by Lois Winston
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 standstill, 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.
I got out of the car, legs shaking beneath me. “Mike, how did you get here?”
“I followed you,” he said grimly. “I happened to see you leave your driveway—okay, I drive by a lot when I’m on patrol and this time it was just lucky. I knew you shouldn’t be going any place this time of night, so I followed you.”
“And these others?”
“I called for backup. Here’s your friend—she needs help, but she may also need a licking.”
I eased Theresa’s hands away from her face, but the girl refused to look at me. I tipped her chin up until I could see her face, puffy and swollen, bruises beginning to blacken, red scratches across her face. Then I saw scratches on her arms and a large bruise on one leg. I could only guess if the kicks Theresa received damaged her internally.
“They made me call you,” the girl said softly. “They said they’d stop beating me…and I was desperate. I couldn’t think of anything except to get them to stop. They said they wouldn’t hurt you, just wanted to scare you.”
“Hush,” I said. “We’ll talk later. We’ve got to take care of you.” I looked at Mike for guidance.
“She needs to go to an ER,” he said. “Does she have a relative you can call?”
A whimper escaped from Theresa’s bruised lips. “Please, no, Miss Kelly. Don’t call my father. He…he might beat me too.”
“I won’t let him do that, Theresa. But I won’t call him.”
Mike looked at me, puzzled. “There’s a whole lot of this story I’m not getting. But someone needs to talk this girl to an ER—JPS, the county hospital, I imagine. And that will probably take the rest of the night. They’ll want to do x-rays, the whole business. Who’s with your girls?”
I clasped a hand over my mouth, just as Mike’s cell phone went off. “Joanie, but she’s sick,” I said. “That’s probably her. I told her to call you if I wasn’t home in an hour.”
“Okay,” Mike said. “You go home to your girls. I’ll get my patrol covered and take this young lady….”
“Theresa,” I inserted.
“I know that,” he said, out of patience, “I’ll take Theresa to JPS, and then when they dismiss her…?”
“Will they treat her without a legal guardian?”
“How old is she?”
“I’m seventeen,” Theresa said softly. “I have a driver’s license.”
“Yeah, they’ll treat her if I tell them to.”
“Then bring her to my house,” I said. “I’ll have called her father to tell him she’s safe.” I hesitated a minute. “Mike, I owe you an explanation. Come have dinner with us tomorrow night?”
“Let’s talk about that tomorrow,” he said and led Theresa away. Over his shoulder, “You’re free to go, Kelly. Go home to the girls.”
Mike led Theresa back to his patrol car, but the girl stopped, looked at me, and said, “Miss Kelly, I…I am so sorry I bring this trouble on you.”
“You didn’t bring it, Theresa. It’s all mixed up in a knot I can’t untie. But you go get those scratches and bruises taken care of.”
“You go home now,” Mike said.
And that’s just what I did, knees shaking. I didn’t even look again in the direction of the young people being herded into vans.
~*~
Joanie was asleep on the couch, so, knowing I wouldn’t sleep, I sent her upstairs to bed, took the throw and settled myself on the couch. I may have dozed occasionally but I also tossed, turned, and worried during much of the night. Why would those teenagers want to scare me? What was in it for them? Anthony’s obvious answer came back again and again: someone is paying them, but who? And what would happen to those kids who were arrested? Biggest question of all: what lay ahead for Theresa? Was I right not to tell Anthony right away?
I’d called him, of course, when I got home, and said, “Anthony, Theresa’s safe, but she’s been beaten. Mike Shandy has taken her to JPS so they can check her out.”
Predictably, he said, “Mother of God! Who beat her? It was Joe, wasn’t it?”
“I don’t know. The police took a bunch of young people to the station house, but I came home. I bet they all bonded out and nobody talked.”
“They’re the ones messing with the house,” Anthony said sagely. “You need to find out who’s paying them.”
“I can’t,” I said, “The police will have to find that out. Meantime you have to be extra careful.” After this night, I was even more protective of my girls. I knew what lengths these people would go to.
Anthony grunted. “They don’t scare me. I keep the tire iron by me. Punks.”
“And the cell phone,” I said. “I’ll keep Theresa home tomorrow and let her sleep. Why don’t you come see her in the late afternoon?”
“Okay, Miss Kelly. You know how to find me if you need me before that.”
“I’m sure it’s okay, Anthony. Try to sleep.”
“Mother of God, who could sleep?”
~*~
Mike brought Theresa back about five in the morning. Bandages covered the worst scratches, but her eye could not be disguised—she had a huge shiner. And she looked dazed. “They’ve given her something to help her sleep,” Mike said, “and here are some pain pills, only if she needs them. You keep them.” And then he added, “Up high.”
I put an arm around Theresa and guided her to the stairs. She didn’t say a thing, and she was dead weight in my arms.
“Can you get her to bed or should I help?” Mike asked.
“If you could carry her upstairs, then I can handle it.”
Mike deposited Theresa on her bed and said, “I’ll be downstairs. We need to talk.”
I knew that it was too much to hope that he would just leave without giving me a lecture. I took off Theresa’s shoes, belt and other constricting clothes and then rolled her into bed, still essentially fully dressed.
Downstairs Mike made himself a cup of coffee. He sat in one of the chairs, and I curled on the sofa, hugging the comforter for warmth—and security. “What happened to the ones they arrested?”
Mike shrugged. “No idea. They probably made bond and are back on the street by now.”
“That’s what I was afraid of.”
“It’s the way our system works, Kelly.”
“Then nobody found out anything from them, like why they’re doing this or who’s paying them
…”
Mike looked surprised. “You didn’t really expect to find answers tonight, did you?”
Yeah, I did. Aloud, “I suppose not. But I hoped.”
“Kelly, I think Theresa’s right. They didn’t mean to hurt you tonight, just scare you. But they were serious enough about it that they didn’t mind hurting Theresa.”
“Won’t they be prosecuted for that?”
He clutched the coffee cup in both hands, feeling its warmth. “Not unless she presses charges. And I guarantee you she won’t do that. Her life would be hell if she did.”
I felt like a small child. “Now what?”
“Leave it to us. Keep doing what you’ve been doing—finish the house, move out of this one….”
“They know where I’m moving,” I said dully and told him about the bull’s eyes.
“I’m not surprised. They’re tapped into someone—we just don’t know who at this point.”
“Theresa?”
“No, or they wouldn’t have beat her up tonight. What did you tell Anthony?”
“The truth.” I could hear him shouting, “Mother of God!” “That she had been beaten but was okay and you’d taken her to JPS. And that she wasn’t going to school today. I told him to come by in the afternoon and see her.” I thought for a moment. “What I don’t want is for him to go on his own search for vengeance.”
“I’ll go by and see him this morning,” Mike said, “try to make him understand he must not take this up as his own fight.”
“Good luck.” I said. “Don’t you need sleep?”
“What’s that?” he asked with a lopsided grin. “What time does Anthony get to the Fairmount house?”
“About eight-thirty. It’s six-thirty now.”
“Okay, if I just wait here and go see him?”
“Sure.”
I catnapped again on the couch, and Mike sat in a chair with his feet on the ottoman and looked like he slept a lot more comfortably than I did on the couch. I didn’t sleep but just dozed—too close to time to get up. I’d sleep while the girls were at school. At seven—okay, a little after—I woke the girls and Joanie, and soon the house was moving into its routine, except that I told the girls Theresa was sick and they must be very quiet.
“Why is Mike in the chair?” Maggie asked.
“Mom,” Em demanded, “did you and Mike have a sleepover?”
Tired as I was, I couldn’t help but grin. “No, Em. He stayed because he got here early this morning, and he needs to talk to Anthony pretty soon.”
When Joanie asked, “What happened last night? Mike didn’t answer my call,” I shushed her with a look at the girls and a mouthed, “Later.”
TEN
Early Saturday morning, the day of the yard sale, was cool but blessedly clear. As I carried out boxes of clothes and toys and dishes, I thought that it had not been an easy week, to say the least. In fact, it had been damn difficult. Theresa was healing in body, if not in spirit. What she and Anthony said to one another, I would never know. But Theresa was once again helpful around the house and sweet with the girls, though she tended to retreat to her room whenever she could. Several times I caught her staring blankly out the window. Time heals, I thought, and not much else does.
Saturday morning, Mike arrived with two helpers about six-thirty, and they barely got the couch and chairs out onto the lawn when the first shoppers straggled by, braving the dark in order to find the bargains. I offered all three men coffee and rolls, but the two helpers declined. Mike accepted and said, “I’m staying all day. Hope you don’t mind.”
“I’m grateful,” I said and meant it.
The girls wandered down a little before eight in their nightgowns, and I sent them back upstairs to change into jeans and sweaters. Theresa came down not much later, dressed and pale in spite of the fact that she’d put on makeup. Her hair was pulled straight back from her face, accentuating her rather stark appearance. She greeted Mike happily, though, and when he asked how she was feeling, she responded, “Much better, thank you.” She seemed to mean it.
Sales were slow at first—a small item here, another there, but no takers on the big pieces of furniture. I wondered if they were overpriced, but Mike assured me he thought the prices were fair.
Anthony arrived and said he, too, would stay for the sale. He and Mike stood in the doorway, letting me handle sales and visit with people. Theresa mostly kept the girls indoors, though occasionally they came out and once Em wailed, “Oh, no, Mommy. You can’t sell this” and pulled a bedraggled stuffed animal to her chest. I rolled my eyes, “Em, you haven’t looked at that toy for a year.”
“I know. I forgot about it. But now I remember.”
“Okay, but only this one. Okay?”
“Yes, Mommy,” and she trotted off happily, carrying her prize.
About ten a familiar-looking battered car drove up, and I watched open-mouthed as three teen-age boys in baggy clothes got out. I sensed Mike moving closer to me and almost reached out to squeeze his hand. The boys avoided looking at me and studied the goods. Then Maggie came out the door and went right up to one boy who had a ponytail. “Hi, Joe. How are you?”
That particular young man had a black eye, bruises on his face and arms, and clearly had been in a fight. He looked uncomfortable and glanced at me before he said, sort of awkwardly, “I’m fine, Maggie. How are you?’
“I’m okay,” she said. “But you look awful. What happened to your face?”
He stammered. “I…I ran into a door by mistake.”
She shook her head. “You gotta watch where you’re going, Joe.”
He just nodded, and Maggie went on, “I decided I don’t like yard sales.”
He grinned a bit then. “Me neither. Maggie. Your dad been around this morning? We was supposed to help him empty the garage. He was going to come with a trailer.”
Maggie shook her head. “Nope. We haven’t seen him.”
Joe looked perplexed but said, “Okay. Thanks. Maybe we’ll come back later. If he comes around, tell him we was here.”
As Maggie walked by Mike and me, she said, “That was Joe. His grammar’s not very good.”
They got in their car and left. Mike demanded, “How does Maggie know him? He looks like one of the ones that they arrested Monday night. I bet he was part of it.”
Theresa came out to watch the boys drive away and was just in time to hear Mike. “Joe wasn’t one of them,” she said. “He would never hurt me.” She turned on her heel and went back inside.
Lamely, I explained, “The girls met Joe when Tim took them to Ol’ South one evening. He was there, and somehow he knows Tim.”
Anthony grumbled, “He worked with me a little bit, when Mr. Spencer was still here. That’s how he knew him, but I didn’t know they saw each other since. Joe was no good as a helper. I let him go. But he’s sweet on Theresa.”
Thoughtfully Mike said, “I don’t like that connection, don’t like it at all. But I can’t figure what it means.”
Mrs. Dodson came by, cluck-clucking over new neighbors and whether or not she’d like them.
“I’m sure you will,” I reassured her. “The Guthries are really nice people. I wouldn’t sell my house to any other kind.”
“We’ll see,” the older woman sniffed. “Don’t much like change.”
Or anything else. Aloud, I said, “I won’t be far, Mrs. Dodson. You can call me if you need anything…and you can still visit with my mom when she’s here.”
The woman almost ignored that statement and began to prowl through a box of costume jewelry.
Around eleven, some TCU students pulled up and made an offer on the couch and chairs. It was about a third less than I’d been asking, but I was discouraged. I sold the set to them, and the students gleefully shoved them into a pickup. When you live in southwest Fort Worth, almost every third person has some connection to the university. I sort of hoped the girls would go there, but that was a long way in the future.
By noon, traf
fic died down, and I said, “I think we should call it a day.”
Mike agreed and helped me cart the unsold things back inside. I hadn’t really done too badly—I thought probably two-thirds of the things I put out were gone and when I counted, I’d made close to a thousand dollars. That would help with something special for the move.
Joanie appeared just as we carried the last box inside. “What? It’s over? I wanted to shop.”
I laughed. “You’ll have to shop the leftovers inside.” Joanie pouted and flounced inside where I followed her.
“I’m getting ready to order lunch. Want to stay?” Before she could answer, Mike, Anthony, Theresa and the girls all appeared, sort of one by one. After polling everyone, I ordered pizza, although Joanie swore she couldn’t eat a bite of it (she ate two slices). Then one by one they drifted away—Mike to get ready for his shift, Anthony to check on his younger children that he’d left with an aunt, Joanie to run errands.
“Are we still having dinner tonight?” she asked as she left.
I said yes, and she said, “I’ll bring a scrumptious dessert.”
I arched an eyebrow. Apparently morning sickness didn’t rule out “scrumptious” desserts in the evening.
~*~
I fixed a baked chicken casserole, a green salad with balsamic vinaigrette dressing. It was a meal bland enough for Joanie’s stomach but also one the girls would eat. Theresa and the girls elected to have their dinner by the TV in Theresa’s room, usually not allowed, but this time I gave in. Joanie and I ate in the kitchen, and as I poured myself a glass of chardonnay, I looked at Joanie and said, “Sorry.” Joanie pouted a minute and then laughed—”in another couple of months the doctor says I can have an occasional glass.”
“Only occasional,” I said.
“You didn’t sell any baby things today,” Joanie said. “I was hoping to get some bargains.”
