by Ed Helenski
I was feeling no pain by this time. In another hour I was going to be dead to the world and I knew it. Reggie was swaying in his chair and looking at nothing in particular. The bottle sat on the desk, nearly half empty. “Reggie, I think I need to get myself home. You might want to do the same.”
“Got a little buzz on and…”
“That’s a fact.” I finished for him and we both laughed. “Can I keep this stuff for a day or so and look it over?”
He looked around, and saw the small copier/scanner on the counter. “Well, those are police records. You really aren’t s’posed to have ‘em. Tell you what, tomorrow you make copies of what you want and then I’ll come by in the afternoon and pick up the originals. Course if it comes out you have copies I’ll have to say you swiped em. Wouldn’t do to get us BOTH in trouble.” He laughed and clapped me on the back. I nearly lost what was in my stomach. Reggie was a big guy. I was glad to have him on my side instead of against me. I stood up, tossing the folders in my hand onto the desktop.
“You got a deal. Let’s get out of here Reggie. I would really rather puke at home.”
Reggie laughed and put his arm around my shoulder. “Come on Tom, let’s get you home. You need to learn to hold your booze.” We exited, and I used my key to lock the door, or so I thought, but in my drunken state I must have turned it the wrong way, because it never did get locked. We staggered our way around the corner onto Cleveland and down towards my house. Reggie left me with a wave and staggered off down Langley. He was in better shape than I was, or maybe because he was bigger he could hold his liquor more. I just made it to the commode before quite a bit of Yukon Jack escaped me.
After brushing my teeth and drinking several glasses of water (my tried and true hangover remedy) I went to bed. After a while the bed stopped spinning and I slept.
When I got to the paper the next day, only an hour later than usual, I discovered I had left the door open. Nothing seemed to be missing, and on my desk the box sat with all the files neatly in it. I took the box over to the counter near the scanner to make copies. The little green light caught my eye. Had I left it on? I felt the machine. It was quite warm. Must have been on all night, I thought and began to pick out what I wanted to copy. After just a couple sheets the paper out light came on, and I had to refill the machine. I would need to get a case of paper next time I was into Office Max. I had just filled the copier on Friday; I would have to talk to Meg about using it.
As things happened, I had to go to Siegly that afternoon and talk to the manager of the Wal-Mart there about my paper racks. They wanted to get rid of them, and it took most of the afternoon to convince her that keeping them was a good community service. As well as a service to me. Since I was there I made the rounds of the stores, trying to drum up some advertising business. I got a couple of small items, but not much. Of all the things I had to worry about, I could soon add money to the list.
I called Maggie when I was back in town. She was going to visit Betty Johnson, but would call me when she got home. I told her I missed her. She missed me, too. That was exciting to hear.
When I got to my house I found something odd on the front porch. There, in front of my door, was a circle. A white circle about ten inches in diameter. I bent down and saw it was made of salt, rock salt. And in its center was a small cork, like from a champagne bottle, burned on one end. I had no idea what to make of this, so I got out the broom and swept it up.
After a supper at home I decided to head over to Shickley’s for a beer. On a Tuesday night the place was not all that busy. Shickley was behind the bar, and Old Man Hurley was seated on his usual stool, apparently dozing. Further down the bar sat Chuck Peters, looking a bit under the weather, and Tommy Slicdale. I nodded to them as I took a seat near Hurley. After a moment Shickley got down from his seat and came over. “To what do we owe this visit from the fifth column?” He had a real smarmy look on his face, and the air in the room seemed to drop a few degrees.
“You mean the fourth estate?”
His eyes narrowed. He didn’t say anything.
“Because journalists are called the fourth estate. The fifth column was a Nazi espionage group. How about a draft?” I tried to keep my mouth from spewing the words, but sometimes people push my buttons.
“You just watch yourself, smartass,” he said to me and then began to pull a beer. “I know all about you college boys. Think you’re better than everyone else.” He set the beer down in front of me none too gently, slopping a lot of it over the edge. It was over half foam, and I knew that wasn’t because Shickley couldn’t draw a beer. “That’s seventy-five cents, cash. We don’t run no tab for smartass college boys.”
I put a dollar down on the bar and took a sip of my beer. Now I remembered why I had been putting off coming in here. The ruckus with Shickley had caused some chuckles from the boys at the other end of the bar, and had woken up Old Man Hurley. I saw his glass was nearly empty. Putting a five down on the counter I said to Shickley, “Set Mr. Hurley up. And keep the change.” I couldn’t help digging the knife in. Shickley shot me a look that could kill, but he took the five, and no change was forthcoming. He poured a whiskey for Hurley, neat, and refilled the little glass of water sitting next to him.
Hurley peered at me with rheumy eyes for a bit, then picked up his glass and held it towards me. “Thanky” he said and took a sip. “You are Burley’s boy ain’t ya? I can see the resemblance. Your name escapes me at the moment.”
“Tom” I said.
“Tom. Yeah. That would be it. Tom Tharon. I remember your daddy bringing you in here when you was just a kid. Now you come back all growed up to cause a stir here, ain’t ya?”
“Well sir, I didn’t exactly come to cause a stir, but that seems to be the result”
Hurley cackled a dry old man’s laugh, and took another sip of whiskey. “No, I don’t expect you did. When a bull goes into a china shop, he ain’t planning on breaking the dishes, it’s just sorta inevitable” It was my turn to laugh. “You coming here just set things in motion is all. You ever want to know about this town you come and ask me. I remember all kinds of things. Been here a century and more, you know.”
I knew. There were some things I wanted to ask him. But not with all these ears about. And I didn’t have much of an idea on how to get him alone. “I bet you could tell me a thing or two. You know, for next week’s paper I would like to do a story on you, the town’s oldest resident. Think you could come over to the office say Thursday afternoon and have a photo taken?” I saw him look at me expectantly. “I would provide ‘ample libations’, of course. Even spring for lunch” The lunch had less to do with his decision than the libations I suspected.
“Young Tom Tharon, you have a deal. And then you can ask me whatever it is that’s on your mind, the things you don’t want these nosybodies to hear.” He laughed as he saw the chagrin on my face. Never play poker with a hundred-year-old man. He knows a bluff when he sees one.
I looked at my watch and decided to get back home. I didn’t want to miss my call from Maggie. I got up, thanked Old Man Hurley for his time, and stepped out. The night was cold, and the brisk air felt good after the warm and somehow stale air of Shickley’s. In the future I would get my beer out at Dewey’s, or at the distributors in Siegly.
Maggie called around nine, and we talked for about an hour. Don’t ask me what about, I could not tell you. It was the sort of talk that is typical of a new relationship when there is so much to learn about the other person. For me it was wonderful. Maggie was a great girl, open, honest, accepting. The time flew by. I debated telling her about my night with Reggie, but decided to wait. Saying goodnight was not easy.
Wednesday was typical in its rush to get the paper out. There was still no word on Sioban. I hadn’t seen Mike Mistick since that night he attacked me, and I can’t say I was unhappy. It wasn’t till Thursday that I saw Meg.
She came in around noon. I wondered why she wasn’t in school, but was not enough of a parent
to ask. She looked very solemn, and asked me if I had a little while to talk. I did.
“Did you look at the stuff I gave you?”
“Yes Meg, I did. We can’t just let this stand. Reggie Pickett needs to be involved. What happened to that boy was a crime. You understand?”
She looked at me, unblinking. I had expected her to be fearful, ashamed, lots of things. What I hadn’t expected was this patient confidence. “Of course, I understand. That’s why I pursued this. That’s why I have to finish getting the story before we do anything. That’s why we have to wait to bring the police into it.”
“And are you ready now?”
She took out my tape recorder. “Listen to this and you tell me.” She put the machine on the desk and hit play.
At first there was some indistinct rustling. Then a boy’s voice said, “You kiss good” I looked up and saw Meg blush at that. What was this? Her voice came on “You do too. I told you there was nothing wrong with you.”
“There is too. You don’t understand. I am not …” sobbing sounds, “not any good.”
Meg’s voice again “You are too. Something happened to you, didn’t it? You can tell me. I like you.”
The boy’s voice again, and I was beginning to think I knew that voice from somewhere. “You won’t. You will think I’m nasty. You won’t wanna kiss me no more.” The sounds of kisses followed. I looked at Meg but she kept her eyes fixed on the machine. Had she been setting up her little boyfriend? Or was she kissing this kid to get him to talk?
“See? Nothing is changed. Tell me” Meg’s voice, growing insistent.
A deep sigh, some hitching sobs, and then the voice of the boy, low, almost a whisper. “I can’t. I just can’t” More sobbing, then the tape ended.
“There was a bit more, but it took longer to get him to talk than I hoped and the tape ran out.”
I looked at her, a million questions on my lips. “Meg, how, why, uh, is that your boyfriend?”
She shook her head, looking at me like I was some kind of moron, “No. I just figured kissing would be the fastest way to get him to trust me. You know how boys are.”
I was flabbergasted. Nancy Drew meets Mata Hari. Or Xavier Hollander. Or something. It seemed like every time someone opened their mouth, another one of my little fantasies about safe, old-fashioned Squid Corners went out the window. “So he never said anything specific huh?”
“Nope. Still, I am pretty sure I’m on the right track here. Listen Mr. Tharon, I know you think I am in over my head, and that I should let the grownups deal with this. But that doesn’t work. The grownups CAN’T deal with it because he won’t talk to the grownups. Heck, I think he might be afraid of them, and I can’t really blame him.” For a moment there was fear on her face, fear and revulsion.
“Meg, are you ok?” I wanted to put my arm around her, but given the way things went in this town I wasn’t even comfortable talking alone like this.
She straightened and looked me in the eye. “Yes, I am, Mr. Tharon. But thanks for asking. This is important stuff. I need to get to the bottom of it so they can get some help. And the ones who are responsible can be punished.”
She had used the plural. “There is more than one…offender?”
“I would think so. Would be a pretty big coincidence if they both had the same guy molest them.”
I was confused. “Both?”
“OH,” she said, realizing my error. “The boy on the tape isn’t the one whose diary I, uh, borrowed. I haven’t tried to talk to him. That was another boy.”
“How did you suspect this other boy had something happen to him?”
“Well, they showed us a movie in the assembly room last month, about what to do if a grownup, well, you know, does something inappropriate is how they put it. Afterwards the teachers made an announcement that there were brochures available with the number of a counseling service. I hung around the doors after everyone left. I saw him come back and go to take one. Just then Miss Johnson came in to clean up, and he dropped it and took off. I just put two and two together.”
I looked at her amazed. Was she really just twelve? “You are a pretty smart girl, Meg.”
She beamed. “Thanks, Mr. Tharon. Think I will make a good reporter someday?”
“You are a good reporter right now. So you are going to try and find out more?”
“Yes. Soon, I hope.”
“Well, I am going to have to talk to Reggie about this soon. Please stay in touch. And be careful.”
“I will.” She said, and with that she was gone, snatching the recorder up as she went. Oh, to have the energy of a twelve year old. I waited the rest of the afternoon for Old Man Hurley, but he stood me up. I worried that I was leaving Meg out on a limb. Still, it was unlikely she was in any danger, she wasn’t trying to capture the person responsible, just find out what happened. I hoped.
The weekend was a joyous time spent with Maggie. For the entire time I let the worries go, forgot about the missing girls, the damaged boys, Meg, Hurley, everything, and just immersed myself in this wonderful woman. Figuratively, that is. We were still at the kissing and touching stage. Which was fine with me, I had forgotten the joys of snuggling on the couch.
Friday night I went over and we watched another movie of Maggie’s choosing. She picked “Adventures in Babysitting” which I had never seen, considering it pop crap. I only went to art films in my days in Hartford and that mostly meant foreign films. I had to admit I not only enjoyed it thoroughly (that Elizabeth Shue is quite the heartbreaker) but found it to be a well-crafted script. Maggie pointed out that I was a film snob but she planned to fix it. I have no doubt she will.
Saturday we spent the day moving boxes of books from various locales to my offices. The room was filling up. We had over 8000 volumes. Maggie was happy with the results thus far. I decided to make a few phone calls, maybe I could surprise her.
Sunday we went to church together, and then had our now traditional brunch. The simple truth is I am falling in love with this woman, and I couldn’t wish for a happier event.
Around The Corner November 1
It has been brought to my attention that I have become, in my years in Hartford, a cultural snob. It is true that in the “urban cosmopolitan” circles of the city, popular culture is eschewed and everything that does not derive from an urban center is called “provincial” and is of no consequence. In allowing myself to follow these dictates I have done my mind a great disservice. Culture is not a matter of location of origin. Art should not be judged by how exclusive it is.
But I am being tutored. I am being shown the light. I have come to realize there are subtleties and finesse in traditional cuisine as well as haut couture. There is merit in a film that MORE than ten thousand people have seen. It might even be that some good books get made into paperbacks. I may be a slow learner, but I am learning. Thanks for bearing with me.
A small dumpster fire in back of the Paul Bunyan gave our volunteers a chance to show their stuff, and as usual they came through with flying colors. Led by volunteer Chief Bobby Schwartz, they gathered, got their gear, and had the fire out in less than ten minutes. A tip of the hat to Bobby, and his crew on this occasion which included Theodore Cooter, Ralph Watts, Steve Dobies, Juan Carrone, and Art Shickley.
The way the people of this town pull together is an important element of how the town works, or maybe why it works. Volunteers help put out a fire. Many more have donated their books to our library drive (and thanks to those we picked up this Saturday, we are closer than ever to our goal!). Everyone dropped what they were doing to help search for Sioban Mistick. We continue to hope and pray she is well and safe. On Sundays, we gather to share our hopes and prayers. This town is truly the embodiment of community.
Over the next few months I hope to get interviews and photos of some of the town’s long time residents, to compile their stories, to hear their wisdom. If you know of someone you think would be a good choice, contact me at the paper so that we can set
up a meeting. I think everyone in town would enjoy extending our sense of community to these pages.
I am happy to say that there was so much material for this issue, you will be spared a long-winded diatribe by me. I will gladly let some of my column inches go to include the full features provided by my colleagues: Dr. Tastler and his interesting information on childhood vaccinations, Reggie Pickett and his information on what you can do to help find missing children, and of course Meg Dunway’s wonderful collection of ghosts. Enjoy.
Thomas Tharon
Chapter 10
It was Autumn. Autumn Jacobs. She was the one who stumbled onto Sioban. Literally stumbled. She was playing out along the desolate end of Cleveland, past my house and out towards Terio’s farm and the Barker place. There are woods along the east side of the road and a meadow on the west. Autumn had been out smoking butts she had taken from her mom’s ashtray, that and hiding from Charlie and Nick, her brothers, who tormented her a great deal.