Suspect Red

by L. M. Elliott

  “Jell-O boxes?” What the heck?! Richard had read plenty about the tricks of the spy trade, but he’d never heard of that method before.

  “Yeah. Isn’t that something?” Don smiled. “I’ll never look at Jell-O the same way again. The KGB also had an official code name for Julius. You see, there was this Soviet codebook that we found near the end of World War II and…” Don stopped himself. “Well…forget what I just said.” He rubbed his hand over his mouth. “Just…believe me. There are things that connect the dots. Also, some of the Rosenbergs’ buddies let the Soviets know that we could decipher their communiqués. Suddenly, overnight, their codes changed. We couldn’t read anything anymore. So when the North Koreans invaded the South, we were caught with our pants down. Thousands of American soldiers have died in Korea because of it.”

  He shoved his plate away, his eggs half-eaten. “And God knows what the NKA is doing to our downed pilots they’ve caught.” Don’s voice grew husky. “People don’t understand what happens to POWs in the hands of political fanatics, the people who truly believe in their leader’s demagoguery.” His hands were really shaking now. “They don’t get it at all.”

  Abigail sat down by the window, blowing on her cup of tea to cool it and watching Don’s face. After a long pause she shifted the conversation back to the Rosenberg family. “Well, it’s just so scary. The Rosenbergs looked like ordinary, nice enough people. It’s beginning to feel like there’s a commie lurking in every corner, just like Senator McCarthy says!”

  “The truth is, Abby, there are spies among us.” Don reached for his pipe and began puffing. A swirl of tobacco mist engulfed him and his hands steadied. “Then again, there are innocent people who simply like Russian music. Spotting the true troublemakers is our job at the FBI. Don’t you worry.”

  “How can you tell the difference, Dad?”

  But before Don could answer, Richard’s little sister, Ginny, skipped in, trailing her enormous stuffed bear. She plopped down on the bench beside Richard, cramming the bear in between them. “Rufus says good morning.” She grinned up at him, putting the bear’s paw on Richard’s elbow.

  When he was younger, Richard had played elaborate hide-and-seek games with Ginny, leaving a string of clues that would lead her to Rufus. But Richard had outgrown that nonsense last year. The four-year difference between them now seemed as wide as the Pacific Ocean.

  “Aren’t you kind of old to carry that thing around with you?” he whispered irritably, peeved that the nine-year-old’s entrance ended his man-to-man talk with his dad.

  She stuck her tongue out at him.

  “Oh, that’s mature. You better not try that in fifth grade, even if you are smart enough to skip ahead a year.”

  “As it happens,” Ginny began, “I have an important appointment today. Rufus”—she patted the stuffed bear’s head—“is how I got it.” She raised her left eyebrow meaningfully.

  Richard laughed in spite of himself. Ginny’s imitation of Abigail’s official mom voice and expressions was dead-on. She was pretty cool that way. She should become an actress. No kidding.

  “And how’s that, sugarplum?” Don asked. He turned off the radio, seeming relieved to have lighter fare to discuss.

  “We have an audience at the zoo. Rufus is getting his picture taken with Smokey Bear!”

  Smokey Bear had been rescued from a wildfire and become the country’s beloved mascot for forest fire prevention. He received more letters at the National Zoo than President Eisenhower did at the White House a few miles away.

  “Why Rufus?” Don asked.

  Abigail handed Ginny a plate while saying to Don, “Your daughter wrote a story to grab the zookeepers’ attention—about Rufus saving Smokey’s life in a forest fire that consumes Rock Creek Park.”

  “I made it real scary, too, Daddy. A Russian Bear named Stalin started the fire.”

  Don’s smile faded. “Where did you get that idea, honey?”

  Ginny tossed her ponytail. “Teacher was talking about Russia—oh, the Soviet Union, I mean—and she said they were gobbling up Eastern Europe and dropped a big old iron curtain to divide the people of Berlin from each other and that pretty soon the Russians—I mean Soviets—would want to come here, too. She showed us a map that had a big Russian Bear growling at Uncle Sam.” She sipped her orange juice. “So the idea just came to me. And it worked, too!”

  “She’ll be in Congress before you know it,” Don joked, but Richard couldn’t tell if his dad meant it to be funny or not.

  “Oh, no, Daddy, I want to be a newspaper reporter.”

  “Of course you do, honey,” Abigail said with the same I’ll-humor-her-fantasies look she’d had when Ginny announced as a six-year-old that she was going to grow up to be crowned Queen of England someday.

  “Gotta go.” Don stood and kissed Abigail and Ginny on their heads. He pointed his pipe at Richard. “You’re in charge while I’m at work, son. Keep the women safe.”

  Richard saluted. “Yes, sir, Dad.” They grinned at each other.

  When he was gone, Abigail left the kitchen, taking Robin Hood with her.

  She came back with a wrapped package. “I was saving this for your birthday, but I think today’s a better day to give it to you.”

  Richard could tell it was a book. Did she really think another book made up for her swiping the one he wanted to read? “Gosh, thanks, Mom.”

  Abigail ignored his sarcasm. “Go ahead. Open it.”

  With little enthusiasm, Richard ripped off the paper, expecting some totally lame thing like a Hardy Boys mystery. But instead he found I Led 3 Lives, the best-selling memoir of an FBI agent who’d posed as a Communist to root out conspirators. Adman, commie, secret FBI informant—three lives. He’d become quite a celebrity after testifying before the House Un-American Activities Committee and exposing Communists with whom he’d pretended to work side by side. And it was exactly the life that Richard suspected his dad to be living.

  “Wow, Mom, thanks. Seriously.”

  “I stood in line at the bookstore so he could sign it to you.” Abigail opened to the title page: Happy Birthday, Richard. Your parents expect great things of you.

  Richard smiled. Autographed by the country’s best-known G-man. Pretty boss, he had to admit.

  “I read in that new magazine, that TV Guide, that there’s going to be a weekly show on Sunday nights about Mr. Philbrick’s counterspying. I thought you’d enjoy reading his book beforehand. Like it?” she asked hopefully.

  “Yeah, Mom, I do. Honest.” She actually was really thoughtful that way—picking out good gifts.

  Relieved, Abigail kissed his forehead. “Thanks for understanding about Robin Hood, honey. Now I better get ready to take Ginny to the zoo. Oh.” She snapped her fingers, saying, more to herself than to Richard, “I better take a few things off the bookshelf, given all this trouble. I know Don loves The Maltese Falcon, but Dashiell Hammett went to jail for refusing to answer questions about some commie-front organization he’d been involved with.”

  Abigail headed for the living room. “Let’s see…Hemingway was on McCarthy’s list. Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men is supposedly proletariat….” Richard could hear the scrape of leather-bound books being pulled from shelves and a thunk as she dropped each one to the floor.

  He looked down at chapter 1:

  “Nine years of conspiracy, uncertainty, fear. Nine years in the shadows where glances must be furtive, where I looked in vain for the face of a friend….Secret meetings on darkened street corners, where automobiles drove up, swallowed me, and whirled away. Nine years with my face smothered in a mask that could never be taken off…”

  Cool! Richard sat back. Maybe this wouldn’t be such a bad substitute for Robin Hood after all.

  “SPARKLERS? Are you serious?”

  Abigail stood at the bottom of the hall stairs, holding up a fistful of the flammable sticks. Her dimpled smile crumpled. “But you always loved sparklers.”

  “Yeah, when I was a bab
y. For crying out loud, Mom, I’m fourteen now, in case you hadn’t noticed!”

  “Cool it, wiseapple!” Don leaned over the railing of the banister. He was knotting his paisley tie and his suspenders dangled down by his hips. “No sassing your mother, kapish?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Richard stomped the rest of his way down the stairs to his mom. He’d woken up in a horrible mood thanks to a phone call the night before from one of his crumb-bum classmates. “My parents are away for the holiday,” the guy had begun, “and I need a ride to Jimmy’s pool party. Can I catch one with you?”

  Richard hadn’t been invited. Worse, he could hear a bunch of sniggering in the background as the dirtbag said, “Geez, Rich, I’m sorry. I can’t believe Jimmy didn’t ask you. Everyone else is going.” He rattled off ten names. “Didn’t you guys use to be buddies?”

  Yeah, until Jimmy started flunking out of History because he wouldn’t do his homework and expected Richard to help him cheat. When Richard refused, Jimmy called him a traitor and a chicken goody-goody and followed him down the school’s hall making a cllluuuuuck-cluck-cluck-cluck sound. Then he went out of his way to stab Richard in the back as many times as he could. Like Brutus attacking old Caesar. Jimmy was the snitch who spilled the beans during lunch one day about Richard playing spy games with Ginny. Jimmy, of course, didn’t mention that he used to join in when he was over at the house. Richard had been laughed out of the cafeteria.

  After hanging up the phone, Richard had tried to write one of his secret songs—a verse about the cruelty of pack mentality and teenage boys who had to be told what to think by a king-of-the-hill jerk. But he failed. He just couldn’t come up with good rhymes for bash, heads, or morons. Around 2:00 A.M., Richard had given up.

  So sparklers in his face first thing in the morning felt like the last straw. While every guy he knew would be lounging around a pool, talking about baseball and babes and the latest Dragnet episode, and probably sneaking their first beers, Richard would be babysitting his little sister with Tinkerbell sparklers.

  Maybe he could convince Abigail to at least get him some actual fireworks.

  “How about Roman candles instead, Mom?”

  “I don’t think those are allowed on the National Mall, honey. Besides, we’ll be standing right underneath the best Fourth of July fireworks the country offers. I just thought sparklers would be fun during our picnic. I remember you looping them around in circles trying to write your name in a trail of sparks. You were so darling then, sweetie.” She patted his face.

  Darling no more, he knew. Richard was currently the prince of gangly, all legs and arms and pimples amid his freckles.

  “I need you to do me a favor,” she went on. “I completely forgot to buy sugar and all the stores are closed today. I need more for our pie. Please go ask Mrs. Emerson for a cup.”

  “Aw, Mom, can’t you go?”

  “I’ve got to fry the chicken. If I go, I’ll be there an hour. Barb is so sweet, but I swear, everything takes forever with her. She always has some gossip she wants to pass on. She could talk the broad side off a barn.”

  “What about Ginny?”

  “She’s over at the Johnsons’, playing with Lynda and Luci.”

  “Oh, sure. The Minority Leader’s kids. Is she trying to get Rufus an invitation to the Senate or something?” Richard knew he was stepping over the line with that crack. But messing with his mom when he was cranky was like scratching a poison ivy rash, not caring that it’d only make the itching worse.

  Abigail picked up a measuring cup she’d left on the front hall table and shoved it into his hand. “When you come home with that sugar, please bring back a better attitude, too, honey. It’s the Fourth of July!”

  Outside, hot summer sunshine drenched Richard. To acclimate to the heat, he stood in the shade of the cherry trees that lined the street, trying to cool down emotionally as well. He knew Abigail didn’t realize what was going on in his head. And Richard just couldn’t bring himself to tell her. How could he admit to his mom that he felt like such a loser? It’d make her cry. Only a turkey would be mean enough to knowingly make someone as sweet as Abigail cry. Besides, Don would be furious with him.

  Richard sighed and shoved his hands in his pockets, staring at Mrs. Emerson’s front door across the street. He’d be there all summer if he didn’t come up with some story that could get him away from her chatter.

  Hmmmm. Holden Caulfield wouldn’t have trouble coming up with a believable fib—something impressive—and he’d be all charming as he told it. Or Philbrick, the double agent. Richard was about halfway through I Led 3 Lives. So far, it wasn’t quite as exciting as he’d thought it’d be, but Philbrick was winning over commies left and right by saying stuff they wanted to hear.

  Mrs. Emerson was real into DC’s who’s who. Plus, she organized some do-gooder committee of neighborhood ladies watching out for hidden Reds and their propaganda. Like that penny candy that was banned for having wrappers with miniature geography lessons because one was about Russia.

  So…what about…Richard had a meeting. Sure! A meeting with the vice president. Yeah, that’s right. The Nixons lived a few neighborhoods away, and the oldest Nixon daughter was Ginny’s age. He’d seen them around. And Dick Nixon was a big Red-hunter going way back. He’d led the conviction of that former State Department guy named Alger Hiss.

  That’s right, Mrs. Emerson, he could hear himself saying. Gotta pass on a top secret discovery. Following in my dad’s footsteps! That’d get her.

  With confidence, Richard stepped into the street. But wait, Mrs. Emerson would ask a thousand questions to find out what his top secret discovery was. He stopped. Darn. Well, maybe he just had an appointment with the barber to get his flattop trimmed. He rubbed his head. His hair was getting kind of dandelion-fuzzy. She’d believe that.

  He dawdled along Mrs. Emerson’s walkway, taking a kick at the sun-colored marigolds marching alongside. They were peppered with weeds. He guessed it was too hard for her to lean over and pull them out. She was kind of old. Maybe fifty, even.

  Richard wondered what had happened to Mr. Emerson. He’d never met the guy. In fact, he’d never heard anything about him. Maybe he didn’t really exist. Or maybe she’d killed him like Lizzie Borden had hacked up her parents. Yeah. Wow. What could have been her weapon?

  As strong as his imagination was, Richard just couldn’t picture plump, short Barbara Emerson wielding an ax or sledgehammer or fireplace tongs or anything. He paused at the bottom step. He knew what had happened. She’d talked her husband to death! To hide her crime, she’d buried him in her marigolds. No wonder they were choked with weeds—it was a spooky symbol, like in Poe’s The Tell-Tale Heart.

  He looked at her front door. He could almost hear it warning him—Run! Run away!

  Without thinking, Richard crouched down, sneaky-like, just as he used to when he was playing all those spy games with Ginny and pretending to be on a stakeout.

  Of course, at that very instant, when he was playing cops and robbers like a baby, the door popped open. Startled, Richard fell back on his butt.

  “Goodness, Richard, what happened?”

  He tried to be nonchalant and waved at her from the ground. “Oh, hey, Mrs. Emerson.” But he could feel his freckles and pimples burn red with mortification.

  “Are you all right?” She pushed open the screen door and started down the stairs toward him.

  Think, Richard, you idiot, or you’re in for epic humiliation. Stupid weeds. If only he hadn’t noticed them.

  “Oh, no, Mrs. Emerson, I’m fine.” In anger, Richard reached for a weed and yanked it. That gave him an idea. “I just noticed you might need a little help with these. I can come back tomorrow and pull them if you like.”

  “Lord love you, child. I would be so grateful. What a thoughtful boy you are, just like that handsome father of yours.”

  Forcing a smile, and feeling ridiculous for his wild imaginings that the sweet old lady was a murderer
, Richard stood and held out the measuring cup.

  “Can my mom borrow some sugar for her pie?”

  “Of course, dear. Come in, come in.”

  As Richard stepped inside, Mrs. Emerson’s poufy cats came running, the bells on their collars tinkling. They swirled around his ankles, leaving a hot cuff of fur.

  “Mutt and Jeff certainly take right to you, dear. They don’t like most men.” Mrs. Emerson looked him up and down. She wore thick, rhinestone-studded, black-rimmed glasses tipped up like cat eyes. “Have I told you how they came to me? There was such a storm blowing up and I was on the porch reading the comics and…”

  “Yes, ma’am, you’ve told me. It’s a very funny story.” Richard held up the measuring cup again. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Emerson, I’m kind of in a hurry. Mom’s waiting for me.”

  “Oh dear, how silly of me, delaying you while your precious mother is waiting to make a pie for your big day. I’ll be back in a jiff.” Mrs. Emerson retreated to the kitchen with the cup, still talking. “My mama always made lemon meringue pie for the Fourth. It was my daddy’s favorite. He always said…”

  Her voice faded. But her cats remained, rubbing against Richard’s legs, a small cloud of fur drifting up. By the time she returned with the sugar, Richard was sneezing so violently, he could barely say good-bye.

  “Drink some chamomile tea for that sniffle, dearie,” she called after him.

  “Mom!” Richard bellowed as he burst back through their door, sneezing. “Here’s your sugar. I gotta change my pants. Mrs. Emerson’s stupid cats slimed me again!” Furious with himself for having to go back the next day to pull weeds, he slammed the cup down onto the table. It sprayed sugar along the week’s mail.

  Geez. Could this morning get any worse? Not having a full cup of sugar would earn him a trip back across the street. Hurriedly, Richard picked up the top letter and poured the spilled sugar back into the cup.

  Underneath the letter was the most recent Saturday Evening Post. On its cover illustration, bursts of fireworks exploded above a row of cars as little children chased each other, holding sparklers. Little children. Sparklers. Exactly. Richard picked up the magazine as proof of his argument. He was about to storm the kitchen when he was racked with sneezes again. New pants first.