The Ring

by Florence Osmund

  “They have a shower in there?” Kayla asked, her eyes wide.

  “It’s not for kids.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s just not.”

  “I’m tired of washing up at Walmart. They have a shower in there?”

  “It won’t be for much longer.”

  “I saw you grab the ring from that lady, you know.”

  “No, I didn’t. She gave it to me.”

  “Didn’t look like that to me.”

  “Well, that’s the way it happened.”

  “Where are we sleeping tonight?”

  “Walmart.”

  “I hate Walmart.”

  “Well, it’s all we have for now.”

  “When is this going to end, Mom? We need a home.”

  “I know, sweetie. I know.”

  “Promise me we’re going to find a home.”

  Jessivel didn’t respond.

  As she and Kayla bedded down for the night in the back of Walmart’s parking lot, Jessivel tried to make sense of the conversation she’d had with Paige earlier in the day. She checked the inside of the ring for an engraving and found the initials RAW, not her father’s initials WS. But it didn’t make any difference—that ring had been her father’s regardless of the engraving. She considered calling her mom, but discarded the idea, thinking it would be better to talk with her about the ring in person.

  She couldn’t quite figure out Paige and wondered if she might be a little “off.” Like maybe when she saw the ring, for some weird reason, she made up the story about her own father. Or maybe the ring had belonged to Paige’s father a long time ago, he’d lost it, and her father had found it. Or maybe Paige’s father had pawned the ring, and her father had bought it.

  While any number of things could explain it, none of them made perfect sense. And it looked like now, thanks to Paige, she had no choice but to change soup kitchens.

  Chapter 9

  Paige watched as Margo drove away, confident that she knew something more about the stolen ring than what she had said. But it was more than the ring that drew her to the woman—exactly what, she wasn’t sure. She memorized her license plate number and then called her mother to tell her about the encounter.

  “I wouldn’t… Paige, I would forget about it if I were you. Let her have the ring.”

  “Aren’t you curious how she got it? Maybe we could find the thugs who broke into your house.”

  “Perhaps she lost a ring that looked a lot like Ryan’s. She was mistaken, that’s all.”

  “Way too coincidental. I’m not giving up on this—there needs to be justice. That ring means a lot to me. He let me try it on when I was little. It’s a piece of him I would want to keep near me for, well, forever.”

  “Forget about it, Paige. You said this woman was eating at the soup kitchen. That means she needs it way more than you. Did you hear about the new antique store that opened on Fourth Street? We should go in there sometime.”

  “You’re changing the subject, Mom.”

  “I know. Someone had to. You’re becoming obsessed with something so trivial that—”

  “Well, it’s not trivial to me, and I’m not going to have any peace of mind until I know how she got Dad’s ring.”

  “Don’t do anything you’ll later regret.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “I have to go, dear. Someone is calling me on the other line.”

  Her mother’s unwillingness to discuss the matter only incited Paige to dig further.

  It was no surprise when Margo didn’t show up at Tracy’s the following Wednesday. Paige asked Tracy if Margo had come in during the last few days.

  “I haven’t seen her, and I would remember it because she always asks for a meal to go. Why do you ask?”

  “Have you noticed anything…different about her?”

  “Not really. Why?”

  “I don’t know. Just wondering. I’m concerned about her. I got to know her a little and—”

  “They come and go, Paige. We can only hope she got back on her feet and doesn’t need our help anymore.”

  “I suppose.”

  With her new business model well under way, Paige turned her focus back to normal work issues but found that Margo was on her mind in between each meeting, phone call, and real estate deal. To maintain her sanity, she had to convince herself that curiosity and not obsession fueled her motivation to find out more about her.

  A client of hers, a detective with the Chicago Police Department, was interested in buying a small storefront in the Washington Park neighborhood. She decided to give him a call.

  “If I were to give you a license plate number, could you tell me anything about the owner of the car?”

  “If you mean as a personal favor, I’m not supposed to. What are the circumstances?”

  Paige explained the situation.

  “What’s the number? I’ll see what I can find out for you.”

  She waited while he searched for the information.

  “Here’s what I can tell you. The car is registered to Crystal Kick, born March 30, 1967, no criminal history, no traffic violations.”

  “Do you have an address for her?”

  He gave Paige the address.

  “The house is owned by Walter Emery, who lives in Denver, Colorado.”

  “You would know if this car was stolen, right?”

  “Only if someone reported it. Now, you can’t tell anyone where you got this information, right?”

  “Not a soul.”

  A birth year of 1967 didn’t jive with Margo’s appearance—she looked to be in her late twenties or early thirties, not fifties—so Paige ruled out that Margo was really Crystal Kick. Apparently, she was using a borrowed car. But who was Crystal Kick?

  That evening, with the last glimmer of daylight lingering low in the sky, Paige drove to the address the detective had given her—a blue-collar, middle-class neighborhood on the near west side of Chicago. The house, a nicely maintained brick bungalow sandwiched between two other similar homes, had a FOR RENT sign out front.

  She walked up to the door and rang the doorbell, not knowing exactly what she would say if anyone answered. She rang it a second time and waited a few minutes before turning to leave.

  “If you’re looking for Crystal, she moved,” said an elderly woman sitting in a rocking chair on the porch next door. Bent over a large bowl in her lap, she appeared to be pinching off the ends of string beans, which she continued to focus on as she talked.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I said Crystal don’t live there anymore.”

  “Do you happen to know where she moved?”

  “Somewhere on the south side I heard, but her daughter and granddaughter are living out of their car somewhere.” She shook her head. “Poor thing. Can’t see bringing a child to live in some old car. Just not right.”

  “How unfortunate. Do you know where she keeps the car?”

  The woman glanced up at Paige. “Who are you, Social Services?”

  “Oh, no, I’m not. I’m…a friend.”

  “Nope. Don’t know. Shame about the old man though. He wasn’t that old.”

  Did he die?

  “Old man?”

  “Jess’s father.”

  “Jess?”

  “The daughter.” The woman gave her a quizzical look. “I thought you said you were a friend.”

  “I am. I just didn’t know… When was that?”

  “When was what?”

  “About Jess’s father.”

  The woman shrugged. “I don’t know when it happened. Haven’t seen him around here for a while. But that ain’t unusual.” She peered at Paige over her spectacles. “Doesn’t sound like you know these people.”

  “Yes, of course I do. They lived here for such a long time,” Paige said on a whim.

  “Longer than us, and we’ve been here twenty-one years.”

  “I never knew him. Only Jess and her mother. What did you say his na
me was?”

  “Wayne. I don’t know his last name.” She lowered her voice. “I don’t think they were married.”

  “Do you know if—”

  “Katy!” a voice shouted from inside her house.

  “What?” she yelled back.

  “Com’ere.”

  “Gotta go.” The woman looked up at Paige. “I hope you find them. That young child needs a real home.”

  As she walked back to her car, Paige pondered the name “Wayne” and didn’t know why it nagged her so.

  Chapter 10

  Jessivel awoke to find her daughter bending over the front seat, staring at her. Kayla’s messy hair covered much of her face, and the smell of her stale breath made Jessivel cringe.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Really, Mom? What isn’t wrong? How long are we going to live like this?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You should. You’re the adult.”

  “Stop being such a nag. You sound like Nana,” she said as she stretched out her arms and legs to relieve the unforgiving stiffness.

  “Someone needs to. I’m hungry.”

  “We have to wait for the soup kitchen to open. What time is it?”

  “Who knows? We don’t even have a clock.”

  Jessivel glanced at her phone. “It’s only eight o’clock. None of them open until ten. And I’m not going back to Tracy’s. We’ll have to find a new one.”

  Kayla wriggled in her seat. “I have to go to the bathroom.”

  “I’ll drive closer, and we’ll go into Walmart.”

  “I’m tired of having to go to the bathroom in Walmart,” Kayla yawped. “They always stare at me when I leave without buying anything.”

  “Lower your voice, will you. This car is too small for yelling.”

  “This car is too small for anything.”

  “Look, I don’t like it any better than you.”

  “Well, do something about it!”

  “What do you want me to do?!”

  “Find somewhere we can live. Get a job!”

  “Who do you think you’re talking to?”

  “Someone who needs to get their shit together, that’s who.”

  Jessivel ignored Kayla’s language and disrespectful attitude. Instead, she broke down and sobbed, the stink of dirty clothes and leftover food in the car making her cry even harder.

  The respectable, loving relationship she once had with her daughter was shattering before her eyes. She knew Kayla needed her now more than ever, but how could she give of herself when she had nothing to give? She was failing as a mother—a shameful offense.

  The concept of trying to find a job terrified her. Who would hire someone with no work history? Could she make enough to support the two of them? And even if she miraculously found some crappy job, she’d be going in on the first day not knowing anyone, or how things are done, or who to talk to. What if they didn’t like her? What if she wasn’t good enough? And what if she messed up? What then? It all seemed so out of the question.

  “I really have to pee, Mom. Like now.”

  “Can you walk there by yourself?” she said through her crying.

  “Fine.”

  Jessivel tilted her head back on the stiff headrest and stared up at the ceiling of the car, without the energy to do much more than focus on the cracked lens cover of the yellowed dome light.

  How did this get so screwed up?

  She closed her eyes and allowed memories of better times fool her into a peaceful sleep.

  The sound of someone rapping on the car window woke Jessivel with a start. The face of a female police officer peering in startled her even further.

  “Wake up, Miss Salter,” she said.

  She shook off the grogginess from her short but deep nap. What would the police want with her? She wasn’t doing anything wrong, was parked in a legitimate Walmart-customer parking place, minding her own business. When she sat up, she saw that the officer had Kayla by the arm. She rolled down her window.

  “What’s going on?” she asked.

  “Your daughter was caught stealing, ma’am.”

  “Stealing? That can’t be. My child has never stolen anything in her life.”

  “Well, she has now.”

  Jessivel glared at Kayla, who was hanging her head. “You stole something?”

  Kayla shrugged.

  “What?”

  Kayla shrugged.

  “What did you steal?”

  “She stole some food,” the officer told her.

  “What?” Jessivel got out of the car and stood close to her daughter. “Are you kidding me?”

  “She said you two were homeless.”

  “We are not homeless. We’re just in between—”

  “Mom, get real. We’re homeless.”

  “Look,” the officer said, “since the store called me, I have to follow through on this.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I have to take you both down to the station.”

  “Then what?”

  “She’ll likely be charged with a juvenile misdemeanor—retail theft—and released into your custody.” The officer turned her back on Kayla and said in a quiet voice, “If it’s her first offense, they’ll go easy on her—counseling, probation, a stern warning. She’s banned from this store, by the way. And Walmart can still sue if they want. I’ve never seen them do it, but they can.”

  “What about my car? I have to leave it here?”

  “Can you call someone to come pick you up at the station to bring you back here?”

  “No.”

  “If you need help—public assistance, housing, Medicaid, food stamps, whatever—there’s someone at the station who can help you with that.”

  “We’re fine.”

  “Okay, ma’am, but—”

  “We’re fine!”

  “Can I give you some advice?”

  Jessivel stared at her until she continued.

  “Face whatever situation you’re in. Accept help. Just don’t let it define you, and you’ll do fine.” She paused, and when she didn’t get any reaction from Jessivel, she continued. “I’ll see if someone can drive you back here after you’re done at the station.”

  Jessivel pondered the officer’s advice. Did she even have kids of her own? Could she possibly know what Jessivel was going through?

  The policewoman ushered them to her car. Once in the back seat, Jessivel took Kayla’s wrist and squeezed it hard. Kayla winced.

  “If you ever pull a stunt like that again,” Jessivel said under her breath,” I’ll take you to the police station myself and leave you there.”

  “Good. At least I won’t be sleeping in a car,” she whispered back.

  Jessivel squeezed her arm a little harder.

  “You’re hurting me!”

  The policewoman glowered at them from the rearview mirror.

  “Sorry, officer.”

  Jessivel dialed her mother’s phone number. When she heard it go to voicemail, she threw her phone back into her purse. Waiting on dear Mrs. Perlman was obviously more important than picking up the phone to talk to her. Her mother either didn’t care, or she was forcing Jessivel to handle things on her own. Either way, she didn’t like her mother for it.

  When they arrived at the station, Jessivel and Kayla were escorted to a small windowless room that reeked of cigarette smoke. A male officer joined the three of them. Following a brief discussion, Kayla admitted to the charges.

  “Why did you do it, Kayla?” the policeman asked.

  “I was hungry.”

  “When was the last time you ate?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “What did you have?”

  “Soup kitchen food.”

  “What does this have to do with the charges?” Jessivel asked. “She admitted to it. Why can’t you just give Kayla her punishment and let us go?”

  “It’s not that easy, Miss Salter. Kayla is a minor, and right now we’re concerned about her he
alth and safety. Living out of your car and eating at soup kitchens may not be in her best interest. Is she in school?”

  “Well, no, we haven’t—”

  “She has to be enrolled in school. That’s the law.”

  “So what are you saying?”

  “I’m saying one of two things needs to happen. Either I put you in touch with a representative from the Chicago Department of Family and Support Services and you follow their recommendations, or I call Child Protective Services.”

  “I am not going to—”

  “I’m afraid those are your only two choices. Look, we’re on your side. There are services in this city to help you, and it seems to me like you need help right now.”

  “I’ll have you know that I lived my whole life in a nice home, with plenty of food on the table, and anything else I needed. I’m not some stupid person who can’t live on their own.”

  “But you are homeless now, and I’m telling you that we can help you with that.”

  “What about Kayla? What about the charges against her?”

  “She’ll be charged with retail theft and have to appear in juvenile court for her arraignment.”

  “If you want to help so much, why not drop the charges? She won’t do it again.” She turned to Kayla. “Will you, sweetie?”

  Kayla didn’t respond.

  “Once the store involves us, we can’t drop the charges. That’s up to the juvenile system judge. And to tell you the truth, I’m more concerned about her general welfare than these charges. Yours too.”

  The two officers arose from their chairs.

  “Who should I call? CDFSS or CPS?”

  “What’s CDFSS again?”

  “The Chicago Department of Family and Support Services.”

  “You’re not giving me much of a choice.”

  “Which one?”

  “The family one.”

  “Good choice.”

  Chapter 11

  “Could you do another look-up for me, Gary?” Paige felt awkward about badgering her detective client, but she couldn’t rest until she knew more about the woman taking up so much space in her thoughts.