“I guess I can give you her cell number,” the woman said, “and she can decide whether to see you or not.”
“No, please, just the address. If you have it on her job application or somewhere. Please, I’m begging you. Jenney needs me to do this.”
The woman left for a minute. Then she came back and said, “She lives at Maple Ledge. I hope it was okay for me to tell you. . . .” But I was yelling “Thank you!” and closing my phone.
Now I had another problem. I’d heard of Maple Ledge but never seen it. “Can you tell me where Maple Ledge is?” I asked the firefighters. “I’m in kind of a hurry.”
“We specialize in hurries. It’s right across the street.”
“It is?”
“Sure.” The firefighter walked me back to the sidewalk. “See the sign saying ‘Hawthorne Housing Authority’? That’s Maple Ledge.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
Three more firefighters came downstairs, having finished their supper, I guess, and bored, to see what I wanted.
“That your bike outside?” one asked. “I hope you’re wearing a helmet.”
I strapped on my headgear while observing the place where Jenney lived. Maple Ledge was for people without much money. My first-grade teacher lived there. And Linda’s friend Marcia Jane Bailey. In all our conversations, I never pictured Jenney living downtown, just two blocks from my office. Maybe because her parents were rich. But Jenney didn’t want anything from them. Her loyalty wasn’t for sale.
In minutes I would be at Jenney’s door. How long would it take for her to open it? Then how soon for her to know it was me? Would she need medical attention? Would she have to be revived? As I waited by her bedside for her eyes to open, would she be puzzled at the sight of me, then recognize my voice the minute I spoke? Would she say, “I can’t believe you saved me,” and then we’d be like on the phone, only better?
Breathe, Jenney, breathe.
93.
the ledge
Plastic toys, tricycles, and radios. A few people here and there, meeting, leaving, smoking on their front steps in the cold. The residents emitted a prickle of inhospitality. I decided to ask the first person I saw if they knew Jenney, but the first three were men, and two squinted at me, and I felt protective of her, not knowing if they were nice people. Maybe they were simply wary of outsiders, but Maple Ledge reminded me of war photos where everyone is hardened, and you wonder, Where did the friendly people go? Did some kind of high-tech bomb destroy anyone you might want to borrow a dollar from? I wished I could find my old teacher or Marcia Jane Bailey.
At the third building I saw two girls on the steps. I glided in close, using Triumph as a scooter. Both girls had three earrings in each ear and almost no eyebrows, like a dotted line saying “Place eyebrows here.” Was one of them Jenney? Did she wake up and come outside to revive herself? I hovered, listening for her voice. But these girls were both smoking, so they couldn’t be Jenney. She was a swimmer, after all.
“Excuse me,” I said. “I’m looking for somebody.”
“That usually means trouble.”
“Well, it could in this case, but I hope not.” I had to hurry but sensed they needed softening up. “How are you ladies tonight?”
“Can’t complain.”
A picket gate separated us. “May I?”
Swinging the gate open, I felt all of Maple Ledge’s eyes on me.
“Do you know a girl named Jenney who lives here? A bit older than me?”
“A big girl with honey-colored hair?”
“I don’t know,” I said. Then I regretted how odd that sounded. I had to protect my connection with Jenney. Sure, I could blast through Maple Ledge with an alarm blaring, yelling, “Likely! Likely!” But tomorrow morning when she woke up, Jenney would have lost her privacy.
“I’m a friend of hers, and I knew she was going to be home tonight, and I wanted to surprise her.”
“But you don’t know what she looks like?”
“No.”
“Are you her boyfriend?”
“No.”
“You met online, then.”
“I’d rather not say. But I think she would want to see me if she knew I was here.”
“Why don’t you call her and find out where she is?”
“I don’t have her number.”
“She’s your girlfriend, but you don’t know her number.”
“Maybe she doesn’t want to be found,” said the girl on the right.
I realized that although the girls appeared to be sisters, they were actually a mother and daughter who looked the same age. The kind that were best friends. Real parent-child friendships were rare. They were usually just wishful thinking. On the part of the parent, not the kid.
I wished I had Gordy with me. It would have been comforting to hear my name among strangers. And Gordy would have known how to talk to these women. Unlike me, he had a knack for putting people at ease. What would Gordy say?
“You know, ladies, when I first rode up here, I thought you were sisters or friends. I had no idea you were mother and daughter.”
“Everyone says that,” the mother replied, unimpressed. “You met online, didn’t you? That’s why you don’t know her number. I don’t see why anyone would meet online. There are a lot of wackos out there.”
“I’m not a wacko.”
“Maybe not,” says the younger one. “But you’re not anyone’s dream date, either. If you’re taking Jenney out, is she going to ride on your handlebars?”
I unstrapped my helmet. My head was sweating. I needed to plan the next move. If only this scenario was happening on the phone instead of in person. At Listeners I was great at opening people up. I was a master.
I should have stuck with Ye Olde Girlfriend-Boyfriend Template. I could have talked my way past the neighbors and I would be in the apartment by now. Breathe, Jenney.
“What if I am her boyfriend?”
“Then she’s a lucky girl,” the younger woman said.
The mother exhaled a warning plume. “We’ve talked to Jenney a few times. She never mentioned a boyfriend.”
“I can imagine how you must be feeling. Suspicious. Worried. Maybe impatient.” I rolled back and forth, listing their prejudices like a cagey courtroom lawyer, except on wheels. “But look. I’m just here because I’m worried about Jenney. Look in my eyes. Can’t you tell I’m not one of the bad guys?”
“It’s a good thing you came by, actually,” the mother said. “What is your name?”
“Benjy.”
“I don’t think Jenney has a lot of friends. We spoke to her a few hours ago, and she seemed pretty fried. She said it was a bad day and she was going back to bed.”
I felt dread sweep from my feet to my head as if my body were filling with sand. She should have told me sooner. I was the person she should have told. I was starting to hate myself.
“Rest your bike against the fence there,” the mother said. “I’ll tell you what you say when you get upstairs.”
“I should get up there right away.”
“Listen to me for a minute. She’s independent. She might pretend everything’s fine.”
“Right. What’s the apartment number?”
“Thirty.”
“What building is that in?”
She jerked her thumb toward the building beside us and let me in the front door with her key.
Jenney, I’m here.
94.
thirty
The hallway smelled like cigarette smoke and litter boxes. The heat seemed too high, and someone had left a window open in the staircase. I heard the furnace clanging underneath us. Beside the door marked thirty, polka-dotted snowboots and an umbrella rested on a plastic tray.
I knocked on the door. “Jenney, it’s Billy. I know you told me not to come, but I did anyway, because I was worried. Jenney?” I looked for a doorbell or buzzer but couldn’t find one. I must have passed it in the lobby.
“Jenney, it’s Billy. Don’t you recognize my voice? It’s me. For real. Can you believe it? I’m here. Now let me in. Let me in and we’ll talk.” I tried not to shout or sound like I was arguing. I didn’t want a crowd to gather.
“Okay, we can talk through the door if you want. You don’t have to let me in. It would be nice to meet in person someday, but I don’t really care. It’s up to you. Bring a chair to the door and sit down if you’re tired. We’ll talk right through the door.
“Hey, I have a cell phone with me. Why don’t I give you the number?
“Hear this? I have my cell phone. It’s 978-555-0136. You sit there, I’ll sit out here, and we’ll talk. Here I go. Getting comfortable. Waiting for your call. Operators are standing by.
“Did I give you that number too fast? Just pick up the phone, Jenney, if you hear me. You don’t have to write anything down. I’ll say the numbers one at a time, and you punch them in. 9. 7. 8. 5. 5. 5. 0. 1. 3. 6. . . . 9. 7. 8. 5. 5. 5. 0. 1. 3. 6. . . . 9. 7. 8. 5. 5. 5. 0. 1. 3. 6.
“You don’t have to be afraid of me, Jenney. I won’t even come in. We don’t need to see each other. Just say something. Tell me what you’re doing right now.
“Do you want me to go away, Jenney? If you’re all right and you want me to go away and leave you alone, knock twice.
“Knock twice, Jenney.
“If you can’t get to the door, knock twice on the wall wherever you are. Knock twice.
“Knock once.
“Are you tired? Just knock once.
“Knock like this. Hear this?”
The apartment was too quiet. If only I heard a sound. One sound. Groaning. Furniture moving. Anything.
I didn’t think I was going to save her.
“Jenney, give me something. Give me something I can work with.”
I opened my phone and called 911.
95.
the door opens
I waited for the police, looking out a curtainless window in a staircase that smelled like disinfectant and old trash. I heard the siren, and a scowling nub of people in the playground dispersed. The first cop came up the stairs, a tall policewoman with a blond crew cut and long earrings, named, according to her badge, Lieutenant Tall. Behind her was Officer Novello, who I recognized as a friend of Marty’s. He came to our house in the winter when I abandoned Dad to attend a blues concert. He must have thought I was a pain in the butt, first disappearing from where I needed to be, then showing up where I had no business being.
“You the friend?” the woman said.
I answered yes.
“Lieutenant Tall of the Hawthorne Police Department. Step aside, please.”
“Police! Anybody here?” She tried the knob. She pressed her ear against the door. Then she knocked. “Police! Anybody here?”
She turned to me again. “Have you spoken to your friend since you talked to our dispatcher?”
“No.”
“The fire squad is coming to get this door open.”
Almost immediately two firefighters were upstairs too, including the one who’d sat at the desk and given me directions. He didn’t seem surprised to see me. Maybe nothing surprised them. He inserted a claw in the doorjamb and struck it with a flatheaded ax. The door opened.
Behind the scratched-up door I glimpsed a normal living room with a nautical-style clock, a television, a laptop computer beside an empty KFC bucket. A couch, some blankets.
“Miss? Miss?” Lieutenant Tall called. “Jenney? Are you here?”
Then they moved through the apartment, pushing doors open. A closet. A bathroom. A bedroom.
“There’s someone in here,” a firefighter said.
“Stay out there,” Officer Novello told me. “Don’t come in.”
“There’s someone in the bed,” Lieutenant Tall said. “Miss? Are you Jenney?”
Novello came out to the hall. “Don’t go in.”
He talked on his radio? To police headquarters? To an ambulance that would now turn back? But Jenney’s voice was nowhere to be heard, and I dialed Pep’s cell number and left a message of two words: “Jenney’s dead.” Officer Novello wrapped his arm around my shoulder and led me to the stairs. Otherwise I would have stood there, listening, forever.
96.
news
Why didn’t I let Jenney talk?
Why didn’t I let her tell me she had taken the pills?
I stayed in my room all day Wednesday, asking myself those questions, hoping no one would find me or call. I pretended to be sick. Mom, Dad, Linda, and Jodie hardly noticed my hiding. They were still high from Sunday, and they probably thought I was just avoiding the show again. On Monday, Dad had decided to leave most of the artwork up for another week. He was going to photograph and catalogue the art and invite some Boston gallery owners out for a visit.
Why didn’t you let Jenney talk, you imbecile?
Why didn’t you listen to her? You ass.
I walked in circles from room to room. This was the way my father had paced last winter, talking only to the demons inside himself.
That evening, Mom was reading the Hawthorne-Beacon Times, criticizing the grammar on the op-ed page. Linda was cutting pictures from a magazine to decoupage a lunchbox. Mom held the paper up, and I saw the back of it.
“What’s wrong?” Linda asked. “Billy, you look really weird.”
She looked from me to the paper.
So that was Jenney’s face.
97.
hawthorne woman found dead
Jennefer Alves, nineteen. Daughter of Jordan and Takano Alves. Hawthorne High graduate, champion swimmer, employed by Beauport Clam Company. Yes, that was my Jenney. The article didn’t mention suicide. It referred to her death as “sudden” and “unexpected.” It identified her parents as the owners of a wholesale lobster business but said nothing about the books, the fancy parties, or the TV station. The article didn’t mention a brother named Tobey. Or her friends: Stacey. Rebecca. Me.
98.
how did you help this incoming?
By answering the phone when it was her.
By always being happy to hear her voice.
By not knowing her before, so she could explain herself to me from the very beginning.
By liking or praising whatever I saw in her to like or praise.
By some of those things being things no one else might have thought of.
99.
what could you have done better?
I know what you mean by “done better.” But you have to look at the basic qualities that each person brings to the job. And you have to assume that those qualities will come into play. In other words, that a volunteer is not a senseless automaton pushing buttons and burping platitudes. If that’s what you want, why don’t you fire everybody and set up an automated answering system like you get at a bank or some other place that’s not trying to help people? At least they’re not pretending.
Okay, I know I seem a little angry now. Give me a few minutes.
100.
what questions do you have before you hear our decision?
I guess I have trouble understanding how easily you can put a limit on the amount of yourself you’re willing to give to someone. In fact, many people believe that the most admirable form of human behavior is a heroic sacrifice, in which you push yourself to extremes in order to cheat death of its claim on another person’s life, throwing yourself repeatedly to the brink of exhaustion and being washed back limp. I suppose you, Pep, believe hoarding your compassion allows you to save some for tomorrow and the day after that. But I guess I’ve always thought compassion is one of those self-perpetuating resources—the more you use, the more you have.
101.
listener of the year: not
I’d like to say that my efforts with Jenney, which could not have been more sincere, led me to an award of some sort. But life isn’t often like that. I should have realized that Pep wasn’t made of normal teenage stuff. I had expected her to wail, shed tears, leap in her car,
and drive across town to hug me, buy a cross or a teddy bear or a bouquet for the door to Jenney’s building, and act the way people generally act after a death. Instead, she said, “I know it’s difficult, but there was nothing more you could do.”
Then the executive board called a meeting that they called a “process exploration” but which I thought of as a “court-martial.” Pep tried to pull the story out of me by emphasizing my feelings: “What were you feeling when that happened?” “What were you feeling when you decided that?” But the other board members, three college students and two professionals in their thirties, listened with an expression that said, “What were you thinking?”
“Are you aware,” said Gerald, a professor of social work at Hawthorne State, “that when news of this gets out, some Incomings will feel that they can never trust us with confidential information again?”
“I guess so.”
“We’re already getting calls,” Pep added. “Some Daily Incomings have called to ask which Listener was prowling around Maple Ledge the night a girl died.”
“They’ll figure it out,” a college student said. “They have an uncanny sense for discerning what goes on around here. They have this quivering, like, antenna that senses the slightest possible change. They’ll figure out it was you.”
“How will they figure it out?”
“When you’re no longer on the schedule,” Pep said.
I knew that was coming, but I hadn’t gotten around to thinking about it yet.
“We don’t have a choice,” Pep said.
“Remember,” Gerald said, “what happens at Listeners—”
My Beautiful Failure Page 16
