by Rae Richen
“Can you tell me where this camp is?” she asked.
He looked uncomfortable. “Doesn’t matter where it is. What have you to say to this accusation?”
Willie shrugged. “I think you might want to come back when you have the facts. I believe your informant thinks I was the cook in a concentration camp in that closed in 1945.”
“So are you the cook?”
“At that time, I lived with my husband and two babies in Colorado.”
“Is that where this Dora camp is?”
“No. At the time, we had Japanese internment camps. But I was not the cook in any of those.”
“We could have camps now,” Bailey said.
“Yes, we do have. At the border. We have these abominations whenever we elect someone who sells fear, in the manner of Joseph McCarthy, Colonel Karl Bendetsen, or Hermann Goering. Have we done that?”
Bailey looked confused. “Who are they?”
“People who accuse others without proof. Dead now,” she said, letting Bailey think they died because they accused.
Bailey huffled a moment and then said, “You’re the focus of an investigation. I’ll be back.”
He turned as fast as awkward weight would allow, and left for his parked police-mobile.
The receptionist stared at Grandma Willie, who noticed the woman engaged in a search of the internet.
“That’s Karl with a K and Bendetsen. Designed and sold Executive Order 9066 sending the Japanese to concentration camps in the United States.”
Willie left for the kitchen to check the larder for snacks for birds and for the Ancient Nation.
**
In the kitchen, she saw the back of the young lady that she knew had been hired to fill and empty the dishwasher each evening and on Saturdays. She washed the lunch pans and cried.
Someone had embroidered flowers on her blouse. That helped Willie dredge up her name.
“Violeta,” she said. “Has someone hurt your feelings?”
Violeta jumped, wiped her eyes with soapy hands and then regretted the move. Willie grabbed a towel, pushed it into her hand and said, “Let this absorb the soap. Then rinse the rest out.”
Violeta did as directed.
Willie pulled her to a chair. “Now tell me, what is this crying all about?”
Violeta gestured toward the pan of soapy water, but Willie said, “Not the soapy water. Before the soap. Has someone been mean? Is there some way I can help you?”
Violeta looked carefully at Willie, then at her hands, then at Willie again. Willie waited silently, letting her assess and debate.
At last, Violeta said, “Mi Rosaria, my sister is missing.”
Willie hurt with understanding. “How long?”
“A week. She left on the bus for college and never arrived.”
Willie’s heart jumped in her chest. How afraid her mother must be, and how helpless. “Where is the college?”
“In Newberg.”
“Ah! So, the Quaker College, what is it called?”
“George Fox University.”
Willie hesitated for a moment, then asked, “Was she going to be a DACA student?”
“Yes, Childhood Arrivals.”
“Has the college helped you look for her?”
“They want to call the police.”
“And your family fears the police?”
“Si, mucho temor.”
“May I help?”
Violeta looked at Willie’s walker.
Willie said, “The walker is a disguise. People don’t know that I’m actually an action hero.”
Violeta glanced up, realized something about her new friend’s face and laughed. “You are The Secret Walker.”
“Yup, Willie the Wanderer.”
Violeta wiped her face again with the towel and said. “I don’t want you in danger also.”
“You think your sister was stolen off the bus?”
“Si, Papá put her on the bus. There was not supposed to be a transfer, but the bus arrived at Newberg, the counselor for DACA was there, but there was no Rosaria.”
“I will do what I can without being in danger, but I must tell you that I teach writing at the training center for policemen and also at the jail. There may be information I could glean by listening.”
“And reading their writing,” Violeta added.
Willie nodded, glad to have met so smart a young lady. “Exactly. Now let’s get some facts. Your sister is Rosaria.”
“Rosaria Aguirre.”
“How old?”
“Eighteen.”
“Were you born here, Violeta?”
“Yes, my father and myself, but not my mother and my sister.”
“What bus company did she use to get to Newberg.”
“The Leapfrog – the intercity transport.”
“Was she traveling with a friend, another student?”
“Papá said she didn’t know anyone on the bus.”
“Forgive me for asking, but is it possible she did know someone and didn’t want to tell your papa – someone she may have thought he wouldn’t approve of?”
Violeta straightened and declared, “Rosaria is a good girl.”
“Parents are often very protective. It wouldn’t take much – someone who often stayed out late, who didn’t go to the same church, maybe ...”
Covering her mouth with her hand, Violeta glanced at her shoes. A moment later, she said, “Rosaria had a friend who also will go to George Fox. She offered Rosaria a ride, but the driver was a boyfriend, so Papá said ‘No’.”
“What was this friend’s name?”
“Liza Cramer.”
“And the boyfriend?”
“I didn’t know him. I don’t think Rosaria knew him either – someone Liza had met at a party.”
“And was he a student at George Fox?”
“I don’t think so, but I don’t know for sure.”
“Did Liza arrive at George Fox?”
Violeta stared at Willie. “I don’t know. I hardly know her, but I think I know where she lives.”
“How about if you show me where, and I find out if she is safe. It may be important.”
“I will walk by there and get the address for you. Thank you for asking these questions, too. I’m afraid for Rosaria.”
“Violeta, let me make inquiries. I think it is safer and less threatening for an older person to be asking questions about things than it is for you. We don’t want you missing as well.”
Violeta nodded. “I will just walk there, not knock on the door.”
“Do you know the name of the counselor who was to meet Rosaria?”
“No, but I think my Papá has that name. I will ask him.”
“Good,” Willie grabbed a paper towel and wrote on it. “I live here, on the eighth floor, but if you need to send me a message, here is my cell phone number, as well.”
Chapter Eight
Glyn slipped into the kitchen that evening after dinner. He grabbed a towel and began drying a plate.
“Este es un plato, ¿no?”
Violeta smiled, slightly.
Still sad that her sister is gone to college, he thought.
She said, “Si, es verdad. Un plato.” She held up a glass. “Y este es un vaso.”
“Un vaso para agua,” Glyn said. “A glass for wáter.”
“Si. ¿Que es eso?” She held up a cup. “What is this?”
He took the cup and held her hand, “Este es un mano hermoso, a beautiful hand.”
She let him hold it a second, and then pulled away. “Señor Jones . . .”
“Glyn.”
“Señor Glyn, no tengo paciencia con un hombre que hace chistes y lisonjas.”
He asked, “You don’t have patience for guys who make what? Chistes?”
“Jokes and flattery.”
“No jokes, but yes, I like to flatter you. I enjoy your company. Is it un chiste to say that?”
She looked at him, solemnly, and he saw a sudden tear fill her eye. She swiped at
it and turned back to emptying the dishwasher.
He leaned down and said to her, “I hope you will tell me what is wrong. Has someone been mean to you?”
She stood up quickly. “You sound like . . .” and then she stopped.
“Like who?”
“It doesn’t matter. You just reminded me of a friend.”
“A friend. That’s good. I hope you will see I can be your friend as well.”
“You are very good, but I cannot have the easy time right now to enjoy friends. I have things I must take care of.”
“May I help you?”
She sniffed. “I must be careful. Someday, maybe I can ask you for help, but not yet.”
“Well, I can vouch for the fact that you don’t need help with English. And that you will become a great teacher, if that is what you want to do. Anything else I can help with, you let me know.”
She almost laughed, “I will ask you when I need letters of recommendation to get into coll . . . college.” At that moment, she banged a pan into the sink and began to scrub it.
“Violeta, I want to help you now. You check me out. People will tell you I’m mostly a good guy.”
“Mostly?”
“Well, I’m not perfect, but I’m working at it. I drive too fast, but I work hard and have good grades.”
“Drive too fast? Is that your only failing?”
“My most costly one, at any rate.”
“Aha!” she said, “Drive fast, plus get caught, eh?”
“Si, señorita. La policía y mi abuela saben que tengo un pie de plomo. Grandma and the pólice know I drive too fast.”
“The lead foot? Un pie de plomo? Is that why you came here to work? To pay a fine for driving?”
He stepped back, completely surprised by her intuition. “Well, that’s why I came, but now that I’m here, I like this place. Interesting people with interesting pasts, and stories, and lots of dishes to wash and dry with you.”
She looked at him and said, “Could you walk with me to get an address?”
“Sure. Where are we headed?”
“Not tonight, but tomorrow morning?”
“Sure, I can come by your house . . .”
“No. Please meet me before school at Broadway and Fifteenth. Seven in the morning?”
“Wait, don’t you have to go to school?”
“Yes. I catch the bus to Saint Mary’s at seven thirty.”
“Seven it is. Broadway – how about if you wait inside the Peet’s coffee shop? Safer.”
“I will.”
The kitchen door to the basement swung open. There stood Danny Dement. He stared at Violeta and then grinned at Glyn. “Hey man. Making time?”
Glyn said, “What do you want, Dan?”
“It’s our turn for the Burnside detail.”
“I’ll meet you in the practice room in fifteen minutes.”
Danny wiggled his eyebrows, trying, unsuccessfully, to look lewd.
“Go on,” Glyn said.
Dan withdrew slowly.
“Burnside detail?” she asked.
Glyn said, “Is your dad picking you up?”
“Burnside?”
Glyn sighed, “I’ve got a friend who is missing since three days ago. The guys in the band, we’re looking for him on the streets. Tonight, Burnside Street.”
“Under the bridge? That’s dangerous.”
“We’ll be fine. I don’t bother people, just look.”
“Find any girls?”
“Mostly guys and older women.”
“You find any girls, you get them out of there.”
“They’d have to want to get out,” Glyn said.
“Maybe they want, but can’t say so.”
“True. You got a friend down there?”
She looked off at the refrigerator and said, “Glyn, my sister is missing.”
“Your Rosaria?”
Chapter Nine
Fifteen minutes later, Glyn had helped Violeta finish the dishes, learned all he could about where Rosaria might have been, found out what her parents were doing in order to find her, and pledged to search for her, as well.
He ran downstairs rousting Danny from sleep.
Glyn had no idea how to look for either Trace or Rosaria Aguirre, Violeta’s sister. The story of each one’s disappearance was extremely different, but he knew they had to start looking somewhere and the somewhere tonight was under the Burnside Bridge.
“Let’s start with the skate park,” Glyn said.
Danny wiped his eyes, and yawned. “Bunch of little kids at the skate park.”
“Young maybe, but they see things.”
“That place is a dump,” Danny said.
“Do you expect to find Trace in a McMansion?”
“Yeah, sitting next to the guy that sold him the stuff.”
“I wish. Let’s go.”
Glyn decided not to tell Danny they searched for Rosaria as well. Danny’s mind leapt about, hard to corral on the best of days. His fantasy life as a street hoodlum interfered with his grasp on what should and shouldn’t be said.
Glyn knew Leneld had paired them up because usually Glyn could stuff Danny’s words down his throat just by a hard look, but lately, Danny wanted more recognition as a cool dude. He’d blat out just about anything he’d heard or thought he’d heard on television. Plus, the guy started fights he couldn’t finish.
**
The Burnside skate park had been built over time, started by a several young fellows, now grown up. Some of them still designed skate parks all over the world. They had liked the bridge location, even though the street tent dwellers were people with lots of problems. The leavings of a tough life became all too easy to see and smell.
But the designers had used left over concrete and discarded materials, plus the frame of the bridge pillars to help them build. Other kids had come. The area got cleaned up, some. The kids added to the curves, and they all learned how to make do.
They also learned how to convince the city that kids needed a skate park to keep occupied and moving in the right direction.
Glyn liked the story of the park, but he only skated to and from work and school. He didn’t pretend to be a trick skater.
Danny skated everywhere and often chose to test garden walls along the way. So, they arrived on their boards.
They got there after dark. The place didn’t smell of car fumes, as you would guess. Those fumes went up into the clouds. It smelled more of the people who had only tents and cardboard for homes.
But the noise of cars and trucks created a constant irregular beat overhead. The Burnside Bridge itself had been designed in the previous century by an architect – early Portland city fathers searching for beauty back in the 1900s. So, the pillars underneath had a sturdy but elegant look to them, which you could still find if you looked around the tents.
The area between Second Avenue and the river stretched to about three blocks at this point. Close to the river under the bridge was very dark. Close to Second Avenue enjoyed streetlights. The building next door had a logo on the top that read, “Long Live the Wildcards, Misfits and Dabblers.”
Seemed like the right place for a skate park and a store outside the norm.
Bridge lights and the moon provided enough illumination to see the five kids who were still out. Two were older, more like out of high school – sturdy-built guys who might have heavy-lifting jobs, but still practiced their moves in the evenings.
Glyn wondered about the parents of the three younger kids. If they had parents.
He sat down on the bench, but Danny went right to one of the younger kids. He waggled his board at the boy.
“You a beginner?” Always the challenge.
Glyn stood up. “Hey, Dan. Come here, I need you.”
“Just a sec.”
Glyn moved away and pretended to look at the area behind the near pillar of the bridge. He knew Dan couldn’t stand to be out of the action. If he thought Glyn had found something, he’d leav
e off jawing at the kid.
Dan came right over. Just then, a train came down the track that ran past the bridge and beyond the main streets. Its long trail of cars passed the grocers, lumber and hardware district of southeast Portland. It headed for the area near the car park behind the science museum.
Over the train noise, Danny said, “What you got?”
“We want to make friends, get information. The coolest dude doesn’t talk, he listens.”
Dan gestured back toward the kid. “But he’s just slipping and sliding, doing nothing with that board.”
“Sit and watch him learn.”
“He doesn’t deserve the space.”
“We’re here to find Trace. Keep that in mind.”
“What’s back there?” Danny poked his head back of the pillar, between the edge of the skate park and the next hardware store.
“A tent,” Glyn said.
“Maybe that guy knows something.”
“Maybe. If he comes out, we ask. If not, he’s asleep.”
“Boy, are you a do-nothin’ guy.”
“Yup. Do no harm. First rule of investigation.”
“Thought that was doctors.”
“Works for them, too,” Glyn said.
They turned around and found two of the older skateboarders coming toward them.
“Hey,” one of them said.
“Hi,” Glyn said, putting a hand on Dan’s arm as he felt him tense for confrontation.
“You got a funky old board.” one fellow said.
Glyn held his scuffed board up. “Transportation,” he said. “Actually, we’re writing an article for the school newspaper on skate parks, kind of a way to encourage the city to build more of them.” Glyn figured he really could write. Published? Maybe.
“Yeah?” the biggest guy tucked his board under an arm and looked around. “This was one of the first,” he said.
“Perfect place,” Glyn said. “All this light and a roof against the rain.” He gestured up at the bridge and all the cars whizzing overhead. “But adults always ask, ‘How safe is it?’ Anybody get hurt? Bothered by transients?”
“Naw,” the big guy said.
“Some kids just ask for trouble,” the other one said. “You know, flirting with guys, letting cons take them out to the Yo-Plait and like that.”
“So, advice on what not to do at the park would be good,” Glyn said.
