That was an eye-opener. It had been such a painful incident that after she’d supposedly accepted my initial apology, we never mentioned it again. “You’re not serious.”
“Believe me, that’s what did it. Your line about the twenty years since she’d had sex was a turn-on. He started obsessing about you. He asked me if you were a virgin.”
“Oh shit,” I blurted out. “Did you answer him?”
She nodded. “Unfortunately. Then he must have decided he was just the man for the job.”
My face was so warm my cheeks must have been scarlet. “I told you the truth, you know. We didn’t have sex.”
“Yeah.” She gave me a sad smile. “He told me you wanted to, but he refrained.”
Anger instantly overtook me. “That’s a—”
She held up her hand. “I always knew that was a crock. Your version of the story was much more believable.”
The truth, as I’d told her then, was that I’d gotten terribly drunk and needed a ride home. I’d hoped Lauren, Stephanie, or Denise could give me one in Stephanie’s car, but they weren’t around. Jack and Howie were nearby and relatively sober. Howie said he’d give me a ride in his car, and I accepted.
He was nice-looking and had a good sense of humor, so when he’d first moved to Carlton as a sophomore, I’d developed an unreciprocated crush on him. I thought of Lauren as a sister, so when he fell for Lauren, he naturally slipped into brother-in-law status.
That night, he drove in the opposite direction of my house, but told me we were “just taking the scenic route.” Stupidly, I believed him. He pulled over at a deserted spot, neither of us knowing that Stephanie and Lauren had been in Stephanie’s car toking up, saw us drive past, and followed.
Howie said he wanted to talk and told me how serious he was about being engaged so young. In my drunken stupor, I agreed that they were too young and hoped they would wait before tying the knot. My concern was for Lauren, but he chose to take it flirtation. Next thing I knew he was kissing and groping me in a most unbrotherly manner.
The kiss was soon interrupted. He claimed whoever was in that car shining their brights at us and honking the horn were friends having a little fun. So hang on, he’d told me, and he’d lose them. A few wheel-squealing turns later, we’d left, unbeknownst to me, Stephanie and poor Lauren in our dust. Meanwhile, Howie told me he was taking me to a hotel where he couldn’t wait to finish what we started. I told him to take me home immediately or I was going to throw up all over his car. He could see I was prepared to act on the threat, so he dropped me off at home without further ado.
The next morning, Lauren wouldn’t take my calls. Nor the next day or the day after that. Denise told me why and filled me in on the rest of the night’s events. Lauren and Howie had broken up when Howie returned to the prom an hour later. Stephanie and Denise had then comforted my nearly suicidal best friend for two solid days.
I studied Lauren’s face. “You know, Lauren, I have to take back that statement about the one thing I’d change. The one thing really would be that damned poem. If I hadn’t written the poem, Howie wouldn’t have suddenly developed the interest in me. And I wouldn’t have gone through all that humiliation with Mrs. Kravett.”
Lauren shut her eyes and rested her forehead against both hands as if she had a terrible headache. When I asked if she was all right, she said, “As long as we’re coming clean here, it wasn’t Stephanie who printed your poem in the school paper. It was me.”
“What? Don’t kid me about—”
She scooted her chair back noisily, got up, and crossed the room to lean against the counter. Though she turned toward me, she didn’t meet my gaze. “I wish I were kidding. In retrospect, I did it to get back at you because Howie was obviously so hot for you after reading it. All he talked about during lab that afternoon was you. I was jealous.”
Rage seeped into me. “How could you? You knew Mrs. Kravett hadn’t really struck you, and that I’d never want my false accusation spread around. I had no idea Howie would react like that, and I certainly wasn’t responsible for his reaction.”
“I know that. Now. At the time, it was like I couldn’t help myself. I was Stephanie’s assistant editor. We had the whole paper set up already, but Howie was the one who ran the copier after school to print it. I convinced him Stephanie told me to run the new front page. Then later, I convinced him it was just a misunderstanding on my part.”
“How could you do such a thing! And then let me go all these years thinking it was Stephanie?”
“You don’t know how many times I tried to tell you. For a long time after Howie, our friendship seemed too fragile to withstand that. After a while, it just got harder and harder to broach the subject.”
That was absurd. It would have meant so much to me to learn that I wasn’t the only one who’d made mistakes during our friendship. I grappled with my shock. It was like learning your favorite childhood present from your dearest relative had been stolen from a store. “Why didn’t Stephanie tell me?”
“I don’t know. I guess because she’s not the horrid person you make her out to be.”
“So you pay her back by sleeping with her husband.”
Ouch. Would that I had a delete key for my mouth.
Lauren turned her back to me and gripped the edge of the sink.
“I’m sorry;” I said. “I had no right to say that. It was a counterpunch.”
“You’d better leave my house.”
My cheeks burned as I got up and left silently.
I was in a lousy mood when I got home. I vented it in the only constructive way I could think of. I drew a man lying on a psychiatrist’s couch. The man is staring at the psychiatrist in dismay as the psychiatrist tells him, “You call that an unhappy childhood? Ha! When I was two, my mother deserted me. Then when I—”
Carolee stopped by, her day off. I’d more or less forgiven her cup thievery, having attributed it to an impulse she could not control. Nonetheless, I ran a quick visual inventory and planned to lock up any valuables. The coast was clear.
Carolee’s blond hair was pulled back into a neat, bouncy ponytail and her face sported its usual carefully applied makeup. Her shorts revealed her skinny limbs, which, though I’d seen them dozens of times by now, I still found visually distracting. I offered her a cup of coffee, which she accepted, and, being caffeined-out myself, made a cup of Lemon Mist tea. “Have you talked to Lauren today?” I asked as I wrung out my teabag near the sink.
“No, why?”
Because I’m curious to know whether she’s talked to you about our argument. But even I am not that blunt. “No reason.”
We sat at my kitchen table. She stirred two full teaspoons of sugar into her coffee. “I owe you so much for introducing me to Tommy. He’s just wonderful, in every way.”
“You’ve gone out with him again?”
“A couple of times. We’d see each other every day if it weren’t for our conflicting work shifts.” She grinned slyly. “He is such a gentleman.”
“I’m glad you two hit it off. It wasn’t really my doing, though. You met at Lauren’s house after the break-in. So she deserves the credit. Actually, the burglar does.” That thought saddened me. There was no burglar. It was her lover, Preston. God. On top of all my other troubles, had I lost my lifelong friend?
I glanced at my watch. “Whoa. I don’t mean to rush you, but I’ve got to get out to meet Nathan’s bus.”
She took one last long sip of coffee and set down the mug. “That’s okay. I’ve got to run, too. Catch you later.”
I walked her out, then jogged down the block just as Nathan emerged. Once inside, he proudly presented to me a would-be square made out of Popsicle sticks glued together and colored with markers. I handled it carefully. The glue job was tenuous at best and would shatter with a badly placed breath.
“Oh, Nathan, this is wonderful,” I said. I ever so gently placed it on the counter, ignored the ink that had transferred to my fingertips, and gave him a
big hug. My first handcrafted-at-school present from him. This was one for Nathan’s baby book, if only we were keeping one. Now came the hard part: figuring out what it was. “This is a picture frame, right?”
“No. My teacher says you can put hot things on it.”
“Hot things?”
“On the table. Instead of pot holders.”
“Oh. Of course. It’s a trivet.”
“It was my teacher’s idea,” he said.
Just what I always wanted. A flammable, fragile trivet that stains surfaces. “Would it be okay if we used it as a picture frame anyway?”
“No! It’s for hot things on tables!”
I promised him we’d use it as intended during dinner and decided to, first, covertly use our hot-glue gun to reinforce Nathan’s handiwork. Why would a teacher send a student home with a gift that was obviously going to break apart when used? Didn’t she realize how upsetting this would be for her students, not to mention their parents? I would have to be sure to design an appropriate thank-you card for his teacher. Perhaps one that spontaneously combusts.
I started to clear the table to get lunch prepared. I picked up the coffee mugs and the sugar bowl. Then I noticed something.
My sugar spoon was missing.
Chapter 16
Fax Me Some Paper
This was the evening from hell. My children bickered relentlessly. A few minutes after six, I fried some ground beef, mixed it with boxed macaroni and cheese, and served a side dish of applesauce straight from a jar.
Karen and Nathan brought their foul moods to the dinner table and periodically reached over the table to smack each other. In the midst of battle, Karen suddenly asked, “Why don’t we go to church when Daddy’s not here?”
“Because your dad’s Catholic and I’m not.”
“Why aren’t you Catholic?”
“Because I believe you can be spiritual without being institutionalized.” That didn’t come out the way I’d meant it, but I was talking to my seven-year-old daughter and I was damned cranky.
“You never say grace, either. Aren’t you graceful?”
“No, not during dinner.”
“But we—Nathan! Stop it!”
“Mommy! Karen hit me!”
“He hit me first!”
Through my teeth, I said, “You want us to say grace? We’ll say grace. God is great. The food is so-so. Don’t hit your brother; that’s a no-no. Amen.”
Through the grace of God, Karen laughed at my adlibbing. That got Nathan laughing as well, and it looked as though we would live through the evening after all. A small victory, but a victory nonetheless.
The phone rang while we were clearing the dishes. It was still telemarketing hour, so I hesitated before answering. An owner of an office-equipment store wanted to know if I could design a faxable advertisement for her business. I assured her she’d found the right person for the job, and two hours later eagerly fired up the computer the minute I had tucked Nathan and Karen in.
Eventually I settled for a drawing of a man behind the counter of an office-supply store. He’s listening to a customer say over the phone, “Our fax machine is out of paper. Could you fax us some right away, please?”
Later, it took me a long time to fall asleep. I was excited about the job I’d completed and the inroads I’d built toward establishing a viable business for myself. Maybe inroads was too strong a word, but definite in-paths were forming. The children were healthy and happy when they weren’t beating on each other. Nathan was adjusting to school nicely, as was Karen. Considering that someone had been murdered next door and Jim had been gone for a month now, these were not small feats. Despite formidable challenges and obstacles, I was handling single-momhood just fine. I felt proud of myself.
I awoke to the sound of breaking glass. I bolted upright in bed. It was still dark. My heart beat wildly. I was afraid to breathe loudly. I hoped against logic that the noise had been dreamed.
The scrape of a window opening. A dull thud. A footstep in the kitchen below me. I grabbed the phone and dialed 911. A female dispatcher answered.
In a quaking voice just above a whisper, I said, “Someone’s just broken into my house. My children and I are alone upstairs.”
“You’re at twenty-twenty Little John Lane?”
“Yes.”
“A patrol unit is on its way. Stay calm.”
“I’ve got to get my children.”
“No. Stay put and don’t talk. Stay on the line with me till the officers arrive.”
“But my children—”
“Listen to me. The worst thing you could do now is startle the prowler. Are you certain someone is still downstairs?”
I listened. My bedroom door was ajar, as always. There was another thud. I couldn’t tell which downstairs room the noise came from. “Yes. Oh, God. Hurry.”
“They’re on their way. Just another minute or two.”
I held my breath, listening to the noises in the house.
A floorboard creaked somewhere downstairs. That did it.
I couldn’t wait any longer. I rose.
“I’ve got to get my children. I’ll leave the phone off the hook.” I dropped the handset on my bed, held my breath, raced to Karen’s room, and swept her into my arms. She groaned. I whispered, “Mommy’s taking you to her bed tonight.” After doing the same with Nathan, I locked the bedroom door and got into bed beside them.
Then I heard a sharp metallic click. The latch on the sliding glass door. I grabbed the phone. “The back door. Someone just opened it. Tell the police to come to the back door.”
Moments later, I saw the flashing lights of a patrol car through my curtains. I no longer paid attention to the dispatcher, but listened instead to the policemen’s heavy footsteps downstairs. Then someone knocked gently on my door.
“Ma’am? This is Officer Galloway. Are you all right?”
I sighed, overwhelmed with relief.
“Yes,” I said in a near whisper. “We’re all fine.” I carefully got up without waking Nathan or Karen. “Would you mind slipping your ID card under the door?”
He did so, and I slipped on some gray sweatpants that matched the T-shirt I’d worn to bed, then opened the door to Officer Galloway. He was a stocky, white-haired man who bore the same stern expression that was on his photo ID. I returned the card and followed him and a second, younger-looking, officer downstairs.
“See anything missing?” Officer Galloway asked.
I made a quick visual check of the kitchen. One pane in the kitchen window was broken. The screen had been slit. Nothing else was out of place or missing. I checked the dining room. “Oh, no. The brass candlesticks are gone. They’re family heirlooms.”
“Can you describe them to me, please?”
I gave him as detailed a description as possible while I checked the hutch, where my parents stored valuable antique plates and glassware. Still there. He followed me into the living room. Nothing missing. I went into the family room.
“The DVR is gone.” That would not be an insignificant item to my parents, especially to my father who’d spent hours customizing its operation, but my concerns were now on my office equipment.
Officer Galloway escorted me downstairs. My computer and my pricey all-in-one printer/scanner/copier/fax machine were still there, to my relief.
Later, while Galloway and I shared decaffeinated coffee, the other officer took fingerprints. The powder made my kitchen even messier than it already was. Powder on the twenty-seven-inch TV. “Why didn’t he swipe the television?”
“The TV set’s too heavy to be stolen by a solo perp”.
“You’re lucky there wasn’t a partner.”
“I feel lucky just because no one came upstairs.”
After the police left, I cleaned up the glass shards too small for them to take as evidence and duct-taped cardboard in place of the pane. This wasn’t that much easier to break through than the glass, just quieter.
I spent what little remain
ed of the night lying in bed between my children who would otherwise have come to blows even in their sleep. I finally fell asleep myself a little after six and was awakened minutes later when my daughter popped her head up and said, “Hey, what are we doing here?”
“I moved you here last night. I wanted the company.” I’d decided to wait until after school to tell them about the burglary.
Nathan groaned that he was sleepy and didn’t want to wake up. My sentiments exactly.
My head was pounding by the time the kids were ready for school. I was spurred on by the thought that as soon as they were gone, I could go back to bed. I felt absolutely dog sick and had quite a case of the shakes. I fell into a restless sleep.
The doorbell rang. I was disoriented. The clock read 9:18. For a moment I had to think, a.m. or p.m.? As I stepped into slippers, I nearly passed out and had to grab the dresser for support. My legs felt leaden as I dragged myself downstairs. Going through a night with no sleep always made me feel queasy and gave me a headache. But this was monstrous. I must be coming down with the flu.
It was Tommy. I opened the door and muttered, “Hello,” adding, “I’m not feeling well.”
“Don’t look so good, either. I saw ‘bout your break-in last night on the blotter.” He stepped inside. “Jiminy. Your house is hot.” He walked over to the thermostat. “D’ya always set this at eighty?”
“The kids must have played with it. I’ve been asleep…didn’t notice. I feel so groggy.”
Tommy’s eyes suddenly widened in alarm. He took off his coat and wrapped it around my shoulders. “Get outside. Now. And stay out.” He pushed me onto the porch and waved me farther back. “Go sit down away from the house. Are your kids at school?”
I nodded. As I wobbled my way down the cement steps, my slowed mind finally realized what was happening. Carbon monoxide. I’d been inhaling it for hours.
I sat on the edge of the lawn, staring at the house. A couple of minutes later, Tommy emerged. His face was almost as red as his hair. He took deep breaths of the chilly air, then propped my door open wide. He crossed the lawn toward me. “It’s okay now. Furnace vents were blocked. House will air out soon. Better get you to the hospital and—”
Death Comes eCalling Page 16
