Writing a Wrong

by Betty Hechtman

‘I was just going to order a pizza,’ Quentin said. ‘How about I order one for you two as well? It’s the least I can do after what you both have done for us.’

  After agreeing to the offer, Ben and I went up to my place. I hoped that Sara understood that this didn’t change what I’d told her earlier. I wasn’t trying to lasso her brother, who’d made it abundantly clear he didn’t want any entanglements.

  Rocky came to the door when we walked in. He really liked Ben and followed him into the living room and jumped on the couch to be next to him. ‘He remembers that you were the one looking out for his needs when I first brought him home,’ I said.

  Ben’s face softened as he reached out to stroke the cat’s back. ‘Just doing my job, buddy,’ he said to the cat. Then he looked up at me. ‘So how should we do this? Do you want to go first, or should I?’ He held out the sheaf of pages.

  I could tell he was tense and I knew where he was coming from. Showing your work to someone was always nerve-wracking, even for me now. I always felt a knot in my stomach when I gave a client some copy to look over. When I offered him the first spot, he seemed relieved and I gathered he wanted to get it over with.

  ‘I’m not sure how the group will react to this scene, particularly Ed. He might think I made the cop look soft. I wanted to see what you thought first. Be kind,’ he said with a worried smile.

  Now I was curious, and I quickly read them over. The scene had his character driving through a rundown area on a cold winter’s night. He was looking for someone and I assumed it was a suspect for a robbery or some other crime. When he saw who he had been hunting for, he pulled his cruiser to the curb. I expected the cop to get out with handcuffs jangling and do his usual tough talk, but instead Ben had described him approaching a homeless man. He was described as bone thin with nothing to protect him from the frigid night but a raggedy coat and shoes worn thin. There was some dialogue where the cop tried to get the man to go to a shelter, but the man was clearly mentally ill and too paranoid to take the offer of help. The cop finally gave up, and went back to his cruiser, returning with a coat, a pair of shoes and a bag of food. He helped the man take off his ratty coat and put on the new warmer one. He did the same with the shoes. He unloaded the bag of food and unwrapped a sandwich for him. The man looked up at him and for a moment they connect, not cop and homeless man, but as just two humans out on the street on a cold night. As a last gesture, the cop tucks a twenty into the man’s pocket before letting out a heavy sigh and going back to his cruiser.

  I was stunned. It was as if everything the group and I had been saying to him had finally gotten through to him. All along his cop character had spoken in short sentences and seemed more robot than person. In these pages, he’d given him dimension – he had given him a heart. Ben had put in descriptions like: There was a desolate feeling to the dark street in a neglected neighborhood bypassed by everyone who had someplace else to go. Windblown plastic grocery bags hung like sad decorations from the bare branches of a lonely tree. Desperate creatures skittered amongst the abandoned fast-food wrappings and empty bottles that languished in the gutter. It felt so real and I teared up at the kindness of the cop. It was so different than everything else he’d brought to the group; those pieces had always seemed brittle and cold.

  ‘I don’t know what to say.’ I looked up from the papers on my lap.

  He looked stricken and reached to grab them back. ‘I knew it was a mistake. I should have kept on the way I was going.’

  I put my hand on his to stop him from taking the papers. ‘You misunderstood. I don’t know what to say because what you wrote is wonderful. It’s full of life, touching. Frankly, your character always seemed like a kind of jerk. This changed everything. Now the reader will know there is something simmering beneath the surface. You put in such great detail. It was absolutely poetic.’ I looked at his face. His brow was furrowed and he seemed unglued as he ran hands through his dark hair nervously.

  ‘Poetic, me?’ he said with an uneasy laugh. ‘The best I’ve ever done is roses are red, violets are blue.’

  ‘It’s a different kind of poetic,’ I said. ‘I was just wondering – was it based on a real experience?’

  He took a couple of heavy breaths. ‘It was a buddy,’ he began. He stopped and seemed to be having an internal argument. ‘I can’t believe that I said that. I can’t lie – it was me. You don’t think it makes me, er, him, seem soft?’ he asked.

  ‘No. It makes both of you seem like you have hearts.’ He didn’t seem to know what to do with what I said and seemed relieved when there was a knock on the door.

  ‘Pizza delivery,’ Quentin said when I opened the door. He was so different than his wife. She would have looked inside, trying to figure out what was going on. He just handed over the pizza and a couple of bottles of beer, thanked us again and told us to enjoy.

  ‘You get both the beers,’ I said, handing them to him.

  ‘Thanks,’ Ben said, uncapping one. ‘And about what you said. I know I said to be kind, but really you know you don’t have to sugarcoat anything to protect my feelings. If you think it’s too mushy, I can change it.’

  ‘I wasn’t being kind,’ I said. ‘I was being honest. It was your best work ever and you should share it with the group.’ I put the pizza box on the coffee table. It came with paper plates and utensils.

  He still appeared a little overwhelmed with the praise and seemed anxious to get the spotlight off of himself. ‘OK, now it’s your turn,’ he said.

  ‘Why don’t you dig in,’ I said opening the pizza box.

  ‘No. You tell me whatever you have and then we can both relax and eat. Maybe you’ll even have some beer,’ he said with a smile.

  ‘Nope, they’re all yours,’ I said. ‘And now for what I wanted to talk to you about.’ I told him the whole story. What Laurel had said and how I felt about having written the letters she’d gotten.

  ‘Whew,’ he said, blowing out his breath when I was through. ‘That guy was a worse slime than I thought. But there’s no way you could have known what he was doing with the letters he hired you to write.’

  ‘Do I tell that detective about what Laurel told me? It makes her a suspect, and her nephew. She said he was protective of her. But they’re clients of mine. I don’t want to stir something up if they’re innocent.’ I’d gotten up by now and was walking around the room thinking. ‘I know you aren’t going to approve since you’re a cop, but I think the only thing I can do is keep poking around until I find out who killed Ted.’ I reminded him that there was another recipient of the letters I’d written after Ted had broken up with Laurel.

  Ben thought about it. ‘I see your point.’ He looked around, as if to see if anyone was listening. ‘But don’t tell anyone I said that.’ He took a slug of the beer. ‘But you really should stay out of it. If that detective found out, it might make him take another look at you as a suspect. I told you cops don’t like civilians mucking around in their business.’

  ‘He won’t find out. Well, until I move in on the guilty party,’ I said.

  ‘I can’t stop you anyway, can I?’ I shook my head as an answer. ‘Just remember I’m here if you need me,’ he said. ‘And now let’s eat.’

  Friday morning I was at Zooey’s coffee stand bright and early. I was after coffee and information. As before, there was a throng of impatient students and faculty hanging by the counter, grabbing a cup of coffee before class. I waited until the place cleared. ‘You really ought to give this place a name,’ I said. ‘Why not call it what it is: A Cup of Joe?’

  ‘What does that mean anyway?’ she said.

  Thank heavens for smartphones. I typed it in and had an answer the next moment. I told her that the term came from the Secretary of the Navy in 1914 whose nickname was Joe. He banned alcohol on the ships and the strongest drink allowed was a cup of coffee. The sailors started calling it a cup of Joe.

  She shook her head, ‘I was thinking of something more personal, like calling it Coffee by the
Cup by Zooey.’ I pointed out the two bys made it awkward and suggested Zooey’s Coffee by the Cup. She liked it and wanted to let it germinate in her mind for a few days. ‘I have more than coffee drinks,’ she said.

  She brewed up a cup of her own blend and – probably to prove her point – made me a tea drink called Lost in the Fog. I scribbled down notes as I tasted the drinks. I commented again on how smooth all of her coffees tasted and she smiled. ‘That’s because I add my secret tweak,’ she said. She didn’t want to share what it was, so I changed the subject to the death in her building.

  ‘Have the cops figured out who did it?’ I asked.

  She rocked her head with annoyance and made a face. ‘The word is that they can’t decide if it was a burglary gone wrong or he was actually targeted. Either way, the manager sent around a note warning the tenants not to let anyone tag along when they went through the security door and no more keys left in flowerpots or umbrellas in front of apartment doors. Lois – she’s the onsite manager – will hold spare keys. Of course, there was no word about adding some security cameras.’

  Lois must have been the woman I saw Detective Jankowski talking with when I’d gone to see what name was on the apartment number Ted had given when he rented the post-office box. The people at the playground had mentioned the name as well. And what was it they’d said about Rita’s samples? As I remembered, I brought it up to Zooey.

  ‘It’s true, she does sell acne medicine, but she has other stuff, too,’ Zooey said.

  A couple of students rushed up asking for whatever was quickest. She filled two cups from an air pot and pushed them across the counter. As I watched her moving around the place, I thought of Ben’s assessment that she could have been the burglar. She’d just given away that she knew about Rita’s drug samples beyond the acne medicine. But the fact she had drug samples seemed to be common knowledge, judging by the pair I’d heard at the playground. I wondered what Lois had to say about the whole thing. I was definitely going to find a way to talk to her. Just not now.

  I left the coffee place and started down 57th Street on my way to LaPorte’s. It had already been arranged for me to go there and do more tastings. The sky was a gloomy metal-gray, and with the low light and no shadows it was easy to let everything blend into the background as I walked to LaPorte’s. I thought back to the night before. I understood now what Sara kept trying to tell me about Ben. There was a whole lot more than I’d realized under that cop-face surface. She might be right that he was worth the effort to get past it, but he had to want it. And the way Ben had pushed me away after the few minutes of closeness in that stupid slow dance, he was staying locked in the castle with the drawbridge up.

  Funny how he’d been fine talking about motives in Ted’s death. Crime was comfortable to deal with, but not getting past his divorce. The conclusion we’d come to was that there were a number of possible motives for Ted’s death. Different motives pointed to different suspects.

  He was living with Rita and it seemed as though she was paying the bills. He wasn’t working much, according to the charter company woman, and after what he’d tried to pull with Laurel, it seemed likely he’d hit on Rita for money too. I knew for a fact that he’d had at least one other woman while he was living with Rita. What if she found out?

  But if it had been a burglary, was it random or someone who knew what was there? It seemed as if more than Zooey knew about the drug samples. What if it wasn’t exactly a burglary? What if someone was looking for something in particular? Like what? I shrugged off the thought as I turned on to 53rd Street and joined the parade of foot traffic.

  I checked out a blank wall near the windows as I walked into LaPorte’s. I’d had an idea and emailed it to Rex. Why not put a photo mural of pictures from the bakery and café’s history along with a blow-up of the family’s story? Once the layout was designed, it could be put in the new stores as well. He was all for the idea and wanted me to write a special version for it.

  I was glad to see Irma was behind the counter since she knew why I was there. Even so I waited my turn in line.

  While I was waiting, Cocoa came from the back carrying a large cake box. I was going to wave a greeting at her, but she seemed distracted and appeared rather grim as she presented the customer with the box. She returned from where she’d come with no notice of anything.

  I finally advanced to the counter. Irma’s face lit with recognition and she was about to say something, when I saw her look toward the door with amazement. ‘Oh, my,’ she said, ‘Rex isn’t going to be happy.’

  Curious as to what had gotten that response from her, I turned and saw a woman coming across the restaurant. She looked vaguely familiar and as soon as Irma spoke her name I understood why.

  ‘Jeanne, what a surprise,’ Irma said. I couldn’t tell if it was a good surprise or a bad one that Rex’s mother, the matriarch of the whole business, had just shown up. I could see the resemblance to both Rex and Cocoa in her features.

  She took a long look around the place and took in a deep breath. ‘Ah, the sweet baking smell of chocolate mint cake. It brings back memories.’ She came behind the counter, and everything in her body language said she felt like she was home.

  ‘No one said you were coming in,’ Irma said.

  Jeanne laughed. ‘That’s because they didn’t know. If I’d told Rex, he would have tried to talk me out of it. I’m tired of hearing everything secondhand about what’s going on. I wanted to see for myself.’

  Just then Cocoa came out from the back with another cake box. She had the same glum expression. Before she’d even noticed that her mother was there, Jeanne was on her case.

  ‘Honey, remember what I taught you. Our cakes are connected to happy events and no matter what your day is like, when it comes to dealing with customers, you have to smile.’

  Cocoa grunted in protest before seeming to will her face into a cheerful expression. Jeanne patted her daughter’s shoulder. ‘That’s better. You can tell me whatever’s bothering you later.’ Cocoa moved on to deliver the cake.

  Jeanne noticed me standing near the counter. ‘I’m so sorry we neglected you,’ she said, giving me a warm smile. Irma stopped her and explained what I was doing there.

  ‘It certainly sounds like a good idea, not that anybody told me about it,’ Jeanne said, sounding a little irked.

  ‘As long as you’re here, it would be great to talk to you. I’ve heard the story of how you started out, but I’m sure you have extra details,’ I said, hoping to smooth things over.

  Irma stepped in and suggested I deal with the tasting first and told me that Rex had left instructions for me to be given a platter with the remaining eight salads for me to taste.

  ‘That’s ridiculous. It’s too many to taste at once. Make it just four,’ Jeanne interjected. As an afterthought, she seemed puzzled by the number of salads and asked for a list. Irma handed her a paper menu. As Jeanne read it over, she kept shaking her head and muttering to herself something about not getting an OK from her.

  Irma leaned closer and told me to find a table and she’d bring the food. When I looked back, Jeanne was on her way into the kitchen with Irma trying to keep up with her. I found a small table near the door and took out my notebook and pen. I kept looking toward the kitchen expectantly, but time kept passing and there was no Irma. I was debating what to do when she finally came up to the table with a plate of salads and some freshly baked dinner rolls.

  ‘Sorry for the delay.’ She seemed frustrated about something and then decided to share the details. ‘I had no idea that Jeanne wasn’t in on all the additions of foods or the changes around here. She had to taste the salads before she’d let me give them to you. She nixed four of them.’ Irma rolled her eyes. ‘She’s very upset about how Rex has standardized everything. It’s not the way she likes to do things. If she says anything to you, please don’t use it in what you’re writing.’

  ‘Of course not,’ I said.

  She put the plate on the table
along with a piece of paper that had a map of the plate with each salad’s name and the ingredients. ‘Jeanne’s idea.’

  I began to taste and write down notes. The coleslaw was creamy with a hint of celery salt. The egg salad had a crunch from slivers of celery and subtle onion taste from scallions blended with mayonnaise and a dab of mustard. I jotted down balsamic vinegar dressing over fresh mozzarella and chunks of tomato in the aptly named tomato and mozzarella salad. The final salad was a puree of carrots and walnuts with honey and ginger. Middle Eastern heritage? Since I hadn’t had breakfast, I not only tasted the salads but finished them off, and all the rolls I’d used to clear my palate between salads.

  I was finishing up my notes when Jeanne came up to the table with two cups of coffee and a piece of the chocolate mint cake. Her manner made me feel as if we were at her kitchen table.

  I thanked her for the cake and coffee, explaining I’d already written up something on the cake.

  ‘Then we’ll just get it boxed for you to take home,’ she said, taking the seat across from me. When I looked at her and the piece of cake, it seemed like the perfect picture to include. After asking her if it was OK, I grabbed a couple of shots with my phone and showed them to her. I explained the plan of having a photomontage on the wall along with the story of the place.

  ‘That sounds wonderful,’ she said. She picked up my phone and examined the picture I’d taken. ‘I like your thinking,’ she said. ‘Casual shots like this are better than something staged. The whole feeling I’ve wanted for this place is that it was like you stopped at a friend’s place.’ She started to tell me about the start of the business. It was basically the same story I’d heard about her baking cakes from her kitchen, but she added an element of emotion that I hadn’t heard before. Her husband had died shortly after she moved to the storefront and she didn’t know if she’d be able to manage. ‘But somehow I did,’ she said brightly. ‘This cake was the start of it all. Other bakeries have tried to make it, but it’s never quite the same. They don’t know my secret to the taste. That recipe is the key to the castle. It still took a lot of hard work. I was lucky to have Irma and my kids to help out, but the buck always stopped with me.’