by R. Jean Reid
“Yeah, it’s something like that,” she said. “It doesn’t really mean anything. I actually danced with several people last night, including Marion the Librarian.”
“I didn’t know that women could dance together.”
“Oh, we do it all the time. When we get tired of waiting for some man to ask us and the music is good,” Nell explained, glad they had moved on to more innocent topics and that Josh, unlike Lizzie, seemed not to have been scarred for life.
Nell took advantage of Josh being a perfect son and used the afternoon to do the yard work that hadn’t been done. She let him push the mower, a task Thom usually did. It felt good to be outside; the day was a crisp, cool fall one with brilliant sunshine. The physical labor seemed to purge Nell of both her headache and the emotions left over from the last twenty-four hours. It also gave her time with Josh. The imperfect mother part of Nell didn’t mind that Lizzie was alone huffing in her room.
They finished bagging the last of the raked leaves just as the sun was setting. Nell suggested they walk to the beach and watch it from there, an idea Josh happily accepted.
Have I been so inattentive, Nell thought as they walked the three blocks to the beach, that my son hangs by my side as if starving for any notice? Josh always liked to scour the shoreline for new or interesting shells and sea creatures. Usually once or twice a week, Thom would take him there and they would beach comb for an hour or so. Sometimes Nell joined them, and she remembered Josh skipping ahead, just barely in sight. Now he was walking by her side. She suspected if she reached out and took his hand, he would allow her, something in the last few years he had wiggled out of as being “too mushy.”
Maybe he was just glad to have this routine back in his life. Suddenly, Nell realized he must have missed the beach, the custom of seeing it change every few days. He hadn’t once asked to go, even mentioned it. Lizzie got attention because she demanded it. Josh was trying too hard to be perfect to ask for attention. I have to be better, Nell thought, be more aware of the places they’ve lost Thom, do a better job of making up for it. And stop bullets with my bracelets, as well as make the world safe for democracy.
But Josh seemed happy, naming the birds that flew by, even if it was mostly a litany of “seagull, seagull, seagull.”
They walked on the beach until there was little light left, barely enough to get home by. When they got back, Nell noticed there were no lights on. She imagined Lizzie intoning, “It’s all right, my hussy mother likes me to sit in the dark.” She found her steps slowing as they got closer.
Nell asked herself the question she probably should have asked at the beginning. What was making Lizzie so upset? Other than Mrs. Thomas, Sr. egging her on. Was it her mother showing hints of sexuality? Lizzie had seemed to like Aaron when they’d met; was there some jumbled jealous crush going on here? Was it an eruption of anger and grief and this was just something to hang it on?
It was probably some tangled conjunction of all the above, plus five other things Nell didn’t think of. The next question was how to handle it. Any TV mom or dad would have already solved the crisis. Of course, TV moms and dads had the advantage of being able to write in a reasonable daughter, one who could easily see the wisdom of her mother’s gentle reasoning within the allotted half hour.
They entered the house and Nell began flipping on lights. Lizzie hadn’t completely been a conservator of energy, however, as the overly loud sound of music, some mournful ballad, came from the closed door of her room.
Nell decided the most satisfyingly reasonable—and the most satisfyingly annoying—plan would be to just ignore her; her too-loud music and the dim house was an attempt to gain attention. She told Josh to put on some music. Then they tackled the kitchen, cleaning it up and ordering a pizza in the process. Since Lizzie was absent, she and Josh chose the toppings, including olives, which Lizzie claimed she couldn’t stand.
The bustle of a rung doorbell and delivered pizza produced a crack in the door. Then the door shut again and the music got louder.
They had their pizza in front of the TV, Nell letting Josh watch his nature shows. He was a willing ally, content to be the focus of his mother’s attention.
Lizzie broke down in the middle of the evening, making a stony-faced and silent run to the kitchen. Nell listened to her rustle in the refrigerator, going after the leftover pizza.
Suddenly there was a wail. “Olives! You know I hate olives! How could you be so mean?”
Nell sat for a moment, then decided that ignoring her would only make things worse. She got up and stood in the kitchen door. “You didn’t seem interested in eating, and Josh and I both like olives. You can always just pick them off.”
“No I can’t! They make everything else taste olivey.”
Nell sighed.
“I can’t go to school tomorrow! I haven’t had anything to eat and I can’t face what everyone is going to say!”
“That’s enough, Elizabeth. You’re going to go to school, unless you produce a fever of over a hundred, and there’s plenty of food to eat in this house. Starvation isn’t a possibility.”
“You hate me!” And she burst into tears. She sat the pizza down on the counter with a loud clatter.
At least she didn’t throw it on the floor. “I don’t hate you,” Nell said, but even she heard her exasperated tone. She contemplated divvying up her children, keeping Josh and letting her mother-in-law reap what she had sown. But then possessiveness flashed in her. You’re not going to get my daughter, Nell silently told Mrs. Thomas Sr.
“Honey, I don’t hate you. I think you’re very angry that your dad got killed. It’s damned unfair. You’ve got a right to be furious. But you can’t let anger fly all over the place and at everyone. I love you and I will always love you.”
“No you don’t,” Lizzie replied, but it had lost its vehemence; she said it with a trembling lip.
“Unconditionally. I love you.” Just not everything you do, Nell thought, but right now wasn’t the moment to point out that little detail.
“Enough to order another pizza?”
“Enough to order another pizza,” Nell said.
“Really?” Lizzie asked, as if unsure that her stern mother would really be so profligate.
“Really. Just remember you’ll be eating the leftovers tomorrow.” Unconditional love is an extra pizza.
With that, Lizzie dried her eyes. She picked up the pizza menu, studying it as if she might actually order something besides pepperoni, extra cheese, and mushrooms. With her eyes firmly fixed on the flyer, she said, “I’m sorry. I miss Dad.”
“I do, too, honey. I do, too,” Nell answered. She noticed the tremble reappear in Lizzie’s chin and wrapped her arms around her.
For a moment Lizzie cried in her arms. Then, true to teenage form, she pulled away, wiped her eyes on her sleeve, and said, “I’m hungry.”
Nell handed her the phone. This way she got not only to order the pizza, but to flirt with the high school boys who worked there.
Nell rejoined Josh in front of the TV.
He softly said, “I miss Dad, too.”
“I know you do, Josh. I’ll try to be …” But what could she try to be? Better about not getting lost in her grief? Better at making up for him not being here? “We all miss him. We all miss him terribly.”
And Josh was a perfect enough son to reach out and take Nell’s hand. He even held it until the next commercial break.
fourteen
Lizzie was sluggish getting out of bed, but only her usual sluggishness. Seemingly mollified by her exclusive pepperoni and extra cheese, she didn’t protest she couldn’t go to school because of her hussy mother. Nell kept her calm; even, in a supreme moment of motherly cowardice, left the fussing about being late to school to Josh.
“I don’t want to get in trouble because you can’t get out of bed,” he grumbled as Lizzie dawd
led over leftover pizza for breakfast.
“Why don’t you eat in the car?” Nell suggested, her hand on the door to indicate it wasn’t really a request.
Her children were dropped at school just as the morning bell was ringing. Nell watched as Josh sprinted across the yard. She felt a wash of sadness, watching her son—and her daughter, too blasé to be seen actually running—and the struggles they would have. She pushed it away. It was a Monday morning and she had work to do.
Nell was the first at the Crier, but Dolan, Pam, and Jacko were soon behind her. Ina Claire entered, the door held for her by Marcus Fletcher.
“Good morning, Marcus,” Nell greeted him. He gave her a small conspiratorial smile, in honor of their late-night adventures.
Nell was saved having to decide whether to introduce Marcus and explain why he was here, only to do it again when Carrie arrived, by her entering the door.
“Okay, story meeting,” she called before the young woman even got to her desk.
Nell pulled up a chair in front of Jacko’s desk, indicating another for Marcus. She noticed that Dolan, Ina Claire, and Pam were hanging around.
“Some of you may know Mr. Fletcher,” she started out. “What you may not know is that for many years he ran a paper for the African-American community, as well as did several stories for the Crier during the integration of the beaches.” She hesitated before saying, “At the time, the paper did not byline Mr. Fletcher’s stories, because …” Because they were racist cowards? Because it was a capitulation to the reality of the times? “Because that was the way things were done back then,” she finished lamely. “He’s going to help us with the various stories that we’re working on.”
“Aren’t you running for mayor?” Carrie asked, clearly seeing her turf threatened.
“Yes, he is, but Mr. Fletcher will be working on the stories of the bodies found in the woods,” Nell said. “Obviously he can’t do any of the election stories or even see them. Carrie, I want you to continue to do most of the political reporting. I think it’s time to start asking our current mayor some difficult questions.”
Marcus made a show of plugging his ears. Nell wasn’t going to worry about it. A black man wasn’t going to win, not this election, maybe not for many years. There was nothing that he could overhear that would change that.
“And I’ve got some good ones to ask,” Jacko cut in. “The property Pickings senior bought from Elbert Woodling for $3,000 was reappraised the next time as worth only $15,000, instead of the $30,000-something Woodling had to scrape up property taxes for. From that time, in the sixties, until the early eighties, it only increased in value slightly, up to $22,000. Then suddenly, in 1984, its value shot up to $75,000, then in 1985, it again increased to $120,000, which was the value assigned to it at the time of the park donation.” The look on Jacko’s face reminded Nell of a hunting dog that has just brought back a prize bird.
“Okay, so what questions should I ask?” Carrie queried.
Nell managed not to sigh and said, “How did the appraised value of the property shoot up to $120,000 in a little over a year, just in time to count as a donation? How was his father able to buy property appraised at over $30,000 for only $3,000? Why was the value of the property listed as only $15,000 by the next appraisal? How can he explain what all these numbers seem to suggest—that the Pickings family used their connections to get land cheap, avoid high taxes, and still rake in a benefit when the land was donated? For starters.”
“And what happened to Elbert Woodling?” Pam asked softly. “Did he ‘dry up like a raisin in the sun’?”
“‘What happens to a dream deferred?’” Nell responded, recognizing the quote from Langston Hughes.
“Should I ask him that?” Carrie interjected, clearly not recognizing the words.
“No, it’s from a poem,” Nell said. “Did you get those questions down, or do I have to repeat them?”
“No, I got most of them.”
“Good work, Jacko. Great instincts to see what happened to that property,” Nell told him. “Okay, Carrie, follow up with the mayor, find a chance to ask those questions and keep asking them. If he balks the first time—a good chance—hit him again when other reporters are around, especially any TV cameras to get his answer on tape. The other reporters might pick up the questions and start asking him.”
“But they’ll get the story.”
“Only from us,” Jacko said. “Alberta Bonier and I are becoming good buddies and she’s agreed to be very selective about how many people can dig in the old records at any given time. Like, just one.” Cat that ate the fattest canary on the block and triumphant bird dog all rolled into one.
Nell not only echoed his triumph, but also felt a surge of relief. She might have to feed Carrie questions, but Jacko was going to be good. Now, with both him and Marcus Fletcher, she had a decent chance of pulling through.
“And, Carrie, don’t forget the other candidates.” Nell handed her Aaron Dupree’s stack of paper on his goals. “Cover them, too, and ask them both about the Pickings property and how they plan to handle the bones in the woods should they turn out to have been murdered because of the civil rights movement. Jacko, keep digging. I want to find out who Pelican Property is. Keep looking for patterns. What happened to the property after it was sold for so-called tax default? What kind of money was made? And who benefited most?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Jacko said. “I’ve already told Ms. Bonier I’ll probably be in there every day for the next two weeks.”
Nell motioned for Marcus that it was safe for him to listen.
“What would you like me to focus in on?” he asked.
“The bones. Those … children, forever twenty-something. Who were they? How did they get there? Could there be any connection between the property scams and their murders?”
Marcus nodded, then said, “I’ve got some ideas, but it was a long time ago and I want to make sure what I remember matches the facts. I’ll look through the old records of my paper.”
Nell started to ask him what he remembered, but Carrie broke in. “What are you going to be doing while we’re chasing all the stories?”
Nell bristled at the young woman’s implied criticism that she was shirking. “I have the story to write on the sheriff and his African-American cousin—one he doesn’t want me to write—plus making sure the usuals get their due, everything from the football game” (the Pelican Bay Pirates had lost, so the story didn’t need to be very long) “to fiftieth-wedding-anniversary photos. Plus fielding every phone call that’ll come in about the bones being due to alien abduction, plus I’ll be backing up each and every one of you on the stories you’re working on.”
“Plus signing all our paychecks,” Dolan not too subtly reminded Carrie.
Plus worrying about my children, Nell thought. Plus J.J. Jones being out of jail, plus missing Thom.
The meeting was over. Jacko was already gathering his things. Dolan ambled back to his office. Pam was answering the phone, saying “Well, that’s a very interesting theory,” as if the alien callers were already dialing.
Nell briefly wondered if she could only get along with men, not women. She was locking horns with her daughter and Mrs. Thomas, Sr. as well as with Carrie. And she was getting along with Josh and Jacko. No, Ina Claire and Pam and I get along, she reminded herself. And Dolan and I have had a few tense moments.
“I should be back sometime after lunch,” Marcus told her. “I’ll let you know what I have then.” He and Jacko both exited at the same time.
Nell returned to her office and took the phone call that Pam had been dutifully handling. It wasn’t about aliens; the caller’s theory was that the bones had been left in the woods from satanic rituals. The caller further added that his neighbor had a son who had dyed his hair purple and pierced his ears, a sure sign of devil worship. Knowing it was probably useless, but wanting
to cling to rationality if at all possible, Nell pointed out the bones had been in the woods for over forty years, making it unlikely a purple-haired teenager had anything to do with it. Undaunted, the caller intoned that these things ran in families, and it probably had been going on for generations. As politely as she could, Nell suggested that her caller, if he had any real evidence, contact the sheriff’s department. She was even helpful enough to give him the number.
The first alien call didn’t come until after lunch. Nell skipped reasonable and went right to giving out the sheriff’s number. She was a little less sanguine when two of the five aldermen also called about the bones. Was it just their delicate sensibilities? “Shouldn’t have something that shocking on the front page,” the first of them had boomed into her ear. Or was there something deeper going on? Alfonse Gautier was on the edge of senility, but that also made him old enough to have played a part in the murders. Nell felt a chill when Ina Claire pointed out that Festus Higgins had once been married to Whiz Brown’s sister; she had died and he had remarried. Whiz Brown might have been left out of the will—and the family venality—but that didn’t mean his sister had been. Nell left his call in the pile of to-be-called-back tomorrow.
After that, she was just waiting; she realized this as she put down a press release for the third time without getting beyond the first sentence. Jacko wouldn’t be back until the records office closed, or later—he might right now be wrangling his own key. Nell wasn’t sure what Carrie was up to; she had left around lunch. However, it wasn’t causing her any problems, so she let that be. She was waiting for Marcus, she realized. He said he’d return sometime after lunch, and it was now far beyond that.
Nell finally bestirred herself to do parenting duty and fetched her children. With a minimum of fuss, they negotiated going to the library until Nell got off. After that she was back at the office, but Marcus still hadn’t come by.