Embers

by Antoinette Stockenberg

  But this was really about their parting afterward at the screen door. She'd wriggled out of his kiss not because she wasn't interested, but because — well, he didn't know why. Because of Allie, presumably.

  But it wasn't because she hadn't wanted to kiss him.

  Damn it; she'd been sending him signals right up until that moment. The roses that she'd made him smell — what was that about, if not about a kiss to come?

  The game went on. To an outsider peeking through the bay window, the scene looked as idyllic as could be: an elderly man snoozing in his rocker, a middle-aged woman knitting a sweater contentedly, her husband battling his lively sister for control of the Monopoly board. From the click-click of the knitting needles to the tick-tick of the hall clock, it was just as Wyler had pictured it.

  He'd pictured everything except the grim, determined look on the face of the other sister, the one drumming her fingers impatiently on the table next to him. It was obvious that Meg Hazard couldn't wait for the game to be done.

  And it ruined all the rest of it for him.

  Lloyd tipped his chair back and tugged at his wife's housedress. "Comfort, honey, you got any more of that chocolate cheesecake around?" His spirits were high; he'd just snapped up another prime piece of Park Avenue, and the rents were flowing in. He was giving little Leona a run for her money.

  Comfort took orders all around; Tom shook his head.

  "You look as low as a Maine tide," said Allie, puzzled. "Are you all right?"

  He glanced at Meg and took a certain satisfaction from the march of color across her cheeks. "Maybe not," he said. "I think I'll call it a day."

  "Me, too," said Meg, instantly standing up. She shoved her money toward her brother. "You can have mine; Tom can go to Allie. Good-night, everyone."

  Lloyd looked at her, disappointed. "Two's no fun, for cryin' out loud."

  "I'm sorry," Meg said coldly, and headed for the door.

  Before she got out of the room, a loud bang from outside sent them all jumping. Everett, starting from his doze, said, "Holy bejeezuz, what was that?"

  "Backfire, probably," said Lloyd, peering through the lace curtain into the darkness outside. "I see a truck at the corner."

  Everett settled back in his rocking chair and Meg continued on her way. Allie said to Wyler in a hurt, subdued voice, "Is tomorrow still moving day? Do you still want my help?"

  Distracted, Wyler said, "What? Sure. Of course."

  He made a hasty exit and took off in the direction of the bang. The sound was too loud for a backfire, but not too loud for a gunshot. Wyler's urban hairs were still standing on his urban skin. If he were on the south side of Chicago right now, he'd have his gun out. But he was in sleepy Bar Harbor, so he was giving the explosion the benefit of the doubt.

  He walked soundlessly through the fog, all his senses alert, listening for humans up to no good. He heard quiet voices in the parlors of one or two inns on the street, but all outdoor activity had been suppressed by the thick blanket of Down East fog. At the corner, a couple of darkened houses made him pause and circle; what better place for wreaking havoc?

  His hunch panned out. In back of one of the houses he heard two voices that cracked when they giggled. Kids. Only then, when he heard the scratch of a match, did he remember that the Fourth of July was coming up: kids with cherry bombs.

  The second explosion rocked his eardrums. Furious, he crept up in the darkness to the bush they were crouched behind, stepped around it, and grabbed two of them by their collars, doing his best to scare the daylights out of them.

  One wriggled free and took off; the other gave Wyler a sharp kick in the shins and tried to tough it out.

  "Let go of me!" he cried, swinging in the darkness. "Pick on someone your own size!"

  "You moron! You could've lost a hand!" Wyler shouted, his bad leg smarting from this latest insult. He sounded more like a parent than a cop, and he knew it.

  So did the kid, who didn't show any fear of him at all.

  "Wait'll my father gets you! Just wait!" he kept crying in a high, shrill voice as Wyler dragged him out to the street for a better look.

  Terry. Oh, perfect. The last sour note to the evening's sour symphony. "Was that Timmy who ran off?" Wyler said, automatically yanking the twin in the direction of his house.

  Terry, having recognized Wyler under the fog-bleared streetlight, turned surly and indifferent. "Him? Gimme a break. Timmy' s in his room, readin' a book."

  "And is there some reason you're not?" Wyler asked, with another yank on the boy's collar.

  Terry twisted his head up at Wyler. "Yeah, duh, I can't read," he said in a Beavis-and-Butt-Head voice. "Ain't you heard?"

  "Keep this up and you'll have plenty of time to learn — in jail," Wyler answered through gritted teeth.

  All the pat phrases came tumbling out as they made their way in lockstep down the street. "What's the matter with you? ... don't you have any brains? ... why can't you be more like your brother? ... do you know what road you're headed down? ... you'll end up with no money, no future ... what's the matter with you? ... don't you have any brains? What would your mother say?"

  Terry muttered, "Everything you just said."

  Wyler stopped dead in his tracks. It was true. He was basically just foaming at the mouth, in the way of frustrated, well-meaning adults since the beginning of time.

  "C'mon," he said abruptly. "We're going for a walk." He about-faced and began heading for town.

  "You're not gonna take me to the station, are you?" asked Terry, horrified.

  "That depends on how you behave. Can you walk alongside me like a grownup? Or do I have to haul you around by the scruff of your neck?"

  "You don't have to do anything," said Terry, falling in step reluctantly. "I don't know why you don't just leave me alone."

  "I'm not leaving you alone because — because I care about your aunt," Wyler said, exasperated. "I don't want you going around embarrassing her."

  "Oh yeah? Which aunt?"

  Good damn question. "Both of them!" Wyler answered sharply. "I care about your whole family. They deserve better than to have some squirt like you taking them for granted all the time."

  "What do you mean?" asked Terry, kicking a stone down the sidewalk. "I don't take 'em for granted. I don't even know what that means."

  "It means, pal, that you're a lucky little son of a ... gun, living with your original mother and your original father. A lot of kids don't. A lot of kids have no parents at all, in fact."

  Terry plunged his hands into the pockets of his sweatshirt. "So?"

  "So let me tell you a little about what it's like to live on the streets. What it's like when your mother and father don't care — or can't care — about you."

  "Yeah, yeah, I know: Cops like you round the kids up and throw 'em in jail."

  "I'm not talking about this from a cop's point of view, snot. I'm telling you I know what it's like to be a kid on the street."

  Terry shot a quick glance up at Wyler. His voice became more respectful. "You were a street kid?"

  "Yeah. Before it was fashionable, even."

  "No kidding? You ran away from your mom and dad?"

  "I hardly knew my mother," Wyler said in a voice suddenly gone hard. "I never knew my father. I lived in a series of foster homes."

  "So how'd you end up on the street?"

  "One of my foster fathers slapped me around a lot. He's the one I ran away from."

  "And you lived in, like, refrigerator boxes and stuff? Like on TV?"

  "Nah. Mostly in bus stations and subways and parks."

  "Did you ever steal?"

  "I had to eat; sometimes the Dumpsters didn't pan out."

  "Ick. Did you ever kill anyone?"

  "No."

  "Ever beat anyone up, at least?"

  "In self-defense. Lots of times."

  "Did you always win?"

  "No."

  "How old were you?"

  "Your age."

  "Wo
w."

  The two walked along in thoughtful silence for a while. Wyler had no idea whether he was making the right impression on Terry or not. He had no idea what a child psychologist would recommend that he say. All he knew was that if it weren't for his last set of foster parents, the ones who truly cared, he probably wouldn't be alive to be having any conversation with Terry. And that's what he wanted the boy to understand.

  It was Terry who broke the silence. "So how come you ended up being a cop instead of a drug addict or —?"

  "— or dead?" Bingo. A beautiful opening. Wyler took it. "I got picked up and sent back to the system. By some miracle, I ended up in a foster home with two really good people. My foster mom was — she was really good," said Wyler in a faraway voice. "Your mom reminds me of her. She really loved me. I didn't want to screw up, to disappoint her. You know?"

  "Yeah," said Terry in a subdued voice. "They get disappointed so easy."

  "That's because they want us to be happy. If we're happy, usually they're happy. It works out pretty well."

  "I guess," the boy said uncertainly.

  They were in front of Treats, a local ice-cream parlor. Wyler said, "How about a cone?"

  The boy shrugged. "I don't have any money."

  "This one's on me," Wyler said. "You get it next time."

  "Okay," Terry said, satisfied with the grown-up arrangement.

  They went inside, ordered double-dip chocolate-Oreo-chunky cones, and headed home, licking like crazy. Sometime after Terry got his dripping cone under control, he said, "So you don't mind being a cop?"

  "It's not bad," Wyler agreed. "There's lots of perks."

  "Oh yeah? Like what?" the boy asked.

  Wyler told him a story he never got tired of telling. "I once got every single member of the Bulls, including Michael Jordan, to autograph a basketball for my son's birthday present."

  "Wow. Whatta present!"

  "Yeah," said Wyler in a rueful voice. "Then I put it in the trunk of my unmarked car, and wouldn'tcha know — the car got ripped off."

  "Oh, jee-e-ez," said Terry, wincing melodramatically. He was in real pain. "I saw a Michael Jordan-autographed basketball in a sports catalog once. You know how much they wanted? Two thousand bucks! And that was without the rest of the team! Wow," he repeated, thoroughly impressed. "I don't suppose you ever got it back?" he asked hopefully.

  Wyler bit into the side of his cone. "Got the guys. Got the car. Never got the ball."

  "Man, I'd want to pound 'em until they told me where it was. Because that isn't fair."

  "Yeah. But that doesn't accomplish anything. It only lowers you to their level. Y'know?"

  "I have to think about that," Terry decided.

  They were nearly home when Wyler tried one last tactic. "By the way, no one else but you knows about what I did when I was a kid. Not even my friends back in Chicago."

  That impressed Terry more than anything else so far. With a surprised half smile he said, "Really?"

  "Yeah. I'm thinking maybe we want to keep the whole evening just between us guys."

  "Yeah," said Terry thoughtfully. "I'm thinking the same thing."

  ****

  The next morning Allie rushed into the kitchen with more flour from the supermarket, narrowly averting a mid-breakfast supply crisis.

  "You're lucky Tom's tenants need another day, Meg," said her sister as she washed up. "Where would you be without me to do your stepping and fetching?"

  "I know. You're wonderful," said Meg, rolling her eyes. She began mixing a second batch of crêpe batter. "All right. Now finish telling me about the Fourth of July dance. Are you sure Gordon Camplin's going to be there?" Meg asked her sister.

  Allie took a heated plate and transferred three exquisitely thin crêpes from Meg's stack to it. "Of course he'll be there; the dance is one of the big charity affairs of the summer. No one who's anyone will miss it. And get this: we've even got ourselves a two-fer. Gordon's ex-wife'll be there too; Dorothea Camplin is actually chairing the event."

  "That must be awkward." Meg ladled runny batter into the sizzling brown butter and twisted the frying pan all around until the crêpe was membrane thin. "Isn't it funny how neither of them would budge from Bar Harbor after they divorced all those years ago? Do you suppose they're still on friendly terms?"

  Allie topped the crêpes with a thin slice of orange and a sprig of mint and headed out the door for the guest's breakfast table. "Probably," she said over her shoulder. "You know these society types."

  Meg didn't have a clue about these society types, which was why she was having second thoughts about hiring on to serve them cheese and wine. What if they saw right through her eavesdropping ways? And what could she reasonably expect to overhear, anyway? Gordon Camplin pointing to her and whispering, "Fine-looking woman. Reminds me of the one I killed that night in '47"?

  No doubt about it, she was getting cold feet.

  "Let's buy tickets ourselves," Meg suggested when Allie came back for the next order. "It's a charity; anyone can go."

  "Anyone with two hundred dollars apiece can go," Allie corrected.

  "Yowch. Two tickets—or a new washing machine. What d'you think? Are you willing to wash the sheets and towels by hand for the rest of the summer?" Meg asked, half seriously.

  "When hell freezes over," her sister said, loading up the next plate of crêpes. "No. Your original plan's a good one. Not to mention, we'll make a few bucks."

  "You could always try getting Bobby Beaufort to ask you," Meg said with a hopeful, almost wistful look. "I hear he's landed a great new job at Auto Central."

  "Please. Bobby is a boy. A local boy at that."

  "Oh, dear! And everybody knows how you feel about them!"

  "Excuse me. Miss?"

  It came from one of their guests, a nicely dressed woman who obviously believed that someone evil had switched the Inn Between for the Elm Tree Inn just before her arrival. This was the third unhappy day she'd spent complaining. About everything.

  She was holding a plate of Meg's crêpes in her hand. "Excuse me," she repeated. "Have these been fried on hydrogenated fat?"

  "Oh, no, ma'am," said Meg blandly. "We only use pure butter."

  "Butter! Almost as bad! I don't see how I can eat this. Will you be serving something less fatty this morning?"

  The sisters exchanged a look. Meg said, "We have yogurt; home-made granola . .

  "We can blend you a health drink of brewer's yeast and orange juice," added Allie with no attempt to hide the malice in her voice.

  "Mm-m, no ... I really was in the mood for cooked food."

  Allie, standing behind the guest, made a strangling gesture with her hands, but Meg merely smiled and said, "I can make you some oatmeal with skim milk."

  "Oatmeal . . hmm, No, it's too warm out for hot oatmeal." She waited for more.

  "I see," said Meg. "Nothing hot, nothing cold. Something in between. Perhaps you have a suggestion?" she said with a dry smile.

  "Yes. I'd love French toast made with egg whites. No fat, of course. Or maybe with just a wee spray of canola oil."

  "Certainly," said Meg, taking the plate of crêpes from the fat-fearing guest. "It'll be just a few minutes."

  "Oh, good. Because I've a big day planned."

  "Hiking?" asked Meg politely. "Bicycling?"

  "Antiquing. It can be surprisingly tiring," she said with a straight face. "Ta!"

  She went back to the dining room and Allie said, "Yeah, it has to be exhausting, lifting that Visa card in and out of her wallet.''

  "Now, Allie. Just because the woman has a Visa card."

  Allie, whose own card had a three-hundred-dollar limit and an interest rate of twenty-three percent, said, "Why do you humor her?"

  "Why do I humor you?"

  Allie snorted and said, "You certainly are in the right trade, Mrs. Hazard."

  "True," her sister agreed, dragging out the griddle. "Maybe we should try returning your degree in hotel administration for a refund. Or b
etter yet, get it awarded to me. You sure as hell aren't going to use it."

  "Yes, I am. But I won't waste my time on people like her."

  "Allie, that is the hospitality business. You have to be able to smile, smile, smile."

  "No. People should be honest about how they feel. People should say what they think. If someone is being impossible, you should be able to say so to him. People should never be martyrs to the selfishness of others. The world would be a better, more honest place."

  Meg gave her sister a long, pensive look. If only that were true, she thought, sighing.

  She got a loaf of Pepperidge Farm toasting white out of the fridge. "You're beginning to worry me, Allie," she said. "I'm not sure anymore that you're cut out for hotel management."

  "If this is your idea of hotel management, then you're right," Allie said, tossing back her mane of black hair. "I have grander plans."

  "Such as what? You showed absolutely no interest in the White Horse Inn during your interview there; I know that for a fact." She cracked an egg and dropped it back and forth in its shell, separating the yolk from the white.

  "The White Horse Inn is not, I repeat not, on my agenda. I've told you before, Meg; I want to work in a big city."

  "I don't see you pounding the Boston pavements," Meg said irritably.

  "I don't want Boston." She paused, then said, "I want Chicago. I've decided not to look anywhere else."

  Meg whacked the second egg to smithereens, contaminating the first white with yellow yolk. "Chicago! Why Chicago?" she said, without trusting herself to look up. She dumped the egg mess down the drain and started over.

  "Why. Why do you think?" Allie said impatiently. "Because Tom lives there. Because he's not going to relocate his career to some one-horse town on a two-horse island in Maine. Because when you love someone, you don't ask whether it's convenient; you go where he goes. And anyway, it is convenient!" she said hotly. "He's established, I'm not. It's the simplest thing in the world for me to pick up and move west."

  "What about your ambitions? What about your grand schemes?"

  "Chicago has plenty of opportunities. And they say the people are open and friendly —"

  "You're crazy! You'd hate it! There's nothing there! Flatland! That's it!" she said, smashing another egg to a pulp.