So while I laze on my bed tonight pretending to catch up on my reading for AP English, I veer back and forth between worrying about the possible speed-up of the wedding plans and what the Post Office key means.
“Well, Bianca,” I say to myself, “a Post Office key means … someone rented a Post Office box. The fact that these keys aren’t used anymore tells us that the renter of said key had a box back in the day. It tells us that the renter of said key isn’t keeping it to open a box any longer because it will no longer work. The owner of the key is keeping it for some other reason.
But for what? A memento? No. It wasn’t with other memorabilia in Steve’s closet. It was in an almost empty box, along with the picture of my father — the ripped picture.
An inarticulate fear crawls up the back of my neck, standing my hairs on end. With cold hands, I put down my copy of The Scarlet Letter. Two possible explanations for Steve keeping a useless key pop into my empty head, and neither bodes well.
One: Connie is right — he had something to do with Dad’s death and is holding on to “trophies” from the kill, which is pretty sick.
Two: The key and Dad’s ripped picture are signs that Dad was a dirty cop and Steve Paluchek knows it. He keeps them in case, what? Internal Affairs ever goes after him again? He’s ready to offer up a dead cop to save his own hide.
My heart races as I try to figure things out. But the problem with trying to figure things out that might hurt you is that your brain puts up roadblocks. It erects dark brooding walls around which you cannot see. It also tries to spare you the heartache that such visions will ignite. I’m sure Connie’s struggling with some of that. So, after a good half hour of reasoning, I manage to sketch out the barest of scenarios by actually listing items on a notepad, as if they were pieces of someone else’s puzzle, not mine:
Brenda’s stories clear “Officer Depp” of any officially acknowledged wrongdoing.
Does that mean Depp isn’t guilty, or does it mean they just didn’t have enough on him?
If Steve has something on Depp, what does he have — and what does the key signify?
The key is to a Post Office box in use at the time of Depp’s death.
Depp died outside a downtown Post Office.
Jimmy Winslow was returning from the Post Office at the time of the murder.
Here I stop and think of the father I’ve seen in all the photos. How could that nice man be involved in something bad? I can’t believe it — I couldn’t even use his name in my list of suspicions. I could only use Brenda’s substitute.
I remember the picture in Paluchek’s box, torn into pieces. Ripping up a picture signifies outrage. Yeah, a cop would be outraged if one of their own went rotten. It tarnishes them all.
I swallow hard. Maybe this is why Paluchek wants us to stay away from the case. He doesn’t want us to find out anything bad about Dad.
But no, no, no — Brenda’s stories about Dad exonerate him. They show him to be the kind, loving, heroic man I’ve heard everyone talk about my entire life. My dad was good … and clean. And …
I flop back on the bed, my vision blurred. I can’t think about this anymore. And I certainly can’t share any of these suppositions with Connie. She’d hate me for even suggesting them.
But the problem is, she’s a smart gal. She’ll probably figure things out on her own. In the midst of her current breakdown, it might take her a while, but she’ll get there eventually.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
I DREAM OF Dad, but it isn’t a good dream. All his smiles in all those photographs turn to leers. His imagined laughs become cackles. When I wake up, I feel like someone who’s been royally suckered. And my mood doesn’t brighten at the breakfast table.
Gardenia Beckel is staring me in the face.
Not a pretty sight over one’s bowl of Frosted Flakes, let me tell you. Her picture is on the front page of the metro section of The Sun this morning. Apparently, she’s a member of a small but extremely passionate fan club for an Irish punk rock band, the Effing Patsies. The band was playing at a downtown club, and Gardenia and the rest of the fans painted their faces green to greet the grungy group. I almost didn’t recognize her except for her eyes. Gardenia has kind of crazed eyes.
Connie’s driving me into school today, so I forgo any small talk with her in the kitchen while she swallows her morning smoothie and cardboard granola. Tony’s still sleeping because he doesn’t have class until noon. And Mom, always an early riser, has already left for work.
I hurry through my morning preparations, which are made easier by the required uniform. I spritz my hair with some new gel I hope will make it look just washed, or tousled, or casual, or something — something that might have Kerrie thinking I don’t need that passport into Beautiful Girl Land after all. Before leaving, I slide books and papers into my backpack. On a whim, I include a passel of photographed photos — the ones I took at Steve Paluchek’s house. I have study hall today. I might look at them for a while, hoping I’ll see something I missed, or that some hidden message will magically pop from the film to my brain. Perhaps a message that says, “Bianca, you nincompoop. Your dad’s not guilty” … of whatever it is he might be guilty of.
Once in the car, I ask Con if she thinks she’ll be able to trace the key we found now that she knows what kind of box it opened.
“Kurt’s working on it,” she says, turning toward Erdman Avenue.
“That’ll be tough with his ankle.”
“Yeah. But he’s got connections.”
It’s troubling that Kurt, now laid low, is unable to come to our rescue should things get tough. Connie doesn’t say anything for a while, and we’re lost in our own thoughts as she makes her way through traffic toward the school. At last, I speak.
“This could be dangerous, Con.”
She shrugs. “We have to figure out what happened, Bianca.” She maneuvers into a turning lane and we sit at a light. “Paluchek is bad news. He’s got money a cop shouldn’t have. I’m still working on how he got the cash for that house in Hunt Valley. And he’s paying off folks right and left. And …” When the light changes, she moves forward and turns. “And he’s got too many ties to what happened to Dad.”
More silence. What can I say? “Stop this investigation now before it breaks your heart”?
“What will you do if we don’t figure it out?” I instead say. “I mean, what if Mom marries Steve and that’s that?”
“Then that’s the end of me as a member of this family,” she says, adding a snort of derision. “I’m outta here.”
“You mean you’ll move out?”
Hmm … I could use her room. It’s bigger than mine. But that good feeling passes in an instant at the thought of what her empty room would signify — an empty heart for Mom. Geez, I’m caught in a veritable Heartache Maze.
“Yeah. Maybe to Miami or San Diego.”
And probably never come home again. An official Family Rift. Great! What fun!
She pulls up to the school and gives me a big smile. “Don’t worry, Bianc. If I move, I’ll stay in touch with you.”
This, I decide, might be a mixed blessing.
Speaking of mixed blessings, I run into Kerrie in the locker hall. She has strange news. Because she’s thus far had no luck managing the bra-purchasing part of my life, she’s moved on to managing the boyfriend part.
“I talked to Doug,” she says in a voice drenched with “I know something you don’t know.”
I scream. Inwardly. “Yeah? What about?”
“I thought I’d call and ask him how Richmond is. I’ve got it on my fallback list.”
I’m sure Doug loved hearing Kerrie tell him his college is on her second-tier roster.
“Anyway, he’s really missing you.”
“Funny way of showing it. He’s not coming up for the prom, remember?” I open my locker and take out my morning books.
“I wouldn’t be so sure. You might get a call from him soon about that.” And then she proceeds to tell me
how he’s been bummed lately because he was hanging with this one crowd that got along real well, and now everybody but him has split off into couples.
Translation: He wanted to split off into a couple, but somebody nosed in on his partner prospect.
So while Kerrie’s gushing about how lonely Doug is and how this has led him to “reevaluate” things, including how much he misses me, the part inside me that wanted to scream a few minutes ago now wants to curl up and cry. I’m a leftover. My boyfriend wanted to get cozy with another girl who rejected him. When that didn’t pan out, he comes running back to me, asking me to visit. To him, I’m a consolation prize.
I leave Kerrie and head to my first class, determined to give Doug the cold shoulder the next time he contacts me. In fact, I try to think of ways to force him to contact me so I can pull off the cold shoulder routine. I really enjoy planning it — in Algebra, I envision it taking the form of a “too busy to talk” first response to his phone call. In English class, I fantasize that it will take the form of several “missed” phone calls where I tell Doug to call me at a certain time and I’m not there. I see this happening twice, maybe three times, before I deign to speak with him. In History, I come up with the best possible scenario — Doug calls and Connie interrupts to tell me Johnny Depp is downstairs waiting for me. I start to plot out how to make this happen, wondering how much I’d have to pay Connie to play her part.
By the time lunch rolls around, I’ve fully replaced my yearning to hear from Doug with a yearning to snub him. Sadly, I realize that it’s all still yearning. Wanting to hurt Doug is the same as being hurt by him. Peeling back these layers makes me realize, too, that I really did want him to say he’d come up for the weekend. I really wanted what Kerrie said to be true. And despite her bubbly spin on their conversation, it’s clear his commitment to me has faded like a ship on a distant horizon. But I miss the fact that we’ve had no long goodbye — no dramatic, soulful embrace on the docks with promises to be true, or at least to never love anyone the way we’ve loved each other. Cue “The Way We Were.”
So all I’m left with is the bitter taste of defeat.
Bitterness, however, gets me through a boring afternoon. Brenda isn’t in Creative Writing today — she’s working on a deadline for the student newspaper, which gets her a pass. So I can’t bombard her with questions about Officer Depp, probing for things she probably doesn’t have the answers to anyway.
At the end of the afternoon, I mosey into the library for my tutoring session with Brian, the one bright spot in this flat-as-apancake day.
He’s sitting at one of the long tables in the back room, his shaggy hair obscuring his face, his hands flat on the table around the morning’s newspaper. Sensing movement, he looks up and smiles when he sees me.
“Catching up on current events,” he says, pointing to the paper.
I smile, too, because he’s got this warm-as-a-puppy look to him, eager and open and ready for … something. I’m smiling at him so much, in fact, that I manage to hook my foot around the leg of a chair and do a fetching imitation of a cha-cha dancer with Tourette’s before making it to the table and dumping my backpack contents in front of Brian. Books, papers, pens, private things — ahem — and photos spread before him. I warm with blush, and scoop it all back in, but not before Brian’s gaze lights on the photo of Steve Paluchek’s bride.
“Hey, it’s the woman in the paper,” Brian says.
Say what?
Brian picks up the photo and lays it next to the picture in the morning’s paper — the one of Gardenia Beckel. The same eyes stare out at us. Gardenia in the paper is heavier and blonde, whereas the woman in the photo is slim and brunette, but now I see the similarities. Same jaw line. Same nose. Same mouth.
Gardenia Beckel is not Gardenia Beckel. She’s Gwendolyn Wright, Steve Paluchek’s first wife!
I look at Brian in awe. The guy’s observant — I noticed that when he intuitively sensed where I went off the track in Physics — but this is a magician’s trick, pulling Gwendolyn Wright out of the Gardenia Beckel hat.
I’m struck speechless — for about two and a half seconds.
“I didn’t realize it was her,” I mumble. “And I’ve been staring at these photos, trying to figure out who she was, for I don’t know how long.”
He smiles. “Forest for the trees.” When I look confused, he explains, “You couldn’t see the whole picture because you got so caught up in the individual details.”
I nod, still in awe. “I have to talk to her,” I say.
“You want my phone?” Brian offers me his cell, which is a no-no on school grounds.
“Gotta be in person.” I don’t want Gwendolyn vanishing into the night as she did in San Diego. I have to go see her. I look at him. “She’s the ex-wife of my father’s old partner.”
“I have my car,” Brian says, eager to please. “And my folks aren’t expecting me home until supper.” I nod an enthusiastic “yes.”
Brian’s a peach. We head out to his used Honda and I borrow his cell to call Connie. My first inclination is not to tell her, in case Gardenia says something that incriminates Dad. But then I figure I should at least tell her where I am, just in case … in case Gardenia’s mixed up in all this dangerous stuff. Connie doesn’t answer, so I leave a quick, chipper message saying I discovered that Gwendolyn is none other than Gardenia Beckel and I’ll fill her in with more info later.
As he drives me out to Gardenia’s apartment, I explain everything to Brian, feeling so relieved to have someone I can fully confide in — someone at enough of a distance to see the forest. I feel oddly comfortable with him, in a way I’m not comfortable with Kerrie or Doug or Connie. Brian smoothly navigates his way out of the city toward the northern suburbs.
As I’ve said, Connie drives okay, Kerrie like a Victorian lady subject to the vapors if a cat crosses her path, Doug like a Victorian lady dosed up on laudanum, Mom like … a mom, and Tony like he’s auditioning for NASCAR. Brian, on the other hand, is smooth and confident behind the wheel, shifting gears easily and snaking through the bumper-to-bumper traffic on the Jones Falls without a bead of sweat on his brow, all the while nodding as I tell him the tale of the Balducci/Paluchek Vortex of Doom. I leave out the part where I fell in the pool at Gardenia’s apartment the first night we were there. But I do tell him she might recognize me from some previous door-to-door activity. Let him think it was Girl Scout cookies or something.
It’s nearly four by the time we crunch into the pebbly parking lot. My heart is racing and my palms are sweaty.
“Thanks,” I say to Brian, handing him the phone back before exiting the car. He gets out with me.
“You don’t have to come with me,” I say, surprised.
He shakes his head. “Nope. I’m not letting you go alone.”
“I always hated the name Gwendolyn,” Gardenia says, sipping tea — tea that smells suspiciously like whiskey. She squints at me. “Are you sure I don’t know you?”
I wave the air in front of my face. “No, no. Never met. You were saying you changed your name …” I’ve introduced myself only as “Bianca,” thinking it unwise to spill my full name, and I hadn’t even had a chance to give out Brian’s name before Gardenia was offering us cookies and milk — we declined — and asking us to come in. I also think it unwise to tell her I’m the daughter of the woman who will soon marry her first husband. So I lie — I tell her Steve Paluchek visits the school as a community safety officer, and I’m doing a report on the lives of police officers’ spouses, and especially the impact of job stress on their marriages.
“Yeah, I changed it after I divorced Clay — that’s my second husband, Clay Bingel. Except he told me his name was Beckel, the lying cheat. It was one of his aliases, apparently. Then again, who wants a name like Bingel?”
She shakes her head, a throaty chuckle escaping her lips. “Anyways, I married him thinking it was Beckel, so when I figured out his real name, I decided, ‘Hell no, I’m not going to
be a Bingel,’ and kept Beckel and changed my first name at the same time. Gwendolyn, schmendolyn. Hated that name. Sounded like something from The Wizard of Oz.” She laughs again and sips some more “tea.”
“Uh, why didn’t you just go back to your maiden name?” I ask. Wright sounds better than Beckel to me.
She shrugs. “By that time, I thought of myself as a Beckel.”
That’s when I realize why she’s not surprised we found her— she wasn’t even trying to hide.
She’s not offered Brian or me any tea, which is just as well. As it is, I’m worried about our blood alcohol levels just from being cooped up in Gardenia’s tiny living room and sniffing the stuff.
“I thought it was a good idea at the time. Thought what could be easier? Except …” She leans forward and taps my knee. “… changing your first name, any name, means getting a change-of-name certificate. Not a snap at all!” She snaps her fingers and shakes her head as if the discovery of this paperwork nightmare was a major disillusionment in her life. “Now I have to take all this paperwork with me if I want a new driver’s license or a passport or … you name it.” She burps.
Gardenia is indeed a lonely woman. It doesn’t take long to figure out why she opened her door to Connie and me that night, or why she’s willing to talk to Brian and me now. She likes having people in who want to know about her life. Too bad none of her neighbors was nosy enough to ask. They’d have gotten an earful, and Connie would then have gotten the intel from them.
Gardenia’s more than willing to talk — so willing, in fact, that I now know she won a spelling bee in fifth grade, took piano lessons until she was in high school and wished she’d stuck at it longer because she thinks she had “real talent,” can’t work anymore because of a bad back, was fifth runner-up in a Miss Belair-Edison pageant in ninth grade, thinks she’s developing an allergy to peanuts, can’t stand Katie Couric, thinks the government had something to do with John Lennon’s death, is convinced aliens do exist and have been visiting the Earth for the past five years, looks good in pink but washed out in black, can only drink coffee in the morning, and wishes she could exercise more but can’t afford a gym membership.
Recovering Dad Page 16