They both returned to sipping their coffee. “How did your holidays go, Mark? Did you get to visit your son?”
“Yes, I’m glad you suggested it. I hadn’t seen Paul and his family in years and they were happy to see me. The two kids are so big now. They’re planning to come down here in the spring when the weather is better. How about you?”
“Oh, we had a great time. Everyone gathers for the holidays. I fix the turkey and stuffing and the others bring their favorites. Our meals have become international now, not strictly Polish, what with our Italian, Mexican and French in-laws. There usually are about twenty of us and they all come here since my place is the largest–at least the dining table Norman made is. I don’t know what would happen if I sold this place.”
“Sell? What do you mean?” Mark had an unsettling vision of losing this new friend.
“Well, it’s just a thought. My children have been wondering how long I could keep this property up. They’re all busy with their own work and places, you know, and I hate to burden them with my needs. Just something I’ve been talking about with my son in Florida.
“But enough of that. There’s something I want to talk to you about, Mark. I’ve been having nightmares over it,” she said, her voice subdued and serious.
Their conversation was interrupted by Bashia’s cell phone playing “London Bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down” before she could grab it from her purse and push the talk button.
“Gram, it’s me, Jake.”
“Hi, how are you?” Bashia asked, surprised to hear from her grandson during school hours. “What’s up?”
“Well, I’ve got a problem. Got into a little trouble and I need to have you come with me tonight to the school. Mom’s in Hartford somewhere and Dad will be working second shift, so he can’t come. Gotta have a parent or guardian here for the meeting. Can you come? Please?”
“I don’t understand,” Bashia frowned. She was listed as a family contact person in all her grandchildren’s school data and could substitute for the parents. “What happened?”
“Oh, Gram, I was with some guys who were passing drugs. I didn’t take them, honest, but I was with them so they nailed me. I’ll tell you more later, but now the counselor wants to know if you can come.”
“Yes, of course. What time is the meeting? Okay, I’ll pick you up at 6:45.” She put her phone away and held her head in her hands. “Oh, that boy will be the death of us yet. He seems to attract trouble like iron shavings to a magnet. A group of boys got caught with drugs in school and he was one of them. Now I’ve got to visit the school counselor tonight.”
“Want me to come along?” Mark asked. “An objective observer is sometimes valuable, even though I am carrying a weapon.”
Bashia laughed lightly, and shook her head. “No, thanks anyway. I think we need to keep this in the family for now and hope it doesn’t come to needing strong-arm tactics.”
“I understand. No problem, but you know if you ever need me to help with something, I’m available and trained in lots of situations,” said Mark. “By the way, just before your grandson’s call, you said you needed to talk to me about something?”
“Yes, but it’ll have to wait for another time. I have an appointment with a client in Auburn this afternoon. And now this business with Jake tonight! But, don’t worry, I won’t forget,” she said, wishing she could forget but realizing she needed to talk to someone and Mark seemed like the right person.
Glancing at her watch, she said, “Oh-oh, I’d better get going. It was great having coffee with you. How about having dinner at Foxwoods some evening? It’ll be my treat; I’m expecting to sign up a big job this afternoon.”
“That would be interesting, I haven’t been there yet and I’ve heard a lot about it. I’ll call you tomorrow when I learn more about the case and we can make a date.” He helped her into her coat, picked up his own jacket and hat and walked her out the door.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Bashia parked under the streetlight, close to the high school entrance and turned off the motor. She heard the loud vibrating thump of an approaching gray clunker long before it pulled in behind them.
Bashia watched her rear view mirror as three boys and a girl tumbled out of the car, laughing and joking and dressed in sloppy, low-rise outfits she saw on many teenagers now. She shivered when she saw they didn’t have any coats. Doesn’t anyone wear jackets or coats anymore? Even Jake had run from his house to the car in his shirtsleeves.
The driver wore a long, loose maroon T-shirt over wide-legged blue jeans, his dense wavy brown hair anchored behind his ears. An inch-thick silver chain hung from the second boy’s belt loop, down past his knees and threatened to pull his baggy black jeans even lower.
Faded clothing stretched over the chubby body of the third boy. His gel-spiked blonde hair contrasted an innocent looking face. He held the door open as a girl stretched her legs out before standing. She wore a bright yellow windbreaker over a tight, straight denim skirt. Her long thin ponytail swung across her shoulders as she sauntered after the boys.
“Are these your friends?” Bashia asked, “They certainly aren’t concerned with making a good appearance for the counselor. At least you have decent clothes on.” She glanced over at Jake, whose sport shirt was tucked in clean jeans, his short hair brushed to one side.
“Gram, they aren’t my friends,” Jake tried to explain. “I just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. At least no one had a gun! Last week a senior was caught with a .38 caliber gun and braggin’ how he could eradicate fingerprints using bleach. There’s a lot of stuff goin’ on, Gram.”
Bashia shook her head. I am so naïve. Perhaps Jake isn’t as bad as I thought. At least he was honest about his involvement.
Once inside, Jake led the way to the counselor’s office, followed by the snickering foursome who sat down in a row of chairs against the wall. They talked and laughed in low tones Bashia couldn’t hear. She and Jake sat at a table in the center of the room and waited. When Mr. Briggs, the counselor entered, the group quietly poked each other.
“Good evening, all. Evening, Mrs. LaFontain.” He nodded in her direction and sat at the table opposite Jake and Bashia.
Before Bashia could correct him, he continued, “We’re here to discuss this infringement of school policy and, may I remind you, carrying or trafficking in drugs is a serious offense.”
He surveyed the group. “Carmen, what are you doing here? Do you want to tell me you were involved with these boys?”
“Ah, no. I just, ah…”
“Then leave immediately!” Briggs stacked his papers and noisily tapped then on the table, waiting for her to leave.
Oh, this is off to a good start, Bashia thought.
“Where are your parents?” Briggs asked the boys.
“Ah, well, I asked my old man, but he can’t come. I ain’t got no mother,” one of the boys answered.
The other two mumbled excuses and lowered their heads. Bashia wondered if they had even told their parents about the meeting.
“With no adult here for any of you three, I have no choice but to turn you over to the police. One of the requirements this evening was to bring a parent or guardian. You boys couldn’t do that?”
He shook his head, knowing how difficult it was to get a parent to answer his phone calls, much less come to a meeting. He stared at the three boys.
“But first, let me get this straight–the report states that this afternoon the custodian found you all passing or using marijuana in the locker room. Anyone dispute that?
“This stub of marijuana was being passed around.” He held up a small joint. “Looks like they were honey blunts. Am I right?”
The boys looked at each other, wondering where Mr. B got his information. Who squawked?
Jake glanced briefly at his grandmother, then spoke up, “Mr. Briggs, I didn’t have anything to do with this stuff. I was going to my locker when Mike called me over. I know him, so I hung aro
und. Then they started talking about getting stuff and passed the joint around. Honest, I just passed it. Ask them!”
When the other boys didn’t show any sign of coming to his rescue, Jake continued, “I didn’t smoke anything. There’s better stuff than…” He stopped suddenly.
Bashia stared at her grandson, grim-faced. She must be blind to what was going on with the younger generation. She paid little attention to the drug busts and arrests in the newspaper, but now this was too close to home. When, where did all this happen?
Briggs shuffled his papers once more. “Our school policy is clear. No drugs, weapons, alcohol or tobacco on the property. The custodian searched each of you and he found marijuana in the possession of two of you.
“Since this is your first offense, Simons, you would have gotten off with ten days out of school and a drug screening. However, your failure to bring a parent here kills all that. Did you really ask your parents to come?”
He looked at Brad Simons whose pimply, frowning face stared down at the table.“You will be expelled for thirty days and a drug screening will be required before you’re allowed to return.
“Makinski and Gebhert, you haven’t brought your parents or guardian either and you both have had two other offenses. You will be expelled for the remainder of the year and you’ll have to deal with whatever the police deem appropriate. They will be here shortly to take you to the police station. You’ll have to call your parents from there.”
Jake fidgeted with his fingers, his chin sunk to his chest, his bravado dissolving like snow on a summer day. He knew he had disappointed his grandmother and dreaded telling his parents when he got home. Their constant nagging to study had put him in bad mood, a mood that carelessly took him to the locker room this morning. Everyone knew it was a hangout for kids who did drugs.
“LaFontain, I’ll take your word that you weren’t smoking and we know you had no drugs on your person. You will get three days in-school suspension, report to me every day, have a drug screening done tomorrow, and do fifty hours of community service.
“Here is a list of non-profit organizations you can contact. Report to me when one of them agrees to take you on.” Briggs handed him a single sheet of paper.
“You can go now. I appreciate you taking the time to be here, Mrs. LaFontain.”
“Thank you, but I’m not Jake’s mother. I’m his grandmother, Bashia Gordon,” she said as they rose to leave. “I hope we won’t meet like this again.”
Greg Briggs tried to hide his smile as he watched them walk out the door before turning to the remaining boys. He dialed the police station.
Both Bashia and Jake sighed with relief as they returned to her car. “Don’t ever do that to me again!” Bashia said as she buckled up. “I hope you realize this is serious–doing drugs. Why do you kids want to ruin your health? You’re only sixteen years old! And what was that comment–‘there’s better stuff than’? What do you know about drugs anyway? Clue me in.”
Jake stared out the window into the darkness. “Gram, there’s drugs and all kinds of stuff going on if you want to look for it. Danielson is no different than Putnam or Brooklyn or Woodstock. Doesn’t matter if it’s a big or little city, it’s everywhere.
“Why do you think some kids go wacky? There’s so much available. Those guys, I bet they don’t even sleep at home! And their parents probably don’t even care.” He paused, then shyly continued, “I’m real glad you’re here, Gram, even if you yell at me.”
“I’m glad that I’m here, too. But where can you get drugs?”
Jake hesitated. “Well, you know that small store by the bridge? I know guys get stuff there and there’s someplace in the old mill, too. I hear the kids talking, but I’m not into that. And that empty lot at the end of Main Street–did you ever see kids hanging out there at night? They’re not just shootin’ the breeze, they’re waitin’ for a drop.”
“Oh, God! You better not get into that, you hear?” Bashia almost drove off the road as she gave Jake a threatening look. “You’ve put us all through hell more than once. We don’t need any druggies in our family. It’s a mixed up world we live in, isn’t it? But what about your list of non-profits, who are they? You’ll have to get going on that.”
Jake pulled out the paper he had folded into a small square and turned on the map light. “There’s only three names here. What am I supposed to do? Sweep the floor or something?”
“You will do whatever they assign you to do. Community service has two purposes. You need to be responsible for getting there and doing what they ask for the length of time Mr. Briggs said. Fifty hours isn’t as long as it might seem. The other purpose is to introduce you to an organization that provides services to people in the community who need some kind of assistance. There are lots of people who have problems bigger than yours.”
CHAPTER NINE
“Dottie, I’m sorry to come by without calling first, but I desperately need to talk with you. My world is falling apart; my life is over…AGAIN.”
Lucinda Litchman’s bright red hair looked as if she had just shampooed, scrunched it up into her favorite Orphan Annie style and forgot to run a pick through it.
Dottie Weeks couldn’t imagine leaving home without brushing her hair into a neat pageboy. The thought made Dottie flick her blond, nearly straight, shoulder-length hair from her eyes before she even opened the screen door. “Hi, Lucinda, I’m glad to see you. I hope I can help. Tell you what, I’ve got some set-ups to do for my beginner’s class this afternoon. Let’s go down to the studio where the phone won’t disturb us. I’ll get my prep work done and you can unburden yourself.
“But first, come in for a second. I’ve got to say goodbye to Misha and Sarafina before I go out. My two beautiful Siamese cats think they’re people. If I don’t close them into their room–my kitchen–they’re likely to hide someplace high where I can’t get them. And I just baked some scones that taste great with soothing raspberry tea. I wouldn’t dare leave them on the counter in my absence.”
Lucinda stood on one foot, then the other, then nervously paced in front of Dottie’s tall Victorian coat rack. She could hear Dottie oohing and cooing at the cats. She had never understood people’s relationships with animals, especially ones that could climb onto kitchen counters to lick or devour fresh-baked goodies.
When they first met at Dottie’s, the women’s interest in ceramics and other floral art had given them mutually rewarding talks and they had begun to broaden their friendship when both realized they each had few friends in the area. Dottie had said that she moved to the area because Bashia Gordon, with whom she had served in the Peace Corps, lived here. She operated a decorating workroom and was an interesting storyteller who described this region in such glowing terms that Dottie had decided to check it out. This rural property was appealing because, in addition to the beautiful, weather-beaten Cape Cod coated with English ivy, it contained an outbuilding she and Bashia had turned into her studio.
Lucinda had never been in the house before, although Dottie frequently mentioned her cats. From the narrow central hall, she could see a sunny room on the right with wide plank floors and honey-colored wainscoting on the walls with pictures of both cats. An embroidered bench cushion featured three playful kittens in a basket. She would love to see the house, but didn’t want a tour today. She needed a friend to talk to.
When Dottie returned and grabbed a set of keys from the rack, Lucinda asked why she didn’t just bring the cats with them.
“Too many people are allergic to cat dander and I once had an unfortunate experience with a friend’s child who inadvertently sat on Misha’s favorite cushioned chair. We wound up taking him to the hospital emergency room–he was having a terrible time breathing. His mother, of course, didn’t have his medicine with her. She had just stopped by for a few minutes, but it happened so fast, it really scared me. So I don’t take the girls down to my studio. If a student had that kind of a problem today, she likely would sue the socks off me.”
“What happened to the boy, Dottie?”
“An adrenaline shot at the hospital counteracted the reaction in minutes,” Dottie told her. “But enough about that; the cats will be fine for now. Don’t these scones smell delicious? I see you’ve brought your projects folder, have you been creating some new designs?”
“No, I can’t concentrate on any of that. I’m too upset by what’s going on with me and Hiram. I brought an old newspaper article about us from our hometown paper. It’s so hard to explain it all and I want you to know the whole story because it is flat-out driving me crazy. If I were a drinker, I’d have come over here drunk–it’s that bad. I can’t go home until I get this off my chest and you’ve been such a good friend even though you don’t know anything about me, really. I need to unload this onto someone with broad shoulders.”
Uh-oh, that sounds dangerous, thought Dottie. She didn’t consider herself a strong person, more of a follower than a leader. But she certainly could listen to someone who needed a sympathetic ear. That didn’t require much talent.
This was just Dottie’s second year in Woodstock but her class had already attracted a good following of students, most of them new to the art. She and Lucinda had a budding friendship going. Plus, Lucinda had previous greenware experience and was helping teach the others in the class.
Lucinda’s face bore its usual squeaky-clean appearance. She always looked as if she just stepped from the shower–with or without makeup. Dottie envied the younger woman’s good skin. Dottie never left her bedroom in the morning without putting on her face–well-powdered and blush-tinged, complete with eyes, brows and lashes. A walking Mary Kay advertisement.
“Well, I’m not sure about the broad shoulders, but I might have a good cry with you if you need it,” Dottie said. “You’ve certainly given me a few laughs since we’ve known each other. What’s got you so upset? Do you want me to read the article first or tell me what this is all about?”
Old Secrets Never Die Page 5