by Leslie Meier
She took the tray into the family room, setting it down on a little table beside Bill’s recliner.
“I made you a sandwich and you’ve got a thermos of milk and another thermos with hot soup, plus some cookies and fruit. I guess that should hold you till the girls get home from school.”
“No problem,” said Bill, who was keeping himself busy with the old newspapers.
Whenever he found something pertaining to Miss Tilley, or anything particularly interesting, he marked the page with a Post-it note. The growing stack of volumes next to his chair was bristling with the little yellow bits of paper.
“You’re sure it’s okay if I go to work?” Lucy was hesitant to leave him alone.
“I’ll be fine,” he said.
Lucy bent down and kissed him on his head.
“Stay out of trouble,” she said.
“Don’t worry about me. The only place I’m going is down memory lane.” He tapped the papers. “And I can’t get in trouble there.”
Lucy was still congratulating herself when she arrived at The Pennysaver. Giving Bill those papers to look through had been a stroke of genius; not only was it keeping him busy while his injuries healed, but he was finding plenty of interesting material that Sidra could use to put the final touches on the Norah! show about Miss Tilley.
“What are you doing here?” asked Ted, as Lucy walked through the door. “Aren’t you supposed to be over at the middle school?”
“Uh, in case you didn’t notice, it’s raining,” said Lucy, shaking out her coat before hanging it up. “They can’t have Team Day in the rain.”
“They are having it. Indoors, in the gym. The principal even called, wondering why you’re not covering it.”
“Say no more.” Lucy put her coat back on and went back out into the rain.
Lucy could hear the din coming from the gymnasium as soon as she stepped inside the middle school. It grew louder as she walked down the vinyl-tile hall and exploded when she pulled open the door. No wonder. The gymnasium was packed with the entire eighth-grade class, divided into teams, and all the team members were yelling and screaming encouragement to each other. From what she could tell at a glance, the yellow team seemed to be winning a race that involved forming a human chain and passing along towels that were used as stepping-stones to cross the gym floor. The person at the front of the chain couldn’t step forward until the person at the end cleared the last towel, which could then be passed forward, allowing everyone to advance one step.
As she surveyed the scene, it occurred to Lucy that each team looked like a different-colored worm, inching its way across the floor. The Parent-Teachers Organization had raised money for team T-shirts, after a presentation by the phys-ed teachers. They had explained that the teams would be chosen randomly, to discourage cliques, and that all the races would involve cooperation by team members. Furthermore, the competition would draw upon a wide variety of skills and attributes, so that all the team members would be able to contribute and not just the most athletic.
It had all sounded great, and Lucy remembered being quite convinced that Team Day would be a lot more fun than the traditional Field Day, which had been dominated by the class athletes. She clapped her hands and cheered when the yellow team did, in fact, win the caterpillar race, then watched in dismay as the caterpillars immediately dispersed when the various team members went in search of their friends.
Sara, she saw, had wasted no time leaving the orange team to which she’d been assigned and had hooked up with Katie Brown, in green, and Jennifer Walsh, in blue. The three had formed a tight little knot and were giggling about something.
Lucy suspected this failure to maintain team spirit wouldn’t be tolerated for long, and it wasn’t. A piercing electronic shriek gave notice that the public address system had been turned on and Ms. Boone, the assistant principal, took the microphone.
“Attention! Attention! All students must remain with their teams.”
This was met with a general groan. Lucy smiled at the students’ reaction, and the woman standing next to her spoke up.
“Frankly,” she said, “I don’t know why they bother with all this noncompetitive stuff. Competition is a fact of life. The SATs aren’t a group effort, are they? And colleges certainly don’t recruit the purple team—they give sports scholarships to the kids who score points and make the allstars.”
“Do you mind if I quote you on that?” asked Lucy, pulling out her notebook and pen. “I’m Lucy Stone and I’m covering Team Day for The Pennysaver.”
“You’re Lucy Stone?” The woman’s eyes widened. “I’m Donna Didrickson. My daughter Davia spent Saturday night at your house.”
“Davia! That’s right,” exclaimed Lucy, taking a closer look at the woman.
She was blond and athletic looking, and she reminded Lucy of Video Debbie, with her well-proportioned and toned body. And considering the nylon warm-up suit she was wearing, she was on her way to, or from, a sports club.
“Davia’s a lovely girl,” continued Lucy. “You must be very proud of her.”
“Of course I am,” asserted Donna, ticking off her daughter’s accomplishments. “She’s captain of the field hockey team and its leading scorer for the second straight season. She’s ranked number two according to grade-point average and she played on the varsity basketball team this past winter. Not even in high school yet and she was on the starting team! But frankly, just between you and me, we’re pinning our hopes on her balalaika lessons. That’s what really impresses college admissions officers, you know—something different, something that makes your child stand out.”
Lucy watched as the teachers began sending kids back to their teams, getting them organized for the next competition—a three-legged race. Sara, she saw, had been paired with a boy who only came up to her chin and she didn’t look very happy about it. Lucy wondered if she knew her class rank, and what it was.
“Isn’t it a little early to start thinking about college?”
Donna’s eyes widened in disbelief. “It’s never too early, not if you want your child to go to a top-notch school!”
“Attention! Attention!” It was Ms. Boone again, attempting to get the students’ attention. She was somewhat more successful this time, probably because a uniformed police officer was standing next to her.
“Students! We’re going to have the three-legged race in just a moment, but first, I want to introduce you to Officer Wickes, who’s going to announce the winners of the caterpillar race.”
Lucy couldn’t believe her luck. She’d been trying to contact Bob Wickes for weeks, and here he was in the same room with her—and about a hundred excited eighth graders. No matter, she should certainly be able to have a word with him before the event was over.
Lucy joined in the applause for the red team, which placed third in the caterpillar race, and the blue team, which placed second, and put her hands over ears when cheers erupted for the winning yellow team. It occurred to her that the three-legged race would make a good photo, so she pulled her camera out of her bag, intending to snap a few pictures. She was just about to explain her intention to Donna when she was interrupted.
“You know, Lucy, I was very surprised when Davia told me Jennifer Walsh was at the party,” said Donna.
Lucy didn’t understand. “What do you mean?” she asked, letting the camera dangle from the cord around her neck. “They’ve been in school together since kindergarten.”
“I know they’re in school together, but heavens, that doesn’t mean they have to socialize. I can assure you I’m very selective when it comes to choosing friends for my children.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Lucy caught sight of Bob Wickes’s navy blue uniform. It was moving toward the doorway.
“Jennifer’s a very nice girl,” said Lucy, starting to follow him.
“Doesn’t she live on Bumps River Road?” whispered Donna, referring to a rather run-down part of town.
“What if she does?” Wilkes was
almost at the door and Lucy was afraid she would miss him.
“Have you been down there? Do you know the sort of people who live there?” demanded Donna, grabbing her arm.
“People like what? Poor people? Because I can assure you that Jennifer is a very sweet girl!”
Lucy was thinking back, trying to remember if there had been trouble at the party. She remembered finding Davia and Sean Penfield making out behind the couch. At first blush she’d blamed Sean, assuming he’d pressed himself on Davia, but now she wasn’t so sure. Middle-school-aged girls could be quite aggressive. Things had gone pretty smoothly after she’d broken up the amorous couple, but she did remember that Jennifer had been upset. She’d thought at the time that one of the boys had tried something with her and had separated the kids by sexes, but maybe it had been one of the girls who had upset her. Maybe it had been Davia.
“Did Davia and Jennifer have some sort of fight?” asked Lucy, relieved to see that Wilkes had paused in the doorway, where he was talking with the president of the P.T.O.
“Are you accusing my Davia? Let me tell you, she is a young lady. She has been brought up very carefully and knows how to conduct herself properly at all times.”
Lucy suppressed the urge to laugh.
“I’m sure she does. Look, I’m here as part of my job and I have to do some interviews. I really can’t talk to you any longer.”
“Well, I can see you’re just not getting it,” said Donna, in a huffy tone. “I don’t see any reason to continue this conversation. Good-bye!”
Finally free of Donna, Lucy sped across the gym, but when she got to the doorway Officer Wickes wasn’t there.
“So, tell me,” said Lucy, smiling at the president of the P.T.O. “Why did your organization decide to donate the T-shirts for today’s Team Day?”
Lucy couldn’t get Donna Didrickson out of her mind as she ducked the raindrops and hurried back to her car. Who did Donna Didrickson think she was, anyway, to go around deciding that Jennifer Walsh wasn’t socially acceptable? The Walshes had lived in Tinker’s Cove for over a hundred years. In fact, she realized as she passed the Civil War memorial on the school lawn, at least five Walshes were listed on that very piece of carved granite.
She chuckled, thinking of the irony of the situation as she started the car. After all, her conversation with Donna had taken place during Team Day, an event specifically designed to break down social barriers among students. But while the teachers were working to get the kids to look past their differences and to appreciate each other for their strengths, Donna Didrickson had been busy drawing social distinctions. Jennifer Walsh was poor, so Jennifer couldn’t be friends with Davia.
The more things change, she mused as she drove down Oak Street, the more they stay the same. What would Donna Didrickson do if Davia fell in love with a black man, or an Asian? A Jew? Would she disown her the way Judge Tilley had disowned his daughter?
That must have been quite a scene, thought Lucy, remembering Judge Tilley’s stern visage in the painting that hung over Miss Tilley’s mantel. With that hawk nose, those piercing brown eyes and that thin line of a mouth, he didn’t seem like a man you would want to cross. He looked, she had to admit, like a very unpleasant fellow. A man who probably didn’t smile much, considering those long lines that ran from each side of his nose to the corners of his mouth.
Funny, she thought, as she waited for a break in traffic so she could join the line of cars snaking down Main Street, that face reminded her of someone. But who? She knew she’d seen someone recently who looked remarkably like the judge, but a kinder and gentler version. Someone with the same coloring, the same brown eyes, but someone who hadn’t been afraid to smile.
Sherman Cobb, she realized, just as a driver flashed his brights at her indicating he would let her into traffic. She gasped, grabbing the steering wheel tightly and making the turn. It was definitely Sherman Cobb. Sherman Cobb. Chap Willis had told her that when his parents adopted him, the one condition they’d agreed to was to name him Sherman. This couldn’t be a coincidence, thought Lucy. Sherman Cobb had been related to the Tilleys. No wonder he’d been so interested in the Battle of Portland and the mayor, George Washington Tilley. He was a Tilley, probably the judge’s illegitimate son. No wonder the judge had taken such an interest in him and had even left him money for his education.
She was pursuing this line of thought when taillights flashed red in front of her. She slammed on the brakes, but it was too late and she smacked into the car ahead of her with a jolt. Seconds later, she felt the impact when the car behind her smashed into her rear.
Miss Tilley’s eyes opened. Her heart was pounding, she realized. She must have had a fright. Probably just a reaction to the shock of transferring from one mode of being to another. Shuffling off your mortal coil must certainly take a toll, not to mention the ascent to the heavenly sphere. She felt sorry she’d missed it. Had it been rapid, like the thrusting ascent of the space shuttle, or had angels gently guided her through the firmament?
A distant crash made her muscles tighten, and then she heard another. That must have been what woke her, she realized, with a sense of annoyance. What was all that crashing and banging? She certainly hadn’t expected heaven to be this noisy. Choirs of angels, of course, cherubim and seraphim, but not all these thuds and bumps.
The other place? Her jaw dropped at the idea. She quickly reviewed her life. Not possible, she decided, unless there’d been some sort of administrative mistake. It would no doubt be cleared up. The Creator certainly wouldn’t tolerate slipshod bookkeeping and neither would Saint Peter. Where was he, anyway?
“You could get off your lazy butt and help me!”
Oh, dear. Not at all the sort of thing you expect to hear in heaven. And that voice was so familiar. It sounded like Shirley, but of course, it couldn’t be. Not dear Shirley. Besides, Shirley was much younger than she and quite hale and hearty. What would she be doing in the hereafter? No, she was back on earth, most likely attending to the funeral arrangements. What a shame she couldn’t be there, but of course, you couldn’t attend your own funeral.
She heard a door open and turned her head, expecting to finally see Saint Peter. Instead, she saw a heavyset, bearded man in black clothing decorated with chains.
She was in the wrong place! She would most certainly have to straighten this out.
“She’s awake, Ma!” yelled Snake.
Julia wanted to speak up, to clear up this confusion, but discovered she couldn’t make a sound. Her body simply would not work. Not surprising, she decided, considering her situation. No doubt there was some other form of communication. A higher form. She’d soon get the hang of it.
There was a quick patter of footsteps and Shirley’s face floated above her.
“There’s my good girl,” cooed Shirley, straightening the covers and tucking them in.
So, she wasn’t dead yet. She was alive, in her own bed. She was quite comfortable, but she was very thirsty. She wanted to ask for water and struggled to speak. All she managed to produce, however, was a faint groan.
Shirley’s response was to shove a pill into her mouth. It felt like a cotton ball, sitting on her swollen tongue. Next came a splash of water and she took it greedily. She heard Shirley set the glass on the table and then the door closed.
The pill, she realized, was still on her tongue. It hadn’t gone down. She didn’t want to risk choking on it, so she spat it out. She’d try again later when Shirley came back. In the meantime, there was nothing to do but lie there and wait, listening to the banging and crashing. Whatever were they doing? It sounded as if they were searching the house.
Her vision was clearing, she realized, as the crack on the ceiling above the bed came into focus. She glanced around her bedroom, wondering what time it was. What day was it? The shades were down, but it didn’t seem very bright outside. Dusk?
A sudden grating, dragging sound startled her. They must be up in the attic, going through the trunks. Whateve
r could they be looking for?
Her gaze fell on her bedside table. The daffodils Rachel had put there in a vase had withered and dried up. She must have been lying here for days, she realized, spotting the glass of water. She wanted to reach for it and, to her surprise, her arm responded. She could move her arm.
It took great concentration and she was quite clumsy, but she finally managed to wrap her fingers around the glass. Her next task would be bringing it back to her lips. It seemed to take forever, but finally she was able to rest the glass on her chest.
Focusing her eyes on the glass, she slowly lifted her head and tilted back the glass. She spilled some, but she got a good swallow or two. Then, exhausted, she let her head fall back on the pillow and the empty glass slipped from her hand and rolled off the bed onto the scatter rug.
Chapter Twenty-four
The rain, which had been little more than a light drizzle, turned into a downpour when Lucy hauled herself out of the car. She wasn’t hurt, and a quick glance at the Subaru’s front end didn’t reveal any damage. Miraculously, the car she hit, an older-model Jeep, didn’t seem to have any damage either.
She pulled her hood up over her head and went round to the back of her car; it seemed to be fine, too. But when the driver of the little Hyundai that had hit her reversed a few feet, the bumper fell to the ground and dragged along, making a hideous scraping sound.
Other drivers who were stuck behind them were honking impatiently, and Lucy realized that traffic would be blocked unless they moved their cars.
“Why don’t we just exchange names and addresses and get out of here?” she suggested to the driver of the Jeep, a young woman with curly blond hair.