by Leslie Leigh
“Well, he’s a little young…and inexperienced, but I think the community will support our decision. That’s how you build leaders – by giving them responsibilities. He understands that he’s a public servant, unlike Chief Benson who leaned toward a martial law mentality at times.
“But the reason I asked you here was because there was discussion among the Council regarding some recognition for the role you played in all of this.”
“Recognition?” I repeated. “Mayor, I’m Just a citizen who did what citizens do, or ought to anyway.”
“I appreciate your modesty, Ms. Reed, and you’re right: in a perfect world, we’d all look out for each other, especially the disenfranchised among us, like…what was the gentleman’s name?”
“Jacob,” I replied. “Jacob Miller.”
“That’s right,” he nodded. “Jacob. Unfortunately, some choose to look upon others as beneath themselves, giving them an excuse to shirk their obligations as good citizens. You, on the other hand, stepped up and stood up to Chief Benson. In the process, you exposed his shortcomings and prevented an innocent man from taking a fall.”
“The Chief seemed intent on not letting the facts get in the way of a perfectly good arrest,” I cheekily observed.
“For that reason, we’re nominating you for the Lake Hare Distinguished Citizen Award!”
Distinguished citizen? Me? That seemed a bit grandiose, but I attempted to be gracious. “Oh…why, thank you.” Not being familiar with the honor, I asked, “Is that like a trophy or something?”
“Not sure yet,” Mayor Lowell admitted. “We just made it up. It’ll probably be a certificate or a nice little plaque. But we want to encourage others to get involved in the community.”
“To be honest, Mayor Lowell – although I’m flattered – I would prefer that you didn’t make a fuss about this.”
“I understand your feelings, Ms. Reed,” the Mayor responded, “but in light of all the media attention, how would the city look if we didn’t show our gratitude?”
“And I appreciate your position, Mr. Mayor, but others might look at it quite differently. One man’s concerned citizen is another’s man‘s snitch, after all. Chief Benson must have had some supporters.”
“And I was one of them!” Mayor Lowell exclaimed. “I hired him. He just didn’t have the proper perspective for a town like ours. This isn’t Detroit! Or Beirut! We’re just a sleepy little village that swells up with tourists in the summer and then shrinks back to size in the fall. We want people to feel as if they’re welcome here, not under siege.”
“When you hand someone the reins of power, you never know in which direction they’ll go,” I pontificated, cautiously rising from the chair. I held out my hand. “Please thank the others for their consideration, Mayor, but I’m afraid I couldn’t accept such an honor. Let the city put the money you’d spend on those awards to better use elsewhere.”
“I understand, and I respect your wishes,” Mayor Lowell said, shaking my hand.
“Who knows?” I said. “Maybe someday I’ll be in need of some…special consideration in the future – although for what I can’t imagine – for which the Council will look upon my situation favorably. I hope that doesn’t sound too Godfather-ish. I see it more as stockpiling good karma.”
“Absolutely,” the Mayor agreed. He turned the knob of the door leading back to the lobby, but hesitated. “You know, I was impressed when I’d first heard about you, Ms. Reed. And now that I’ve met you, I’m even more impressed. You’ve got the right stuff!”
Well, it’s not every day that a gal receives a compliment like that! As I walked back to the library, there was no doubt a slightly perceptible skip in my step. Despite the day having begun with a rude awakening, courtesy of Charlene Bradshaw-Cooke, it had since improved ten-fold.
I relieved Margaret, thanking her for allowing me to visit with the mayor. She couldn’t resist inquiring as to the nature of the summons, but I could tell she was disappointed when I revealed that he was actually calling in his capacity as postmaster to discuss new bulk mailing rates and regulations. Yes, it was a shameless subterfuge on my part, but I didn’t want to contribute any more oxygen to the flickering flames of fame that threatened to engulf me, all due to one reporter’s overheated imagination.
Soon, the children began to populate the building, including my favorite pint-sized patron, Molly. I was relieved to see that she wore a blouse and jeans that I’d never seen her in before. In fact, they looked new.
After five o’clock, the number of children dwindled as they headed home for dinner, and it was just Molly and me. I walked over to the table where she sat, paging through one of several books arranged within her reach.
“So, Molly, are you looking forward to summer vacation?” I asked, expecting an enthusiastic response.
“I guess,” she sighed, staring at the table, her head propped up in her hand. “I like summer, but I get bored. Mom’ll be at work, and I’ll have to stay with babysitters.” She looked up at me. “But I can still come to the library every day, right?”
“You can come to the library as often as your mom lets you, Molly, as long as you’ve got someone to watch you. We can’t because we have work to do,” I said gently.
“Why does anyone have to watch me?” she said with a hint of irritation. “I can watch myself. Isn’t it safe here?”
“Yes,” I replied, calmly, “but sometimes children wander away from where it’s safe, and your mom wouldn’t want that to happen, would she?”
“I guess not.”
I glanced up at the wall clock. It was five minutes to six. I hoped that Cat, Molly’s mom, wasn’t going to be late. I was looking forward to doing some research for Mr. Van Dyke’s Accordion Extravaganza. It had been a very inspiring day and the event was only two weeks away.
“So, Molly, you haven’t told me how your trip to the music store went. Did Mr. Van Dyke let you play a violin?”
She frowned. “No. We never went. We were headed there, and then Mom saw some man she knew, and when they were done talking she said we had to get home, that she had a date.”
“Oh,” I said, taken aback. I was so disappointed to hear this that I felt sad for Molly rather than angry at Cat. I recalled the day when Gary Van Dyke invited Molly to try her hand at one of the student violins down at the music store. She had been so excited. And afterwards, she’d asked if Gary was my ‘boyfriend,’ which was not the case, and she revealed that her mother had “lots of boyfriends.” That phrase made the hairs on the back of my neck tingle ominously.
I tried my best to smile. “Well, I’m sure you’ll get another chance…sometime when your mom isn’t…occupied.”
“Yeah?” Molly asked, her eyes looking into mine, seeking confirmation that this was still a possibility.
“Sure. Nothing makes Mr. Van Dyke happier than putting an instrument in the hands of someone who wants to learn to play. You’ll see.”
I heard laughing and scuffing feet as the front door squeaked open. Speak of the devil; it was Cat and a young man, walking arm-in-arm. He was about her age, late twenties. Cat wore a yellow tank-top shirt and skin-tight jeans. Her breasts – which one might describe as ample – shifted provocatively, unencumbered by a bra, and her dark, shoulder-length hair was now shorter and dyed blond.
“Hi, Melody. Has my little pumpkin been good?”
“Of course she has. Well, you look different,” I said, unable to ignore her garish appearance.
Cat ran her fingers through her hair. There was a small tattoo of a black cat on the back of her left hand. Was this new, or had I not noticed it before?
“Yeah,” she smiled, mistaking my comment for a compliment. “I needed a change.”
“I like it,” I lied. The unnatural shade made her look cheap and almost…whorish. “It suits you.”
“Thanks. Melody, this is Justin. Justin Case. He’s…what should I call you, Justin, my boyfriend?” she asked, rolling her eyes. “It sounds like we’re
in junior high!” Cat laughed while Justin just smirked. With his smooth face and light, curly hair, he would probably be considered good-looking by some women’s standards, but I couldn’t overlook a certain narcissistic note in his expression, as if he were posing for a photograph, Apparently, he didn’t feel the need to exchange pleasantries with me, his vanity informing him that his mere presence was sufficient. I managed a weak smile.
“Justin works at the Cooke Paper Plant up in Houghton.”
“That’s pretty far north,” I replied. Houghton was near the northern tip of the Upper Peninsula, or the U.P., as we Michiganders commonly refer to it. “It must’ve been a long drive.”
“Yeah,” he smiled, his eyes fixed on Cat, though he seemed to be speaking to me. “Usually, I get down here around eight o’clock, if the weather’s good, but I didn’t work today. I’ve taken the week off so we can go hunting.”
“I know,” Cat grinned. “Real romantic, huh? But I’m looking forward to it. Five bucks a permit, and we each get to bag one bird, so you can’t beat that. Molly, too. She gets a reduced rate ‘cause she’s just a kid.”
“An eight-year-old is allowed to hunt?” I asked.
“Yeah. They’ve got this thing called a mentoring program. Justin’s gonna be her mentor, aren’t you, Justin?”
Justin rolled his eyes. It was obvious that he wanted to be on his way.
Molly sidled up to her mom while pulling on her jacket. Cat helped her, speaking in that patronizing tone mothers use in mixed company. “You’re all excited, aren’t you, Pumpkin?”
“About what?” Molly asked, having been out of hearing range of our conversation.
“About going turkey hunting! It’ll be so fun, you’ll see.” Turning to me, she added, “I bought her the cutest little camouflage outfit. I had to let her sleep in it that night!”
Molly didn’t appear to share her mom’s enthusiasm. “I want to go to the music store,” Molly said softly. “I want to play a violin.”
“Sure, honey,” Cat said, patting Molly’s shoulder while casting a glance at me. “We will. But you can do that any time. Right now, those turkeys are expecting us.”
Justin turned and walked toward the entrance, without a word. Cat leaned down and whispered, “Go with Justin, honey. Mama will be right there.” Molly caught up to Justin and held out her hand, but Justin kept his in his jacket pockets, so Molly clutched his jacket to keep up with him. She turned and waved goodbye before disappearing around the corner.
“Thanks again for watching out for Molly today,” Cat said. Her breath smelled of cigarettes.
“You’re welcome,” I replied. I had no problem with Molly being left unattended between school and closing time when Cat was at work, but I was apprehensive about what would happen when the school year ended.
“So, Molly will be out of school pretty soon. Do you have a sitter set up for the summer?”
“Not yet, but I will,” Cat replied. “Probably get some high-school kid to watch her. But I’m more concerned about coverage at night than during the day, at least in May.”
“Oh? Are you scheduled for a lot of overtime?” I asked.
“Nah, that’s only a few hours a week. But I’ve got a side job that I’m hoping will gear up soon.”
“A side job?” I echoed. I almost hated to ask, but felt that I must. “What kind of work?”
“Cleaning houses. Yeah, a lot of folks do their spring-cleaning in May, you know, getting ready for yard sales and all that stuff. So I hope to make some extra bucks doing that.”
“At night?” I asked. That seemed kind of odd. I would’ve thought most people would’ve had someone cleaning during the day when they were at work.
“Yeah, and on weekends. I know, it’s kind of different cleaning at night, but I’ve been doing this for a few years, and I guess I have a good reputation. Customers are willing to work around my schedule. I must be doing something right, eh?”
I tried warding off the images forming in my mind. “Sure. Repeat customers are satisfied customers, I suppose. Well, if I hear anything about anyone looking to babysit evenings – or needing their houses cleaned – I’ll be sure to let you know.”
“Thanks, Melody,” she smiled. “That would be real helpful…the babysitter, I mean. Well, gotta go. Thanks again.”
I thought it odd that Cat didn’t address my offer to steer customers her way. Maybe she had her own method for taking on jobs. Anyway, what did I know about the house cleaning business? I could barely clean up after myself!
Chapter 6
“Cleaning houses?” Mom repeated, incredulously. “Cleaning their pipes is more like it! Hauling their ashes! Oh, don’t get me started on Cathy Spencer!”
Mom and I had finished dinner and were enjoying tea – green with a hint of lemon – in the living room. Mom sat in her rocker while Mao and I shared the loveseat.
“Mom!” I scolded, shocked by both the accusation and her phrasing, even though I’d had the same suspicions. “You don’t know that for certain. You’re just relying on gossip.”
“Well, sometimes there’s a good reason for people gossiping. This has been going on for years. Everybody knows it!”
“Has she ever been arrested for prostitution?” I asked.
“I didn’t say she wasn’t clever. You have to be clever to get away with what she’s been doing for as long as she’s been doing it. Of course, maybe she was paying off the cops to look the other way. I wouldn’t doubt that Chief Benson would be a party to that.”
“It’s still just speculation,” I scoffed. It wasn’t so much that I wanted to defend Cat; I just wanted more than slander. Where was the proof…the substance?
“Let me ask you this: if she’s cleaning houses, why doesn’t she advertise?” Mom countered. “She never posts any ads on the community bulletin boards or at Green’s Grocery. No flyers anywhere, nor any word-of-mouth. And I’ve yet to meet one person who ever hired her!”
“That’s not conclusive,” I countered. “Most likely she advertises her services on the internet.”
“Indeed, she does,” Mom cackled ruefully. “Apparently, that’s what all these girls do today. Escorts, they call themselves. I guess that’s the new term for the oldest profession.”
“And you’ve seen these ads?”
“With my own eyes,” Mom assured me. “And speaking of advertising her services…why, she left nothing to the imagination: pictures, prices, everything that a consumer would need to make an informed purchase!”
“Photos?” I repeated. That didn’t sound very discreet.
“Well, her face was blotted out, but you could tell it was her. Plus, she even used her nickname, Cat.”
I had to ask the obvious question. “So…how did you come upon these ads, Mom?”
“Actually, it was Marian who found them. This was, maybe, two years ago. One day she found some teenage boys giggling at something at one of her computers and when she investigated, there they were, scouting hookers on the internet! In a library, of all places!” she added, indignantly.
“Libraries are for learning,” I pointed out.
“Anyway, when Marian made her discovery, she immediately called me over. Shortly afterward, she installed filters on the computers so there would be no repeat of what had happened. She was afraid Homeland Security was going to raid the library and haul her computers away!”
There was a pause as I absorbed this testimony. Finally, I said, “I guess I’ll have to see what I can find on the internet.” It’s not that I doubted what Mom thought she saw, but I needed to see it for myself.
“You’re just like your father,” Mom sighed. “He would never accept what was common knowledge to everybody else. ‘Show me the proof,’ he’d say, all Solomon-like. You both should have been lawyers…or judges, I guess.”
Mom may not have meant that as a compliment, but I certainly felt touched by the comparison. I’d always admired my dad for his calm, even temperament and sense of fairness –attri
butes which Mom tended to see as indecisiveness or lack of commitment.
Mom leaned forward to speak in a confidential tone. “It’s not just those ads, you know. I’ve known Cathy Spencer since she first came to town. She was pregnant, unmarried, and a high-school dropout. Came from Flint, if that tells you anything. Carl Tanner, who used to work at the Cooke Paper Mill, brought her here. She was working as a stripper in one of those men’s clubs down there and apparently thought Carl was well-heeled, the way he was throwing his money around. Twenty years older than her, he was, and she found out the hard truth about his finances after she’d taken the leap.
“She did get a house out of it after he died. I used to wonder why she didn’t sell the place and go back to where she came from, but folks said she was in some kind of trouble back there and people were looking for her – most likely to do with drugs.”
I sat spellbound. Mom was a repository of rumors, gossip and scandal. Someday, I’d have to ask her to sketch portraits of other Lake Hare residents. She used negativity the way some artists dabbled in surrealism: the result might be distorted, but it would lay bare a side of a subject hidden from view. Instinctively, I took her tale with a grain of salt, but I still listened. The picture she painted resonated with my intuitive feelings about Cat based on what I’d observed of her parenting skills, appearance, and general demeanor.
“I do feel sorry for that little girl of hers, though,” Mom said, perhaps in an attempt not to appear completely heartless. “I’ve even set aside clothes at the store, just for her, and have given her mom special deals. It’s always the innocent who are harmed by the carelessness of others.”
“I wonder why she even bothered to mention the housecleaning job,” I said.
“To justify the need for a babysitter at night,” Mom replied without hesitation. Mom arose and poured us each another cup of tea. “No doubt business will be picking up for her, what with hunting season here, just like the legitimate businesses.
