The Lyre and the Lambs

by Sydney Avey

  “Raccoons,” Roger whispers in my ear. And we drop off.

  R

  This morning we are preparing for a day that will take us each in different directions. Danny has already gone to work. I thought Sophie had left too, but she comes back with the morning paper and a somber look on her face.

  “There are cop cars at the Santorini’s. Cops are all over the yard.”

  “Why? What happened?” I’m imagining vandalism or burglary.

  “I don’t know. I have to go, or I’ll be late for my first day.” She dashes back out the door. Roger and I barely have time to look at each other before the doorbell rings.

  We expect it’s the police canvassing the neighborhood for witnesses to whatever happened. I hope Marjorie and Carlo are okay.

  “Maybe it’s a medical emergency,” I whisper to Roger.

  “I wouldn’t think that would bring the police to our door.” Roger opens the door and Detective Ramos and his partner are standing there. “What’s happened?”

  Despite his practiced professional demeanor, the detective looks grim. “That’s what we are trying to determine.”

  “Are Carlo and Marj okay?” I flash back to the first moment I saw Fred hanging lifeless in a tree. What do we need to prepare ourselves to see?

  “Mr. And Mrs. Santorini are okay. We’d like your permission to search your yard.”

  “Sure, go ahead.” Roger starts to follow them, but the detective asks us to stay inside while they complete their investigation. Across the street, I see the neighbors gathering.

  Not again. I put a hand on Roger’s arm and draw him back into the house. “Let’s just stay inside until they finish, and then I’m sure they’ll tell us what’s going on.”

  We walk into the living room. Andy and Valerie have just come out of their room. We tell them what little we know. We stand at the patio window and watch the unreal unfold. Down by the creek, a team of uniformed policemen are picking through the brush. We can’t hear what they are saying, but one of them has found something behind the grove of fruit trees. He motions to the others and soon one of them is snapping photographs while two others spread yellow tape around the trees.

  “What could they possibly have found?” I whisper.

  Valerie and I are holding on to each other. Roger and Andy are talking quietly. The doorbell rings. Roger and Andy go and this time Detective Ramos asks if he and his partner can come in. The others are walking down the driveway to meet an ambulance that has just pulled up.

  The men stand in the hallway. Valerie and I hang back, listening. The detective moves his eyes from face to face.

  “Who is the homeowner here, is it you Mr. Russell?”

  “Actually, my wife and I own the home.” Andy steps up. “Ander Ibarra. You were here a few months ago when someone fired a shot into our front window. My wife, Valerie,” he gestures in Valerie’s direction but does not call her to join the group. “As you can see, she’s expecting a baby any time now. I don’t want her upset.”

  Valerie straightens up. I realize we have both been hunched over, protecting ourselves against whatever bad news is about to come. Valerie moves to stand next to Andy. I follow her into the circle.

  “We all need to hear whatever you are going to say.” She raises her chin and puts her hand into Andy’s.

  Detective Ramos adjusts his posture, planting his feet apart on the tile. “We’ve found a body under the trees on your property.” He looks at our faces to see how we are digesting his words. “And, we found something else.” He looks at Andy. “Does anyone in this house own a gun?”

  PART III—Manu Forti

  PART III

  Manu Forti

  A Crime

  A Crime

  This past week has been a nightmare. The story made all the dailies as well as radio and television news.

  LOS ALTOS, CA The unidentified body of a young male who appears to have been in his early twenties was found Sunday morning in an orchard behind the Glass House on Lundy Lane. No information about the cause of death has been made available pending a police investigation, but neighbor Carlo Santorini told reporters he alerted the police after he found his prize pit bull dead from a gunshot wound in his front yard.

  The report went on to give a history of the house and a litany of our troubles with the neighbors, complete with interviews. Without making any direct accusations, Carlo and Gunther made references to strange comings and goings and wild parties.

  “We’re not even sure who lives there,” Gunther was quoted as saying. But the reporters had no trouble figuring that out. They named all of us.

  After the police questioned us about the gun they found down in the orchard, Roger went to the garage to check the lockbox for his .22 caliber revolver. He came back looking grim and pulled me aside, out of earshot of the rest of the family.

  “The box is open and the gun is missing.”

  “How could that be?”

  It was then that Roger whispered a confession to me, and in my mind’s eye I saw a courtroom, a judge, and a jail cell. He told me that Sophie had asked him to teach her how to fire a gun and he had obliged. They had taken the small revolver up into the hills several times.

  “I always lock it up after target practice, but I may have intended to clean it and gotten distracted.”

  “So, if the gun they found in the orchard is your gun, it will have at least two sets of fingerprints on it, yours and Sophie’s.”

  “That’s beside the point. Obviously someone took my gun from the garage.”

  We were interrupted when Andy came into the kitchen to investigate the whispering, Sophie right behind him. I looked beyond them and saw Valerie slumped on the sofa looking ill. The fear descending on us had the acrid smell of gunfire.

  Roger grabbed my arm in warning, so I said nothing.

  “I think...,” Andy paused until he knew he had everyone’s attention, “it would be best if we didn’t speculate on what might have happened until we at least know whose body is down there and how they died.”

  “I agree. Let’s not jump to any conclusions.” Roger’s breathing returned to normal and my racing heart slowed a bit.

  Of course, now we know.

  Missing

  Missing

  It could have been almost anybody who crawled up from the creek on Halloween night and died in the tall grass behind the Italian plum tree that Carlo butchered last spring. But I guess I’ve known from the beginning the most likely candidate was Scott Schwartz. We have been interviewed at length by the police. All they will say is that the gun the police found matches the description Roger gave of his revolver and that several sets of fingerprints were found on the weapon, but they won’t say whose. Scott’s death has been ruled suspicious, so there will be an inquest to consider the evidence. Andy explains the obvious choices; an accident, a suicide, or a homicide. It’s the details we don’t know that agitate and make sleep impossible.

  No one has actually said that Scott died from a gunshot wound. Is Petey’s killing connected? It must be, but I can’t figure out how. If it was Roger’s gun that was found in the orchard—and the police aren’t saying that it is—how did it get there? I refuse to believe that Roger or Sophie had anything to do with Scott’s death. It must be drug related. Dee, a child is dead.

  A young man has lost his life. In my anger and frustration over Scott’s behavior, I judged him irredeemable. And as hard a man as Walter Schwartz is, grief pours from him like water from a broken water main. He came to us the day he was notified that his only son was dead and asked to see the place where Scott was found. Roger and I walked him down to the orchard and the big man fell to his knees and sobbed.

  “I was too hard on him.” Walter made no attempt to clear away the tears that sheeted down his normally stony face. “I thought if I was tough on him I could force him to grow up and be a man.”

  The thought of Walter’s naked pain drives me to my knees, where I stay until I have prayed every prayer I
can think of for a father’s grief and a son’s tragic end. Strangely, Walter has never suggested that any of us bear any responsibility for his son’s death. He has taken it all on himself.

  When I come to the end of pain and prayer I pull myself up into my bedroom chair. Filled with peace, I determine I will not try to solve this mystery. I will let God sort it out.

  I leave my bedroom and cross through the atrium, stopping to stroke old Puffy. Pets are such a comfort. Valerie walks through the front door and joins me in this space that serves as a crossroad in our busy household. She runs her fingers through her hair that is thick and shiny with pregnancy. “Mom, I’ve just heard the oddest thing. Lukas Dold has gone missing.”

  R

  Quiet as a grave, that is how the neighborhood has been. News of fifteen-year-old Lukas’ disappearance spreads like a virulent strain of influenza and our neighbors begin to react. Most stay home and stay indoors, but snippets of mailbox conversations float over the hedge:

  --I heard that boy had been shot to death.

  --What? Lukas Dold?

  --No, the boy Carlo found dead under the tree on the Moraga place.

  --Carlo found Scott? I thought Carlo called the police because his dog had been shot, and they found Scott when they investigated.

  And:

  --Do you suppose whoever murdered Scott killed Lukas too, and they just haven’t found his body yet?

  --Well, more than one person in that house might have had a reason to shoot Scott. He was going after the niece and selling drugs out of their garage. Nobody would have a reason to shoot Lukas, unless maybe he somehow got in the way.

  --Maybe that’s why the dog got shot. Maybe he got in the way.

  --He was on a tether. How could that be?

  And on and on it goes; I try not to listen. Cars drive by and slow down when they pass our house. We get phone calls from news reporters in San Francisco who want to ask us questions. Worse, they want to come out and take our pictures! We say no. We tell them nothing. We have no answers. I have talked to both Laura and Mike on the phone and told them not to come to the house. We have quarantined ourselves, infected by the feeling that we must be guilty of something.

  Valerie retreats into herself and I walk around the house rubbing my fingers together. Despite our pleas, David has stopped going to his classes at Stanford. He spends all his time in the garage working on his invention, but he keeps the garage door closed. Only Danny and Andy go about business as usual. Andy insists that it is important to maintain a normal routine, as much for the sake of our sanity as for appearances. Danny is not one to back down from what he sees as a fight; Moraga pride and stubbornness fire on all burners inside him. Now I understand why Alaya thought she needed to send him to us.

  Sophie surprises us all. Instead of retreating to her room, she reports to her new job. Then she quietly informs us that she thinks it best if she stays at Laura’s house for a while, until the truth comes out. What can she possibly mean by that? I don’t get a chance to ask her because she is packed and gone before the questions form in my brain. It is David who loads her boxes into the car and drives her over to Laura’s.

  Roger frets about David and spends a lot of time at his desk. Each day I walk into my studio knowing I will not be able to work but hoping I can summon energy for some mindless organizational task. I feel like a creature that needs to shed a brittle layer of dead skin, a death that clings to my bones when it is meant to drop away. I can’t breathe.

  Enough.

  I open the door, go into the living room, and turn on the lights against the gloom of this winter’s morning. Andy and Danny are preparing to leave the house but I stop them.

  “Please Andy, go get Valerie and come here for a few minutes. Danny, you too.” Danny looks at his watch. “It’s okay; I won’t make you late for work.”

  I scurry across to our room, push open the door, and tell Roger I’m calling a family meeting. Then I swing back through the kitchen and shove the door to the garage open just enough to call for David. When we are all seated in the living room, I regard the faces of these people I love, take a deep breath, and begin.

  “We can’t go on like this. We are letting a bad situation tear us apart.” I look at their faces, each one a blank mask, a thin disguise for the fear, confusion, grief, and despair we all feel in different proportions. “We have to pull together and be a family, and the only way I know how to do that is to pray.” The masks drop from their faces. If it’s possible, they look even more scared. Andy squirms in his seat. Roger looks at the clock. Valerie slumps her shoulders and drops her gaze to her knees, barely visible past her huge belly. David sits stone still. Danny smiles.

  “That’s a good idea, Aunt Dee. I’ll start.” I’d forgotten that Danny often sat in on Mike’s sessions with the boys. With his Catholic upbringing and recent exposure to Mike’s way of dropping a hand on a troubled boy’s shoulder and talking to God on the young man’s behalf, my request does not strike my nephew as strange. We all bend our heads and Danny covers all the bases. He asks for peace and protection for our family, comfort for Walter, and answers to what happened. Valerie interrupts the Amen to pray that Lukas be found safe and well. Andy contributes familiar sounding words that acknowledge God’s power in all situations and asks for blessing and mercy. I sneak a peek at Roger who sits stiff and silent, and then I get up to go kneel in front of Valerie. I place my hands on her belly and feel the undulating thumps and bumps of this baby-in-waiting. Valerie places her soft, warm, dry hands on top of mine. I pray for a safe delivery for my grandchild and restored joy in our home.

  There are tears and hugs and as we all begin our day the sun breaks through the fog. It comes dancing through the window and sparkles in the crystal that frames three portraits hinged together: Alonso on the left, Leora on the right, and in the center, a baby picture of two little girls, taken before our parents split us up.

  To the Hills

  To the Hills

  Roger is back in our room, sitting at his desk doodling a pencil around in his ledger. He swivels around to face me.

  “Dee, do you think I had something to do with Scott’s murder?”

  “No!” I go to him and sit down in his lap. I wrap my arms around his neck and whisper in his ear, no, and in this moment I believe it. His shoulders relax and he slips his arms around my waist and hugs me as if I were a lost child he has found.

  “I’ve watched you disappear.” He releases his grasp on me.

  “I know. It’s an old habit, a legacy from Leora. She always shut her door against trouble.” I slip off his lap and we both move to the chairs where we’ve shared so many conversations.

  Roger raises his chin and stares off at the ceiling as if trying to decide whether to tell me something or not. After what feels like a full minute he faces me and levels his voice.

  “Mike and I were playing golf last week and he suggested that I read the Psalms.”

  The amount of information packed in that sentence fights in my brain for a proper response, but my tongue is on the job first. I can’t believe the words that come out of my mouth.

  “Father Mike plays golf?”

  Roger cocks his head and looks at me like I’m some exotic bird who has opened its beak and delivered a soliloquy in a foreign language. He bats the distraction away with his hand.

  “And so, I’ve been reading the Psalms and I found a verse that makes a lot of sense to me in our situation. This is probably not word for word, but the Psalmist said, ‘I lift up my eyes to the hills, from whence comes my hope.’“

  “How does that apply to our situation?”

  “Instead of drawing into ourselves and worrying about what the neighbors might be thinking and saying, we need to go on with business as usual.” Roger stands up and takes my hand. He pulls me up and leads me out to our patio. Putting his arm around my shoulder, he points up toward the Santa Cruz Mountain Range that hugs our valley.

  “When I look up, I know that with God�
�s help we will get through this.” He pulls me in front of him, puts his hands on my shoulders, and directs my attention westward.

  “We need to look past this awful thing that has happened and know that we have hope and a future.”

  All this time I’ve spent worrying about what Roger is thinking, he has spent searching the Scriptures for answers. I interpreted his silence as anger and fear. I forgot that Roger is a man who always looks for a solution. I turn to face him.

  “Roger, we don’t know that Scott was murdered.”

  “You are worried Sophie might have done it.”

  Roger does not say this as a question or an accusation, but more like lifting a rock and letting naked worms twist in confusion under bright light.

  “She acted so strange. She was so calm, and then she was gone.”

  “Calm, yes, that’s her nature. And I think it makes perfect sense that she would move in with Laura.”

  “Why do you think that?” Why would Sophie choose to go to Laura for solace instead of me?

  “Dee, you were the one who suggested to Sophie that she spend time with Laura when this whole mess with Scott started.”

  I’d forgotten that.

  “Besides, things are a little hot for her here right now. She’s in love with David.”

  That I did not know.

  Life Goes On

  Life Goes On

  Although my heart feels heavy and numb, anxiety retreats to some back room in my soul and I begin to move like a stiff-limbed gazelle across the plain of my days, gaining strength and ease with each step I take. I have no solution for the mystery of Scott’s death. I have no advice for Sophie or David.

  I push the Hoover across the floor and reorganize the kitchen cabinets to make room for the entourage of bottles, nipples and formula that will accompany Its Eminence’s arrival. I call Laura to invite her and Mike and Sophie to dinner.

  David takes midterms at Stanford but he still spends most of his time in the garage. These days, Roger keeps the garage door open. Yoshi Tanaka drops by several times a week to offer over-the-shoulder consulting to David, who is increasingly secretive about his project. Most of the neighbors stay away, but if the garage door is up when Ivy and Jerry are out for a stroll, they walk down the driveway and chat for a minute with whoever is around. That’s how we learn that the County Sheriff has organized a search party to go up into the hills and look for Lukas.