by Sydney Avey
All eyes are on me. “The word is out that Lukas is being released today without charges. He’s coming home.”
R
Every time I regain some balance, something comes around the corner and knocks me back off my feet. What I wanted to talk to Roger about at dinner last night was house hunting. Instead, we talked about the kids. Now Roger is trolling the auto parts store with Mike and I’m outside on a chilly November morning tending my winter garden, mulching perennials in the flower bed, my chest as tight and closed as new cabbage.
Danny has gone off with Andy to call Alaya. I know I should have gone with them and gotten on the phone with my sister, but all I have to say right now is I’m sorry. I’m sorry we didn’t grow up together. I’m sorry that more often it is trouble that draws us together, not joy. I want to tell her about Miren, gossip about the boys’ business and budding romances, surprise her with my plan to find a house with a guest room with her name on it. I don’t want to burden her with my worries that if Lukas had nothing to do with Scott’s death, the police will likely start looking at us again.
A flood of questions fill my head. Why didn’t we urge the boys to get the citizenship process going? How can we stay in this house when the people next door blame us for killing their dog and the people across the street blame us for involving their innocent son? I feel like Jacob wrestling with the Angel of God, but I’m beyond asking for a blessing. I want resolution and peace. That’s not true, I do want a blessing. I want a blessing for our children and our grandchildren. I don’t want the mistakes our parents made to be visited on our children in the form of lost love and shattered lives. And there is no one I can talk to about these feelings.
Talk to Me.
I lay my trowel aside. Knees nestling in my gardening pillow, I lean back on my heels and slow my breathing. Silence fills my ears and the space around me expands. I sit like this for a full minute. Then my thoughts reform themselves as I offer them up. Lord, I can’t imagine how this will all work out, but You are good. I will watch you work these disasters together for our good, in the way that only You can. Give me courage to face this day.
As if a low watt bulb received a jolt of current, courage fills me with a mixture of peace and excitement. What am I doing in the garden? I should be in the place I haven’t been for months, my art studio. I toss my garden gloves and trowel into the old galvanized bucket I found down by the creek after the fire and stash them in the garage. Then I spend the rest of the morning in my studio, sketching ideas for a new collage series. I’m trying to add a new dimension to my work, the sound of silence.
R
A soft tap on my studio door pulls me from a creative space in my head I’ve been plugged into for several hours. Images playing before my eyes float off and I blink hard to refocus my attention. I open the door and Valerie stands there, Miren settled in the crook of one arm, a cup of tea extended with the other. She must have tapped on the door with her foot. Motherhood is such a juggling act. I take the cup of tea and follow her into the kitchen. She picks up her mug and motions me with her head to follow her.
“When I went outside to get the mail, I noticed a news truck parked up the street.”
I move around her to open the front door. Bright sunlight stings my eyes. Outside, the gloom of the morning has lifted and cottony pieces pulled apart by an invisible hand wisp across a bluing sky. We walk up the driveway and peek around the hedge.
“My guess is they are waiting for Lukas to come home,” Valerie whispers, tucking the sleeping baby’s blanket more closely around her. Miren looks like a little sausage in pink casing resting on the plate of her mother’s shoulder.
I reach over to adjust Miren’s knit cap so her ears are covered. “If they were here to talk to us, they would have come to the door, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know what to think.” Valerie adjusts the weight of the sleeping baby. “Let’s go back inside.”
A cloud passes overhead, blocking the sun and darkening the street. From around the corner, the Dold’s white Ford Fairlane station wagon comes into view. They must have spotted the TV truck because the car speeds into the driveway and Kay jumps out, key in hand, before the car stops just short of the garage door.
“I’ll bet they wish they had an automatic garage door,” Valerie whispers in my ear.
Water splashes on my cheek. I put my hand out and turn my face upward. A fat drop lands in the middle of my forehead. “It’s starting to rain. Go on in the house. I want to stay here for a few minutes.”
Valerie bends her body over the baby and hustles down the driveway through the open door, passing Puffy who sits on the low step. Puffy is on robin watch. Robins rain dance on the grass, waiting for the worms to crawl out of their holes and skate on the wet walk. Easy pickings; I’m about to witness a lot of skating about.
Boofus barks from inside the house and before Valerie has a chance to shut the door, I slap the side of my leg, a signal to him to come. He scrambles to my side and we watch the melee begin.
While Kay struggles with the padlock, a bearded young man emerges from the truck. He hauls out a video camera that is attached by a heavy cable to somewhere inside the truck, hoists it onto his shoulder and walks down the street behind a woman holding a microphone. From inside the car Gunther yells at Kay to hurry up, which just slows her down. Boofus wiggles and whines. I wait until just before the woman crosses in front of me and then I slide the toe of my shoe underneath Boofus and give him a little shove in her direction. He takes off barking and wagging his tail, startling the reporter who turns a pair of frightened blue eyes on me.
“Oh he won’t hurt you,” I say, “but Gunther might if you bother him right now.”
She narrows her eyes and the cameraman behind her starts flipping switches. I hold her attention by babbling some nonsense while Boofus dances circles around her, causing her to trip on the cord that dangles from the microphone as she tries to step out of his way. I purposely do not look over at the Dolds until the garage door creaks open, tires screech and Gunther guns the car into the garage, barely missing Kay. Kay runs around behind the car and, with Herculean effort, pulls on a rope to lower the heavy door.
The reporter looks like a fisherman who has just watched a salmon slip off the hook. She drops her arm and holds it stiffly to her side, gripping the microphone even as she composes her face into friendly interest in what I might have to say.
I slap my thigh and say, “Come, Boofus!” Come inside and mama will get you a treat. “Bad Doggie!”
I exaggerate my voice into an invitation to play. He lowers his chest, splays his short legs out in front of him, hikes up his rear and whips his tail back and forth, yipping and sneezing.
Reporter girl walks toward me and camera guy follows, still fiddling with buttons and switches. She bends over to pick up the microphone cord and then straightens up and jabs the loose end into a camera slot and purrs at me. “You are the owner of the house where Scott Schwartz was found murdered, aren’t you?”
Anger shoots through me, but I match her measured speech.
“There has been no such finding,” I say. Then I bend down and scoop up Boofus. I hold him close to my cheek and baby talk at him, “We have to get this little guy inside before he catches a cold.” At that very moment, the sky lights up, thunder cracks, and clouds break over our heads.
“Give me your jacket, Lois, I can’t let this camera get wet,” the cameraman yells at reporter girl, who peels off an expensive trench coat, tangling her microphone cord in her sleeve.
I tuck Boofus up under my shoulder and run for the front door.
A Waiting Game
A Waiting Game
A flash of light pops through the sky and distant drumming crescendos just outside the back window, shaking the glass and startling the baby. Her little body shudders and settles back into sleep in the travel bed that has become a permanent fixture in the living room.
The front door flies open and Andy and Danny stom
p in with Roger and Father Mike at their heels. The noise level rises with the testosterone. I place a finger to my lips, shift my eyes toward the little hand that has shot up out of the baby bed and glare a warning at the horde of Huns advancing toward the living room.
“I got through to Mom.” Danny peels off his dripping jacket and tosses it through the door to his bedroom where it lands on a pile of laundry.
Still in their coats, Father Mike reaches out and pats my arm as he follows Roger to the coffee pot.
Andy slips out of his rain gear and arranges it neatly on the coat tree. He joins Valerie by the baby bed, circles his arm around her waist and pulls her to him to kiss her cheek.
“We got a lot done this morning.” Andy grabs a hold of the little hand waving in the air. “I started the paperwork for both boys to apply for citizenship. It’s a long process, so best to get moving.”
This is chaos. My eyes meet Valerie’s. We are like two referees trying to agree on how to call a play. She holds up her hand.
“Whoa, gentlemen; one at a time, please. Let’s sit down and take turns. Mom goes first.”
Valerie scoops Miren out of her bed and settles into her rocker, adjusting clothing and blankets so she can nurse her squirmy child. Roger and Mike take the cue, remove their coats and sit on the couch, scooting forward in the deep cushioned seat. I perch myself on the arm of the sofa while Andy turns up the gas in the fireplace and takes a seat by Danny on the low tiled hearth.
“Okay, it appears that the Dolds brought Lukas home about an hour ago. A TV news truck was parked in front of their house, waiting for them but we managed to avoid talking to them.”
“We?” Andy raises an eyebrow.
I explain what I saw and the diversion I created that allowed the Dolds to slip into the house without a confrontation.
Roger pats my knee.
“Why haven’t we heard from the police?” Valerie shifts Miren to her other breast. “Wouldn’t you think they owe us some sort of explanation?”
Father Mike clears his throat. “I think you will hear something very soon. A detective has already been to see Councilman Schwartz.”
I frown and ask him how he knows that. Only then does Father Mike tell us he has been meeting with Walter for a number of weeks.
“You never mentioned that. Why?” Father Mike drops his chin and cocks his head at me and then I get it. “You’ve been counseling Walter?”
All eyes are on Father Mike. He sits up straight and sighs. “I had hoped that the events surrounding Scott’s death would have been sorted out by now. I think they have, but that information has to come from the police. Walter has asked me to arrange a meeting between him and all of you. He wants to talk to you.”
The hairs on my arms stand up. I shift position on the rough fabric arm of the chair and sparks literally fly. “He knows what happened, doesn’t he.”
Father Mike gives a slight nod of his head. “Most of it, yes, but you need to hear the truth from the police or from Walter. I’d like to bring him by the house this afternoon.”
R
My stomach is in knots. Father Mike has gone back home, promising to return later in the afternoon with Walter. Is this a good idea? And where is home for Father Mike these days? On semester break from the seminary, he plays golf with Roger, canoodles with Laura, and now it seems he’s been getting cozy with Walter. My world is like dice in a cup. I shake the cup, drop the dice, and one set of numbers comes up. The next round a whole different set of numbers come up. Too much is happening all at once.
Andy and Valerie have slipped down the hallway to their room with Miren. Roger is in the kitchen making sandwiches. I slide off the sofa arm into the seat, brace my back against the back cushion, and stretch out my legs. Only Danny is left in the room with me. Danny! I never asked him what Alaya said. I look over at my nephew.
Puffy has sneaked into the room and flopped over in front of Danny, her prodigious stomach on display. Danny pokes at her gently while the cat twitches from side to side in a mock attempt to snag his finger.
“Danny, I’m so sorry. What did your mother say?”
“About?” A teasing grin spreads across his face. I meet his expression with a contrite smile and fold my hands in my lap, a promise to listen.
“Well...,” he stands up and comes over to sit beside me. I turn and look into a face bright with hope. Maybe we’ve rolled a seven come eleven at last.
“It’s mostly good news, I think. I honestly thought Dom was going to spend the rest of his life in jail. Ever since the ETA declared their mission was independence from Spain at their first assembly, which was a couple of years ago, there has been dissension over strategy and tactics. Even though support for independence is high, the support for violence is low. But when the Spanish government came down so harshly on the movement they stirred things up. I’m not making excuses for what my brother did, but his motivation was a deep love for our land.”
“I believe that.” I put my hand over Danny’s. “But how is it that he is free?”
Danny shrugs. “My dad paid someone. That’s all I know.”
I let this sink in for a minute. “What happens now?”
“Dad is taking Domeka to somewhere in South America where he has friends. Then he will come back. Alone.”
A stab of pain pierces my heart. My sister is losing both her boys. “How is your mother taking this, Danny?”
“Bravely.”
“Should you go back? Should I go with you?”
Danny swallows. “No, Aunt Dee. Mom and I agreed that my life is here now. Jobs are scarce in Navarra. The opportunities are here.”
History repeats itself. Danny’s grandfather Alonso, my father, fled the United States back to Navarra because he was at the scene of a murder caused by a deadly conflict between oilmen, cattlemen and sheep herders. The sins of the father... But Alonso was guiltless. Not entirely. Iban and Alonso were profiting from an activity that caused economic chaos, driving up the price of real estate so the oil companies could hold the land until they were ready to drill. Alonso took the fall, went home, and ultimately profited. Iban stayed in the United States, and profited. What did it profit my sister and me? We were torn apart when our parents split us up. Still, we have both done well.
“Will your connection to this situation stand in your way?”
“It shouldn’t. The ETA is strictly a local movement. No Basques in this country support this kind of violence. Americans aren’t the kind of people who believe a person should be condemned for his family’s activities. I learned that in my citizenship classes.”
My eyes widen.
“I started classes six months ago.”
A Confession
A Confession
It’s too quiet. I ignore the pile of lunch dishes sitting in the sink the same way I’ve ignored the laundry spilling out of the hamper. The clock ticking in the empty kitchen drives me back to our bedroom where Roger sits at his desk, sorting bills. He doesn’t look up. I sit in my chair and try to get interested in a real estate magazine. My foot jiggles. My arm itches.
“I think we should call the police department.”
“Hmm.” Roger doesn’t turn around.
“Roger, I’m going to call Detective Ramos.” My chair complains as I rise and head for the door. Roger spins away from his desk and calls me back.
“Dee, I don’t think that’s a good idea. The police have been very forthcoming through this whole process.”
“This isn’t a process, Roger, it’s our lives! The police haven’t been forthcoming, they’ve been equivocal.”
“What does that mean?”
“Exactly! There are so many holes in the story the police have told us, we have no idea what it means that Lukas has been released and that Father Mike is dragging Walter over here to tell us why. I don’t want to hear Walter’s version of what happened. Walter doesn’t tell the truth.” My head feels like a teakettle whistling steam.
Roger raises his ha
nd to his chin, inches his fingers around and starts massaging the back of his neck. His voice is a low warning. “I know this is hard, but I think we need to trust...”
“The process?”
“I think we need to trust God and not go ahead of Him.” Roger drops his hands to his sides, straightens his shoulders and searches my eyes with some kind of radar I can’t resist. “We’ll get the truth.”
My shoulders slump and Roger reaches out and pulls me close. I didn’t realize how cold I am until his arms close around me and I breathe in the warmth of chest. We stand like this for a moment, relaxing into each other, until a knock at the front door breaks the spell.
Andy’s footsteps down the hall give me a moment to wipe my eyes and run a comb through my hair. Feet scrape lightly across the atrium. Inaudible whispers tell me the taped doorbell must have alerted our visitors to the need for quiet in the house. I half hope it is Laura coming to see the baby, but I know better.
Roger raises an eyebrow and nods in the direction of our closed bedroom door. I take a deep breath and pray a silent thy will be done. Then I open the door and walk out in front of Roger, clear-eyed and regal with self-possession. What have I been thinking to let the likes of Walter Schwartz drive a truck through my heart?
Roger and I enter the living room just as Andy is expressing his regret that the entire family isn’t present. Valerie is out grocery shopping and the young people aren’t home either.
“It’s okay.” He raises his head when he hears us. Walter’s normally booming voice is muted. The man looks like he’s aged ten years. A weak sun shines down through the skylight and casts shadows beneath great bags under his eyes. I don’t know what I expected to see, but not this ghoulish sadness.
Roger and I sit on the hearth and Roger takes my hand. Father Mike sits next to Walter on the couch. He sets a hand down on Walter’s knee and the slumped man jerks like a marionette tangled in string. Walter clears his throat and attempts a rueful smile, but his facial muscles are having none of it. It’s as if gravity exerts twice the normal pull on him. He is literally heavy with grief.