by Alter, Judy
“I don’t like him,” Em said and ate another mouthful of mac and cheese.
****
I spent the week getting ready for the garage sale, with the girls’ help. “Let’s pull all your clothes out of your drawers and closet and see what still fits, what you want to keep and what we should get rid of,” I said, trying to make it a game.
Maggie wanted to discard nothing. “This is too small,” she said, holding up a velvet dress that she’d probably worn once to what occasion I couldn’t remember. “But Em can wear it.”
And Em will probably only wear it once too. But she put it in the “keep” pile. That pile grew much larger than the “discard” pile, to my dismay.
The same wasn’t true of my closet. I discarded things with gay abandon and then remembered all those clothes that I’d once loved and now couldn’t remember where they were. Gone, I guessed, to garage sales or Goodwill. I sorted the discard pile again and pulled out a few things, but I was pretty much heartless.
Tim called Saturday morning and wanted to take the girls to the zoo on Sunday. I agreed and thought that if it weren’t for his lady friend I’d suggest we all go together. Fort Worth has a world-class, state-of-the-art zoo for a city its size, and it was always a joy to watch the girls run from one outdoor exhibit to another. They loved everything from elephants to meerkats, and Maggie particularly liked to ride the zoo train. We all avoided the herpetarium. But, given the girlfriend, I suggested he pick them up at 1:00 and hung up thinking I’d have to get back in the habit of taking them to Sunday school and church.
Then Mike Shandy called and asked if he could fix supper—at our house, of course—that night. “That’d be great, Mike, but I have the girls. They’re going to the zoo with their father tomorrow afternoon—would that be a better time?”
“Nope, I have to work. And I’d love to fix dinner for all of you. I’ll come up with something kid friendly.”
I laughed. “Okay, but I really can cook. Next time it’s my turn. Tonight I’ll do dishes.”
“It’s a deal.”
Chapter Nine
Mike brought the perfect dinner for the girls—soft drinks, hot dogs, potato chips, pickles, and ice cream. He even brought paper plates, grinning as he said, “I didn’t want you to have to work too hard.”
“Mike, the mind reader,” I said. He really is something else, I told myself. But I wasn’t ready to say that to him aloud. Instead, I said, “I really worked hard today, getting things ready for the garage sale. I think I’ve got a handle on it.”
“Still need me to move furniture?”
“If you can, I’ll be grateful. Theresa and I couldn’t possibly get that sofa and the huge chairs outside. Let’s just pray for a warm, clear day.”
We ate in the kitchen, and Theresa joined us, seeming to enjoy herself and blushing when Mike asked her about boyfriends. “I haven’t met anyone my dad approves of,” she said. Then, to my surprise, she added, “I think maybe he’s right.”
“Probably is,” Mike said. “Pretty girl like you must have guys swarming around.” Then she really blushed to the roots of her hair.
“I think Joe has a crush on her,” Maggie announced.
Just as Mike asked, “Who’s Joe?” Theresa said rather sternly, “He does not. Just hush, Maggie,” and Maggie subsided, her feelings hurt. Theresa saw that she’d hurt the child and came around the kitchen island to hug her. “I’m sorry, Maggie. Joe’s a sensitive subject.” She ruffled Maggie’s hair, and within minutes Maggie was back to her happy self.
After supper, it took three minutes to clean up—mostly rinsing disposable plates and putting them in the recycle bin, although I did say I’d clean the grill later. We all went outside to enjoy one of the last of fall’s mild evenings.
“Daylight savings ends in a week,” Mike said. “We better play ball while we can still see.” So he threw the ball for the girls—Maggie was pretty good at catching it, but Em let it bounce on the ground and ran squealing after it. Theresa proved to be really good at throwing it back to Mike, who whistled and said, “You got some arm, Theresa. You ever play baseball?”
She laughed. “Just T-ball when I was little. I’m not much interested in sports.”
Sitting on the sidelines, watching, I wondered what Theresa was indeed interested in. I had yet to see the rebellious girl Anthony described, and if she was in love with Joe, she hid it well. For all I could tell, she was a happy teenager and a sweet girl, albeit with more knowledge of “punks” than I had.
Mike left early, feigning exhaustion from the ball game, and I read to the girls until they went to sleep. Theresa disappeared to her room, but not before she said, “Thank you, Miss Kelly. I had a good time tonight.”
****
Sunday loomed as a long day. The girls and Theresa were gone with Tim, I’d done everything I could for the garage sale, I’d sworn off digging into Marie Winton’s mystery—I was at loose ends, not something that happened often in my busy life. I called Joanie, who didn’t sound quite as perky.
“Joanie, let’s go to brunch. Maybe LaMadeleine.”
“Oooh, Kelly. Don’t even mention food to me until about noon. It…the idea makes me sick.”
“That bad, huh? You eating dry saltines before you get up in the morning?”
“Of course not. Why would I?”
“Because they’ll really help that queasy feeling.”
“Now you tell me. Doctor says I should be past this any day now, but I’m still waiting.”
“Joanie, get dressed and come over here. I bet moving around will make you feel better. Do your hair. Put on your makeup.”
Joanie groaned, but she agreed. It took her an hour and a half but when she appeared, I thought she looked good. I exaggerated a bit. “Joanie, you look great. I’d never know you didn’t feel good—or that you were pregnant.”
“I’ve gained five pounds,” Joanie moaned. “I’m going to be big as a house, I just know it.”
“You tell your boss yet?” Joanie still worked in that high-powered ad agency, and I wasn’t sure how they’d feel about a pregnant “associate.”
“Yeah. She was really neat about it. Said we’d have to get me some really smart-ass maternity clothes. I just don’t have to mention whether I’m married or not to clients.”
Instead of going out, I fixed a cheese omelet—nice and bland, I thought—and toast. “No bacon,” Joanie insisted. “I can’t bear the smell.”
I remembered that I couldn’t stand bacon when I was pregnant either. “How about mushrooms?”
“Ooh, no. And I used to love them.”
I laughed. “It will all go away,” I said. “You’ll love those things again.”
Over brunch, Joanie asked, “That policeman still hanging around you?”
“Mike Shandy? Yeah, he brought hot dogs for the girls last night. We had a good time.”
“Kelly, there’s something you’re not telling me.”
I was thoughtful for a long minute. “Mike Shandy is almost the perfect guy—good, solid, reliable, likes the girls a lot. He’s everything that Tim wasn’t…I’m just not sure I’m ready for a relationship.”
“Kelly, Tim’s been gone—what? Three years? I don’t see how you’ve stood being alone that long.”
I sighed. Joanie and I were certainly of different minds about some things. I could not, would not flit from bed to bed, nor would I ever ever expose my girls to such a lifestyle.
****
The girls returned about five-thirty, saying they’d eaten at the zoo and were full up. By then, Joanie left, saying she had a date that night. “Nothing special,” she said. “I’ll behave.”
“I didn’t eat,” Theresa said. “The food’s nasty. May I fix myself a grilled cheese?”
“Of course.” We all gathered in the kitchen. The girls giggled and recounted tales of the gorilla house, the lions, the Texas Village, and the generally good time they’d had. Theresa joined in, laughing at their antics as they imi
tated the animals.
****
The next morning, I opened the paper to find the Wintons on the front page. “Family Identifies Skeleton” read the headline. I skimmed the story—all the previously quiet details came out—the victim’s name, her family’s identity and a repeat of the hometown story emphasizing the presidential connection. I was sure Phyllis was mortified, and, to my own dismay, the name of O’Connell and Spencer Realtors was prominently mentioned. I flipped on the kitchen TV in time to see the Wintons being interviewed by a reporter. George was once again the talker, while Phyllis and David hung back. The reporter ended his story with, “The Wintons are asking anyone who has any information about this case to come forward. Of course, they’d particularly like to talk to the late Miss Winton’s fiancé, Martin, whoever he is.”
Wouldn’t we all?
I woke the girls and Theresa and went back downstairs to fix breakfast and lunches. When Theresa came downstairs, she was an entirely different person from the cheerful teenager of last night. She looked like she hadn’t slept. Her face was pale, her eyes puffy. She barely spoke, and when Em tried to hug her, she pushed the child away.
“Theresa, you okay?”
“Yes, ma’am. Just a little tired. I…I didn’t sleep well.”
Breakfast was a strained affair, with all of us giving Theresa furtive looks and wondering what was wrong. I couldn’t imagine what could have changed the girl overnight.
When Anthony came to get her, Theresa walked out the front door without a word, didn’t greet her father, and stalked ahead of him to the car. He looked at me and shrugged. I decided I’d go to the house on Fairmount later that morning to talk to Anthony.
I got the girls to their schools, checked in at the office, and then went to Fairmount. “Anthony?”
“In the kitchen, Miss Kelly,” he called.
The Black Brothers people were gone and the walls were relatively free of soot and bright paint, though the smoke smell lingered. Enough that it made Phyllis Winton sick, I thought wryly. Anthony had opened the windows, letting the fall breeze freshen the house as much as it could. That meant he had pried off the plywood and would have to replace it at the end of the day.
“I don’t know,” he said, shaking his head. “I rebuild the cabinets, but I have to start from scratch.” His voice took on an ominous tone. “It will be expensive, Miss Kelly.”
“Insurance will pay for that—it was the first bit of vandalism, before I stopped reporting it,” I told him. “Don’t worry about it. I want to fix this house.”
“That’s good,” he said, smiling. “I fix it right.”
“Anthony, about that space….” I nodded toward the hidden space that once held the skeleton.
He scratched his head.
“I told you I put spice racks on the door.”
He paused a minute. “You want a plaque in her memory?” He had just the hint of a grin.
“No, no. I just…well I guess you’re right. Do it as you said.” Then I shifted to the topic really on my mind. “Anthony, did you notice anything different about Theresa this morning?”
“Different? How you mean different? She was quiet, but she’s that way with me a lot. I think it’s her age.”
“She was happy and talkative last night, and this morning, she was like a different person.”
He shrugged. “Teenagers, they’re moody.”
“No,” I said, “something happened overnight. But what? She couldn’t have left the house. I’d have known.” A sudden thought. “Maybe she got a text message that upset her. I know she texts a lot.”
“Sure. All the kids do. She begged for the phone, and I got it for her. Not many minutes. She uses them all—that text messaging.” His tone dismissed it as a bunch of foolishness, but I could see deeper implications.
Text messaging. Theresa got a text message during the night that upset her. That was it! But how would I find out what the message was or what it had to do with? I left more puzzled than when I’d arrived, but Anthony seemed untroubled. He was tearing burnt wood out of the kitchen.
Anthony did not bring Theresa back by five, as he usually did. Instead he came by himself, with his sons, whom he left in the car as though he didn’t want them to hear what was going on. “Miss Kelly, she not there at the school when I go to pick her up. I call and look and I can’t find her.”
I sensed his fear and frustration. “Anthony, let’s call some of her friends. Do you have their numbers?”
He shook his head. “You know teenagers. They got secrets. She never brings friends around anymore, like she used to when she was young. I don’t know.” The head shaking continued.
“Okay,” I said. “There’s nothing we can do but wait. Maybe she went home with a friend and forgot to tell you. You take the boys home, feed them, and I’ll wait here. If either of us hear, we’ll call the other. And Anthony, don’t leave your house.” I had a sudden thought. “Do you have Theresa’s cell phone number?”
He pulled a small spiral pad out of his overalls pocket and recited it to me. I immediately called but there was no answer. “I’ll keep trying,” I said.
After he left, I thought about calling Mike, but that seemed like calling in the heavy artillery before I had to.
When the girls asked about Theresa, over a meal of frozen chicken pot pies, I said she’d gone home with friends. But I knew I wasn’t hiding my concern from them. Em was balky and didn’t want to go to bed, and Maggie was short-tempered with Em, and I finally was short-tempered with both of them. By eight thirty, half an hour late, they were in bed, but I could tell neither girl was asleep.
I was almost in bed when the phone rang about eleven. “Miss Kelly?” The voice was scared, tentative, so soft I could barely hear it.
“Theresa?”
A sob. “Yes. Can you come get me?”
“Where are you?”
“A gas station on Northwest 28th Street. They…they beat me. Could you just come get me? I can’t call my father.”
I collected my thoughts. “It may take a bit. I have to find someone to watch the girls.” There was no way I was taking the girls out late at night on an errand like this. “Are there people around you? Are you safe?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Okay, Give me the address and then stay right there.”
I hung up and wondered who I could call to watch the girls. Not Tim. I didn’t want to admit to him that I needed help, nor did I want to let him know how close his girls were to danger. I considered Mrs. Dodson and discarded the idea. Mrs. Dodson was the neighborhood’s most incurable gossip. Mike would only order me to stay home while he went for Theresa—and I thought that betrayed Theresa’s trust. And then I came to the last resort—Joanie.
“Joanie, I need you. Right now. I need you to come watch the girls. I have to go out.”
Joanie just moaned in reply. “I can’t. I’ve been throwing up all day. I am so sick. Besides, where do you have to go at this hour of the night?”
“I have to go get Theresa. She’s in trouble.” I said sharply.
“That girl you took in? Why don’t you send her father?”
“I can’t. That’s all. Don’t ask, Joanie. Just get over here.”
“Okay. I’ll try.”
Try? I need you over here ten minutes ago. While I waited, I reviewed my options. I knew it was dumb to go after Theresa by myself. Should I call Anthony? Instinct told me that would make a bad situation worse. I wished I had a gun. Mike talked to me about it, and I’d said no, I didn’t think I could use one. But now I thought I could. I checked my cell phone—plenty of charge. No, I’d go alone, but I’d be very careful. I went upstairs and kissed each of my girls, who finally were asleep, wondering if I’d see them again in the morning. You’re being overly dramatic, I chided myself.
Joanie did look pretty washed out when she arrived. “I hurried as fast as I could,” she said, collapsing on the couch. “Kelly, are you sure this is safe?”
“N
o,” I said, my voice sharp again. “Here’s Mike Shandy’s number. If I’m not back in an hour, call him.”
I sped up Sixth to Allen and onto I-35, then up to N.W. 28th Street as fast as I thought I could push the speed limit, my hand gripping the wheel, my eyes glued to the road in front of me. Once I turned off the freeway and headed west, I watched numbers—Theresa said 1400, which shouldn’t be too far. When I got there, I found not a convenience store or a safe place where I thought Theresa might be but a house with a bunch of teenagers, boys and girls, milling around outside.
I tried to drive by slowly, figuring out the situation, looking for Theresa. Was that her in that dark corner? If so, someone was holding her back. Just as I decided I’d made a huge mistake coming here, a group of teenagers ran for my car and surrounded it. I’d made sure the doors were locked, so I was safely inside as I inched forward and they pounded on the windows and yelled threats. One waved a baseball bat as though he would smash the windshield in my face. Terrified, I realized my only option would be to actually run down two or three of these kids, drive over them to get away—and I wasn’t sure I could do that. I froze, the car at a stand-still, and the kids began to rock it. Heart pounding, I clung to the steering wheel. Now I couldn’t even inch forward if I wanted to. The rocking seemed to go on for an eternity, until I was sure the car would tip on its side.
Suddenly, lights flashed behind me, and dimly, I heard the wail of a siren. Police. How did they know? The boys rocking the car scattered as I sat perfectly still, afraid to move. More sirens began to sound in the distance, and then I heard a bullhorn. Cracking my window barely, I heard Mike Shandy’s voice saying, “Everybody freeze. Hands on your heads.” As I watched most of the teenagers complied, though two tried to run.
A second police car pulled up, two patrolmen jumped out and gave chase. Within seconds they were back, dragging the two escapees. Then a police wagon pulled up and the young people were herded into it. All except one. Mike Shandy came toward me, leading Theresa by the hand.
The girl had been beaten. She hid her face in her hands, but her hair flew in all directions, and an ugly gash, now covered by dried blood, streaked across on one arm.
