"Aren't you nervous in that neighborhood?"
"It's not so bad."
"Really? Didn't I read in the paper last week that a prostitute was found near the Patterson Park pagoda, stabbed and beaten?"
Good old Deborah. She probably couldn't name the current president of the United States, but she had managed to find that one-paragraph item in the Beacon-Light.
"Was she black?" Gramma asked.
"The paper didn't say."
"It's not supposed to," Tess said. "They don't put race in unless it's relevant—"
"Black," Gramma decreed. "Well, let them murder one another. She probably left behind five children we'll all have to pay for." Everyone looked at the ceiling, and Uncle Donald cleared his throat nervously, but no one said anything.
Judith poked her head around the kitchen door. "The coffee's ready. Raise your hand if you want a cup."
"Theresa Esther, you lazy girl, get in there and help your mother," Gramma said. "It's her birthday, after all."
As with everything at Gramma's house, there was a strict hierarchy to the gift ritual. Uncle Spike always went first, as his actual relationship to the family remained somewhat dubious. The Weinsteins suspected he was a Monaghan, the Monaghans were sure he must be a Weinstein. He kept everyone guessing by attending all events, even ones like this, where he wasn't actually invited.
This year, he and Uncle Donald had gone in together on Judith's present and when Tess passed the large, heavy box to her mother, she had a sinking feeling. It felt like a piece of electronic equipment. Uncle Spike, a bartender and a bookie, tended to buy such things off the backs of trucks, while Uncle Donald had been known to use his state government job to write awfully creative procurement orders.
"One of those radio-CD players," Judith said happily. "How did you know I wanted one for the kitchen?"
"I've got my spies," Uncle Donald said, winking at Tess. "Is it okay? We can always…exchange it if it's not what you want."
Uncle Spike looked up anxiously from his second slice of pineapple cake. So he had been responsible for finding this year's gift.
"No, no, it's exactly right. Thank you, thank you both."
Uncle Jules came forward next, with a box wrapped with the trademark yellow ribbon and green-and-yellow striped paper of his jewelry store. Every Weinstein woman received one of these boxes on her birthday. Always lovely, but not necessarily quite right for the recipient. Tess had long suspected the pieces were estate items Jules picked up on the cheap, or merchandise he couldn't move. This small box held a pair of sterling silver combs set with turquoise stones, the kind of thing Judith would never wear, although Tess might. Trust Gramma to point that out.
"Jules, those are much too young for Judith. What were you thinking? She's fifty now, after all, getting up in years. Maybe Tessie could wear them, they'd be nice with her eyes. Oh, I forgot. It's Deborah who has the green eyes, yours are more grayish-blue, aren't they, Tessie? Very nice in their own way, though."
One more gift for Mom to open and I am outta here. Tess had presented her gift in private, back at her parents' house. A set of hand-hammered pewter measuring cups, with matching spoons. Judith had seemed to like them, but it occurred to Tess now that her mother, although quite accomplished, found no joy in cooking. As the only daughter of a woman who seemed to revel in destroying food, she had been forced into the kitchen at a young age and remained there by default.
Gramma handed Judith an envelope. It was always an envelope, always with a check for fifty dollars. That is, her four sons and one daughter received fifty dollars, the grandchildren were allotted twenty-five dollars at birthdays and Hanukah. Tess assumed Judith and her brothers received larger checks because the system was structured like war reparations. Those who had suffered the longest received the most.
But instead of the familiar green check with Gramma's spiky handwriting, Judith pulled out a photocopy folded into quarters.
"What's this? It looks like a land deed."
"My big surprise," Gramma said triumphantly. "I'm giving all my children and grandchildren equal shares in that acreage that Samuel left me in north county. It just happens to be part of the parcel where they want to build a new shopping center. The deal should go through later this summer. Poppa finally made a good investment, even if it did take ten years after his death to pay off."
"I'm surprised he didn't have to sell this when he filed for bankruptcy," said Uncle Jules, putting on his reading glasses to inspect the deed. After all, he would share in this windfall, too, as would his Deborah.
"It was a personal investment, held outside the corporation. Samuel wanted to build a house in the country for when he retired. Who knew it would ever be worth anything, so far out? But what was considered far doesn't seem so far anymore, the way people are fleeing the city every day. I paid the taxes and held onto it, and now our ship has come in. My lawyer says we might get as much as two hundred thousand dollars for the land if we play our cards right."
The deed moved around the table, from hand to hand, until it was Tess's turn to study it. Five kids, four grand-kids, two hundred thousand dollars—so this was a chit, worth more than twenty-two thousand dollars. If they played their cards right.
The Weinsteins had finally caught a break. Lord knows they were due. She had caught a break. If the sale went through, she'd have a nest egg, more than enough to float her through the lean times.
Good old Poppa. It was as if he had reached out from beyond the grave and slipped a quarter in the slot, giving her one more ride on the flying rabbit.
Chapter 7
It was commonly believed that the mayor of Baltimore awoke every morning and turned southward, a huge smile on his face. No matter how poorly his city was run, he could count on Washington, the nation's capital, to be in even worse shape. Higher homicide rate, dumber schools, bigger potholes and a convicted drug user at the helm, until the city finally despaired and turned the whole mess over to a control board. Yes, things could always be worse, the streets of Washington seemed to sing, as Tess's car bumped and jolted its way to the Nelsons' school on Capitol Hill.
The Benjamin Banneker Academy was a former bank, a sandstone building with fortress-thick walls on a not-too-bad block east of the Capitol. Although she knew the area fairly well, Tess could never accustom herself to its checkerboard quality, where a block of restored town-houses suddenly gave way to rowhouse slums. In Baltimore, neighborhoods were good or bad, and it was easy to avoid the trouble spots. On Capitol Hill, you could buy a three-dollar cup of coffee and a dime bag of heroin within five minutes of each other. One wrong turn, and you were suddenly starring in your own private version of Bonfire of the Vanities.
Tess tried the oversize door of the Benjamin Banneker Academy. Locked—unusual for a school, but plain common sense here. The Nelsons were probably hypersensitive about safety, given the circumstances in the death of Donnie Moore. She pressed the buzzer and waited on the stone steps. A round-faced young man poked his head out and said, "No visitors during lessons, ma'am."
"Mr. and Mrs. Nelson are expecting me."
He looked her over, closed the door without comment, then returned several seconds later, opening the door to her. Tess saw now that he wore a dark blue uniform in a military style. His black shoes were mirror shiny, his trousers had a knife-sharp crease. Although his full cheeks gave his face a babyish cast, the rest of him was hard and slender, with the big, defined muscles of a weight-lifter pressing at the seams of his uniform. "I'm sorry, ma'am. But as the monitor, I have strict instructions not to admit anyone, especially reporters."
"I'm not a reporter."
The young man looked puzzled, as if he knew of no other occupation for white women who came to the door of the Banneker Academy. A slight woman in a floral shirtdress came out into the hall, pulling a white cardigan over her narrow shoulders. The woman's posture was even more formidable than the monitor's, so straight and proper that it made Tess's spine ache just to look at he
r.
"Miss Monaghan?"
"Yes, I'm the one who called to talk about Donnie—"
"Of course." The woman touched the young monitor's elbow. "Drew, you may go back to your post. Mr. Nelson and I will be in the study if you need us."
She led Tess into a small, shadowy room lined with bookshelves, but no books. Apparently the Banneker Academy's endowment was not a lavish one—everything looked used and threadbare. She glanced at the globe standing in the corner. It was enormous, a beautiful world of dark, lush colors, and bright blue oceans. That kind of globe usually cost a fortune new, but this one was at least ten years old, with Europe, Russia, and Africa all hopelessly out of date.
Mr. Nelson, a compact man with a moustache and close-cropped hair, rose from a faded wing chair by a casement window and offered his hand.
"Welcome to Benjamin Banneker Academy," he said, but his voice didn't sound particularly welcoming, and his hand slid quickly through hers, as if he found the contact distasteful.
"Thank you. I'll admit I'm a little confused. Is this a school or an orphanage?"
"Both," Mrs. Nelson said, "although we don't like the term ‘orphanage.' The Banneker Academy is a charter school, a private school that receives monies from the district under a program designed to make the public schools more competitive. At the same time, it's a group home. The boys admitted here as students are placed through the city's foster care program."
"So you're double dipping."
Mr. Nelson frowned. "We're not doing anything illegal if that's what you're suggesting. These are two separate programs under the same roof."
"I didn't mean to imply—"
"I'm sure you didn't," he said stiffly. Great, she had managed to offend him in what was supposed to be the innocuous, buttering-up portion of the conversation. Step aside, Dale Carnegie, let Tess Monaghan show you how it's done.
Mrs. Nelson interceded, trying to smooth things over. "We convinced the district to allow us to open a private school for the boys who have become our wards. We are the faculty, we are the parents. If George and I have learned anything from our…missteps over the years, it's that it's no use rearing children right, only to send them into schools where our teaching is undone."
So now it was the Baltimore school system's fault that the Nelsons' wards had been running wild in the streets. Was anyone to blame for what happened on Fairmount Avenue five years ago?
"Our boys have consistency now, and they flourish," Mrs. Nelson continued, her voice quiet but impassioned. "I grant you, we can't teach them advanced calculus, or physics, but if we have a boy who wishes to study those subjects, we can obtain the services of a tutor from the district. One day, we'll have our own gifted-and-talented program, and teachers will be fighting to work here."
"One day," said Mr. Nelson, who seemed less starry-eyed than his wife. "We have a ways to go."
"You said you learned from your missteps. I assume you mean Donnie Moore."
The Nelsons looked at each other. Tess saw him nod, ever so slightly, as if giving her permission to speak of what had been so long forbidden.
"Donald," Mrs. Nelson said. "Yes, I was referring to Donald."
"I'm trying to find the other children who lived with you when Donald was killed." Tess had never heard anyone employ this more formal version of his name—not his mother, not Detective Tull, not even the newspaper accounts of the time—but she was willing to appropriate the usage if it helped her gain some small rapport with the Nelsons.
"Why?"
Tess was ready for this question, more ready than she had been with Keisha Moore.
"A local victims' rights group is interested in helping the children."
"Now? Doesn't it seem a bit late? They've probably just begun to heal, and you—your victims' group—wants to remind them of the horror they saw." Mrs. Nelson pulled her sweater over her shoulders, as if just thinking about Butchers Hill gave her a chill. "I don't see much love in that kind of philanthropy, Miss Monaghan."
"No one's asking that they relive what they've been through. I thought if you ever heard from them, if you knew where they are—"
"No," Mr. Nelson said sharply. "We never hear from them. They don't even know where we are, and we don't know where they are. That's how foster care works, you know. We took them, we cared for them, we loved them, but we had no rights. They were our children, as surely as if they had been born to us. But when Donald died, they took them from us that very night. That evil old man might as well have killed all of them, so thoroughly did he destroy our home and the work we were doing."
Mrs. Nelson was crying now, silent tears running down her face. Mr. Nelson took Tess by the shoulders and turned her to the casement window behind the wing chair. "Look there," he said, gripping Tess's shoulders, as if she might try to wrest away from him. She saw ten young men in formation, running drills in the courtyard, marching and turning to a leader's shouted commands. It was a hot morning and sweat ran from their faces, but they worked in grim determination, their movements crisp and sharp.
"These young men love discipline," he said. "They yearn for it. They've waited their entire lives for someone to say, you are good enough to meet the highest standards. Donald and the others lived in a world where people said, You're nothing, you'll never do anything, just show up, go through the motions, that's all you can do. And then, just in case those poor children didn't get the point, didn't know how little their lives were worth, a judge gave a man less time for killing Donald than some people get for killing a dog."
The young men marched in place now, shouting in cadence. Although Tess couldn't hear the words they were chanting, she could sense the joy in their movements as their answered their drill instructor's calls.
"Leave our children alone, Miss Monaghan," Mr. Nelson urged her. "Let them forget. Forgetting is their only salvation now."
"Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it."
"Do you really believe that?"
Tess shrugged. The Santayana chestnut had been worth a try. "Sometimes."
Her candor seemed to thaw Mrs. Nelson by a few degrees at least. "If it's any consolation, I couldn't help you even if I wanted to. Those children are lost to us, too. I suppose that's our punishment, for not taking better care of them."
"But you'll save these bo—young men." It was more of a question, a hope, than a statement of fact.
Mr. Nelson shook his head. "I wish I could promise them that. I can only promise them safety here, on this little patch of land, for as long as they're with us. Eventually, they'll go forth in the world, and then there's only so much we can do. But no, there will never be another Donald Moore, not on our watch."
What was left to say after such a speech? Luther Beale's compensation plan, his desire for retribution, seemed trite and puny in the face of the Nelsons' commitment to their wards.
"Go in peace, Miss Monaghan," Mrs. Nelson called after her, her voice still a little shaky from her quiet tears.
The same monitor showed Tess out. Impressed by his perfect posture, Tess found herself standing a little straighter, throwing her shoulders back and sucking her stomach in.
"Do you like it here?" she asked him as he unlocked the front door.
"Oh yes, ma'am."
"What do they—in the curriculum—I mean, what do they teach you here?"
"Survival."
"What do you mean?"
The young man gave her a smile at once sweet and superior. "They're teaching us how to live in our world—and how to live in yours. Now be careful going to your car, ma'am. We've got some real bad people in these parts."
Tess was heading north on the Baltimore-Washington Parkway when her knapsack started ringing. Startled, she almost swerved out of her lane, then remembered the cell phone she kept in the litter of pens and crumpled ATM slips at the bottom of her old leather book bag. Past experiences had convinced her that she couldn't afford to be without a portable phone, but the balances on all those ATM slips
indicated she couldn't afford to use it, either.
"It's Dorie. God, I hate cell phones."
"Not as much as I hate this always-under-construction road. I'm crawling along down here."
"You going slowly enough to take some notes? Or you want to pull off at the next exit and call me back? I've got the Susan King info you wanted."
"I'm pulling into a rest stop even as we speak. I'll call you on the Blight's 800 number."
Tess pulled her Toyota into a lane banked by a row of public telephones. It must have seemed so cutting edge once, a highway rest stop built so you could make a call without leaving your car. How quaint, how adorably low-tech. But it was a cheaper, better connection than the cell phone provided.
"Okay, I've got my notebook out. Shoot me what you have on Susan King."
"First of all, she's not Susan King anymore—she's Jacqueline Weir. Changed her name legally when she was eighteen. Probably thought that was good enough to keep her relatives from finding her."
"It would have been, if her relatives didn't now have access to Dorie's magic fingers." A little stroking was all part of the package with Dorie. "Why do you assume she changed her name in order to hide? The way her sister explained it, they just lost touch after she had a falling-out with their mother."
"Jacqueline Weir has the best reason of all to hide from her relatives—money. For someone who's only thirty-two, she's done pretty well for herself. She has her own business. A consulting firm, according to the file, but that could be anything. She must be doing well, because she has a huge line of credit. She also has a mortgage of sixty-five thousand dollars on a Columbia condo."
Butchers Hill Page 7
