Jubilee's Journey

by Bette Lee Crosby

  “We can’t stay long,” he’d warned. “If we’re not back by lunchtime, Grandma’s gonna know something’s up and she’s likely to come looking for us.”

  “A few minutes,” Jubilee promised. “I just wanna tell Paul about Aunt Anita.”

  At Monroe Street they paused for the light, and as soon as it turned green they continued to the hospital.

  Loretta was on duty that day, and she was none too happy to see Ethan Allen and his sidekick sneaking toward the hallway elevators. “Hold up there!” she called out and scurried across the lobby. Seconds before the elevator door opened, she nabbed Ethan Allen by the back of his shirt and didn’t let go.

  “You let go of him!” Jubilee screamed and gave her a kick in the shin.

  The sharp edge of Jubilee’s Mary Jane shoe caused a bump to rise up, and Loretta momentarily loosened her grip. With a strong tug Ethan Allen pulled free, but before he got two steps away Loretta screeched, “Security!”

  It seemed the officer came from out of nowhere, a burly policeman who towered over the two kids. “These monsters,” Loretta stammered, “were trying to sneak in again.”

  “Again?”

  “Yes, again. They’ve done it before. The boy’s been in trouble any number of times, and the girl’s related to that shooter who was in ICU.”

  “Is that true, son?” the officer asked.

  Ethan shrugged. “It ain’t how she says.”

  “Oh?” The officer raised an eyebrow. “So what’s your side of the story?”

  “We wasn’t sneaking nowhere. We come to visit Jubilee’s brother.”

  “Liar!” Loretta huffed.

  “Enough.” The officer shot Loretta a warning glare, then turned back to Ethan. “So, who is this brother you’re here to visit?”

  Jubilee spoke up. “Paul Jones.”

  “See?” Loretta snapped. “Crime obviously runs in that family!”

  “Let them tell the story,” the officer warned. He turned back to the kids. “Are you aware Paul Jones is no longer here at the hospital?”

  “Not here?”

  A tear was already overflowing Jubilee’s left eye. “Where is he?”

  Before the officer had time to answer Loretta said, “Hauled off to jail where he belongs!”

  “Missus Clemens!” the officer growled. “Go back to your desk, and leave this to me!”

  By then Jubilee was bawling so loudly the folks back in Campbell’s Creek most likely heard her.

  When the telephone rang at eleven-fifteen, Olivia thought it might be Anita calling back with a decision. Their conversation had gone reasonably well, and while Anita hadn’t agreed to anything she did concede that having full responsibility for a child might be a bit overwhelming for a woman in her position.

  “I’m divorced,” she’d said sadly. “Husbandless. Freddie was a good man but I constantly picked at him, blamed him for my own shortcomings. I suppose it’s because after I lost Ruth…” The remainder of what Anita wanted to say never came. Olivia waited for nearly a minute thinking she might go on, but the only thing she added was a long heavy sigh. The weight of that sigh ricocheted through the telephone wire and spun Olivia back to the days when she too had been alone. The days after Charlie’s death, the days when no friends knocked at the door or delivered casseroles. Those days were long and lonely. They were something she would not wish on anyone, let alone this poor unfortunate woman who was Jubilee’s blood relative.

  Before hanging up the telephone Olivia suggested Anita come for dinner sometime soon. She didn’t specify when but left the invitation open-ended.

  When Olivia picked up the receiver for the second time she was prepared to say Sunday. “Come for dinner on Sunday,” is what she was going to suggest, but the caller wasn’t Anita. It was Loretta Clemens.

  Loretta’s voice was almost gleeful. “I don’t suppose you know where that ill-mannered grandson of yours is right now, do you?”

  Right off Olivia suspected Loretta knew something and was itching to tell. “At the moment, I suspect he’s at the playground,” she said warily.

  “Ha! A lot you know! He’s nowhere near the playground. He’s here at the hospital with that little ragamuffin he’s befriended.”

  During the past two days Olivia had come to know the sound of Jubilee’s wail, and she recognized it in the background. “Oh, my God! Is Ethan Allen okay? What’s wrong with Jubilee?”

  “Nothing that a little discipline won’t fix,” Loretta replied smugly.

  “Loretta, if you’ve done something to those children—”

  “I’ve done nothing. They did it to themselves.”

  “Did what?” Olivia demanded.

  “Got themselves arrested. George has them in custody right now.”

  Loretta was winding up for a lecture on how such behavior didn’t surprise her one little bit, but before she could say anything Olivia slammed the phone down.

  Without wasting a second Olivia called the Mercy General Hospital admissions desk.

  “Linda Foust,” the voice said. “How can I help you?”

  “Linda, it’s Olivia. I don’t know what Loretta has done, but she just called and said George has Ethan Allen and Jubilee in custody.”

  “Who’s Jubilee?”

  “Ethan’s friend.” Olivia hesitated for a second, realizing the child was so much more than her words had said. “Actually,” she qualified, “Jubilee is more like Ethan’s sister. She’s a child I feel responsible for.”

  After hearing Olivia’s explanation, Linda hung up the phone and paged George.

  “Yeah, I’m with the kids,” he said. “They apparently didn’t know the boy was arrested, and the kid sister’s taking it pretty hard.”

  Moments later Linda was downstairs in the lobby. She knelt and hugged Jubilee to her chest. “There, there, now,” she said giving the words a soft and gentle tone. Pulling a dry hankie from her pocket, she wiped Jubilee’s eyes and nose.

  When Olivia got to the hospital she left the car in front of the main entrance and stormed through the glass door. Loretta spotted her coming and stepped from behind the visitor’s desk to stand in the center of the lobby, her arms defiantly folded across her chest.

  “You’re not allowed to park there!” she said.

  Not bothering to answer, Olivia slammed her shoulder into Loretta’s and kept going. Before she rounded the corner she saw George and Linda with the children.

  Linda raised her arm and waved.

  Olivia crossed the lobby in a few long strides, then bent and hugged Jubilee.

  “I’m so sorry you had to find out this way,” she said. “But it’s not the final word. There are still things that can be done. This is just a bump in the road, and I’m going to help you get past it.”

  Jubilee stopped sniveling for a moment and looked into Olivia’s face. “Me?” she said. “It ain’t me what needs help, it’s Paul.”

  Projecting a confidence more manufactured than real, Olivia replied, “We’re going to get Paul the help he needs. I promise.”

  She stood, thanked Linda and George for taking care of the children, then left with both kids. Other than a glance that sent icicles down his spine, she’d not said one word to Ethan Allen. Marching past the visitor’s desk like a mama duck with two ducklings following behind, Olivia did not give Loretta so much as a nod. When they neared the exit, Ethan Allen, who was last in line, turned and gave Loretta a smug grin.

  Leaving the bicycles behind, Olivia loaded the kids into the car and started home. They were well past Monroe Street when she finally spoke to Ethan Allen.

  “I hold you responsible for this,” she said. “You’re older and you know better. You know you’re not allowed to go past Monroe Street.”

  For what might have been the first time in as long as she’d known him, Ethan Allen didn’t defend himself. He didn’t argue back or say a word, just hung his head and stared down at his feet.

  “I’ll have Mister Porter pick up your bicycles later,�
�� Olivia continued, “but you’ll not be using them for a month. And there’s no television—”

  Before Olivia could list all the punishments she had in mind, a small voice came from the back seat. “It ain’t Ethan’s fault,” Jubilee said. “I’m the one what ought to be punished.”

  “You?”

  In the rearview mirror Olivia saw the girl nod.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “I wanted to tell Paul about Aunt Anita.”

  “Tell him what?”

  Jubilee shrugged and sat silently for several minutes; then she spoke in a voice smaller than before. “I don’t wanna live with her. I wanna live with Paul.”

  At that point there was little Olivia could say. Her thoughts were jumbled, and words impossible to find. She’d been wrong in thinking Ethan could replace Paul. He was nothing more than a Band-Aid on a boil that could burst open with the slightest bit of pressure. Olivia wished she could promise the child that everything would be okay, that she wouldn’t have to live with Anita, that Paul would be exonerated, that he’d come back to her—but the sorry truth was she could promise none of those things. With a heavy heart Olivia made the only promise she could.

  “We will get help for Paul,” she said. “I swear we will.”

  The words still hung in the air when Olivia realized it was the second time she’d made such a promise. Now it had become a commitment.

  Plea for Help

  Once they arrived home Olivia set aside thoughts of punishment and began concentrating on what she could do to fulfill the promise she’d made. Her first call was to Clara, whose only answer was that she’d just made a tray of chocolate cupcakes and would bring some over.

  “Cupcakes?” Olivia asked. “What good will that do?”

  Clara said a certain amount of sugar was sure to stimulate brain activity, then five minutes later she came barreling through the door.

  Although Olivia insisted she was in no mood for snacking, the plate was near empty when Clara declared there was only one person who could do something to help.

  “You’ve got to call Jack Mahoney again,” she said.

  “I can’t. I’m certain he’s still pretty annoyed with me because I barged into Anita’s apartment when he told me to wait in the car.”

  “Pshaw,” Clara huffed. “He wouldn’t stay mad over a little thing like that.”

  “I also said a bunch of things about how difficult it was to have the responsibility of raising a child.”

  “Oh.” Clara reached for the last cupcake. “How insistent were you on that?”

  “Pretty insistent. I thought if I could discourage her…”

  They discussed the possibility of a fundraiser to pay for a lawyer but nixed it because there was not enough time. One by one they went through the list of people they knew or their friends knew, but not one was in a position to help. Finally, when there was nothing but crumbs left on the plate, Clara said, “You’ve got to call Mahoney.”

  Olivia spent the next half-hour rehearsing what she was going to say. She’d start with an apology, then explain how it had simply been her jangled nerves that pushed her into talking and acting as she had. Once he’d forgiven her, she’d tell of Jubilee’s heartache and say how much the girl needed her brother. After she’d won him over to her way of thinking, she’d address the issue of getting help for Paul.

  Luckily she’d kept his home number, because on a Saturday it was unlikely he’d be at the station house. She dialed the number and waited. It rang five times; then a woman answered.

  Not expecting this, Olivia blurted, “Is Mister Mahoney there?”

  “He’s outside,” Christine answered. “Who’s calling?”

  “Olivia Doyle. It’s an emergency.”

  “Hold on.”

  As she waited Olivia heard the woman, who was obviously Mahoney’s wife, holler for him to hurry in, there was some kind of emergency. “It’s that Missus Doyle,” she’d said.

  There was the clunk of the receiver being lifted from the table; then Mahoney spoke. “What’s the emergency?”

  Although Olivia thought she was prepared, the words jumped out of her mouth in random fashion, with each thought not giving the previous statement time to settle.

  “You’ve got to help,” she pleaded frantically. “Jubilee knows about her brother, and the poor child is hysterical. Somebody’s got to do something!” Her plea continued for almost a minute before she began to wind down.

  “What brought this on?” Mahoney finally asked.

  Olivia explained the hospital incident and moaned, “I’ve promised Jubilee that you’ll do something to help. I gave the child my word.”

  “I don’t know what I can do,” he replied. “My hands are tied. Captain Rogers took me off this case. There’s nothing—”

  Olivia started all over again. “There’s always something,” she said. “A way to prove…”

  Finally, when Mahoney was weary of listening to her, he agreed to call Detective Gomez and speak to him. “He’s in charge of the case,” Mahoney said, “but I’m warning you, he’s none too sympathetic to Paul’s situation.”

  “Oh, dear,” Olivia murmured.

  When he hung up the telephone Mahoney went back to pruning the azaleas, but the urgency of Olivia’s voice stayed with him. Less than an hour later he changed into a pair of slacks and drove to the station house.

  Captain Rogers sat at a desk piled high with papers. “What are you doing here today?”

  Mahoney shrugged. “This Wyattsville thing is still bothering me. I need to take one last look at it.”

  Rogers shook his head. “I’m thinking all you’re gonna do is stir up a can of worms and make more enemies.”

  “A few questions, that’s it. A few questions, then I’m out of their hair.”

  “Go on,” Rogers grumbled. He dismissed Mahoney with a quick wave of his hand.

  Mahoney’s next move was to call Gomez.

  Hector Gomez was feeling none too good about the case as it was. When the story in the Wyattsville Daily suggested the department had gone soft on Klaussner’s shooter, the captain came down hard on Gomez.

  “Sloppy work,” he’d said, and any accolades Gomez expected were out the window.

  After that, Gomez had no tolerance for Carmella Klaussner and her busybody attitude. If he had any say in it, he’d let the boy go free just to spite Carmella. But of course that wasn’t possible. If she smelled even the slightest hint of leniency, she’d have her newspaper buddy all over it. Sick of working a case that had brought him nothing but grief and aggravation, Hector Gomez moved on to working a Friday night break-and-enter that was proving far less troublesome. When he lifted the receiver and heard Mahoney’s voice, he was tempted to hang up.

  “Hold on,” Mahoney said. “Let me ask a few questions; then you’ll be rid of me.”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  Without waiting for an actual go-ahead, Mahoney started asking if Gomez had checked out the lead that Paul Jones was in Klaussner’s store applying for a job.

  “No,” Gomez answered flatly. “And I’m not about to either. I’ve already had my ass handed to me once, so I ain’t looking to do it again.”

  “But, if there’s a chance the boy’s innocent—”

  “Innocence or guilt have nothing to do with it. This is about revenge!”

  “Revenge? Why would you—”

  “Not me, stupid! Carmella Klaussner!”

  “The store owner’s wife?”

  “Yeah. She’s sure the kid’s the shooter and wants him punished.”

  “Even so, how does she figure into—”

  “Connections! She’s got somebody at the newspaper.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing,” Gomez snapped. “She threatened it last time, and look what happened. I’m not messing with her again. If you do anything, it’s on your head.”

  Mahoney hung up the telephone and checked his watch. It was three-forty. He’d promised Christine he’d
be home in time for dinner. If he left now he could make it to the hospital and back before seven. Close enough. He called home, told the answering machine he might be a few minutes late, then left.

  When he pulled out of the parking lot, he was certain Carmella Klaussner would be at the hospital. She was almost always there. Day after day she arrived early in the morning and stayed until long after the other visitors had gone home. She sat next to her comatose husband and seldom left his side.

  Mahoney knew he’d find her there. What he didn’t know was that three days earlier Sidney Klaussner had opened his eyes and began to remember.

  The Telling Story

  Carmella Klaussner saw Mahoney when he stepped off the elevator. She’d seen him coming and going, visiting the shooter, consoling the kid, doing everything he could to set a guilty man free. “What now?” she wondered aloud.

  Leaving Sidney to finish the pudding on his tray, Carmella rose, stepped outside the door, and confronted Mahoney before he got to the room.

  “What do you want?” she said, her words clipped and short.

  “I have a few questions I’d like to—”

  “You have some nerve!” Carmella shouted. “Why, I wouldn’t give you the right time of day, let alone answer any questions!”

  “It’s just that—”

  “Just nothing! I know what you’re trying to do. You’re one of those bleeding hearts. You want me to feel sorry for the kid, but I don’t. He deserves whatever he gets!”

  “What if he’s innocent?”

  “Innocent?” Carmella’s voice grew so loud it ricocheted off the walls and bounced back as an echo. “He’s not innocent. My Sidney shot him! Sidney is a God-fearing man, never in million years would shoot someone unless—”