by Edward Bloor
I jotted down the number that he gave and then left for the mall. I pushed open the entrance doors exactly at noon. As soon as I reached the rotunda, I noticed something odd. Karl, Kristin, and Will were huddled together outside the glass doors. The arcade was not open.
Karl looked very upset. He was pumping his arms and rocking on his legs. He sputtered at Kristin, "No way! I'm not going in there."
She told him, "Karl, I can't pick him up by myself."
"No! Get somebody else. Get your boyfriend, here."
Will said, very maturely, "I'm not her boyfriend. I'm her friend."
Kristin clapped her hand on Karl's shoulder and held him still. She told him emphatically, "Karl, this isn't for friends or for anybody else to do. This is for us to do."
"I'm not going in there."
The three of them became aware of me all at once. They stopped talking and looked away, like they were embarrassed.
I said, "What's up?" No one replied, so I looked past them, through the sliding-glass doors. At first I didn't see anything unusual. But then I did.
It was Uncle Frank. He was curled up within the ring of Crusader, just lying there on the raised platform. A black helmet was half on and half off of his head. He appeared to be a total wreck, a broken man. I decided, "I'll go talk to him." I unlocked the door and slid it open a foot.
Kristin tried to stop me. "There's no talking to him, Roberta. Not when he's like this."
I said, "Let's find out."
"No. He's not himself. This is not my dad."
I looked her in the eye and answered, "Oh yes, it is."
I walked over to the Crusader platform. Uncle Frank was making a hollow sound, something in between snoring and gasping. I leaned over him. "Uncle Frank?"
His upper body jerked slightly, enough to make the helmet slide the rest of the way off his head. He managed to say, "What?" in a lost and confused voice.
"Uncle Frank, I just heard from Mr. Lewis, the guy from Arcane Industries, up in Antioch, Illinois. I know you haven't paid them in three months. I know it's all over."
Uncle Frank rolled onto all fours, like he was going to do push-ups. He shook his head furiously, trying to clear it.
I told him, "I just wanted to say this: At least you're here, Uncle Frank. At least you're upset, and angry, and broken up about it. That's because it matters to you. My dad, I'm sure, is at the beach now, or out test-driving a boat."
Uncle Frank looked up at me through bloodshot eyes. He spoke clearly. "You don't know what I did."
"Yes, I do. And I think it was a bad thing to do. A terrible thing. But I don't think it was an evil thing."
He wasn't buying that. He demanded to know, "Then what was it?"
"It was natural law. You fought to save what was yours. You fought with spray paint, and hate, and lies. You fought in a cowardly way"—he bristled at those words—"but I don't think you are really a coward. And I don't think you are really evil. You're just drunk, Uncle Frank. You're drunk, and you've given up. You gave up months ago."
Uncle Frank twisted his body left and right. Then he managed to sit up. He even managed to regain a bit of his dignity. He reminded me quietly, "I was in Desert Storm."
"I know you were."
"I was sitting in a tank, in the middle of a desert, when your Mr. Samir Samad was sitting in a carseat, in the back of his daddy's BMW."
"Yes, sir. I know that."
Uncle Frank struggled all the way up to his feet. "That's all I have to say." He stepped down off the platform and walked, pretty steadily, into the back.
I watched him go. Then I squeezed back out though the door. I told Kristin, Karl, and Will, "It's over. We're out of business."
Kristin flopped back against the glass. She let herself slide down until she was on the floor. Will did the same, so Karl and I sat down, too. We remained there together for a few minutes, returning the curious stares of the early shoppers.
Then I felt the glass doors sliding against my back. I looked up and saw Uncle Frank. He stepped out, closed the door behind him, then turned and locked it with his key. He made no eye contact with anyone. He just said, "Let's go."
Kristin and Karl hopped up. They each put an arm around Uncle Frank. Then the three of them walked away, through the rotunda and out of sight.
Will and I stood up, too. He said, "I better go help my mom. Is your plan still on for tomorrow?"
"As far as I know. Mrs. Knight was supposed to set it all up."
"All right. I'll see you then." He wandered off to SpecialTees.
I thought about going in to help Mrs. Roman, but I just wasn't ready for that. I took off on a slow walk through the rotunda, into the south section of the mall.
Crescent Electronics had a table full of discounted software set up in the mallway to attract customers. I was surprised to see Sam himself manning the table. There weren't any customers around, so I walked up and said, "Mind if I hang out here with you for a few minutes?"
He shook his head. "No. Please do."
Sam seemed different. Almost lighthearted. I waited for a minute, then I took the opportunity to ask him, "What would you do if a lawyer asked you this: 'Why were you and a girl alone in an abandoned store late at night?'"
Sam looked at me curiously. "I'd tell the truth: 'We were looking to catch the guy who was vandalizing my property.' Why? What made you ask me that?"
"Griffin. He said Uncle Frank's lawyer would go after us for being together in that window."
"That wouldn't bother me. I have nothing to hide." Sam thought for a minute, then asked, "How old are you?"
"Sixteen."
"Oh, great. You're underage. Then I could be arrested. That would be a nice, ironic end to all of this, wouldn't it? Somebody finally gets arrested, but it turns out to be me." Sam looked at me closely. "What are you saying? That you're afraid to testify now?"
"No. Not at all. I just wanted to tell you what Griffin told me."
"Okay. You told me."
"I'm not afraid of anything. I just thought it was funny. Or, like you said, ironic. You know? Like anybody would think I was anybody's girlfriend."
Sam turned toward the store to get the attention of a clerk, a guy with black glasses and a white-blond crew cut. The clerk came out, and Sam said, "Could you watch the table, please? I'm going to take a little walk with Roberta."
The blond guy said, "Sure."
Sam started toward the rotunda, so I followed. After a few yards he said, "Let me tell you something. For the last two months, or more, I have felt like the biggest loser on earth. Think about it: I spent every night sitting in an empty store window. I kept saying, over and over, 'Why me? Why do they hate me? What's wrong with me?'
"That changed when you showed up. Suddenly I wasn't the only one sitting in that window." We entered the food court and turned left. "You know, Roberta, a lot of people saw the paint on my windows; they saw the scratches on my car. They knew what was happening. But you're the only one who actually did something about it, on your own time, just because it was the right thing to do. I'm not going to forget that."
We stopped at Soft Swirl Ice Cream. Sam asked, "Do you like chocolate?" I nodded. He told Geri, the owner, "Two chocolate cones."
When he handed me my cone, I suddenly felt elated. My heart started to pound. Then he said, "Let me tell you something else I've been feeling."
I stopped in midbite of my cone and waited. I guess I was waiting for something like words of love. I have no idea what they might have sounded like, or what I might have said back. As it turned out, that was a stupid thing for me to think.
Sam said, "I've been feeling sorry for your uncle Frank."
I went ahead and took the bite. I hoped my face didn't give away my ridiculous thoughts. I managed to say convincingly, "Why? After what he did to you?"
"Why? Because he had further to fall than most people. Everybody looked up to the colonel. Even strangers. You could see, when they met him, that they looked up to him. Tha
t's gone now. What can I do to him that's worse?" He paused and explained, "I've been thinking about forgiving him. About not pressing charges."
We finished our cones and started back toward Crescent. Sam said, "Those nights in the windows were bad, but they weren't wasted. I was forced to think, you know? To think through a lot of things. Anyway, the last two nights weren't bad at all."
That stupid feeling came back. I said, "They weren't?"
"No. They were exciting." He looked at me and smiled. "Hey, we cracked the case, didn't we?"
I smiled back. "Yeah."
We reached the Crescent sale table. Sam gave the clerk a little wave, indicating that he could go back into the store. Sam resumed his place behind the table. He said, "So what's this I hear? You're a store owner now?"
"Yeah. I guess so."
"Isabel's Hallmark?"
"Yes. Mrs. Weiss died. She left it to me."
"I heard that."
"Did you know her?"
"No. Not really. I knew her to say hi to. She used to yell at old Lombardo. I liked that."
I laughed. "Yeah. Inside, though, she was really nice."
"I'm sure she was."
"All the people here are nice."
Sam thought about that and nodded. "You're right. Everybody here is pretty decent, with some minor exceptions." He jerked his head toward Candlewycke. "These people deserve better than what they're getting. They work hard, they play by the rules, they deserve better."
I looked up and down the empty mallway. "So have you given up on the recap?"
"No. Not a hundred percent. Maybe ninety-nine percent."
"Why not a hundred percent?"
"Because"—he paused for emphasis—"ironically, the money is there. There is interest in this mall, Roberta. The problem is, the interest doesn't come from Ray Lyons, and Ray Lyons now holds a commanding lead in the election polls. As soon as he wins that election, you and I are out of business."
"I see. Well, now that I'm an owner, do I get to vote?"
"Sure."
"Then I vote that we don't give up."
Sam looked at me and smiled. "Okay. I'll register that vote."
"I'm not kidding, Sam. Promise me that you will not give up, either. We've all put too much of ourselves into this place to just ... hold hands and jump into the grave."
Sam stopped smiling. He nodded seriously. He said, "Yeah, okay, Roberta. Okay."
I clapped Sam on the side of his right arm. It felt muscular, not soft at all. I took off walking quickly toward the rotunda. I knew he was watching me.
I turned right and went to the mall office. I sat down in front of Suzie and asked her point-blank, "Is the mall going bankrupt?"
She glared at me, but she finally answered, "That seems pretty obvious, doesn't it?"
"So what are we going to do about that?"
"Sometimes you have to cut your losses, Roberta." Suzie shook her blond bangs in the direction of Arcane. "Your dad finally talked Frank into not sending any more money to that franchisor. That's like flushing it down the toilet. At this point you have to protect what's important to you."
"What if your business is what's important to you?"
She shrugged. "Businesses come and go. So do jobs. I've probably had twenty different jobs. It's no big deal."
"So, has Uncle Frank told you it's over? Has he made it official?"
Suzie reached into her file drawer and pulled out a letter. "Yes, he has. Slot Number Thirty-two is officially vacant as of November first. Arcane is closed, permanently, to the public. However, it will be open tomorrow to tape the Angela del Fuego show live from the mall."
I asked her as innocently as I could, "Why?"
"Because Philip Knowlton wants it to be."
She placed a pink fingernail on a pink phone message on her desk. She paraphrased it for me. "The whole 'Ray Lyons for State Senate' team, including his wife, his son, and his daughters, is coming. Mr. Lyons will get another chance to speak out against hate crimes, and against witches, heavy metal rock music, skinheads, and other issues." Suzie slid the memo into the trash can. Then she returned Uncle Frank's letter to its file.
I left without saying good-bye.
I called Mrs. Roman at six o'clock and told her to close up.
She whispered, like she was frightened, "But what about the mall office?"
"The mall office doesn't care. The mall office has given up."
"Okay, Roberta. You're the owner."
I met Mrs. Roman outside of the card store at six-fifteen. We stopped at SunBelt Savings and deposited a cash bag. Then we stepped outside into the muggy evening. I could sense, all the way to the bus stop, that Mrs. Roman was having a difficult time walking. We crossed the parking lot, and then Route 27, but she kept going without complaint.
Once we were inside the bus stop, waiting, Mrs. Roman told me, "Isabel's beautiful white car was just sitting there getting wet."
"Wet? What do you mean?"
"That car is a foot longer than the carport. And it's had that broken window for a week. Every time it rains, the water seeps in through the back. So I had it towed in to the dealer to be repaired. My husband always said, 'Take it back to the dealer. They cost a little more, but they know what they're doing.' I hope you don't mind, Roberta."
"Why would I mind?"
"It's your car!"
I shook my head at the craziness of that. "I don't even have a license yet."
"No, but you will. Then you'll want to trade it in. You should get a good price for it. You could probably trade it in for a little sports car and not have to pay any extra at all."
The bus arrived. The regular driver was at the wheel. Mrs. Roman dumped six quarters into the box. She told the driver, "That's for two of us."
We got off the bus at Seventy-second Street and walked north. When we reached the cemetery, we started to go our separate ways, as usual. But I stopped and called after her, "Mrs. Roman?"
"What?"
"Your husband, Joe ... Is he really buried here?"
"Are you kidding?"
"No."
"Where else would he be?"
"You're not just saying that so I'll have someone to go with to the cemetery?"
"No. Not me. I really come out here. Once a week."
"Good. That's what I want to do, too. We'll get somebody to cover on Sundays."
Mrs. Roman nodded in agreement. Then she pointed off to the side. "Look. It's Saint Francis of Assisi."
I looked. The Guardian Angel statue had been replaced with the statue of a small bald man with birds on his shoulders.
Mrs. Roman added, "That's nice."
I wasn't so sure. I walked on to the mausoleum. I stared at all the walls, studying them carefully, with new purpose. I made mental notes of the features I wanted and actually jotted down the numbers of the best ones: 107B, 103D, 101A.
Mrs. Roman came back fifteen minutes later, looking upset. She held up a golf ball. "Look at this! I found it next to Joe's grave."
I held out my hand. "That's terrible. Let me have it."
She handed it over, and I wedged it into my pocket. Then Mrs. Roman and I walked along the one-lane asphalt road. We followed it in a long curve until we got to the door of the mortuary office.
Inside, in the coolness, we were greeted by a pale man in a black suit. He wore thick, wavy glasses, which made his eyes seem teary with sympathy. He asked Mrs. Roman, "May I help you, madam?"
I answered, "No. You can help me, though."
The man turned his watery eyes to me. "Yes, miss. How may I be of service?"
"I want to talk about a burial."
"Certainly. Let's sit down over here." The man led us into a small room off the lobby. He sat behind a desk, and I sat in a chair in front of him. Although there was a second chair, Mrs. Roman chose to stand.
The man took out a self-carbon form and a pencil. "Who is the deceased, miss?"
"My mother."
"I am sorry. When did she pass awa
y?"
"Seven years ago."
"Miss?"
"Seven years ago on October thirty-first. She is already buried here. She is in the Heaven Level, Number 109E. I would like to move her to a lower level. Can you do that?"
"Yes. Certainly. We can do that. We call that a reinterment."
"I want her to have a better spot, and I want her to have a better sign, a bronze one. And a bronze flower vase, and some other features."
The man started to write numbers on the form. He asked me many questions. Then he added everything up, punched some numbers on his desk calculator, and handed me the second page of the form. I never even looked at it. I folded it up, said, "Thank you," and put it in my backpack.
The man walked us toward the door. I said, "Oh, and one more thing. One of your employees, a groundskeeper I guess, has been playing golf on the graves."
The man's teary eyes came into focus. He looked genuinely concerned. "Oh no, miss, I assure you, they would not do that. We provide perpetual care for our graves. We treat them with utmost respect."
I reached into my pocket, held out the golf ball, and let it drop onto the tile floor. We all watched it bounce up and down until its momentum died. I told him, "I assure you, they do. This was on Mr. Joe Roman's grave, in the Catholic section."
The man gulped. He held the door for us. "Yes, miss. I'm very sorry. I will look into this immediately."
Mrs. Roman finally spoke up. "My Joe didn't even like golf."
"Yes, madam."
We walked back out into the sun. She added, "Except for that Arnold Palmer."
MONDAY, THE 30TH
I spent the morning by myself at Century Towers, making a list of the things I needed to do and then checking off things as I did them. Attending school was not on the list.
First I called Sam at Crescent Electronics. I explained the Angela Live show as best I could. He said, "Yeah. I heard all about it. From Suzie. I heard Lyons is coming, too."
"That's right. That's the most important part of the plan."
"What plan? What are you talking about?"
