by Leslie Meier
“That does ring a bell,” said Miss Tilley, applying herself with fresh energy to her computations.
“And pi is three point one four, not three point one six.”
“Aha!” exclaimed Miss Tilley, whose white hair was now springing out around her head in the fashion of Albert Einstein.
“I’m so impressed,” said Rachel. “I never knew you were a mathematical genius.”
“Neither did I,” said Lucy. “I guess there are some things you never forget, like how to ride a bicycle.”
“I managed to forget,” said Rachel, dumping out the candy corn and starting to count all over again. “I can’t seem to remember anything these days.”
“Your brain gets stuffed, so you have to prioritize,” said Miss Tilley. “The longer you live, the more experiences you have to remember. You have to decide to forget what’s not important, because it takes up too much room.”
“At what age do we begin to store memories?” asked Lucy, wondering if Patrick would remember the months he spent with his grandparents while his parents were gone.
“My earliest memory is a piece of chocolate my grandmother gave me,” said Rachel. “It was wrapped in blue and silver foil and looked like a little purse.”
“How old were you?” asked Lucy.
“Maybe three or four. I’m not sure,” said Rachel.
Lucy turned to Miss Tilley. “What about you?”
“I remember my mother burning her hand on the coal stove in the kitchen,” she said. “I might have been two.”
“You’re just trying to one-up me,” said Rachel. “I don’t believe you remember anything that happened when you were two.”
“Me, either,” said Lucy. “My first memory was playing with my father. He pretended to be a bear and chased me, and it always ended with a big bear hug.”
“Sweet,” cooed Rachel. “How old do you think you were?”
“Probably three.”
“I think that’s about right. I think that’s when memories begin to stick,” said Rachel. “Why do you ask?”
“Well, yesterday I interviewed Buck Miller. He’s called Buck now, but we remember him as Sam Miller’s son, little Sam. He’s come back to Tinker’s Cove to work in the family business. He’s got all sorts of big ideas.”
“That’s nice,” said Rachel.
“So the prodigal son returns,” said Miss Tilley.
“But the funny thing is, when I asked him if it was difficult to come back to the place where his father died, he said he didn’t really remember his father.”
“Impossible,” said Miss Tilley. “He was in kindergarten when his father was murdered. He would certainly have some recollection of his father.”
“He said his father was distant, always working. . . .”
“Well, that’s a memory, isn’t it?” asked Rachel. “And besides, Sam’s death was followed by a traumatic event. His mother snatched him out of school and dragged him off to Europe, didn’t she?”
“Paris,” said Miss Tilley. “Marcia went to Paris. As I recall, she couldn’t leave town fast enough. I don’t think she even stayed for the funeral.”
“Well, she was probably terrified,” said Lucy.
“Traumatized, certainly,” said Rachel. “Fight or flight is a powerful instinctive reaction. It’s not rational.”
Lucy turned to Miss Tilley. “You were friends with Emily Miller, weren’t you?” she asked, naming Tom and Sam’s mother. “It must have been a terrible time for her, losing her son like that.”
“She never said,” replied Miss Tilley. “She never spoke about Sam, or her husband, Old Sam, or even her grandson. I thought it was a trifle odd even then, when people were much more reserved than they are now.”
“Families have different ways of dealing with grief,” said Rachel, who was a psych major in college and had never got over it. “In some families emotions are never expressed. Everything is just stuffed down tight inside.”
“Let’s see that pattern of yours, Lucy,” said Miss Tilley, shoving her calculations aside and deftly changing the subject. “I oiled the Singer last week, when I mended a pillowcase, and it ran just fine.” She clucked her tongue. “They sure don’t make things like they used to.”
Later that afternoon, when Lucy picked up Patrick at Little Prodigies, she was bursting with her big news. “Patrick!” she exclaimed, helping him put on his Windbreaker, “I’m making you a ninja costume for Halloween, and it’s almost finished. You can try it on when we get home.”
Patrick stamped his foot and tossed his backpack on the floor. “You can’t make a ninja costume!”
“Sure you can,” said Lucy, retrieving the backpack and taking him by the hand. “You’ll see.”
“I don’t want a homemade costume!” he yelled, yanking his hand away.
“But, Patrick,” she began, bending down so they were face-to-face, “the stores are sold out. I can’t buy a ninja costume, but I can make one. It’s going to be really great.”
Patrick wasn’t convinced. “Homemade costumes stink!” he snarled, marching to the door.
Lucy ran after him and grabbed him by the shoulders. “You have to wait for me to sign out,” she reminded him.
“I don’t want to! I’m going!”
Lucy was horribly aware that Patrick’s tantrum had drawn the attention of Heidi Bloom and another teacher, as well as a couple of parents, who were all watching the mini-drama. Action was definitely called for.
“No, you’re not,” said Lucy, snatching him up and hugging the squirming child close. “Please sign out for me,” she panted in Heidi’s direction as she hurried out the door to the car, carrying forty-odd pounds of wriggling boy.
After dumping him in his booster seat with perhaps a bit too much force, Lucy snapped the seat belt in place. “That’s quite enough of that, young man,” she said. “And if you don’t want a homemade costume, you’ll have no costume at all!”
She slammed the door and was reaching for the handle of the driver-side door when she realized Heidi had run out of the building after her.
“Um, Mrs. Stone, this is the schedule for the next two weeks,” she said, proffering an orange sheet of paper. “Halloween and all,” she added.
“Oh,” said Lucy, exhaling and straightening her jacket, which had become twisted. “Thank you.”
“And, Mrs. Stone, I just want to mention that you really shouldn’t threaten Patrick. He’s much too young to understand cause and effect, so threats and bribes are really meaningless to children his age. It’s preferable to explain a situation and let him know the sort of positive behavior you expect.”
From inside the car Lucy heard Patrick crying.
“Thanks for the advice. I’ll keep it in mind,” she said, sliding behind the wheel. She switched on the ignition and pulled away from the curb, determined to get home as fast as possible.
“It’s okay, Patrick,” she said, glancing in the rearview mirror and seeing her grandson’s face, red and wet with tears. “Everything’s going to be okay.”
Patrick clearly wasn’t convinced; he cried all the way home and stopped only when Libby bounded up to greet him and licked his face.
“Hi, fella,” said Bill, joining them in the driveway. “What’s the trouble?”
Patrick was half crying and half laughing and was trying to both hug the dog and push her away.
“One of those days,” said Lucy by way of explanation. “It started over his Halloween costume, but I think he’s really beginning to miss . . .”
“Right,” agreed Bill with a nod. “Come on, buddy. Let’s check on Priscilla and see how much she’s grown.”
Patrick sniffed and rubbed his eyes with his hands. “Can I measure her?”
“Sure,” said Bill. “And we’ll give her a drink of water, too.”
He and Patrick went off in the direction of the garden, and Lucy gathered up Patrick’s things, his backpack and jacket and the day’s art project, as well as the sewing and the grocer
ies she’d bought and her purse, and went inside. She was putting the groceries in the fridge when she heard the crunch of gravel in the driveway that announced somebody’s arrival. She looked out and recognized the same pickup truck she’d seen at the Conservation Commission hearing, the one with a scuba bumper sticker. She assumed Sara had gotten a ride home with Hank, and when several minutes passed with no sign of the passenger door opening, she assumed her daughter was apparently in no hurry to say good-bye.
Lucy had hung up the jackets, emptied Patrick’s lunch box and backpack, turned on the oven, and put the half-sewn ninja costume away before Sara came inside, her cheeks quite flushed. Bill was right behind, demanding, “Who was in that truck with you?”
“Just Hank,” she said, then disappeared up the back stairway.
“Who is this Hank?” he demanded, yelling up the stairs.
“He’s the president of the scuba club,” said Lucy, taking a package of ground beef out of the fridge. “Meat loaf for supper,” she added, naming his favorite dish.
“Have you met him?” he asked, taking a seat at the round golden oak table.
“Not exactly,” said Lucy. “But I saw him at the Conservation Commission meeting a few weeks ago. He seems very nice, well spoken, and polite.”
The door opened, and Patrick came in, along with Libby. “I’m hungry,” he said, and Lucy, who was mixing up the meat and egg and bread crumbs with her hands, asked Bill to give him some mini carrots. Soon he was also seated at the table, under the watchful eye of Libby, who adored carrots and was hoping one or two might come her way.
“He drives too fast,” said Bill. “Did you see him peel out of the driveway?”
“I missed that,” said Lucy, who hadn’t heard a thing and was pretty sure Hank had made a careful exit.
“And I don’t like this scuba stuff,” continued Bill. “It’s ridiculous, going in the water this time of year. . . .”
“They wear wet suits,” said Lucy.
“It’s still dangerous,” said Bill. “And what do they wear under those wet suits? Where do they change?”
“I have no idea, Bill,” said Lucy, turning the meat into a pan and patting it into shape. “I think you’re just being an overprotective father.” She slipped the meat loaf into the oven. “Look, I don’t know this guy, but you’ve got to admit, he’s probably better for Sara than that Seth Lesinski she was so hot on last spring. Remember him? The campus agitator and radical, the guy who got her arrested at a demonstration?”
“Oh, him,” snorted Bill, getting up and pulling a bottle of beer out of the fridge and unscrewing the cap.
“Have some faith in your daughter’s good sense,” she urged, resolving to take her own advice.
“C’mon, Patrick,” said Bill, reaching for his cap. “Let’s make sure the pumpkin security system is up and running.”
“The siren, too?” asked Patrick, hopping down from his chair.
“Absolutely,” agreed Bill. “We’ve got to make sure the siren works.”
Lucy sighed and got busy scrubbing some potatoes. She was putting them in the oven, beside the meat loaf, when she discovered that the siren on the security system was working just fine.
Chapter Six
Tinker’s Cove Chamber of Commerce
Press Release
For Immediate Release
The Wait Is Over! The First Annual Giant Pumpkin Fest Will Kick Off at 11:00 a.m., Saturday, Oct. 22, When Local Officials Will Join Chamber Executive Director Corney Clark in a Ribbon-Cutting Ceremony Opening a Harvest Figure Display on the Town Green. The Display Features More Than Twenty Life-Size Dioramas Created by Local Businesses and Organizations, Utilizing Figures with Pumpkin Heads and Clothing Stuffed with Straw. See if Your Favorite Wins a Prize!
That evening, when Lucy had finished loading the dishwasher and was giving the kitchen counters a final wipe, the doorbell rang. When Lucy opened the door, she was surprised to encounter the bearded, smiling face of Seth Lesinski. He was dressed in the army jacket she remembered, and was holding a box of copy paper.
“Hi!” he said. “I’m dropping off some stuff for Sara.”
“Oh,” said Lucy. “She didn’t say you were coming.” Lucy was wishing she hadn’t spoken earlier; her confident claim that Sara was no longer involved with Seth had obviously jinxed the situation.
“Sorry, Mom,” said Sara, appearing in the kitchen. “I forgot.”
Lucy had her doubts about that, noticing Sara had swapped the baggy sweatshirt she had been wearing for a clingy sweater and was wearing fresh lipstick.
“No problem,” said Lucy. “Your friends are always welcome.”
“I’m not staying,” said Seth, indicating the box of copy paper. “These are just the posters for the Take Back the Night March, fresh from the copy shop.”
“Right,” said Sara with a dazzling smile. “I’ll distribute them tomorrow.”
“What march is this?” asked Lucy, wondering if it was a possible story for the Pennysaver.
“We do it every year, the first Sunday night after daylight savings ends and it’s dark at four in the afternoon,” said Seth. “It’s to raise awareness of violence against women.”
“Every year?” asked Lucy, wondering how she’d missed this annual event.
“On the campus, Mom,” said Sara. “It’s just a college thing. At least it was. This year we’re bringing it into town because of Mary Winslow.”
“The woman who was nearly killed by that TV guy?” asked Zoe, who had come downstairs, wondering who was at the door.
Lucy had followed the story, which had filled the newspapers for weeks. Mary Winslow’s lover and attacker, popular cable news weatherman Brian Mitchell, had been accused of abusive behavior by several girlfriends but had always gotten off with a warning, despite the fact that the incidents had become increasingly violent. The attack on Mary Winslow hadn’t been so easy to brush aside. For one thing, it had been particularly brutal, leaving her paralyzed and unable to use her legs, but perhaps the biggest factor in bringing the case to public attention was the fact that Mary’s father was a powerful aide to the governor. Mitchell was now in jail, facing charges of attempted murder, and serious questions were also being asked as to how he had been able to avoid justice for so long.
“We want to draw attention to the fact that the cops and the courts are too lenient when it comes to violence against women,” said Seth.
“Especially if the perpetrator is popular and well connected,” added Sara, flipping her hair.
“We want to make sure that Mary Winslow gets justice,” said Seth.
“If you give me some more information, I can put it in the Pennysaver,” said Lucy. “Why don’t you sit down and I’ll get my notebook?”
“Good idea,” said Sara enthusiastically.
“Actually,” said Seth, glancing rather furtively at the regulator clock that hung on the wall, “I’ve got a, um, previous engagement. But, Sara, you can fill your mom in on the details, right?”
“Sure,” said Sara, smiling rather too brightly.
“See ya when I see ya,” said Seth, backing out the doorway.
“Yeah,” said Sara, opening the box and extracting a couple of posters.
“Okay,” said Lucy, sensing her daughter’s disappointment at Seth’s departure, but breathing a sigh of relief that he did not seem interested in Sara romantically. She sat down next to Sara and flipped open her notebook. “What’s the story?” she asked.
“I bet he’s taking Callie Obermeyer to the sea chantey concert tonight,” said Zoe, who was looking in the fridge for a snack.
“You just ate,” said Lucy in a disapproving tone. “Supper was less than an hour ago.”
“Why do you think he’s dating Callie?” Sara asked Zoe.
“I saw them at Jake’s the other day,” said Zoe, who had found a container of yogurt. “She had cappuccino, and he had regular coffee.”
“That’s the last one, and I was planning on having i
t for breakfast,” said Lucy, plucking the pot of yogurt from Zoe’s hand and replacing it in the fridge. “Have an apple.”
“I bet she got that froth on her lip and was licking it . . . ,” speculated Sara.
“Actually, he used his finger,” said Zoe, choosing an apple from the bowl on the counter. “And then he put that finger in his mouth.”
“Disgusting!” cried Sara.
“We were talking about the march . . . ,” prompted Lucy, bringing her daughter back to the matter at hand.
“All the information is on this poster,” began Sara.
“Tell me why it’s important to you,” said Lucy, who needed more for a story.
“And not because you want Seth to notice you,” teased Zoe, biting into the apple.
“It’s important to me,” said Sara, “because men are scum and they get away with everything!”
“Yeah, Mom,” said Zoe. “You always let Toby eat whatever he wanted.”
“I’m sure that’s not true,” said Lucy, defending herself at the same time she wondered if her daughter was right. Had she treated Toby differently from the girls? Had she given him preferential treatment? “Anyway, boys are different. They need more food.”
“And they don’t have to watch their figures,” said Sara. “How unfair is that?”
Saturday morning, Lucy was back at Miss Tilley’s, finishing up Patrick’s ninja costume. She was putting a zipper in the back, using the treadle sewing machine, which stitched along at a stately pace as she rocked her feet back and forth.
“This machine is fun to use and so good for your legs,” she said, pausing to snip the thread. “I used to be a little afraid of my electric one.”
“I remember a girl in my home ec class who sewed her hand,” said Rachel with a grimace. “Ouch.”
“Do they still have sewing and cooking classes in high school?” inquired Miss Tilley. “I remember boys used to have wood shop and girls got home economics.”
