are you doing anyhow?" I told her I was just
looking around. I mean, you should have<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> </b>seen</span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial";"> </span></b><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;">the place.
Who would believe somebody was living in a house that dilapidated</span><span style="font-family: "arial";">? </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;">But getting caught should have been the
least of my worries.</span><span style="font-family: "arial";"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;">This place
where I did ge</span><span style="font-family: "arial";">t caught, </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;">I
discovered when we went out there with the police, after I was charged and met
this guy who owned it, it had a well<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">.</b>
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">An open well</i>, Caroline. I didn't know
that then, but I took Kat with me, you know, on those earlier trips, sometimes
at dark and she'd run around while I looked over the stuff. She could have
fallen in there, or I could have, leaving her out there without anyone in the
dark. God, I've thought of that a thousand times this week. But back then, I
didn't think about that kind of stuff, just how somebody could turn us in and I
might get in trouble. And I didn't even give <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that</i> much thought. Not really. Well, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">obviously</i>. "<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
makes 'back then' sound like years and years of mischief she has left behind
her. 'Back then' is really</span><span style="font-family: "arial";"> the first of
last week.</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"But
you did get caught, you're telling me. You said you've been arrested. Been to
court.</span><span style="font-family: "arial";">"</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Well,
this car </span><span style="font-family: "arial";">came up while I was out
there."</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"With
Kat?"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"No,
no. I went out there by myself this time. I left her at that day care center
that takes kids </span><span style="font-family: "arial";">for an hour or
two."</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "arial";">"Like Martinizing."</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Stop
that, Caroline," she shouts and I tell her to go on.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
pauses only a second, changes her voice to the narrative and plunges back into
her story. "I remembered a couple bowls I wanted and a J. Norton jug I'd
seen in the pantry, stamped in that cobalt blue, which brings several hundred
dollars now, so I went back for them. We had carried a rocker, a night stand,
quite a bit of furniture, actually, outta there already, so I just wanted a few
loose pieces before I stopped going out there. And when I was coming outta the
house, I saw a car going real slow along the road by the fence so I stepped
back inside the house and waited. They turned around at the corner and came back
along the fence, moving <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">very </i>slow
this time, then they took off. So I figured they were just curious. But a
couple of days later, two policemen showed up at our door. Thank Almighty God
Vernon was at work and not home." She pauses briefly, then goes charging
on, "Anyway, they asked to come in and what could I do,</span><span style="font-family: "arial";"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;">I mean, they're the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">law</i>. They sat down and asked me if I knew anything about a burglary
that had taken place at this farm that they named, and I felt a little panic,
but it didn't sound like where I'd been, though it was somewhere around that
area because they were from Chickasha which is the county seat for Rush
Springs. I said, No, I didn't know the place they were talking about</span><span style="font-family: "arial";">, </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;">and that I certainly hadn't been a part of
any <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">burglary. </i>And then they asked
what I was doing in front of the Darrell Lovell house. I didn't know the name
of the property I'd been at, I never thought about it having a name, belonging
to anybody, you know, so I said I had been out in the country at an old
abandoned house, just outside Rush
Springs last Sunday late
in the afternoon and had picked up several things while I was there. And then
they asked me if I had ever been out there before and I said that I had. They
asked me if I took anything out of this house at those other times and I said
'yes,' and they asked me to tell them what these were and I named a few. They
asked to see these</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"> things and I showed them a rocker
and some china and a few bottles. And that's when they told me that they had a
summons for my arrest. They must've thought that I was part of the other
burglary going on in the area that day so they had a summons right on them.
They said I was being charged with a burglary at the Darrell Lovell residence
and that I was to come to Chickasha
the following week concerning these stolen goods. They walked out with the
rocking chair and two boxes of glassware, bottles and such."</span>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Momma,
this is really, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">really</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>serious stuff you are into. Do you know
this?"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Just
listen, Caroline, you can yell at me later. When Vernon came home and I told him,<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> he went crazy</i>, as you might imagine. He
first suggested that I call this Lovell guy up and give away <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">all </i>our furniture. Well, I told him that
I wasn't going to do that. I had no intention of giving up any more than I had
to, and that I planned to go through this thing one step at a time. The law can
be absolutely immaculate at times, but at others, it can be downright sloppy
and I was guessing that anything coming out of the Chickasha county courthouse couldn't be too
terribly immaculate, so I wasn't really scared. I talked him into settling
down. I told him I'd coach him..."<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"A
real Ma Barker," I interject glumly</span><span style="font-family: "arial";">.</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Caroline,
you promised," she pleads</span><span style="font-family: "arial";">.</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Sorry,
go on, Momma," I say</span><span style="font-family: "arial";">.</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Suddenly,
I'm Momma, now," she says, sharply. "You’re as bad as Timothy. </span><span style="font-family: "arial";">When I told him, he said, </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;">'You can't
let Dad go with you. You'll end up in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">jail</i>.
This is something I have to do with you." So he went with me. But once
there, he was as scared as Vernon
would ever have been, and as negative as well. And I have to say, once I got
into the courthouse and met the sheriff, I began to see how much trouble I
really was in. He came over, a really nice looking man, short, and skinny like
your father used to be, but he wasn't as Okiefied. He was probably 50 or so and
he started out saying that he wanted me to list everything I had taken out of
that house. He handed me this piece of paper and a pen and started to walk off,
but then he came over and sat down next to</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"> me on this bench.</span><span style="font-family: "arial";"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;">Timmy was sitting on the other side of me,
but he wasn't looking at us, just listening, and the sheriff looked right at me
and said, 'You are in<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> a lot </i>of
trouble. I wonder if you know how much trouble you are in. You took things out
of someone else's house and put them in your house. In the eyes of the law this
is breaking and entering and possession of stolen goods. This is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">larceny</i>. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Do you understand this? This was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">a burglary </i>you were engaged in. </span><span style="font-family: "arial";">You could go to </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;">jail</span></i><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;">. </span><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;">I'm talking about serving time here.' </span>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;">Caroline, until this moment, I just
didn't get it. I mean, I just didn't see what I was doing. It never dawned on
me that I was taking anybody's <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">property</i>,
</span><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;">that I was
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">stealing</i>. And then he said, 'I want
you to tell me in your own words <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">why </i>you
did what you did.'</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"I
began to shake, now. I mean my teeth were chattering. It was like I had been
hit all at once by a two-by-four. I looked at Timothy and his eyes were coming
outta his head. I could hear his breathing in little jerks while he sat beside
me. He was white as a sheet. Thank God, he didn't say anything. He just sat
there, looking away down the hall. I said to the sheriff, 'You know what? I did
this for my daughter.' I thought this guy was going to drop his eye teeth. 'I
know how weird this is going to sound,' I said, 'but I got started with this
because my daughter came home from Germany in a basket. Her boyfriend
had abandoned her and she didn't have any place to go but back home’…” Here she
was inventing in order to make the story good for her because I was the one
that ditched Wolfgang Schröder and she knows this. “…and, Caroline, then I just
told him all about how sick you had been, how I tried to get you back into
things, especially your art work, and that we went out driving each day for
ever so long, just trying to get you to feel normal and real again, and one day
we saw this barn that looked like nobody was using it anymore and we went in
there and we found all these old rusty tools and we carried some out in buckets
we found there. I told him how your father got a welder for you that you could
use in your artwork and how you started welding pieces together in the garage
and that we found buckets and buckets of old rusty nails in other places,
abandoned sheds and barns</span><span style="font-family: "arial";">, </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;">that you
took home and pounded into pieces of wood we found in fields a</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;">nd that you </span><span style="font-family: "arial";">made art pieces with them. </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;">I told him
that one of these was still sitting on our front porch, if he wanted any proof.
And that some of these sculptures were still in the attic of our garage,
although some you gave away and a few you sold for a few dollars. I told him
that you were an artist and that when you came home I wanted to help you and
that we didn't have any money for a psychologist, at least not for very long,
and that once we fell into this and I saw it was helping you, I just kept it up
for your sake. And that through all this you forgot about yourself, you got
lost in your work again and that the stuff we took, we thought of, well, like
we <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">found it</i>, really. And that through
this you were restored. You got back to your old self. And I told him that you
weren't the only one who benefited from this. That I did too. I got my <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">fire </i>back. I felt like I was alive
again, because I needed to help you and that I had been really sick too, but by
the time you came back home, I was working on myself enough to be able to help
and that I needed to do that. I told him how I was so crazy the whole time you
were growing up and how I had passed on my shit to you, and I needed now to be
there for you when you needed me. I talked and talked and Timmy just sat there
with his head in his hands. He didn't look at me, but I could see his face was
getting redder and redder under his hands. I wasn't embarrassed, you know, I
just told the sheriff the truth. Nothing embarrassing about that. </span>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"When
I got done, this sheriff looked at me, actually he never took his eyes off of
me, and he said, 'You did a wonderful thing for your daughter.' I nearly fell
off the bench. That's what he said. 'You did a wonderful thing for your
daughter.' Then he got up and told me to make my list of what I had taken and
he said he was going to go in and talk to the District A</span><span style="font-family: "arial";">ttorney."</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Good
God, Mother. You had to have been</span><span style="font-family: "arial";">
terrified."</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Oh
God, yes." she said quickly. "I've never been so scared in my life.
And Timothy. He was breathing in these short little spurts. I thought he was
going to do-do himself right then and there while we were waiting. </span><span style="font-family: "arial";">We sat there six hours."</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Six hours </i>? You're kidding!</span><span style="font-family: "arial";">"</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"No,
I'm not. We were afraid to go to the bathroom even. I mean, we sat there for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">six hours,</i> Caroline, while these guys
decided my fate. I mean, I could be in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">jail</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>right this minute.</span><span style="font-family: "arial";">"</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Was
Timothy any help?</span><span style="font-family: "arial";">"</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"I
was terribly glad he was with me but he was too scared to help. And what's so
funny is that while we were waiting we talked about little things. He's getting
ready to marry Lynelle in January. I don't know if you even know this yet, and
he talked about where they might get married. We talked about his work, how it
had slacked off. Just stuff. Most the time, we were just quiet,</span><span style="font-family: "arial";"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;">just staring off into space, waiting. We
both shook for six hours. My blood pressure was up and down." She pauses
and it sounds like she is drinking something, though she rarely has alcohol. At
this moment, I feel like I could guzzle Jim Beam right out of the bottle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When
she starts again, she is sputtering, 'Then the sheriff came out and I thought,
'This is it!' </span><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;">He walked up to us. I didn't look at
Timothy but I felt him stand up next to me. 'We want you to come in. The D.A.
wants to talk to you,' was all he said. So we followed him into the D.A.'s
office.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Now,
this is very peculiar. I mean, it hasn't been even two weeks yet, but I can't
tell you what the D.A. looked like. He was sitting there in a dark blue suit
behind this big desk that looked like a small oval office with flags on both
sides of him, </span><span style="font-family: "arial";">but he never said a word. </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;">The
sheriff had us sit down and he said, 'We are going to let you off.' T</span><span style="font-family: "arial";">hat's exactly what he said. </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;">'We are
going to let you off with court charges and the price of one chair. The reason
you are going to get a light sentence is because you did this thing for your
daughter.' Can you believe this, Caroline?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>'The
court is convening now,' he said, 'and you have to</span><span style="font-family: "arial";"> wait until your case comes up. </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;">When they
call your name, you will hear the charges read against you and when they ask
you how you are going to plead, you will say 'guilty.' That's<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> all <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i>you
are going to say. Just say 'guilty.' Not another word.' <span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"I
stood in court by these two guys who had each broken into separate gasoline
stations and were being charged with the same thing I was. They went</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"> ahead of me and they both went to
jail. I was shaking so bad, I thought I'd fall down, but when my name was read
and they asked me how I pleaded, I did exactly what the sheriff told me to do.</span><span style="font-family: "arial";"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;">"The judge told me the charges had
been reduced to a misdemeanor for which I would pay court c</span><span style="font-family: "arial";">osts and the price of one chair </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;">and that I
would take back every item I had listed on the paper to the old house from
where I had taken it. The sheriff then lead Timmy and me into a side office and
when we sat down, I picked up a Kleenex I had held in my hands and broke down
completely. Boy,<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> </b>let me tell you,
this guy didn't let me off the hook for a<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">
</b>minute. He got <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">right</i> next to me, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">right</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">in my face</i>,</span><span style="font-family: "arial";"> and said this: </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;">'Darlene
Jantz if you ever, ever, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ever</i> go into
an old house again I'm going to take you across my checkered apron and whip the
hell out of you.' I told him he didn't need to worry. He told me to make out a
check for $253.50 to the county court </span><span style="font-family: "arial";">which
I did, </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;">but, Caroline, it was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">hot</i>,
because I didn't have a dime in my account. Of course, I raced to the bank and
made arrangements to cover it the very next morning. I didn't tell Timothy or
your father that or I wouldn't've had any peace for days. And he told me one
more thing. He said, 'You will have this misdemeanor on your record for six
month. If you do <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">one</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">tiny</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">little</i>
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">thing wrong</i>, if you run a red light,
get a parking ticket, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">anything</i>, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">anything at all</i>, you are back on the
books and we start this thing all over again. And I'm telling you now, the D.A.
will <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i> be sympathetic to your cause
the second time around.'<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"When
we drove out of Chickasha,
when we were past the speed limit sign out on the highway, Timmy looked at me
and said, 'Mother, do you have any idea how fortunate you are. Do you realize
how close you were to going to jail?'</span><span style="font-family: "arial";"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;">I was so
relieved, I couldn't talk. I just nodded and when I looked up at him, he was
grinning a little, I mean, he had to, Caroline, he'd gone out there with me
once, you know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“'I'm
going to tell you one thing,' he said then, 'I am going to get <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">so</i> stinkin’ drunk tonight I'm not even
gonna know my name. </span><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;">But you got one thing </span><span style="font-family: "arial";">out of all of this, </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;">kiddo. You have something to tell
your<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> </b>grand kids.' And he started laughing
until tears rolled out of his eyes. And I joined in. We had to stop on the
emergency lane and settle down before we could drive on home."</span><span style="font-family: "arial";"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"I
can't believe this," is all I can think to say. I feel both utterly
exhausted and relieved. At least, the anxiety is gone.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Well,
believe it. It happened and yesterday the police came for me, and we went out
to the house, them following me in my pick up half full of stuff I had listed
that I'd taken out of the house. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"When
we got inside, this red-headed man, huge, with a real red face to match,</span><span style="font-family: "arial";"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;">was standing there. He looked like he could
have killed me and without the police he could have too. The police asked him
if he had any questions for me. And they were <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">very </i>specific about it being questions and not comments. He came
toward me and I thought I'd die. He said, ‘Did you take a plaid shirt out of
this closet,’ and he jabbed the air toward the back bedroom. I told him I
didn't even go in there because the floor looked like it wouldn't hold anybody
up. He seemed satisfied with that, looked at the sheriff a long time, who was
there too, and then walked out the door without another word</span><span style="font-family: "arial";">, </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;">walked across the field to his truck and
drove off. I helped the police carry the stuff from my pickup back into the
house. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“When
I went out to my truck to leave, the sheriff followed me out there and said,
'You will never know who you tangled with. This Darrell Lovell is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">one tough</i> customer. It’s why we
processed your case as quickly as possible. I can't begin to tell you the
dealings we have had with him over the years. This house you went into was
abandoned by him the day his wife died. He told us that he walked out the door
without taking one thing with him, not his clothes or anything. He left
everything right like it was the day she died. And his sentiment was that he
wanted '<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">everything <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></b></i>to go down with her.'
Those were his exact words.</span><span style="font-family: "arial";"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;">He sees
your trespassing on his property in the worst possible light.” He paused for a
bit and I thought he was done but he leaned over the truck bed, folded his
fingers together, twirled his thumbs like Vernon does sometimes and he after he
cleared his throat, he said, “Do you have <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">any</i></span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial";"> </span></i><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;">idea how
close you might have come to being shot over this?'<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"I
shook my head. I had never thought about any of this connected with getting <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">hurt</i>. </span><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;">I just saw it in terms of maybe
getting <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">caught</i></span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial";"> </span></i><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;">and having
to explain myself, you know. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"'Yes,
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">shot,</i>' he said. 'Mr. Lovell's shot
more than one person during his lifetime. Once when a bill collector came up
his drive. The man luckily didn't die, but Lovell's been in and out of court and
jail so many times over situations of this kind, I can't count them. We have
several files on him. And this house is his <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">big
thing</i>, Darlene.' Now, this sheriff is calling me by my first name already.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"And
then maybe because he had been so sympathetic during all of this and maybe,
too, because I felt like I knew this guy by now, you know, so I asked him, 'I
just have one question about all this,' I said. 'I mean I'm going to do exactly
what you told me to, this is the last of it, honestly it is, but <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">why</i> do people leave this stuff. Okay in
Darrell Lovell's case, he was sentimental about his wife, but lots of people
just let this stuff go to ruin and it seems like such a shame.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"And
he agreed with me. Then he told me that years ago when people didn't have ways
to travel like we do today, they left things that they couldn't take with them
or didn't want anymore, like when they had to move from one place to another.
'Lots of people think that these antiques you treasure so much are just old
furniture, so they leave it and buy new stuff from Sears,' he said. 'We have
lots of that kind of thinking around here. But the bottom line is that it’s<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> </b>their<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>property, on their land, and when you across that<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> </b>property line, you are in violation of the law.' I thanked him and
left and that was the end of it."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Darlene?"
I break in finally, my voice as close to the phone now as hers.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Yes,
Honey.</span><span style="font-family: "arial";">"</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"You
didn't</span><span style="font-family: "arial";"> give it all back, did you?"</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>There
is a tiny pause, "Course not."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
just lose it. "God, Mother, what are we going to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">do<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> </b></i>with you?" I
sound as exasperated as I can, but I'm all played out. Just like old times, I
think.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Look
here, Caroline. You and I both know it’s like your father told me. Those
policemen are rocking in that chair right now in their station. There's no <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">way</i> they took it back out there to have
the rain and wind rot it to pieces. I didn't </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;">see it anywhere around when I was
out there with them and Darrell Lovell. Your father had <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">completely </i></span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></i><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;">refinished
it. It was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">beautiful</i>. </span><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;">All of us,
the pooolice," she says 'poooolice' in that sarcastic, drawn out way
Southerners do, "the D.A., the sheriff and I<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> all</i><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> </b>of us</span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial";"> </span></b><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;">know the<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> real</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>truth behind all of this, but this is the way it is, you know. So we
play it out.</span><span style="font-family: "arial";">"</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"What
did you keep?" I say without affect.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"I
couldn't tell you, really. I wasn't even sure that everything I put in the
boxes came out of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that</i> house. And
this Lovell guy didn't know what he had out there anymore either. He just got
hung up on a shirt he thought was out there or maybe he asked because he was
testing me. Who knows? Maybe, he's been crazy ever since his wife died.<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> </b>I<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">
</b>couldn't tell you if he was crazy or not. </span><span style="font-family: "arial";">Who's to say about any of it."</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"How
much did you keep?" I ask, the phon</span><span style="font-family: "arial";">e
now totally molded to my ear.</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"More
than I gave back," she says</span><span style="font-family: "arial";"> with a
laugh.</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Darlene!"
I whine.<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Oh
don't be so self-righteous, Caroline. You are going to inherit a lot of it when
your father and I are gone. I dare say you won't be throwing any of it back
into the rain!"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
Clyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05188990736695972537noreply@blogger.com0