by Neil Plakcy
“Sure. I’ll be there.”
I noticed Rick watch her walk back to her SUV. “Put your tongue back in your mouth,” I said to him when she was out of hearing range. “You’re not Rochester.”
“I wasn’t looking at her.”
“Sure you were. And she seemed to like you, too.” I raised my voice to sound like a child’s. “She called you handsome!”
He glared at me. He pulled a couple of bills out of his wallet and tucked them under his iced tea glass.
“So. You going to ask her out?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Her husband was a war hero. I can’t compete with that.”
“He’s dead, Rick. And she’s still alive, and she’s beautiful, and she’s interested in you.” I beeped my car open. “You want me to drive us over to Edith’s?”
“Only if you drop this. She said I was handsome. Big deal.”
I batted my eyes and put a seductive curl in my voice. “See you Saturday?”
“Jerk.” He opened the back door of the BMW and ushered Rochester in, then sat in the front as I got in and started the car. “We’ll have to drop your dog somewhere, though. I’m not taking him over to Edith’s.”
Rochester knew we were talking about him and he looked up. “What, you think he’ll want to play the piano?” I asked.
“With your dog? I never know.”
11 – Making a Difference
It was closer to drop Rochester at Rick’s house, so I headed that way. “Who was the friend you mentioned to Tamsen?” Rick asked as we drove.
“I told you, I talked to Mark Figueroa today. He’s doing some work for me up at Friar Lake.” I repeated my conversation with him to Rick, and he took a couple of notes.
Rick had bought the sixties ranch house where he grew up from his parents when they retired to a trailer park in central Florida. After he and Rascal began agility training, he set up a small course in his fenced-in backyard for practice. We left Rochester back there with Rascal, both of them running and chasing each other around. Then we drove the extra mile to Edith’s.
She still lived in the same house, a cheerful red Cape Cod a few blocks from the house where I grew up, in the Lakes neighborhood south of downtown Stewart’s Crossing. She opened her front door as I parked in front of the house.
“Come on in. Would you like some lemonade?”
“No thanks, Edith,” Rick said. “We only have a couple of quick questions.”
She led us into her living room, still furnished as I remembered from my lessons. The black baby grand piano rested by the front window, where other houses might have a dining room. Rick and I sat on a comfortable old couch, Edith across from us in a big wing chair with a paisley slipcover. The smell of lemon furniture polish hung in the air, and dust motes danced in the late afternoon light streaming in from the picture window.
“How can I help you?” she asked.
“You’ve probably already heard that there’s a false wall along the north side of the Meeting House,” Rick said. “That’s where the body was found. Hannah and Tamsen didn’t know it was there, but Tamsen suggested you might know more.”
“I did know about it, way back when,” she said. “But I have to admit I’d forgotten all about it until Saturday.”
“Was it common knowledge back then, among the members?” I asked.
“I don’t think so.” She leaned forward. “Before and during the Civil War, the Meeting was a stop on the Underground Railroad.”
“We’ve heard that from a couple of sources,” Rick said.
“I believe that the escaped slaves hid behind that false wall to avoid bounty hunters.” Edith paused. “And then in the 1960s, our Meeting was part of a network of Friends groups that helped young men avoid Vietnam. They stopped with us for a day or two until we could arrange transport for them to Canada.”
I looked at Rick. “That matches the time when the sneaker was manufactured. That could be the body of a draft dodger.”
“Let Edith finish her story,” Rick said.
“You know, of course, that one of the tenets of Quaker belief is non-violence. Very early in the Vietnam conflict several Quakers organized an action group to try and affect public opinion through pacifist campaigns. We collected relief supplies for the wounded in North Vietnam and for the Red Cross on both sides.”
“You weren’t some kind of Hanoi Jane, were you, Edith?” I asked jokingly, remembering the outcry against Jane Fonda’s actions at the time. An image of a younger Edith in one of her mod outfits, posed against a cannon like the ones in Washington Crossing Park, flashed through my head.
“Not at all. I picketed at a few rallies in Philadelphia, but most of what I did was volunteer as a draft counselor with the American Friends Service Committee. We helped hundreds of men gain conscientious objector status and other exemptions and deferments.” She shook her head. “Many of these young men had been abandoned by their families and friends because they refused to fight in what they saw as another country’s civil war, where we had no business interfering. When they learned that we cared about them and were willing to help them, many of them broke down in tears.”
Edith pulled a tissue from her pocket and dabbed at her eyes. “It was very emotional work, you know, because it was literally life and death for some of them. When we were able to arrange for someone to serve in a hospital or non-profit instead of going to war, it was the most fulfilling thing.”
I looked at Edith. When I was a kid, I’d been impressed with her 1960s style – thigh-high boots, tie-dyed T-shirts and big dangling earrings. As her student, I was in awe of her musical knowledge and her endless patience with my stumbling efforts. When I reconnected with her after my return to Stewart’s Crossing, I’d seen her as a sweet elderly lady.
Now I was looking at her in a new way. How amazing to have been able to make such a difference. In my years as a college teacher, in New York, California, and back at Eastern, I’d been privileged to mentor a few students and feel like I’d helped them. But what Edith had done was in a whole other league.
“We had another role, much more clandestine, and that relates back to the false wall,” Edith continued. “From our Meeting, there were only half a dozen of us involved. John Brannigan, the headmaster at George School at the time, was our leader.”
George School was a private day and boarding school in Newtown run by the Society of Friends. Many wealthy parents in Stewart’s Crossing sent their kids there to avoid the hoi polloi in the public schools.
“John was quite dashing, you know, so all the girls wanted to be involved, but he only picked the most sensible ones.”
I looked at Edith in mock surprise. “You were sensible back then?”
She laughed. “Oh, yes. I was quite the demure Quaker girl.” She sat back in her chair. “I remember that John organized us in 1966, because it was right after I graduated from Trenton State. We had a very secret rendezvous at the edge of one of the playing fields at George School, under the trees. He explained what he needed and asked us if we were willing to be a part of it.”
“How did the process work, exactly?” Rick asked.
“John would get a phone call from someone at another meeting. I never knew where the calls came from. He kept that very secret. A boy, sometimes more than one, would be heading past us on his way to Canada. John would arrange to pick the boy up – sometimes at the train station, sometimes in Philadelphia or somewhere out in the country. The boy might stay here in Stewart’s Crossing for a day or two, and then be escorted on to another Meeting closer to the border.”
“They hid behind that false wall?” Rick asked.
“Yes. Some of the boys had already been drafted, and we were afraid if they were out in public they might be arrested.”
She looked from me to Rick. “Do you think the body you found might be one of those boys? Because I don’t see how that could be. No one stayed with us for very long, and surely we’d have noticed a body in that narrow space.”
I struggled to remember the years of the draft, and the Vietnam conflict. I knew that United States involvement in Southeast Asia began in earnest during the Eisenhower administration, when the first military advisers were sent to Saigon. But I hadn’t been born until 1967, and by the time I was aware of the world around me Henry Kissinger had already negotiated the cease-fire in Paris and the US had withdrawn all its troops.
Rick must have been thinking along the same lines, because he asked, “When was the last time that empty space was used?”
“I wish I could remember. But it was so long ago, after all. More than half my life.” She smiled ruefully. “And I only played a very small part. I wouldn’t want to mislead you by just grasping at a date. But the draft ended in January of 1973, I remember that.”
Edith sighed. “I’m sorry, the old brain doesn’t work as well any more. But I’ll play some of the music from back then—that often helps me remember things.”
“Tamsen mentioned that in, I guess, the early 1990s, the storage closet that led to the false wall had a broken door, and that Eben Hosford fixed it,” I said. “Was he part of your group back then?”
She shook her head. “No, John only recruited girls because he thought the police would be more lenient with us if we were arrested. And Eben wasn’t a Friend back then. I don’t know when he joined the Meeting – I was already married to Lou, and as you know, going to synagogue with him. I have to admit I was surprised to find Eben in the congregation when I returned, after Lou’s death. He’s not exactly a gentle soul.”
I was disappointed. I’d been hoping that Eben Hosford had a connection to the group smuggling the boys through Stewart’s Crossing, but it looked like that wasn’t the case.
“George School has an archive of John Brannigan’s papers,” Edith said. “You could check there and see who the last boys were to pass through Stewart’s Crossing.”
“That’s a great idea, Edith,” I said. “And maybe there will be some records of who the other people were who were involved in moving the boys around, and who might have known about the false wall.”
“Is there anyone else you can remember who knew about that empty space?” Rick asked.
“So many of the members who were around back then have passed on, or moved to Florida,” Edith said. “It’s all the same to me – they go to God, or to one of His waiting rooms. But you can’t think that one of the Friends was responsible for this death. That’s so against everything we believe.”
“Sadly, people betray their ideals all the time,” Rick said. “Sometimes for good reasons, sometimes for bad. Someone could have been using that space for years after the war was over, for a hundred reasons. Hiding, smuggling, storing. You name it.”
“It really is awful,” Edith said. Her hands were trembling, which surprised me. As a pianist, her hands were part of her livelihood, and I knew she was religious about practice and almost obsessive about warding off the effects of old age and arthritis, taking various supplements and acupuncture treatments so that her fingers remained strong and steady.
I wondered if her hands shook was because she was upset – or because she was nervous about the secrets that had been hidden for all those years. Could it be that she knew more about the boys passing through Stewart’s Crossing than she let on? .
12 – Good Reasons
I waited until Edith’s front door was closed to ask Rick, “Do you think Edith is worried about all this stuff coming to light? I mean, she probably broke a bunch of laws back then.”
“There’s a statute of limitations on everything but murder,” Rick said. “And public opinion about Vietnam has changed dramatically since then. If she didn’t kill the kid, or help cover up his death, she’s got nothing to worry about. You made a good point about that false wall, though. The body doesn’t have to belong to one of those boys. I’ve been going through missing persons reports and I haven’t found any good matches.”
“You could get a list of all the members from the early seventies on and see if any of them knew about the space,” I suggested. “I can help with that, if you want.”
“I appreciate it. But it’s my job.” He turned to me. “So. You said something about celebrating your release from parole. I’ve got beer at my house but nothing to eat.”
“How about hoagies?” I asked. “We could stop at DeLorenzo’s.”
“It’s not the same since those new people took over. But I could suffer through a sandwich. You can drop me back at my truck, and I’ll meet you at my place.”
I took his order, and after I let him off at The Chocolate Ear I circled around to Canal Street, where DeLorenzo’s deli huddled against the back wall of the post office. I went into the shop, which had been owned by an Italian family for as long as I could remember. They’d recently sold to a Thai couple, who had stripped the floors, painted the walls and replaced the photos of Italy with panoramic shots of Bangkok. I missed the old place and hoped the hoagies hadn’t changed.
I ordered the sandwiches with double meat so we’d have something to feed the dogs and drove to Rick’s. Rascal and Rochester rushed over to the fence in a blur of gold, black and white fur, dissonant barks and yelps, and tongues lolling out like the unfurling of a red carpet.
I opened the gate and the dogs romped over to me. Both of them followed me inside, lured by the smell of turkey and roast beef. Rick was in the kitchen, opening bottles of an Oktoberfest ale from a local brewery. “Your stuff’s in the dining room,” he said, as I laid the bag of sandwiches on the Formica-topped kitchen table.
As far as I could tell all Rick had done in the way of redecorating after he bought the house from his parents was to install a flat-screen TV in the living room. But in high school we’d been acquaintances more than friends, bonded by a chemistry class we both had struggled through, so I’d never been to his home when his parents lived there.
He handed me a beer. “It’s a sad commentary that I trust you more with your Dad’s gun than with Caroline’s old computer,” he said. “How does Lili feel about your getting the laptop back?”
“I haven’t told her,” I said. “I just thought about it this afternoon. But she says she trusts me to make the right decisions.”
We unwrapped our sandwiches, the dogs sniffing eagerly beside us. “And the gun?” Rick asked, as he peeled a slice of turkey off his sandwich and rolled it up.
“What about it?” I did the same with my roast beef.
“How does Lili feel about you having a gun in the house?” He fed the turkey to Rascal, then yelped and said, “Watch my fingers, you monster.”
“Lili’s fine around weapons. She’s spent a lot time in war zones, and I know she’s shot everything from a handgun to a confiscated Kalashnikov in the past.”
“Yeah, I can totally see her behind a machine gun. Be careful if you decide you don’t want her to move in.”
I put my sandwich down. “You’re kidding, right?”
“You know her better. What do you think? Is she the type to fly off the handle if things don’t go her way?”
“I don’t think so.” I picked up my hoagie again. “But honestly, this came at me out of left field. I like things the way they are. Lili and I talk a lot, and we see each other during the week and on weekends. But we both have our space.”
“Then tell her that. But be prepared for her to say that doesn’t work for her.”
Rick fed another tidbit to Rascal and Rochester nosed me for his, but my mind was elsewhere. When I met Lili, something clicked between us. I wanted to see her, date her, sleep with her. I enjoyed the time we spent together, and I believed that I loved her. I didn’t want to lose her. But did keeping her mean losing something else?
I looked at Rick. “You think Lili would break up with me if I say no?” Rochester snuffled my leg and I fed him a scrap of roast beef.
“Every woman is different,” Rick said, in a tone of voice that usually accompanied a lecture on the birds and the bees, “but every woman
is the same, too. If she brought up living together, then she wants to. Right? She could have gone ahead and renewed her lease and never even mention it to you.”
“Crap,” I said.
He picked up his beer. “But you’re not getting anywhere obsessing about it. This is supposed to be a celebration, right? You’re free from the yoke of Santiago Santos’s oppression.”
I tapped my beer against his. “You’re right. Only happy thoughts for the rest of the evening.”
We talked about classmates and changes in Stewart’s Crossing, and by seven-thirty we were cleaning up. I got my laptop and my dad’s gun, still in its leather pouch, from Rick’s dining room table.
I said goodbye to Rick and Rascal, and Rochester trailed reluctantly behind me as I walked out, sorry to be leaving his friend and playmate. I put the laptop and the gun in the trunk, just to be safe. After all, both of them were dangerous.
When we got home, I stowed the gun in the nightstand beside my bed, where it had been before Rick was forced to confiscate it. I’d kept the laptop hidden away in the attic – but without the threat of a surprise visit from Santos, I didn’t have to anymore. I left it right in the middle of the kitchen table, a kind of “so there” at him.
Rochester was in a playful mood after his fun with Rascal. He hopped around me, trying to hump me from behind, and I had to wrestle him onto his side, burying my head in the golden fur behind his neck, raking my fingernails across his belly. He wriggled onto his back and every time I scratched the place where his left hind leg joined his body, he shook that leg like he had a tambourine grasped in his paw.
Though I had a king-sized bed, there wasn’t a whole lot of room there for me, Lili and a seventy-pound dog. Could the three of us cohabit together? Would Rochester forsake me for Lili’s charms? I hugged him tight despite his efforts to wriggle out of my grasp.
Eventually, though, he squirmed away, and jumped off the bed. I heard him go down the stairs and then his toenails click against the tile floor. I got up and followed him to the kitchen, and there, like one of the Sirens of Greek mythology, was Caroline’s laptop.
