To confirm what Irene Metzger had told me, I telephoned Alma Norquist, the neighbor who shared the party line with the Metzgers. Of course, this wasn’t the first time I’d spoken to her. The evening I got stranded at the Karl farm, I had interrupted Mrs. Norquist on the phone and told her we were under nuclear attack. I thought the odds were long that she would recognize my voice, but even if she did, at least she couldn’t complain about how Armageddon had turned out.
Her version of Darleen’s adult-male caller matched Irene Metzger’s in the main, but I had a couple of questions of my own for her. I wanted her to describe the man’s voice. Deep? Did he speak slowly? Did he have an accent? Did he sound like a young man or middle-aged? No, no, no, and hard to say. His voice, it seems, was quite unremarkable.
“And you’re positive you’d never heard the voice before?” I asked. “Could it have been a neighbor? Bobby Karl, perhaps? Or Mr. Rasmussen?”
“Oh, no,” she said. “I know those two. It wasn’t them. Besides, Bobby Karl is tongue-tied in front of girls. And the man asked to meet her at the school.”
“Do you know if Darleen ever got other calls?” I asked. “From friends or boyfriends her own age?”
“Of course. That girl was always on the phone. Used to hog the line.”
“Any boyfriends?”
“Two or three,” she said. “Let’s see. There was Wilbur, of course. But that was months ago. What a dullard that boy was,” and she laughed. “And there were two others she spoke with more recently.”
“Was one named Joey?” I asked, wondering if Alma Norquist had a television—or was the party line her own personal soap opera?
“Oh, yes, I remember him. The little snot called me ‘Grandma’ when I told him it was my time to do my telephoning. ‘Keep your shirt on, Grandma,’ he said. Of all the nerve.”
“Who was the other boy?”
She searched her memory but couldn’t retrieve the name. “It’s on the tip of my tongue,” she said. “A polite boy.”
My skin tingled, as I remembered a series of notes I’d come across.
“Was it Ted, by any chance?” I asked.
“That’s it! Smart boy. And polite. Never called me ‘Grandma.’”
I’d had a feeling itching the back of my brain since my interview with little Gordie Douglas. The boy wonder said “endomorphic” was the word his opponent had missed when he’d won his crown. (I still couldn’t believe they’d asked one kid to spell “endomorphic” and then given Gordie “poodle” for the win.) And that had reminded me of the note I’d found in Darleen’s room, the one from Edward, who, according to Irene Metzger, had been in love with Darleen since seventh grade. He’d referred to a Mr. Bellows as an “endomorphic walrus.” Then there was the note in Darleen’s lunch box, signed “Ted.” And the love note smuggled out of Fulton to me by Frankie Ralston, also signed Ted. What if Ted and Edward were one and the same? Ted was a common nickname for Edward, after all. I asked myself if a grown man like Ted Russell would sign his name so blithely on love notes to a fifteen-year-old girl. Possibly, but I pegged him as savvier than that. He still might be a child molester, but he wasn’t a fool.
So, back to my question: What if, by some chance, Edward and Ted were one and the same? Teachers don’t often mock each other in signed notes to students, so I doubted Edward’s note had been written by Ted Russell. Despite the advanced vocabulary and good punctuation, I was sure that note had come from a student. And if Edward was Ted, what did that say about the love note Joey Figlio had smuggled out to me via Frankie Ralston? And the last note from Ted found in Darleen’s lunch box?
Why would Edward change his name to Ted? Who knew what ideas got into kids’ heads? Maybe he’d been given a new name against his will, a name he didn’t like. Whatever the reason, I was sure Teddy Jurczyk was in love with Darleen Hicks up until the day she vanished. And it appeared he may have slipped a note into her lunch box asking her to get off the bus to speak to him just moments before it rumbled off without her.
Brossard held the door for me, and I entered his office. Teddy Jurczyk was sitting in a ladder-back chair before the assistant principal’s desk, fidgeting and sweating in his checkered shirt and blue cardigan. I said hello, and Teddy cracked a smile. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, and I took a seat in the chair next to him.
“Now, Teddy, there’s nothing to be nervous about,” said Brossard, taking his place behind his desk. “Miss Stone is writing a nice little feature on you and your basketball success. Just a few questions for you. It’ll only sting a bit,” and he chuckled. When he saw that Teddy wasn’t laughing, he went all serious again and cleared his throat. “Miss Stone, please proceed.”
I smiled as genial a smile as I could muster, but Teddy looked white. Even whiter than usual. “When did you first start playing basketball?” I asked, hoping such an innocuous question would assuage his fears. He didn’t answer, so I dumbed it down even more: “How old were you?”
He gulped again and said, “Six.” Then he smiled awkwardly and drew a deep breath. With the first word out of the way, he relaxed a bit.
“Good boy,” said Brossard, positively drinking in Teddy with his adoring eyes.
“Did your dad play basketball?” I continued.
He nodded. “Yes, he liked to play. Played in the CYO when he was my age.”
“He didn’t play for New Holland?”
“No.” For the most part, Teddy avoided my eyes, but at least he had found speech. God, this kid was going to have a hard time asking a girl to a dance. “Pop didn’t finish high school. He went to work in the mill and then came the war. He had to stop.”
“Okay, now here’s a tough question,” I said. “You’re just a freshman, playing with boys much older than you. Were you nervous the first time Coach put you in the game?”
Teddy straightened up in his chair and looked me in the eye. “Before the game, yes, I sure was. Coach told me Dickie was too sick to play, and I was in. I threw up twice in the locker room. But then,” his eyes actually sparkled at this point, “as soon as the referee tossed up the jump ball, my butterflies disappeared. It was a very peaceful feeling. Phil Carbone got the ball and passed it to me. I scored on a layup on the first play.”
I smiled at him, and he gave me a big grin back. “Do you want to pursue basketball in college?” I asked.
He shrugged. “I don’t know about college. My pop says if I get a scholarship somewhere, maybe I can play. Otherwise, I’ll probably go to work in one of the mills.”
If there are any mills left by the time he graduates high school, I thought.
“Your pop must be very proud of you. Does he come to your games?”
“He hasn’t missed one yet,” said Teddy. “He sits in the middle row at center court with my little sister, Patricia.”
“The boy’s mother passed away a few years ago,” said Brossard to me as an aside. Teddy said nothing.
“That’s nice that your sister comes to root you on,” I said, and I meant it.
He blushed.
“Now, what about girls?” I asked. “Are you going steady with anyone?”
“Perhaps you have enough now, Miss Stone,” interrupted Brossard. “Teddy has to eat something and get up to the high school for tonight’s game.”
“Almost finished,” I said. “Just one more question?” Brossard consulted his watch and nodded. “Is Edward your full name?” I asked Teddy.
His face darkened, and Brossard choked on something across the desk. Teddy hesitated, almost as if weighing his answer. I noticed a sparkle in his eyes, but not the happy glittering I’d seen just a few moments before. Finally he uttered a simple “Yes.”
“Why don’t you like the name ‘Teddy’?” I asked.
He fidgeted again, as if he just wanted to get out of there. “No one ever called me ‘Teddy’ until recently. Since basketball season started. It makes me feel like a kid.”
The explanation seemed sound to me, so I nodded.
“Would you like me to refer to you as Ted Jurczyk in the papers?” I asked.
His smile returned, broad and beaming. “That would be swell,” he said.
“Did your mother call you Ted?” He didn’t answer. “I lost my mother, too. She called me Ellie when my father named me Eleonora.”
“What was all that business about his name?” Brossard asked me once the boy had left. He seemed miffed. “I think Teddy J. is a fine name. It’ll make him famous.”
“He told me he hated that name,” I said as a matter of fact. “At the game last week.”
Brossard huffed and shook his head. “But I came up with that name,” he said.
“It’s all right, Mr. Brossard,” I said, patting him on the shoulder. “There’ll be other boys to name.”
Back at the office, I had a couple of hours to work on my profile of Ted Jurczyk and grab a bite at the lunch counter next door. I selected three shots of the freshman for the article: a graceful layup, a defensive pose, and his team portrait. He stood there in his satin uniform, holding a basketball on his hip, as he smiled at the camera. I entered the caption: Ted Jurczyk, freshman guard. I was working on a paragraph describing his stellar academic record when George Walsh rushed into the room.
“Whaddya know, Georgie Porgie?” I said, not even looking up from my typewriter and certainly not expecting an answer.
He stuffed his arms into his coat, grabbed his umbrella and hat, then headed for the door. He paused over my desk and said with a sarcastic grin, “Read the papers, Eleonora.”
By halftime, the New Holland Bucks were leading the Flying Horses of Troy by fifteen. (Flying Horses? Who named these teams?) Ted Jurczyk had scored sixteen points on seven-for-twelve shooting and two-for-two from the foul line. I turned in my seat behind the scorer to see his father beaming in the middle row at center court. Beside him was a little blonde girl of about nine. She laughed and chatted with her father’s friends, who treated her like a little princess. When the teams took the court to warm up for the second half, I turned again to snap a picture of the little girl watching her big brother. I focused my zoom on her bright face. That’s when I saw the little crutches leaning against the bench next to her. She hadn’t stood the whole time I’d been watching her. Then, through my lens, I saw the flash of metal on the poor little thing’s legs. I lowered my Leica without squeezing the shutter release.
Ted Jurczyk cooled off a bit in the second half, scoring only eight points. But he managed the last six for New Holland, who eked out a win 52–50 and reclaimed a share of first place in the Class A League.
I was packing away my camera and pulling on my coat when Frank Olney sidled up to me.
“Good game,” he said.
I mumbled something like yes.
“I haven’t seen you since our little talk at the jail.”
“I’ve been busy,” I said, avoiding his eyes. “Work keeps me on the run.”
He nodded. “And late-night intruders?”
I jerked my head to look up at him. “What do you know about that?”
“I know a lot of what goes on in this town,” he said. “Ellie, why didn’t you just call me? I would have put a man on your house.”
“I’m all right,” I said.
A long pause ensued. It was getting to the point where someone had to say something, so I obliged.
“I wanted to thank you for sending Don to get me out of jail,” I said. “You didn’t have to do that.”
Frank dismissed my thank you with an uncomfortable pshaw.
“Really, Frank,” I said. “And after our . . . little chat, you still came through for me.”
He shuffled his feet a bit and looked around at the emptying crowd. He coughed once or twice then said it was nothing. “I wasn’t about to let you rot in Pat Finn’s jail.”
“Even after I said I was going to publish that story?”
“What do you take me for?” he said.
“Well, you don’t have to worry. I’m not going to print it.”
Frank sighed. He looked as if I’d pierced his heart. “Ellie, whether you print your story or not, I’m not going let the New Holland cops bully you.”
I was a little overcome. I wiped my eyes, tried to compose myself, then looked up at the big guy. A warm tear rolled down my cheek. “Did you know Ted Jurczyk’s little sister had polio?”
After the game, I dropped in at the office and wrote out my story on the game. That took about forty-five minutes. I dropped it off in Composition then found my way to Fiorello’s, where the kids had descended to celebrate the victory. I felt safe in the crowd, but was dreading returning home where intruders had no qualms about entering uninvited.
Fadge was too busy to pay any attention to me, but Bill, the dishwasher, was only too happy to chat. He listed the catalogue of products he’d bought that day entirely with coupons at Louie’s Market on the East End. His haul included wilted, unwanted produce, dented canned goods, remainders, and bargains of every description. Bill packed groceries for tips at Louie’s by day and washed dishes at Fiorello’s by night. He was known far and wide for his frugality and refusal ever to throw anything out. Fadge called him the third, retarded Collyer brother. Bill also liked to share embarrassing information.
“Do you know why they wouldn’t take me in the army?” he asked me, apropos of nothing, the first day we met.
“Flat feet?” I asked, dreading the answer.
“Breasts like a woman,” he announced proudly.
There were no seats free in any of the booths, and the counter was full. I leafed through a Look magazine and waited for someone to leave. A girl had the same idea, stationing herself next to me and grabbing a copy of 16 Magazine. I wouldn’t have given her a second thought, but Fadge looked up from the egg cream he was stirring to bark at us.
“Hey, you two. This isn’t a library,” he said. “Buy something or get out.”
I stuck my magazine back onto the rack and reeled around to look at him, blushing from the public censure, and saw that it was Carol Liswenski standing next to me. We exchanged embarrassed glances. Then, upon recognizing me, Fadge turned white.
“Ellie, sorry,” he stammered. “I didn’t see you there.” He scanned the counter and zeroed in on Zeke, a fifteen-year-old regular who was always begging Fadge for a job. “Over here, Ellie,” said Fadge, snatching a half-drunk cherry Coke from the boy. “Zeke was just leaving.”
“Hey,” protested Zeke, but his time was up. He slid off the stool and, head down, shuffled out of the store.
I took his seat at the counter, feeling vaguely guilty and ordered a cup of coffee. Fearing he was next in Fadge’s sights, the young man next to me downed his drink, wiped his lips on his sleeve, then slipped away.
“Carol,” I called to the girl, still standing near the magazines but now too afraid to touch them. “Carol, there’s a seat here,” and I patted the red Naugahyde to my left.
She accepted my invitation warily and climbed up onto the stool.
“I’ll stand you a Coke,” I said. “What would you like?”
“A hot-fudge sundae,” she said softly.
“Okay,” I said, eyeing Fadge. I’d offered a Coke, but never mind . . .
Carol was alone, and I asked her where her friends had gone.
“Susan is with her new boyfriend, Rick Stafford,” she said. “And Linda always has family dinner at Johnnie’s Seafood on Fridays.”
“You’re a long way from the Town of Florida,” I said. “How are you getting home?”
“I’ll get a ride from one of the girls, I guess. If not, I have enough for a taxi.”
“That’s not a good idea,” I said. “I’ll drive you home if you need a ride.”
She nodded okay.
“I wanted to ask you something, Carol.”
“Okay,” she said, a little doubtful.
“The day Darleen disappeared from the bus,” I began in a low voice. The chatter surrounding us drowned out our conversation, rendering us
inaudible in the middle of a crowd. “You said she got off the bus to see someone. And you said you didn’t see who it was.”
She nodded just as Fadge put a hot-fudge sundae and a glass of water down in front of her. She lit up and dug in.
“I think you or Susan or Linda did see who it was,” I said, and Carol chewed more slowly, her mind working on an escape or an excuse. “And you three must have discussed it a hundred times since Darleen vanished. Now, I’m going to say a name, and you’re going to tell me if I’m right.”
Carol looked up at me, a smear of melting ice cream on her lower lip. She looked like a child; she was only fourteen after all.
“It was Ted Jurczyk, wasn’t it?”
Carol choked, wiped her chin with a napkin, and took a sip of her water. “How did you know that?” she hissed in a whisper. Her eyes darted from side to side to ensure no one was listening. Then she leaned in closer to me. “Darleen made us swear not to tell, and Susan would kill me if I did.”
“So Darleen took the time to swear you three girls to silence before she got off the bus to talk to Teddy?”
Carol looked confused by my question, but nodded finally. “Yeah, I guess. She didn’t want Joey to find out because he was so crazy jealous.”
“I thought you said she was over Joey.”
“Well, yeah, she was. But he was still in the picture. You know, when Darleen had nothing else going on, there was always Joey.”
“Joey had quite a different idea about their relationship. He said they were going to run away together to get married.”
Carol shrugged and turned back to her sundae. She stirred the ice cream and hot fudge absently. The spoon clinked against the bowl, and there was another tinkling as well. A charm bracelet on her wrist.
“Nice sweater you’ve got there, Carol,” I said. “And you’ve changed your hair, haven’t you?”
“I guess.”
“That’s a swell charm bracelet, too. It looks new.”
SATURDAY, JANUARY 14, 1961
The rain had moved on during the night and so had the unseasonably warm temperatures. By Saturday morning, we were back into the upper thirties, with sun and blue skies. I had retired late the night before, looking for any excuse to stay away from my apartment as long as possible. First, I drove Carol Liswenski home to the Town of Florida, but it wasn’t yet eleven when I returned to Lincoln Avenue. I talked Fadge into joining me for a late-night pizza at Tedesco’s. In truth, it didn’t take much convincing, and the big lug insisted on picking up the bill. By the time we’d finished, it was after one, and the moment of truth was upon me. I had to go face the night alone in my place.
Stone Cold Dead Page 23
