by J D Spero
“The policeman came and took him away. He put handcuffs on him.”
“Well.” Bernie sat up a little. “You’re right, Hen. Tyler’s in a bit of trouble.”
“Do they think he hurt Miss Sally?”
Bernie’s eyes widened, but he sounded miserable. “I’m not sure, son. I think they might.”
“No!” Hen smacked the couch. “He didn’t! He didn’t do it!”
“Hey, now. Hey, there. Let’s not get all worked up.”
Tears started as if a faucet turned on. It was coming loose. No stopping it. He had to tell him everything. “It was Derek,” Hen wailed. “It wasn’t Tyler. It was Derek.”
Bernie moved in real close, looked around worried-like. “Now, don’t go sayin’ stuff like that, Hen. That’s no good. You can’t go accusin’ someone of a crime. This is police work, Hen. They’ll take care of it.”
“It was Derek. He did it. I know it. I know it!”
“Hush, now.” Bernie glanced out the window. Maybe making sure they were alone. “Okay, then. What makes you say it was Derek?”
Hen told himself to be brave. He took a big breath. “I was outside that night.”
“You were outside?”
“I snuck out really late.” Pause. “Mom was mad.”
Bernie shook his head. “Oh, Hen. Why would you do that?”
“To look for Louis.”
“Louis?”
“The hedgehog that’s gonna be my pet.”
A hint of a laugh. “Okay. You were out looking for a hedgehog, and—?”
“Noises came from Miss Sally’s. Bad things were happening inside. I saw a monster shadow through her window. And then in front of her house I saw…”
Bernie went a little white. “What did you see?”
“I saw Derek’s truck.”
Bernie huffed. “Well, see. Derek lives on this street. He’s your neighbor, too. You’re sandwiched between Ma’s and Derek’s houses, see.”
“I know. But Derek’s truck wasn’t in front of his house. It was in front of Miss Sally’s.”
“Still. He could’ve parked there that night for some reason. It doesn’t mean—”
“I saw him.”
“What’s that?”
“Derek. He was the Monster. I saw him leave Miss Sally’s and get into his truck.”
Bernie’s face changed. His mouth opened a little. Hen could tell what he’d said was important. Maybe it could help Tyler? But there was something else in Bernie’s face. It seemed like he was scared.
“Are you absolutely sure about what you saw?” Bernie’s words were careful.
“I’m sure. I saw it.”
Bernie sighed big. “Now, listen. I’m going to ask you an important question. Did you see anyone else? Or was Derek alone?”
“Just Derek. And he was angry.”
“Now, how would you know that?”
“It was like he was mad at the steering wheel. He banged on it. Mad as heck.” Hen added quietly, “I’ve seen him angry before.”
Bernie rubbed his chin, like he was noodling something out. “You sure this wasn’t a dream or nothin’?”
Hen squeezed his beads. “You don’t believe me?”
“It’s not that.” Bernie’s voice shook. “I mean, your ma wouldn’t want you gettin’ involved with this mess.”
“But I was there when they came to Miss Sally’s. A long time ago.”
“What do you mean? Who came to Miss Sally’s a long time ago?”
“Derek. And his father. They talked in the kitchen but I heard everything. I didn’t want to listen but I couldn’t help it. Miss Sally used her ‘consequences’ voice and they got really mad.”
“What’s that? Her ‘consequences’ voice?”
Hen did his best impression of Miss Sally: “‘You can make that choice, Hen, but there will be consequences.’”
“Ah—”
“Consequences are always bad.”
“She was always complaining about Derek’s loud, late-night habits. That’s probably what it was about. I’m not sure it has anything to do with—”
Hen smacked his knees, frustrated. “Derek and his dad are the only people on the planet who hated Miss Sally.”
“Now, I agree with you on that. Why would anyone hate Ma, I mean, Miss Sally? To my mind, this is a break-in gone bad. Not a hate thing. But listen, this was a long time ago, you said, right?”
“After winter. Before summer.”
“Well, it’s unusual for fights to linger for months and months like that. Especially for Ma.”
“But—”
“Okay, listen. Maybe I could do some investigatin’ myself. In the meantime, let’s keep this between you and me. Okay?”
Bernie went into the kitchen abruptly. Hen heard him going through some cabinets, mumbling something.
That wasn’t how Hen thought the talk would go.
The room felt instantly cold. Hen hid under the fleece throw. Was it a mistake to tell Bernie? But he could fix it. Bernie fixed everything. Didn’t he want to find the Monster? Didn’t he want the Monster in jail, too?
Bernie seemed scared, though. Sad and scared and mad, all at the same time.
From the darkness of his fleece-throw tent came an image of Derek in his clompy shoes and backwards baseball cap, that perfumey smoke everywhere. His mean eyes tinged pink.
Bawk, bawk, bawk. How’s my Chicken?
He was the Monster. Hen was sure of it. He had to go to jail. Not Tyler.
Hen felt tears come. If Bernie couldn’t help, there was no hope. If Bernie couldn’t stand up to Derek, who could?
What was it about Derek that made everyone afraid? Hen wished he were a grown up, big and strong. Derek would never hurt him—or anyone—ever again.
Marcella’s lawyer-meeting shoes weren’t made for walking. She did a helluva lot of walking today. Albeit in circles—darn curlicues—for all the good it did Tyler.
She yanked off her stockings and stretched across the sofa, propping up her aching feet. Bernie had the good sense to put Hen to bed, thank heavens. All she wanted was sleep. The perfect escape. A deep, dreamless sleep that would go on for days or weeks or months. However long it took for Tyler to get untangled from this utter madness.
He was innocent. Why couldn’t they all see it? The whole charade was like bad comedy. His fingerprints on Sally’s end-table lamp? Come on! Who’s to say he didn’t touch her lamp when he picked up Hen one day? This was Tyler. He would never hurt a flea, no less a little old lady. They were so wrong it was stupid.
Bernie came down and sat across the room—averting his eyes, like, to respect her privacy. The quiet between them seemed charged. She glanced at her bare legs. Her skirt had ridden up to mid-thigh. Maybe she should have covered up with the throw? Oh, whatever. It was just Bernie.
“Oh, Bernie.” She closed her eyes. “What are we going to do?”
No response.
Marcella swiveled upright.
They spoke in sync:
“Bernie—”
“Marcella—”
“Oh, sorry Bernie. You first.”
He picked at his cuticles. “Hen, ah…I spent quite a lot of time with Hen today.”
“I know. Thank you so much. How is he? Do you think he’s doing all right?”
“Oh, I—”
“What a dumb question. Sorry. This is such a disaster. He adored Miss Sally. He idolizes his big brother. Of course he’s not all right.”
“About that…” He trailed off. He still couldn’t seem to look at her.
“About what? Sally? Tyler? What?” She inched to the edge of the sofa. He clearly struggled with whatever he wanted to tell her. “Bernie, tell me.”
“I’m not sure what to make of it. But Hen says he was outside that night. The night that Ma…”
Memories of that morning rushed to mind. Her pathetic attempt at studying for her telecourse in the wee hours before dawn while her baby was outside, shivering in a silly pl
ay tent. It was beyond embarrassing that Marcella could have allowed that to happen. “Well, he went out early in the morning. I went to wake him up and—”
“No, it was night. He was out all night.”
“What? Out all night? Why on earth—”
“He wanted to catch a hedgehog?”
Marcella palmed her forehead, a familiar sandstorm of emotions cramping her psyche. Only one mattered, though. “Oh, how I love that boy.”
“So. He was outside really late and ‘parently he saw what happened at Ma’s.”
It clicked. Marcella gasped. “He saw?”
“Apparently so. And not only that…”
Marcella had stopped listening. Shock and guilt prompted her to move. She paced the living room, muttering to herself. “Oh, my goodness. He saw it happen? What’s going on in his mind? Oh, my baby. He’s so sensitive. This will stay with him for years. But, wait. If he saw, he must—does he know who did it?”
“Right. Well, he saw…”
“What?”
“He saw Derek Hogg’s truck parked out front. He saw Derek leave Ma’s and get into his truck, bang on the steering wheel, real angry like.”
Marcella’s jaw dropped, and then she clamped it shut.
“‘Mad as heck’ was how he put it.” Bernie was looking at her now.
“Mad as heck,” Marcella muttered, staring blankly at the fireplace. A heavy misery made her fold. “He’s just a boy.”
The house got real quiet. The radiator sputtered. Marcella felt her entire head swell with tears that wouldn’t release. My boy. My sweet, sweet little boy. She fought an urge to run upstairs and bury her face in his neck. What she felt for him was beyond love. She wanted nothing more than for him to be safe and happy and feel loved. Yet, she wasn’t paying enough attention to realize he’d been out all night and bore witness to something unspeakable. And now, losing Miss Sally and his big brother.
And the Hoggs were to blame?
A flash of anger spiked through her.
Bernie stood. “I know. And I told him we didn’t want him involved in all this mess.” He caught himself. “You wouldn’t want him involved.”
Marcella tried to summon those unwritten “To-dos.” A mother’s burden. Now was not the time to cry. Now was the time to take action. Be strong.
Her words had an airy quality not quite her own. “If he could help prove Tyler innocent, we might need him to be involved.”
A sacrificial lamb. Hen’s innocence in exchange for Tyler’s freedom. It would be a deal with the devil. What did they call it—a Faustian Bargain? But it wouldn’t be her soul she would trade. It would be Hen’s.
Guilt stabbed. She felt queasy.
But, she reasoned, if Hen saw what happened, he was already involved. The gears were in motion. She couldn’t protect him. She couldn’t protect Tyler, either. Despair had invaded her home. She had no power against it.
Still, if those awful Hoggs were rightfully to blame, they must pay. Not her innocent, sensitive, frightened Tyler.
The room spun. The couch seemed a mile away. She ambled toward it.
“Maybe it wouldn’t come to that.” Bernie to the rescue. Hope glinted as she blinked him back into focus.
“When you went and talked with Leon…” His voice lilted, the question unnecessary.
Marcella slunk onto the sofa, feeling the weight of love and guilt and anger and hope all at once. Finally, she let herself cry.
“I don’t think he can help us this time.”
The next morning, Bernie treaded carefully to Marcella’s front door. The dew had frozen on her driveway. Winter was already here. The cold air felt good, though. Each breath revived him. Or maybe it was the prospect of seeing Marcella. She had to leave for Ticonderoga shortly. He’d only see her for a few minutes, but every moment with her stretched long and deep, staying with him through the day.
This wasn’t a social visit, though. He was here to help get Hen off to school.
“Thank you so much. You really have no idea.” She smiled warmly at him. “Actually, I think you do.”
“It’s no problem.”
“There’s coffee.”
They two-stepped around each other, swapping sides of the kitchen.
She kissed Hen’s forehead as he ate his cereal. “Have a good day at school, sweetie.”
She was gone before Bernie finished filling his mug.
Sitting with Hen, shame stung Bernie’s insides worse than the scalding coffee he sipped. Only a few days had passed since Ma’s death. He should have been grief-stricken. He’d learned yesterday that one hundred percent of her inheritance was going to a seven-year-old boy. He should have been resentful. But he wasn’t. His mind was filled with thoughts of a future with Marcella. The idea made him almost giddy.
How could he be happy at a time like this? How could he be excited about the future without Ma in it? How could he accept so readily her gifting her estate—the value of her assets still astonished him—to Hen?
Ma’s young beneficiary ate his Cinnamon Toast Crunch with impressive table manners. Never did Hen talk with his mouth full. He used a napkin rather than his sleeve. Always answered with “please” and “thank you.”
Ma’s influence. He could see why she’d been taken with the little guy. Hen had his mother’s full red lips and a round softness to his face that begged for a cheek pinch.
Hen looked over his bowl at Bernie as if he could read his mind. His sullen hazel eyes tugged on Bernie’s grief.
He got up to top off his mug.
Yet, if Ma had her wish, and Marcella’s future included Bernie—which he so hoped it did—he’d be a father figure to this boy. At forty-six, Bernie had long ago given up the idea he’d have a family of his own. Not only could he possibly be father to Hen, but also to Tyler. The thought filled him with uneasiness. Pitcher frozen mid-air, Bernie breathed in the tangy coffee vapor and stared at a crack in the orange paint.
“Hearthstone” was the name on the paint swatch they’d used. Bernie had known after the test run in the pantry it wasn’t exactly the shade Marcella had in mind. After the first coat, she’d insisted he finish. Perhaps she felt bad asking Bernie to redo it. Didn’t she know he’d paint this kitchen a thousand times over for her? He’d do anything for her.
Bernie blinked at the crack, mentally noting to plaster it another day, and replaced the steaming pitcher.
Hen swung his feet back and forth as he spooned cereal into his mouth, and Bernie’s heart swelled a bit. It dawned on him: If he were willing to do anything for Marcella, he’d do the same for Hen. Tyler, too. He could do it. He could be a good father.
“What should we do about it?” Hen’s question startled Bernie.
For a fleeting moment, he thought Hen referred to the paint crack. Another sip. “What should we do about what?”
“About Derek. What we know.”
Bernie turned on his smile. “I tell you what. How about if I pay a visit to Officer Clapp and inquire into the investigation?”
Retribution was the last thing Bernie wanted to pursue. He never liked Derek, sure. He did not want to start a personal vendetta on a hunch from a seven-year-old. Maybe his paternal instincts were kicking in, because he wanted to protect Hen from all this ugliness. In his heart, he knew Marcella felt the same way, despite what she said last night. If he could help prove Tyler innocent, we might need him to be involved.
Hen’s voice almost sounded adult. “It was Derek. I know it.”
“Well, if it was, the authorities will find out. They’re already investigating. They are the experts here. They’ll find out all the details of that night. Things we’d never even notice, they’ll pick up. They’ve been trained. They do this for a living. They’ll do the right thing.”
“But they have Tyler. And that’s wrong.”
Bernie hid behind another sip of coffee, not knowing what to say. He agreed they were wrong to hold Tyler, but they must have their reasons. Soon, it will be cleared up fo
r him. That was his hope, for Marcella’s sake.
Part of him, though, wasn’t sure what to make of Tyler and the fact that he may have something to do with what happened to Ma. Tyler was a bit of an enigma to him.
Couldn’t say any of this to Hen, though.
Bernie glanced at the clock. “Come on. Let’s get you to the bus.”
Since Hen last walked to the bus stop, the leaf piles had been collected by the town.
That meant hedgehogs—maybe Louis!—were swept up with them. Into some leaf grinder thingy. Mulch maker. Hen’s heart raced. No, no, no! He ran to where the biggest pile had been. Down on his knees, he searched the remnants for a sign. Louis?
He sobbed, inconsolable.
“I know you miss her,” Bernie said. “I do too.”
Bernie thought Hen cried for Miss Sally. That made Hen cry harder.
“Come on now. You don’t want to get all dirty now.”
Damp rings covered the knees of Hen’s jeans. He brushed leaves off his coat. He remembered the leaf pile that upset Tyler so much, triggering a B mood. That was Halloween. Not too long ago. A handful of sleeps. Now everything was different. Everything changed so fast.
He trudged to the corner, smudging tears from his eyes.
“Did we time it right?” Bernie muttered. “Where’s the bus?”
Hen was glad Bernie didn’t ask what was wrong like so many grownups did. He breathed out little clouds, and watched them fade into nothing. He didn’t think he could get any sadder.
“Why, hello there,” a voice called. A policeman climbed out of his cruiser to join them. “How are we this morning?”
Hen inched closer to Bernie.
“Good morning, Officer.” Bernie put a hand on Hen’s shoulder. “Hen, you remember Officer Clapp?”
Hen recognized this man in uniform. Officer Clapp looked the same as he did in Hen’s kitchen. The same as when he pointed his gun at Tyler in the backyard. It was like his clothes were part of his body, stitched onto his skin. Those pitch-black lenses still covered his eyes. It wasn’t even a sunny day.
Why was Bernie being nice to this policeman?
Hen looked away, studying some leftover leaves in the street. Then Clapp squatted down next to him, his dark glasses right near his nose.
