by J D Spero
Leaning into her embrace, he imagined it was Roxanne’s hair that tickled his face. His stomach settled somewhat.
Marcella led him inside, directly upstairs and into bed. She cleaned his face and dabbed his forehead with a cool, wet washcloth.
“My boy,” she whispered. “My boy, come back to me.”
She took off his socks. Fresh blisters throbbed when they hit the air. Fatigue overcame him, and he was nearly asleep as she covered him with his quilt.
Bernie held Ma’s hand as she took her final breath. The room was stripped of beeping machines. The tubes removed from her body. Quiet. Still.
There hadn’t been a final goodbye, she never woke up to tell him—even with her eyes—that she loved him, or how proud she was of him. The doctors and nurses let him stay there awhile, holding her hand.
He held on so tightly. His grief was so heavy he felt he’d sink into the floor.
He couldn’t let go of her hand. When he did, the world would never be the same. He’d have to learn how to live all over again without her. Things wouldn’t just look different; things would be different. All matter would transform, become undiscovered. Like artifacts. He would have to piece together a life for himself from the pieces. If he only knew where to find them.
“Ma.” The word echoed dully in the empty room. Going forward, he would only use the word to talk about her, not to her. He would never call anyone else Ma.
He could’ve been angry—at the intruders, at the world, at God. He had no room in his heart for anything but sadness. Hours passed and his tears dried. When he finally let go, the tendons in his hand ached.
Bernie went to Marcella. He sat in her kitchen, content to do nothing and say nothing. For hours.
She fed him and gave him space. At night, after all were asleep, they sat quietly side by side. In the orange glow of her kitchen, he fought to ignore the auburn highlights shimmering in her dark hair and the way her chestnut eyes softened with specks of emerald.
Was it possible she grew more beautiful after Ma’s death?
He knew how much she loved and relied on Ma. She had to be grieving, too. But Marcella surprised him.
After a healthy cry, she swung into action. She took care of him.
Over the next few days, she did so much. She set up an “in lieu of flowers” donation option that would go to the local Boys & Girls Club. When it was time plan the funeral, she wouldn’t let him go into debt.
“What would your Ma say?” she’d said. “It doesn’t matter what’s on the outside. It’s the inside that counts.”
She sold her grandmother’s curio cabinet and dining set, allowing her to cut back her hours at the diner in Ticonderoga. “We never really used it anyway,” she’d said, her voice echoing through the now-empty dining room. “Who can afford that kind of sentimentality?”
A new kind of sentimentality afforded Bernie and Marcella a new chance, as they learned later in the Law Office of Greagh & Hochman where they met to review Ma’s Last Will and Testament. Bernie assumed it was the fancy lawyer language that made it hard to understand.
It seemed Ma had set up a trust for Hen. Which meant, essentially, that Hen would be inheriting Ma’s money. Could that be true?
Marcella cleared her throat and asked for a third time, “Would you kindly say that again in laymen’s terms, if you would please?”
Lawrence Hochman seemed apologetic as he spoke. “Sally Hubbard has listed Marcella Trout as executrix and Henry Atticus Trout as sole beneficiary, with a stipulation.”
“Come again?” Bernie’s cheeks burned. He couldn’t possibly mean—
“I take it you’ve been together long enough, about seven years according to the dates referenced here. In many states, you’d be considered married under common law.”
Marcella gave a nervous laugh.
“Although legally, in New York State, that doesn’t apply, Sally Hubbard acknowledged your extended relationship as such. In regards to her Will, as long as your relationship doesn’t change, the sole beneficiary will be Henry Trout.”
“What do you mean ‘if the relationship doesn’t change?’” Bernie asked.
Mr. Hochman wore a strained smile. “In simple terms, if you two stay together, Henry Trout inherits Sally Hubbard’s assets when he turns eighteen, which amounts to $1.3 million.”
The pause that followed was thicker than Adirondack fog.
Marcella spoke in a thin voice, “And if we don’t…stay together?”
“All funds will be donated to the Boys & Girls Club.”
Bernie’s breath stopped. He swallowed audibly.
Marcella turned to him, a glazed astonishment in her eyes. “Ma wanted us together?”
A question. A legitimate question. One that had already sidelined Bernie. Yet, it was the first time he heard Marcella refer to Miss Sally as “Ma.” And she said “us” and “together.” Bernie stared at her lips, willing her to say it again.
“Ma wanted us together,” he said, breathless.
An abrupt knock and the door to Hochman’s office opened.
“Mrs. Trout?” said Hochman’s secretary. “You have a phone call.”
Marcella’s eyes left Bernie’s. Too soon. “Me? Here?”
In a private conference room, Bernie stood by as she took the call.
And his heart sank.
“Tyler?” she said into the receiver. She listened quietly for a few seconds, and then she folded, like her body cramped.
“I’ll be right there.” She hung up. “He’s been arrested.” Her voice faltered. “He needs me. I have to go to Justice Bowman’s office. Right now.”
The agony in her chestnut eyes, like a window into her soul, told him his love would never be enough to fix this.
Tap, tap, tap…
Hen sat on Mom’s bed, knocking the plastic beads on his copy of 101 Facts about Nocturnal Animals. The glossy pictures didn’t interest him anymore. Getting a pet hedgehog seemed silly now. He closed the book, and got a whiff of Miss Sally—her Juicyfruit house, her plaid chair, her snickerdoodles. Open. Shut. The smell was still there. If the smell was still there, why wasn’t Miss Sally?
How could everything change so fast? Just the other day they were playing chess. And then that awful thing and then the hospital and then she disappeared. Gone.
Miss Sally was gone.
She’d never come back? It didn’t seem possible. Couldn’t he run up her porch steps and the door would open to the Juicyfruit house? No. He couldn’t. Her house was still wrapped like a neon mummy.
He sank into Mom’s bed, swallowed by a black hole of fear. Was she really gone? Did she really die? His mouth went dry. Turning on his side, a single tear fell onto Mom’s comforter. He held the beaded bracelet to his cheek, listening to the ping and swish of Tyler raking outside.
Since Miss Sally went to heaven, Tyler was in a constant B mood. When he wasn’t sleeping, which was most of the time, he was scary quiet, plugged into music on his headphones and staring into space.
Today, though, Tyler was supposed to watch Hen while Mom and Bernie were at a meeting at a lawyer’s office. Hen thought they’d do something fun together, like take a walk in the woods or build a hedgehog trap. But Tyler insisted on doing yard work, which was weird because he hated yard work. It was the only chore Mom gave him, but he never did it. He raked with all his might today.
From Mom’s bedroom window, Hen had a clear view of Tyler in the yard. Hen told himself that’s why he stayed inside. On any other day, he’d be out with Tyler—in his play tent or swatting trees with big sticks. Today, he only felt like lying in Mom’s bed.
Hen was still there on Mom’s bed when a policeman came to the house.
“Tyler Trout?” The plastic voice outside was familiar. It was the policeman who’d been here the other day with Bernie. The one who’d found his bracelet. What was he doing here?
Hen’s ears grew four times their size as he crept beneath the window.
“Put the rake
down, son.”
“What?”
“It’s considered a weapon. Put the rake down.”
“Seriously? It’s a rake.”
“Down! Hands in the air! This is your last warning!”
Hen jolted. Tyler mumbled, a blunt edge to his voice, as the rake clanged to the ground. Hen dared to peek through the blinds, and at once wished he hadn’t. The policeman pointed his gun at Tyler.
A gun! Paste filled Hen’s mouth.
“You’re under arrest. Anything you say can and will be used against you…”
Officer Clapp continued—like a robot—while Tyler raised his hands in the air. He slowly turned around and moved his hands behind his back, like he knew what he was supposed to do. Tyler kept his eyes on the ground. If he looked up, he’d see Hen.
Look up! Look up!
The policeman droned on, radio words in a radio voice, snapping handcuffs onto Tyler’s wrists. Hen gasped, clapping his hand over his mouth. Tyler looked up then, and saw Hen through the window. The smallest shake of his head told Hen to stay quiet and hidden inside.
The policeman followed Tyler’s gaze through the window. Hen froze. Oh, no. He was caught! He’d be put into handcuffs, too.
“Your mother home?” The question came out squeaky and high-pitched.
“No.”
Back to the mean policeman voice: “How about the boy?”
A brief pause, and then Tyler shook his head.
The officer’s pitch-black sunglass lenses must have shielded Hen. As they walked to the cruiser, Hen slid under Mom’s bed to hide.
It took a long time for his heart to stop thumping.
Bernie arrived later. Maybe an hour. Maybe three. It felt like a lifetime under the bed.
“Hen?” Bernie’s shoes tapped all over the downstairs. “You up in your room?”
The dust bunnies under the bed made the air tickly. Hen sneezed.
Taps got closer. And Bernie’s feet appeared at Mom’s door.
“Ah.” Bernie’s tip-tappy shoes hushed on the carpet. He wore dress shoes and light pants, Hen noticed. That was a change. Bernie always wore jeans and work boots.
The mattress sagged as Bernie sat at the foot of the bed. Hen tried not to sneeze again. A long stretch of quiet made Hen sleepy. He rested a cheek on folded arms.
Eventually, he heard Bernie’s soft voice. “Sometimes I feel like hiding too.”
Hen closed his eyes, sleep pulling him from what he’d seen—Tyler being taken away. He was drifting off when Bernie spoke again.
“Your momma’s a real good woman. She’ll take care of you always. Know that.”
Marcella clicked in her lawyer-meeting heels to Justice Bowman’s residence, yearning for her waitressing shoes. That urgent call from Tyler kept replaying in her mind.
“Mom, they arrested me.” He sounded shockingly like his father. Then, back to her scared boy again, chasing the words with a butterfly net. “You need to be here. Please come.”
“An arraignment,” he’d told her. What a horrible word. Made just to intimidate the common people. That pre-law telecourse on the Coastal College flier she’d laughed off at first now seemed sadly relevant. Irritation drained through her as she pictured that infuriating Marketing 101 textbook. If she could, she would send a lightning bolt through every accounting spreadsheet on the planet for all it would do to help her family. Bah. What was she thinking, signing up for a marketing course? Did she really think she would have time to get a business degree in the midst of everything else? And now this.
An arraignment?
Whatever an “arraignment” was, Justice Bowman would clear it up in a flash. Why, though, was Marcella called in? Because Tyler was a minor?
No use trying to figure it out solo. Her mind ached trying to process the madness that had erupted in the past few days. To top it off, Mr. Hochman just dealt a bomb of a hand, reporting that Hen was named as Sally’s primary beneficiary. $1.3 million? How on earth did Sally get all that money? And the stipulation—that Bernie and she stay together. Like, a couple. As if they’d ever been a couple.
If Mr. Hochman hadn’t been so serious, she may have laughed.
After all, this was Bernie.
Bernie Hubbard had been a trusted friend since Hen was born. He had come to her rescue more than once. Marcella remembered holding her newborn at the hospital, scared and alone, wondering how she would swing raising two boys by herself. It was Bernie who’d collected them from the hospital.
“Ma sent me.”
A man of few words, he’d driven the rest of the way in silence. He didn’t try to stop Marcella from crying. Or insist things would be all right. The next day, Bernie came over with two boxes of diapers.
“Ma sent me.”
The next day, formula.
“Ma sent me.”
“Is there anything you do on our own?” she’d teased. His easy smile in response made her trust him. And that was that. But that was all.
Bernie drove her and Hen to his early doctor appointments. Bernie kept tabs on Tyler after he disappeared for hours on his bike. Bernie bailed out the water when her basement flooded. Bernie installed the chain lock on her front door. Bernie negotiated the impossible purchase of her trusty Impala. Bernie found that “waitstaff wanted” ad for that diner in Ticonderoga, which relieved her from Leon’s payroll. And, best yet, Bernie convinced his mother to babysit Hen so Marcella could go back to work.
Bernie never once made a pass at her and Marcella never once wanted him to. He was plain pudding—the epitome of ordinary. The kind of guy no one noticed as he passed on the street. Balding, with washed out features, Bernie’s best attribute was his smile. It extended to his soft brown eyes, and carved premature lines around his mouth. Reassuring. Safe.
Marcella sighed. All these years, she may have taken him for granted, sure. But to think of them as a couple? Marcella couldn’t get her mind around it.
She could hardly try now.
Not to mention, she had written off men a long time ago. Since Hen’s father went AWOL, she vowed the only men worth her spit were her own boys. So far, she’d kept that promise. No way in hell was she going to break it anytime soon.
What was worse, though—men or high heels? Her Achilles was raw and bleeding by the time she got to Justice Bowman’s home office.
She’d been there before. A few months back, she brought a quiche pie after his wife Elyse’s knee surgery. She’d never knocked on his office door, in the anteroom of their home. Part of her wanted to go to the front door like always. As a friend. To prove this was a social call. Not something legal and scary. But she took a deep breath and reminded herself to be professional. When no one answered the office door, she realized knocking wasn’t necessary. Still, she felt like an intruder just walking in.
Inside, the room was lined with books and worn leather couches. Dishes clapped beyond the connecting wall, sounds of a dishwasher being emptied. The homey feel belied Tyler’s horrific luck. Marcella’s heart wilted. Her boy slumped in one of the oversized leather chairs, misery tainting his handsome face.
“Mrs. Trout,” Justice Bowman said. “Please, have a seat.”
Must be serious if first names were out the window. “Thanks, but I prefer to stand,” she replied stiffly.
That smarmy officer—the one who she’d found in her kitchen that day—stood like a king’s guard nearby. Too close. Tapping his belt incessantly. Officer Clapp, she recalled his name. Like the venereal disease.
Justice Bowman calmly explained why Tyler was being arraigned. Why did law officials use that nonsensical mumbo jumbo? It was worse than her ridiculous marketing textbook. The words swirled like noxious gas: Evidence…fingerprints…broken lamp. All pointed to Tyler Nathan Trout.
Marcella, lightheaded, grasped the desk. “Maybe I will sit after all.”
Bowman gave her a sympathetic look. “Mrs. Trout, your son Tyler is a suspect in an extremely serious crime. Initially aggravated assault, this crime has bec
ome more severe since the victim—Sally Edith Hubbard—passed away as a result of the injuries suffered the night of October 30.”
Marcella glanced at Tyler, who looked so small in the leather armchair. Shriveled.
Anger simmered. How could he speak like this about her son? Right in front of him! She clenched her jaw. “I thought you’d be able to take care of this, Carl. Surely, this is a terrible misunderstanding.”
“Mrs. Trout—”
“Honestly. Fingerprints? She was our neighbor, Carl. Tyler could’ve been in her house on any occasion for whatever reason. She watched Hen every day. Tyler picked him up quite often. It’s no surprise his fingerprints would be found there. I mean, come on.”
Bowman blinked with deliberation, as if trying to summon patience. “Mrs. Trout, Officer, if you don’t mind, I’d like to speak plainly.”
Clapp finally stopped that annoying belt tapping.
Bowman continued, “In situations like these, where a very serious crime is being investigated, we hold these meetings—arraignments—to determine whether or not the suspect would have any reason to make a run for it. We consider the person’s past, if he has a criminal record—which Tyler does not. We also consider if there would be any opportunity to go out of state, if they have strong connections to this area.”
“Tyler’s lived here his whole life,” Marcella said.
“I know. I know.” Bowman glanced at Clapp. “I’m sorry to bring this up, Marcella, but do you know where Tyler’s father is?”
Thank goodness Marcella took that seat. The words “Tyler’s father” sent needle pricks up and down her spine. She barely noticed he used her first name.
Tyler’s father. Ha!
Marcella was suddenly twenty-one again, her stomach a hot-air balloon, lifting her into a world of disillusionment. A world with white picket fences and family dinners and T-ball and birthday parties. A world she’d hoped to share with Tripp Trout, a man who proved as absurd as his name. Tripp, at twenty-nine, had been more interested in guns and whiskey and bullfights than white picket fences. No less a wife and, God forbid, a baby. Tripp sensed that hot-air balloon in her heart and got spooked. Saw the end of his life, maybe. Needy baby, nagging wife, bills piling up. One good day at the horse races was all it took and he was gone. Just like that. Tyler was only three years old, too young to hold onto memories of him. She’d always thought that was a blessing in disguise.
