Dear Aunt Myrna

by Kit Duncan

A week before school started some of the adults in the neighborhood decided to have a block party. At first I was pretty excited because parties were all about having fun, and having fun was the best thing in life. However, Mama decided I should look pretty for the party, and in my experience looking pretty had nothing to do with having fun.

  I was fairly glum but not despondent when we arrived. Several tables had been set up with paper plates and pitchers of tea and lemonade and water, and there were bowls scattered about with various kinds of nuts and chips. Two grills were stationed near each end of the row of tables. Mr Watson was cooking hamburgers on one grill, and Mrs English's son-in-law Jerry was cooking hot dogs on the other one. A long extension cord had been rolled out, and we had donated our hi fi. Two piles of LP's and 45's were nearby, and someone had put on an Elvis album just before we arrived.

  Mama smiled at the song, and Papa smiled at Mama smiling, and I just frowned.

  I was standing a little away from Mama and Papa when Danny approached me. For as long as I had lived next to him I had succeeded in making sure that Danny Watson had never seen me wearing Mary Janes or Swiss polka dots. It wasn't difficult. I seldom got dressed up except for Mass. His family usually went to services on Sunday before we left for Mass, and they didn't usually get home until the afternoon.

  "My word, Katie!" Danny said as he walked up to me. "You're mighty pretty!" He sounded more surprised than complimentary.

  "Of course, I am," I said disappointed in Danny stating the obvious.

  Mama overheard me and a little while later, when no one was paying attention, she scolded me gently. "A lady," she said, "accepts a compliment with a gracious, 'Thank you very much.'"

  I countered that I didn't care to be a lady and besides, why would I thank someone for telling me the truth? Mama shook her head, looked at me with resignation, and was soon engrossed in a conversation with Mrs Watson.

  It had been dark about an hour when the party began to dissipate. I helped Mama carry some chips and paper plates home, and Papa took the hi fi to the basement. Mama and I were still in the kitchen when Papa came upstairs in an exasperated rush. His face was severe, and never having seen such an expression on him before, I was alarmed and confused, and a little frightened. He sank down at the booth with a great heaviness, and Mama sat next to him, anxiously waiting for him to speak. I stood motionless like a granite statue by the sink.

  "We've been robbed," Papa said, his voice so low I could barely hear him.

  "Walter, no!" I didn't have any trouble hearing Mama's voice.

  Papa didn't say anything else for awhile, just stared ahead trance like. Finally he added, "Only the liquor cabinet. Nothing else. TV's still there, the books, everything. Except the alcohol." He looked up suddenly and asked, "What about up here?"

  He and Mama rushed through the house and met back in the living room. I inched just outside the kitchen and nervously watched them from the dining room.

  "Anything?" Papa asked.

  "Not that I can see," Mama said.

  The phone rang, and Mama put her hand on my shoulder gently as she passed me.

  "Hello? Oh, hi, Emily. Your window was broken? Anything missing? Really! Nothing? Yes. The liquor cabinet in the basement. I know, I know. I told Walter the same thing when he brought it home but he said?. What's that? Oh, good!" She covered the phone with her hand and called out, "Walter, Fred's already called the police! They're on their way!" She returned to the phone and after a few minutes she hung up and rejoined Papa in the living room.

  I inched nearer to them. I wasn't sure what all the commotion was about but I knew that whatever was the matter I wanted to be near my parents. Mama hugged me when I got in range, and Papa smiled a worried smile at me and said, "Everything's fine, Pumpkin."

  I heard sirens a few minutes later, and blue strobe lights ricocheted off the living room walls.

  "Laura, why don't you tuck Katie in?" Papa said. I heard the front door shut behind him.

  Mama took my hand and walked me down the hallway. I wanted to stay and see what was happening but my best instincts warned me to give no resistance tonight Mama was kind but very businesslike. We knelt by the side of my bed and we quickly, half-heartedly recited three Hail Mary's and an Our Father. She stood up and leaned over to kiss me goodnight.

  "Is that it?" I asked. "Don't you think we need to say a few more prayers?" I wasn't nearly as interested in being devout as I was in not being left alone.

  "I think God will understand tonight," she said.

  "What about the Little House? Aren't we going to read about Laura and Mary tonight?"

  "I think they might understand tonight, too," she said, turning off the light by the bed.

  As she shut my door I scowled, "Well, Maybe God understands and maybe Laura Ingalls understands but I sure don't understand!"

  After many fitful moments I succumbed to the exhaustion of the day.

  The next morning Danny and Timmy met me at the bottom of the deck steps. Their parents had sent them to bed early, too, but they had slipped down the hallway very quietly and heard most of the conversation between the police and their parents. They were very happy to report everything they had learned to me.

  "Mrs England lost three cases of Old Granddad!" Timmy said.

  "Mrs England drinks?" I asked, wide eyed.

  "Like a fish," Timmy said, but Danny stopped him abruptly and said that was just speculation.

  "Well, why else would she have all that bourbon?" Timmy asked.

  "It's none of our business," Danny said.

  "Well, she does sleep in late most days," I said, and Timmy nodded.

  "She's an old woman," Danny countered. "She's just tired."

  "Or hung over," Timmy suggested.

  "What would you know about hang overs?" Danny asked.

  "Aunt Lena says Uncle Roy gets hung over every Saturday night," Timmy said, and Danny hushed him and told him to quit airing dirty laundry.

  Danny took the focus off his family and put it back onto the neighborhood. "And Mr Stephenson, you know the guy who lives up near Birchwood, he had a whole mess of Falstaff in his basement. They took every lick of it. Except one bottle. They left one bottle behind."

  "Wonder why they did that?" I asked.

  "Dunno," Danny said, "But they did. One single bottle of beer left on the kitchen counter."

  In all, the thieves had broken into eight houses on our block, and all they took was alcohol.

  "They have any idea who it was?" I asked.

  "Nig?." Timmy started to say.

  "You hush that trap in your face!" Danny yelled at his brother. "You don't never use that kind of language around me or I swear I'll make you bleed!"

  I had never seen Danny so enraged, and I had never seen Timmy so frightened. We all sat very still for a few minutes, and then I spoke.

  "So they think it was colored folks?" I asked very, very tentatively. There are people you meet in your life you desperately hope will never get angry at you. Danny was such a person.

  Danny sighed deeply and looked to the ground. "Well," he said, "That's what I heard. Someone saw a couple of black teenage boys walking around the vacant lots earlier yesterday afternoon."

  "Well, then they must have done it!" Timmy exclaimed. "Must have been casing the neighborhood, I expect, just waiting for everyone to go to the party. That's what I figure."

  "But they haven't actually caught anyone?" I asked.

  "No," said Danny.

  "Think they will?" I asked Danny.

  He shook his head and said, very low, "I don't know, Katie."

  "Well," Timmy said, "You watch. I bet they do, and I bet when they catch 'em they'll be black!"

  Danny swatted his brother sharply on the head, and Timmy ran away, and the three of us didn't play together the rest of the day.

  CHAPTER 8