“I’d like to visit the girls again. Better yet, could we have them over here for a scrapbooking crop? None of them know much about scrapping. I told them I could show them. I think they’d be totally, like, amazed at the store. They can’t believe you’re a part owner.”
I told her we’d make plans to reciprocate after the first of the year, and she started ticking off all the fun things the kids could do on this side of the river. On the way back from Santa’s Magical Kingdom, which was over in Eureka, I brought up the topic of boys and respect, but things definitely had not gone as I had planned. My nimble daughter danced around exactly what happened and who was involved. I got the distinct feeling this hadn’t been a chance meeting. Dollars to donuts, Anya and Nicci were using the mall as a rendezvous spot. I made a note to myself to discuss this development with both Sheila and Jennifer Moore.
I also suspected that Anya harbored a crush on one of the seniors.
Was he one of the mouthy boys? I couldn’t tell.
I desperately wanted to hammer home the importance of R-E-S-P-E-C-T, really I did. In the end, however, I decided that Detweiler had made his point—and that Anya had gotten the message. Additional harping by me might actually do more harm than good.
How I wished he were sitting here now! How I missed having him drop by! We’d often talk about kids, about the problems involved with raising them, and the best ways to help a kid stay on the right path. Even though he was childless, I valued his input. He had learned a lot by watching his sisters. As the only boy in a house full of sisters, he seemed to understand how girls think.
I turned the cell phone over in my hand. My fingers hesitated over the keys. In the end, I decided to wait. Tomorrow, I would search for proof hidden in Cindy Gambrowski’s scrapbook pages. That would give me a good reason to call. While we were on the phone, I would ask for his family’s address so I could send a hand-written thank you note, a “bread-and-butter” note, as my Nana always called them.
Detweiler’s family. That was a subject I wanted to explore further.
Anya grew excited as she talked about her new friend Emily, but she became confused as she tackled the names of Detweiler’s sisters. Anya was getting muddle-headed as she grew sleepy. She skipped from one topic to the next. From the Detweiler neighbors to the kittens to the girls and then she rambled on about places they could visit on this side of the river. My sweet kid was clearly running out of steam. First, she’d talk a minute, then be quiet for several more, then mumble a disjointed word or two. By the time I pulled into our driveway, she was fast asleep.
I managed to rouse her and guide her into the house. She plopped down, face first, onto her bed. I pulled off her shoes and tucked her in before I went about my end-of-the-day chores. Monroe was standing at the fence, searching for me, waiting patiently. Might have been my imagination, but when I told him that Leighton would be home tomorrow, he seemed inexpressively sad.
“Monroe, darling, now that I know what a complete lover-boy you are, we’re friends for life.” I rubbed the insides of his long ears. To return the affection, he fluttered those long gray lips and tried to smooch me.
Stroking the big, mute beast soothed me.
There was an aspect of Anya’s reportage that niggled, that I couldn’t shake off. One of the Detweiler sisters had said, “So your mother is the famous Kiki Lowenstein?”
“But she didn’t sound mean or nosy. Not really. More like she was thinking hard, you know?” Anya rushed to clarify.
“Yes,” I agreed, not wanting to make a mountain out of a molehill.
But that “yes” was a boldfaced lie. I worried that either or both of Detweiler’s sisters were Brenda Detweiler fans. A panicky voice inside me obsessed over the small bother, the way your fingers worry a scab.
I gave Monroe a final pat and headed for the house. If his sisters hated me for Brenda’s sake, there was no help for it. Certainly, nothing I could do tonight. In a fitful effort to banish my worries, I washed and folded two loads of clothes. I ironed a blouse for Anya and one for me. I mixed up banana bread, poured it into loaf pans and stuck it in the refrigerator, so I could bake them tomorrow.
I was worn out and coughing by the time I decided to call it quits. This had been a long and tiring day.
I turned the thermostat down as low as I could. I set my alarm clock.
I stared at my bed. It seemed too vast and too empty. I shrugged. Once in a while, it hits me that I might be alone for the rest of my life. That’s when moving on becomes a struggle. And facing that empty bed was more than I could handle tonight.
I put on my jammies, a pair of knit pants, an old white tee-shirt of George’s, and a faded sweatshirt. Then I headed back into my living room.
The dogs were snoozing happily on my sofa. Martha Stewart might want to smack me around a little, but I quit tossing my furry friends off the sofa years ago. Instead, I cover the cushions with old beach towels. After all, the dogs aren’t trying to be bad; they just want a soft spot on which to rest their weary bones. I understand; I do, too.
Before I settled down, I checked on Anya one last time. She was curled up in a ball while Izzy was sleeping in the crook formed by the hollow behind her knees. He raised a pair of bug-eyes to me, growled a sec until he realized who I was, wagged his tail, and whimpered a distinct, “Uh, sorry about that!”
I laughed and petted him. “Hey, a guard dog can’t be too careful, can he?”
He wagged his tail harder to indicate his total agreement.
I closed Anya’s door and asked God to protect my baby.
I sighed, nudged the dogs to one end of the sofa and settled down with my library book. A rumble shook the window panes. I listened for a second and went back to the latest Duffy Dombrowski mystery Out Cold. I love Al, the basset hound in the series, and even though I don’t like boxing, I think Duffy is fantastic. The thunder outside crescendoed into a low, dish-rattling threat. Petunia sat upright and sobbed. “Come here, little boy,” I said, lifting him into my lap. “It’s okay. Just one of those weird Missouri midwinter thunderstorms. You’d think Mother Nature would have sense enough to hit the snow switch, but no. She sends us a totally inappropriate thunder-boomer of a rainstorm.”
He shivered and stuck his head under my armpit.
I pulled him closer, tucked my feet under us and rested my head on the sofa arm.
It was good to know that one of God’s creatures—small and miserable as he was—could look to me as a tower of strength. Petunia slowly backed out from under my armpit and shivered up at me. I cuddled poor Petunia. “Buddy, I know you are scared, but it’s just a big noise. Sound and fury signifying nothing. Sometime tonight the rain will turn to snow. Tomorrow, you’ll be romping in the flakes with your friends. Close your eyes and dream of Milkbone biscuits and chew toys.”
He relaxed a bit in my arms.
In return, I snuggled deeper into the sofa. Soon he was snoring, and I was more asleep than awake.
Tomorrow I would tackle nailing Ross Gambrowski’s tail feathers to the wall.
But tonight was a “no worries” night. I had declared it so. Behind my closed eyes, I conjured up the Mary Engelbreit poster, “Queen of Everything.”
“Petunia, I am the Queen of Everything. Did you know that? You are my loyal subject, Tunia-Boy.” I rubbed his velvety ear, and he rewarded me with a loud snore. That made me smile.
My kid was safe, I had food in my tummy, a roof over my head, and a dog in my lap plus three at my feet. Oh, and there was that donkey in my stable. Just like the one that the blessed Mary had trusted to carry her and her baby to safety.
“God, please, carry us to safety.” That was the prayer that ended my day.
Monday, December 21
5th Night of Hanukkah
Overnight my daughter morphed into Snarkerella, the princess who couldn’t be pleased. She snarled about the bagels, devoured all the cream cheese, complained about the banana (too ripe!), and stamped her foot with impatience when
I explained I forgot to buy more orange juice.
“Gran is never out of orange juice! Never! She knows how much I love it,” howled little Miss Drama.
I mumbled to myself, “That’s because Linnea does the shopping. Your Gran wouldn’t know where to buy o.j. if she lived in Florida right next to an orange grove.”
“What?” Her hearing was perfect even if her mood was bad.
“How about if we stop by McDonald’s on the way to CALA? I’ll get you whatever you want.” Okay, so I capitulated. I prefer to think that I know how to choose my battles wisely.
Grumpy Girl stomped her way toward the front door, paused after she yanked open the door and shouted, “It snowed! It snowed! Wooopppeee! Is today a snow day?”
I’d already been out taking care of Monroe and playing doggie doo-doo handmaiden to my herd of hounds. “No, sorry. But there is an early dismissal. Your grandmother will be picking you up.”
“Sick. Totally sick. This is, like, awesome.”
Right. Easy to say when you don’t have to drive in it.
_____
The drop-off line at CALA moved more slowly than ice melts off your windshield. Most of the other moms wore their Blu-Tooth attachments. I wondered who they were speaking with. I knew most of them were SAHM, Stay-At-Home-Moms, so I couldn’t quite understand the urgency that compelled them to chat non-stop in their cars. When one of them cut me off in her humongous white Escalade, I laid on the horn.
“Mom! Geez,” Anya scolded. “That’s so not necessary.”
Maybe Anya’s bad mood infected me. Or maybe I was twitching because of the restless urge within me to get to the store and find proof that would send Ross Gambrowski to jail. Forever.
The moment we pulled up to the curb, my mood shifted to poignant. In another two years, Anya would be driving herself to school. Chauffeur duty would end, and endless vigilance would begin. How silly I was to wish her up, to try to speed up time rather than to enjoy each minute.
After all, she might be my only child. I might never have another chance to savor all this mystery, mayhem, and moodiness.
“Anya,” I grabbed the edge of her backpack. “You know I love you?”
She rolled her eyes. “Yes, Mom. Can I go? My friends are waiting.”
“Of course.” I watched her race off to where Nicci stood with two other girls. Girls I didn’t know. I chided myself for not being better aware of whom my daughter was palling around with.
I added that to my personal worry list and headed toward our store.
_____
The dogs raced around me in the parking lot, tangling their leashes so that I shuffled into the store. Once I got them settled, I headed for our store computer, where Dodie stored the class data. In that file I found the list of all the classes I’d taught and all the students who had signed up and/or attended.
Fortunately, Dodie alphabetized the names. Unfortunately, I teach classes nearly every month. I sipped a cup of Lipton’s tea, ran my finger along the screen, and settled into the search.
Fifteen minutes later, I discovered Cindy Gambrowski as an attendee for my “Hidden Journaling Class.”
This surprised me. I couldn’t recall having her in that class, and usually I remember my students.
I couldn’t recall Cindy ever attending that class.
In fact, I was sure she hadn’t.
I sat back in my seat and stared at the list.
I resumed my search. Cindy’s name appeared on two other class rosters. Again, I couldn’t recall her being my student. She signed up for “Writing about the Sad Times,” and “Journaling Your Journey.” The only class I recalled her attending was the last session we offered, “All about Me,” the class that spawned the page contest of the same name.
My cell phone sat within inches of my hand, but I had trouble dialing Dodie’s number. She owed me an apology for not telling me about Bama. Phoning her would seem like a capitulation. Not phoning her would keep me stuck here at the computer. Twenty minutes until opening time. Twenty minutes I didn’t have to waste.
I couldn’t change what happened to Cindy Gambrowski. I couldn’t miraculously heal all of Bama’s wounds, either. But I might be able to put a wife-beater in jail for the rest of his natural life.
I phoned Dodie. She picked up on the first ring.
“Sunshine, how are you?”
A million responses zipped through my head. Dodie’s joy was so genuine that it angered me. How could she be so flipping happy to hear from me when I was so bummed to be talking to her?
“Fine.”
“I’ve heard you are doing great at the store.”
“Things are selling.”
“Yes, that’s to be expected, but I’ve heard you are having a really profitable last quarter. I hope to stop in tomorrow or the next day and see the displays you’ve put up. Maybe I’ll even be able to help out a little.”
“Oh.” I sat there flummoxed. How did she know about our sales figures? Every time I asked Bama how we were doing, she’d stonewalled.
“I think you’ll be banking a nice bonus,” Dodie continued.
“Oh,” I said again. A bonus sure would go a long way toward making my season merry. “How do you know all this?” I couldn’t help it if my tone was peevish.
“I’ve done a shadow set of books while Bama was learning the accounting system.”
“I thought Bama knew all this stuff.”
Dodie chuckled. “She was learning as she went along.”
“How is she? Do you know?”
“Better than I expected. We visited her yesterday in the hospital. A good plastic surgeon was on call, and he actually fixed her deviated septum when he set her nose. Luckily, she didn’t lose any teeth.”
“No thanks to you.” I couldn’t help myself. I was ticked, and her comment about Bama’s teeth set mine on edge.
Dodie sighed. “I did what I thought was best. The rules of the group demand we keep our travelers’ identities safe. I took a vow. An oath. The other women have been doing this for years, and I adhered to the policy they’ve developed. Most of the time, it’s proven a valuable safeguard. This time … perhaps not so much. In retrospect, I should have asked you to take the WAR oath. I just didn’t want to drag you into this. Especially since you and Bama weren’t exactly getting along. Which, by the way, was more her fault than yours.”
I didn’t know how to respond to that.
“Bama’s ex-husband is a cop. Law enforcement officials have a high propensity to be abusers. When Detweiler visited you at work, his presence frightened Bama. Instead of dealing with her own fears, she chose to blame you. No matter how often I discussed the matter with her, she persisted in being upset. I actually arranged a session for her with a counselor, hoping they could discuss the matter. Bama refused to go. I guess on a deep psychological level, she believed her fears worked to protect her. She was afraid that if she let her guard down, she’d be at risk.”
“They didn’t protect her. Not at all! You do know that a cop saved her?”
“Not by himself. You also took a licking when you helped her. Kiki, I am so sorry. It must have been awful. To have him hold a knife to your skin?” Then she mumbled something in Yiddish.
When I didn’t respond, she translated, “The cholera on him!”
Even though she couldn’t see me through the cell phone, I nodded. That morning I caught a glimpse of my shoulders. On the blades I sported twin bruises, almost like a matching set of purple angel wings. Under the bandage, the cut was scabbed and angry. My nose was red from being wiped. I was a colorful, painful mess. I hoped Jerald McCallister met a bunch of new friends in jail. I knew they could be particularly tough on cops. I hoped they’d show him how much fun it was to be beaten to a quivering pulp.
“There are wounds on Bama’s outside, but far worse are the scars on her mind. Bama’s struggled with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder for years. She’s come a long way, but she’s not capable of thinking rationally. You must be fami
liar with Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. He theorized that every human being has basic needs which must be met in order to graduate to higher levels of functioning. The most simple need is that for safety. If a person lives in a war zone, she doesn’t concern herself with hygiene or social niceties. She puts all her energy into survival.
“Bama is like that. She’s stuck at the lowest strata of the hierarchy. She couldn’t respond to your overtures to be friends. She couldn’t shed that war zone mentality and see you as an ally. She was minimally functional in a lot of ways. Jerald had been beating her for fifteen years. That’s a long time to suffer abuse.”
“Why didn’t she leave? She has an MFA!” I nearly shouted into the phone.
Dodie chuckled. “That was part of the back story we created for her. In actuality, she has a GED. Jerald forced her to quit high school. He controlled every aspect of her life, including the purse strings. One of the reasons I wanted her to do the books was so that she could develop a sense of appropriate income and outgo. He terrorized her by making her account for every penny he gave her. To her, money was power.”
That explained why she had been such a witch every time I handed a customer a cola and forgot to write it down.
“Yes, until this disaster, she had changed a lot, and for the better. For example, her vertigo had mostly disappeared. Thanks to the move here, she was no longer getting hit in the head on a regular basis. She had time to heal.”
I blushed, remembering how I first thought Bama’s dizziness came from drug use. I studied my feet, thankful that Dodie wasn’t here in person for our conversation. I felt lucky I didn’t have to look her in the eye.
I was still irked, but not as much.
A glance at the clock told me I needed to wrap up our conversation.
“Dodie, the real reason I called is Cindy Gambrowski. I noticed she signed up for several classes, but I don’t recall seeing her take them. Am I just being forgetful?”
Dodie sighed. “I guess it doesn’t matter since she’s … dead. Poor Cindy would sign up for a class, but Ross would refuse to let her attend. I told her we’d keep trying until he got sick of saying, ‘No,’ which he did. I left her on the roster, and I paid you, because I shared your handouts with her. I would drop by the house, show her the pages you made as samples, give her the materials, and answer any questions. Often Ross would come into the room to check up on us.”
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