by Leslie Meier
Franny found this behavior shocking. Why didn’t he simply come right out and ask his grandfather for whatever he wanted? She was sure the old man would give it to him. In fact, he seemed to get more than enough from his parents. Fred and Annemarie spoiled him rotten, showering him with faddish clothes and video games, even a car. Franny didn’t approve.
“Franny, there’s something I’d like to see you about. That is, if you’re not too busy,” said Slack, standing in the open doorway.
“Sure, Mr. Slack. What’s the problem?”
“We had better go into the office,” he said. He turned and Franny followed him, taking a seat in the plain wooden visitor’s chair. She watched as he seated himself in his creaky old swivel chair, rubbed his long nose with his flat fingers, and pushed his glasses up where they belonged. He sucked his wrinkled cheeks in, popped his top denture loose, and shoved it back in place with his tongue. It made a satisfying click.
“What’s the problem, Mr. Slack?” repeated Franny, growing impatient. She wanted to get back to those invoices.
“You know perfectly well, Franny. These figures don’t match up,” said the old man, pointing to the ledgers on his desk. She could see that he was very angry. Each papery cheek had a bright red spot the size of a quarter, and the wattles under his chin were shaking.
“I know,” agreed Franny, relieved that he’d brought up the subject. “The cash is short by a hundred and forty dollars, and the inventory is off, too.”
“Do you have any explanation?” The old man’s blue eyes may have faded some, but he could still work up a pretty nasty stare through those wire-rims.
“I think it’s shrinkage, sir,” she answered. “Someone’s stealing from the store.”
“And who might that person be?” Slack was really mad now; Franny could hear his dentures clicking furiously.
She hesitated before answering. She was sure Ben was the thief, but she was reluctant to accuse the boy.
“I don’t know,” she mumbled.
“Well, I do. And Franny, I expect complete restitution by Friday, or your position here will be terminated!”
Franny felt as if she’d been kicked in the stomach. Too shocked to speak, she felt her eyes filling with tears.
“I will not tolerate thievery!” The old man pounded on his desk with his fist, making her jump. He was truly in a state, and Franny was afraid he might have a stroke or a heart attack. She decided the best thing to do would be to leave him alone to calm down, so she crept back to the cash register.
“After all these years, how could he think she was a thief?” she fumed, angrily brushing away the tears that wouldn’t stop coming. If anything, he’d been stealing from her. She’d been working in the hardware store for fifteen years, and always at minimum wage. You would have thought it would break him, the way he carried on when Congress raised it to four twenty- five.
It was painfully clear that she’d stayed too long in Slack’s musty old store, allowing a temporary job to become permanent. She’d always meant to look for something that paid better, but she’d kept putting it off. Too lazy. Too afraid of the probing questions an interviewer might ask. And, she admitted to herself, she enjoyed being in the center of town and chatting with the customers. Business was never exactly brisk, but it was steady, and she never felt rushed or pressured the way the girls who worked in the mall did.
She heard the old man shuffling around in his office and glanced at the clock. It was noon. He soon appeared, carefully setting his ancient straw Panama on his head and straightening his jacket.
“Don’t forget what I told you, Franny,” he warned as he struggled with the door.
Franny involuntarily held her breath as the door finally gave way, only to slam shut, barely missing his heels. It would serve him right, she thought, if it did catch him. The door had warped years ago, but he’d stubbornly refused to hire a carpenter to fix it. She watched as he marched stiffly past the plate glass windows. An upright Yankee businessman. A cheapskate.
“What am I going to do?” she asked herself. She had to straighten it out as soon as possible; she didn’t want to lose her job. What if he started talking about her, bad-mouthing her all over town? Who’d hire her then?
A tap on the glass door roused her from her thoughts, and she smiled weakly at Fred Earle, the postman. He pushed the day’s mail through the slot and gave a friendly wave before going on to the next store. Franny picked up the assortment of bills and advertisements and began sorting them. One catalog caught her eye; it was for security equipment.
As she looked through the pages featuring motion sensors and video cameras, an idea began to take shape in her mind. It was only Tuesday, and she had until Friday. Perhaps she could catch Ben shoplifting on videotape and give Mr. Slack the evidence he needed. She knew just where she could get a video camera. Lucy Stone had one, and she lent it to anyone who asked.
A video was the answer.
Franny straightened her shoulders; her eyes gleamed with excitement. She’d show them. Franny Small was going to fight back.
4
Little ones are encouraged to nap before the performance.
Returning home, Lucy was surprised by the sense of relief she felt. It was probably some sort of nesting instinct gone haywire, but lately every time she left home she couldn’t wait to return. The sturdy old farmhouse had always been a source of comfort to her, and she and Bill had worked hard to make it attractive, but never before had she felt so attached to it.
I’m getting to be like a turtle, she thought, wanting to carry my house on my back. Instead, when she’d left that morning she had stuffed the loose knob from the newel post in her bag.
“Whatever could I have been thinking?” she wondered as she replaced it. The house was unusually quiet; today she could enjoy the rare luxury of having it all to herself. Bill was at work, Toby and Elizabeth were at school, and four-year-old Sara was playing at a friend’s house.
The baby inside her gave a kick and she laughed. Don’t worry, I didn’t forget you. What’ll we have for lunch, kiddo?
Rummaging in the refrigerator, Lucy resolved to eat a healthful, well-balanced meal of moderate portions. She pulled out a bowl of leftover spaghetti, sprinkled it with parmesan cheese, and began eating it cold. When that was finished, she made herself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, then rounded off her meal with a handful of chocolate-chip cookies and an enormous glass of milk.
Feeling rather drowsy, she lumbered off to the couch in the family room so she could put her feet up for a little while. She resolutely set aside the mystery she was reading and dutifully opened the latest book on painless childbirth, but she found she couldn’t concentrate. The slim volume soon slipped from her fingers as she drifted off to sleep.
Her sleep was not peaceful, however, but filled with disturbing dreams. In one dream she was lying on the same couch, but the newborn baby was at her side. Her attention was drawn to the ceiling, where she was horrified to see light fixtures sprouting like flowers in a time-lapse film. She had a dreadful sense that things were out of control. She had to get rid of the extra chandeliers that were growing constantly larger, taking up more and more space, but she didn’t know what to do.
The scene suddenly shifted and she found herself standing in the nursery doorway. Flames flickered around the crib of her neatly swaddled child. She snatched the little bundle up and held it tightly against her breast, overwhelmed with relief that her baby was safe.
Without warning, she was perched on a high bridge, where the infant inexplicably slipped from her arms and drifted slowly away from her through the air. The white receiving blanket unfurled and floated away, baring the baby’s tiny arms and legs. She stood watching, arms outstretched, as the naked infant continued a slow descent toward the river beneath the bridge.
At first the river was only a thin, shiny ribbon of silver, but it grew wider as the baby fell closer. When the tiny body finally met the water, there was a huge slow-motion splash
as it disappeared, the entry point marked only by a spreading circle of ripples.
Unable to turn away, she watched until a white shape rose slowly from the depths to remain floating a few inches beneath the surface of the water. The features gradually became clear. They were not those of her baby. It was the round, wrinkled face of Caroline Hutton.
Lucy woke with a start, horrified to see she’d slept for more than two hours. She heard the childish voices of Toby and Elizabeth, home from school—arguing, as usual. She staggered into the kitchen to greet them, still groggy.
Brother and sister were too busy shoving each other away from the cookie jar to notice her, but they stopped struggling when they heard her voice.
“How was school?” she asked, filling the water kettle.
“Okay,” mumbled Toby, his mouth full of cookies. His growing body seemed to require constant refueling.
“Do you have much homework?”
“Are you kidding? School’s almost over. Today we watched a video.”
“All day?”
“Almost. We had art and gym and stuff.”
“Oh. How about you, Elizabeth?”
“I helped Mrs. Wright clean out the closets.”
Eight-year-old Elizabeth, Lucy knew, was helpful and competent.
“Where’s Sara?” asked Elizabeth. “Don’t we have a dance rehearsal?”
“She’s over at Jenn’s. Mrs. Baker’s bringing them both to the rehearsal. You’d better start getting ready. We have to leave in a few minutes.”
Lucy rubbed her eyes, made a cup of hot decaf, and asked herself for the umpteenth time if the pregnancy was a mistake. After all, she and Bill were lucky to have three healthy children.
And until she had to quit her job answering the night phones at Country Cousins, they’d been financially secure. Now she had less money, less energy, less patience, less everything.
Well, not quite less of everything, she admitted, gently scratching the itchy, tightly stretched skin over her enlarged tummy.
Despite her long list of complaints, Doc Ryder kept reassuring her that she was exceptionally healthy. He dismissed heartburn, backache, shortness of breath, exhaustion, and swollen feet with a wave of his hand and advised her to remain active.
“Don’t be afraid to exercise,” he told her. “Your grandmother probably plowed the back forty before lunch, had the baby, and plowed the front forty before cooking supper.”
Lucy blinked, remembering a stately, buxom matron who never left the house without her hat and gloves. “My grandmother did no such thing and you know it,” she hissed. “She stayed in the hospital for two weeks and was waited on hand and foot.”
“Most of my mothers only stay for twenty-four hours after delivery,” said the doctor. “They can’t wait to get home.”
“At seven hundred dollars a day, who can blame them?” Lucy remembered snapping at him. Setting her empty cup in the sink, she called Elizabeth.
“Mom, I have to have my hair in a bun,” the little girl informed her. “Tatiana said so.”
Lucy knew better than to risk disobeying the temperamental dance instructor, so she meekly brushed Elizabeth’s silky blond hair and twisted it into a sloppy bun that ended up being more bobby pins than hair.
“That’s the best I can do,” she told Elizabeth. “We’ve got to go or we’ll be late. C’mon, Toby. I’ll drop you at Eddie’s house.”
The high school auditorium was a confusing whirl of activity when they arrived about twenty minutes later. Lucy paused for a moment in the doorway, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dim interior after the bright sunlight outdoors.
Tatiana, dressed in tights and leotard, her dark hair twisted into a perfect chignon, was giving directions to several teenage dancers who were sprinkling rosin on the stage. The noise, as the girls’ high-pitched voices reverberated against the painted concrete-block walls, was deafening. The rows of seats were full of mothers and their little ballerinas, all dressed in a rainbow of leotards.
Lucy was happy to see her youngest, four-year-old Sara, seated beside her best friend, Jenn, in a nearby row. Jenn’s mom, Karen Baker, waved Lucy over.
“Thanks for getting Sara dressed,” said Lucy, sliding in beside her. “How’d you get her bun so perfect? I really botched Elizabeth’s.”
“I used gel. Works like magic.”
“Oh,” said Lucy. “I wish I’d thought of that.”
“It’s your first year,” said Karen. “As long as you do exactly what Tatiana says, everything will be okay. This is the big show, you know, and she gets nervous. Did you get the pink notice?” Lucy nodded.
“Do exactly what it says. No underpants, strings tucked in, rouge and lipstick, and absolutely no bangs,” recited Karen. “Oh, and no crossed straps on the costumes, either. Have you sewn the straps on yet?”
Lucy shook her head.
“Sew them on straight,” advised Karen; then, noticing Lucy’s terrified expression, she laughed. “Honest, it’s not so bad. And it’s worth it in the end. The girls love performing.” Karen lowered her voice. “With everything that’s happened, I just hope the show goes on.”
“What do you mean?”
“I heard Tatiana’s real upset about that woman who disappeared—Caroline Hutton. Tatiana was her student, you know.” Karen nodded sagely. “So far, everything’s gone smoothly today. Keep your fingers crossed. There they go.”
The mothers watched as the ballerinas took their places backstage and the rehearsal began. As the notes of a Viennese waltz swirled through the auditorium, Lucy watched the little dancers perform. She was impressed. Although she’d been dropping the girls off for Saturday rehearsals for several weeks, this was the first time she’d seen what they were doing. It was an ambitious show, and although the rehearsal was rough in spots, Lucy could see it was going to be a success.
The older girls were amazing, she thought, up on their toes, leaping and turning, their faces taut with concentration. Their efforts made Lucy appreciate how difficult ballet really is, especially the toe work. She was awestruck at the discipline and hard work these girls had invested in years of lessons and practice.
The music ended in a crescendo, all the dancers were assembled for the finale, and Tatiana began bringing each group forward to rehearse their curtsies. When the three high school girls who were Tatiana’s star students finally stood alone center-stage, Lucy found herself applauding them furiously. Feeling tears pricking her eyes, she blinked hard, trying to hold them back.
“Never mind. It always gets me, too,” Karen confided, handing her a tissue. “Come on, we have to go around backstage to get the girls.”
Lucy followed her through a maze of hallways, finally locating her daughters in a cluster of other small ballerinas.
“You were perfect,” she told them. “I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.” Shepherding them through the crowd, Lucy resolved to study the pink notice very carefully.
Pulling into the driveway a few minutes later, she was horrified to discover it was almost five-thirty and she hadn’t given a thought to dinner. She was taking a package of hamburgers out of the freezer when she heard the crunch of tires on the gravel driveway. Bill was home.
“Hi,” she said as he came in, letting the screen door slam behind him. Noticing his flushed face, she asked, “Tough day?”
“Hot. I was putting down roofing.”
“Why don’t you take a quick shower? I’ll have some burgers ready in a minute.”
“Burgers, again?” he complained, pulling a can of beer out of the refrigerator.
“How about a Coke?” suggested Lucy.
“What do you mean?” he growled. “I worked hard all day and I want a beer. Got a problem with that?”
“I don’t,” said Lucy, awkwardly bending to pick up Mac, their large black tomcat, who had wandered into the kitchen, attracted by the aroma of cooking meat. She opened the door and gently tossed him outside. “Don’t forget you’re coaching tonight.”
“Oh,” he groaned, collapsing heavily onto a pressed-oak chair. “I forgot. Oh, what the hell,” he shrugged, popping the tab. “I’ve been looking forward to this beer all afternoon.” “Fine example you are. For our youth, I mean,” said Lucy, gently brushing a lock of hair off his forehead.
Bill pulled her onto his lap. “I’m a good guy. I come home every night, don’t I? I give you my checks. I help with the kids. What do you want?” There was a tone of self-pity in his voice that Lucy hadn’t heard before.
“I’ve got everything I want,” she said, standing up and kissing the top of his head. “But I better get those burgers cooked or you’ll be late for the game.”
“You know, Lucy, I remember when dinner was a special part of the day. We used to eat with forks.”
“I remember that, too,” said Lucy, flipping the hamburgers. “The kids were younger then. That was before ballet lessons and Little League.”
“How about tomorrow? Could we have mashed potatoes and gravy?”
“No.” Lucy shook her head sadly.
“Why not?”
“Awards Night at the school. Toby’s getting a perfect-attendance award.”
“No kidding,” said Bill, taking a pull on his beer.
“Supper,” called Lucy. “Come and get it!”
As the three children seated themselves at the table, Lucy passed around the hamburgers and a plate of carrot sticks. Toby, dressed in his baseball uniform, reached for the ketchup. The girls waited their turns impatiently.
“I kind of like these simple suppers,” admitted Lucy. “The kids never ate the cooked vegetables anyway. I think they like this better.”
“I guess,” said Bill, taking an enormous bite. “So, how was your day?”
“About usual,” answered Lucy, thinking guiltily of the hours she’d spent napping on the couch while Bill was hammering down asphalt shingles in the hot sun. “Everybody’s still talking about Caroline Hutton. Why do you think she disappeared?”
