“Thanks for her too, Agnes.”
Six
Agnes Landry had been a woman of many skills, but the ability to sit still was not one of them. She had taught German at Saint Patrick’s Middle School in southern New Hampshire for over fifty years and put in just as much time, for no pay, with a long list of charities and nonprofits, mostly in Lawrence, Massachusetts, where she had had many friends—most of them nuns.
She opted not to drag Mark north with her every day to attend Saint Patrick’s. Instead, for reasons she never explained, she enrolled him in the local public school system. In exchange, he had to spend his weekends washing dishes, serving food, and helping people less fortunate than he. He was rather ambivalent toward this work until he reached his mid-teens and started taking an interest in girls. That was when he and Luci Alvarez met for the first time.
He hadn’t been crazy about attending the annual summer youth dance at Saint Lucia’s in Lawrence but figured it couldn’t be any worse than scrubbing pots and pans, delivering meals to the sick and elderly, or performing basic handyman chores for people he’d never met and would probably never see again. But he actually liked the outfit Agnes had bought for him to wear for the occasion: tan khakis, white oxford cloth button-down shirt, navy blue blazer, and bright red tie. He topped off the outfit with a pair of docksiders that had seen better days. When he emerged from his bedroom and shuffled down the stairs, Agnes sent him right back up to put on socks and a belt.
She kept talking, calling toward the ceiling as he complied. “These kids are much more formal than the kids in your school, Mark. I’ve seen what some of those kids wear in public. Most of them wouldn’t even be let into Saint Lucia’s tonight. They may be wealthier, but the kids you’ll meet tonight have better manners and a sense of the occasion that’ll be good for you to experience.”
She turned around to find Mark already back downstairs and ready for inspection. She looked him up and down, smiled, kissed him on the forehead, and winked at him. “Who knows, some of it may even rub off on you.”
Thirty minutes later Mark—the only person wearing casual khakis and a sport coat—was drowning in a sea of brightly colored formal gowns and dark, double-breasted suits. He and Agnes both surveyed the dapper crowd and then looked at each other.
“At least you’re wearing a belt and socks,” she said before walking over to join the other chaperones.
Mark spent the next hour trying in vain not to look self-conscious. He found that task impossible while standing still, so he started taking slow laps around the cafeteria, acting as if he knew where he was going and occasionally smiling at the girls.
Besides Agnes and a few other chaperones, he was the only white kid in the room. Still worse, it was mid-July and there was no air conditioning. Even though none of the other dancegoers was displaying a bead of sweat, Mark’s shirt was soon soaked and his hair visibly wet from perspiration.
The last straw came when a group of dancers passed by and Mark was almost floored by the cloud of perfume and cologne that traveled with them. He made a break for the bathroom, where he removed his coat and splashed cold water on his face. Then he occupied the stall closest to the window so he could cool off, breathe, and collect his thoughts.
Scrubbing pots and pans and serving food to old people wouldn’t be so bad right now.
Once he had caught his breath and enough of his sweat had evaporated, Mark put his jacket back on and walked out of the bathroom, directly into a group of boys who had obviously been waiting for him.
“You lost?” asked one of the bigger boys.
“No.”
“You got a problem?” asked the smallest one in the group.
Mark said nothing but looked at him as one would look at an annoying mosquito, then attempted to walk around the group and back to the dance. Several arms pushed him back.
“Look, I don’t want any trouble, guys. I’m actually on my way out.”
They all started talking at the same time in response, and Mark couldn’t follow a single word. He attempted to walk around the group another time but was again pushed back as they fanned out to block the hallway. This time a different kid, not as big as the first but with a huge head, stepped forward and tried to grab Mark by the collars of his new sport coat.
Mark slapped his hands down, which incited a roar from the other boys, and simultaneously shuffled backwards down the hall to draw the kid away from the immediate support of his buddies.
“I don’t want any trouble,” said Mark two or three times before Big Head lunged at him and gave him no choice. Mark stepped to his left while bringing his right hand up to simultaneously parry the clumsy strike and trap the other boy’s hand in a painful wristlock. Slamming him up against the wall would have immediately drawn the rest of the group into the fight; instead he cinched the wrist as hard as he could without breaking it and pulled him in close enough for a very brief conversation. His Spanish surprised the other kid.
“I don’t want to hurt you or any of your friends, but I will if you don’t cut the shit right now.” He squeezed the wrist even harder and pointed at the other boys with his free hand. “I’m going to let you go now. Tell your friends to back off and don’t think for a second I can’t get you right back in this position whenever I want. Got it?”
“Sí, sí. Just let me go, man, we were just kidding! Nobody was gonna hurt you, man! We were just playing.”
Mark knew this was complete bullshit. These kids were no gangbangers, but they certainly wouldn’t have let up if Mark had cowered and begged for mercy. No, they would have doubled-downed and enjoyed their momentary position of power over what they assumed was some rich white kid from out of town looking to invade their territory. He resisted the urge to break the wrist and let go.
Big Head grabbed his nearly broken wrist with his good hand and winced. Mark looked up in time to see the other boys part like the Red Sea, their eyes following Luci Alvarez as she entered the fray with the grace, confidence, and presence of a queen. She wore her straight black hair down to her shoulders. Bright red lipstick. Perfect teeth. A strapless dark blue dress hugged her curves until just above the knee, and she had the smoothest bronze legs Mark had ever seen. She topped it off with a pair of high heels so high that most white girls her age, or any age for that matter, could never manage them. Yet she made it look easy as she walked slowly, heel to toe, one foot in front of the other as if walking on a tightrope, fully aware that all eyes were focused on her.
Seven
“There you are!” she said to Mark as she grabbed his hand. “He’s with me, Cacón,” she said coldly to the other boy, who was still trying to determine if his wrist was broken. Then she looked Mark in the eyes and winked. “Follow me. “
Once again the crowd parted as Luci moved slowly and confidently down the hall with a smile on her face, holding Mark’s hand behind her, pressed against the small of her back as she walked. He simply followed, eyes straight ahead, resisting the urge to steal glances at her body. “I’m with her,” he casually said to the crowd as they passed by.
“Let’s go to the lounge so we can talk. There are a bunch of chaperones in there so nobody will bother us,” she said over her shoulder once they had cleared the crowd.
“What did you call that guy? Cacón?” Mark asked.
“Yeah, why?
“Just wondering,” he answered.
“It means big head.”
When they entered the lounge, Luci let go of Mark’s hand and pointed to two chairs in the corner. “Grab those, I’ll get drinks.”
She returned with two plastic cups filled with ice cubes and red fruit punch.
“Thank you,” said Mark politely.
“No problem. I’m Luci. What’s your name, where are you from, and how the heck did you end up here?” she asked bluntly.
Mark explained his relationship to Agnes Landry and was unsurprised when Luci said “Sí, Doña Landry! Everyone knows her.”
Talking to Luci ca
me easy to Mark. She was warm, confident, and sharp as a tack. And she was the most gorgeous girl who had ever paid attention to him.
“So, back in the hallway earlier. Why did you help—”
“Why did I help you?” she interrupted.
“No, them. I was doing just fine. Why did you help them?” he replied with a wide confident smile that took her by surprise. He no longer seemed like some random gringo in distress. He was confident but not arrogant, and for Luci his quiet confidence was a welcome change from the boys she was used to interacting with. It showed that he had nothing to prove. Her eyes widened for a split second, her body language loosened up, and she subconsciously leaned in just a little bit closer.
“Let’s just say I know what it’s like to be the only different person in the room,” she said with a softness and vulnerability he had not yet witnessed. “I don’t expect you to notice, but I’m the only colombiana here tonight, and my family is one of the few Colombian families in a city full of Puerto Ricans and Dominicans.”
Mark switched to Spanish.
“I figured something like that. I noticed almost immediately. You carry yourself a bit different. Not better or worse—just different. And when I saw the way those guys parted for you, I knew that somebody different, somebody special, was coming through the crowd.”
Luci’s eyes and mouth popped open, but she made no sound until she had covered her face with her hands and bowed her head. Then she let loose with a laugh so loud it turned the heads of everyone in the room. She smiled warmly with half-closed eyes. “How long were you going to wait before you let me know you speak Spanish? Until I said something stupid in front of you? Or about you? You’re full of surprises!”
They sat together and talked the rest of the night, exchanged phone numbers, and never once noticed the empty punch bowl or dwindling crowd. When Luci’s friend tapped her on the shoulder to say that it was time to go, they stood up and she kissed Mark on the cheek. He watched as she reluctantly walked away. Agnes had watched the exchange from her chaperone’s perch and put her hand on Mark’s shoulder as she approached from behind.
“Let’s go home, Romeo.”
Eight
“You are supposed to be changing a flat tire. Why are you smiling?” asked the tall, bearded instructor. “Do Americans smile when they change tires? No. They grimace and complain about each and every little inconvenience that life throws at them. If you are to blend in, you must do the same.”
The warriors listened and continued changing the tire with appropriately pissed-off American looks on their faces while waiting for the targets. When the car approached and slowed to a halt to offer assistance, both men simulated attacking the driver and family with pistols and knives.
“Very good, the bloodier the better! Replace the Mercedes-Benz hood ornament with the father’s head in front of the children if you can! Enjoy it! Drink it in and give all praise to God!” he preached to his eager pupils.
Amir joined the chorus of war cries and felt his adrenaline rush as he imagined himself hacking away at the man’s wife and children with his own knife.
How much longer must I wait for the glory I have earned?
“Two weeks,” the imam had said. “Two weeks of very special training for our most special martyrs. Then you will depart for the Dar al-Harb and fulfill your destinies.”
Amir had bristled at the words. More training. More time.
Be patient. God has chosen you.
He had breezed through the training thus far and easily outperformed all the other chosen martyrs.
“Now simulate the mission again, but this time only using your left hand,” the instructor had said to Amir with a smile as he pointed to the two-story structure on the other side of the fence.
Child’s play.
The former athlete vaulted over the fence, rapidly crossed the twenty yards or so between the fence and house, and scaled the corner bricks until he was high enough to disappear into a second-story window. This time the warrior playing the father of the family was awake, with a gun in one hand and a flashlight in the other.
“Who is there? Get out of my house right now! The police are on the way,” he managed to say before having his throat slit from behind. Amir decided to save his bullets for the police and slaughtered the children in their beds with the knife—all with his right arm tied tightly to his side.
Single targets. Multiple targets. Stationary targets. Moving targets. Intensive close-quarters battle training. Pistols. Rifles. Knives. Hand to hand. Two weeks without knowing the details of his holy mission. Two weeks to sharpen every skill and plan for every conceivable contingency. Two weeks of torturous waiting … now complete.
The spiritual council awaited him on the other side of the door. He breathed deeply, checked his appearance one last time, and knocked twice.
Nine
Agnes Landry’s house—now Mark’s—was a small colonial that sat directly at the end of a downhill cul-de-sac exactly four miles from the town center. The main floor had a kitchen with a small diner-like booth built into the corner, its straight-backed seats slightly more comfortable than church pews. There was also a family room that Agnes had called the “parlor” and a tiny half-bathroom. Next to the bathroom was another room just big enough to hold her desk, a few filing cabinets, and a rocking chair. Upstairs were two bedrooms of equal size and one full bath. Due to constant water seeping through the fieldstone foundation, the unfinished basement had been used only to store a handful of metal folding chairs that Agnes would lug upstairs when her guests outnumbered the seats available. There was no garage. Acres of protected forest abutted the back of the house.
Mark turned on to Chestnut Lane and started the final descent to the house. He breathed deeply and let gravity do its work as he coasted past the few other homes that shared the wide street. As a child he remembered running to the top of the hill and letting all types of balls—even a bowling ball once—roll freely and find their own way down the hill. No matter where he released them, they would always funnel into his narrow driveway before ending up in the woods behind the house.
Over the years, those woods had been the resting place of countless neighborhood balls, bikes, skates, toys, and (during one slippery winter) a poorly parked car that had slid all the way down from the first house at the top of the street and straight through the Landrys’ driveway before nearly shattering on impact with a cluster of deep-rooted walnut trees. “See that? It’s a good thing we don’t have a garage,” Agnes had said as she handed Mark a shovel and sent him out to clean off her snow-covered Buick.
Mark climbed the wooden stairs that led to the side door and opened it with the key he had pinched between his thumb and pointer finger. He carried nothing else. His bags could wait until later.
Ten
When Officer Luci Alvarez arrived at 39 Main Street and parked her cruiser, an impatient forty-six-year-old Lee Carter was waiting at the side of the building with a gallon of white paint and a roller. Once Luci finished taking pictures and filling out her report, he would quickly paint over the graffiti and hope that none of his daytime drinking customers leaned against the wall before it dried.
Carter was the third-generation owner of the Witch Hunt, a pub opened by his grandfather, whose love of local history was surpassed only by his love of whiskey and a captive audience for his stories. The pub’s name was a nod to the infamous 1692 Salem Witch Trials, to which the town had sent more than its fair share of accused. He was talking on his cell phone while pacing and waving his arms when Luci arrived.
Lucy depressed the talk button on her radio and spoke clearly.
“307 to control.”
“Control’s on,” answered the same gravelly voice from before.
“I’ll be out at 39 Main.”
“Received.”
Lucy emerged from the cruiser with her camera in hand and waved at Mr. Carter before moving around and opening the trunk to retrieve a tape measure, latex gloves, evidence bag
s, and a few other things she knew she wouldn’t need. She had answered identical calls nearly a dozen times over the past few months, and this was her third or fourth visit to the Witch Hunt. She paused for a moment to take a deep breath before closing the trunk and walking calmly yet purposefully toward the agitated pub owner.
Luci Alvarez, age thirty-eight, was born in Bogotá, Colombia, to struggling parents who sent her to live with her grandparents in Lawrence, Massachusetts when she was three. Life was not easy for one of the few Colombian families in what had already been a predominantly Puerto Rican and Dominican city for decades. Actually, life wasn’t easy for any Latino family in Lawrence, but it was particularly difficult for Luci’s, because their roots were no more stable than the broken sidewalks on which she walked to school.
Carlos Alvarez, a custodian and handyman, and his wife Carmen, a cleaning lady at the district courthouse, worked their fingers to the bone and pinched pennies in order to provide their granddaughter with every opportunity they could afford. Unfortunately, that was not very much. But what they had lacked in financial means they easily made up for in love, attention, and encouragement. As a result, Luci stayed out of trouble when many of the other girls in the neighborhood did not, and her academic performance earned her a full tuition scholarship to Boston University, where she eventually graduated summa cum laude with a B.S. in psychology while working a side job.
After graduation, which neither of her actual parents attended or acknowledged, she had worked at various counseling jobs before acing the civil service exam and joining the Lawrence Police Department. But a corrupt city government and a depressed local economy that generated ever lower municipal tax revenues eventually threatened to kill her hopes of a long career policing the streets and helping young people make good decisions. With her stellar resume and skills, she searched for open positions on police forces in surrounding towns. When an opportunity in Mark and Agnes’s hometown presented itself, she quickly traded uniforms before she could get furloughed. Now here she was, a highly educated, naturalized American citizen dedicated to public service, about to be judged solely on her ethnicity by a man who had obtained his only job by inheritance.
Wrong Town: A Mark Landry Novel Page 3