With Ty in one arm, I was grabbing at Gracie’s collar, trying to pull her away from the mess when Detweiler came galloping down the stairs. He was fresh from his shower and feeling fine. His attention was on the act of buttoning the cuffs on his shirt, so he wasn’t watching his feet. As I watched in horror, he stepped squarely into the puddle of milk and cereal.
I watched it play out in slo-mo. Like a cartoon character, his legs went up, up, up into the air. Both his feet flew out from under him. Gracie scuttled to one side, like a cow dodging a man with a branding iron. Detweiler seemed to be suspended there, above the mess. His arms windmilled. His unbuttoned cuffs flapped. But gravity can only be denied for so long. It always wins. Detweiler came down hard on his butt right in the middle of the mess.
All I could think to say as I stared down at him, was, “Is anything broken?”
CHAPTER 8
The rest of the pre-work and pre-school scramble went about as well as could be expected, which is to say, it was a cross between a living nightmare and a Keystone Cop routine. Detweiler got up off the floor. I locked Gracie in a bathroom. I cleaned up Ty. Brawny cleaned up Erik. Detweiler mopped up the mess, and somehow we both got ourselves clean and dressed in fresh clothes. I gave my nice green pants one last look before I put them in the laundry bin. Shoot. I really liked those pants. Nothing much fit me these days. Fortunately, I hadn’t given away my maternity clothes. From my dresser, I pulled a tired pair of black maternity pants. A red, black, and white smock-top covered the two buttons that strained at my waistband. Not as nice looking as my original outfit, but I was presentable.
While Brawny took the little ones to the pediatrician just in case it was more than a tummy bug, I put Gracie in my old BMW and drove Anya to school. At the drop-off lane, she flounced out of the car but hesitated with one hand on the passenger side door. With a dramatic pause, she delivered her coup de grâce: “I’m officially running away from home. I can’t live in that environment. Don’t bother trying to pick me up. I’m going to live with Nicci Moore. Forever.”
As I struggled to wrap my head around what Anya was saying, she added, “And I have Mrs. Moore’s permission.”
Of course I would have argued with Anya, but there was a line of cars behind me. That little minx of mine had chosen her moment carefully. As I struggled to decide what to do, the teacher on duty waved me forward. I had no choice but to pull through the drop-off lane and keep going.
I drove to the store in a blur of tears. If Gracie hadn’t been so accustomed to our routine, and therefore, eager to get out of the car and water a shrub, I might have sat there and sobbed. Instead, I had to take care of my dog.
There was no time to mope about Anya. Once Gracie had emptied her tank, we hustled out of the cold and into the warm back room of Time in a Bottle, the area’s finest scrapbook and crafts store. I put on a pot of coffee for Clancy and made a cup of decaf for me. Then I sat down at the break table to tackle a stack of invoices. Because we were approaching the end of our fiscal year, I had to get these finished. When they’d been double-checked and our inventory had been taken, Margit Eichen would close out the books. Only then would we know exactly where we stood financially.
Margit and I make a good team. I hold the majority of Time in a Bottle shares; she is a minority shareholder. I am the creative director and a big-picture person; she is a stickler for processes and details. Doing math is a struggle for me, but it suits her down to the ground, which makes her the right person for balancing the books.
I hoped diving into the paperwork would take my mind off my family problems. I’d lost track of time when the back door opened. Clancy blew in on a stiff breeze of cold air. The wind gave me the shivers. I stood up and went over to the counter to turn on the electric kettle and make myself a cup of hot decaf Earl Grey.
“Good morning.” Clancy unwound her maroon woolen scarf and shook the snow out of her hair before unbuttoning her Burberry coat. Giving me an up-and-down look, she paused when she got to my shoes. “At least I think it is. You have on two different shoes. Was that intentional?”
I’d noticed my gait seemed a little off.
“I’m lucky to be dressed at all. It was one ugly morning at the Detweiler house.”
“Yes, well, at least you lived to tell about it.”
That’s when Clancy told me about Nancy Owens.
“She was shot? When?”
“They found her body this morning. She must have been shot yesterday.
“You’re sure? We’re talking about the same Nancy Owens? The Nancy Owens who occasionally shopped here? You’re positive that’s the same person they found shot to death in Ferguson?”
“Yes, indeed.” Clancy nodded and pulled off her gloves. “It’s all over the news. I even saw it on television this morning when I stopped at a gas station to fill up my car.”
“Wow. Shot in the head.”
“Shot. In. The. Head.” Clancy retrieved my pencil from the floor and continued, “Can you believe it? They are saying that Nancy was sitting in her white Mercedes in a parking space in front of a strip center. Minding her own business. Engine running. Some creep walked up, poked the muzzle of a gun through the open window, and shot her in the head. For no apparent reason!”
“The window was rolled down? You have to be kidding. Who drives to Ferguson and sits in a parking space with her window down when it’s ten degrees outside?”
“Apparently, the answer to that question is…ding, ding, ding…Nancy Owens,” Clancy said as she poured herself a cup of coffee.
“Was it a robbery?”
“Not so far as anyone knows. The creep didn’t even take the Mercedes—and get this—Nancy’s car doors were unlocked.”
“I don’t mean to sound cruel, but that’s just plain dumb on Nancy’s part.”
Clancy sank into the chair across from mine and sipped her coffee. Propping her chin on her hand, she sighed. “We all do dumb things from time to time, but I have to agree with you. It does sound really, really stupid. There must be more to the story.”
But we didn’t get the chance to speculate because the phone rang. Clancy was closest to the handset so she walked over and answered it. I went back to the stack of inventories, a pile that seemed to be growing bigger instead of smaller.
“Margit won’t be here,” Clancy said as she returned the handset to the base. “She’s at the nursing home going through her mother’s things. Now that her mother is dead, they want to rent out her room. Someone else needs it. As you might guess, space there is at a premium. Margit doesn’t want to keep paying rent.”
Margit, Clancy, and I have all tried to be good daughters to our aging mothers. Margit is ten years older than Clancy. Clancy is ten years older than I am. Each of us sees a preview of coming events as the other cares for a parent in declining health. When Margit’s mother died on the day before Christmas, I thought Margit would be despondent. Instead, she described being in the midst of a bittersweet tug-of-war, pulling her from relief to grief and back again.
“Mutter was lost to me years ago,” Margit had said as we cleared the table after our holiday meal. “The one who died is not the woman who raised me from a child. Then she was my best friend and my rock. I have tried to be that to her, but it was hard. I am glad she is at peace.”
Clancy slapped the tabletop. “All righty then. Moving right along, we need to get busy taking inventory. You can finish that paperwork up later. Who’s coming in to help?”
I’d been dreading this moment. Delivering bad news is never fun, and delivering it to Clancy gives me heartburn. She’s a methodical person who keeps a daily planner with entries made in ink. In front of customers, she acts calm, cool, and collected when a problem crops up. But one-on-one, when the unexpected occurs, she can get cranky.
“I’m not sure who’s coming. Laurel should be here any minute.”
Laurel Wilkins was as dependable as the sun in the sky, so it was strange she hadn’t arrived already.
&nbs
p; A ding on my phone signaled an incoming text message from Brawny: Kids have tummy bug. Heading home to keep them hydrated. Will stay with them.
Great, I thought. Just ducky.
I texted Laurel. I read her reply out loud: Sorry for late notice. I have some sort of a bug. Been up all night. Sick at my stomach. Don’t want to share it! I need to stay home. Sorry!
Clancy poured herself a cup of coffee and settled into the chair across from mine. “Who else did you schedule to help us take inventory?”
“Nobody, and I’m not joking.” I worked to sound neutral, but there was an edge of desperation. Gripping the handle of my mug, I went down the list of folks who would not be available to help us with inventory. “Brawny was going to come and count. Erik would be at school. Ty could sit in his bouncy chair. But she can’t bring the kids here because they both are running a fever. They’re contagious. You know about Laurel and Margit.”
“How about Rebekkah?”
Rebekkah Goldfader is the daughter of the late Dodie Goldfader, my mentor and the founder of Time in a Bottle.
I called her and she answered on the third ring.
“Wish I could help, but Abba isn’t feeling well,” she explained, using the Jewish term for father. “In fact, we’re on our way to a doc-in-the-box.”
“Oh, no!” This put a scare into me. I had promised Dodie that I’d look after Horace, and with my own drama unfurling, I hadn’t spoken to him for days.
“I think he might have walking pneumonia,” she added in a low voice.”
“Please let me know what you learn,” and after saying goodbye, I hung up.
“That stinks,” Clancy said. “Who can we call? Someone we can rely on? Someone honest and mature?”
“Not that I can think of. Most of our customers are hunkered down, staying out of the cold.”
“There must be someone!” Clancy threw her hands in the air. “I know this is last minute, but if we don’t get help, we’ll be here all day and all night. Without that inventory, you can’t verify how much you’ve got tied up in stock.”
Mentally, I ran down the list of possible helpers one more time and came up dry. Counting stock is no fun. None. Because Time in a Bottle has a wide variety of crafting items, there’s a lot to count. Clancy was right. We needed help and we needed it ASAP. Searching a mental Rolodex, I came up with a name, someone already in my phone contact listing under the letter “A” for Alderton.
Lee Alderton is a dear friend, one of those people you instantly gravitate to. Probably because she’s always in a good mood, she looks for the good in every situation, and she’s kind to the bone. I hated asking her for help. Hated it. But my back was up against the wall.
First I called Lee’s cell phone number but that went directly to voice mail. Fortunately, I also had the Aldertons’ landline at home. I dialed that.
“Lee?” I spoke hesitantly into my iPhone when she answered. “Are you busy today? I need help.”
Bless her heart, Lee quickly picked up on the panic in my voice. “Give me thirty minutes. Do you mind if Jeff comes too?”
Of course I didn’t mind. I was delighted her husband could join us. I got off the phone, relayed the good news to Clancy, and put the CLOSED FOR INVENTORY sign on the door. It felt odd to lock the front door during the day, but we couldn’t handle customers and inventory at the same time.
CHAPTER 9
While we waited for Lee and Jeff to come to our rescue, Clancy grabbed her Dell tablet computer, and then we turned on the little television in the office. Dodie had purchased the second-hand set expressly for following the news. Sure enough, we caught a couple of local reporters talking about Nancy Owens. We learned that nothing seemed to have been stolen from the car. Not Nancy’s diamond. Not her purse. The authorities thought it might have been a random shooting. Or a case of mistaken identity. Or even a targeted shooting that was wildly inaccurate.
But those last two theories didn’t make much sense. How could you mistake someone’s identity at close range? You’d have to be blind. A stray bullet shot through an open car window? Not likely.
“Of course, all this begs the question: What was Nancy doing in Ferguson?” Turning off the TV, I got up, walked to the counter, and started the kettle so I could make another cup of tea.
Clancy took a chair at the break table. She tapped the keyboard on her tablet. “Hmmm. At the gas station, the reporter said that all this happened after Nancy attended a meeting of Zoo Keepers. Have you heard of them?”
“They’re a group that supports the St. Louis Zoological Park’s efforts to replenish exotic animals that are endangered or near extinction. That’s all I know.”
“That’s about the extent of it for me, too. I had a neighbor who used to be on the board. Back then they met in an office building in Olivette. I can’t imagine them meeting up in Ferguson.”
“Then Nancy had another reason for being there.” I shrugged. “Who knows what or why? More and more I feel like a victim of the fickle finger of fate, you know?”
“I bet you do. That reminds me. What happened with the Federal agents and Bruce Macavity? Is that Brawny’s real first name? What gives? With all the news about Nancy Owens, everything else flew out of my head. So, dish. Is your nanny a cross-dresser? Let me guess. The FBI guys just happened to be in the neighborhood and thought they’d drop a bombshell, like, ‘Guess what? Your nanny is a manny?’”
“Ha, ha, ha.” Usually I have a terrific sense of humor, but her baldly dismissive tone irked me. “Easy for you to laugh.” To my surprise, I burst into tears.
“Come on.” She patted me awkwardly on the shoulder. That’s about as warm and fuzzy as Clancy gets.
“Yes, there’s a situation with Brawny,” I blubbered.
“But who is Brawny? Is she really Bruce? And is she in trouble? Is that why the Feds came?”
“She was born as Bruce. She’s not in trouble. The Feds just came to talk. The FBI agents wanted Detweiler and Brawny’s input on a situation that they’ve got.”
“Probably the visit from the young royals,” Clancy said.
“Probably.” I hadn’t thought of that, but she had to be right.
The whole state was aflutter with the news that Prince William and his beautiful wife, Kate Middleton, were coming to St. Louis. I agreed that it was cool, but I didn’t expect to get within a country mile of the dazzling couple so my enthusiasm was seriously curbed. However, Anya had been bitten early by the Anglophile bug. It was an interest she shared with her grandmother, Sheila Lowenstein Holmes. For weeks I’d heard nothing but a steady stream of speculations about Will and Kate.
“You’re right, Clancy. That has to be what they were talking about. It’s the only reason I can think of for them to ask specifically to talk with Brawny. That’s all I can come up with …so far.” A tear leaked from my eyes and ran down my face and over my chin.
Gracie heard the tremolo in my voice. She lifted her blocky head to stare. Clancy grabbed a paper napkin from the dispenser on the counter and handed it to me.
“So you aren’t worried about the Feds. You’re upset about Brawny being Bruce?”
I shoved the stack of papers to one side. “Wouldn’t you be? She lied to us! She was born a he!” The force behind my words shocked me. After talking it over with Detweiler, I thought I’d calmed down regarding Brawny and her gender issues, but here it had come out of me like that ugly toad that jumps out the mouth of a princess in a fairytale I’d once read.
“Really? She really, truly lied to you?”
“Kinda, sorta.” I rambled along, explaining what we’d learned about Brawny’s unusual condition.
“Gender dysphoria,” Clancy said after I sputtered to a stop.
“What?”
“It’s called gender dysphoria, and she was lucky.”
“How so?”
“Typically the doctor gives the infant a cursory examination, and then he tells the parents that the child needs surgery, and that it’s a standa
rd procedure. It’s called infant gender assignment. Especially if there’s a urologist involved. Then the parents are warned that there will be long-term negative consequences if they wait on surgery. Of course, that’s a load of hooey. There’s so much involved in gender, and a quick peek under the diaper is not nearly enough for anyone to make an informed decision.”
“That sounds like what happened to Brawny. Except they didn’t do surgery. They just kept her condition a secret.”
“Can you imagine the confusion and the shame that produced in her? That’s why the suicide rate for people like Brawny is nine times that of the average population.”
“You sound so informed.” I got up and grabbed a Diet Dr Pepper out of the refrigerator. My self-imposed caffeine limit was one can per day. I needed the extra zip, and I needed it badly.
“Not that informed. Okay, maybe more than most.” Clancy cocked her head as she considered what I’d said. “As a high school teacher, I needed to be informed. I had students who shared their sexual orientation with me, but whose parents had no idea what was happening. It was my job to protect my kids. I understood that school had to be a safe place for them. They needed a universe where they could be the gender that felt most comfortable. Sometimes, their parents were totally unaware of what was happening.”
“You kept it a secret? That doesn’t sound fair to the parents. I would want to know!”
Clancy chuckled. “The parents ‘knew’ but they didn’t really ‘know.’ I suspect that all of them knew their kids were different. They knew something was up, but they didn’t have the whole story. Kids are fluid in high school. It was my job to build a bubble around them until they found their true identities. I had to wait until they were ready to share what they learned with their parents and the world writ large.”
“Writ large?”
“In this case, it means ‘in the bigger world.’” She sighed. “Hey, so Brawny started life as a he. Big deal. I used to have boy babysitters all the time while my kids were small. They’re much more attentive than girls. You never come home and find your kids have gone berserk using crayons on your walls while the sitter was doing her nails.”
Fatal, Family, Album Page 6