The Disappearance of Trudy Solomon

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The Disappearance of Trudy Solomon Page 23

by Marcy McCreary


  I softly sniffed the air around her. No alcohol on her breath. When she took off her coat, her sweater emitted an odor of cigarettes and Tide. Clearly, no amount of laundry detergent would make that sweater smell fresh again.

  “I see what you’re doing, Susan.” She bent over and petted Moxie. She didn’t seem to mind the smoky aura. “I haven’t had a drink for two weeks now.”

  “Really?” I did not skimp on my skepticism.

  “Thomas dragged me to a twelve-step program over at the Methodist church. Well, not exactly dragged. Said he brings his aunt over there every Wednesday, so he was headed there. I wasn’t gonna go, but I decided last minute to check it out.” She had to have seen my eyebrows arch, and added, “I know I got a problem, Susan. I’m not blind to that. The thing is, do I want to do something about it? Maybe. Maybe not. But I’m trying it out.”

  I knew what was driving this. Natalie and Frank put the kibosh on babysitting. Natalie told my mother, in no uncertain terms, she would not have an alcoholic watching the kids. Mom pushed back, blaming Frank. That could be true. Frank never hid his disapproval of Mom’s drinking and smoking. He was quick to complain that his kids smelled like a smoky tavern after Mom watched them. That’s why we called him frank Frank. You always knew where you stood with him.

  I didn’t want to discuss it any further. It would only give her an excuse not to go to those meetings. Her change of heart would be my fault, somehow. “What’s in the box?”

  “Ah, yes, the true nature of my visit. Thomas was going to bring this over to you, but I intercepted him and told him I needed to see you.”

  “And do you? Need to see me?”

  “Not need. Want. Really, Susan. I am your mother. We haven’t seen each other since you stopped by over a month ago. So I told Thomas I would be the messenger. Thought it would be nice, that’s all.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said, trying to keep my skepticism at bay.

  “These are the pictures you asked for,” she said, handing me the shoebox. “I heard Thomas moving around up in the attic this morning and asked him what he was doing. He told me you set him to this little task.”

  “You didn’t have to come out this way. I was planning on picking them up later today.”

  “So what’s with the photographs?”

  “Meryl asked me to send her pictures of me and Lori for some trip-down-memory-lane slide show she’s putting together for her party. Problem was, all my old photos were stored in your attic and she needs them no later than Wednesday, which means I need to send them out today. And since you can't climb the attic ladder with your bum knee, I asked Thomas if he could scrounge around up there. I hope that was okay. ”

  “No skin off my nose. In fact, I asked him while he was up there if he could organize some of our old stuff. Maybe I could do some scrapbooking with old photos.”

  “Scrapbooking. Okay.”

  “Yeah. Like a hobby. A woman I met in the program traded in her addiction to bourbon for an addiction to quilting. She told me quite a few people take up a hobby of some sort to keep busy. But they’re addicts, so they get overly involved. I’ve got boxes and boxes of photos and shit up there to keep me busy until I die . . . or relapse.”

  “Do you have a sponsor? Someone to call if you get the urge?”

  “Yeah. This woman Charlene S. Not even thirty. Been through a lot though. She’s sober now for three years. She started drinking when she was fourteen.” She lowered her voice. “She was sexually abused by her father.” She shrugged. “We all have our demons to bear.”

  “What was your demon?”

  “Well, nothing as serious as Charlene’s. Just disappointment, I guess.”

  I nodded, wondering if that was the extent of what she would say on the matter. But I did notice a change in her demeanor. Perhaps it was the two full weeks of sobriety. A window opening, just a crack, to let other people in. But she said nothing more. A part of me wanted to press her to explain what kinds of disappointment required the comfort of drinking herself senseless. But this felt like neither the time nor place. When is it ever, though? Maybe when she hit the thirty-day mark of sobriety. Then, perhaps, it would feel real and she’d be willing to edge up that window a hair more.

  I removed the shoebox lid and randomly picked up a photograph. Lori and I were wearing bikinis. Hers was blue with yellow flowers. Mine black with white polka dots. Our hands on our shapeless hips, Wonder Woman pose. Both of us flat chested. Definitely the summer between sixth and seventh grade. We were standing in her backyard, the edge of the Roths’ private pool visible in the background. I peered into the shoebox. There were probably three dozen pictures of me and Lori, in various poses, in various locations, taken by whomever might have been hanging out with us that day. For my tenth birthday, my parents bought me a Kodak Pocket Instamatic camera (which I begged for every time the commercial aired). I was so excited when I saw that camera nestled inside the red velvet-like lining of the box. It came with a wrist strap, a flash Magicube, and Magicube extender. With my allowance money, I would buy rolls of 110 film and bring them back to the local drugstore for development. I kept the pictures in their original envelopes, along with the negatives. I never bothered to create photo albums—just kept them organized by writing the date on the envelopes. I would pluck one or two photos from the batch and thumbtack them to the cork bulletin board that hung over the desk in my bedroom.

  Thomas must have sifted through dozens and dozens of envelopes to find all these pictures of the two of us. I wondered how much he divined about my childhood by looking through them. Did he witness the deterioration of my friendship with Lori between the ages of ten (always smiling) and fourteen (sullen-faced)?

  I dumped the photos onto the kitchen table. My mother sat and started moving them around, attempting to put them in chronological order.

  “I remember you and that camera. Snapping everything in sight. I thought you were going to grow up and become a spy . . . or a journalist.”

  Spy, journalist, cop. All the same, really. Searching for answers. For the truth.

  32

  Thursday, December 6, 2018

  MOXIE STIRRED at the edge of the bed. A guttural moan escaped her throat. With my eye mask in place, I felt for Ray, then remembered he spent the night on a friend’s couch in Brooklyn after an evening of bar hopping with some old friends. I peeled off my mask and eyed Moxie. She was alert now, on her haunches, growling softly. The clock read 2:06 am. She leaped off the bed and stood in front of the closed bedroom door, her tail tucked between her legs, her ears pointed forward. I reached for my pajama pants, crumpled on the floor beside me. “Shhh,” I whispered. I put my ear up to the door and heard the faint noise of someone moving about the first floor.

  Moxie was not exactly what I would call a guard dog. She was more likely to lick someone to death than actually inflict any harm. I pulled her by the collar into the bathroom and shut her in. She whimpered, but I sensed she was relieved to not be taking part in whatever confrontation awaited me. Returning to the bedroom, I slipped my fingers under the mattress and felt for a key. I unlocked the night table drawer and retrieved my weapon. I slowly turned the door handle and squeezed through the opening, then tiptoed down the hallway toward the stairs. About three quarters of the way down the stairs, I crouched and surveyed the two rooms I could see from this position. The living room on my right and the kitchen to my left. Nobody. Another four steps and my bare feet touched down on the first floor. I heard a drawer open. I exhaled slowly and raised my gun. I walked toward the back of the house and planted myself at the threshold between the dining room and my office.

  “Police. Hands where I can see them,” I said calmly to the back of the man standing over my desk.

  He raised his hands, his cell-phone flashlight gleaming from his palm.

  “Now turn around slowly.”

  I moved to the corner of the room and flipped the light switch. I recognized the man standing in front of me. I had seen his face in th
e local paper. Ernest Barnes. Calvin’s father.

  “On your knees. Hands on your head.”

  “I . . . I ain’t carrying,” he said, lowering himself to the floor. His voice continued to tremble. “I . . . I thought you were out of town.”

  I kept my gun trained on Ernest as I removed handcuffs from the bottom drawer of my desk. “I’m gonna cuff you. Don’t make any sudden moves, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Once the cuffs were secured on his wrists, I helped Ernest up off his knees and patted him down. Like he said, he was not carrying. “So you want to tell me what you’re doing here rifling through my things?”

  Ernest shook his head and sighed. “I heard you were out of town. I just come here to find the videotape. See for myself what the police is claiming what happened.”

  “First of all, there is no videotape. I mean, not in the way you’re thinking. It’s a webcam feed, and it is password protected. And even I don’t know the password.”

  “Why won’t the police release it? It’s like they got something to hide.”

  “It’s evidence. Everything has a process. My understanding is that it will be released to your attorney early next week.”

  “I know my son. He just wouldn’t do what you’re sayin’ he done.”

  It wasn’t the first time I heard the anguish of a parent disbelieving the actions of their flesh and blood. But he didn’t have to throw a stone far to hit a cop who had used excessive, even deadly, force. He had every right to disbelieve my claim of self-defense.

  “I’m going to take the cuffs off, okay? Don’t do anything stupid.” I removed the cuffs and asked him if he wanted to sit in the dining room. He nodded.

  “I really can’t talk to you about this case. I’m pretty sure you know that. I am sorry that your son is dead. But I’m not sorry about trying to protect myself.” I wanted to say something about how I fucked up not waiting for backup or that I simply could have walked away and opened up an investigation. But with the civil case pending, I was not supposed be anywhere near the Barnes family, let alone ask Calvin’s dad for forgiveness.

  Ernest bowed his head. He clasped his hands and placed them between his knees. When he looked up, he said, “I tried to be a good father to those boys. They were good boys. They got turned around by someone. They got turned around. They were no longer hanging with the nice kids they went to school with. Someone got to them. That Wayne Railman. He’s no good. He turned them around.”

  “Like I said, I really can’t talk to you about this.” I stood up and crossed over to his side of the table. “I gotta ask you, Mr. Barnes . . . are you the one leaving threatening notes on my windshield?”

  “That ain’t me.” He paused. “I swear.”

  “Okay. Now, tell me, what do you think I should do regarding this little situation? Should we call it a momentary lapse in judgment?”

  His shoulders shuddered in defeat. “I won’t bother you again.”

  “Go home, Mr. Barnes. Go home to your wife and your young son.”

  After seeing Ernest out, I trudged up the stairs and heard the faint cries of Moxie whining and whimpering behind my closed bathroom door. When I opened the door she bolted past me down the stairs. She stood at the front door, her tail wagging, probably upset that she didn’t get to meet our nocturnal intruder.

  THE GUN was under Ray’s pillow, untouched since I tucked it in after Ernest left. It took me a while to fall back to sleep. The last time I looked at the clock it was 3:18 am. So I probably conked out soon after that.

  I locked my gun in the drawer, then checked my text messages. Ray was on his way back home. Left at seven thirty this morning. If there was no traffic, he should be walking through the door in about fifteen minutes. I told Moxie I would walk her soon. I would like to believe she understood my need to shower first—to wash away the sweaty residue brought on by last night’s drama.

  “Hey, babe,” Ray said, poking his head into the steamy bathroom.

  “Welcome back,” I said from behind the curtain. I had already decided that last night’s incident would stay between me and Moxie.

  “Running late?”

  “Yeah, decided to sleep in a bit.”

  “I’m heading over to precinct. Will I see you over there?”

  “Yeah. Just gotta make a pit stop.” I turned off the water just as Ray closed the door.

  Pit stop. Actually, a conversation I should have had weeks ago.

  “COFFEE?” I asked while pouring myself a cup.

  “Sure.”

  I reached into the cabinet and pulled down a mug with Snoopy dancing on his doghouse.

  “Milk? Sugar?”

  “Just black,” Thomas replied. “Like me,” he added, then chuckled.

  “The house looks nice, Thomas. I think this clean and orderly environment is having a positive effect on my mom.” I placed the mug of coffee in front of him. “That, and your convincing her to go to AA meetings.”

  “The key to convincing someone is to make it appear as though you didn’t convince them. That they came to their idea of their own accord.”

  “Lead a horse to water . . .”

  “You can’t make them drink, but if they’re thirsty, they will.”

  I sipped the coffee. “I didn’t come by to talk about my mother . . . but I do appreciate all you’ve done for her.” I sat down at the table with Thomas. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something for some time now. And with that run-in at the Underground—”

  “You want to know where I stand with the Barnes shooting? Like I told you, I’m swayed by the facts. Sure, when the news first broke, I was raging inside. Not gonna lie. Didn’t think that would happen here. And when it did, well, I was like, this place isn't any different than all the other places this has happened. When I first met your dad, I didn’t put two and two together. And we was hitting it off fine. But when he told me you was his daughter, I stormed off feeling like a damn fool. And I was like . . . what’s the word? . . . yeah, conflicted. But we talked after that. He told me your side of the story. He said good detectives check their preconceptions at the door. Don’t jump to conclusions. Listen to both sides. Gather the facts. Soon after that he offered me up your room.”

  “I got the feeling you didn’t know who I was when we first met—that day in my bedroom.”

  “Oh, I knew. Just didn’t think it was the time or place to bring it up, especially with your mom standing there. I was gonna say something when you stopped by to get your diary. But I could tell you weren’t ready to talk.”

  “Do cops give you trouble?”

  “Around here, no. Other places, yeah. But my dad could tell you stories.”

  “Like what?”

  “He was an appliance repair guy, retired now. Drove a van all over Sullivan and Ulster counties making deliveries, installations, on-call repairs. Of the four guys who worked for Hollis Appliances, he was the only black man. And, guess what—he was the only one that ever got pulled over by the cops—not for traffic violations, mind you, but on suspicion of being a suspect in some crime.” Thomas explained this as a quiet, matter-of-fact truth. “They would hassle him as to what was in the boxes. They asked him why there was money and checks in his clipboard.”

  I wanted to interject here. Tell him I know this shit still happens. But, of course, he knows that. Instead, I simply nodded.

  He continued, “I think the thing that really bothered him was being called ‘boy,’ which he said was worse than being called . . . uh, y’know . . . the n-word.”

  I nodded.

  “When I asked him why he put up with it, my daddy would say, ‘It’s a white man’s world, and I do my best to live in it.’” Thomas shook his head. “He was compliant. Made me mad as hell. There’s no room for complacency anymore.”

  “Is that why you are studying criminal justice?”

  “Maybe I can make a difference inside the system.” I sensed a shift in his demeanor. His eyes were gleaming now. He licked his lips.
“Someday . . . Maybe someday soon there will be an incident of police brutality that will get everybody’s attention. It will make the Rodney King riots look like child’s play.” He leaned forward in his chair. “So, I gotta ask. What’s up with the video?”

  I gave Thomas the backstory—noticing the camera in the eaves, contacting Mordecai Little to give us access, spotting the gun resting against Calvin’s hip. I told him there was more to the story, but the details—the facts—for those he would just have to wait like everyone else.

  33

  Friday, December 7, 2018

  THE WAITRESS winked at Dad while pouring him a second cup of coffee.

  When she walked away, I asked, “Do you know her?”

  “Who?”

  “The waitress. She just winked at you.”

  He twisted around in his seat looking for her. “No. I guess I just have that effect on women.”

  “Speaking of women you have an effect on . . . did Mom tell you she was going to AA meetings?”

  “Didn’t know that.”

  “Thomas takes his aunt, and somehow convinced her to come along.”

  “That Thomas is a good kid. I done good there, putting them together, if I do say so myself.”

  “Got a question for you . . . about Mom. Not sure if you even know the answer.”

  “Well, when it comes to your mother, I usually have more questions than answers. But go ahead, shoot.”

  “Why does Mom drink? I mean, what compelled her to start drinking so heavily?”

  “Now that is a loaded question,” Dad said, but the half smile told me I had not gone too far asking it. “I don’t think it was any one thing, Susan. But shouldn’t you be having this conversation with her?”

  “Just humor me, Dad. What’s your take?”

  “Well, her father and uncles were alcoholics—that must play a part. And some of the blame certainly rests with me, and my life as a cop. The woman I married and the woman I divorced were, essentially, two different women. The woman I married was vivacious and generous. The woman I divorced was surly and isolated.”

 

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