Hawthorn Woods

by Patrick Canning

  When she drew Charlie a long-overdue bath upstairs, he got in without protest. She sat outside the curtain and read aloud from Pete’s dog-eared copy of The Hobbit, skipping to the dragon fight at the end so Charlie could act out the action in the tub, using measuring spoons for the dwarves and a black spatula for the fire-breathing Smaug.

  Afterwards, Francine made fried baloney sandwiches for lunch, letting Charlie poke holes in the meat as it ballooned in the pan. They took bites of each other’s sandwiches out on the back patio, tossing bread crusts to birds and a chipmunk who may or may not have been the garage intruder from days before. And after root beer floats, they laid on the dining room carpet in front of the air conditioner and made up poems about the wonderful months of summer, and Godzilla, and a girl named Nancy Drew. Before long, Charlie fell into an afternoon nap with a smile on his face.

  The perfect day. No divorce stories. No suspects. No little anchors to be found.

  Francine carefully lifted Charlie’s snoring head and had just walked into the kitchen to do the dishes when the phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi. It’s me. Bruno. Um, you don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to, but I hope you’ll listen. I want to say I’m sorry for some of the things I said last night. I regret saying them, and I want you to know that. You were right that this investigation means a lot to me, and I can’t change that, but I also shouldn’t let my emotions take over. I definitely shouldn’t have let them come between us. What you’ve been doing, meeting with Gerber, can’t be easy. It’s something I couldn’t do myself. I’m not trying to ruin his life. I’m just trying to give Ida the closure she deserves, and that made me lash out at you and the opinions you’re more than entitled to have. I’m really sorry, Francine.”

  Ben had never said he was sorry. Not once. Not when he begged to be taken back, not when he magically matured after the divorce, not even during the recent phone call he’d graced her with. To have her pain acknowledged for once felt nice to Francine. Really nice.

  “I’m sorry too,” she said. “I went about things the wrong way and I can’t blame it all on the absinthe.” She bit her lip in indecision. “But we both said such nasty things so quickly, it makes me wonder if we’re doing the right thing by being together. It doesn’t help one drowning person to grab onto another, you know? I hope we can finish the investigation the right way, but maybe it would be best if we ease up a little on the personal stuff. You know, between you and me.”

  “You might be right,” he conceded.

  It seemed like they were both waiting for the other to argue against the idea, but neither did.

  “Will I see you at the parade tomorrow?” she asked.

  “Yeah, but I was also calling because I wanted to see if you’d come to dinner tonight.”

  “That’s not exactly easing up, Bruno.”

  “I know. Ida’s coming.”

  “To Hawthorn Woods? Really?”

  “I always bring her up to date on the investigation, and when I told her how things went last night, she insisted on coming to cook dinner. I didn’t give her any private details,” he assured Francine quickly. “But she could tell things were off. So yeah, she’s gonna make dinner, then she’s got a redeye back to New York. We don’t have to talk about you and me. We don’t even have to talk about the case. She said she’d prefer it if we didn’t, actually. Ida’s just…a person I think you’d enjoy meeting. I hope you’ll come if you can.”

  “I’ll think about it, Bruno. Thanks.”

  “Okay. Bye.”

  Francine hung up and twirled the cord in thought. Then she picked the phone up again and dialed.

  “Hello?”

  “Roland, it’s me. How’s he doing?”

  “Francine. He is recovering well. I am so grateful for Del and Hollis and their quick actions.” He paused, and Francine heard what sounded like a soft sob. “And for you. Ajax is alive, thanks to you, Francine. I was so overwhelmed this morning, I neglected to thank you. There is no question that you saved his life. I am forever grateful.”

  Francine fought to keep her own voice steady. “It was nothing. I’ll come by later to check on you two, okay?”

  “We look forward to it.”

  She hung up again and stood still in indecision.

  Dinner at Bruno’s would help bring the investigation to a proper finale, even if her answer wasn’t one Bruno and Ida wanted to hear. Then she could say goodbye to Roland and Ajax, get a good night’s sleep, watch Laura Jean’s parade the next day, and pack for San Francisco. She might be leaving Hawthorn Woods by herself, but could still leave it the right way.

  Chapter 37

  I can stand as much pain as others can.

  [ ] TRUE [ x ] FALSE

  Francine walked to Bruno’s under an evening sky that sagged with humidity. Cheated by the previous day’s paltry shower, the clouds looked like an ever-filling water balloon hovering above the neighborhood, waiting for a pinprick.

  Dennis Asperski seemed to sense the same thing, as he dragged padded furniture off his back porch. Francine could see Eric had told the truth about one thing: Dennis had a dark circle around one eye. Had Lori really punched him? How he remained married to that woman might have been the biggest mystery Hawthorn Woods had to offer, but for now, Francine focused on the task at hand.

  She rang Bruno’s doorbell, second-guessing her outfit for the eightieth time. What did one wear when defending a suspected Nazi to a Holocaust survivor? Hopefully the yellow daisy sundress wouldn’t fail her now.

  The door flew open.

  There stood Ida Nussbaum, short and round, her eyes shining as if Francine were a dear friend she hadn’t seen in ages.

  “My God, you are just as he said,” Ida breathed.

  “Hello.” Francine held out a hand.

  Ida pulled her into an enthusiastic hug. “I know, I’m too much too fast, but I cook good. Come in, come in.”

  Ida’s accent was a lively mix of Eastern European delivered with East Coast brusqueness. Her wide hips and bosom gave her the look of a snowwoman wrapped in a plain brown dress, and she seemed absolutely over the moon at the idea of cooking dinner for a total stranger.

  Rushing across the kitchen floor, she relieved Bruno of his pot stirring duties at the stove. “Bless you, Michael, you’ve done a number on yourself already.”

  She wiped spackles of sauce from his burgundy tie. He’d clearly attempted to iron his plain white button-up and brown corduroys, but succeeded only in adding long crease lines to the wrinkles. The kitchen’s research debris had been temporarily confined to a single, dauntingly tall pile in the corner, leaving plenty of open space for an abundance of freshly-bought groceries. There was plenty of space, too, for the awkward uncertainty between Francine and Bruno.

  They’d traversed the entire trajectory of a relationship in under two weeks, like a pair of grade schoolers: she didn’t like him, yes she did, he didn’t like her, yes he did, but there was a problem, now the problem’s gone, yay things are great, oops they had a big fight, they stopped talking but then they kinda made up. And now…

  “Hi.”

  “Hi.”

  Ida watched them with a wry smile. “How are we for drinks, Michael?”

  Bruno produced the trusty bottle of Cutty Sark that by this point was basically an equal partner in the investigation. He poured the last of their colleague into three glasses and Ida, stirring dinner with one hand, raised a toast with the other.

  “To my intrepid angels. L’chaim.”

  They drank down the scotch.

  “Now tell me about yourself, dear.” Ida said, after tasting a sauce with her finger.

  “You want to know about me?” Francine said.

  “Absolutely. I know some of Michael’s life, and all of my own, but shamefully little of yours.”

  Francine had been prepared to defend her thesis of Gerber’s innocence, not tell the class a little bit about herself.

  “Okay, um,
I was born and raised here in the Midwest. Got married and divorced in California. I’m a hairdresser—”

  “Come, dear, you’re not a baseball card. What about your life lately?”

  “Well, my biggest focus as of late has been helping Bruno with the investigation.”

  Ida scooped food from the pans onto teddy bear plates. “Ah, we needn’t talk of that business.”

  But Bruno had already lit up. “Ida says the goat was killed kosher.”

  “Really?” Francine looked at Ida expectantly.

  “Oh, all right.” Ida surrendered. She handed them each a full plate. “If we must talk about the case, we’re going to eat while we do so.”

  Ida was definitely right about one thing: She did cook well. Her lamb medallions, cabbage rolls, herb-dusted potatoes, and pierogi were some of the best Francine had ever tasted, and she was relieved she hadn’t volunteered to bring over Puppy Chow.

  “It is, of course, hard to say,” Ida began, “but from Michael’s description and photographs, the goat’s slaying sounds like shechita, which is the butchering of animals according to Jewish law. Goats are permitted animals, and the cut, one clean slice across the neck”—she mimed the motion—“is in line with the law as well. Not a certainty, but a consideration, perhaps.”

  Bruno chewed thoughtfully. “I still can’t figure out why Lischka would do something so reckless. And why he, of all people, would do it kosher.”

  “I thought we were still calling him Roland,” Francine said softly. She turned to Ida and asked uneasily, “Have you…seen him since you’ve been here?”

  “No,” Ida said. “This visit is not to make my own inquiry. I have the utmost confidence in Michael, and with the addition of your talents, I am further reassured.”

  “If I thought he really did all those terrible things, I think I’d be at his door with a torch,” Francine said. “Not that I could ever understand,” she added quickly. “Sorry, the scotch is making me brave. What I’m trying to say is, I’m impressed with your restraint.”

  Ida set down her knife and fork. “Oskar Lischka took a great many things from me. Whether this neighbor of yours is him, I do not yet know, and it is certainly nothing I can control. Because I have a mind for justice, I have never given up my pursuit. But if I let Lischka’s actions twist me into a bitter huntress, fed by fantasies of revenge, his hate will have continued through me. Evil begetting more evil. I have no intention of letting guilty parties go free, but neither is it my life’s work. I made a choice, long ago, to be a person. To live with values inverse to Oskar Lischka and those like him. He gets a portion of my free time only, alongside bridge and crochet. I’d rather speak of the beautiful family I’ve raised, the business I ran with my husband, the influence I’ve strived to make on the world.” She reached over and squeezed Francine’s hand tenderly. “I’ve waited for decades. I can wait a little longer. Now have some more lamb, dear. Hitler was vegetarian.”

  Francine laughed. She was in awe of the woman, unable to recall ever meeting a person with such immediate and remarkable grace—much less one who had narrowly escaped annihilation at the hands of a monster.

  ✶ ✶ ✶ ✶

  The three of them ate and talked for hours. Not about the goat or the case or Lischka, but about their lives.

  Ida had worked as a chimney sweep and later sold computer parts, a rare Venn diagram of professions. She’d briefly dated one of the Yankees, though wouldn’t say which one. She insisted travel was a requirement for personal growth, and had visited every continent at least once, but warned, “Antarctica’s mostly snow and penguin shit and the commute is murder, don’t waste your time.” They all laughed at Francine for not being suspicious about Santa Claus until she was thirteen, and at Bruno for being winless against his students in ping pong for three years running. Ida grew quieter and quieter as the night progressed, letting the two sleuths banter with each other well past their honey cake desserts.

  At length, she checked her watch. “Ten already? My taxi is due soon. Michael, wait outside for the driver, would you? Francine and I will see to the dishes.”

  “Ida, you don’t have to—” Bruno began.

  “Oh, don’t grow manners on the spot. These dishes will soak for a month if I don’t do them. Plus, we’re going to talk about you, so scram.”

  With a grin in Francine’s direction, Bruno wisely scrammed.

  Francine carried plates to the sink, where Ida was already busily scrubbing.

  “He’s got stars in his eyes for you. You see that, yes?”

  Francine felt herself blush. “Maybe. I don’t know. It’s complicated.”

  “I hope Bruno’s favor to me hasn’t been a negative influence.”

  “No. The investigation is basically what brought us together in the first place. We had a…strong disagreement last night.” Francine put down the plate she was drying. “Ida, I don’t think Mr. Gerber is Lischka. I can’t imagine how disappointing that must be to hear, but when I talk to him, I just can’t imagine he’s a person who could’ve done all those horrible things. I understand if you hate me.”

  “Hate you? Never, dear. Michael’s heart is in the right place, but he badly wants to deliver me a certain result. Perhaps you can ensure it’s justice he’s chasing, and not something else.”

  “Cab’s here,” Bruno called from the front door.

  “Give him some small talk,” Ida yelled back. “We’re almost done.”

  “I really do want you to find closure,” Francine said.

  Ida turned off the faucet. “Finding Lischka and delivering him to justice would be a sweet digestif to my life, but if it doesn’t come to be, I won’t let it spoil a meal I’ve loved so very much.” She picked up her purse. “I know you and Michael have both experienced hard times. If I had the power to will an outcome in all of this, it would be for the two of you to find vitality. Perhaps together. Ah, I almost forgot.”

  She dug around in her purse and came up with two brass earrings shaped like scrolls.

  “If you’ve no aversion to Jewish iconography, I made these when I heard you’d joined the effort. Mezuzahs. We normally put them on our doors for protection, but I think they might do just as well on ears.”

  “They’re beautiful, Ida. Thank you.”

  Once they were outside, Ida got into the back seat of the cab and cranked down her window.

  “Francine, I am enchanted, just as he said I would be. Michael, you’re still too skinny, but your taste in women is pristine. And now, the both of you remember this, please. The world is concerned with your usefulness. Your fulfillment is up to you. Good luck. Okay, let’s go.”

  She slapped the cab door and the driver backed out of the driveway. A few seconds later, the benevolent force-of-nature called Ida Nussbaum was a pair of vanishing tail lights.

  “Wow,” Francine said. “She inhales smoke and breathes out fresh air.”

  “I thought you’d like her.” Bruno smiled. “Can I walk you home?”

  She nodded, and they sauntered around the block.

  With the refreshing injection of Vitamin Nussbaum, Francine’s mind returned to the near future that intended to send her and Bruno in opposite directions.

  “Bruno, can I ask you something?”

  But he wasn’t listening. She followed his gaze and saw an envelope tucked into Ellie and Pete’s front door.

  “Francine, wait.”

  But she had already raced through the door and up the stairs to the master bedroom, where she breathed a sigh of relief. Charlie slept peacefully in his parents’ bed. After gently closing the door, Francine hurried back downstairs.

  “Charlie okay?” Bruno asked.

  “Yeah. What’s the letter say?”

  He handed it to her.

  Ms. Haddix and Mr. Bruno,

  I should like to host the two of you this evening, however late the hour. All that is required is your company, which I await with eager curiosity.

  Yours,

  Rolan
d Gerber

  “He knows,” Francine said.

  “That’s not for sure.” Bruno sighed. “But it’s definitely possible. What should we do?”

  Francine gazed down the street at the unassuming line of spruce trees, then pinned the Mezuzahs in her earlobes.

  “We oblige his curiosity.”

  Chapter 38

  Sometimes in elections, I vote for people about whom I know very little.

  [ x ] TRUE [ ] FALSE

  Francine’s mind hadn’t decided on a clear emotional state just yet, keeping her on the knife’s edge of a dozen different feelings as Roland answered the door.

  “Mr. Bruno.” He held out a hand.

  Bruno shook it, his manner polite but reserved. “Mr. Gerber.”

  “Thank you for accepting my invitation. And Francine. You promised you’d visit and here you are. True to your word.”

  “How’s Ajax?” she asked.

  “Fine, thank you. If you would please show Mr. Bruno to the porch. You remember the way, I think.” He stepped aside to admit them, and she could tell his manner was off. Maybe only by a single percent, but there was definitely a slight chill to his words and actions.

  She led Bruno to the porch and they sat on the house-facing loveseat. Bruno stared straight ahead with a resolute expression Francine had never seen in him before.

  Roland walked in with a tea tray. No cookies this time. Apparently their business was to be something a little more formal.

  Ajax, neck cleanly bandaged, passed skittishly into the kitchen to lap some water.

  “What happened to your dog?” Bruno asked.

  The last twenty-four hours had been such a whirlwind, Francine hadn’t yet shared the story of Ajax’s harrowing night in the pipe.