by Judith Ivie
In addition to May, Margo, Strutter, Emma, me and the two police officers, Carla Peterson and her children were present. They were the late-night visitors John and J.D. had admitted on their way out the front door. Carla sat stiffly in May’s big recliner while Rudy and Beth perched fearfully on each arm. They stared, round-eyed, at the policemen.
“I’m sure the hospital staff will identify your roof walker for us,” said Officer Johansson, a lanky, blond cop, “but it would be helpful to know the full name of the runner the roof guy called T.J. If you don’t know it, the initials aren’t much to go on, but we shouldn’t have much trouble tracking him down. The hurt one will probably give him up anyway. There isn’t a lot of honor among thieves and vandals at their age.”
“Anybody have any other ideas for us?” Officer MacNamara, a muscular redhead, asked. For the first time, I noticed that he was exactly Emma’s type—not too tall but well-built. She had enjoyed a brief relationship with a Wethersfield police officer a few years back. I had a flash of hope that MacNamara might distract her from her Oregon love interest, but she was fixated on her smart phone, a sappy smile on her face, thumbs working madly. So much for that, I despaired.
MacNamara and his partner focused on Carla. She had been the neighbor who beat Margo to the punch getting through to the police department. Carla, in turn, eyed her son.
“It’s time to step up and do the right thing, Rudy,” she told him. Her voice was firm but not unkind. One hand rested lightly on his shoulder. With the other arm, she snugged her little girl against her.
“We didn’t mean to!” Beth blurted. “Rudy never would have helped those big boys, but they said they’d tell lies about Duke if he didn’t, and the police would take him away from us.” Here she burst into tears and flung herself around her mother’s neck. Carla patted her back.
“Like I told you before, Bethie, once the policemen hear the truth, they’ll know Duke didn’t hurt anyone, and Rudy didn’t either, not really. It will be all right.” She gave her son’s arm an encouraging squeeze. “Come on now, Rudy, tell the officers what happened.”
I threw Strutter a sympathetic look. Strutter’s daughter Olivia was just about Beth’s age, and I knew she was longing to comfort this child, who clearly adored her big brother, as Olivia did Charlie.
Rudy’s voice broke just a little at first, but he stuck his chin out manfully and managed to tell a fairly cohesive story. It was pretty close to Emma’s theory and involved a loosely knit group of high school tyrants who routinely recruited younger kids to do their nefarious bidding. The ringleader’s name was Myron Lifschitz, improbably enough, and he lived two blocks from Wheeler Road on Brimfield Street. Tonight’s sidekick, the phantom T.J., was unknown to Rudy by name, “but I’d know him again if I saw him,” he said bravely.
“Myron Lifschitz, huh?” Emma couldn’t repress a giggle. “Lifschitz wasn’t bad enough, his parents had to hang Myron on him? The poor kid almost had to act out. The future punks of America, we used to call his type.” I couldn’t help being impressed that she was able to keep up with her text messages while still paying attention to the conversation in May’s living room. “Every high school has them. They’re usually male, not good at sports, not academic standouts, not much of anything but bullies who think it’s fun to use younger kids to prank people, because they’re the only ones they can intimidate. Sad but true.” She returned her attention to the device in her hand.
“But why me?” May wanted to know after listening to Rudy’s story and Emma’s comments. “What did I do to make myself a target?”
Officer Johansson had been busy making notes during Rudy’s recital but looked up now. “Any particular reason that you know of, Rudy?”
The boy shook his head. “They never said why, but I think it’s just because this house was empty lots of times while it was being fixed up, and Mrs. Farnsworth wouldn’t know them by sight. There were a bunch of carpenters and painters and stuff coming and going. They locked up at night, but everybody knew where Mrs. Abernathy, the lady who used to live here, hid the spare key. Lots of people on this street have keys to each other’s houses.” He shrugged. “So it was just easy to prank Mrs. Farnsworth.”
Here Carla spoke up. “That’s true. We’re all aware that we live in a different world today than the one we grew up in, and we should be more careful about security, but a lot of the older folks have a 1950s mindset about that sort of thing. Mrs. Abernathy was an elderly widow. She’d lived in this neighborhood for years and years, raised her family here. The local kids seemed to gravitate to her. She baked cookies and let them plant carrots and radishes in her garden, that sort of thing. In her later years she often visited relatives in other parts of the country, so she was forever asking one or another of us to water her plants, feed her cat, collect her newspaper and mail, that sort of thing. I think half the neighborhood had keys to her house,” she laughed, “not that we needed them. Everyone knew she kept a spare under the planter on her porch. Apparently Myron Lifschitz knew that, too, and he decided to impress his so-called friends by tormenting poor May.”
We were quiet as we confronted the bleakness of the situation. May offered her opinion.
“Myron Lifschitz sounds like a very sad young man,” she said. “What do you suppose makes him sad, Rudy?” She scooched me closer to Margo and sat on the end of the sofa, inviting Beth to leave her mother’s side and accept a small peppermint she held out to her. “Good for the digestion,” May assured Carla. Beth approached with caution but in the end was unable to resist the candy.
Rudy had nothing to say. As the mother of a teenage boy, Strutter offered her opinion. “Young people want so badly to be accepted and liked, to have a group of friends.” She looked at Rudy. “Some kids don’t have trouble with that. They’re funny or smart or good at a sport like soccer, and friends come easily to them. Am I right so far?”
Rudy nodded solemnly.
“But a few kids just don’t seem to fit in. As Emma said, they’re kind of outsiders, don’t belong to any school clubs, aren’t good at sports. It’s a funny thing, but sometimes those kids band together, and that only makes things worse, of course. Then they’re known collectively as nerds or losers. Pretty soon the other kids taunt them, call them names and stuff. Sooner or later they get so mad about it, they decide to teach the others a lesson, show them how clever and powerful they really are. Does that sound like Myron and T.J. at all?”
Rudy was hanging on Strutter’s every word, his eyes wide, and he nodded again. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw May crook a finger at little Beth and pat her lap invitingly. Beth crawled into it without hesitation and promptly stuck her thumb in her mouth, her eyes drooping. May rocked her gently and smiled at Carla, who smiled back.
“How do you know Myron?” Rudy asked Strutter, amazed.
Strutter smiled kindly at him. “I don’t, but I’ve known other boys—and girls—like him. They were in my school in Jamaica, where I grew up. They were in Margo’s school and Kate’s school and Emma’s school, too.”
“Got that right,” Emma agreed, and we all nodded.
The two young police officers, who had wisely remained silent as the story unfolded, now exchanged glances. MacNamara cleared his throat.
“I think we’ve heard all we need to for tonight. We won’t be pressing any charges against your son, Mrs. Peterson, since it’s pretty clear to us that he was coerced into cooperating with Lifschitz and his pal T.J., unless you want to do that, Mrs. Farnsworth?”
May shook her head no and shifted slightly in her cramped seat to make the sleeping child in her lap more comfortable. “I just want the pranks to stop,” she said quietly.
Johansson spoke up. “I’m pretty sure you won’t be having any more trouble once we finish with Myron and T.J. A sit-down at the station with pranksters and their parents, along with a tour of our lock-up, usually does the trick. If they still want to be tough guys after that, they know what the consequences will be.”
> He walked over to Rudy and squatted so he could look him in the eye. “But if anything like this ever happens again, if someone tries to make you do something you don’t want to do or threatens your dog or anything at all, you’ll know to come to us for help, right? That’s what we’re here for.” He got to his feet and extracted a business card from his pocket, which he handed to Carla. Then he and MacNamara headed for the door. “Keep in touch. Good night, Ma’am.” This last to May, who smiled her gratitude as the officers made their exit.
Before long the rest of us followed. After Rudy made a full and heartfelt apology to May, prompted by his mother, Carla retrieved Beth from May’s lap and hefted the little girl over her shoulder. “Oooph! She’s getting too big for me to manage. Rudy, get the door for me, and let’s be on our way. There’s work, school and soccer tomorrow, no matter how little sleep we get.” After thanking us all for our trouble and bidding us goodnight, the little family trailed out.
That left Emma to drive Strutter, Margo and me back to The Birches. We cleaned up the remnants of our take-out dinner and May’s coffee service and put the living room back into order. May looked as exhausted as I felt.
“It’s a good kind of tired, though, don’t you think?” I asked her as we revisited the events of the evening. “I mean, all’s well that ends well and so on. It was surprising and annoying and even a little scary, but at least this is the end of it. When you think about it, nobody was seriously hurt except that fool kid who fell off your roof, and if his leg is broken, it serves him right.”
“Hoo, boy, you’re tough,” May teased me. “I hope I never get on your wrong side.”
“Just stay off my roof, and we’ll be fine,” I assured her.
Strutter and Margo exchanged sour looks. “Easy for you two to kid around,” said Strutter. “You don’t have husbands waiting at home for you to explain yourselves.”
Margo picked up her handbag wearily. “I have a feeling John might be tempted to do a little leg-breaking of his own tonight, so don’t be surprised if I hobble in tomorrow in a cast.”
Emma laughed at their dilemma, her good humor undimmed by having failed to run the elusive T.J. to ground. “Come on, ladies, let’s get this show on the road. We have a little walk to get back to my car, remember.”
The three of us groaned in unison and followed her to the door.
“I am forever in your debt,” May told us from her heart as we all stepped out onto her front porch.
“Oh, don’t you worry,” said Emma. “These three are always in one pickle or another. You’ll have plenty of opportunities to return the favor.”
I shot her a mom look, but I really couldn’t disagree with her, so I kept quiet as we trooped down May’s driveway to the street.
Fourteen
After Monday evening’s excitement, we were all happy to sink back into familiar routines. May took a couple of days off to engage in what she called yard work therapy, pruning back rosebushes, raking leaves and generally tidying her little yard for the winter.
“The best way to get to know a place is by getting your hands dirty,” she told me on the phone Wednesday morning, “and I’ve got the ruined manicure and the aching back to prove how well acquainted I am with my new property.”
“No further incidents?” I asked as we prepared to end our call.
“All is quiet,” she confirmed and excused herself to help Tommy. He was repairing the gutter torn down by the hapless Myron, who had indeed broken his leg in the process. None of us was particularly torn up about that.
It was Strutter’s day at Vista View, and Margo was trotting her Jimmy Choos off, escorting prospects to one showing or another, so it fell to me to keep the phones answered and the copious paperwork moving in the right direction, mostly to Emma in Glastonbury. Our recently acquired scanner, which allowed our two offices to exchange documents via e-mail, was proving to be a wise investment. Glastonbury was only a few miles from Wethersfield, but traffic on the Putnam Bridge across the Connecticut River was regularly complicated by accidents and repairs.
I wondered if Mack Realty would be able to continue our comfortable working arrangement with my daughter if Emma’s Oregon visit evolved into something more permanent. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Sugar,” Margo advised. I knew she was right, but I couldn’t help speculating.
During a midday lull, I dashed up to the coffee room to microwave some Ramen noodles, which offered little in the way of nutrition but were filling and quick. I watched the container circulate behind the glass door and wondered what news Armando would have for me when he returned from Southbury that evening. His abbreviated telephone reports had been uninformative, as Armando tended to keep things close to the vest if anyone else was within earshot. Sometimes I wondered why he bothered to phone at all when he was traveling. I never learned anything from his veiled references and hints, which were thus merely annoying. Best to wait and talk face to face.
The microwave beeped, and I put the steaming container on a plate to carry back to the Mack office. As luck would have it, my return journey was interrupted by three giggly young women in leotards and sweatshirts, who burst into the lobby with questions about the vacant space on the second floor of the Law Barn.
“What kind of work do you do?” I inquired, trying my best to keep the impatience out of my voice. I was starving, and my deprived stomach grumbled in protest.
“We’re starting our own exercise studio,” said Leotard No. 1, “you know, Zumba, hip hop, Jazzercise—all the fun, dancy stuff people like to do now. It will be lots of short sessions throughout the day with working people and older folks in mind.” She looked me up and down appraisingly. “You might want to give it a try.”
The idea of an exercise studio over our heads horrified me. I had visions of thumping feet and blaring music all day long. Would the old floors even take the abuse? Our landlord had threatened to raise our rent if we couldn’t find new tenants soon, but were we desperate enough to invite an endless procession of exercise enthusiasts to torment us? The idea of a geriatric matron taking a fall on the tricky staircase to the second level made me cringe. I thought fast.
“Gosh, that sounds so fun, but I seriously doubt these old beams and floorboards would bear the weight of treadmills and exercise bikes,” I said with what I hoped was a disappointed face.
“Oh, that stuff is so over,” sniffed Leotard No. 2.
No. 3 nodded vigorous agreement. “People who want that old stuff can go to a gym. Our operation will be nothing but mats and music. In fact, that’s what we plan to call it, Mats & Music.”
Another round of giggles followed this pronouncement.
“Cute,” I agreed with feigned enthusiasm as I scrambled for another negative point to make. “I think you’d find restroom facilities a bit difficult, though. There’s only one bathroom upstairs and no room to put in another. The downstairs bathrooms are for our employees and clients only.”
“Huh,” scoffed No. 1, “only one bathroom. That sucks.” She eye-rolled her companions and shrugged philosophically before pulling a folded list from her shoulder bag. Tote? Hobo? Whatever they called them this time around. “On to the next place?” she asked her friends brightly, snapping her gum. They nodded and reversed course, making their exit without bothering to say goodbye.
“You’re welcome,” I called out as the Law Barn door swung shut behind them and went to retrieve my cooling lunch, mightily relieved. One more crisis averted.
Instead of retreating to the Mack office, I took the stairs to the second floor on impulse. When I flipped on the lights and confronted the barren space that had once been Emma’s domain, my heart twisted. I realized that my appetite had deserted me and set the cup of noodles on the floor. No point in forcing unwanted calories down your throat, advised Emma’s voice from somewhere in the past.
Trailing over to the big rear windows that admitted the only natural light on this level, I felt memories flood over me … the day Emma and her boss moved in
… the sound of Emma’s voice reassuring yet another frantic client on her endlessly ringing phone … the cage she kept next to her desk for mice recovering from the neighbor cat’s unwanted attentions … the night we rescued a fat squirrel from where he was stuck in the back fence … the fire that had almost been the end of the Law Barn—and me. So many memories, so many changes. I wondered what was next for my girl, for Armando and me, for all of us.
“What happens now?” I said aloud, but if the mice and the spiders knew, they weren’t talking.
“For openers, we could find some new tenants for this place,” said Strutter. She and Margo stood on the top step, regarding me with worried expressions.
I looked at my watch, startled, and gaped at my partners. “It can’t be after three o’clock already.”
“Actually, Sugar, it is. Miss Thing here and I bumped into the exercise queens in the parking lot and had quite a conversation. They said they got the feelin’ you were tryin’ to discourage them from leasin’ space here, so they were goin’ over to check out some space for rent in the church basement,” Margo reported with a poker face.
The hilarity of that scenario struck us simultaneously, and we all whooped.
“If the leotard ladies thought they got a chilly reception from me, wait until they see what they get from Felicity,” I choked and wiped my eyes on my sleeve. Felicity Dobson managed the business affairs of the local Methodist church with an iron fist, and a less felicitous individual I hoped never to meet.
“So what’s with the abandoned lunch?” Strutter asked, pointing to the now congealed noodles.
“And the unanswered phone ringin’ off the hook downstairs?” Margo added. “Is this about Emma?”
I looked at the faces of my best friends, neither of which revealed a whisper of reproach, only affection and concern. How could I hold back anything as momentous as my possible defection from them? So I didn’t.
“Emma’s not the only one who might be relocating,” I began slowly, and out it all came.