Phantom of Riverside Park

by Peggy Webb

  Papa got up and left the room. Elizabeth started after him, but Quincy caught her arm.

  “Leave him be. He’s got a load of grief, and he’s got to carry it all by himself. He’s a proud man, your Papa.”

  “Tell us your plan and quit your yapping, woman.”

  Anybody who didn’t know Fred would have thought he was a mean old man, but Elizabeth saw through his bluster. Fred’s heart was as tender as a baby’s.

  “I think, Clemson, my son-in-law, can get that baby moved to his and Sally’s house till you can get him back.”

  “Quincy, do you meant it?” It was the first tiny shred of hope she’d seen, and Elizabeth clung to it as if it were a life raft.

  “I can’t make any promises, mind you.”

  “That would be wonderful. I could see him. I could go over every night and read him bedtimes stories and tuck him in.”

  Fred slapped his thigh, grinning. “If you ain’t the beatingest woman I ever saw. I’m liable to take up with you myself.”

  Quincy sniffed. “In your dreams, Fred Lollar.”

  Elizabeth refilled their coffee cups, and while Fred and Quincy sparred, she began to make plans. She’d need a lawyer, of course. One she couldn’t afford. She’d have to settle for pro bono. Still, how hard could it be for a lawyer to prove that she was a good mother? Anybody with a legal degree ought to be able to do that.

  Papa hadn’t come back. She glanced toward the kitchen, wondering whether she ought to go after him. And then, suddenly, the doorbell rang.

  “What fresh nightmare is this?” Fred said, and Quincy shot him a dark look.

  “Shut your mouth, you ole fool.”

  “It’s probably a traveling salesman.” Elizabeth got up to answer the door. They had taken her child. What more could they do to her?

  She opened the door and to a man she’d never seen.

  “Elizabeth Jennings?”

  “Yes.”

  He handed her a bunch of legal documents.”You are now served,” he said, and then walked out into the rain as if this were an ordinary day instead of the day the Belliveaus sued Elizabeth for custody of Taylor’s child.

  Chapter Twenty

  Elizabeth had hidden the papers, hoping he wouldn’t find them, but Thomas Jennings was nobody’s fool. No. He took that back. He couldn’t say that anymore. He was everybody’s fool, else why was his great-grandson living with strangers and why did his granddaughter cry herself to sleep every night.

  Oh, he knew how she tried to muffle her cries with the pillow. He could picture her in that mean bedroom without so much a rug on the floor to make it look homey, trying to be brave even when she was alone so he wouldn’t worry.

  He knew another thing, too. He knew that all this misfortune was his fault. Only his. He was the man of house. He was responsible for the safety and well-being of his family. And he had let them down. They’d taken Nicky right out from under his nose, and he hadn’t done a thing but stand there with tears streaming down his face.

  Thomas felt so old he could barely walk across the floor. He was careful not to step on the board that squeaks. It was way past midnight, but he could sleep all day on the bench in the park.

  He had nothing else to do. No little boy to watch after. No little angel calling out, “Look at me, Papa. Watch. I flyin’ to the moon.”

  The papers were tucked way back in the cabinet behind the only piece of good china Elizabeth owned, her grandmother’s teapot. Thomas had sold a pig so he could buy that pot for Lola Mae, a young shoat who would’ve made a huge old sow.

  “You shouldn’t have, Thomas,” Lola Mae had said, but he knew she was proud. Lola Mae was a high-born lady, made to pour tea from a fine china teapot. He used to watch how she’d lay out a linen cloth and linen napkins she’d sewed late at night after all the chores were done. Then she’d sit on the porch rocker and sip her tea with real cream skimmed off the fresh milk he’d brought from the barn that morning, just as refined as could be.

  She’d been proud of that teapot, all right. Proud of him, too.

  “You’re my knight in shining armor, Thomas Jennings,” she’d say.

  He wondered what she thinks of mess he’s made of things now?

  He unfolded the legal document and there it was in black and white: Ralph and Anna Lisa Belliveau versus Elizabeth Jennings. His hands shook as he began to read the complaint, and his eyes blurred so badly he couldn’t make out all the words.

  But the ones he could tortured him. Nicky was gone because of him. Elizabeth was in this mess all because of him. There it was, plain as day. She was accused of endangering her child by placing him in the care of a ninety-year-old man who was not only too old to care for a small helpless child and getting senile, but who also consorted with a foul-mouthed, drunken gambler in the presence of the child. As if that weren’t enough, Thomas Jennings had set the house on fire, and it was only by the grace of God that Nicky hadn’t burned to death.

  She was accused of flagrant disregard for Nicky’s safety by taking him to work and leaving him unsupervised. She was charged with reckless endangerment by failing to provide a safe home environment for him, by exposing him to drug dealers and known felons who lived two doors away from her house. She was accused of negligence by not providing proper day care and/or pre-school for Nicky.

  The only thing they didn’t accuse her of was being poor. Thomas guessed it wasn’t yet a crime to be poor in America. He wondered how long it would take before that was against the law, too.

  Thomas didn’t know what to do anymore. Just when that had happened, he couldn’t say. The world had somehow gotten too complicated for him. The simple life was gone. The simple courtesies, gone. The simple pleasures, vanished.

  Maybe it had all happened when Americans stopped building houses with front porches. Used to be, you could sit on the front porch in the evening when the chores were done and wave at your neighbors. Now, half the time you didn’t even know who your neighbors were. And didn’t want to know.

  They were liable to be selling crack cocaine. And if you knocked on their door, they were just as likely to shoot you in the face as to say howdy do.

  Violence. The world was a violent place. A scary place. You didn’t dare walk in this neighborhood after dark. You didn’t dare speak to strangers, much less strike up a conversation with one for fear of saying something politically incorrect, for fear of being hauled into court and getting your britches sued off.

  Why, you could be just going about your business, trying to live proud and free and upright, and still you’d get hauled off to court.

  And all because the Belliveaus had lost the only son they had and now they wanted Nicky and there was not a thing Thomas could do about it. He’d never felt so helpless, so useless, in all his born days.

  Still clutching the complaint, Thomas dropped to his knees right in the middle of the kitchen floor. He could pray. That much he could do.

  “God,” he said, and then he ran out of steam. For years he’d been badgering God for this thing or that, and whether he got what he asked for or not, he’d always known that God was listening, that he was bending down from that High Place with a heart full of compassion for his children.

  The only time he’d ever doubted was when Lola Mae died, and now he’s doubting again. Maybe even God had turned His back on this evil old world. Maybe He’d hidden His face in shame.

  Thomas covered his own face, hiding his private shame. With the cold tile pressing his cheek, he conjured up the benevolent Presence who had watched over his comings and goings for ninety years without a single thought of desertion. Humbled and contrite, Thomas whispered his entreaties to the floor.

  o0o

  When she was five years old and full of the magic of dreams, Elizabeth coped with the frequent thundershowers Judith rained down on them and the occasional tornado Manny sent roaring through their house by pretending she was Alice in Wonderland and had fallen down the rabbit hole. Nothing was what it seemed, and she
could become small enough to hide from it all or big enough to rise so far above the storms that nothing got wet except her feet.

  But she was a quarter of a century old now with the magic long ago whipped out by life, and every inch of her body felt waterlogged. In the last forty-eight hours she’d learned two things: some kidnappings were legal and pro bono publica wasn’t necessarily for the good of the public.

  She’d met the pro bono attorney who had been assigned to her case: H. Gerald Crump, Attorney at Law, specializing in real estate and wills. He was probably an expert in his field. Most likely, if she wanted to sell a thousand acres of land, she would go straight to the office of H. Gerald Crump with full confidence that she was hiring the cream of the crop. But he’d stumbled around her questions about child custody as if he were in a maze.

  First Elizabeth was heartsick, and then enraged. This was her life, her child’s life they were messing with. Punishment usually matched the crime. Why couldn’t the lawyer match the case?

  “I wonder what the H stands for?” Papa had asked, and she guessed she should thank God for small favors. For the past two days he had gone around the house like somebody dead. Today was the first time Papa had said anything at all relating directly to the case. He hadn’t asked questions, he hadn’t offered tea and a strong shoulder, he hadn’t even mentioned Nicky since that awful day Helen Parkins took him away.

  “I’ll tell you what it stands for. It stands for Hell!” Elizabeth was all but shouting, and she didn’t care. “Gerald Crump can tell me everything I need to know about mortgages and closings but he knows diddledy squat about custody cases.”

  She half expected Papa to rise out of his chair... no, levitate out of the chair on a giant Bible and tell her she was going to go to hell a poppin’ if she didn’t mend her backsliding ways, or at the very least to wash her mouth out with soap.

  Instead he said, “Hallelujah,” then plunked the tea pot onto the stove and began to drag out bowls and pans and sugar and flour. Papa was going to make cookies, a sure sign that he had decided to rejoin the human race.

  “You forgot your apron.” She fetched it from the peg on the half-painted kitchen wall. “Are you making chocolate? I like chocolate.”

  “That’s what I had in mind. Now, what’re you fixin’ to do about gettin’ our baby back?”

  “What was the one thing you always said about solving a problem, Papa?”

  “Get to the source.”

  “Exactly. I’m going to the source. I’m going down to the Delta to see the Belliveaus.”

  “I’m going with you.”

  At first she was going to protest. She didn’t plan to call ahead. There was no way in heaven or on earth the Belliveaus would want to talk to her. They hadn’t come to her when they’d found out about Nicky, had they? They’d just up and snatched him away without so much as a fare-you-well.

  No, there was no way Elizabeth was going to give them advance warning. She was simply going to show up, and if she had to sit on their front porch and wait for them, then so be it.

  Papa had been through enough turmoil. He was getting too old to make the long trip there and back, plus go through all the nasty confrontation that was sure to ensue.

  Still, he was a primary factor in the case. He deserved a chance to defend himself in person. Besides, once the Belliveaus saw him, they would surely change their mind about taking Nicky, wouldn’t they?

  “When are we leavin’?” Papa asked.

  “Tomorrow.”

  o0o

  They didn’t talk much on the drive to the Delta. They didn’t even turn on the radio. They were two against the world, going into battle.

  Without thought Elizabeth began to hum the hymn Mae Mae always sang when she was troubled, the familiar tune a balm to her battered soul.

  “Remember that, Papa?”

  Instead of answering he began to sing, his voice shaky and uncertain at first, then as the stress rolled away, a powerful supplication to the God who had been his bulwark and shield all his life. The song was “A Mighty Fortress is our God.”

  She reached out and caught Papa’s hand, and they both felt it, a third touch light as dandelions, brushing against their knuckles.

  “We’re going to get through this, Papa.”

  “You bet we will.”

  The part of Memphis they were passing through didn’t have a thing to distinguish it from any other city in the South, just the same strip malls and fast food places and service stations that had sprung up like mushrooms over the past twenty-five years. The South Elizabeth loved emerged when they left the city limits. Loblolly pines and black jack oaks and sweet gum trees competed for space on hills the travel writers called undulating and rolling, and draped over them all was a canopy of kudzu that seemed determined to blanket northeast Mississippi.

  Occasionally there was a well-kept pasture where not a single thistle dared grow, where cows moved in slow motion toward a lake nearly gone dry with the drought and dragonflies circled in the blistering heat. Hills gave way to the flat plains of the Delta, and her palms began to sweat. There, just up ahead, was the Belliveau mansion.

  “It’s just a house,” Papa said, patting her hand. “And the Belliveaus are people, just like you and me.”

  Not exactly.

  Her old car looked ridiculous parked in the Belliveaus’ driveway. Besides that, it had overheated on the long climb up the hill, and now sat jerking and hissing steam like a snake.

  But Elizabeth wasn’t about to let something as stupid as a worn-out car undermine her mission. She was going inside that mansion as full of self-assurance as if she’d arrived in a lemon zing.

  Thinking of Nicky’s phrase brought tears. She wiped her face with the back of her hands, then gave Papa a brave smile.

  “We’re here.”

  He was still and silent for so long she feared he was having a heart attack, or at the very least a change of heart. Finally he returned her smile.

  “Let’s go kick some butt, then.”

  That was so out-of-character for Papa, they both laughed, but their laughter had a nervous edge. The long walkway that led to the front porch was old brick laid in a herringbone pattern. Time had warped the path and allowed moss to grow in patches.

  Elizabeth felt like Dorothy following the yellow brick road. At the end would be the mighty Wizard of Oz who would grant her dearest wish, to go home again. Naturally the Wizard would realize that home wasn’t the rude house on Vine Street, but Nicky of the shining blond Belliveau hair and the guard John angel and the funny, jumbled-up songs.

  At the end of the brick path was a set of steps so steep and intimidating they might as well have been Egypt.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t try to climb these steps, Papa.”

  “I’ve come this far. I’m not fixin’ to quit now.”

  It took her twice as long as it would have if she’d been alone, but suddenly she was glad to have Papa with her. All her life, every time something bad had happened to her, Papa had been right by her side.

  “I’m glad you’re with me, Papa. Thanks for coming.”

  “Where else would I be? The day I let you face something like this alone is the day I’m turnin’ up daisies.”

  He stopped to catch his breath, while Elizabeth rang the doorbell.

  o0o

  The first thing David did when he got back to Memphis was call Peter into his office for a report of Elizabeth. Peter had been thorough, as usual, and every word he said drove a stake through David’s heart.

  “The Belliveaus found out about Nicky after Taylor died. They hired a private investigator to track him down-- Rolf Kitzinheimer, one of the best--then they sicced the Department of Human Services on her.”

  David sensed what was coming next, and he steeled himself for the blow.

  “They took her child, David. She’s allowed no contact.”

  He wanted to smash something. Hard. Instead, he nodded.

  “Who has the boy?”

&nb
sp; “Jim and Carol Leigh Matthews in Collierville. A nice couple. They’ve had foster children before. He’s an accountant, and she’s an elementary school teacher. There seems to be some movement from city hall to get him transferred, though.”

  “Why?”

  “Elizabeth’s employer Quincy has friends in high places. Her son-in-law Clemson Verner is the vice mayor. They’re trying to get the boy moved in with them.”

  “Quincy’s behind it.”

  “That’s my guess.”

  “Good for her. Is it going to work out?”

  “Looks like it... There’s more, David.”

  “No doubt the Belliveaus want custody. Nicky is their only heir.”

  “Exactly right. Elizabeth’s attorney is pro bono, H. Gerald Crump, a real estate lawyer.”

  “That’s not good.”

  “It gets worse. Ralph Belliveau’s old school chum is none other than Aaron Lowenstein. In the last election there was a small scandal involving campaign money, but it got shoved off the front page by the horror at Sandy Hook. Guess who was the biggest contributor in Lowenstein’s last run at the bench?”

  “Belliveau.”

  “Exactly. Elizabeth will be facing a bought judge.”

  No wonder the Madonna of his vision had been crying tears of blood. The enormity of Elizabeth’s problem was enough to overwhelm even the Mother of God.

  “Is that all?”

  “That’s it, except for the fire. Thomas Jennings almost burned down the house. Accidentally, of course.”

  “That whole neighborhood ought to be burned down. It’s not fit for human habitation.”

  Which was exactly why the Belliveaus wanted their grandson out, and who could blame them? But to take the child away from Elizabeth was criminal. Did they have no heart?

  “Is there anything else you want me to do on this case, David?”

  “Yes. Find the best child-custody lawyer in the country. Make it top priority.”

  “Do you think she has a chance of winning this thing?”