Agnes Bigelow stood at one end of a long row of costumes, bent over a pile of shoes. She raised her head to look at me and gave me a sheepish smile. I hesitated for a split second, then smiled back and gave her a brief wave. She brandished a small, apologetic wave, returning to her task of sorting sandals, moccasins, and short, black leather boots.
The maintenance crew had offered to help as well. Frank and Jonesy prepared buckets of black paint in the back, and Cindi sewed missing buttons onto costumes. She sat contentedly next to a pile of clothes.
Camille’s little mini dachshund, Boris, dozed on her lap.
I wandered over to the gentle woman and reached down to pat the dog, who had quickly become the drama club’s mascot. “Looks like you’ve found a friend, Cindi. ”
Boris rested his head comfortably on Cindi’s knees. His feathery tail wagged slowly.
She looked at him and grinned. “He likes me. And I like him.”
I leaned over to scrub behind his ears. “He sure does.”
Cindi reached around and massaged her lower back, wincing. The woman was a testimony to the abilities of the “disabled.” In spite of her mild case of Down Syndrome, she kept a small apartment, worked at the school, and still volunteered to help with the costumes at night.
“Lots of missing buttons?” I asked.
The pile of clothes was enormous. She bent over a blouse, working the needle and thread with persistence. “Yeah. Lots of work. But I like it. It’s fun. My father says it’s good to keep busy.” She looked up at me with honest green eyes.
“That’s sound advice,” I said. “Gives you a chance to baby-sit Boris at the same time, right? I know Camille appreciates it.”
Cindi chuckled softly and took a moment to pat Boris’s back. “Yeah. I like baby-sitting him. He’s a good boy.”
I traded glances with Camille who was in the process of assessing the black leather jumpsuit Randy modeled. I’d been worried that she needed more rest. Although there were still hideous bruises on her ribs, she insisted she could manage the job and was busy proving the fact to all of us. She smiled at me and turned back to Randy.
The jumpsuit had silver studs running down its legs and across the belt. It was a snug fit, and I wondered if there would be complaints from some of the more prudish folks in the audience.
After taking measurements, Camille began to toss outfits to the teens. One by one, they emerged on the stage from the dressing rooms. They held their arms out to their sides, awkwardly entering the room.
In contrast, Molly Frost waltzed out wearing a long, royal blue velveteen granny gown that fit perfectly. Totally comfortable, she twirled around and around and laughed. Delighted, she pranced over to Maddy who checked the dress for fit.
I finished my water and headed backstage to check on the paint. Camille had asked us to base coat the wooden sandwich board that would be planted at the entrance of the school to draw in the audience.
The tall janitor, Frank, carried a can of the black paint from the tool room.
“How’s it going, Frank?”
He looked up at me with a mellow expression. “Got the paint. All we need now is the paint trays and rollers. I asked Jonesy to fetch ‘em, but I’m not sure what happened to him. It’s been about twenty minutes since he went for them. They’re in the back hallway.”
I offered to get them. In the back hallway, I found Jonesy sitting on an upturned bucket with the paint trays and rollers in a pile at his feet. His nose was buried in one of the cast books as he turned the pages and mumbled to himself. He seemed spellbound.
When he heard me approach, he stood up abruptly. The bucket rolled across the floor and the manuscript fluttered to the ground. His face flushed and he stuttered. He righted the bucket and stooped for the book.
“I—I’m sorry. They left this here. I was just reading it. I didn’t hurt nothin.”
Surprised by his reaction, I tried to calm him. “It’s okay, Jonesy. It’s no big deal. Are you interested in the show? Do you like it?” I picked up the rollers and trays.
He muttered some more and finally looked at me. “Yeah. I kinda do.” He shuffled his feet and stared at the floor.
“Okay,” I said, trying to sound casual. “Well, then, I’m going to help Frank paint the sign. Siegfried might need help out front, if you want to check. It’s up to you, of course.”
Jonesy nodded briskly, grabbed his bucket, and scurried away.
I carried the paint trays and rollers into the vestibule between the chorus room and the immediate backstage area. Frank had left the area, and it was surprisingly quiet. I found a screwdriver in the tool room, and leaned down to pry open the can of paint. When I lifted the lid, two voices whispered from the darkened alley behind the stage.
“He did? ” the first voice murmured.
It sounded like a girl's voice, but I couldn't be sure.
“Yes—” The second voice whispered. “He drew me right up against him and kissed me full on the mouth.”
I didn't recognize the second voice.
“What did you do?” voice number one asked.
“I turned and ran,” whispered the other, “but I can't stop thinking about him. It's driving me nuts. I'm going to another frat party Friday night. I hope he’ll be there.”
The voices trailed off into the distance as the two walked away. I shook my head, hoping some young girl wasn't about to be taken advantage of by a randy college man. With a sigh, I began to paint the sandwich board.
By nine-thirty, the costumes had been selected, sorted, and the rejects were repacked into the prop room. The sign was painted black, and when dry, would be decorated with fluorescent orange glittering letters. The wheels of the Spirit Me Away train were in motion.
Chapter Twenty-One
O n Wednesday afternoon, my last class finished at two-thirty. The sun beckoned through dusty old windows and lured me outdoors. It teased across the pile of papers that I’d begun to grade, dappling the pages. I held out for a good fifteen minutes before I stood up, stuffed a sheaf of papers in my briefcase, waved goodbye to a startled Maddy, and gave in to temptation.
I emerged from the ivy-covered building and started across the brick courtyard on the north end of the campus. Built in 1810, the Wilson building had housed the school children of the Genesee Valley until the late 1970s, when the new sprawling Valley High School was constructed north of the village on Route 60. At that point, the university moved the music and art departments into Wilson.
Although my colleagues often snickered at the ancient heating system, the archaic electrical network, and the drafty windows, I found the building with its massive mahogany doors, marble floors, and elegant banisters to be comfortably familiar. The stately antique stood as a unique and solid citizen, nestled among its eclectic neighbors and newer structures that multiplied as the university grew in national popularity.
Rolling up my shirtsleeves, I crossed the courtyard, enjoying the warmth of the afternoon sun. I wove my way between the buildings toward the parking lot. Flowerbeds flourished around the walkways. Gold marigolds, red dianthus, pink sedum, and tall blood-red grasses waved in the afternoon breeze wafting up the eastern slope of the valley.
Silver-blue dragonflies flitted about the grounds. I stopped for a moment when one landed on my bare forearm. Her fragile legs whispered against the hairs on my arm. I lifted her to the level of my eyes and examined her gossamer wings. They glistened and winked metallic in the warm sun. I waited patiently until she tired of her perch and flew over to a wooden bench.
I entered a long arbor that ran between the courtyard and the grassy commons. Boston ivy graced the metal structure, rising from flowerbeds of white cosmos, and miniature pink roses cascaded and dangled from the roof, reminiscent of an Italian pergola. I walked briskly in the sunshine, swinging my battered old briefcase and smiling at the students who passed.
When I reached the car, I tossed my briefcase into the backseat, and drove up the narrow road that merged with Main Street in th
e village of Conaroga.
Sidewalks and mature trees flanked the wide boulevard running north/south through the village. The university spread over the western side of the street, rolling down the hillside with over twenty-five buildings that covered almost two hundred acres.
Quaint storefronts lined Main Street on both sides on the southern end. When the village had been awarded “historic town” status ten years ago, most storeowners had replaced their modern signs with gilt, custom-made boards. Some had followed in the tradition of European villages and had hung golden symbols representing their craft. The bakery featured a gilt pretzel suspended high above the door. The bookstore boasted a three-dimensional library shelf with rounded, gilt book bindings protruding from the board.
The merchants had carefully restored their storefronts to maintain historic appearances, and yet had also artistically enhanced them to attract students and townsfolk. The owner of the antique shop, for example, had chosen the interesting color combination of cobalt blue, sky blue, and vermillion. Although not historically accurate, it was especially attractive when combined with the gold lettering above the window.
Gargantuan antique homes lined the north end of Main Street. Many of them boasted three stories. Although the village was founded in 1820, a portion of the homes had been updated to the Victorian style in the late 1800’s. Gables, spires, wraparound porches, and picket fences were common. The homes were carefully tended and sat on large grassy lawns, complemented by weed-free, mulched, and color-coordinated flowerbeds. Many of these expansive homes housed students, art galleries, or businesses.
I waited behind a line of cars at the intersection of School Street and Main. Throngs of students paraded around my car. The glorious weather, the packed streets, and the general feel-good atmosphere thrilled me. I’d rolled down both windows and was drinking in the sultry breezes, waiting for a break in the traffic, when I saw them.
Chapter Twenty-Tw o
A rmand pushed Molly against the wall of an alley separating the Yellow Moon Chinese Restaurant from the student laundry building. He kissed her on her neck and face, thrusting his pelvis against hers.
Molly pummeled his chest, trying to scream, but he shoved his hand over her mouth. He groped her, and when she twisted away and tried to run, he grabbed her and raised his hand as if to strike her.
I shut off my engine and reached him in seconds, grabbing his collar with one hand and his arm with the other. I yanked him off her, slamming him against the opposite wall of the alley. He reeled around and fell to the ground, landing on his backside.
“What the—” When he looked up, he recognized me. His expression changed from surprise, to rage, to cagey neutrality.
A cluster of students had stopped to watch.
“What’s wrong with you?” I yelled at him, turning to the shaking girl. I knew Camille wouldn’t approve of my approach, but didn’t care.
Molly wiped her tears with her sleeves and straightened her clothing. Her hands shook badly.
My instinct was to put my arm around the girl and walk her to safety, but I didn’t dare touch her after what I’d seen. It might push her over the edge. “Are you okay, Molly? Do you want me to call the police?”
She took a deep breath, looked down, and shook her head. “I’m okay.”
“You bet she’s okay.” Armand’s expression oozed confidence. “We were just playing around, right, Molly?” His tone challenged her to back him up.
She seemed to collect herself, stood taller, and looked me in the eyes. Traces of fear still flitted across her face, but she held it back. “Yeah. I’m fine, really, Professor LeGarde. It’s okay.”
Armand approached her with an arrogant, self-satisfied smile.
He was about to drape his arm across her shoulder to claim his prize, but I couldn’t let him. I shoved his arm away and forced him up against the wall again. Fury boiled within me, born both of the outrage I felt for the girl, and fired by anger toward Camille’s ex-husband, who had similarly abused her years ago.
“That’s no way to treat a woman, Armand. You’re a vile, selfish bastard. If I ever hear that you’ve tried to force yourself on Molly again, I’ll personally see to it that you’re prosecuted for assault and attempted rape. In prison, you might find time to reflect on your behavior when you fight off the same kind of attention you’ve been giving to this fine young woman.”
Armand backed down. His muscles slackened and he looked away. I thought I saw his lower lip tremble, but it passed so quickly, I wasn’t sure. Molly recovered her poise and came to his rescue just as the horns started to honk where I’d abandoned my car.
“It’s really okay, Professor. He didn’t mean anything by it.”
She linked her arm in his, stroking the side of his face with the back of her hand. I searched her face for the truth, and felt my stomach drop. She wanted this jerk so much she’d tell lies for him and take his abuse.
I felt sick, shot Armand one last warning glare, and ran back to clear the traffic jam.
Chapter Twenty-Thre e
I arrived home depressed. After parking the car, I walked through a surprisingly quiet house and changed into my comfortable old tee shirt, khaki shorts, and flip-flops. It felt like summer again, but I wished my glorious mood when I’d left school hadn’t been ruined by what I’d seen.
I discovered our housekeeper, Mrs. Adelaide Pierce, in the backyard with Johnny and Max. She stood over a wicker laundry basket hanging sheets in the soft breeze. Although we had a commercial size dryer, Mrs. Pierce preferred the fresh-air method.
She waved to me and mumbled through the wooden clothespins clamped in her teeth. “You’re home early, Professor!”
“Couldn’t stay cooped up any longer on this gorgeous day, Adelaide.”
Johnny and Max burst through a billowing sheet and nearly knocked me over. My grandson hugged my legs and squealed. Max barked and jumped up on me.
I plopped down on the grass and hugged them both.
Max licked my face and Johnny talked a blue streak about his day. His warm brown eyes shone when he spoke. The boy would be three in January, and had begun to speak in paragraphs that astounded me.
“We played wid marbles, ‘n we made a pwaydough kitty, ‘n we drew pictures, ‘n we gave Max his vitamin—”
Max began to bark and run in circles. Johnny spoke louder, continuing to list his daily activities.
Mrs. Pierce brushed a lock of gray hair away from her face. The strengthening wind had dislodged it from its usual neat state. I tossed her a smile and received a sweet chuckle in return .
The woman had been a blessing to our family since we hired her. When Elsbeth’s cancer progressed to its last stage, Mrs. Pierce was brought in to manage the household duties so that Freddie, Siegfried, and I could spend more time nursing Elsbeth. At first, Mrs. Pierce just worked on household chores, but after a while, she helped us nurse my dying wife.
After Elsbeth’s passing, we asked Mrs. Pierce to stay on as housekeeper, and she moved into the downstairs bedroom shortly thereafter. When Johnny was born, she blossomed as a nanny. While Freddie and Siegfried were busy at the veterinary clinic, and I was deluged with classes and students, we felt comfortable knowing Johnny was in Mrs. Pierce's capable, loving hands.
I grabbed Johnny and kissed his cheeks over and over again until he finally squirmed out of my grasp and tried to climb over me. I lay back on the grass and he straddled my stomach. He flopped down on top of me and shrieked when I tickled his neck. The depression I felt after seeing Armand’s awful treatment of Molly slowly dissipated. Playing with my small companion on the warm grass was incredibly therapeutic.
“Hey, little buddy. Wanna ride on the tractor?”
The bare whisper of anything to do with vehicles inevitably stopped my grandson in his tracks. His head popped up and he jumped to his feet, pulling my hand to help me get up. “C’mon, Opa. Let’s go!”
Siegfried had assigned the German word for “Grandpa” to me when J
ohnny was born, in spite of my French-Canadian heritage. Johnny tugged my hand and ran toward the barn. I followed along beside him.
“Don’t let the wind catch you, Johnny! Don't let the wind catch you.”
He squealed and laughed, pumping his little legs as hard as he could, enjoying the game our family friend Millie Stone had taught me many years ago when she babysat me as a little boy.
“Don’t let da wind catch you, Opa. ”
We arrived breathless. I slid the barn door open, started up the old lawn tractor, and hooked it up to the garden cart. Johnny rode on my lap and we bumped along the lawn toward the gardens that ran the length of the horse paddock.
The main vegetable garden was forty-five by a hundred and twenty feet, and was packed with every available color and variety of vegetable. I’d become a collector, craving the new and exotic varieties as well as the tried and true old standbys. What we didn't freeze or eat fresh out of the garden, we gave away to friends. Gardening, and the giving of the excess produce, had become one of my favorite pastimes since Elsbeth’s death.
The herb garden grew in a corner of the paddock fence, along the west side of the plot. The mint had taken over. Like a fool, I’d planted every type of mint I could find—apple, ginger, pineapple, orange, and chocolate. I had squeezed them in between the thyme, oregano, tansy, Chinese lanterns, and sage. In my ardor to collect them all, I’d forgotten about the frenzied, spreading nature of the herb. I’d have to do some aggressive thinning in the spring.
Johnny helped me pull two-dozen dark red beets from a wide row flanking the corn patch.
“Are dose beets?” he asked.
I brushed the dirt from them. My little sidekick had absorbed a great deal of gardening lore from me. I often described the vegetables to him in a running commentary, including the Latin names and tidbits of information about each variety. “Yup. They’re beets, buddy.”
“Dey long beets?”
I stopped and looked into his serious little face. “What?”
“Long beets, Opa. Dey long beets?” he asked insistently.
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