But I do get frustrated with having my choices made for me. Recently I wanted to go to the theatre, but they decided it would be too much for me. I don’t want to break their hearts, but equally, I’m not even sure if I want to move out. I mean, who would take care of me if I was home alone and suddenly got sick?
I’m temporarily living out of my parents’ home, with my new friends, and I’m really enjoying eating different foods and well just learning about other people’s lives. My friends are really pushing me to think about this because I have to decide one way or the other in about four weeks.
What should I do?
Yours truly, Stuck in the Middle.
Crystal looked over at her mom and Matt. They were chatting away and ignoring her completely. Perfect. Crystal got a pencil and some paper out of the junk drawer and drafted a reply:
Dear Stuck in the Middle,
I agree with your new friends for several reasons. Reading between the lines of your short letter it appears that your choices are even more limited that not being able to go to the theatre. For heaven’s sakes woman, do you mean to tell me that at home you can’t even decide what you are going to eat? And as you refer to these friends as new; did you even have the choice of making friends? Or have you been coddled/smothered all your life? As for who is going to take care of you, well the answer is simple.
You are. You are going to grow up and act your age. Do the mature thing and investigate and organize your life. Talk to your Doctors and get support measures in place. Talk to your friends and see how supportive, not smothering, they can be; but here’s the kicker; think about how supportive you can be to your friends. Can you call them every day and see how they are?
You think you only have two choices; what your parents want and what your friends want. You are not Stuck in the Middle; you are in fact stuck in the role of playing helpless.
Time to grow up.
Also, I’m not buying your timeline. You can make a change anytime in your life.
Embrace change or remain stuck in the middle.
Sincerely,
CeeCee.
Crystal sat back and re-read what she had written. Not so bad, she thought. She reached for another envelope. This letter was typewritten. It read:
Dear Betty,
Recently I was offered a boatload and I mean a boatload of money to save someone’s reputation. This person does a lot of good in the community but through a series of events was cast in a negative light. All I have to do is turn the spotlight away from them and I’m rolling in dough. Like I said, they do a lot of good for the community, so let the morality police go pick on someone else; I think the end justifies the means, don’t you?
Signed Now A Man of Means!
Crystal could hear bits of the conversation in the background. Phrases like ‘bake sales, dunk tank, going door to door and asking for donations, coupon book’ drifted over from Matt and her mom. It was very pleasant to hear, but Crystal’s equilibrium was being thrown off balance by this second letter. Crystal could feel her temperature rising. She dashed off a reply:
Dear ‘Now A Man of Means’,
Why wouldn’t you want to save someone’s good reputation? Any normal person would. But it appears that this community do-gooder had to sweeten the pot in order to get you to shine the spotlight in a different direction.
And speaking of negative lights, did you know that sweetener, incentive, inducement are all words that can describe a bribe? I think the morality police should visit you. You have jumped off your boat into the deep end of murky ethical waters.
And your justification is simply a boatload of you know what!
So no, I don’t think the end justifies the mean.
Something to think about while you’re swimming; if a person is innocent; why would they pay you money to employ misdirection to the masses?
Sincerely,
CeeCee.
Crystal became aware of the other two people in the kitchen staring at her.
“So, you’re writing?” Matt said.
Crystal blushed. “It’s kind of fun and you said I could read the mail.”
“Let me read what you have so far.”
As Crystal meekly handed over her answers, Joanne smiled.
“She was always writing poems and stories in school; she even won awards,” Joanne said proudly.
Matt was reading and nodding. “What would you call your advice column, if you wrote one?”
“I don’t know, how about CeeCee’s Certainties?”
Her mom clicked her tongue. “Doesn’t quite have a ring to it. How about CeeCee’s Common Sense?”
“Ooh, I like that better Mom!”
Matt handed her another letter.
Crystal started to open it then stopped. “Before I answer this one, how about you tell me what’s going on with that hit and run?”
“Honest Crystal; I do not phone into work when I’m on vacation, so I have no idea what’s going on. But if you’re going to make this week’s paper, I’m going to need a few more letters answered pronto.”
“Wait. I didn’t agree to write this column!” Crystal was alarmed. “What if I write something and people get really angry with me? They could come to our house and, and…”
Joanne came over and patted her daughter’s hand.
“Most people know advice columns are written for amusement. People really searching for answers would probably seek help from friends or professionals. I don’t think people would take you seriously.”
“Oh, so this is just a big joke? I think this ‘Stuck in the Middle’ person sounds real.”
“Your mom is right in one way; a lot of people find that the answers of the agony aunt otherwise known as an advice columnist; a source of amusement, but I think we have to consider another viewpoint as well,” Matt said diplomatically. “You know that saying ‘sometimes it’s easier to talk to a stranger’? I think there is a certain percentage of letters that Betty used to get that were people sincerely looking for answers.”
“Could I just do this from home?”
“Nope. You’d have to come into the newspaper office and sit at a desk and type up your replies. Then you would give it to a junior editor otherwise known as Marjorie our typesetter; she would proofread it and give it back to you for corrections.”
Crystal tossed her head. “Oh, I don’t make mistakes!”
“Heah, if we’re paying you; you will take advice from Marjorie!”
Crystal and her mom said at the same time, “Pay?”
“Of course Crystal. It’s not much…”
“But it’s something. She’ll take it!” Joanne said.
“Would I be able to talk to the reporter who wrote the story about the little girl that died?”
“It’s quite possible. We’re a small newspaper. We basically have a bunch of desks in a large room; then there’s my office and the owner Ben Franzen’s office.”
“But what about the presses?” Crystal asked.
“They’re up in Patterson Lake. We layout the paper here and make up photographic plates. The negatives are then driven up to Patterson Lake every Tuesday night; printed and delivered back to us for the newspapers to hit the stands on Wednesday morning.” He turned to Joanne. “Apparently, that’s where Betty met her beau; he runs the press. The two of them met, fell in love and she quit our paper to move closer to her boyfriend.”
“Do you think she’ll start a column in the Patterson Lake Star?” Joanne asked.
Matt shook his head. “No, she says she’s done with writing; she wasn’t fond of it to begin with. Who knew?”
Crystal had been thinking. She was a little miffed that even this unknown Betty had a boyfriend. But then, what would Crystal do with a boyfriend if she had one? What if they decide to go out to a movie, what would she wear? Never mind that, what if she put on lipstick for the first time in a million years and didn’t blot it and it got all over her teeth and then she smiled, and her boyfriend looks at her; says ugh and walks off. Mean
time, the ticket seller is demanding money, and Crystal doesn’t have any and everybody is staring at her and she really wanted popcorn?
“Earth to Crystal. What do you think of the job offer?” her mom asked.
Crystal came back to earth with a thud. “So I could essentially be staring across the room at the reporter I want to talk to?”
Matt nodded and handed her another letter.
Crystal accepted the letter. This one was handwritten and from someone called “Erratic Essie”. It read:
Dear Betty,
What can I do about my emotions? I can be on top of the world one minute and then my friend comes by and says something simple like, ‘man do you look tired!’ and I come crashing down. This happens over and over again. It’s eating me up and I’m getting to the point where I don’t want to go anywhere. I just don’t know when I’m going to crumble over the slightest comment; I guess I’m too sensitive to perceived insults. The same friend and I were going to go out to the club last week; I had on a smoking hot dress; my hair and make-up were done and my heels were to die for. Before we even got to the club, my emotions took over. All my friend said was, ‘Is that what you’re going to wear?’ and “We really should do something about your hair’ and that was it for me. I dropped her off at the club and went home. How can I get over being so sensitive?
Yours truly,
Erratic Essie.
This was an easy one. Crystal licked the end of her pencil and wrote:
Dear Erratic Essie,
Two things.
One, get yourself a pair of cheap eyeglasses and the next time your friend says something mean to you; offer her the glasses and say, ‘You know, I think you can’t see straight because of your jealousy.’ Then add, ‘Once you put these glasses on you’ll see I’m a bodacious babe!”
Two, get yourself a new friend if your old one refuses to do something about her vision.
Sincerely,
CeeCee.
Joanne giggled. “Oh I like that answer! You know my book club had a nickname for Betty’s column.” She stopped and looked pensive. “Perhaps not the nicest one.”
“Spill,” demanded Crystal.
“Betty’s blathering’s. Sometimes her answers were so generic, I nearly fell asleep out of boredom. Other times she would go on and on about something. ‘Good fences make good neighbors’ was one piece of advice she would throw in more often than not and, um, where was I?”
Matt laughed. “You were explaining why Crystal should accept this job.”
Crystal narrowed her eyes. “I think not. So Matt, when do you need an answer from me? Can I think about it?”
Matt sighed. “No Crystal, you cannot think about it. You dither. You’re a ditherer. You find it tough to make decisions without spending days mulling things over.”
“Try weeks,” Joanne added.
“But look at what you just did. You picked up your pencil and dashed off answers…” Matt looked again at the foolscap Crystal had written on. “Good answers actually, without even thinking twice about it. So, I need an answer now. Will you take the job starting at eight tomorrow morning?”
Crystal shifted in her chair. “Why do I need money? Mom takes care of me; she gives me everything I need.”
“No,” said Joanne forcefully. “There is something I can never give you again. A life; you need to get a life Crystal.”
Chapter Three
“It says here that the Arbutus Drug and Alcohol Treatment Center for Women not only has a new member of the board, one Winston Fielding, of Fielding Industries, but they also boast the lowest recidivism rate in the province,” Crystal said brightly. “Boy! If there’s one thing I love to hear about is low recidivism rates!”
Joanne crossed her arms. “Classic Crystal Circumvention.”
“Nice alliteration Mom.”
Matt grabbed Crystal’s discarded pencil and a piece of paper. “Look Crystal, maybe this will help.” He drew a big rectangle and a bunch of smaller ones. “You can have Betty’s old desk.” He pointed to a small rectangle. “We can orient it so your back is against the wall, so you’re more comfortable. The only person you need to interact with is Marjorie and she’s a gem. What do you say?”
Joanne reached over and put the letters Crystal had answered in front of her. “You can do this CeeCee.”
“If I agree right now, you know I’m going to second guess my decision all night long. That means I’ll show up for work with bags under my eyes looking like I’ve been dragged through a knothole backwards. Can you live with that?”
Matt smiled. “Of course; I’ll be in my office. Thankfully, I probably won’t even see you.”
“Can I try it for a month?”
“Sure, but I’ll hold you to your word.”
“Okay. I’ll do it.”
Her mom gasped. Behind Crystal’s back she looked at Matt and silently did a little happy dance.
“Mom, are you dancing behind me?”
“Quite possibly.”
“Well, you may as well hug me and tell me how proud you are of me. Come on, let’s get it over with.”
Joanne snorted. “Crystal, you haven’t done anything yet. Let’s see how the next month pans out; then you’ll get a congratulatory hug.”
Crystal picked up the newspapers and motioned to Matt to put all the letters on top.
“Harsh Mom, but no problem; I’m heading back to the cabin to read through the papers and then the letters. Then I’ll probably go for a ride; Mrs. Prescott always goes shopping after church and she’ll need a hand in with her groceries.”
Joanne grabbed a banana from the fruit basket and added it to Crystal’s stack, then opened the door. As soon as her daughter was out of the kitchen, Joanne clapped her hands and shouted, “Hallelujah!”
***
She sat at the counter in the cabin, methodically going through every article on every page of every issue of the newspaper. At some point, tears started to roll down her cheeks.
Even though Crystal was an only child, she felt like she had lost her little sister.
“I don’t even know you, Lisa Filipowitz, why am I crying?” Crystal wiped her nose and looked over at the clock; she wanted to make sure she arrived in plenty of time to help Mrs. Prescott. Just under the clock was her dad’s picture.
“Oh,” said Crystal. Was that why she was crying? She crossed over to her recliner and picked up the photograph. “You were such a great dad,” she said.
When Crystal was six, her dad, Andrew Schmidt, was working the dayshift as a patrol officer for the Harrogate Police Force. He and his partner were flagged down by a woman who reported that her neighbors were embroiled in a fight.
“I think he’s going to kill her this time; I heard him say he was going to shoot her,” the neighbor had said.
Andrew Schmidt had called for back-up and both officers went to the home. According to the police force and the neighbors, Crystal’s dad was a hero because after some discussion, he had convinced the husband to give up his weapon. The man stopped pointing the gun at his wife and was going to hand the weapon over when one of his children screamed, “Don’t hurt Mom!” The man was startled; his arm jerked upwards and he accidently fired his weapon.
Crystal’s Dad died immediately from the gunshot wound to his heart.
Fortunately, Crystal didn’t know the details until years later. All she knew was that morning her dad promised they were all going on a family bike ride that night, and maybe even take the training wheels off Crystal’s bike. After school Crystal came home and her dad never did.
She was never the same.
“Well this is getting me nowhere,” Crystal said and put the photograph back on the side table. She sniffed and announced, “Okay Lisa, I am going to get you justice. I’m going to figure out why the rest of this story was buried. I don’t care how long this takes; I’m going to find out who killed you!” Crystal stood up and started to stride to the door.
She froze.
She
had never felt that passionate about anything in her life before. It was as though a switch had been turned on inside her. She made a detour to the stack of papers on the counter and checked the original story. “In the 800 block of Birch Avenue.” She looked at her watch again. “Maybe I could swing by there afterwards.”
***
“Mrs. Prescott! Are you baking pies this week?” Crystal asked as she hefted the twenty-pound bag of flour into Mrs. Prescott’s home.
“Sure thing. You tell your mom to come by and pick up a couple apple pies.”
Crystal smiled. Mrs. Prescott always treated her like she was a little girl who needed her mom to take care of her. Crystal was fully capable of picking up the pies; but Mrs. Prescott didn’t quite believe it. After the groceries were hauled in and put away, Crystal waved goodbye and drove over to Birch Avenue.
The avenue was blocked off on both ends and tables were set up. There was some sort of neighborhood block party going on; although it wasn’t very festive.
Maybe it was more of a neighborhood garage sale? Crystal could see piles of toys and clothing; canned goods; pots and pans, and assorted bric-a-brac.
“Are you here to donate to the sale? Or would you like to buy something?” a blonde-haired lady asked her.
“I was just riding by. What’s going on?”
“Hi. I’m Amy. We had a tragedy here three weeks ago and the entire neighborhood decided we should raise money for the family that suffered the tragedy. The dad is so distraught, he has been unable to work; they still have three children at home that need to be cared for.”
“Oh; is this the hit and run um, accident?” Crystal said. She hated saying the word accident because she didn’t believe it.
“Yes. Such a shock. We decided as a neighborhood that a thrift sale was a good way to get to know one another and of course, raise money. It’s embarrassing to say, but we didn’t really know one another that well before the accident. When the police questioned us, we couldn’t even say if the black fancy car belonged to someone in the neighborhood.”
Crystal felt a charge go through her body. “You saw the car?” she asked, but Amy was called away by another woman.
Bury! The Lead Page 2
