Adam Canfield of the Slash

by Michael Winerip

  “I don’t know,” said Adam. “What is it?”

  The woman took a fistful of brown fibery material from a pouch, packed it into a neat, small pile, and stuck it in her cheek. “Chewing tobacco,” she said.

  Adam said he’d better not.

  “Oh, you’re one of those good little boys,” said the woman, winking at him. “That’s all right. Some good boys turn out fine, too. Well, go ahead, fire away, Gridley. What you want to know?”

  Adam wasn’t prepared for her directness. What he wanted to know was how Miss Bloch had lived in a house like 48 Grand yet had all that money to give away. But he was afraid if he asked, this woman would feel insulted, like she lived in a crappy house, too. So he just looked at her, a little stupidly he feared, trying to think of some way to get the conversation going and lead up to the big idea slowly. Where was Jennifer when he needed her? She’d know what to say.

  The woman waited, but the boy appeared to have turned mute, so she started rubbing her forehead, making circular motions with her hands. “Ooba, ooba, wha, wha, moe, moe,” she chanted, her eyes closed now. “Let me see. It’s coming to me.” She opened her eyes. “Now I’m not a professionally trained journalist like yourself, son. But I think if I was, what I’d like to know is how someone could live in a dump like the Willows and have all that money to give away.”

  “Yes!” said Adam. “I mean, no. It’s not a dump; it’s just . . . I didn’t mean for you to think, that I think . . .”

  “Calm down, child,” said the woman. “It’s about time someone asked. I been wondering when somebody would be smart enough to come around. Been waiting a few years now. And who’s the wise man comes knocking? Little boy, all skin and bones. What’s your name, anyway?”

  He told her. “Adam,” she repeated. “That fits. The first man. Lot of pressure, going first. The Bible Adam — one wrong bite and he was exhaled from Paradise. Always felt that was a little rough. Just natural the first would make a few mistakes. How are you about making mistakes?”

  “We try to fact-check all our stories,” said Adam.

  “Then we should be fine,” said the woman. “Now, Adam, I know you aren’t the kind of boy who chews tobacco. Would you be the kind of boy who likes cocoa and marshmallows?” Then Mrs. Betty Willard invited Adam Canfield into her house and walked him straight down the center hallway to her kitchen table.

  “Minnie left school at thirteen,” began Mrs. Willard, bringing over a mug with a couple dozen of those little bobbing marshmallows at the top that Adam loved. “Must have been fifty years she worked as a jewelry polisher, took every lick of overtime she could get. Wasn’t easy for her, neither. She left home before dawn to catch three buses to the factory, and by the time I seen her walking back up the street, it was dark.

  “In her ninety-two years, that woman never traveled outside Tremble County,” Mrs. Willard continued. As far as Mrs. Willard knew, Miss Bloch took just a single pleasure trip in her life, to East Tremble, to see the mall when it was new. “Afterward, Minnie told me she was offended by all the ways people wasted money. That Minnie was mighty tight with a dollar.”

  Miss Bloch lived her first forty-five years with her mother, who, according to Mrs. Willard, was a German immigrant and very conceited about having been the head household servant for one of the richest, oldest Tremble families. The mother dominated Minnie’s life, Mrs. Willard explained, and after her death, Minnie lived the next twenty-five years with her brother, who also dominated. After his death, she lived alone.

  Mrs. Willard stood and looked out the sliding door to her backyard. “Tell me this, Adam,” she said. “You embarrassed by any silly little things that scare you?”

  He stopped taking notes. “Yeah,” he said. He felt funny talking about it, but since a reporter asked so many personal questions, it seemed like he should answer a few. “Sometimes I get scared our house is going to burn down,” he said softly. “At night I’ll see a car’s headlights on the street from my upstairs window and think it’s fire.”

  “Well, that’s how Minnie was,” said Mrs. Willard. “Except she couldn’t control it good as you. Everything scared her. Bugs, thunder, animals, men.”

  “Kids, too?” asked Adam. “She must have liked kids. She gave money to our school.”

  “Not really,” said Mrs. Willard. “When my kids was little, she used to holler if they ran into her yard to fetch a ball. But she was a funny bird. You know, she’d plan weeks ahead for Halloween, was the only one I knew in the Willows who gave out full-size candy bars.”

  “After she retired,” Mrs. Willard continued, “her only regular contact with the outside world was yours truly. Every morning she’d call me at nine-thirty: ‘Hello, Betty. I made it through another night.’ The older that lady got, the cheaper she got. She watched television in the dark to save on electricity, said she could see fine from the streetlight. She dusted with a mop made from old underclothes and a coat hanger, caught water that dripped from the kitchen faucet and used it to wash dishes.”

  “Geez,” said Adam. “Sounds like Little House on the Prairie. She doesn’t seem like a rich lady.”

  “That’s what I thought,” said Mrs. Willard. “You wait here. I need to get something.” She disappeared down the hall into a bedroom. Adam looked at her backyard. Mrs. Willard had several bird feeders in a tree, and on one a squirrel was hanging upside down, stealing food.

  When Mrs. Willard returned, she had a stack of browned papers tied with a silk ribbon.

  “Before I forget,” said Adam, “got a photo of her in there? I’d like it for the paper.”

  “Never let me take her picture,” said Mrs. Willard. “Said she was too ugly — her face would break the camera. A few times I asked about family photo albums, but she claimed they was destroyed in a flood.”

  “Check these out,” she said, handing Adam a pile of receipts.

  “Are they from her funeral?” Adam asked.

  “They are,” said Mrs. Willard. “For five years, the first Sunday of every month, she rode two buses to Longwood Memorial to pay off her cemetery plot on the installment plan. When she died, she did not owe a cent to a soul. She’d even had her name and birth date carved on the tombstone. All the cemetery had to do was add the expiration date.”

  “Did you go to the funeral?” asked Adam.

  “The hearse driver, a minister, and me — that’s all,” said Mrs. Willard. “From the minister’s speech, I could tell he didn’t know her. There was no write-up in the paper, neither. And that would’ve been the end of the story, except about a year later I get a call from a lawyer, says a Miss Minnie Bloch had named me as executor of her will, asked if I’d come to his office downtown to sign papers.”

  “You saw the will?” asked Adam.

  Mrs. Willard nodded. “You know that woman had five savings accounts and never touched any of them? Lived off the four hundred and fifty dollars she got from Social Security each month.”

  “How much was there?” said Adam.

  “Nearly half a million dollars,” said Mrs. Willard, and glancing at Adam’s face, she added, “Knocked my socks off, too.”

  He wanted to know how Miss Bloch had picked the charities.

  “As best I can tell, most were just places that helped out when she needed them. She left money to the Tremble rescue squad — they took her to the hospital a bunch of times. The volunteer fire department pumped out her basement after a flood. Nurses at the hospital named in Minnie’s will were kind when her brother was dying. The animal shelter —”

  “That one I know,” said Adam. “How about Harris?”

  “Well,” said Mrs. Willard, “Minnie had very peculiar ideas about the schools. Since she had no kids, I think all she knew was what she saw on the TV news — teenage suicide, drugs, eating disorders, bomb threats, sexual diseases, guns in the classrooms. She used to say to me, ‘Betty, it’s a miracle those children get out of high school alive.’”

  Mrs. Willard believed that Miss Bloch had
picked Harris because Mrs. Willard’s two children — both now grown and moved away — had gone there years ago.

  By now Adam was on his second notepad, scribbling a mile a minute.

  “What’s that, pharmacy writing?” asked Mrs. Willard. “You take shorthand?”

  “Just my own scribble,” said Adam.

  “You can read that?” asked Mrs. Willard. “I’m getting wore out just watching you. Any more questions? I got errands to run.”

  This made Adam nervous. He had been holding the most important questions for last and now worried he might miss his chance.

  “Just a few,” he said, trying to sound casual. He wondered if Mrs. Willard happened to remember how much Miss Bloch left to Harris.

  “I believe it was seventy-five thousand dollars,” she said.

  He wondered if Miss Bloch happened to have included instructions in the will about how the money should be spent.

  “My memory is she left it a little general,” said Mrs. Willard. “Guess she didn’t want to restrict things too much. The will said something about using the money to generally improve the life of deserving children who do not have an easy time of it. To be honest, I think Minnie was thinking of someone like herself when she was a girl.”

  “The money was supposed to be spent on kids?” Adam asked.

  “Oh yes,” said Mrs. Willard. “Definitely for kids. That was the whole idea.”

  Adam needed to see that will. He asked for the lawyer’s name.

  “I should have his card here,” she said, digging through the pile. “Nice old man. Jewish fellar, I think.” She found it, and Adam copied down the name and number.

  “One more thing,” said Mrs. Willard. “Minnie wanted people to know in some little way that the money was from her. Nothing big or showy. But the will says something about giving her recognition — you know, a plaque or a scholarship named for her.”

  “Or a story in the newspaper?” asked Adam.

  Mrs. Willard paused. “I didn’t think of that,” she said. “But, yes, I guess a story in the paper about Minnie’s gift would cover it. That why you’re here?”

  “Yes and no,” said Adam. “Yes and no.”

  Adam couldn’t wait to tell Jennifer all the great stuff he’d found out about Minnie Bloch, but he was getting nowhere with the Herbs. It wasn’t from lack of trying. They had become a daily item on his To Do list:

  Practice baritone

  Science project abstract due

  Voluntary/mandatory 3 P.M.

  Check mashed potato results

  Call Herbs

  Whenever he called and it was a man, he was sure it was a Herb. But each time, those men, they denied being Herbs. Adam was keeping a tally sheet. Three times he had “just missed them.” Four times they were in a meeting. Twice they were on their way in from the field. More than once Adam had asked if there wasn’t someone beside a Herb who could help him. “There has to be somebody in a big place like Code Enforcement who could answer one simple question,” Adam had said.

  “Oh no, honey,” the woman had replied. “One thing you learn when you devote your life to code enforcement: nothing is simple. But listen, you keep trying. I recognize your voice. You’re one of our regulars. You’ve been close several times. I have a good feeling about this; I think it’s going to happen for you.”

  And then Adam hit pay dirt. He was up early Monday — his before-school/after-school voluntary/mandatory that day was before school. He hit auto dial. The phone rang once.

  “Yeah,” a man’s voice said.

  “Herb Green!” said Adam, trying to sound like a long-lost friend.

  “The one and only,” said Herb Green.

  Adam could not believe his good luck. He’d almost guessed Herb Black.

  “Adam Canfield here,” said Adam, determined not to miss a beat. “Herb, just had a quick question for you on this new deal on accessory structures in the front half of housing lots — 200-52.7A.” There was quiet on the other end, but Adam was not about to allow Herb Green any wiggle room. “Wanted to know what sort of structures you’ll be applying that to, Herb.”

  More quiet. “I know you’re the man they look to for interpretations of the law,” continued Adam. “And I know accessory structures are your specialty. Just wanted to see where we’re heading on this one, Herb.”

  Adam wouldn’t let himself exhale; he didn’t want to miss a syllable of anything Herb Green said.

  And then Herb Green began, speaking slowly and carefully. “It’s true, accessory structures are my specialty,” he said. “And it’s true I do handle some code interpretations. But unfortunately, the accessory structure code is not a code interpretation I handle.”

  Adam could not believe it. This wasn’t fair. He had played by the rules, caught a Herb, and now that Herb was trying to squirm free. Adam was losing strength for this. All the juice was going out of him. “Who would that person be?” said Adam quietly.

  “Herb Black,” said Herb Green.

  “Let me guess,” said Adam. “Herb Black is in a meeting.”

  “No, he’s not,” said Herb Green.

  “I just missed him,” said Adam.

  “No,” said Herb Green.

  “Out in the field?” said Adam.

  “No, he’s right here,” said Herb Green. “Want to talk to him?”

  “Well, yes,” said Adam. “That would be nice.”

  “Hang on,” said Herb Green. “I’m going to put you on hold a second and have Herb Black pick up.”

  Adam felt exhilarated. At last. It just took persistence. All the great reporters had it. These Herbs, they didn’t seem like such awful guys after all, probably just overworked. He felt bad for prejudging them.

  Adam waited. The phone at Code Enforcement played music while he held. It was a radio station, Q-104, the Dove. His grandmother’s favorite. Hard listening for Adam. Something called “Muskrat Love” was on. A minute passed, then two. A new song came on. Something called “We’ve Only Just Begun.” Even harder listening. Five minutes passed. Suddenly the music stopped. The line went quiet. Adam tensed. This was it.

  There was a dial tone. A dial tone! Was this some kind of sick joke? He frantically pressed redial. The phone rang five times. Adam kept thinking, Pick up, pick up. A recording came on. The Code Enforcement office was closed, the recording said, please call back during nine-to-five business hours.

  Even from across the lunchroom, Jennifer could see Adam was in a foul mood. He looked like a character in the comics with three little dots over his head and a black cloud where his thought bubble should be. He’d placed his baritone case on the lunch table in front of him, so it looked like he was sitting behind the Great Wall of China. When Jennifer took a seat across from him, he was totally hidden from view.

  “Like some company?” she asked, sliding his baritone case just enough to peek at him.

  He didn’t look up. She pulled out a straw, figured hitting him with a spitball might cheer him up, but then thought better of it. “You OK?” she asked.

  No response.

  “How’s lunch?” she tried.

  “I don’t know!” Adam barked. “I can’t tell what it is.”

  “Boy, what’s wrong?” she said. “You are in a rotten mood.”

  “It’s the Herbs,” he said. “They’re driving me crazy. I hate them! It’s like I’m having an allergic reaction to the Herbs.”

  “Well, then don’t eat that stuff; we can split my lunch,” she said. She glanced at his tray. It appeared to be something with noodles, maybe beef goulash supreme. “They overdo the sauce,” said Jennifer. “They coat that stuff in herbs just so they can call it goulash supreme.”

  Adam picked up his plate, and for a moment, Jennifer thought he might crack it over her head, but instead he wagged it at her. “Not these herbs!” he yelled, noodling his finger through the goulash. “The code enforcement Herbs! The accessory structure Herbs! The 200-52.7A Herbs! The basketball hoop Herbs!”

  �
��Shhh,” she whispered, trying to calm him down. Kids were staring. “I’m sorry,” said Jennifer. “I didn’t know you meant Herbs with a capital H.”

  “Do you have any idea how many times I’ve called those Herbs with a capital H?” said Adam. “I’ll tell you exactly.” He unzipped his backpack and yanked out a piece of paper. Pistachio nutshells went flying everywhere. He held up his tally sheet documenting each attempt to get hold of the Herbs.

  “You’re wasting your time,” Jennifer said softly.

  “Wasting my time?” said Adam. “Listen, babe-o, this was your story. You’re the one with the lawyer daddy who knows all about zoning . . .”

  Babe-o? thought Jennifer. He was calling her babe-o? Normally Jennifer would not take babe-o from Adam, but she could see the boy was in pain and she needed to get him back on track. “It’s a great story,” she said. “But we’re not going to get it over the phone. You’re just kidding yourself, making all those calls.”

  Adam slumped in his seat like a goulash noodle.

  “They’re dodging you,” Jennifer continued. “You think the Herbs want to give notice to every kid in Tremble that the hoops are coming down? They’ll have a riot on their hands. We just have to go to their office in the county building. They’re public officials. We are the public. They have to talk to us. We just have to catch them first. We are going to have to park ourselves in their office until they show up. That’s how Woodward and Bernstein did it.”

  “Who’s Woodward Ann Bernstein?” Adam asked glumly.

  “Famous investigative reporter team for the Washington Post,” said Jennifer. “Their Watergate stories forced Richard Nixon to resign as president.”

  “Great,” said Adam. “Only one trouble. I bet they didn’t have before-school/after-school voluntary/mandatory. I bet they’re not in jazz band or Odyssey of the Mind or Geography Challenge or —”

  “I know when we can do it,” said Jennifer.

  Adam unfolded a thick pack of stapled papers. “Have you looked at this list Mr. Landmass gave us to memorize for the geography tournament?” he asked. “I’m still in the E’s. I don’t know where Eritrea is.”