“See, I told you.”
That night, Rick and Jimmy robbed the Cumberland Farms in Oaksdale, and the night after that they hit the convenience store in Franklyn. Helen’s father gave a low whistle as he read the newspaper Saturday morning. “Someone’s making a killing out there,” he said.
“Out where?” asked Helen, her mouth full of corn flakes. She and her dad were the only two at the dining room table. He often kept her company when she had an early breakfast on the weekends. Claire made eggs or pancakes on Saturday and Sunday mornings. But she served them later on in the morning to accommodate Charlotte and Thomas.
“At the convenience stores. Three of them have been robbed in three days. The clerks at the different stores describe the same bandit—a young man in a large cowboy hat with a gun and a boy who drives the getaway car. They’ve stolen almost two thousand dollars.”
“Wonder if they’ll get caught,” said Helen, looking into her cereal bowl. She wanted to tell her father; she wanted him to stop Rick. But she didn’t want Charlotte to hate her.
“Sure they will,” said John Thompson. “They’re just kids. They’ll mess up sooner or later. So, you ready to go fishing?”
“Never been readier,” said Helen, getting up and bringing her bowl into the kitchen. “Where are we going today?”
“Let’s row down the creek and see what we can find there.”
“Okay,” said Helen. “I’ll get the worms. I got a ton of them last night.”
“Great,” her dad said. “Let’s hope they don’t sink the boat.”
Helen smiled at her father. They walked out of the house together and into the garage to get the oars, fishing poles, tackle box, seat cushions, life jackets, and worms. John gathered the bulky items in his huge arms while Helen held the cushion straps and tackle box with one hand, and with the other the twisting and turning worms housed in the dirt-filled Maxwell House coffee can her mother cleaned out for her yesterday. Fully equipped, they walked through the wet grass to the street, then down the hill toward the dock. “Why do people rob stores?” Helen asked.
“Because they want money, I guess.”
“What if they already have a job?”
“Then I guess they just want more money. Some people like to spend money, so they need lots of it. Now you and I, Helen, like to fish. That’s why we need lots of worms.”
“Are they afraid they’ll get caught?”
“The worms?”
“No, the robbers.”
“Well, sure. But it probably feels exciting when they don’t. If someone thinks he can get away with something, he’ll keep doing it until he gets caught.”
“Do they all get caught?”
“Most of them, Helen. Why, do you know any robbers?”
“No sir,” said Helen, looking down at the street. “I’m just curious.”
“Me too,” said John.
Rick and Jimmy lay on the warm rocks at the old granite quarry near the town dump. Their cutoff jeans soaked from swimming stuck to their bodies, cooling them while the hot sun burned their faces and chests. Rick sat up and lit a cigarette, then took a sip of his tepid beer. He pushed his wet hair back on his head with the palm of his hand. “Let’s hit Addison tonight,” he said.
“What’s in Addison?” asked Jimmy, sitting up.
“That Give ’N’ Go on Route 215. They’ll be giving us the money, and we’ll be gone,” said Rick, laughing.
“I don’t know,” said Jimmy, diffident.
“What don’t you know about? The Give ’N Go or tonight?” asked Rick, annoyed.
“I don’t know about robbing stores.”
“What, you aren’t getting enough money? All right, I’ll give you half. From now on, we’re fifty-fifty.”
“It’s not the money.”
“Then what the hell is it?” said Rick, looking directly into Jimmy’s eyes.
“I don’t like it,” said Jimmy, suddenly resolute. “I’m not going to drive anymore.”
Rick took a deep drag from his cigarette. “That’s too bad, because you’re in it now.”
“I was in, and now I’m out,” said Jimmy, standing up and grabbing his striped towel.
“You little shit,” said Rick, spitting at Jimmy’s feet. “You stupid little shit. Once you’re in, you’re never out.”
“That may be true for you, but not for me. I haven’t spent a nickel of that money.”
“And that’s exactly why you don’t get the chicks,” said Rick, leaning back on his elbows.
“Well, I don’t want that kind of chick,” Jimmy said in his defense. “If you have to buy her, she really isn’t yours, is she?”
“Charlotte Thompson loves me.”
“Maybe she does,” said Jimmy.
“You know she does.”
“I’m not here to talk about Charlotte,” said Jimmy. “That’s your business. I’m just not going to rob stores anymore. You can do what you want.”
“You going to rat on me?”
“No,” said Jimmy, wrapping his damp towel around his neck and turning to walk away. He’d hitchhike back to the beach.
“What are you going to do with the money?” Rick called after him. Jimmy raised his arms and shoulders in a shrug, and Rick knew, right then, he had lost him.
“Well, shit,” he said.
It wasn’t until he walked down the first aisle that the Give ’N’ Go cashier noticed the cowboy hat in his hand. She had read the articles in the newspaper. A wave of fear overtook her and, for a moment, she was paralyzed. She then thought about the call button underneath the counter. Mr. Lena had shown it to her when he hired her and told her to use it only in extreme emergencies. The button, when pushed, alerted the Addison police. This is not a button, Mr. Lena had said, to use when you get the creeps. This is a button to use when you fear for your life. She reached for it. But before she pushed it, two police cruisers sped into the parking lot. Within seconds three officers were in the store, guns drawn. Rick, who had seen the lights, ran to the back of the store, where he assumed he would find an exit. But when he pushed through the door next to the milk fridge, he found himself in a barely lit stock room instead of outside. Knocking down cardboard packing boxes in his wake, he stumbled toward the far end of the room where he saw an illuminated red exit sign. When he got there, the door beneath it was locked. As Rick turned, panicking about what to do next, the lights went on. “Put the gun down!”
Rick looked into the face of an Addison police officer, who stood with his legs apart, his knees bent, and both arms extended in front of him. His hands encircled a big gun, which was pointed at Rick’s chest. Rick stared at him. “Put your hands in the air, son,” said the officer, moving closer to Rick, who, suddenly, had never felt so tired. His eyelids began to droop. He shook his head, more to stay awake than in a show of defiance. He momentarily closed his eyes. Before he could open them, the officer was upon him. Locked into handcuffs, Rick was escorted out of the store. He walked past the counter, where the pretty cashier was talking to another Addison police officer. She looked at Rick as he walked past and he smiled, even though he figured she had turned him in.
It was Helen, actually, who had turned him in. Unable to keep the secret any longer, she unburdened her conscience to her father while they were fishing. When he asked her why she hadn’t come forward sooner, she told him what Pammy had told her—that Charlotte would never talk to them again if they ratted out her boyfriend or if she knew they had been spying on her.
“I understand that, Helen,” said John Thompson. “But someone could have gotten hurt.”
“Did he have a gun,” asked Helen, “when he was robbing everyone?”
“Yes, he did. At least that’s what the papers say.”
Helen started to cry. “I’m sorry, Dad.”
John leaned forward in the boat and wrapped his arms around his youngest daughter. “I’m glad you told me now, Helen. We’ll fix this.”
“Can we fix it without Charlotte kno
wing?”
John patted his daughter’s back. “You leave that to me. In the meantime, let’s catch a few more fish.”
When they returned to the cottage, John Thompson made a call to the local police department. He gave them Rick’s name and address and told them what Helen had told him. And then he got a cup of coffee and took his book to the porch. When Charlotte descended the stairs two hours later, he said nothing to her. He didn’t know how much she knew, other than what Helen had overheard. Plus Charlotte would deny it. And if he confronted her with Helen’s story, he was quite certain that she would, indeed, be vindictive toward her sisters. He would let it go simply because that’s exactly what Charlotte would do. He only hoped she would learn from it, from what can happen in bad relationships.
When Rick headed out that night, he had no idea what was coming. He hadn’t noticed the unmarked police car following him earlier in the evening, waiting for him to don his cowboy hat and hit another convenience store. When he walked into the Give ’N’ Go, they were just thirty seconds behind him.
News of Rick’s capture spread quickly. Everyone who could read saw the article in the morning paper and talked of little else on the beach that day. Teenage girls cried. Other fathers lectured their sons and daughters. And Charlotte, who of anyone had the most potential to be devastated by the news, instantly changed gears, as John Thompson predicted. She put the diamond earrings back into their velvet box, which she neatly tucked underneath her underwear in the top drawer of her dresser. And she went waterskiing with Steve Johanson.
CHAPTER 13
2003
After preening for close to forty minutes, Charlotte looked at her reflection in the bedroom mirror and smiled. Her copper highlighted hair exemplified the casual chic look touted by her hairdresser. Her lipstick and eye shadow suited perfectly the colors in her new bikini, as did her freshly manicured nails, which had three days before been polished and buffed to her preeminent standards. She moved in closer and studied her face. The age lines around her eyes and mouth had smoothed out with her latest Botox injection. As the doctor promised, she looked a lot closer to thirty than fifty. Slipping her beach coverall over her head, Charlotte walked downstairs for breakfast. Hearing the clatter of knives and forks against dishes, Charlotte sashayed into the dining room and stood until all eyes were upon her. “Good morning,” she said.
“Good morning,” said Daniel. He stood, cleared his plate, which several minutes ago held three fried eggs, four pieces of bacon, two pieces of wheat toast, and a small mountain of hash-browned potatoes, and offered Charlotte his seat.
“I couldn’t eat a thing,” said Charlotte, hand to empty stomach.
“Your young man made everything,” Claire said from her place at the head of the table. “It was all quite delicious, Daniel. Thank you.”
Helen took her last sip of coffee from her mug, then took her plate into the kitchen. From there she called, “There’s coffee, Charlotte.”
“Let me get you some,” said Daniel. “You sit out on the porch, and I’ll bring it to you.”
“Dear boy,” said Charlotte. “I’ll cherish you forever.”
Pammy waited until Charlotte retreated from the room before walking into the kitchen, closing the swinging door behind her, and making a gagging face at Helen. Helen placed her index finger vertically over her lips and moved her eyes, indicating Daniel’s presence in the pantry. “Can you find a mug?” asked Helen.
“Oh yes,” said Daniel. His attention was directed at the third shelf, chest level for him, where assorted mugs were stored in neat rows. Claire liked matching china, but she allowed mismatched mugs that had made their way to the cottage over the years as gifts or discards from home. Every Thompson had a favorite. And even though Thomas hadn’t been to the beach in thirty years, no one used his plain, white, diner-style mug. “I just can’t find the blue and green one she likes best.”
“It’s on the fourth shelf,” Helen answered. “Next to the blue and green bowl. Charlotte hides it from the rest of us.”
Daniel laughed. “She hides things from me, too. She has a glass with a cow on it that she likes to drink water from. And it moves from the dishwasher to a secret spot that only she knows about—and then surfaces the following morning.” Moments later, Daniel appeared with Charlotte’s mug in his hand. He poured a touch of skim milk into it, then two packets of Equal, before filling it with steaming black coffee.
“She doesn’t take her coffee black anymore?” asked Helen, filling the sink with sudsy water to do the dishes.
“This is her vacation treat.”
“Some treat,” said Pammy.
“Thank you for breakfast,” Helen said to Daniel.
“My pleasure. I love to cook, especially breakfast.”
“Surely you don’t eat like that every day,” said Pammy, in a soft, flirty tone. She moved across the kitchen and stood next to him. His tight-fitting green gym shorts and black tank top allowed Pammy visual access to what older, skin-tagged and moled men covered and hid. She could almost feel the firm flesh of his muscular arm. She could picture running her hands up underneath his top to his smooth chest.
“No,” said Daniel, lightly resting his free hand on Pammy’s shoulder. “Just on the weekends.” He winked at Helen, then, mug in hand, pushed open the swinging door and walked back into the dining room.
“Jesus, he is built,” said Pammy, after the door closed behind him.
“You’re just horny,” said Helen, pouring Pammy and herself another mug of coffee.
“How can you not be, with Zeus walking around the house half naked?”
“My soft, middle-aged husband and prepubescent sons are arriving tonight,” Helen said with a smile.
“Then you’ve got the rest of the day to fantasize. Maybe Charlotte would loan him to me for an hour.”
“Maybe my Todd can take you out tonight. You’ll have to drive.”
“And you’re sounding more and more like Mother.”
“And you’re sounding more and more like a love-struck teenager.”
“Weren’t those the days?”
“Yes, they were,” said Helen, sipping the coffee she never tired of in the mornings.
“And Charlotte’s reliving that.”
“Lucky girl.”
“Bitch,” said Pammy, walking out of the kitchen.
Her mother and sister reading on the cottage porch, and Charlotte and Daniel still in bed, Helen jogged to the beach to set up camp. She dug a hole in the sand and then plunged the sharp tip of the beach umbrella into it. She then used her foot to push the sand back into the hole, where it surrounded the pole. Finally, she covered the sand with a cup or so of ocean water poured from her coffee mug, creating what she called beach cement. Her mother loved looking at the water, but could no longer abide the sun. Last summer she was still able to get in the water. This summer, she would not have the strength to swim. Helen had already suggested an alternative plan. Claire could dress in clothing that would protect her from the sun, from its burn, and read underneath the umbrella. And at the end of the day, Helen could move Claire’s chair to the water’s edge, so she could submerge her feet. Claire hadn’t complained because she knew it was a good offer, the best of a bad situation. Since John’s death five years ago, Claire was more amenable to reading on the beach. She had lost interest in conversing with the neighbors she had known since her childhood. John had been the kindness and gentleness in her life, and losing him prematurely had made her bitter. She tried to hide her contempt, but more often than not, it slipped out, bearing close resemblance to an unwarranted acrid remark, so it was better to just say nothing. Her old tennis friends avoided her now, except for Muffin Ferrigan, who occasionally happened by with a small plastic jug of freshly made lemonade. Muffin would sit down beside her old friend, pour two tart glassfuls, and chat about the old days for an hour or two.
Umbrella set, Helen placed her own chair in the direct sunlight, a few feet away. She took off her s
hirt to reveal the gingham bathing suit she bought last summer, her new favorite. The tiny red and white checks hid the flaws of an aging body. Charles, her husband, told her often she didn’t look a day over thirty-five, but the fine lines that were just starting to appear at the corners of her eyes were more honest. Her gray hairs, too numerous now to pluck out, were painstakingly covered every few months with colorful concoctions mixed by the skilled hairdressers at Bernard’s. They, too, always told her how youthful she looked, but Helen was rarely taken in by hollow compliments, especially from people at salons who made a good deal of their income from tips.
Still, she swam three times a week throughout the winter, rode her bicycle in the spring and fall, ran occasionally, and played a decent game of tennis. She could still beat Todd, who would be twelve in September and who played a textbook game of tennis, but she feared this summer would be the last. Ned, who was ten, was their natural athlete. He played tennis, but preferred team sports, mostly soccer and lacrosse. Like his mother had been at his age, he was always in motion. The only time he sat still was at the dinner table or in a boat, fishing with his father. They were so different, Todd and Ned. The elder, resolute and determined, walked through life with the confidence of someone twice his age. Ned was more of a wanderer. One minute he would emulate Todd; the next, he’d run around the neighborhood with a pack of friends, no agenda, no clock. Ned had a ready sense of humor, and an innate ability to turn ordinary events into wonderful stories, whereas Todd, circumspect and wise, could consistently put his exact feelings into very few, perfectly chosen words. Helen looked forward to their arrival.
“Hey,” called Pammy, as she descended the cement steps. “Cute suit. Is it new?”
“You’ve seen this. I got it last summer.”
“It makes you look very skinny.”
“That’s because I am very skinny.” Helen smiled at her sister.
Pammy grabbed a beach chair from the stack next to the steps and set it in the sand next to Helen. “I’ve got to get tan in the next fifteen minutes,” she said. “Charlotte has been lying in a booth all winter and looks like a goddess.”
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