“That’s right, though I’m sure all the children suffered neglect. But he’s in jail now, and the nuns have done a wonderful job of turning things around.”
“They hired you to work here?”
“In a way. I got the job through a friend. There wasn’t even a library here when I started. I pulled this all together from scratch, with the help of the nuns and the children. Book donations and charity drives, that sort of thing.”
“It’s – very nice. Warm. Not like the other asylums I’ve been to.”
“Yes,” Adina smiled. “It’s quite inviting, isn’t it?” She looked around. “It’s been a respite for me and the children. Most of the boys couldn’t even read when I started here. Now, they’re excelling. The little ones have fun and even some of the harder cases steal in for quiet comfort at times. I like it when they do. It makes me feel as if I’m making a difference in their lives, however small.”
The young woman listened intently, considering something. There was no whimsy about her, which Adina thought unusual for such a beauty to whom life usually endowed advantages. She was serious. Focused. She made no attempt to illicit attention, despite her striking appearance but there was something mesmerizing in the way she held herself that made it hard to look away. She pulled out a folded piece of paper from her handbag.
“Do you have a pen and paper?”
“Certainly.”
“I’m looking for a child, a little boy, my own,” the young woman said quietly, taking Adina’s offered pen. “I’ve already tried every other asylum in Greater New York, as well as the ones in California where I gave birth to him. This orphanage is my last hope. That’s why I need to speak to the administrator urgently, to check your records.” She copied details from her folded piece of paper onto Adina’s fresh leaf. “I don’t have much time to find him. My current situation is complicated.”
“Your own child? You mean you gave him up?”
“He was taken from me.” The woman frowned. “Against my will.”
“I’m so sorry. What about his father?”
The young woman cleared her throat. “Father unknown. That’s what I put on his birth certificate, anyway.” She lifted her chin and passed the note to Adina. “This is his birthdate and the name I gave him, though it may have been changed since. He would be five and a half years old now. I cannot tell you what he looks like because I don’t know myself.”
“I understand.” Adina looked down at the hand-written note.
Theodore Mills, born 7th of July 1938 at the West 63rd Street Magdalen Home for Unmarried Mothers.
She froze. The paper trembled in her fingers. Adina opened her mouth. Inexplicably, no sound came out. She shut it, tried again. Adina begged her own heart to cease pounding lest the other woman hear it through her open lips.
The visitor eyed her critically. “What is it? Is he here? Do you know of him?”
“I… um –” Adina’s mouth was suddenly dry. “No, no,” she whispered. “I don’t think I do. At least, I don’t know a child by that name. There are many five-year-olds though.” It was a technicality. After all, no one called him Theodore. Surely a lie by technicality wasn’t a true sin. Adina knew, to the very core of her soul that she should give the answer this woman was desperate to hear, but still her tongue refused her. For the second time in a week, her heart was being crushed. I can’t give up Teddy too.
Adina folded the note and plastered on her most sympathetic smile. “I’m afraid I can’t help you. I’ll pass it on though, to Sister Bernadette.”
The woman looked skeptical.
“Will you tell her I’ll be back next week? Thursday morning on the 10am bus.”
“Certainly,” Adina lied. “I’ll make sure she knows.” Her heart raced. Her smile faltered. Though she had no reason at all to keep a mother from reclaiming her son, the thought that Adina might never see the little boy again brought fire to her chest. Her stomach twisted. She couldn’t breathe. “I’ll, ah –” she coughed, “I’ll make sure she gets your note and um–”
Thud!
There was a sudden commotion outside the door. Adina shot the young woman an apologetic smile and jumped to her feet, thrilled to escape. She poked her head out of the library to find Sister Bernadette struggling with a heavy box filled with what appeared to be jars of pickled cucumbers. She set them down by the double doors, then turned back outside again.
“Adina,” the nun called over her shoulder, “Will you help me unload these pickles? Mrs. Jones has surpassed herself in the kitchen again, we’ve enough here to fill the boys’ sandwiches until next spring.” Sister Bernadette trailed off as she descended toward her dusty Dodge Sedan, parked beside the Chevy. Adina walked to the front door and peered out. Betty was at the car, pulling out a second box of pickle jars, using considerably less effort than the nun who began heaving a third. With a sting of guilt, Adina remembered the Chevy she had driven today, was Betty’s, or rather, George’s car. They’d been kind enough to lend it to her until George returned from service.
Despite every ounce of envy Adina held for the perfect life that Betty had, she couldn’t bring herself to dislike the woman. Even with the irritatingly perfect husband, and the agonizing devotion Jacob plied her with, and not least of all, the unconditional kindness Betty had bestowed on Adina herself, Adina wished she could dislike her, hate her even, but in fact, Betty hadn’t done anything wrong. She was, simply, too good to be true.
And with that, Adina decided she had to do the right thing. The thing Betty would do. The only thing worthy of her. She squeezed the note in her hand as she returned to the library, willing it to crumble into dust. Her heart ached. Tears pricked her eyes. I’ve lost Jacob. Now I must lose Teddy too. It suddenly occurred to her how much she loved the little boy, and how she’d begun to think of him as her own. Sister Bernadette would be all too willing to hand him over when the bureaucracy had been addressed. And she would be right to do it – a mother’s love was far better than an orphan asylum.
Adina rounded the corner to the library. She took a deep breath, plastered a smile on her face and prepared to offer a half-hearted exclamation of surprise that she did in fact, come to think of it, know a child that might match her son’s description after all -
But the library was empty.
“Hello?”
There was no answer. Adina’s heart lifted a little. Then fell again. She must have slipped past me. She returned to the front door, expecting to see the young woman accosting Sister Bernadette with her desperate appeal. But Sister Bernadette and Betty were almost at the front steps now, arms full of pickles, chatting amicably. They looked up to find Adina standing with her mouth open, confused.
“Are you alright, darling?” Betty asked.
“Um, yes.” Adina shut her mouth and looked around. The young woman had simply vanished. She shrugged. “I just, there was a lady here to see you Sister, but she seems to have disappeared into thin air. I scared her off, I suppose.”
“Never mind, then,” Sister Bernadette puffed, and pushed past Adina, heading for the kitchen. “Let’s put this lot away.”
Betty’s eyes narrowed. She stood on the front step, watching Adina, her smile frozen in place. Suddenly, she dropped the box of pickles at her feet.
“Which way did she go?” Betty asked urgently.
“Well, I don’t know –”
Betty looked around, her eyes raking the front grounds, suddenly desperate. She took a few steps toward the Dodge, then stopped still, scrutinizing the driveway like a cat ready to pounce. There was nobody to be seen. It was the oddest behavior Adina had ever witnessed of her.
“What are you doing?” Adina asked her, astonished.
“She’s gone,” Betty said bitterly. “If I’d only arrived a few minutes earlier –”
“You? What on earth do you mean?”
“That woman, the one you were talking to,” Betty said, her expression grave, “I have reason to
believe that was Miss Violet Mills.” When Adina’s face didn’t register, Betty added, “The Boudoir Butcher.”
Adina’s hand flew to her mouth. “No! But she was so nice –”
“Why was she here?”
“She wanted –” Adina swallowed. She couldn’t bear to think of it.
“What did she want?” Betty pushed.
“I was so close.” Adina shook her head. “And I nearly gave her –”
“Gave her what?”
“Teddy,” Adina said. She was shaking. “She wanted Teddy. He’s her son.”
It wasn’t until hours later, when Adina was back at home, with Mrs. Porter plying a cup of tea into her hands and draping a facecloth over her forehead, that she finally wondered how Betty had known it was Violet Mills who had called on the orphanage. She had never seen her.
Betty stood by the telephone stand in her sitting room. She had swayed from one foot to another, itching to sit down, done so, then stood back up, then sat again, then had become so vexed with herself that she had to go and make a cup of tea. Now she was back, a piece of paper in her hand with only a phone number written on it, arguing with herself over whether to dial. It was the paper Donald Pinzolo had given her when she had last visited him in Rikers. The little slip he had pulled out of his book. He had alluded that the number would lead her to a person willing to share information about the elusive Tin Man. But Betty’s gut told her Pinzolo was as slippery as an eel in ice-skates. She had discarded the number to her dressing table, but time was running out. Her own desperation had taken her by surprise. Whatever person answered that call, would either be friend or foe to the most dangerous serial killer the city had ever seen. By contacting them, Betty was not only risking her own identity being discovered, but potentially, inviting another criminal into her life. But now, there were too many unknowns haunting her. This latest news, that the Boudoir Butcher had come searching for little Teddy at the orphanage, was the last straw. The only way to ensure his safety, was to get to the bottom of this mess once and for all.
“That’s it, then.” Betty said to herself. “I need to know where the Tin Man is hiding.”
Pushing down the distrust churning in her gut, Betty spun the number that Donny had given her into the telephone dial. It rang, like a shrill bite to her pressed ear. After a few moments, someone picked up.
“Hello?” A woman’s voice came down the line.
Betty sat up straight, surprised.
“Ah, hello? May I ask who I’m speaking to please?” Betty said, in her best secretary voice.
“Well, you rang me, zeeskeit, not the other way around!” The woman laughed. “It’s Mrs. Abraham Lawrence. How can I help you?”
Click.
Betty hung up the phone, shocked.
She quickly dialed a different number. This one she didn’t need a piece of paper for.
“New York Police, 68th Precinct.”
“Is Sergeant Jacob Lawrence available, please? This is a personal call.”
“I’ll check for you ma’am. Who’s calling?”
“Miss Eva Sinclair.”
“One moment.”
Betty could hear her heart thrum through the receiver pressed to her ear. If Jacob was there, he would pick up. She had used the pseudonym to contact him at work before, but rarely. Sure enough, his voice came down the line, sounding concerned.
“This is Jacob.”
“Jake, dear,” Betty said, urgently. “We have a little situation.”
*
An hour later, they found themselves standing on the doorstep of a handsome house in Borough Park.
“Are you sure you want to be here?” Jacob pressed. “I can speak to them on my own.”
Betty lifted her chin. “Michael already knows I’m alive, so your parents should too. I’m not thrilled with the idea, but – it seems only right we should see them together. They were so kind to me as a child, I practically lived on their doorstep.” She looked around, a little wistfully. “When I first met them, I dreamed they might adopt me. Whisk me from my fate. Of course, Donny would have had them drawn and quartered, so I gave up the fantasy rather quickly. Still, it was a nice thought, at one time.”
“It was.”
“They did so much for me as a child, Jake,” Betty said. She smoothed her dress, nervously. “I’m only worried what they’ll think of me as an adult.”
Jacob looked at the closed door in front of him. He shuffled, rubbed his toe against the back of his leg.
“I have to admit, this was never a situation I thought I’d find myself in,” he muttered. “Standing on my parents’ doorstep with a woman they believe is dead, preparing to interrogate them about a serial killer, on the word of an incarcerated criminal.”
Betty gave him a wink and rattled the decorative box in her hands. “This is why I brought cookies.” At the look on his face, she rolled her eyes. “Of course they’re kosher.”
“Perhaps I really should do this alone,” Jacob said. He shuffled again. He had done away with his walking stick, but his leg still seemed to give him trouble. “I don’t like the idea of you delving into my father’s mind.”
“Nor do I,” Betty sighed. “With any luck I won’t have to. But if there’s any chance at all he could hold something back, I need to know it. Donny wouldn’t have given me this number unless one of them knows something. They won’t turn their backs on you Jake, they adore you. I only hope they’ll be forgiving of me.”
Jacob didn’t answer. Betty stepped forward decidedly and pressed the button.
Ding Dong!
There was a click of heels as someone came to the door. It opened wide and Golda Lawrence appeared in the frame. She threw her arms open, all smiles for her son, and pulled Jacob into a bear hug.
“My bubbeleh!” she exclaimed. “You don’t know how worried I get when I don’t see you for so long – I spend my life chasing you and suddenly you turn up on my doorstep with an hour’s notice? Not that I’m complaining, I’ll take what I can get of you, but what is this?” She squeezed him again, kissed his cheeks and stepped back. It was only then Golda noticed Betty standing beside him. Her smile widened in welcome, then faltered. She looked to her son, confused, then back to Betty. Golda took a step forward, her mouth falling open as her eyes widened, pulling up some long-distant memory. The older woman blanched, paling to the color of the pearls she wore around her neck.
“Ima,” Jacob said gently. “I think you might remember my friend –”
But Golda Lawrence held up her hand and whispered the name before he could finish.
“Susie Polletti,” she whispered. And then she fainted, out cold, to the floor.
*
They sat, face to face on the couch in the Lawrence’s lounge by the roaring fireplace, Betty and Jacob on one side, and Golda and Abraham Lawrence on the other. The air was thick.
“I don’t understand, Jacob,” Golda looked beseechingly at her son. “All those years of misery, for what? She was alive this whole time?” Her lips were tight, her face now flushed with uncharacteristic anger. “And you,” she gave Betty a piercing glare, “you let him suffer for years. He blamed himself, you know. Thought he could have done something to save you, but he was just a boy! Have you any idea what he went through?” She threw her hands in the air. “Eizeh balagan, I don’t know what this is!” She got to her feet and paced the fireplace. “Susie. Betty. Who knows what else! And you sit there, so calm, as if it’s all fine and dandy.” She looked back at them both, gob smacked, then threw her hands in the air, theatrically. “Du farkirtst mir di yorn!”
Abraham, for his part, didn’t say a word, but simply watched his son, face grave, eyes intense. Jacob stared at the roses woven into the green rug.
“Mrs. Lawrence,” Betty said, trying not to feel like a twelve-year-old girl who had disappointed a beloved parent, “I had no choice but to run away as I did. When my father was killed, and my home burnt down,” she
delicately side-stepped the issue of who was responsible, “I had to take the chance to disappear. The circumstances were – complicated, but I’ll put it plainly. If I hadn’t pretended to have died and left them no trace to come after me with, Jacob himself might have been murdered. Disappearing was the only way I could save him.”
Golda paused, paled and came back to the couch. “And why would they do such a thing?”
“Because my family were criminals, as you well know. And they would have taken anything from me that threatened their power over me. I loved Jacob more than life itself. They were bound to find out, because I couldn’t hide it any longer.”
“And why not?” Golda said. “You hid it from them for years, don’t assume we don’t know what they were like. We worried about you every day in that house, Susie. Why not wait until you were finished with school, when you were old enough to take refuge without them? You could have let us help you! Let the police help you.”
“You don’t understand, Mrs. Lawrence,” Betty said, sadly. “I had no time for that, I had to leave immediately. They would have killed Jacob if he’d tried to hide me in your house, or with anyone else that kept me from them. I was too important to Donald Pinzolo’s business for him to let me slip away. At the time I was an asset to him. He relied on me.”
“But you were a child!”
“Especially as a child. Donald Pinzolo controlled everything I did. He had to believe I was dead. It was the only way to keep Jacob safe after –” Betty hesitated, her voice catching in her throat. She looked at Jacob. He nodded minutely.
“After she fell pregnant,” Jacob finished for her. “Susie, Betty, ran away to keep me, and the baby, safe from Pinzolo and his enforcers.”
“A baby?” Abraham said, his voice barely audible.
“Yes, Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence,” Betty said. “My eldest child, my daughter, Nancy, was fathered by your son. You have a grandchild.”
And with that, Golda Lawrence fainted once more.
*
Lady Vigilante (Episodes 16 – 18) (Lady Vigilante Crime Compilations) Page 16
