by Brad Graber
“I’m terribly sorry,” she offered, her face burning as she made eye contact with her teacher. “It will never happen again. Never.”
Mr. Rosenfeld sighed. “I want to be your friend, Rikki. I want to help you. I see that you stick to yourself for the most part. You’re not like the others. There’s a depth. It comes through in your creative writing. But there’s no place for name-calling and put-downs. Accusations can be very dangerous things.”
Rikki nodded as her stomach lurched.
“I don’t want to have to talk to you again about this,” he warned. “I’ve never been so disappointed in a student.”
A tear escaped Rikki’s eye.
“And I know you didn’t write the note,” he said, standing. “I know everyone’s handwriting in class. That,” he assured her, “is not yours.”
Rikki was confused. If he knew she hadn’t written the note, then why had she stayed behind?
“You should be careful who you choose to befriend,” he went on. “Not everyone is worthy of your time.”
So Mr. Rosenfeld knew it was Barbra.
“When someone is mean to others, they’re telling you very clearly who they are. You should listen to them and be warned. You never know when they might turn on you.”
Rikki shrugged. Barbra was her friend. She had no idea what Mr. Rosenfeld was talking about. “May I go now?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said as she rushed from the room.
◆
“It’s Barbra,” Rita said as she held the phone in her hand. “Why does she call during dinner?”
Rikki took the receiver. “We’re eating,” she said, slightly exasperated. “I told you before, I don’t want to talk about it.”
Rita gave Rikki a sour face as she wiped up what remained of the gravy on her plate with a piece of challah.
“I’ll call you later,” Rikki said before finally hanging up.
“What’s wrong with her?” Rita wanted to know.
“Oh, nothing. Just something about homework,” Rikki lied.
“Well, she should do her own work,” Rita huffed.
Rikki nodded. “Would you excuse me? I’m done.”
“You are not,” Rita admonished, checking out Rikki’s dinner plate. “You’ve hardly touched my pot roast.”
“I can’t,” Rikki explained, hands in the air. “It’s delicious, but I can’t.”
Astonished, Rita asked, “Are you feeling all right?”
“No,” Rikki lied again. “I think I’ll lie down,” she said, leaving the table.
“Yes,” Rita surmised. “It must be easier to talk to Barbra from the other room lying on your bed.”
Rikki smiled as she slinked away.
“I’m going to save your dinner,” Rita called out. “Come back and eat when you’re done. My word, you’ll grow up to be skin and bones with a friend like Barbra.”
◆
Dr. Newbar slid a hand up and down Beetle’s tummy as the wire fox terrier struggled.
“Take it easy, boy,” Harry said, holding Beetle by the collar as Beetle’s back legs continued to kick and slide on the metal examining table. “He’s not going to hurt you,” Harry assured him.
Newbar smiled, letting go of Beetle. The dog practically launched himself into Harry’s arms.
“It’s just a sore tummy. Nothing to be concerned about,” Newbar said in such a loud voice that Harry was startled.
“Do you have anything for the diarrhea? It’s kind of nasty.”
“Sure.” Newbar stroked Beetle’s back. Beetle clung ever closer to Harry with each touch.
“What do you think caused it?” Harry wondered, lifting Beetle off the table and out of Newbar’s reach.
“Hard to say. He could’ve picked something up off the ground. Has he been getting into the garbage?”
Harry shook his head no.
“Hey, it’s no big deal. Give him some boiled chicken and white rice—and then slowly shift it over to his regular food. I’m sure he’ll be fine.”
Back at home, Harry filled a soup pot with water.
What did the doctor say? Richard wanted to know.
“Nothing,” Harry said as he turned on the flame.
That was a lot of upset stomach for nothing.
Beetle sat at Harry’s feet as if waiting for a treat.
“He probably got into something.” No big deal. It happens.
Not the way you watch him. That dog is never out of your sight.
Harry agreed. He was exceptionally attentive with Beetle. The diarrhea had been an odd occurrence.
Maybe it was your girlfriend. She’s been giving him treats. Maybe she’s poisoning him.
Harry burst into laughter. “Lil?” She adores him. She’d never hurt him. And besides, she isn’t my girlfriend.
She’s here all the time. Is that good for your writing? Has Edward seen the next set of pages? Aren’t you running late?
Harry dropped the skinless breast into the simmering water. He watched as the fat from the breast created a foamy white film on top.
She’s going to get in the way of your writing.
Harry had no doubt that was true.
Get rid of her, Richard’s voice pressed. You don’t need a woman to be happy.
◆
“I’m not telling you,” Rikki told Barbra for what seemed like the billionth time. She held the receiver tightly to her ear as she curled the cord in one hand. “That was a private conversation between Mr. Rosenfeld and me.” There was silence on the other end of the line. “Are you still there?” Rikki asked.
“Yes.” Barbra’s voice was dour. She was clearly disappointed. “I don’t see why you won’t tell me. A friend would tell.”
“Barbra, I am your friend. But even between friends, certain things are private.”
“I don’t see why,” Barbra huffed.
“They just are.” Rikki held her ground.
“Maybe we really aren’t friends after all,” Barbra said.
“Barbra, you’ll always be my friend,” Rikki calmly said. “Now I have to go. You’ve tired me out.” It was one of Rita’s favorite expressions.
◆
Rikki wondered if it were true that her mother’s artwork had been donated to Goodwill, where it would have been available to anyone for next to nothing. It didn’t seem reasonable that Rita would have given it away. But then, what else might Rita have done with the artwork?
Perhaps it’s in the building’s storage room, Rikki considered as she tossed and turned, unable to sleep. I bet that’s where it is, she thought with excitement at potentially solving the mystery.
Getting up at five o’clock in the morning, she grabbed Rita’s keys off the counter, left the apartment, and headed down the elevator to the lobby.
Rikki froze when the doors opened. Willy, the building superintendent, was dealing with Aguilar Gardens’ bug infestation. Despite being in his fifties, Willy retained the powerful physique of a high-school athlete. His close-cropped Afro was stained with patches of gray. Recently the building’s owner had removed the incinerator and replaced it with a trash compactor. Since Willy could no longer burn the garbage, there had been a growing infestation as the roaches had discovered the rotting food. In the early morning hours, the bugs seemed to be the most active, crawling over the lobby walls and ceiling, and sometimes falling on the heads of unsuspecting tenants. Using a broom, Willy knocked the bugs to the floor and then quickly swept them up into a vibrating brown pile.
Rikki ran past Willy, covering her head.
“Good morning, sweetie,” he called as Rikki raced by. Her goal, the storage room. A large locked area where tenants stored possessions for safekeeping.
With a turn of the key, the door opened and Rikki stepped into a damp, musty odor.
She twisted the electric timer by the door, illuminating the tight space. Bare pipes ran across the ceiling and up and down the walls. Fine cobwebs had formed here and there. Rikki swiped at them as she made her way t
hrough the dank, narrow room, passing by clusters of furniture, large black trunks, rows of bicycles, and large and small boxes of every shape and size. Each grouping was gathered under a name prominently displayed on a piece of board that hung from an overhead pipe—along with an apartment number.
Rikki searched for Goldenbaum. She passed by Sardell, Stein, Spiegel, Hoffman, Morgenroth, Blance, and Tucker. The dust was so thick she thought she’d choke as she made her way to the back of the storage area.
And then she spotted it.
A black trunk in the back corner near an old wooden dresser. Goldenbaum.
It was a miracle. She knelt down and examined the trunk’s lock. Holding Rita’s keys in her hand, she searched for a key that might fit. And then the room went pitch black. Terrified, she leapt to her feet and rushed ahead toward where she thought the door was, only to collide blindly with what seemed to be a stack of boxes. She screamed and dropped the keys. The noise reverberated off the ceiling.
◆
“Are you okay?” Willy asked as he helped her to her feet.
Her jeans and shirt were covered in a film of dust. “What happened?” she asked as she brushed herself off.
Willy looked over at the toppled boxes. “It looks like you were ‘Dancing in the Dark,’” he cheerily sang.
Rikki offered a blank stare.
“Bruce Springsteen,” Willy clarified. “This gun’s for hire . . . even if we’re just dancing in the dark.”
Rikki shook her head, not recognizing the tune.
“Young lady, your musical education is woefully lacking,” Willy laughed. “And next time you come in here. I’d recommend you give that timer a full rotation if you plan on staying longer than a few minutes.”
“Oh.”
Willy eyed her suspiciously. “People don’t usually spend a lot of time in here. They come in, get what they want, and leave. They sometimes forget to turn off the lights. So I installed that timer.”
Rikki nodded as she looked about.
He stroked the stubble on his chin. “So, what are you doing up so early and what exactly are you looking for?”
“I dropped my grandmother’s keys. I’ve got to find them.” She was becoming increasingly frantic.
“No need to panic,” Willy advised.
This was the longest conversation Rikki had ever had with Willy. She hadn’t realized how very kind he was and wondered why she didn’t already know that. After all, he always seemed to be about, fixing this or that.
Together they searched.
“I don’t see them over here,” he said, scanning under a table with a small flashlight that he retrieved from his tool belt. “So you didn’t answer my question. What are you doing in here?”
“Nothing,” she replied innocently, crouched down to look behind a mirror leaning up against three stacked boxes.
Willy was poking around a washing machine. His tone became conspiratorial. “Now, come on. You can tell me what you’re up to. It’ll be our secret. Promise,” and he crossed his heart before holding up two fingers just as she looked his way. “Scout’s honor.”
Rikki took a breath. “I’m looking for my mother’s artwork. She died when I was eleven. I thought Rita might have stored it here.”
“Here?” Willy looked about. “Now I’m not an art critic, but this is the last place you’d store artwork. It’s too damp.”
Rikki was not about to give up. “Yes, but I found a trunk. Maybe it’s in the trunk.”
“Could be,” Willy confirmed.
Rikki felt a sudden glimmer of hope. “But I can’t open it,” she said, focused on the missing keys. “Oh, my God. I’ve lost Rita’s keys,” she cried. “I can’t get back into the apartment without those keys.”
◆
“Here they are. Right over here,” Willy called as he bent down and reached between a standing lamp and something covered by a white sheet. He offered the keys up in the palm of his hand.
“Oh, thank goodness,” Rikki said with delight. “Now which key do you think will open the trunk?”
Willy rifled through the set of keys anchored by a gold R before selecting a small silver key. “I’d bet on this one.”
Kneeling down next to the trunk, Rikki looked up at Willy just as the key slipped in. She broke into a big grin.
“Now, before you do this,” Willy said, a troubled look on his face, “don’t you think you really ought to talk with your grandmother?”
Kneeling by the trunk, the center latch opened, Rikki worked to unsnap the metal clasps on either end. “There’s nothing to talk about.”
“Maybe your grandmother has her reasons.”
Rikki barely took a moment to respond. “Now, why would she want to keep anything of my mother’s from me?”
Willy paused, kneeling down so that they met at eye level. “People have all sorts of odd reasons for doing what they do.”
Rikki offered a puzzled look.
Willy grimaced and stood up, rubbing his thighs. “I guess I’m not as young as I used to be. Gosh, that hurts.”
Rikki ignored his complaint. “What did you mean?”
Willy’s brown eyes locked onto Rikki’s. “Honey, sometimes the things we adults lock away in trunks are the things we can’t bear to part with . . . even if we don’t want to look at them any longer.”
Rikki lifted the top of the trunk. A layer of dust caught her by surprise, forcing a sneeze. There before her eyes was a photo album perched atop nothing more than a few old blankets and pillows.
Rikki flipped open to the first page. Black-and-white photographs held in place by white triangular edges. Rikki immediately recognized her mother. El must have been about fifteen at the time, the same age as Rikki. Standing next to a tree, she had pulled her long blonde hair into a ponytail and her lovely figure was already clearly in view. She wore a simple white shirt with plaid bell-bottom pants. “She’s practically a girl,” Rikki told Willy as he glanced over her shoulder and smiled.
“She’s pretty,” Willy said.
“Uh-huh,” Rikki agreed.
“Just like you,” Willy continued.
“Oh, no. We’re nothing alike. My mother was tall with blonde hair and hazel eyes. Flawless skin,” Rikki said instinctively as she brought a hand to her face. “She was positively lovely. Lovely.”
“How old was she . . . ?” Willy asked as his voice trailed off.
“When she died? Forty-five. She was only forty-five.”
Willy sighed. “That’s heartbreaking.”
“I know,” Rikki quickly agreed. “But the saddest thing is,” and she looked up at the big man with his tender expression and suddenly felt safe in sharing her secret, “I can’t remember her at all.”
“How old were you when it happened?”
“It was four years ago,” Rikki admitted, a tremble in her voice. “How can you forget your own mother? It just doesn’t seem possible.”
Willy tilted his head as he looked down at her. “It is strange.”
“I know,” Rikki agreed. “But it’s true.”
Willy checked his watch. “I better get going. Do you want to take that book with you and lock up the trunk or should I just leave you be and come back later?”
Suddenly panicked, Rikki’s eyes opened wide and her mouth descended into a frown. “What time is it?”
“It’s 6:15.”
“Oh no,” Rikki gasped. “Rita will be getting up. I have to get back.” And without another word, she lifted the book out of the trunk, slid it under her arm, and slammed the trunk shut, pushing in the lock and turning down each clasp.
Together, they left the storage area. But before Rikki stepped on the waiting elevator, she turned. “Please don’t say anything,” she begged Willy, who had already taken up his regular post with the broom.
He winked. “Don’t worry, sweetie. Your secret is safe with me,” he said as the elevator doors closed.
6
Mr. Rosenfeld stopped Rikki in the hall.
/> “I liked it,” he offered without bothering to specify what he was talking about. “I think you have a really strong chance.”
Rikki nodded, realizing he was discussing her short story. “Thank you,” she said, still not sure if writing a short story was much of a big deal. After all, she’d just strung some words together. And yet, she couldn’t help but feel nervous about others reading it. As if strangers were about to tap into her most private thoughts.
“You’re really talented,” Mr. Rosenfeld continued.
Rikki didn’t know what to say.
Mr. Rosenfeld looked about the hallway as the other students passed on their way to class. “You think you’re just like everyone else. As if anyone can write like you.”
Rikki felt a blush creep up her face. “It’s no big deal,” she answered, desperate to make an escape.
“But you see . . .” His yellow and blue polka dot bow tie wiggled with each glide of his Adam’s apple. “Not everyone can. You see things as they are. You see people for who they are. You’re sensitive,” he said, as he nodded his head in confirmation, before turning to walk away, his black corduroys creating a swooshing sound.
Rikki watched as he headed down the hall. The last thing she ever wanted was to be sensitive. She wanted to be strong. Invincible. Impervious to those around her.
Rita too had often told her that she was different. Not like anyone from Queens. It wasn’t meant to be a compliment. And even though Rikki relished being from the Midwest, she didn’t want to be perceived as someone from the Midwest. It makes no sense, she’d say to herself. And yet, it remained true. She didn’t want to be anyone’s rube.
“I saw you talking with her,” Barbra whispered at lunch.
“Her?” Rikki had no clue who Barbra was talking about.
“You know. Mr. Rosenfeld.” Barbra smiled as if they shared a secret. Before Rikki could ask anything further, Barney came into view. “He’s coming over,” Barbra squealed, her neck turned about in Barney’s direction. “I can’t believe it.”
Her foolishness rubbed Rikki the wrong way. “Stop it. You’d think you’d never seen a boy.”
Barbra’s smile shifted to a plaintive look. “Not a boy who looks like him.”