The Popsicle Tree

by Dorien Grey

  Our first full night at home after our trip—Saturday didn’t count, since we were busy unpacking and coming down from the travel and the entire vacation—was really nice, with just the two of us. We had dinner, watched some TV, and went to bed early, partly because Jonathan, while we were reminiscing about the trip, mentioned the very attentive—and very handsome—flight attendant on our return flight, suggested we might play a new game he called The Horny Passenger and The Accommodating Flight Attendant. Talk about the Friendly Skies…!

  *

  One of the first things I did when I got to the office Tuesday morning—after attending to my coffee/newspaper/crossword puzzle routine—was to look in the phone book for the address of one Dean Arbuckle. Since he’d been off the day before, I hoped he’d be at work, but wanted to be sure before I drove over to Cramer’s. I took a chance and dialed the number. A woman answered.

  “Is Mr. Arbuckle in?” I asked, hoping that he wasn’t—if he was, I’d just hang up.

  In the background I could hear children arguing. There was a moment’s pause while the woman covered the mouthpiece and said something to the children, then came back on. “No, he’s at work. Can I help you with something?”

  “No, thank you. I’ll try to reach him there. Good-bye,” and I hung up before she could ask anything else.

  On a whim, I consulted the phone book again and wrote down the address, then looked for the number and address of Judi Cramer. There was no Judi Cramer listed, though there were two “J. Cramers. I wrote them both down. Since I didn’t know whether Judi worked every day, I didn’t try calling either number—if a woman answered I wouldn’t know if it was her or a “J. Cramer’s” wife without asking, and I didn’t want to have it be her and then have to try to explain why I was calling.

  Instead, I decided to take a drive out past Dean Arbuckle’s house, to see if there might be any immediately visible evidence indicating a lifestyle above what I might assume to be a normal used-car salesman’s means—whatever in hell that might be.

  He lived, I saw from looking at the city map I keep in my desk, on the north side of town, near the river. It was a nice day for a drive, and I took my time.

  The Arbuckles lived on a quiet residential street of neatly kept homes. The house I was looking for was much like its neighbors: fake shutters flanking the windows, a twin-dormer roof, and a red-brick sidewalk to the front door. As I drove slowly past, I looked down the driveway to the neat two-car garage at the rear of the house, with a basketball hoop over the open double retractable door. The one side of the garage was empty. In the other I caught a glimpse of the grill and front end of what looked to be an expensive and obviously new sports car. I drove around the block and came back, approaching the house from the other direction. Sure enough, that’s what it was. A convertible, yet!

  Well, it appeared that Dean Arbuckle must be an awfully good salesman to afford a wife, a couple of kids, a nice house, and two cars. (I assumed he drove to work, which meant he had the second car with him. I wondered how new it was.)

  On my way back to the office, I drove through The Central and down the alley behind Cramer Motors. Four cars were parked directly behind the office building; one, a late-model Cadillac—Cramer’s, probably—a last-year’s model Chevy, an older station wagon, and a Volkswagen around three to five years old. I wondered if Cramer knew Arbuckle had a nice new car in his garage. I tended to doubt it.

  *

  That evening, as we sat watching the evening news before dinner, Jonathan, who had beat me home again—his friend Kyle at work apparently had a girlfriend living near us—said, “Would you mind if I asked Carlene down for coffee and cake after dinner? I don’t know if she has any friends around here, and I think you’d really like meeting her.”

  I set my Manhattan on the coffee table and smiled at him. “And Kelly?” I added. Sometimes I could read him like a book.

  He looked a little like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Uh, well, yeah, of course. We could make it right after dinner since I imagine Kelly probably has to be in bed pretty early.”

  “Sure, if you’d like.”

  “Great! I’ll run up and ask her, okay?” He said this even as he was getting up from the couch and putting his Coke down next to my Manhattan.

  “Okay,” I said as he reached the door.

  He was back within two minutes.

  “They’re just having dinner now, but she said that would be nice. They’ll be down around seven.”

  Sitting back down, he picked up his Coke.

  “Cake?” I said, taking up where we’d left off. “We have cake?”

  “Yeah. There’s that new bakery right near work, and we don’t have cake very often, so I thought…”

  Uh huh.

  “Well, I’m glad you did, especially since kids love cake.”

  He blushed. “That transparent, huh?”

  I just nodded and smiled.

  “So I like kids!”

  I reached around his shoulders with my free arm and pulled him toward me.

  “I know, Babe.”

  The news ended and I followed him into the kitchen to set the table while he finished getting dinner ready.

  At exactly seven o’clock, as I was drying the last plate and putting it in the cupboard, there was a knock at the door and Jonathan hurried to open it.

  “Hi, Carlene,” I heard him say. “Hi, Kelly! Come on in.”

  I came into the living room just as Jonathan was gesturing a rather pretty young woman and a curly-haired little boy toward the couch. The boy was carrying a toy dump truck.

  “Hi, Carlene. I’m Dick.”

  She extended her hand and smiled, which made her even more attractive.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Dick.”

  “And you,” I said to the boy, “are Kelly.” I extended my hand and, after a quick look at his mother, he let the truck fall to the floor and we shook hands.

  Carlene sat down, and Kelly, leaving his truck on the floor, scrambled up beside her, leaning against her shoulder and looking all around.

  “Is this your house?” he asked.

  “Yes it is,” Jonathan said.

  “Do you have a little boy?”

  Jonathan gave me a…shall we say “significant” look before turning to Kelly and saying, “No, I’m sorry, we don’t.”

  You’re in for it now, Hardesty, I knew.

  *

  Jonathan made a quick trip to the kitchen to check on the coffee, then returned and sat beside Kelly on the couch.

  “Okay if I sit here?” he asked the boy.

  “Sure!” Kelly said, immediately scooting off the couch to play with his dump truck and leaving Jonathan, Carlene, and me to get acquainted.

  Carlene and her girlfriend had moved to Carrington, where Carlene’s sister lived, and where Jared taught at the college, about a year before. She and her girlfriend had been together since before Kelly was born. I gathered, from her reluctance to talk too much about it, that they had broken up very recently and she and Kelly had moved here. She’d found a job almost immediately, and had lived in a furnished apartment until she was able to buy a few basic pieces of furniture, then moved into our building. Kelly was enrolled in a day care/preschool run by a pair of lesbian sisters for the kids of gay parents. (Another significant look from Jonathan.)

  When we adjourned to the kitchen, Kelly immediately spotted and headed for Jonathan’s fish tank.

  “Look, Mommy! They got fishes!” he proclaimed, standing on tiptoe trying to touch the tank. Jonathan scooped him up easily and held him in one arm as he pointed out each fish by name. Carlene looked at me with a bemused smile, and I excused myself to go to the bedroom to retrieve an empty hardcover suitcase to put on Kelly’s chair so he could reach the table.

  *

  They left shortly before eight, and we finished cleaning up the kitchen, and then went into the living room to watch a little TV. Jonathan had been uncharacteristically quiet, and I was pre
tty sure I knew why.

  “That was nice, wasn’t it?”

  “Yeah,” and, before he had a chance to say it, I added, “and Kelly was very well-behaved. Except perhaps for bursting into tears when Carlene wouldn’t let him give the fish some of his cake. But Carlene must be exhausted by the end of the day. I suspect four-year-olds can be quite a handful.”

  He looked at me out of the corner of his eye, but didn’t say anything. It wasn’t a very happy look.

  You’re a real wet blanket, Hardesty, a mind-voice said disapprovingly, and I felt just mildly guilty for not being as enthusiastic as I’m sure Jonathan wanted me to be.

  I was curious to know more about Carlene—whether she’d been married, who and where Kelly’s father was, about the breakup with her partner, which I gathered had not been a smooth one…of course none of it was any of my business, but that didn’t make me any the less curious.

  *

  I got up the next morning well before seven, managed to get out of bed without waking Jonathan, showered and dressed. I then woke him so he could get ready for work.

  “How come you’re already dressed?” he asked sleepily, propping himself up on one arm.

  “I want to get to Cramer Motors before it opens, so I can see what sort of car a couple of people drive.”

  “Why’s that?” he asked, throwing the sheet and covers aside.

  I tried not to look at him. I knew if I did I might not make it out of the apartment.

  “I think I just might do a little basic detective work. I’ll take the camera with me, too.”

  “There isn’t any film in it. I took all the film from our trip in to that photo place near work for developing, and I think the camera’s empty.”

  He came over, naked, to give me a hug, and…

  “Hey, watch it!” he said. “I’ve got to get to work, and so do you!”

  I hate it when he’s right.

  *

  I parked close to the alley behind the lot, where I could watch the employees driving into the small parking area directly behind the office. Cramer’s (I assumed) Cadillac was already there. A few minutes later, another car pulled in from the other end of the alley—the late-model Chevy I’d noticed before. I couldn’t tell who was driving until I saw Judi Cramer emerge. She did not go directly into the office’s back door, however, but stood there as if waiting for someone. Sure enough, a few seconds later, an older model Dodge station wagon passed me and turned into the alley. I recognized the driver as Dean Arbuckle. Even from my distance I could see Judi’s face light up.

  Arbuckle got out of his car, walked over to her, glanced around to see that no one was looking—I was, of course, but he obviously didn’t see me—and gave her a quick peck on the cheek. She went to touch his arm, but he said something to her, and she went into the building. Arbuckle stayed outside and lit a cigarette, leaning his back against the building.

  Damn! I wish I’d had anticipated that little scenario—it would have made a great photo if I’d have known it was coming, and if there’d been any film in the camera. Well, maybe it was a little morning ritual. I’d be back.

  OK, that told me all I needed to know at the moment. When Arbuckle had finished his cigarette and gone into the office, I started the engine and drove down the alley behind the parked cars. I slowed down when I passed the Chevy and memorized the license number.

  Since I had the camera with me, I decided to take another drive out to Arbuckle’s house, in hopes of getting a picture of his new sports car. I had to stop, of course, for film, and on a whim picked up a roll of low-light film along with the regular daylight roll.

  When I got to the Arbuckle house, I saw a woman working on a flowerbed beside the driveway. The garage door was indeed open, and the sports car was where I’d seen it before. I drove halfway around the block and parked. Not wanting to appear obvious about what I was doing, I put the camera in the glove compartment, locked it, and walked around the block to where the woman was still busily at work pulling blades of grass from between the flowers. She saw me as I approached, and when I got to the driveway I stopped, looking at the car in the garage as if I’d just noticed it.

  “A beautiful car!” I said to the woman, who looked up and smiled.

  “Isn’t it? It’s my husband’s. He’ll let me ride in it, but he won’t let me drive it.”

  I sighed. “I’ve always wanted one just like it,” I said, “but it’s way, way out of my price range. And it looks brand new, too.”

  “It is,” she said proudly. “Just three weeks old! My husband is in the car business, and he was able to get it through his employer—sort of as a bonus for all the double shifts and overtime he puts in.”

  I’m sure, I thought.

  I stared at the car admiringly, making a mental note of the plate number.

  “Well, your husband is a lucky man.” I paused just for a moment, then said, “It was nice talking with you,” and continued my walk back to my car.

  When I got to the office, I called Bil—yeah, only one “l” for some reason—Dunham, my contact at the DMV, and asked him if he could check on the address of the owner of the Chevy, when the sports car had been registered, and if it might have been owned previously. I sincerely doubted it, and as far as I knew Cramer dealt only in used cars.

  He said he would and would get back to me within the hour.

  I puttered around the office until, a little less than forty-five minutes later, Bil called with the information. Judi’s address, it turned out, was less than three blocks from our apartment. And Arbuckle had registered his new car, purchased at City Imports, exactly three weeks ago.

  Now, it’s possible George Cramer had a very good friend at City Imports who would be happy to give a hefty discount to one of Cramer’s employees, but it’s also possible that elephants could fly if they ever thought about it.

  *

  When I got home, I was rather surprised to see Carlene and Kelly in the living room with Jonathan. Kelly was on the floor playing with his dump truck, and neither Carlene nor Jonathan were smiling.

  Jonathan got up to give me a hug—still without a smile.

  “I think Carlene needs your help.”

  We went quickly over to her while Kelly made sounds like a dump truck. I saw she had a piece of paper in her hand.

  “What’s the problem, Carlene?”

  She handed me the paper. On it were written three words: “You’re dead, bitch!”

  CHAPTER 2

  “I tell you what,” Jonathan said, “why don’t Kelly and I take a walk down to the store. I’m almost out of Coke. That way you and Carlene can talk.” He looked at Carlene. “That be okay with you, Carlene?”

  “Thank you, Jonathan. That would be nice. I’m so glad you two live here. Kelly needs to have some men in his life.”

  Don’t we all? I thought, before pulling myself back to the seriousness of Carlene’s situation.

  “Come on, Kelly,” Jonathan said extending his hand. “Let’s go for a walk.”

  Kelly scrambled up off the floor, picked up his dump truck and, tucking it under one arm, took Jonathan’s hand with his free hand.

  “Can we get candy?” he asked, staring up at Jonathan.

  “We’ll see,” Jonathan said, leading Kelly to the door. “But if we do, you can’t eat it until after supper, okay?” He looked at Carlene for approval, and she nodded.

  When they’d left, I took the chair across from Carlene.

  Returning the paper to her, I asked, “So, what’s this all about?”

  She shook her head. “I’m sorry to bother you with this, Dick. I never would have, but we’d just walked in the door and I found it sticking out of my mailbox. It just upset me so that I started crying, and just then Jonathan came in and…well, here I am.”

  “Did the envelope have a postmark?”

  “No. There wasn’t any envelope. It was just folded in half and slid partly into the slot on the mailbox door.”

  “Do you know who
wrote it?”

  She nodded. “It has to be Jan.”

  “Jan is…your ex?” I asked, and she nodded again.

  “Has she ever done anything like this before?”

  She sat back on the couch. “Not like this, no, but…she was my very first lesbian experience. My parents were both dead, and Jan was very protective of me—too protective at times—and after Kelly was born, protective became possessive, of both me and Kelly. We always referred to Kelly as ‘our’ baby, but it got to the point where Jan was taking control of our lives. It was as if she wanted to raise him on her terms, and my opinion really didn’t matter.

  “We began to argue more and more frequently, and the arguments became more intense. And then, during our last argument, she slapped me, and that was it. I just couldn’t take any more. The next day I just wrote her a long letter explaining how I felt, and I left.

  “Of course I felt terribly guilty about it in a way, for abandoning her. Her father was involved in gambling and loansharking, and was killed when Jan was three. Then when her mother met another man, she just dumped Jan onto an aunt. The aunt raised her as her own, but Jan’s never forgiven her real mother, and I can’t blame her. What a terrible thing to do to a child. And now I’ve abandoned her, too, and taken Kelly with me!

  “But now she’s found me, and I really don’t know what to do! She wants Kelly back, and I know she really loves him, and I’m sorry, but I just can’t….”

  “Is there anything we can do to help?”

  I realized that for the umpteenth time I was stepping boldly into something that was none of my business.

  She looked at me, as if startled, and quickly said, “Oh, no. No thank you. I’ll be fine, really. I just…”

  “Look,” I said over the protest of my common sense, “do you think it would help if I were to talk to her?”

  She looked at me again, her eyes mirroring her anxiety.

  “I really don’t know. I know I can’t, but I can’t afford to hire a private investigator.”