by Lonni Lees
“I ask you, is this my rite of passage or your social opportunity?”
His father looked up and muttered under his breath, “I wonder if we should be celebrating the day you become a man or if we should be sitting shiva for you.”
Jared heard the engine of Marnie’s little Miata start up, then slowly back out of her driveway.
“Oy,” said his mother. “That Marnie shiksa is shameful. So many men come and go from that house that I wonder if it isn’t a heizel”
He detected a slight smile at the corner of his father’s mouth, but all that passed through his lips was another sigh.
His parents were good at sighing.
“Whorehouse, mother,” Jared corrected. In California it’s called a whorehouse, not a heizel. If we were in London you could call it a knocking shop, but we’re in California.”
“So where did you learn such language?” She asked. “You should have your mouth washed out with soap.”
Jared wolfed down a few more quick bites of his dinner and pushed back his chair.
“Yes, mother. Whatever you say.”
“Don’t you want some kugel, sweetie? Or more vegetables? It’s important you eat your vegetables....” His mother’s voice droned on and on from a distance as he headed back to the welcome silence of his tree house.
* * * *
It was twilight, the time when darkness began winning it’s nightly battle over the last glimmer of daylight. Jared crawled onto the oak branch like an iguana, inching cautiously along the rough bark. He looked down and saw old man Friedman on the sidewalk across the way. He was walking his ugly little, what did he call it? A peek-a-poo, or a cock-a-billybob or some such title, meant to hide the fact it was nothing but a mutt. The dog wasn’t a breed at all, merely the result of some accidental inbreeding due to a hole in somebody’s back fence. Jared froze, lest he be noticed, and waited until the old man was out of sight before he continued his journey. Marnie was gone, the sliding door that led into her bedroom open and inviting.
The nearer he came to his destination the thinner the branch became. He knew it wouldn’t be long until he weighed too much to chance it. But for now... well. Jared swung like a pimple-faced Tarzan at the brink of puberty toward the wrought iron railing and nearly missed. His heart pounded as his hands grasped at the rail, held it in a tenuous grasp that left him dangling somewhere between a bad fall and his target. Slowly, he pulled himself up and across the balcony and into Marnie’s bedroom, his heart pounding through his chest and up into his head and drumbeating at his temples. He threw himself onto her bed and lay there frozen until the pounding stopped and his breathing returned to some semblance of normalcy. It had been a close call this time. First, almost being spotted by Friedman, and second, nearly falling to his death. Or at the very least a broken bone or two.
Marnie’s bed smelled like a field of wild flowers and Jared buried his face in her pillow, inhaling the essence of his boyish fantasy. Marnie. Blonde and beautiful and sexy. She was his dream girl, the image he called up every time he...
He rose from the bed and walked over to the bureau, opening the narrow top drawer that held her treasure trove of goodies. A small bundle of fragrant lavender sachet, encased in a delicate netting and tied with a tiny satin ribbon. Lace undies in every shade of pastel as well as deep blood red, push-up bras, scanty little thongs that were hardly there at all. He ran his fingers across them and closed his eyes. He inhaled the faint scent of her perfume. He fantasized. Then he closed the drawer and walked toward her master bath at the far end of the bedroom. He walked through its door and looked around, until he spotted the clothes hamper against the wall. He rummaged through the dirty clothes like a frantic bargain hunter at a swap meet until he found his prize. He pulled out the thong he’d seen her take off earlier, ran it past his nostrils, inhaled, then shoved it into his pants pocket.
From outside he heard the soft purr of her Miata as it rolled up the drive. She was back early. His heart pounded as he ran to the balcony, leapt onto the oak branch and scurried across to safety, like a rat abandoning a sinking ship. He was already back in his tree house by the time he heard her car door slam.
He removed her thong from his pocket, opened the foot locker, removed the false bottom and placed it among his treasures, which included other items from her lingerie drawer, collected during other night safaris to his neighbor’s house. Jared wiped the perspiration from his brow and took a deep breath. For a non-athletic kid he got plenty of exercise during his little soirees. And tonight had been downright aerobic.
As he slammed down the lid, Jared heard another car pull up her drive and looked over. Marnie greeted the driver with a hug as he exited his car and they walked arm in arm up the pathway that led to her front door. She’d picked one up in record time tonight. The door slammed behind them as they entered her house. Jason positioned himself at the tree house window and looked across to her balcony.
It was getting dark, but when the bedroom light switched on the two of them stood there as if on the stage of some dirty Tijuana bar. The man was tall and muscular and seedy looking, like a character in a bad 1940s noir movie, right down to his thin, pencil moustache and swarthy complexion. Jared couldn’t help but wonder at her taste in bed partners. She didn’t seem to be choosy, but she certainly could have been. They marched in and out of her bedroom and in and out of her life like a line of ants seeking out sweet crumbs. And, oh how sweet she was—and more than willing to share her treats with an assortment of strangers. Sometimes the guys looked like college students, wearing their varsity letters, impatience and anticipation on their young faces. Some looked like the leftovers at the bars when it was closing time. And at other times they were old enough to be her father. But he rarely, if ever, saw one return for a repeat performance. It was obvious to him that she preferred the anonymity of one night stands. The men in her life serviced her, nothing more. She had sex with them and dismissed them without as much as a second glance. They were nameless and disposable and never had the opportunity to complicate her world.
Jared watched as tonight’s man undressed her in record time.
And waited, wishing it was himself holding her naked body against his.
Swarthy pulled his black turtleneck over his head, then reached in his pocket, removing a small, shiny packet. He stepped out of his slacks, ripped open the packet with his teeth, and handed the condom to Marnie. She knelt before him and rolled it into place. Then he grabbed her under the arms, pulled her up like she was nothing more than a rag doll and threw her onto the bed. She was laughing as he went at her like a bull in heat. Jared could hear a soft squeal escape her lips and vibrate through the tree branches, across the darkness of the night and into his ears.
He closed his eyes and listened.
When Jared opened his eyes she and Swarthy were standing again, holding their bodies against each other, Marnie whispering something softly into his ear. The man laughed as his hands explored the length of her body, pausing at her breasts. And then his hands were around her neck. Her eyes bulged in surprise as he tightened his grip on her throat, smiling. He fed on her fear as she tried to fight him, but she was no match. As the pressure on her neck increased, Smarmy stared intently into her eyes and watched as the last flicker of life drained from them.
Jared heard a soft popping noise as the bone in her neck broke beneath his grip.
Everything played out in slow motion before Jared’s eyes and it seemed like forever before her limp body fell to the floor.
“Holy shit!” Jared muttered under his breath as he scrambled down the ladder. Before he’d even reached the back door he heard a car engine start up, and the sound of its motor diminishing in the distance as it drove down the street and far into the night, unseen.
* * * *
The next day was Saturday. Jared sat at the kitchen table in silence. It was nearly noon and he was afraid to go to the tree house. Just the thought of what he’d seen the night before, and the image of M
arnie as she lay dead on her bedroom floor, terrified him. So he just sat there, thumbing through a book, pretending he was studying as thoughts spun like rogue planets in his head. Could he have helped her? Unlikely. It all happened so fast. And someone would have known he was watching. He didn’t want to explain that scenario. How long would she lie there, unnoticed? Did he dare tell anyone what he had seen? He knew he couldn’t say a word without revealing a part of himself he’d rather not share with anyone. Especially his parents. Not that he was ashamed of his secret pastime, he doubted there was a kid out there who would’ve turned down the opportunity to watch Marnie. That was certainly one commonality he shared with other boys his age. Curiosity. He just figured it wasn’t anyone’s business but his own. So he chose to remain silent. It was the only logical thing to do.
Jared rose to the sound of loud banging on Marnie’s door and went to the window. More banging at the door. The woman, tall and pale and not as pretty as his neighbor, was yelling, “Marnie! Marnie!” He observed her as she made her way along the walkway, overturning decorative stones until she found the right one. She lifted it, turned it upside down, and opened the secret compartment. She removed the spare house key, threw the stone back into the flower bed, and headed back to the front door, high heels clicking loudly on the cement.
About three minutes later Jared heard the screams.
* * * *
By mid-afternoon the light from several squad cars spun madly in front of Marnie’s and a crowd of neighbor’s was gathering as Jared watched from the safety of his living room. As they stood on the front lawn, old man Friedman was talking to one of the officer’s. His arms were flapping around like a fish out of water, his eyes bulging as he spoke. Every once in awhile he’d point a finger in the direction of Jared’s house and the cop would look in Jared’s direction and nod. Jared backed away from the curtain as his parents entered the room.
“What is going on?” asked Sarah.
“I don’t know,” said Jared. “There’s cop cars all over the place.”
And next thing he knew his parents had dragged him out the front door as they joined the crowd of neighbor’s amassing on the sidewalk. Gossip and rumors spread among them faster than flies on dog shit as they exchanged the bits and pieces they had gathered.
“Stand back,” a cop was saying, “Clear out of the way so we can do our job.”
Friedman held his little mutt in his arms. He leaned in close to them and filled them in on what he’d been able to gather, proud to be the one who could answer some of his neighbor’s questions. Jared got a whiff of his unmistakable garlic breath and took a step backwards. As best they could gather, he said, Marnie was supposed to meet her sister for brunch and never showed up. And she didn’t answer her cell phone or her land line. Heaven knows how long before she’d have been discovered if her sister hadn’t come by looking for her. There were lots of theories and questions about what had happened, but there was one thing they all knew for sure. Their neighbor was dead.
“I knew she’d come to no good end,” said Sarah. “That ilk always does.”
“Sarah, Sarah,” said her husband Marty. “You know it’s not right to speak ill of the dead.”
“I’m just saying....” Her voice drifted off as someone else caught her attention.
“She was a successful businesswoman, is what I heard,” said another neighbor. “Insurance or something like that. Things like this just don’t happen here.”
“What’s the world coming to when we aren’t even safe in our own neighborhoods?” asked Sarah.
The crime scene investigators were still photographing the scene and dusting for prints as it neared dusk. As night fell, Marnie was wheeled down the walkway, zipped securely into a body bag, removed from the premises and into the waiting van, leaving all the mystery and unanswered questions behind her. There was no doubt that she met with foul play. The bruises on her neck and the subconjunctival hemorrhaging in her eyes made it obvious to police at the crime scene that she’d been strangled. But she was on her way to the morgue, and an ugly autopsy. They’d be slicing and dicing her as well as prodding her bodily orifices in search of DNA and any other evidence that might help lead them to her killer.
The neighborhood crowd slowly dissipated, as one by one they returned to their homes, homes that no longer felt safe, locking and dead bolting their doors behind them.
The police work had barely begun.
Two days later the police were canvassing the entire block, knocking on doors and asking questions. Had anybody seen anything unusual? Had anybody seen someone hanging around the neighborhood who was unfamiliar? Where were you on the night of the murder?
When Jared came home from school, his parents were sitting in the living room with two officers. Nobody ever sat in that room. It was the room in which Sarah kept plastic covers on all the furniture, exactly as it had been delivered from the showroom floor. Even the lamp shades still wore their plastic wrappings. Another senseless tradition passed down from mother to daughter. Some things just were and there was no point in asking why. And now there were cops sitting on the couch that he’d never been allowed to sit on?
“Jared,” said his mother, motioning him to a chair. “Come sit down, sweetie. These gentlemen have a few questions.”
“We’ve been questioning all the neighbors,” said cop number one. He continued, asking all the same questions he’d been asking all day. No, Jared hadn’t seen any strangers, no he saw nothing out of the ordinary, yes, he was just sitting at home doing his studying, as always.
Then cop number two directed his next comment to Marty, who appeared to be the most cooperative of the group. “We’ve been asking all the neighbor’s to help us, sir. We’re collecting DNA swabs and fingerprints from everyone who will provide them voluntarily. You see, the sooner we can eliminate people, the easier it will be for us to zero in on the perp. Would any of you have a problem with that?”
Jared held his breath. Could he have left prints in Marnie’s bedroom? What if they’d found prints there, then what? How could he explain that? He didn’t want anyone to find out he’d been sneaking around when Marnie was gone. It would be embarrassing, to say the least. An uneasy knot filled his gut with apprehension. Sarah protested at what she considered not only an invasion of their privacy, but also a veiled accusation that they would somehow be capable of such a horrendous deed.
But, after reassuring them that they were not suspects and that it was nothing more than an investigative process, the cops got their swabs and their prints and were on their way to the next house.
Two days later the same two cops knocked on the door. Sarah opened the door and they handed her their search warrant. They went through every room of the house, opening and closing drawers and closets, snooping in all their rooms.
“Such a mess,” she said. “What is this? A piece of paper and you can come in and turn my home upside down? Are we in Nazi Germany? Are you the damn Gestapo? This is an outrage, an assault on humanity.” And on and on she droned.
“Sorry, ma’am,” said cop number one, offering no explanation. “We’ll be finished up shortly,” and the two cops headed out the back door. Jared watched from the kitchen window as they both climbed up into the tree house. When they left, one of them was carrying a large evidence bag.
Jared was feeling sick to his stomach.
* * * *
The next time the cops showed up at their door, it was with an arrest warrant in their hands. They pushed their way through the doorway, despite Sarah’s protests.
“Is your son here?” asked cop number two, and it went downhill from there. Sarah was yelling and screaming and protesting and Marty was hush-hushing her in an attempt to calm her down.
“Jared! Jaaaa-red!” she yelled.
Jared finally peered around the corner into the hallway where they all stood.
“I don’t understand, I don’t understand,” she was crying.
“Several items of your neighbor’
s lingerie were found out back in the tree house,” said cop number one.
“You’re accusing my son of being a ganef? A thief of that whore’s undergarments?”
“And his DNA was all over them.”
“Oy, my God, Jared! You’ve been up in the tree house playing with your schmeckle?”
Marty looked at his wife, sympathy filling his eyes. She just wasn’t getting where this was going.
“You both have the right to be present at headquarters when we question your son,” said cop number one as cop number two eyed Jared, who stood there frozen.
“Gestapo!” Sarah screamed. “You arrest a young man for touching his schmeckle?”
“On several occasions, your neighbor, Mr. Friedman, observed your son climbing across the oak branch and into the bedroom of your neighbor. And Jared’s fingerprints were all over Marnie Jensen’s bedroom,” said cop number two. “What happened, Jared? Did she come home and catch you there? Is that why you murdered her?”
“Impossible,” Sarah screamed. “This is impossible. My son would never do such a thing. He’s a genius. He’s special. He’d never.... Marty,” she said, turning to her husband, “it’s a week to Bar Mitzvah. What are we going to do?”
The first cop handcuffed Jared and lead him to the front door and out to the waiting squad car. His parents followed behind them, arguing all the way.
“Bar Mitzvah is the least of our worries,” Marty said to his wife. “I think our biggest problem is whether he’s going to be charged as a juvenile or as an adult.”
THE WATERCOLOR WITNESS
Tucson in August scorched like a cup of McDonald’s java. Heat rose from the pavement like an apparition from hell, shimmered like a thousand rattlesnakes rising from hibernation. On the Fourth Avenue sidewalk Doobie stood, portable easel before him, brush in hand. Perspiration burned his eyes. The Saturday panhandlers and crazies encroached on his space, begged or ranted or told him about Jesus. Passersby paused to watch him paint—buildings, cars, buses, trolleys—they assumed he was another starving artist. Some offered an insulting ten or twenty. “Not for sale,” “Fuck off,” he’d say, dismissing them with a wave of his hand. His responses fell short of polite. Doobie wasn’t starving. He wasn’t even hungry. His watercolors topped the thousand dollar mark and his one-man shows sold out. He loved to paint. He loved his cats. He loved his pot and Japanese sake. He viewed people with contempt. Yoriko was the only exception. Doobie was pushing seventy. Yoriko was barely legal with the body of a twelve year old. She was his lover and his latest muse.
