Dandelion Summer

by Mary Ellen Bramwell

  It took Madelyn a minute to register that he had used the plural form—that he was offering to find the answers with her. She wrinkled her brow. “Why are you so nice to me? My life is nothing but a mess, and you keep helping me with it. Why?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “I guess it’s nice to be needed, to feel like what you do might make a difference.” He got a wicked twinkle in his eye. “And besides, I like hanging out with Daniel and Jillian.”

  She punched him in the ribs. Then they got down to the business of how they could go about learning the truth.

  1974

  When the phone rang, Rachel picked it up. It was certainly a phone call she’d never expected to receive. It was late at night, so Roger and Rachel quickly discussed what should be done. Fortunately, the driving directions weren’t complicated. It was a straight shot once she made it to the freeway. So, Rachel figured she could handle it alone.

  “I’ll get the kids off to school in the morning if you’re not back,” Roger said. “Do you want me to stay home from work tomorrow?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t really understand what’s going on yet. If there are any papers, I’ll bring them back with me for you to go over, but I can’t imagine anything has actually been drawn up yet—it’s too early.” She shook her head, “This just can’t be real. It has to be a mistake.”

  “Well, go talk to your pop. I’m sure he can explain. You’re right. It’s probably all a simple mistake.”

  . . .

  It took her over an hour to get there, and by the time she arrived, Rachel was wishing Roger could have come with her. It had started to snow almost as soon as she left the house, and while she was comfortable driving in snow, it didn’t help her nerves any. Maybe they should have waited until morning when the kids were at school, then they could have come together. The driving itself was straight-forward enough, but following the directions once she walked into the building threw her for a loop. In answer to her questions, the receptionist just pointed to a sign without looking up. Rachel wasn’t sure what to do, and the strain of the whole thing brought tears to her eyes.

  A kindly-looking man was filling out some paperwork nearby. He noticed her tears and walked up to her. “Can I help you?”

  She let a sob escape. “I’m so sorry. I just want to see my father, but I don’t even know what to do.”

  “Is he inside?”

  “Yes. I just got a phone call from him.”

  “This is new to you, isn’t it?” When she nodded, he smiled sympathetically. “I’ll walk you through it.”

  True to his word, he did exactly that—helping her fill out a visitation form and even physically walking her into the room where she would be able to talk with her father face to face. Then he quickly retreated so she could have her privacy.

  After an interminable wait, her father was finally brought to her. His head was down, his hair unkempt, and he shuffled reluctantly to the table where Rachel waited. While their visit was lengthy, their conversation was short. Her father kept repeating the same thing. “I just don’t remember. I’m so sorry, Rachel.”

  “But what happened, Pop?”

  “I went out drinking with my friend George. I thought it was just an ordinary night, but … I just don’t remember. I was drunk. I’m so sorry, Rachel. I just can’t believe what happened.” He let out a sound of anguish and pain like Rachel had never heard before as he buried his head in his hands.

  She reached over and patted his arm. “It will be all right. We’ll figure this out. There has to be a different explanation. You’re not a violent man,” and then she added, “even when you’re drunk.”

  His head came up at that, and he looked her in the eye. “I don’t know. I wouldn’t have thought so, but I’ve been thinking about the war lately. It wasn’t good to be at war. I don’t know what I’m capable of anymore,” and then he burst into sobs. “Your mother would be so disappointed in me. She never liked me drinking, and since she’s been gone, that’s all I’ve really known how to do. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  By the time Rachel returned home, she was shaking all over. Roger greeted her at the door of their home, but one look at her and he called into work saying he wouldn’t be in until the next day.

  They decided early on—Roger, Rachel, and her father—that it was too much for the kids and especially Tommy to understand. Rachel was certain, anyway, that it would all blow over, that nothing would really come of it.

  Time turned out to prove Rachel wrong.

  Week Eight – Summer 1975

  Monday

  When Aunt Dory showed up Monday morning to tutor Mom, Madelyn darted past the two of them as they were hunched over the kitchen table. “I’m meeting Zane for a bike ride if that’s all right. I’ll be back soon.”

  Mom was distracted trying to decipher the words in front of her, but she nodded her head all the same. It was the response Madelyn was hoping for, and she hurried out the door before Mom could change her mind.

  Zane was waiting at the end of the driveway. “How did it go?”

  “Fine. I’m not completely sure she heard me, but that’s okay too.”

  “I called the newspaper this morning. We can search through their archives as much as we want.”

  “Great,” Madelyn said. Then they rode in silence to the center of town.

  The newspaper office was glad to help them, although it took a little longer than they had thought it would. “What dates did you want to see?” the receptionist, a Miss Harriet Webster, asked.

  Madelyn looked at Zane, unsure how to answer. “Just a minute. We’ll be right back,” he said as he led her to one of the nearby seats. “I know you don’t know what happened, but do you have any idea when whatever it is might have happened?”

  “Well, Mom told me that we wouldn’t be seeing Grandpa for a while right around my birthday at the end of March, but we hadn’t seen him much anyway, now that I think about it. I know we saw him at Christmas time, but something was off with him. I figured it was because of Grandma dying. She was killed in a car accident in September.” Laying out the timing gave Madelyn pause. “But, come to think of it, after she died, he was sad. At Christmas, it’s more like he was nervous.”

  “Okay. So, I’m guessing it happened before Christmas. Was there a time when your mom seemed to get more stressed than normal?”

  “The first few months after Grandma died were really hard on her. I can’t think of anything that stands out.” Then a light went on. “Wait a minute! I remember getting up one morning for school, and she was gone, but Dad was home. He said that Grandpa wasn’t doing well and that Mom was off helping him. But when I got home from school that day, I asked Mom if Grandpa was still sick, and she stared at me like I was crazy. Then she finally said something like, ‘I don’t know.’ I thought it was strange at the time, but then I forgot about it.”

  “Great. Do you know when that was?”

  “Well, it was a Monday. I know that because I remember it being the start of a school week. It was cold and snowy that morning, and I had to help Dad pull out the snow boots. He didn’t know where they were.”

  “You were in the winter play at school. Did you have play practice after school?”

  Madelyn tried to mentally retrace her steps, envisioning asking Mom about Grandpa’s illness and attempting to conjure the events that just proceeded it. “Yes, I did, but we were just starting to read through the script, so it must have been early in November. I remember wanting to tell Mom about the script and my part, but then I saw her face—she looked awful. That’s what reminded me to ask about Grandpa.”

  They jumped back up to Miss Webster’s desk and asked her for a calend
ar. Before long, they’d come up with two possibilities: November 4th or 11th. “Madelyn, do you think it was right before the election or after?”

  “I hadn’t even thought about that. I think the election was already over because my parents talked a lot about it right around when it happened, and then they just didn’t anymore. So, let’s try November 11th.”

  Miss Webster showed them to a room where they could view microfilm copies of the newspaper from November 1974. In Friday’s edition on November 15th, Zane found the mention of Madelyn’s grandfather. It was a small note in the police blotter. Zane read it out loud.

  The man police arrested early Sunday morning has been identified as William Knight, 57. The victim has also been identified. He is one George Holliwell, 66. Both men are of Freeborne, Colorado.

  “What does it mean victim?” Madelyn was shaking. This was worse than she had thought.

  “I don’t know. There must be an earlier article that explains what happened. Let’s work backwards in the paper, looking for a crime but without the names.” He turned back to the microfilm, but Madelyn was staring straight ahead, horrified.

  “I know that name.”

  Zane startled at her icy tone. “George Holliwell? Who is he?”

  “He was my grandpa’s neighbor. We talked to Mrs. Holliwell after Grandpa’s house got broken into. She seemed really sad, only I didn’t know why. But you know what? Mr. Holliwell wasn’t there when we were talking to her, even though he’s retired.” Madelyn looked down at her hands, her voice barely a whisper. “Zane, he wasn’t there because he’s dead. My grandpa killed his friend. He’s in prison for murdering his best friend.”

  Zane hesitated. “Well, that might be what victim means, but maybe he just robbed him or beat him up or something.” He shrugged his shoulders, but neither of them was buying the alternative explanation.

  They returned with vigor to their search, now knowing the incident had happened early Sunday morning. Madelyn found the article in Tuesday’s paper.

  Local man arrested on manslaughter charges

  In the early hours of Sunday, November 10th, police responded to reports of a fight in the alleyway behind the Last Call bar and grill. Two men, who have not yet been identified, were found in the alley. A male in his 60s was pronounced dead at the scene. Another male, allegedly covered in blood, was taken into custody.

  According to a police spokesman, witnesses at the scene say the two men got into an argument after walking out of the bar. Things escalated quickly, and before they could call the authorities, witnesses say the one man pulled out a knife and stabbed the other man until he stopped moving. When police found them, the alleged perpetrator was passed out drunk, but the knife was nearby with his bloody fingerprints all over it. Sources close to the investigation say he will be charged with involuntary manslaughter later today.

  “Wow! No wonder Mom didn’t want to tell me anything.” For once, Zane didn’t have anything to say. He just reached over and grabbed Madelyn’s hand and held it tight.

  Tuesday

  Madelyn was up early the next morning. She had a phone call to make. When Delia honked her horn soon afterward, Madelyn raced outside. Zane had suggested telling Delia what was going on. It’s always nice to have an ally, but more importantly, they needed someone who could drive. Madelyn agreed—as long as she didn’t have to be the one to tell Delia about her grandpa.

  “How are you?” Delia said when Madelyn got in the car.

  “Well, obviously I’ve been better. Mom’s good, though. She was actually reading to Jilly last night. It was so cute. Oh! Did you know my mom can’t read? Or at least couldn’t?” She was surprised how little the illiteracy bothered her now.

  “Um, well. Zane told me … along with the other stuff. I hope that’s okay.”

  “Yeah, it’s okay. I’m glad you know. Anyway, she’s so excited about starting to read, even though it’s hard work. I guess that’s why she didn’t notice that, you know …,” Madelyn shrugged her shoulders, “that I’m not really talking to her.”

  “Because of your grandpa,” Delia said. It was a statement more than a question. “Are you mad at her?”

  “No, not really. I want to be, but I understand why she didn’t tell me. You know, in some ways I wish I never knew.”

  “You’d have found out eventually. It couldn’t have stayed a secret forever,” Zane said.

  “Yeah, you’re right. It’s strange because now that I do know, I want to know everything—even if it’s ugly.”

  The car grew silent until Delia turned on the radio. Music carried them to Grandpa’s neighborhood where his home lay empty. Delia drove past his house and turned into the Holliwell’s driveway next door.

  “Are you ready for this?” Zane said.

  She shrugged her shoulders. He reached for her hand and held it until they stepped onto the doorstep.

  “Hello, come on in,” Mrs. Holliwell said when she answered the door.

  The three teenagers nodded in greeting and followed her to the living room.

  “I’ll admit I was surprised by your phone call,” Mrs. Holliwell said. “What can I do for you?”

  All eyes fell on Madelyn. “I’m so sorry your husband’s gone … and that it’s because of my grandpa.

  She nodded an acknowledgment. “I lost my husband and a good neighbor at the same time. I’ve honestly tried to be angry at William, your grandfather, but I just haven’t been able to muster enough steam to do it. He was always such a good friend to George.”

  All they could do was nod their agreement. “I’m not very good at this,” Madelyn said. “Maybe if I were older, I’d know what to say. Sorry just doesn’t seem like enough.”

  “Age, I’m afraid, doesn’t help, Madelyn. You’re braver than most by just being here, and saying sorry is so much better than saying nothing. Few people know what to say, so they avoid talking to me at all. They stay away. I can tell you, that does no good.”

  “If you don’t want to talk about it, I understand. But, if it’s all right, I want to know what happened. I want to know why my grandpa would do such a thing. You probably don’t have any good reason to help us, but I’m trying to find some answers.”

  “About that night?”

  “Yes, and before that or after that. I’m sorry to bring this up and make you relive it, and if you’d like us to leave, we will.” When she didn’t respond, Madelyn added, “But, there’s got to be more to the story—even just something so I can understand why.”

  “I’m afraid I’m not going to be much help because I don’t understand it myself, and believe me, I’ve tried. One minute William had invited George to go out for a drink, and the next I’m getting a knock on the door from a very nervous policeman. It didn’t seem real. It couldn’t be—yet it was.

  “I told you I’m not angry at your grandfather, but the whole thing isn’t easy. I miss my George.” She was fighting back the tears. They all sat quietly, giving her time to collect her thoughts, time to decide what she wanted to say and what she didn’t. When the words did come, they were almost lost in the telling—coming out so softly, being swallowed up in the memories and echoes of her lonely home. “I want to understand why too. It keeps me up at night, but I’ve never told anyone that part before.”

  Madelyn moved over to sit on the couch beside Mrs. Holliwell and wrapped her arms around the widow. In return, she reached out and patted Madelyn’s leg as she began to tell her story.

  “I’ve thought about this long and hard—wondering when or how things changed between them. And, to be honest, I never noticed anything different about the two of them. They were simply friends. They shared everything across the side fence—hedge clippers,
cigarettes, gardening advice. If anything, they were talking more, being even friendlier. They’d had several rather animated conversations shortly before that night.”

  “Animated? Like they were angry?” Madelyn said.

  “No. Animated, like they were talking about something interesting. But that’s the way they were. They could get excited over the silliest thing, like a new garden hose or college football.”

  She lowered her voice like she was about to tell them a secret. “The only thing that stands out happened about a week before. William invited George over to his house. He wanted to show him something. That was unusual. They were outside types. When the weather turned bad, they may not see each other for weeks at a time because they weren’t outside themselves. It’s just the way it was.”

  “Yeah, my dad has a neighbor like that,” Delia said.

  “That’s how men are,” Mrs. Holliwell said. “It’s the yard, the garden, the grill, the mailbox full of bills—they need a reason to talk, an excuse, and those excuses typically happen when they cross paths out of doors. It’s not like that with women. We may chat over the garden fence, but we’re just as comfortable visiting while cooking a pot of stew or mending a shirt. Or we’ll call on the phone just to talk—about something in particular or about nothing at all. Talking itself is the excuse, any activity going on at the same time is completely irrelevant.”

  Delia laughed. “You’re right. My mom is just like that with her sister and a friend of hers down the street.” Zane was rolling his eyes while also nodding his agreement.

  The comment struck Madelyn very differently. They were here to talk about Grandpa, but it hit home that her mom didn’t interact with other women that way. It’s what Mrs. Burnham, or Aunt Dory, had mentioned. Her mom had become guarded, too afraid someone would learn she couldn’t read. Until that moment, Madelyn hadn’t realized what courage it must have taken on her mother’s part to march over and enlist Mrs. Burnham’s help. Even the other retired teachers, other women, were tutoring her as if they were friends. It was new territory for Mom—a place she knew women went, only not women like her. Madelyn couldn’t help but feel a hint of pride in her mother.