by Sharon Short
“Get down,” I hissed at him. “I own this place . . . this is my table . . . I’m the only one who can—”
But he ignored me. Trouble was, other reporters and photographers noticed the vantage point this big fellow had gained by joining me up on the folding table, and so they started climbing up too. I swatted at them like horseflies, but they were just as stubborn, and swarmed on up.
Meanwhile, Tyra was speaking. “I’m so glad you are all here. I do have important news to share with all of you.” The room got really quiet after that—except for the creaking sound of the table that I and about five other people were standing on, plus the sound of me swatting and hissing, “Shoo, shoo!”
“I will be holding an official press conference day after tomorrow, on Friday afternoon.” A groan went up and someone hollered, “Why do we have to wait so long?”
Tyra held her hand up for silence and the crowd quieted. “Please, the conference will be two days from now at Stillwater Farms. I’m sorry to wait that long, but I have to wait for a few, um, details to be finalized.” She paused, as if unsure of what to say next. She missed Paige and her counsel, I thought. Then Tyra smiled and went on. “I also need to wait until after the funeral of Mr. Lewis Rothchild, out of respect for his family.” The crowd buzzed at that. Tyra finished, raising her voice, “At that time I will answer your questions—and make a significant announcement of both a personal and business nature.”
There was a lot more buzzing after that—people trying to get Tyra to answer more questions about the questions she wouldn’t answer yet—and picture taking. And me, saying “please get down off my table . . . please get out of my laundromat. . .”
And then, just what I was afraid would happen happened. The table legs buckled and the table swayed and then crashed. Some of us went down in a heap, some of us tumbled into other parts of the crowd, so people in those parts fell down, too, knocking down other people who hadn’t even been near the table to begin with—in a kind of willy-nilly people-domino way. Me, I landed right on the reporter who had gotten up on the table with me to begin with. He cushioned my fall, for which I was grateful, although he was moaning pitiably.
Still, I had a whole split second of prayerful hopefulness that everything would be all right, but then someone landed on me, and someone else hollered that they were pinned under the table, and then I heard first one crashing sound from back in the storeroom, and then another crashing sound, from over where the cappuccino machine was, then a sort of tumbly thump-thump sound.
And over and around all those sounds, people hollering and moaning and cursing, and I thought, oh Lord, we’re gonna have one of those panic-induced stampedes, like what you read about happening at rock concerts, where everyone gets crushed to death, only it was going to happen right here in my laundromat.
Then, rising above all the other noises came a new sound—a long, high thin voice mewling one plaintive word—“M-a-a-ma!”
A little kid—somewhere in this crowd, in my laundromat . . . I scrambled up, not sure what to do. Suddenly, there was a roar, “Get out of my way!” and parting the crowd in a manner that would have made Moses proud was Becky Gettlehorn, holding Tommy on her hip. The crowd hushed and pulled back as she got to the little girl—Haley—who was sitting in the middle of the floor, crying, her lip bleeding and cut. I remembered how Lewis had rescued Haley from the crowd out front just the day before yesterday.
Becky swooped down, scooped up Haley, murmured at the child until she calmed down, then glared at me.
“I just got my last load out of the washer,” Becky said, spacing her words out evenly, so each one sounded like a judgment coming down on my head, “but I guess I’ll take the clothes home wet, and hang them up to line dry.”
With that, she put down her kids, grabbed up a stack of three laundry baskets, and staggered out with Tommy and Haley following her.
Before the crowd could close over the path she’d cleared, or start talking again over the hush her righteous mama’s wrath had made, I said, “Anyone who isn’t doing laundry in here—get out!”
Everyone ignored me.
Their attention was back on Tyra, who’d somehow remained calm, standing and unruffled through everything. The eye of the storm.
“Thank you for your time and attention,” she said sweetly, as if she’d just completed a public service announcement. “I’ll look forward to seeing you all over at Stillwater in a few days.”
With that, she grabbed Mayor Cornelia’s elbow and started moving toward the front door, all the while chatting at Cornelia as if they were old school chums miraculously reunited. Cornelia had a shoeprint on the shoulder of her white blouse, and loose ends of hair were sticking out of her usually smooth coif, and she was limping—I had heard her high voice among those hollering after getting knocked down—but she still looked thrilled to be receiving Tyra’s attention.
I watched the rest of the crowd follow them out. At the tail end of the crowd was Vivian. I hadn’t realized she’d followed us in here. She didn’t even notice me as she moved by me—her gaze was glassy, far off again.
I didn’t stop her or anyone else. I was glad to see them all go.
Finally, I was alone in my laundromat—and able to take in the mess it was in. The folding table was bent in the middle, its legs broken. The bookshelf had fallen over, and books were scattered everywhere. Two of my laundry carts were knocked over. There were soda cans and plastic coffee cups and even cigarette butts on my once clean floor and tables. And the cappuccino machine had gotten knocked to the floor, where it was in pieces.
Some sample packets of powdered soap had gotten trampled, so a fine powdery residue was everywhere. A trash can was knocked over, so wads of lint and fabric softener towels and soda cans and other trash were all over the floor. My laundromat looked just plain shameful.
I went to the front door, locked it, and turned my sign from OPEN to CLOSED. I pulled down the miniblinds over the big plate glass windows that front my laundromat. Then I checked my washers and dryers. At least they seemed fine.
But still, I felt just plain sorrowful. I had to go see what Billy wanted to show me out at the Red Horse Motel, but after what had happened, I couldn’t leave my place standing open. Even if it was fit for customers—and it would take hours of work before it would be again—I just didn’t want to risk it after what had happened.
Poor little Haley had been scared in my laundromat—and it could have been a lot worse. She could have been really hurt. Maybe even trampled to death. My head spun as I thought about that.
No, I’d have to lock up my place while I was gone.
Because for the first time ever, I didn’t feel safe enough in my own hometown of Paradise, Ohio, to leave Toadfern’s Laundromat open and unattended for a few hours.
So for the first time ever, it would be closed in the middle of a working day.
In fact, for the first time ever, Toadfern’s Laundromat would be closed for several days running—until Tyra and all the reporters were out of town—because I sure didn’t want to risk a repeat of what had just happened.
I didn’t see that I had a choice.
And not having a choice made me feel even more sorrowful.
My plan was to leave by the back door, being sure to lock it too, then see what Billy wanted out at the Red Horse, then come back to start cleaning up.
I crossed to the stock room and saw, on the floor, a tiny kid’s T-shirt. I picked it up. It was still damp. One of Becky’s kid’s T-shirts. An old worn-out one, with a patchy bit of teddy bear picture still on the front. Folks like Becky, I thought, sure wouldn’t be buying Tyra Grimes’s T-shirts.
I hung the tiny T-shirt over a hanger on one of the laundry carts before leaving.
Billy was waiting for me in the bar of the Red Horse Motel. He was sitting with Luke Rhinegold, Billy drinking a beer, Luke nursing a cup of coffee. They were both staring up at the big-screen TV, watching a wrestling match. Somehow without flicking his eyes
away from the television, Luke saw me coming in, stood up, and moved back to the bar.
I sat down in the chair he’d left. Billy kept staring at the television. “You’re early,” he said.
I stared at the TV too, uncomfortable with looking at Billy in case he decided to make eye contact. Billy had changed. I hadn’t really had time to think about it this morning, when he’d been waiting for me in my laundromat—but he was different. Serious. Even as a preacher, even when he was worked up to a good preaching froth on his favorite topic—the glories of heaven and the agonies of hell—he hadn’t been so . . . serious.
I made myself look at him, take him in. Yes, there was a new set to his jaw—determined. A new set to his shoulders—confidence, instead of the old cockiness. Billy was on a mission—and it was finally something he really believed in.
I put my hand on his arm. “I’m in trouble,” I said. “We’re in trouble. I mean—Paradise is in trouble.”
Billy looked at me then. And I told him everything, about the visit to Stillwater, about what had happened when we got back.
After I finished, he said, “I don’t know what Tyra is up to at Stillwater, but I want you to come with me to meet someone. At least it’ll help you understand a few things.”
Rosa walked in the bar then. I gave her a little wave, figuring she was going back to the kitchen to find Luke for her paycheck—the only reason I could figure Rosa, a truly Godfearing woman, would come in here. After all, every time I’d seen her even walk past the entrance to the bar, she’d crossed herself and muttered a prayer, eyes cast heavenward.
But Rosa came over to our table. She didn’t sit down, but just stood and stared with an uneasy air at me, then looked at Billy.
“You ready?” he asked.
She nodded and cast another glance at me. “We can trust her?” she asked in her thick accent.
Billy didn’t answer right off. Then he said, “Pretty sure.”
Now, this was real nice, I thought—Billy being the trusted one. Rosa—even Billy—doubting me. But I didn’t say anything as I followed Billy and Rosa out. I had no idea what they were taking me to see or do, which made me nervous . . . and curious.
As it turned out, Billy rode with me and I followed Rosa’s little blue Tercel.
“Where are we going?” I asked Billy after we’d driven about a mile or two north through the countryside.
“Rosa’s house,” he said, without looking at me.
I didn’t ask him why. I figured I’d find out soon enough. I flipped on my barely functioning radio to the one station I could get—Masonville’s golden-oldies station, which played mostly songs from the mid-seventies through the late-eighties, covering the years from my birth through junior high—when I’d met Mrs. Oglevee. Thinking of her made me squirm. She’d surely view with disdain the activities of my day so far. I tried to focus on the song that was playing—something about a disco duck—and longed for a fully functioning radio that would pick up more than one station. I’d been promising myself a new car radio—one with a tape player so I could listen to books-on-tape, too—for a long time.
Another mile or two and I realized where we must be headed: Stringtown. That’s about all that’s directly north of Paradise, until you hit Columbus.
One of my theories of life is that every community likes to rank itself in relation to other communities, kind of the collective version of how some people can’t resist comparing themselves to others. Masonville, a county seat with several fast food franchises and a four-lane strip of state highway, sees itself as one up on Paradise but of course not nearly as swank as Columbus, which is, after all, the state capital and intersected by three major interstate highways. Paradise casts a jealous eye north-eastward toward Masonville, but can always say it is doing quite a bit better than Stringtown.
Stringtown consists of ten houses along a narrow strip of county road, pinned down at one end by a bar, and at the other by a church of unaffiliated denomination. I suppose whenever its few residents need a one-ups-man-ship fix, they focus on the fact that Stringtown is the most convenient location for either sin or redemption for the farmers who live several miles around it (although, of course, for a good laundromat they have to come to my establishment in Paradise). As for the farming families around Stringtown, I don’t think they really care what anyone else thinks of them.
Rosa’s house was the tiniest in the strip, a one-story porchless clapboard painted a pale tan. It was also the best kept, with maroon shutters and door and windowboxes, and a large maple tree in the narrow front yard. Pink tulips and yellow daffodils bloomed in a neat circle under the tree.
Rosa pulled her Tercel into her gravel driveway, parking right behind a beat-up white truck. I recognized that truck. The couple must have fixed it—maybe with Billy’s help. I pulled in behind Rosa, switched off my radio, and put my hand on Billy’s forearm as he started to get out of my car.
“Billy, what’s going on here?”
He looked at me. “Trust me, Josie,” he said. The last time he’d said that and looked at me that way, we’d been twelve years old and at the county pool over in Masonville. And he’d dunked me. Repeatedly. Until I’d kneed him in the groin and he’d gone down while I went up for air.
Still, I got out of the car and followed Billy. As Chief John Worthy had been all too happy to point out to Tyra, I am by nature nosy—although I prefer to think of it as curiosity-gifted. Besides, Billy and I had both survived the pool incident and made up. Surely we’d survive whatever awaited us in Rosa’s neat little house.
But once I got inside Rosa’s living room, my confidence dwindled. Huddled together on the couch, beneath a big plastic crucifix loosely tacked to the wall, so that Jesus stared down from his cross at the tops of their heads, were Aguila and Ramon. When I walked in the room, Ramon shrank further back into the couch, looking scared. But Aguila jumped up, arms crossed, a frown on her face, looking ready for a fight.
I didn’t want a fight. In fact, given that they were on my list of suspects for murdering Lewis, I wanted to run.
“Billy,” I said, in a tone that added, “Get me out of here.”
“It’s okay,” Billy said, putting his hand on my shoulder. Rosa eased past us into the room and said something in Spanish to Aguila. Aguila shook her head, but Rosa kept talking, and finally the younger woman deferred and sat back down next to Ramon, who was still staring worriedly at me.
Rosa sat down next to them. “Sit down, Josie,” she said, indicating a rocker over the back of which Rosa had draped a crocheted white afghan.
I kept standing. Rosa glared at me. I sat, rocking back a bit, then steadying myself. I did not think that this was going to be a cozy rocking-chair type conversation. Billy had pulled a kitchen chair into the room, and sat on the chair.
“Billy—” I started again.
He patted me on the shoulder, sending me rocking again. “It’ll be OK,” he said.
I looked at the three people lined up on the couch across from me—Rosa, Ramon, Aguila. Older, young, younger. Calm, scared, tough. And then I gasped, seeing something else in those faces. In Aguila, I saw the young face that had once been Rosa’s. The resemblance between the two women was unmistakable.
Rosa read my face. “My grandniece. But we look like grandmother and granddaughter, don’t we?” An expression of pride flared for a moment, then quickly turned to sadness. “But I never had children. So no grandchildren. So I was happy when I heard from Aguila, my grandniece, child of my sister—may she rest in peace.” Rosa made the sign of the cross, while glancing in the direction of the crucifix.
“They have a child—Selena. She’s only eight,” Rosa said.
Aguila said something in Spanish.
“They left her in Mexico in good care a few months ago, with Ramon’s people, to come to California to work.”
“The work was in Tyra Grimes’s T-shirt factory?” I asked.
Aguila said something else, more animatedly.
�
�Yes,” Rosa said. “She says a man came to their town—a recruiter—who told them and others that he had visas for them. They could come work, make good money, send the money home. They wrote to me about it before they left. I still have the letters. All seemed well.”
Ramon spoke next. Rosa interpreted for him, “But then they got word that their daughter, Selena, is sick back home. She has epilepsy and needs medicine to keep it under control—medicine Ramon’s family back home can’t afford. Ramon and Aguila wanted to leave work and go back home, but they were told no, their visas are not in order, after all, they’ll be arrested if they leave the compound where they are living. But they were desperate.”
Aguila spoke again, this time trembling with anger.
“She says they stole the T-shirts and got away from that terrible work camp of Ms. Grimes’s,” Rosa said. “They knew they could get a lot of money for those T-shirts, then go home and use it to get better care for Selena. They came here, because I am their only family here in this country.”
Ramon muttered something, put his head in his hands.
“Then they had bad luck, he says.”
No kidding, I thought. They come to Paradise . . . and Tyra Grimes, the very person they are trying to get away from, shows up.
“But now what? And how can I possibly help?”
Billy spoke up. “Their first plan was to get as far away as possible from here as soon as they knew Tyra Grimes had arrived in town. But we came up with a better plan.”
I was afraid to ask who “we” was.
Ramon stood up, pulled an envelope out of the hip pocket of his jeans, said something in Spanish, and leaned forward, holding the envelope toward me. His hand was trembling. He said something else—and this time I made out one word: Paige.
I looked at Billy. “Paige . . . where is she, what’s she . . .”
“You can help by taking that envelope, Josie,” Billy said. “It contains a letter from Paige to Tyra. Obviously, she doesn’t want to mail the letter. She could be tracked that way.”
