I won’t have time to write in the journal for a few minutes while we put the bacon packets all along the drive and in front of Carly’s house, but I’ll let you know how the bacon works. As I said before, we’re bound to attract any animal around.
The nice policeman let me go get my journal so I’ll have something to do while I wait for him to write up his report. Carly and Randy are just sitting at the side of the curb talking to each other, looking like stylish refugees, so I thought I’d give them some time alone and bring you up-to-date at the same time. I don’t know whether to start with the good news or the bad news.
The good news is that Carly saw her cat. We’d put bacon packets all along the street near the house and along most of the drive up to the house when Carly saw her cat come up to sniff one of the packets. The cat was outside the yard of Carly’s house, but very close by. The bad news is that, before we could get to the cat, the police siren scared the cat up some different trees, and we haven’t seen her since.
Of course, the really bad news is that leaving pieces of fried bacon wrapped in paper towels along the streets of San Marino is considered littering rather than cat trapping. We tried to explain our strategy to the police officer, but all we succeeded in doing was attracting a collection of neighbors who are now all standing around while the police officer is giving us our littering tickets.
Some of the neighbors don’t think we should be given tickets, mostly, it appears, because we are young people, and young people just do silly things like this. Others of the neighbors think we should be given stiff penalties because we are young people and need to learn a lesson here because it might turn us away from a life of crime later. No one seems willing to debate whether the bacon incident really constitutes a crime.
I’m sitting in the passenger seat of the police car so I have a ringside seat for the debate. I don’t know what people think I am doing as I write away in my journal, but I see one of the neighbors give me a nervous look.
“You said it’s bacon, right?” that neighbor asks the policeman.
“Yes, sir,” the policeman says.
“You checked all of the packets?” the man continues.
The policeman looks up from his notebook at this. “No, why?”
“Well, didn’t it occur to you that it could be a bomb or a biological substance or anthrax or something?”
I hear several gasps.
“You mean terrorism?” a woman shrieks. “Here in San Marino?”
“We don’t have things like that here,” another woman says.
“But we could,” the man persists. “A lot of important people live here. Scientists for the Jet Propulsion Laboratory. Professors from Cal Tech. An incident here would get the press right away.”
“There is no incident,” the policeman says.
I wish that the policeman’s voice sounded more confident, but it doesn’t. He’s looking at the other packets that are still sitting on the street. I don’t know what to do now. I glance over at Carly and Randy, and they are so engrossed in some conversation they’re having that they don’t realize the mob around us has turned ugly. I keep writing because I don’t want to call out to Carly and Randy. I’m worried if I do, someone will think I’m starting a riot.
“Maybe I should call for a HazMat team to clean up those other packets, though,” the policeman says as he reaches for the communications piece in his car.
I slouch a little farther down in the passenger seat of the car as the policeman sits down and makes his call, telling the dispatcher that there is a possible contaminant on the streets of San Marino.
The only good thing is that the policeman has stopped writing the littering ticket. I haven’t even had the nerve to ask him yet what the fine will be for littering. I’d guess it will be a hundred dollars at least. There goes my piggy bank.
I stop writing for a few minutes because I don’t want the policeman to think I’m writing down any scientific formulas for anthrax or anything, but the neighbors are starting to go back to their homes. Before long, the policeman leaves the car and goes down to talk to Carly and Randy. I start writing again just as I hear what sounds like a dozen police sirens coming this way. One thing about littering in San Marino—it’s not a quiet crime.
Of course, by now, the maid and cook at Carly’s house are out on the front porch watching the drama. They’re both wearing black-and-white uniforms. I wonder how they feel about being so obviously identified as servants.
The cop cars are all here now. I slouch a little farther down in the police car where I am. I want them to know I am already arrested. They are a fierce-looking bunch.
No sooner do the cop cars get here than a silver blue Ford Taurus pulls up next to the lead police car. Quinn MacDonald, in full fireman uniform, steps out. I’ve never been so happy to see a man in my life. If anyone can handle a dozen policemen, it is The Old Mother Hen. He’ll help us.
I can’t hear what Quinn is saying to the police officers, but I can see that they’re listening to him. For all I know, he’s saying Carly, Randy and I are insane and need padded cells. I hope that’s not what he is saying, because the policemen are nodding.
A van drives beside the police car where I am sitting, and more men pile out. This time the men have a camera, and I take a closer look at the van. It is the Pasadena Star news team. Maybe you won’t have to read the journal here to find out what happens next, after all. The news team has a microphone angled toward the policeman who first picked us up for littering.
I hear a tap at my window and look up to see Quinn MacDonald motioning me to come out of the police car. Fortunately, the policemen never locked me in the car, so I guess its okay to step outside.
“Are you all right?” Quinn says when I stand up.
I nod, but he pulls me into his arms anyway. I feel safer than I did when I was inside the policeman’s car. Quinn’s chest is solid, and I can hear his heartbeat.
“He’s giving us a ticket,” I say to Quinn’s shoulder. I’m not really complaining by now.
“You’re lucky he’s not aiming his gun at you,” Quinn says. “Suspicions grow quickly these days.”
“It’s only bacon,” I say as I pull away so I can see Quinn’s face.
“I know,” Quinn says with a flash of a smile. “I had to go pick up a packet and eat it before they believed it was safe. It was good, too—even cold. I didn’t have breakfast.”
“Uncle Lou swears his grill fries the best bacon in all of Los Angeles County,” I say.
“I believe him,” Quinn says.
Now that Quinn isn’t hugging me, it feels a little strange that he’s still holding me in his arms. There’s definitely a difference between a hug and some holding.
“You’re welcome to come by and have a real breakfast some morning,” I say. “On the house.”
“I’ll do that,” Quinn says, and he dips his head and lightly kisses me.
Oh.
I can’t help but wonder if a kiss is always a kiss. With Quinn a kiss could be just a way to soothe a hurt place. I mean, he knew I had a stressful time with the police and all. Was he just giving me a comforting kiss?
I honestly don’t know. Anyway, the kiss seemed the end of it. Once he’d kissed me, he stepped away.
The kiss was so quick I don’t think anyone else saw it. All in all, I decide the best thing to do with a kiss like that is to forget it ever happened. My mind is rattled enough without adding a kiss to it. I can’t even think of what Quinn is doing here until I remember Lizabett.
Lizabett is over talking to Carly and Randy. Lizabett looks worried, so they probably told her that Carly’s cat has climbed back up into these trees. I look up into the trees myself. Of course, I don’t see a cat. A clawed animal would have a hundred places to hide in the trees around here. Not that that will stop us. We need to find Carly’s cat.
Chapter Seven
It’s the friends you can call up at 4 a.m. that matter.
—Marlene Dietrich
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I never knew what friendship was until I had cancer. Rose was the one who brought this quote to us several months after we began the Sisterhood. We all knew we could call Rose whenever we needed to talk to her, but that night we made a pact that, if we needed to talk to someone, we could call on each other no matter what time of night or day it was. I didn’t think it would make such a difference, but it did. From that night on, we were more than friends—we were sisters. Long live the Sisterhood of the Dropped Stitches!
I can see Lizabett has been crying even though she isn’t crying right now. She and I are standing beside Quinn’s car waiting for him to finish talking to the policeman. It’s getting close to noon, and the sun is shining down upon us. Of course, it’s February, so it’s not hot. Even at that, though, all of us are too aware of skin cancer to want to be out in the direct sun for long.
“He’s telling the police what that cat means to Carly,” Lizabett says after a moment. She looks over to the trees where Carly’s cat is hiding. “About us making our goals and all.”
Lizabett doesn’t sound annoyed with Quinn, which makes me wonder even more what is wrong. She’s always annoyed if Quinn speaks on anyone else’s behalf.
“We’ll get the cat down before next Thursday,” I say, figuring Lizabett is worried about everyone meeting their goals. Carly and Randy are by those trees now, calling up to the cat. “Marie’s going to be really hungry soon, and is going to jump down into Carly’s arms. I’m even planning to have my three dates done by Thursday so we’ll all meet the deadline.”
Lizabett takes a hiccup of a breath. “Then it’ll only be me that’s holding everyone back.”
Ah, so that’s what the problem is. “Don’t worry. Everyone gets nervous before they perform. You might be scared now, but you’ll do fine in the ballet. You’ve practiced and you’re ready for it. You’ll want to dance when Wednesday comes around.”
Lizabett looks away from me and focuses on the sky to her right. There’s nothing there but a few clouds. “It won’t matter if I want to dance or not. There’s not going to be a performance. It’s the theater.”
“What? I thought everything was set.” I have never been to the old theater where Lizabett’s performance is to be held and, as far as I know, there are no other productions of anything scheduled there. As I said before, I don’t think the old theater has been used at all for the past few years and it is lucky to have the ballet scheduled there. They must have gotten a better offer, though. “I can’t believe the theater is bumping your ballet.”
“They’re not bumping us,” Lizabett says. “The fire department closed them down today.”
“Oh.”
Lizabett still hasn’t turned to look at me, so I just stand here patiently. I know there’s something more.
“I think Quinn is the one who told them to close the place,” Lizabett finally whispers.
“Oh, he wouldn’t—” I stop myself. Would he? All of Lizabett’s brothers work for the fire department. Quinn would certainly have the connections to do something like that. I hate to think he would, though.
“He’s probably worried I’ll fall on my leg where I had surgery,” Lizabett says softly. Her voice is flat and defeated. “I suppose he means well.”
I look over at Quinn. He is still talking to the policeman, although they have obviously finished with business and are now just laughing and socializing. “I can’t believe he’d stop your ballet.”
I say the words because I can’t believe anyone would stop their younger sister from performing. “I mean, if he did close the place down, it’s because there is a fire hazard and not because he just doesn’t want you to do your ballet.”
“He never thought I was strong enough for the ballet moves,” Lizabett says as she shrugs her shoulders. “And, with the cancer I had in my leg—he worries.”
I look over at Quinn again. Is there such a thing as too much protection?
“Have you asked him?” I finally say to Lizabett. “You need to ask him.”
Lizabett nods, but her face looks as drained as it used to when she was fighting cancer. “I suppose so.”
I don’t have anything else to offer her for comfort, so I open the door to Quinn’s car and pick up the journal I had set there. “You can write in the Sisterhood journal for a while if you want.”
“Really?” Lizabett says. Her eyes look happier. “I thought you were the only one writing in it.”
“Both Becca and Carly have written something—you should, too.”
Lizabett takes the journal from me. “What did they write about?”
“Becca wrote about the grill guy and Carly wrote about her cat. At least she said she was writing about her cat—she turned her pages down and told me it’s private. She’ll let me know when it’s okay to read the pages.”
“I’m going to write about The Old Mother Hen,” Lizabett says as she opens the back door to Quinn’s car. “And I think I’ll fold my pages, too.”
I nod. “Fair enough.”
Hi, this is Lizabett. You already know what The Old Mother Hen did, so I’m just going to tell you that I wish I’d never introduced him to the Sisterhood. Do you know how hard it is to have a life when you have an older brother watching your every step? What The Old Mother Hen needs is a life of his own—which he’ll never have as long as he keeps worrying about me.
I am taking a minute to look up from the journal, and I’ve got to tell you what I see. Marilee has walked over to stand beside Quinn, and my big brother has stepped back a bit so there is room for him and Marilee to stand side by side while they continue talking to the policeman.
I close my eyes when I see the two of them and say a prayer. Quinn has been teaching me about prayer, and I’m trying to make it more a part of my daily life—I wonder what he’d think of this prayer, though. When I open my eyes, guess what I see? Quinn has put his arm around Marilee. Thank you, God.
Isn’t that great? I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before. The best way to get Quinn to stop worrying about me is to give him someone else to worry about, someone like a girlfriend—maybe even a wife.
Imagine how much freedom I would have if Quinn were married. And, if he had children, I’d never have to worry again. He wouldn’t have time to close down theaters or to buy me extra vitamins.
I stop writing to think a minute. Quinn has never let himself get too serious about any of his girlfriends. I suppose it’s because he feels so obligated to take care of me and my other brothers. It might not be so easy for me to get him married off. I can see he likes Marilee, though.
Wait a minute. While I’m sitting here looking at Quinn and Marilee, I see the grill guy walk over to them.
If I’m going to get Quinn and Marilee together, I’m going to have to work fast, before the grill guy decides to ask Marilee out again. I’m not sure how much of a chance Quinn would have if the choice were between him and this grill guy. Don’t get me wrong. I love my brother. And he’s handsome in a sturdy sort of a way. But the grill guy is, well—whooee. Let’s just say Quinn would have a better chance without the competition of a guy like that.
Oh, Marilee is walking back here, so I’m going to finish this up and fold back the pages. And, Marilee, if you unfold those pages before I say you can—you deserve to hear yourself written about. I have a hair clip in my pocket and I’m going to put that on the pages once I’ve folded them just to remind you that this here is private.
Hi, this is Marilee again. I’m sitting in my office for a minute. I just had a sandwich, and I’m going to bring you up-to-date. Things have been spinning. Quinn drove Lizabett and me back to The Pews. Randy and Carly were going to come, but Lizabett thought she’d caught a glimpse of Carly’s cat and insisted that the cat must be waiting for everyone to leave before it came down from its perch in the trees. Carly urged Randy to come back with us in Quinn’s car, but Lizabett said someone needed to stay with Carly and Randy was the tallest one, so he’d be a good one to stay.
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nbsp; I thought that was odd, because even if he is tall, Randy couldn’t reach up to the branches in those trees. No one could. But no one else seemed troubled by that fact. Randy didn’t object—neither did Carly. So Quinn, Lizabett and I came back together.
I found it a tense ride. Lizabett is obviously angrier with Quinn than I had thought. She absolutely refused to ride in the front seat with him. She even opened the trunk and found an old black scarf that she tied around her head, warning us that she wouldn’t be able to hear with the scarf but she needed to wear it anyway because she felt as if she had a bit of an earache coming on.
I, of course, didn’t want to bring up the topic of the theater that had been closed, so I was prepared to chatter away about the weather or some other benign topic. I was surprised when Quinn asked me what kind of books I liked to read and if I had any places I wanted to visit if I could travel.
I remember once in high school I had accepted a date with this guy in my class because I thought he was a reader. As it turned out, he was just carrying around this library book that he’d checked out two years ago. He liked to have it with him because it was heavy and he used it to prop open the door to his locker. When I asked him about the library fine—I mean, he would have racked up quite a fine—he looked at me like he’d never heard of such a thing and said he didn’t read his mail anyway.
My point is that at least Quinn has read some books.
I don’t know what to do about Quinn. I got carried away when I found out he liked some of my favorite books and I sort of invited him to come back this afternoon and watch the baseball retrospective with my dad and me.
I hope he doesn’t come. I never should have invited him. My relationship with my dad isn’t the smoothest thing in my life, and I’m not sure it’s something someone else should witness—at least not someone who doesn’t know me very well yet.
The Sisterhood of the Dropped Stitches Page 8