“I couldn’t see what was happening, but I know the sound of gunfire when I hear it,” she told the reporter. Martha then went on to render the opinion that it would have been far wiser for Sid to just hand over the money instead of trying to shoot it out with two armed bandits.
The reporter nodded solemnly, then turned back to the camera for a close up. “Sidney Klaussner was shot twice in the chest, and his condition is listed as critical. One of the alleged assailants suffered a head wound and is now in surgery.”
“Thanks for that update, Ken,” the blond anchorwoman at the KWNB news desk said. Then she said they had very few details at this time, and although detectives acknowledged that one of the alleged assailants had escaped, the name of the second young man had not yet been released. “Join us at seven o’clock tomorrow morning when we’ll have more details on this event that has rocked our peaceful little community.”
Olivia continued to watch as the weatherman came on and explained that a cold front was headed their way. After the weather there was a long shot of the news desk, some jovial banter, and then it was over. A voice said to stay tuned for Jerry Lester’s “Broadway Open House.”
There was not one word about Paul Jones or a missing child.
“Oh, dear,” Olivia said. She snapped off the television and sat silently in the chair. It made no sense. Why would these kids have come to Wyattsville, unless…
The more she mulled it over, the more sense it made. Paul had obviously contacted the aunt and said they were coming. Maybe he sent a letter or a postcard. Reasoning that a seven-year-old child quite possibly did not understand the specifics, she began to imagine the aunt frantic with worry.
The bitter taste of memories about the night Ethan Allen disappeared swelled in Olivia’s throat. He’d been gone just a few hours when a search party set out looking for him. People cared. Even though they’d known Ethan Allen only a short while, they cared. In a room so silent you could hear the whisper of wind, Olivia sat and listened. She hoped to hear a voice calling for the girl, but there was nothing. Twice she thought she’d heard the sound of sobbing, but both times it was simply the choke of a motor car miles away.
The clock chimed midnight. Olivia got up and tiptoed into the bedroom to check on the girl. Jubilee was sound asleep, her tiny fingers curled into a fist and a thumb stuck in her mouth. Her dark hair lay scattered across the pillow, in need of a trim perhaps, but clean. Olivia returned to the living room and sat in the same chair, the silk chair that stood where Charlie’s club chair once sat.
Most evenings she went to bed shortly after she’d said goodnight to Ethan Allen. She seldom sat in this spot with everything silent as it was now. It brought back memories—good memories, but too many of them, and they always ended with the same thought, the same longing. The clock ticked, a faraway horn blared, Dog rustled around, scratched at his hind leg, then dropped back to sleep again. Familiar sounds all of them. Yes, familiar and comforting, yet tonight the quiet was disconcerting.
The tiny shoes were still where they had fallen when Olivia removed them before carrying the child to bed. From where she sat Olivia could see a small hole in the bottom of one shoe. She lifted the shoe in her hand and turned it over. A piece of grey cardboard had been trimmed to size and stuffed inside to cover the hole. It was obvious that someone cared for this child, but who? And where were they now?
It was after one o’clock when Olivia dialed Seth Porter’s number. The telephone rang ten times. No answer. Certain she’d not get an answer on the eleventh ring, Olivia was just about to hang up when someone lifted the receiver. She expected a hello, but all she heard was the loud thump of something falling. “Seth?”
“Yeah, yeah,” a hollowed out echo answered back.
“Seth, are you okay?”
“Mostly,” he finally answered. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m not certain. There’s something about the robbery at Klaussner’s that’s troubling me.”
“Good grief, that happened early this morning!”
“Yes, I know, but Ethan Allen mentioned he saw you there, and I was wondering—”
“He was late for school, wasn’t he?”
“Well, yes, but that isn’t—”
“I knew it! Three times I told him to get going and—”
“Were there other kids there?”
“You mean other kids being late to school?”
“Not school kids, little kids. Girls maybe?”
“There was a sizable crowd of folks, but no babies far as I could tell.”
“Not babies, little girls. Maybe sitting on the bench across the street?”
“I can’t say who was back there. I was looking to see what happened.”
“Oh.” The sound of disappointment was obvious in Olivia’s voice. “Maybe you ought to come down here. There’s something I need to ask you.”
“I’m in my pajamas. Does it have to be now?”
“I’m afraid so.”
Minutes later the apartment doorbell bing-bonged. Olivia pulled it open and made a shushing gesture. “Be quiet. I don’t want to wake the children.”
“Children?” Seth said. “There’s more than one?”
Olivia nodded. “Ethan Allen brought this little girl home—”
“He’s only twelve! Boys ain’t supposed to start that stuff ‘til—”
“No, it’s a little girl! Ethan said he found her sitting on the bench across from Klaussner’s.” Olivia quietly eased open the door to her bedroom and pointed to the sleeping child. “That’s her,” she whispered. “Did you see her there today?”
Seth tiptoed across the room, looked down at the child, then looked back at Olivia. He shrugged and shook his head.
After they left the room and closed the door behind them, Olivia told Seth the story Ethan Allen had told her.
“So the kid said this Paul guy was inside Klaussner’s?”
“Not exactly,” Olivia answered. “She just said she was supposed to sit there and wait for him. But when Ethan asked where Paul was, she pointed to the store.”
“Maybe she meant the barber shop next door?”
“I doubt it,” Olivia said. “If that’s where he went, why didn’t he come back?”
Seth ran his fingers through his already-rumpled hair. “Hmm, that’s a point. This Paul, is he the kid’s father?”
“No, her brother,” Olivia answered. She explained that the girl’s name was Jubilee Jones and apparently her parents were deceased. “When I asked where her parents were, she said dead.”
“Maybe the kid’s lying,” Seth suggested. “Remember how Ethan Allen—”
Olivia shook her head. “I don’t think so. This girl is different. She doesn’t volunteer anything, but when she does say something you kind of know she’s telling the truth.”
“Kids are kids,” Seth said, thinking back on how Ethan Allen could tell a story longer than a person’s arm.
“There was not one word about a missing girl on the news. Not one,” Olivia said. “So now I’m in a quandary as to what to do. I thought maybe you’d have some suggestions.”
“Me?” Seth gasped. “Why me?”
“Well, you were there.”
“I didn’t see the girl. I’ve got nothing to do with this.”
“But maybe you could find out whether or not her brother was involved.”
They argued for almost twenty minutes with Seth insisting that Olivia was getting mixed up in something that was none of her affair, and Olivia claiming the child was much too young to be turned over to the authorities.
“Ethan Allen never did admit it,” Olivia said, “but I knew how frightened he was. This girl is half his age! Imagine being seven years old and all alone.”
“But with Ethan Allen you had a right. You were related to him,” Seth argued. “You’re not related to this kid in any way.”
“Maybe not, but somebody is. Once I call in the authorities they’re going to take her away, lock her up in a hom
e for orphan children.”
“Yeah, well, if they find out you’ve got a kid what don’t belong to you, they’ll lock you up!”
“They’re not going to find out. All I have to do is find the child’s Aunt Anita.”
“Have it your way,” Seth said angrily, “but when they come and arrest you for kidnapping, don’t call me!” With that he turned and stomped out the door.
Olivia did not go to bed that night. She sat in the straight-backed chair until four-thirty; then she napped on the sofa until six. Since she was already awake, she got up, washed her face, and began waiting for the six o’clock news to start.
The Hospital
The last time a shooting took place in Wyattsville was back in 1944, and it was little more than a superficial leg wound. Walter Clemmons had put a bullet through the thigh of his brother-in-law. Although everyone knew the two of them didn’t get along, Walter claimed he’d mistaken his wife’s brother for a burglar. It was nothing more than a family squabble that got out of control and could hardly be considered a crime. This was an out-and-out crime—armed robbery and, from the look of things, conceivably homicide.
When the first ambulance driver called in his report saying, “Gunshot victim, white male, fifty-eight, chest wound, heavy bleeding, non-responsive,” the emergency room supervisor issued a “Code Blue,” the crisis management procedure they practiced monthly but had never before used.
Minutes later two interns, two orderlies, and three nurses stood in front of the emergency entrance. Sidney Klaussner was rolled from the van and taken to Exam Room One where Doctor Kellerman waited. Minutes later Sidney was on his way to the operating room.
Paul wasn’t quite so lucky. When the second ambulance rolled up no one was waiting. The two ambulance attendants brought the gurney in. The only doctor still on duty in the ER was Alfred Peters, a second-year neurosurgery resident. He would have been in the operating room with Doctor Kellerman were it not for the fact that Alfred was nursing a hangover and hung back when the others rushed to answer the Code Blue.
“You gotta be kidding,” he grumbled when the second gunshot victim was brought in. Alfred had the makings of a great surgeon someday, but unfortunately this wasn’t the day. His head ached, and his eyeballs felt fuzzy and out of focus. If it were a kid with a broken arm or a woman showing signs of the flu, he could have stumbled through the process with no problem. But the boy on the table had a gunshot to the head.
The kid was eighteen, nineteen at most. Alfred looked down at a face younger than his own. The boy seemed to drift in and out of consciousness, but the fear in his eyes was palpable. Trying to gather his thoughts, Alfred asked, “Can you hear me?”
No answer.
“You’re at Mercy General Hospital. You’ve been shot, but we’re going to take care of you.” Alfred was trying to sound confident, trying not to let his voice reflect the haze he was stumbling through. “Do you remember what happened?”
Without moving anything but the focus of his eyes, the boy looked up. It was an almost imperceptible movement, but one that pushed through the hangover fog and grabbed hold of Alfred’s heart.
“Let’s get this kid stabilized!” Alfred shouted. Somehow he forgot the pounding in his head. He was no longer a resident with a hangover; he was Doctor Peters. Fifteen minutes later Paul, who by then had lost consciousness, was sliding through a CT scanner. Doctor Peters stood behind the glass watching attentively.
“Okay,” he said when he saw where the bullet had cut a swath across the right side of the boy’s skull. If he used the kind of skill he was capable of the kid had a decent chance, but given the swelling and external trauma anything could happen.
When Alfred Peters walked into the operating room, he felt a responsibility greater than any he’d ever before known. Life or death. A functioning human being or a forever comatose boy. It was up to him. Although the bullet had not penetrated the brain, the boy’s head was already starting to swell.
When Paul was brought in, he had twelve dollars and a handful of change in his pocket. No driver’s license, no voter registration, no “in case of emergency contact” information, not even a wallet. He was listed as John Doe.
Sidney Klaussner had been in surgery for five hours, but to Carmella it seemed a lifetime. She paced back and forth across the waiting room, first sobbing softly, then wailing so loudly it could be heard at the far end of the fourth floor hallway. Twice nurses came in and suggested she go home and try to get some rest.
“We’ll call you the minute your husband is out of surgery,” they said, but Carmella would have none of it.
“Go home?!” she screeched. “Go home when my poor Sidney is in there fighting for his life?” Not only did she refuse to consider the idea, she also refused the sedative they offered. At that point there was little anyone could do other than sit beside Carmella and comfort her.
After what she could have sworn was a week of waiting, Doctor Kellerman walked into the waiting room looking worn and weary. He sat on the sofa alongside Carmella.
“Your husband’s out of surgery and doing as well as can be expected.”
“As well as can be expected?” Carmella repeated. Her left eye blinked furiously, and a look of panic grabbed hold of her face.
“There was quite a bit of damage,” Doctor Kellerman said. “One of the shots went clear through Sidney’s upper left lung. The other hit his colon and stomach. There was a lot of trauma and swelling, but I expect…”
Threaded throughout the words he spoke was the sound of Carmella’s sobbing. “Dear God,” she repeated over and over.
“Sidney will be out of the recovery room in two or three hours,” Kellerman said. “You’ll be able to spend a few minutes with him once he’s settled in intensive care.” At that point Carmella no longer acknowledged his words; she just sat there praying for divine intervention. After he’d told all he could tell, Kellerman sat there for several minutes saying nothing but nervously rubbing his hands together as Carmella rattled off three Hail Marys.
It was almost ten o’clock that evening before Carmella was ushered into Sidney’s room. In a husky whisper the nurse informed her that it would be best if she didn’t stay more than ten minutes. “Right now what your husband needs is rest,” she explained.
Carmella knew better. After thirty years of marriage, she knew what Sidney needed was her by his side. She quietly slipped to the far side of the room and sat in the darkest corner, the corner behind the ventilator. She remained there for a long while listening to the machine whoosh air into her husband’s injured lung. At first she counted the breaths, wondering how many it would take before Sidney again opened his eyes. And when she lost count of the breaths she counted heartbeats as they bleeped across the monitor. In between the heartbeats and breaths she prayed, sometimes silently, sometimes in a whisper so small only an angel hovering overhead could have heard.
No one noticed Carmella was there until well after midnight; then she was told to leave. “I know my Sidney,” she argued feebly. “He’d want me here.”
When the nurse flatly stated, “Rules are rules,” Carmella leaned over and kissed Sidney’s cheek. “I’ll be back first thing in the morning,” she said. Then she turned and walked down the long hallway that led to a bank of elevators. Tears rolled down her face, and the sound of her own heartbeat thundered in her ears.
Although Carmella, a woman who insisted she grew faint if she skipped a meal, hadn’t eaten all day she had wanted to stay. At least until Sidney opened his eyes.
Blinded by concern for her husband, Carmella walked past the room two doors down, the room where a uniformed policeman stood guard at the door. She left for home not knowing that inside that room was a teenage boy with a shaved head swaddled in bandages. The same sounds of breath and heartbeats could be heard in the boy’s room, but nobody cried. Nobody prayed. The policeman standing outside the door yawned and checked his watch. Four more hours ‘til my shift is over, he thought.
T
he Next Day
A half-hour before the early morning news started, Olivia was fully dressed. By five-forty-five she’d downed three large cups of coffee. She sat on the sofa and snapped the television on. The test pattern flickered across the screen. For what seemed like a very long minute, she waited. Her right leg crossed over the left, and her right foot jiggled up and down. Three times she moved, crossing and uncrossing her legs, scooting an inch to the right and then to the left. Finally she clicked the television off, reached for the phone, and dialed Clara’s number.
A sleepy voice answered. “Who is this?” It was more of an accusation than question.
“I’m sorry,” Olivia said. “I know it’s early, but—”
“Olivia?”
“You know it’s me,” she answered. “I realize you don’t usually get up this early, but—”
“Early?” Clara thundered. “Why, it’s the middle of the night!”
“It’s almost six. Besides, this is sort of an emergency. Ethan Allen—”
“Oh, no. Please don’t tell me the boy is in trouble again.”
“He’s not in trouble, but this girl he brought home—”
“He’s way too young for that. You’ve got to tell Ethan Allen—”
“She’s not that kind of girl.”
“Unh-huh,” Clara muttered dubiously. “That’s what they all say.”
Olivia started to explain the situation, but before she could get to where she was going the clock chimed six. “I’ve got to go. The news is coming on.” With that she hung up the phone and snapped on the television.
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