Child's Play

by Jones, Merry;

  “Graffiti?”

  The dimples flashed. “No, graffiti’s fine art compared to those walls. This was just writing, scribbling. Stuff about girls and Jesus. All kinds of racist shit. Messages for whoever comes next. And you don’t have pens or markers. No, you can’t have those in your cell. So you write with a button.”

  A button?

  “Yup. You take one off a shirt and scrape it on the concrete walls. That’s how you write. Everyone does it. Hell, there’s nothing else to do.”

  I pictured the walls, the buttons. Boys locked up, scribbling on concrete bricks.

  Ty slid back onto the bench beside me and rubbed his eyes, quiet for a minute. “But you know what the worst part was? The noise.”

  Noise? Were people yelling? I cleared my throat, couldn’t stop thinking about writing with buttons.

  “It never stopped. I don’t know what the hell it was. Kind of like a constant echo. Or something reverberating like we were inside a gigantic bell right after it clanged. But it was always there, just like the lights.”

  The lights? I swallowed. Bit my lip. I didn’t want to hear more about juvey. Wanted to leave. What time was it? Becky would call any minute. I’d invent an emergency. A car accident. Or a problem with my lock box.

  “See, they never turn the lights off. After a while, you lose track of whether it’s day or night.” He pulled the grass from his mouth, tossed it on the ground. “So now, I can’t get used to real time, or darkness, or silence—silence sounds loud to me. It actually hurt my ears at first. And being outside? It’s a miracle, feeling a breeze, smelling the grass, seeing stars and the moon. It’s like I’m reborn.” Ty looked past me, seeing something in his memory. Thinking.

  A couple walked by, arm in arm. Another woman with a stroller. They seemed out of reach, part of a different world.

  “I shouldn’t bother you with all this, Mrs. H.”

  “No, it’s okay.” I wanted to mean it. As uneasy as I was, I felt bad for him. “It’s good for you to talk about it.”

  “Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t all bad. We had a cafeteria and a gym. School. We got to watch PG movies, and after class we could play dominoes or cards. I could stay up ’till nine thirty by the end. You weren’t allowed books in your room, only the Bible, but the food wasn’t bad.” He smirked. “Like on Valentines Day, we got little cupcakes with hearts on them. And fried chicken—every holiday, we got fried chicken.”

  It sounded dismal. Hellish. A concrete box with a tiny barred window, no books, and a button to write with. Maybe he had friends?

  Ty raised his eyebrows. “You don’t have friends in juvey. You have gangs. You stick with your gang, which means your own race. Doesn’t matter who you were on the outside. Inside, you’re white or black. ’Course, nobody messed with me too much—I was ‘violent,’ alone in solitary. And I kept to myself.”

  “Sounds lonely.” I looked across the park, saw dogs chasing a Frisbee. Sipped my latte.

  “I guess.” Ty was quiet for a moment. “You couldn’t trust anyone. Even the guards. Some of them were actual sadists. Worse than the prisoners. But even they had to be careful not to go too far. Like one guard, Al. Al raped one kid too many, so the kid’s gang cornered Al and rammed his head against the wall a few times. Split his skull open. Blood sprayed everywhere. We had lockdown for forty-eight hours, but we never saw Al again.”

  My phone rang. Thank God. I reached into my bag, saw Becky’s name. “Excuse me.” I answered.

  “You all right?” Becky asked.

  “Yes, this is she.” I looked at Ty. He crossed his arms, leaned back, gazed at bushes and trees.

  “Want me to come rescue you?”

  “No.” I paused as if to listen. “Really? Is she okay?”

  “Is that a no?” Becky asked. “Because I can. Do you need a ‘manicure,’ Elle?”

  “No. That’ll be fine. I’ll call you when I get there. Thanks.” I ended the call, still mentally inventing an excuse. Maybe something about a friend’s mother falling, breaking a hip.

  But Ty kept talking as if the phone call hadn’t happened. “It’s a funny thing about juvey.” He turned to me. “People think the guards and the guys are all in there banging each other, like it’s a big orgy.”

  Oh my. Did I really have to hear about this? “Ty, that phone call—”

  Ty cut me off with another single “Ha.”

  “Listen to this. When I got out, my sister picked me up at the bus. You know the first thing she said? Not ‘it’s good to see you,’ not ‘you got taller’ or ‘how are you?’ No, what she said was, ‘So, are you gay now?’”

  I didn’t need to hear his answer. “Ty,” I began, “that phone call was my friend.”

  “But you know, Mrs. H? I try not to care about what other people think. I’m like a new person. I can look at the sky. The birds. The sunlight. I have no shackles. I’m wearing my own jeans and t-shirt. I can eat what I want when I want. Inside, know what we did for entertainment? We’d wet toilet paper and roll it into balls, stick the balls onto the ceiling. Ha! Now, I can do anything. Whatever I want. The world is mine.”

  “I’m glad you’re out of there, Ty.” I meant it. I put the cap back on my latte, picked up my bag.

  “I’ve been talking too much.” He eyed my bag.

  “No. It’s good.” I’d probably have nightmares about spitballs and split skulls. But I met his eyes. “You’re out now, Ty. That place, that life is behind you. Like you said, the world is yours.” I paused, letting the comment sink in before trying again to leave. This time, I made no excuse, told no lie. “It’s time for me to go.”

  Ty slurped up the last of his drink, looked up at me. “You know what, Mrs. H? First you had me, then Katie. Now, you’ve got Seth. You’ve taught the whole family.” He grinned, showing his dimples. “Too bad for you, Mrs. H.” He held his hand up for a high five.

  I couldn’t just leave his hand waiting there, so I gave it a slap. Then I stood, told him that it had been a wonderful visit, and took off in a sprint, as if escaping thunderclaps.

  My ringtone began as I got into my car. Susan didn’t bother with “hello.”

  “What’s wrong with you, Elle? Do you deliberately try to get in trouble? Are you trying to get hurt?”

  Dammit. Becky must have told her that I’d met with Ty. My friends were dear and caring but way too overprotective and constantly into each other’s business. I closed my car door, put on my seat belt. “There was no trouble, Susan. Ty’s lonely and having a tough time adjusting to life after juvey.”

  “None of which is your problem.”

  “Look, I met him in a public place. I was never alone with him.”

  “I don’t care if you met him on national television. He’s a convicted murderer and a person of interest in two other murders. You have no business hanging out with him.”

  Hanging out? “He needed someone to talk to.” I pictured his dimples. “I was his teacher.”

  “But you’re not his teacher now. Who knows what he has on his mind. And what about the students you have now? If you want to teach them, you’ll need to stay alive.”

  Oh please. “Ty wouldn’t hurt me.”

  “Mrs. Marshall and Joyce Huff might have thought the same thing.”

  Ouch. I started my car, tried not to think about Joyce or Mrs. Marshall, the last minutes of their lives, or whether either had known her killer. “Susan, Ty’s just a kid who’s been through a lot. Do you know what it’s like in juvey? They hardly ever let them outside. The kids aren’t even allowed books in their cells. Or writing paper—”

  “You do know that those inmates aren’t altar boys,” Susan sputtered. “There’s a reason they’re in juvey. Elle, do you have any idea what Ty did to his father? He shredded him.”

  “You’re the one who said he got a raw deal in his defense. And that he’d killed his father only after years of abuse. And that he did it to protect himself and his family.”

  “Yes, all that should
have been taken into consideration at trial. But the fact remains that he confessed to the brutal killing of his father. Which means he has a potential for violence. Add that to his time in juvey in the company of gangs and delinquents. You have no idea how their influence has hardened him, but you do know that two murders have taken place since his release and that he hated at least one of the victims.”

  Up ahead, the school glowered, locked up tight. Across the parking lot, the Jolly Jack’s truck started playing its song. I looked into my rearview mirror, saw it pulling away from the spot near the school. Except for my car, the parking lot was empty. Even Stan’s pickup was gone. I was alone.

  “I better get off the phone, Susan. I’m in the car.”

  We said we’d talk later, and I said I’d do my best to stay away from Ty. Then I drove out of the lot and followed the ice cream truck down the street.

  At the stoplight, Duncan turned the corner, right on red. I watched his Jolly Jack’s truck stop to serve a gaggle of kids, heard its persistent happy song. The light changed, and I drove on, trying not to think of Ty, the years he’d spent unable to buy an ice cream, to tell day from night, even to read a book in bed.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Somehow, the week passed without incident. On Saturday morning, Mr. Johnson didn’t show up to change the locks. Maybe he was getting even for my missing our appointment on Monday. But when I’d called to reschedule the next day, he’d said he’d be by at ten a.m. Saturday. At ten thirty, I called to see where he was. Mr. Johnson answered the phone sounding sleepy, maybe hungover. He said he’d be over in twenty minutes. I said fine.

  By noon, there was still no sign of Mr. Johnson.

  Becky showed up, though. With scones. We were going to meet Jen at the gym, but, before we left, I got on my computer to search for another locksmith.

  “Make sure there are lots of five star ratings,” Becky said. “Some businesses post their own five stars to fake you out.” She looked over my shoulder, pointed out Secure Locks Company.

  I was reading about Secure Locks when the doorbell rang. Probably Mr. Johnson, two hours late. Well, never mind. As long as he changed my locks, it wouldn’t matter. I opened the door expecting a stranger with a tool kit. Finding neither.

  “Ready to go?” Jerry looked nervous.

  Go?

  “We have properties to see.”

  Oh man. He was right. Why was I forgetting everything? I hadn’t even looked at my calendar. “Sorry, Jerry,” I began. I wasn’t going to go. I couldn’t. Wasn’t in the mood to look at houses, let alone spend time with Jerry.

  Becky came up behind me. “You’ve got showings today?”

  “You’ll love these places,” Jerry’s voice boomed. “I preselected them myself. And I set these appointments up starting at one, the same time your house is being shown, so it works out perfectly.”

  My house? I turned to Becky, panicked. What was happening to me? Why was I forgetting so much? I grabbed her hand.

  “What?” she asked.

  I had no idea what.

  “Are you all right, Elle? Come sit down,” she said.

  But I couldn’t sit down. I needed to get my mind back on track, get organized. I left Becky with Jerry, went to my laptop, and punched up my calendar. Sure enough, the appointments were all there. Realtors were coming by at one with potential buyers. I needed to focus. I took a breath. Another. Checked the time.

  Ten after twelve. I had to get the house ready. I ran to the bedroom, smoothed my comforter. Tossed my laundry into the washer. Went to the kitchen and rinsed out my coffee cup. Washed the tub, the bathroom sink. Scanned the living room and dining room, checked the study.

  Becky followed me around the house, whispering. “Elle? What’s the deal? Are you going house-hunting with Jerry? I thought you fired him.”

  I whispered back that, yes, I’d fired him, but agreed to see these last three places since he’d already scheduled them. But I didn’t want to, wasn’t comfortable.

  “How about I come with?” Becky offered. “It’ll be fun.”

  “Really, I’ll be okay,” I began. But she was already on the phone with Jen, postponing the gym until four.

  We joined Jerry at the front door. When he found out Becky was going to go with us, his eyes darted from her to me and back and he stammered, protesting that his car was a two-seater, too small for three. I told him not to worry. Becky and I would follow him in my car.

  I got my keys. As we headed out, Jerry eyed me silently, his expression a mixture of angry and bereft.

  The homes were probably lovely. Becky seemed to think they were. But each time Jerry unlocked a door, I hesitated, reluctant to go in. The air inside felt too thick to penetrate, almost as if it were pushing me away.

  Stop being difficult, I told myself. You need to look at places if you want to find a new home. And you do want a new home, a fresh start.

  The first place was close to my own, in Fairmount. Green plants thrived in window boxes. The front door was arched, led into a small foyer.

  “Ignore the wallpaper.” Jerry stepped into the living room. “You can rip all that out and paint. But look at the detail in this place. The trim. The fireplace. And you won’t find ceilings this high anywhere, not at this price.”

  He went on, selling. I drifted away, smelled rotting wood. Something pungent and sweet like decay. Had someone died there? I left Jerry and climbed the stairs, felt them creak.

  “It really is charming.” Becky followed me, chirping. “Wow. Look at that claw-footed tub.”

  I looked. Imagined cold water, my body submerged, a dark force holding me down. My hand clawing, fingers curling, reaching over the edge. My lungs burning, gasping for air. I blinked. The bathroom was empty, dry. Gleaming white.

  “And the bedroom has built-in bookshelves!”

  I didn’t look at the bookshelves. I scurried down the steps to the front door, opened it, went outside. Took a deep breath.

  “You haven’t seen the kitchen.” Jerry hurried after me.

  “It’s not for me.”

  Becky frowned, disappointed. “Really? I think it’s sweet.” And in the car, on the way to the next place, she scolded me. “You have to be open to change, Elle. Nothing’s going to be just the way you want it. But you can make changes. Use your imagination.”

  My imagination, though, was the problem. It had taken over and chased me out of the first place, and it did in the second and third, as well. Everywhere we went, I imagined death or violence, violence or death. The second stop was a renovated townhouse in Old City with brand-new appliances, new floors and walls. The newness alarmed me. What were these shiny installations covering? What rot was underneath the hardwood, behind the drywall? I envisioned slime and mold, remnants of former lives. Past miseries seeping through the flooring and paneling, clutching onto whoever lived there.

  Becky, of course, loved the place.

  When I said I wasn’t interested, Jerry became exasperated. “Fine. But you’re going to love this last place.”

  The last place was across the park from Logan Elementary, where two of my colleagues had been murdered. As we walked up to the house, Mrs. Marshall greeted me with her bloody smile, welcoming me to the neighborhood. Jerry found the location to be an asset. “You have a view of the park, and the school in the distance. Best of all, you can walk to work.” He rubbed his hands together, anticipating success.

  No question, the house had appeal. It had skylights and lots of windows. The layout was open, the living room leading into the kitchen, the kitchen into the dining room. I went upstairs to the master bedroom and checked out the view.

  But the view reached through the window and wrapped itself around my head. I pictured Ty out there, watching from the park, and Joyce slumped dead in her car. Mrs. Marshall blood-soaked inside the school, and up the road, Patsy Olsen crushed under a Land Rover. Somebody—Stan?—lurked in the hedges, and Duncan played a musical medley in his ice cream truck, luring children with fre
e treats. Everything in view from the bedroom screamed murder and suspicion. I needed to get out of that house, away from that neighborhood.

  But I was being ridiculous. The house had nothing to do with the murders. I blinked, shook my head, and looked out the window again, giving the view another chance. Outside, a woman chased a stroller. Kids rode bikes. At the edge of the park, a small dark-haired boy stood on a path, alone.

  He looked like Seth.

  But, of course, he wasn’t Seth. I was imagining things.

  Even so, I looked again, carefully. Decided that, no, I wasn’t imagining it. The little boy was Seth. Why was he just standing alone in the park? Was he waiting for someone to pick him up? Katie or Ty?

  “So? What do you think, Elle? My opinion? This is you. It’s the keeper.” Jerry burst into the room, carrying information sheets. “Twenty-one-hundred square feet. Perfect size. Move-in condition.”

  Becky joined in, agreeing that the place was roomy and light. She loved the layout, the location. The two of them went on, extolling the virtues of the house. Their voices blended, a harmonious duet.

  Seth wandered over to a bench. A woman was planted there, not moving. Asleep? Her face wasn’t visible, but I recognized his mother by her gaunt shape and bleached hair. Seth pulled at her a few times, but she didn’t move. Passed out drunk?

  “So? What do you say? Why not make an offer. Keep it low. See how they respond.”

  Becky and Jerry watched me, waiting.

  “Listen to me, Elle. I’m going all out for you, and I know what you need. No way you’re going to find another place like this. I sell homes all over Philadelphia—”

  “I can’t live here.” I looked out the window, saw Joyce again, bloodied in her car.

  “But it’s everything you said you wanted—”