by Jaime Maddox
Sandy gave the trooper the names of her cousins, the older ones. She knew most of the younger ones, too, could recognize them in the grocery store and carry on a conversation, but she didn’t know details like addresses and phone numbers and who owned rifles and wanted her dead.
As she buried her head in her hands, Officer Beers asked the same question of Pat. Sandy trembled as she heard the conviction in her voice. “I can get you a list of everyone I’ve ever arrested, but it would be a waste of your time and mine. This guy was aiming at Sandy and hit her square in the back, twice.”
Pat jumped from her chair and retrieved the backpack, showing the officers the bullet holes marring the canvas. When they unzipped it, they found four holes in an ice bucket filled with glass, and two markedly deformed bullets lodged in the cheese board Sandy had used to serve their picnic.
Sandy studied the remains of their picnic as Pat placed them carefully on her table, as if these pieces might help solve the puzzle. But the plastic bags and storage containers held no answers, just the remains of a breakfast that had been the start of a wonderful day. That magnificent morning had certainly taken a very bad turn.
Just then another officer appeared in the doorway. After nodding to acknowledge Sandy and Pat, he addressed Officer Beers. “It looks like he fired from the tree house across the meadow over there.” He pointed back out the door. “We didn’t find any shell casings, but the dust on the floor has been disturbed. There’s a window with a clear line of sight to the front porch.” Angie’s tree house was visible from the front porch so Sandy and Diane could keep an eye on their daughter. “There’s also some brush disturbed in the woods past the tree house. It looks like he probably came that way. It’s about a hundred yards from there to the driveway if you cut straight through.” Sandy’s property was totally wooded on all four sides, and the drive leading to the clearing and the cabin snaked through mature forest to the state road. If the shooter hadn’t parked on her drive, he would have had a long hike through the woods to get to the closest road. Or to the Davis land, which bordered her property, coincidently, to the south, the same direction as the road.
Trooper Beers acknowledged his colleague’s revelation, and after assuring that proper evidentiary proceedings were under way, he dismissed the man. Clearly, though, the interview with Sandy and Pat was over. After getting contact information and suggesting that they abandon the cabin immediately, the officers readied themselves to leave. Pat asked them to stay for a few minutes longer so she and Sandy could pack. Neither of them welcomed the solitude of the cabin now, and they wanted to be on their way before the police presence was gone.
Not feeling capable of driving but knowing she had to, just ten minutes later Sandy found herself behind the wheel of her Mercedes and heading east.
Without knowing who had fired that shot, the police had suggested that Sandy and Pat not go back to their homes in New York City. Instead Sandy followed Pat, who was leading her to her sister’s home in Hazlet, New Jersey. Pat’s sister, a teacher, had just left town for her annual family summer vacation, a month-long adventure to Maine. Pat had the keys to a house that was completely off the radar. Unless the CIA was hunting her down, Sandy would be safe in Hazlet. The trauma of the shooting had left her feeling anxious, though, and she worried about having to spend time with Pat. She would have preferred the solitude of her own apartment, but she realized the wisdom in the police officer’s advice. She brushed aside her concern about Pat in favor of the pleasant thought of a safe harbor.
Forty-eight hours into her exile, she couldn’t brush aside her concern any longer. Stress had frayed her nerves, and her energy was taxed by the attempts to control her anxiety, leaving her little left with which to banter with Pat. And Pat required tons of energy. Constantly in motion—talking, debating, humming—Pat was exhausting to be around. At full strength herself, she could handle Pat, but in her weakened mental condition Sandy found her unbearable. With the diversions of golf and the theater, dinner and shopping, they were able to keep a conversation going that stimulated and entertained both of them. Under the strain of the attack, though, the weak foundation of their relationship was crumbling.
Sandy marveled that Pat seemed so calm. Did her police training allow her to process this attack with negligible evidence of emotional impact? Or did her belief that Sandy was the target allow her to keep her composure? Sandy supposed it would be easier to witness an attack six inches from your nose than to take the bullets yourself, but still—shouldn’t Pat feel something?
Pat’s sister’s house was comfortable, a three-bedroom ranch with a spacious deck overlooking a tree-lined backyard. Under normal circumstances Sandy might have found a visit there pleasant. The neighbors were visible but quiet, save for a dog who seemed to be as anxious as Sandy on this early June weekend. Saturday had dragged by, but they filled the time with old movies and then dinner on the grill. By Sunday afternoon, though, Sandy needed a diversion. She had clearly shown her priorities to be in order while packing for the impromptu trip to New Jersey—she forgot her reading glasses and her iPad, but she remembered her golf clubs. The weather was in their favor, and there seemed to be no lingering injuries from the shooting, so in the early afternoon they headed out to the links.
Even whacking a little white ball with a club did nothing to alleviate her stress level. On Monday morning, after Pat left the New Jersey house to return to her apartment and office in Brooklyn, Sandy packed her car and headed back to Washington Square. Fuck the police warnings, she thought. She imagined death by bullet more appealing than death by anxiety.
The trip back to the city was easy, and within an hour she found herself pulling her apartment keys from the glove box. What were the odds the gunman would follow her here? If he was truly one of the Davis clan, it would be easy enough to find her address in New York. And it had to be one of them, she reasoned. No one else in the world had a reason for wanting her dead. What were the odds he would try again to kill her, with the police now involved in the shooting incident? Sandy was sure the killer would retreat now that an investigation was under way.
Her physical injuries were nearly resolved, with nothing more than a little stiffness in her neck to prove the ordeal she’d been through. Her mental status was another story, though. She’d barely slept in the two nights since she’d been attacked, and she’d jumped at every creak and moan of the floorboards and air-conditioning unit. Back in her own house, she wanted nothing more than to set her alarm and crawl into bed with a good book and her heating pad.
As she exited the elevator and approached her door, keys in one hand and her overnight bag in the other, she stopped at a sound coming from within her apartment. Heart racing, she eyed the floor, hoping to detect a shadow moving beneath the door. Her ears strained and she heard the noise again, and then she suddenly grew weak with relief in recognizing the noise. It was the sound of Leo’s stuffed giraffe. Angie was probably there checking on things since Sandy hadn’t been there in a few days.
Even though she was relieved, Sandy’s hands were still trembling when she keyed the lock and opened the door. It wasn’t until she hugged her daughter and held her grandson that a calm began to settle into her bones.
During the short commute from Hazlet, Sandy had debated telling Angie about her ordeal. She’d planned to stay in the Poconos through the week, so she’d have to come up with some explanation to appease her daughter’s curiosity at her unexpected return. It wasn’t until she saw them both, her daughter and grandson, that she decided she couldn’t not share this trauma with Angie.
At first irate that Sandy hadn’t called two days earlier, Angie’s anger dissolved into concern, first about her injuries and then about the shooting. “Mom, what are you doing here? What if the guy tries again?”
Sandy rolled her eyes impatiently. She was exhausted. She hadn’t slept well in three nights, she’d been shot at and forced to flee one of the only places in the world she felt the most safe, and now her daughte
r was telling her to leave the other. “At least come stay with us! Leo will love it. And I won’t be able to rest if I’m worried about you. You’re my mom, I need you, I love you, and I can’t lose you.” Angie’s passionate plea was too much to ignore, and a few minutes later Sandy found herself with yet another suitcase in hand as she locked the door to her apartment and followed Angie and Leo a few blocks to theirs.
As was Sandy’s, the building that housed Angie’s apartment was owned by Tilbury Realty, the company Sandy had founded in the 1970s to manage her real-estate investments. Years earlier, when their very independent daughter had expressed her desire to move into her own apartment, Sandy and Diane had moved Angie into one in this building. A few years later, when the adjacent apartment’s tenant gave up the lease, they took advantage of the opportunity and converted the units into one very spacious apartment they knew Angie would be able to grow into. It was complete with a large kitchen, formal dining area (now used as a playroom), living room, two full baths, and three bedrooms. After navigating the baby’s highchair, play yard and toys, Sandy deposited her bag in the room that would be hers for the foreseeable future.
“I have your mail,” Angie announced as she returned to the kitchen. An old-fashioned Mr. Coffee was brewing, and the wonderful aroma was comforting as Sandy began to sort mindlessly through the pile her daughter had retrieved from Leo’s stroller. Leo was obsessed with a toy and Angie began chopping vegetables in preparation of an omelet. Sandy knew better than to offer assistance. As capable as she was in just about every other sphere of her life, in the kitchen, if it could break, spill, or burn, Sandy would find a way to make it happen. Angie, on the other hand, was a fabulous cook.
After tossing the junk mail aside, she came to a padded mailer. Photographs: Do Not Bend was boldly written in red in several places on both sides, with Danny Parker’s name and address in the upper left corner. He must have mailed these photos the day after he’d seen Sandy for her to have received them already.
“Hey, in all the excitement, I forgot to tell you about your cousin Danny!” Sandy said, as her eyes met Angie’s.
Of course Angie was curious about any relatives, having so few. Being adopted, she knew nothing about her birth parents. Not that Sandy and Diane had kept it from her; there just wasn’t any information. Her mom had been destitute and living in shelters, with no known family, when she had become too ill to care for her. No father was listed on Angie’s birth certificate. Diane’s family had disowned her when she came out to them. Angie had never met a single one of those relatives. She knew the Davis side of Sandy’s family because she spent so much of her time in the Poconos, and she was close with a few of her cousins who were the same age. They had played together as children and grew up together, and some had even visited in New York. Angie still kept close ties with her favorites.
The Parkers were a big mystery, though. Sandy had shared all of her remote family history with Angie, about the formation of the coal company and the colorful and exciting lives her ancestors had lived. She’d offered no information about herself and why she’d left after Agnes and no longer kept contact with her family. Other than Nellie, Sandy hadn’t acknowledged another living relative in all of her conversations with Angie. But Angie knew there were still Parkers in Pennsylvania and was quite curious about them. So it was with eyes wide open that she asked for details. “Another Dan Parker? What number is this? What made you go back there?” she asked.
As they ate, Sandy explained her impulsive decision to stop at Parker Lumber after eating breakfast, just as she had done with her grandfather as a child. Sandy pulled out a pile of 5x7 photographs and a handwritten note from Danny.
Found these extra treasures in the company archives, hope you enjoy them. I’m planning to be in New York next weekend (Sat. 18th), and if you’re still interested I’d love to meet you for lunch or a drink or both! XOXO Danny.
They consumed their omelets in leisurely bites between a discussion of the pictures. With Angie seated beside her, Sandy lifted the first. It showed a man, dirt-covered, at the entrance to a mine shaft. The wooden brace above the tunnel read Parker #18. He casually leaned against a gravity railcar and smiled for the camera. Sandy had never seen this photograph; perhaps it had been in safekeeping somewhere. Before even turning it over, she knew what the caption on the back would read. Daniel Trevor Parker, founder of Parker Mining Company, Plymouth, PA, 1840.
Apparently the Parker patriarch wasn’t afraid to get his hands dirty. The mines had opened in 1807, the coal dug and transported by wagon and later gravity rail to the Susquehanna, where it was loaded onto specially designed boats that carried the heavy weight over the shallow areas of the Susquehanna. By the time this photo was taken, the man in the picture was a millionaire, yet he was still working beside the laborers.
An involuntary gasp escaped her lips as she uncovered the next photo. Her hand reflexively flew to her mouth and her eyes filled with tears as she looked at another man, bearing a strong resemblance to the first, standing beside a woman and a young girl and boy on the grand steps of the house at One Canal Street. “Oh, my God, Angie—this is my house.” It took a moment for her to compose herself, to control her emotions. She had forgotten the stress of nearly four days in Pat’s company, had forgotten that she’d been shot. She was simply overwhelmed with emotion to once again see the first home she’d ever known. It was the setting of a perfect childhood, of all the memories of her grandfather. Of all the memories of Jeannie.
Angie studied the photo, not concentrating on the people so much as the magnificent structure behind them. “Jesus, Mom, it looks like a museum! These steps, the columns, it’s just massive. This was your house?”
Sandy nodded her head. “Yeah, it was! Can you believe I thought this was normal? There were a quite a few coal mansions around the Wyoming Valley, so I really didn’t think anything of it. But it was a great house. It was big, with lots of rooms and hidden passageways, and all kinds of cool things like pocket doors and stained glass and a balcony. As a kid I could explore the place all day long and never grow bored.” Angie asked her questions and Sandy answered, telling about her house and her life there, her grandparents, and just a little bit about Jeannie. She flipped the picture over and read the caption. “Daniel T. “Bear” Parker III, Madeline Lamoreaux Parker, Daniel T. Parker IV, Eloise Parker at One Canal Street, W. Nanticoke, 1880.”
Sandy knew the canal had been built in the 1830s, to help the coal boats through the shallow waters, and from his front porch her great-great-grandfather could monitor the flow of coal down the Susquehanna. The lock operator signaled with a bell that rang in the Parker house, and it was actually Madeline who monitored the boats navigating the canal. Lunches sent to the operator and handsome tips guaranteed Parker boats preferential access to the canals over those of competing coal companies.
She turned the picture over once more and stared at it again. What a treasure this picture was indeed.
The next photo in the stack was yet another she’d never seen, although she recognized all the faces. Her grandfather, his older brothers Dan and Dale, and his father Dan “Cowboy” Parker were positioned side by side, each of them palming the new pocket watches they had been given in celebration of the hundredth anniversary of the Parker Coal Company.
Sandy studied this photo, unsure why, but again with a nagging feeling that she had missed something important the past Thursday when she traveled to West Nanticoke. Was it about that watch Robbie had shown her? The answer she sought eluded her. It would come, though. It just needed a little time.
Sandy was about to flip to the next picture in her pile when her cell phone rang. She glanced at the number and didn’t recognize it, but she knew the 570 area code meant the call was originating from a Northeastern Pennsylvania phone. The police? Could they have found the shooter? She hadn’t heard a word from them in the forty-eight hours since the shooting happened, and she was planning to call them this morning until she’d run into An
gie and gotten caught up in family history.
“I need to take this, I think it’s the police,” she informed her daughter and headed down the hallway to her bedroom, where she could have privacy.
“Hello,” she said in greeting.
“Hi, yes, I’m looking for Sandy Parker, please,” a female voice informed her.
“Yes, this is Sandy. How can I help you?”
Sandy nearly dropped the phone when the woman answered. “Hello there, old neighbor. This is Jane Bennett. I understand that you’ve been trying to get in touch with me.” Sandy didn’t recognize the voice or the attitude. Jane had never been overly friendly, had in fact been a pain in the ass to her and Jeannie for most of the fourteen years she’d lived in the house next door. But she supposed people changed, didn’t they?
She had been expecting a call from Jane’s son Bobby—not Jane—and Sandy found herself at a loss for words after the initial greeting and polite inquiries about what they’d both been doing for the last forty years. The conversation she’d had in her head with Bobby began with a basic introduction and history. He would make comments and ask questions that led to the purpose of her call.
Obviously, the discussion with Jane would need a different approach, and Sandy hadn’t had the opportunity to rehearse. Certainly she couldn’t describe her indignation about the Bennett family’s neglect of their younger daughter’s grave. Likewise, a confession of her love for Jeannie was out of the question.
She opted for simple facts. “I noticed there’s no headstone at Riverview for Jeannie. I’d like to buy her one, if that’s okay with you.”
