by Edward Bloor
"I'll tell you why. She fought with him for me. So that I could go to college. She wanted to use her money for me, for college—not for you, for drugs."
He struggled up to his knees, breathing hard, trying to regain control. He protested, "Listen to me, Roberta! I did what I had to do. Your mother did not. Your mother had to give up that bag of money to that punk. That's what she had to do. The insurance would have covered it. Instead she grabbed him, and ... I swear to god, Roberta, I never in a million years thought your mother would do that. She wouldn't even raise a hand to spank you. I never in a million years thought she would go after a robber."
I asked him coldly, "So it was all Mom's fault?"
He screamed, "Of course not! It was all my fault. I'm just saying it should have turned out different. Honey, the night before Mommy's funeral, this man, he caught me outside our apartment. He took a baseball bat. He took a bat and he cracked open my kneecap. Just broke my leg! Just like that! Like I was some kind of cockroach. I told him we had insurance money coming, but he didn't care. Do you see the kind of man I was dealing with?"
"So it was this bad man's fault?"
"Yes!"
"This bad man, did he come up to you one day and say, 'Take my money and buy drugs with it'?"
"What?"
"Or did you go to him?"
He understood the question. And he understood that he was beaten. He admitted, "Ahh ... I went to him. You know the answer to that. I went to him." He buried his face in his hands. Then he wiped his eyes and said, "Roberta, don't you think this has been killing me? Honey, I haven't even been able to look at you lately. You've gotten so big—I can't stand to see her face in you. Don't you think this has been killing me? All these years?"
I told him, "No. I don't think so. I don't think you're like that. I think it's all about you. You and only you."
He started to answer that, but I held up my hand and stopped him. I was going to do the rest of the talking: "First of all, you're not to call me honey or anything like that ever again."
I reached into my right pocket and pulled out the cemetery form. I threw it at him. "Second, you're going to give my mother a decent burial. I know the manager at Eternal Rest. I'm going to call him on Friday. If you haven't placed this order by noon on Friday, then I will call Detective Griffin and tell him that I've solved Mary Ann Ritter's murder.
"Third, we're not going to be part of each other's lives. Don't you ever show up asking me for money. I don't care if somebody is about to chop your head off. Don't you ever contact me again. Anywhere. Ever.
"I will mail you whatever papers you need to sign, and you will sign them, like always. You will mail them back to me immediately. If at any time I feel you are not cooperating, I will go to the police and have you arrested for murder. Do you understand?"
I think he did, although he looked too stunned to show it. He eventually whispered, "Roberta, what about the videotape? What will happen to that?"
I answered, "It'll stay with me, for as long as I need it."
We heard the kitchen door open. Suzie came in. She stopped still and beheld the eerie scene. The video was running without sound. My father was on the floor, in a helpless state. And I was sitting on the couch, made up like a model.
She spoke to me. "What's going on, Roberta? Why are you dressed like that? Is that your Halloween costume?"
I didn't bother to look at her, but I answered, "Here is all you need to know: You're not part of my life anymore. Not in any way. My father is leaving with you now. For good. You're getting him, but I doubt very much that you're getting a boat. So I guess that means you're only getting half of everything you always wanted."
Suzie looked at her broken fiancé. "Bob, what's going on here?"
He struggled to his feet. He moved stiffly toward the door, like an old man. "Let's just go. I'll tell you in the car. Let's go."
They left immediately. I wondered, for a moment, what he would tell her in the car. Then I forgot all about them.
I laid my head back on top of the couch. The video played on, its lightning flashes illuminating the room as they had the Family Arcade seven Halloweens ago.
I snapped forward, though, when the phone rang. I picked it up, but I wasn't able to speak. I heard, "Roberta? It's Griffin. Are you all right?"
I managed to whisper, "Yes."
"You don't sound all right."
"Give me a minute." I set the phone down, stretched my arms straight out, and shook my head. I got back on and told him, "I'm all right. Really. What do you want?"
"I have some news for you. Stephen Cross, the TV preacher guy, wandered into the station today and confessed to your mother's murder."
"I know. I talked to him."
Griffin got upset. "You know? How could you know before—" But then he stopped himself. He changed his tone. "Damn. I told you, Roberta, I wouldn't be surprised by you. And I'm not going to be."
I cut in, "So what do we do now?"
"I want to reopen the case, but I need that video. Tonight."
"I'm sorry. I threw it away."
He shouted, "You what? Where?"
"In a garbage can at the food court. A week ago. It's somewhere in the county landfill now. Like Sonny Santos."
"Roberta—"
"Why is the tape important if the killer came in and confessed?"
"Why? Because we're talking about the recollection of a junkie from seven years ago. A recollection he never had until he saw a certain videotape. By the way, Roberta, he saw the videotape on Monday. That was not a week ago. It was a day ago."
"Yeah. That's what I meant."
Griffin stopped talking. I could hear what he was thinking: She's lying. But what can I do about it? Pursue the lies, like a good detective? Or let them go?
He let them go.
He told me, calmly, "I called you because the case suddenly had potential. But if the tape is gone, the potential is gone, too. If evidence has been lost, then the case is a dog. The state's attorney doesn't like dogs."
He cleared his throat before asking me, "So ... Did Cross tell you who sent him in there?"
"Yes."
"Bob Ritter?"
Yes, sir.
Griffin let me sweat about that for a minute. Then he said, "Is there any chance of Bob Ritter coming down here and confessing, too?"
"No, sir. He doesn't have it in him to do that. He'll deny it all the way."
"Then all we have is Cross saying he saw a video that you're saying no longer exists."
"Correct."
"You see? There's no way we're gonna prosecute that. It's a dog with fleas." Griffin changed tones once more. "Roberta? Why don't you want to get Cross? You know what he did. Hell, you saw him do it."
"I asked myself, What would my mother want me to do? And this is it."
"What? Let a killer walk free?"
"He's not a killer anymore. He has changed. I truly believe that. Stephen Cross is not who he used to be."
"And what about Bob Ritter?"
Now it was Griffin's turn to wait. I finally said, "I talked to my mother about him, and she told me what to do. Let's just say I'm taking care of his punishment."
Griffin whistled like he thought I was crazy.
I changed the subject. "So what'll happen to you when they find out about the videotape? Will you get fired?"
He answered quickly, "No. They might catch some flak down at the County Services building. It makes the department look bad, losing evidence. The state's attorney does not like his department to look bad."
I heard some commotion in the background. He told me, "Listen, Roberta, I gotta go. You have my number if I can ever help you or any member of your family."
I said, "Okay," and he hung up.
At around nine o'clock, some trick-or-treaters came to the door. That's never happened in Sawgrass Estates, not since I've lived here. Too many psychos. I listened to them knock, waiting for them to give up and go away. And that's what they finally did.
That's how Halloween night ended. It ended with me losing my father. It ended with me sitting alone, thinking about my lost mother. I fell asleep right there—wearing my mother's makeup and hair, wearing my mother's smock, frozen in the video snow.
NOVEMBER
THURSDAY, THE 16TH
The Angela Live broadcast from the West End Mall was more than two weeks ago. It has taken all this time for me to sort out its effects. They seemed to change every day. I have felt like both a hero and a fool, sometimes in the same day.
Philip Knowlton managed to contain the local damage very well. Mr. Lyons was treated by the local media as a victim of a dirty political trick. The TV news shows even ran companion pieces demonstrating how easy it was to alter a videotape, to make anybody look like he or she had said anything, anywhere, at any time.
But beyond the local outlets, the damage was not so easily contained. The video quickly surfaced on news broadcasts all over the state, and then all over the country. Mr. Lyons, his comments, and how I had stitched them together became a topic for magazine writers, TV commentators, and stand-up comics. No matter where it was discussed, or who was discussing it, one line was always picked up, verbatim—the one about the Depends undergarments. Ray Lyons became a national figure, but not in the way he had hoped.
The Philip Knowlton damage-control team made a great show of presenting a check to Mr. Lombardo and Sam. It was a gigantic prop check from SunBelt Savings, measuring six feet long and four feet tall. It said, on the lower left, FOR THE RECAPITALIZATION OF THE WEST END MALL.
Mr. Lombardo and Sam insisted on posing for the check photo beneath a Toby the Turtle banner. Philip Knowlton was furious, but he had to keep his big mouth shut. Knowlton did succeed in dragging some of the elderly power-walkers into the photo. Then Mr. Lyons posed over a shovel and broke ground for the next phase of Century Towers. All the while, Ray Lyons hammered home the message: That he has always been for the poor and the elderly, that he was the victim of a dirty trick.
Philip Knowlton even went so far as to post a "fact sheet" about me on the Ray Lyons for State Senate website. He called me "a disturbed teen, with gender confusion, who had recently been tested for drug abuse." He forgot to add that I kicked my dog.
But none of it did them any good. People had caught a glimpse of the real Ray Lyons, uncontrolled and unmanaged, for a few pirated seconds. They did not forget what they saw, or what they heard. The election was two days ago, and Mr. Lyons lost. He lost big. "The old people got him," as Mrs. Weiss would have said.
There is other news, too, but there is no more mall newsletter to report it in. People still tell me things as I walk through the mall, and I still observe things on my own, so here are some items. I'll call them my People Pieces for November. It's already been a busy month:
PEOPLE PIECES
My mom's reinterment took place last week. The ceremony was very nice. Family and friends from the mall gathered before the mausoleum wall. They were all astonished when the minister arrived. I know that teary-eyed undertaker, for one, was very impressed to meet Stephen Cross. The Reverend Cross said some beautiful and heartfelt prayers and then delivered a stirring eulogy. Afterward, he kept thanking me, over and over again, for "having mercy." My father didn't show up, but I didn't expect him to. He had followed his instructions. That was all he needed to do. That is all he ever needs to do from now on.
Karl was released from the Positive Place this morning. I wanted to visit him there, but they only let immediate family in. My aunt Ingrid, uncle Frank, and Kristin saw him for every minute of every visiting period. They said he was doing much better this time around. I hope to see him tonight, or as soon as he is ready.
Kristin has stopped working altogether. She wants to spend as much time as she can with her mother. She is also thinking seriously about joining the army.
Uncle Frank pulled himself together and went to talk to Sam. Sam shook hands with him. According to Kristin, Sam even offered him a job at Crescent, but Uncle Frank turned him down. He hopes to use his knowledge of German, and Germany, to get a job with DaimlerChrysler.
Will Royce now works part-time for SpecialTees and part-time at the card shop. He still talks to Kristin a lot, but he seems to be standing more on his own.
All the merchants, including Mr. Lombardo, voted to let Sam control the recap money. He's making many physical improvements. The empty slots are starting to fill up, and pushcarts with names like Seashell Art and the Curry Pot now line the middle of the mallway.
The renovation of Isabel's Hallmark into a Hallmark Gold Crown Store is complete. We now occupy two prime slots, #60 and #61, just off the rotunda. In addition to the store, it turns out that Mrs. Weiss left me a small fortune. I haven't even had time to sort it all out. People seem to look at me differently, but I don't feel any different.
And Archie, believe it or not, came through. He got me into the Latin AP class at school. Latin just seems to come up a lot. I intend to take as many AP classes as I can and to win a National Merit scholarship. Furthermore, I intend to change the world as a journalist. And I'm not kidding. I have seen myself doing just that.
All of these changes, and these opportunities, have left me with much more to do at school and at work. I have a lot less time to stare out the window at the mallway. When I do now, it is from Isabel's Gold Crown Hallmark. Occasionally I pause and lift my head up from my various duties. I stare, absently, at the windows of Slot #32, the former home of Arcane—The Virtual Reality Arcade.
THURSDAY, THE 23RD
Mrs. Roman and I left extra-early on Thanksgiving to visit the cemetery. She thought it was to try to catch that guy playing golf again, but I had my own secret plan. I drove the restored Lincoln Town Car down Everglades Boulevard in the first light of dawn.
Mrs. Roman said, "I'm glad there's no traffic. With a car this big, you might hit something."
"It's okay, Mrs. Roman. I've driven it before. I practiced with Mrs. Weiss."
"You could have a little car."
"No, I like this car."
"Did you remember your license?"
"Yes, ma'am."
We turned into the gate just as the sun was coming up. First I accompanied Mrs. Roman to her husband's grave. It doesn't have a headstone, but it has a nice bronze plaque in the ground. The plaque notes that he served in the U.S. Army in World War II. I knelt with Mrs. Roman on the wet grass as she said a prayer. I laid one red rose on the grave.
Then we trekked over to my mom's new crypt, #103A, on the Eye Level. Mrs. Roman commented on the delicate swirls of flowers carved in the marble facade, and on the thick bronze nameplate. I placed another red rose in the vase that projects from the wall like a Statue of Liberty arm.
As we walked back to the car, Mrs. Roman said, "The roses were a lovely idea, dear. And it was lovely of you to remember my Joe. You didn't even know him."
"I feel like I do."
"It was a very thoughtful thing to do."
When we reached the Lincoln, she asked me, "Now, what is that other bouquet you made? The one in the backseat? Who is that for?"
I said, "That one's for my mom. It's to give thanks to her."
"What? Did you forget to bring it out?"
"No. It's not for here. It's going someplace else."
"We're driving someplace else?"
"Yes. Do you mind?"
"No. As long as I'm back before ten—I have cooking to do."
"Oh, we'll be back before then."
"Leo's coming at noon. He wants to watch some football game. I'm going to ask him to look at the toilet, too. It's making noise. Me, I enjoy the Macy's parade. I like to see Santa come every year."
"We'll be back in plenty of time, Mrs. Roman."
I started up the Lincoln and circled slowly around the rectangle of crypts. Mrs. Roman said, "I like your hair back like that."
"Thanks."
"And is that a little rouge you have on?"
&n
bsp; "I think it's blush."
"Same thing. You look very nice today. Very nice for a special day. When is your family coming over?"
"At noon."
"That's nice."
Mrs. Roman actually made our Thanksgiving plans for us. I had told her that no one in my family, including my aunt Ingrid, had ever cooked a turkey. She came into the store the next day with a newspaper ad for the Hollywood Cafeteria. They're having a Thanksgiving Day special—turkey and all the trimmings for $9.95.1 called Aunt Ingrid and mentioned the ad, so now the five of us are going to go eat there. She's picking me up at twelve in her new Mercedes, with "meiner Kristi, meinen Karly, und meinen Franz."
I pulled carefully out of Eternal Rest and drove the big Lincoln all the way down Seventy-second Street to its eastern end, at A1A. Then I turned north. I'm sure Mrs. Roman had no idea where we were going. I doubt she has even heard of the Strip. I parked on the beach side, directly across from the Third Eye Tattoo Parlor.
Mrs. Roman said, "It's here? You wanted to go to the beach? What? Did you want to see your father?"
I answered, "No," and thought, I intend to never see my father again. And today; I intend to not even think about him. Today is for someone else. I reached over and brought my memorial wreath into the front seat.
Mrs. Roman commented, "That's lovely. Isabel would approve."
"I know she would."
"She told me that story, too. About the concentration camp. And her mother."
"She did?"
"Yes. That was a sad story." Mrs. Roman looked at the ocean. "There are a lot of sad stories. It seems like everybody has one to tell." She touched the items in my wreath. "So what's the story with this?"
I pointed out different parts of the arrangement. "These are the books my mom and I used to read together. Especially The Sneetches and Other Stories and The Cat in the Hat."
A disapproving look crossed her face. "Don't you want to save them? For your children?"
