Mourning In Miniature (2 page)

Too bad his personal life was in shambles. But it wasn’t all his fault, and by Monday things might be better along those lines, too.

On the whole, the outlook for the weekend was good. Promises had been made and it was time to call them in, one way or another.

The phone rang. He picked up the unit in the living room and listened to the insistent voice on the other end.

“We’re clear,” David responded. “It’s do or die.”

He hung up and sat on the sofa, facing his trophy where he’d placed it on the credenza, his name visible, of course. He thought back to his starring role in the big games on Thanksgiving and Homecoming Weekend, the hallway of lockers where he’d had his share of quick embraces, classrooms where he’d done as much note-passing as note-taking.

He sat back and linked his hands behind his neck. A small shiver of doubt crept up his spine. He shook it off. This was his weekend.

What could go wrong?

I maneuvered through the store’s narrow, crowded aisle
carrying a loaded plastic basket on my arm. When the metal handles dug too painfully into one arm, I shifted the basket to the other. For a break, I set the ugly green container in the only clear space, a corner of the back counter, and reviewed the items I’d collected. I matched them against my shopping list.

Three bathtubs.
Check
. Fourteen lamps.
Check
. One outdoor swing set.
Check
. One baby carriage.
Check
. One life preserver.
Check.
I still needed six counter stools and two refrigerators, one modern and one 1930s style with the motor on top.

The minute I’d told my crafters group I was headed for a dollhouse and miniatures store in Benicia, sixty miles away from our town of Lincoln Point, they clamored to capture my attention and give me their wish lists. There weren’t that many independent miniatures stores in northern California anymore, so when one of us was able to make the trek to a shop, we all submitted our needs.

Another half hour of browsing and I was weighed down with all the desired items, plus unplanned “must-haves.” I gathered up a few tools—a mini drill, a miter box, and needle-nose pliers that were on sale—and lugged the basket toward the cash register.

I’d been successful with everyone’s list but my own. I couldn’t find the perfect six-inch Christmas tree. That may have had something to do with the fact that it was August and nearly ninety-five degrees, although crafts stores generally carried at least some inventory for each holiday year-round. I checked the Christmas bins again and found eighth-inch mistletoe and a set of one-inch stockings, all of which I added to my basket, but no “tall” spruces to my liking.

On this weekday morning, the store was nearly empty. While I paid for my purchases (the grand total was anything but miniature), I chatted with Cindy and Jim Cooper, the store’s owners, reminiscing about the time when there were shops like this in every town.

I could have stopped for lunch at one of Benicia’s many cafes. A charming small town on a strait of San Francisco Bay, Benicia offered a variety of cuisines, including Thai, my current favorite. I chose instead to head home to Lincoln Point, more than an hour away, to arrive in time for leftovers with my eleven-year-old granddaughter, Madison Porter.

As I walked to my car, passing vintage Victorian houses, antique shops, and clothing boutiques, tempting smells and interesting music wafted from doorways. But cafes were ubiquitous and would be around for a long time—who knew how much longer Maddie, approaching the years of teen angst, would want to eat with her grandmother?

Maddie was staying with me for three weeks while she attended a high-tech summer camp program at Lincoln Point’s Rutledge Center, the town’s educational and all-purpose facility. I considered it surprising, and amazing good luck, that our tiny town offered a computer program not available in Maddie’s new, more sophisticated residence city of Palo Alto, home to Stanford University, among other grand institutions. Her parents were using the time for a little camping of their own, at a cabin at Lake Tahoe.

I was thrilled to have Maddie to myself.

I drove home with a smile, wondering what her latest computer joke would be.

 

 

This was easy, a rerun from the first day of her class. “Because they eat only bits,” I said.

Maddie frowned and kicked her legs under my kitchen table. “I already told you that one, didn’t I?”

I admitted as much as I scooped ice cream into cone-shaped, cone-colored dessert dishes.

“Is that all you’re learning at computer camp? Jokes and puns?” Once in a while I assumed the role of strict grandmother, but it never lasted long.

“It’s not computer camp, it’s technology camp,” Maddie said, pulling a bowl of ice cream toward her. “We’re learning how to do two- and three-D video, flash animation, and modding for games. Some kids are on the robotics track, which I’d like to do next year. They’re attaching a Bluetooth interface to a robot so they can control it from any location connected to the Internet. Cool, huh?”

Like most children her age, Maddie grew up with computers and had surpassed me in the language a long time ago. My only contribution now was, “Yes, very cool.”

“Does that sound like we’re just telling jokes all morning?” Maddie asked. Then, much to my relief, she broke into laughter and came over for a hug that she knew would turn into a tickle and a messing up of her red Porter curls.

Maddie ran to the door. We both knew it was probably my nephew, homicide detective Eino Gowen, whom she called Uncle Skip. First cousin once-removed had been too much for her as a toddler and no one in the family thought there was a reason to revisit the uncle title.

“Looks like I’m just in time for dessert,” Skip said, helping himself to a handful of my just-made ginger snaps. “I could smell these half a block away.”

I scooped a generous portion of caramel cashew ice cream, Skip’s favorite, into a bowl for the second redhead at the table. A Porter by marriage only, I didn’t share in the redhead gene and had to make do with ordinary dark brown hair, now tinged with gray.

“What timing,” I said. “I think you have a GPS on my oven and freezer door.”

“That’s not how—” Skip started until he caught my look.

I liked to keep my family guessing about just how much of a Luddite I was.

“Uncle Skip, what did the computer’s fortune cookie say?” Maddie asked. She’d finished smashing her chocolate ice cream with her spoon, to a mushy consistency, just as she did when she was three years old. Aspiring robot maker or not, she was still a little girl.

Skip put on his best thinking expression. “Hmm. Not a clue. What did the computer’s fortune cookie say?”

“Take one data at a time,” Maddie said, triumphant.

Skip slammed his palm against his forehead. “Good one.” Unlike inconsiderate Grandma/Aunt Gerry, Skip not only let Maddie have the punch line, he also laughed harder than I did. No wonder she adored him.

“Are you busy down at the station, Uncle Skip?” Maddie asked.

“There’s not too much going on right now.”

“No big cases or piles of folders on your desk like you have sometimes?”

“Nope. I guess all the criminals are too hot to work.”

“And August is the only month when we don’t celebrate an Abraham Lincoln event, so there are no big crowds to worry about,” Maddie added.

“Exactly. Next month we’re back on track with the big Emancipation Proclamation Convention.”

“But August is pretty clear, right?”

Uh-oh. I knew where she was going with this.

“You’re doomed, Skip,” I said.

Maddie swooped in. “Remember you said when you weren’t busy you’d teach me some police things, like how to do fingerprints and how to investigate? And tour the building”—here she shook her spoon in his direction—“including the jail.”

Skip hung his head. He’d been had. I saw it on his face. Twenty-eight years old and a preteen had bested him.

The good news was that our little town of Lincoln Point was homicide-free for the summer, a comforting statistic.

Skip cleared his throat. “Let me look at my calendar when I get back from my meeting, okay?”

“Promise?”

“Hey, any cute boys in your computer class?”

Nice try, I thought. But Maddie had something to say about that.

“Are you kidding? The boys are all dorks. We had a class photo taken for the newspaper and the boys all made funny faces.” Maddie splayed her fingers, held a hand to each ear, and wiggled her fingers. “Like this.”

Skip mimicked her hand gesture and stuck out his tongue. “It’s no good without the tongue,” he said, once he could talk.

Maddie and I rolled our eyes. “Boys never grow up,” I warned her.

 

 

It was a dream come true for me when Maddie had
decided she’d like to be part of my Wednesday-night crafts group. During the school year she stayed overnight with me and I drove her back to her home in Palo Alto early on Thursday mornings in time for classes. We’d all agreed that we’d keep this schedule as long as her schoolwork didn’t suffer.

“Not likely,” I’d told my son, Richard, Maddie’s father. “She’s a genius.”

“So you say,” said the orthopedic surgeon, a man of few words who knew better than to argue with his mother.

For our group project this summer, we crafters borrowed from a Bolivian tradition, Alasita. We’d learned about it from Beatriz, a woman who joined us briefly while visiting her mother in Lincoln Point. We were fascinated by the concept: during the Alasita festival, people made or bought miniature versions of what they hoped for in the coming year.

“In the markets you find everything,” Beatriz told us. “Tiny cars, houses, and food, and even little bitty marriage certificates, passports, and money. Men buy hens and women buy roosters in the hope of finding a partner before the year’s end. If you buy these things or make them, it’s supposed to bring them into your life in the next year, as long as it is blessed by a shaman.”

“Do you think there’s a shaman in Lincoln Point?” Karen Striker asked now, as we sat around a large table in my primary crafts room. (According to my late husband, and everyone who was familiar with my house, the whole rest of our four-bedroom home was a secondary crafts area.)

Karen, five months pregnant, was building a lovely nursery, augmented by the one-inch-scale baby carriage I’d picked up for her this morning in Benicia. “I want to send good vibes into the air on every possible wavelength,” she told us.

“I know a priest,” Mabel, our oldest member, offered.

Her husband, Jim, the only male in our group, grunted, conveying doubt that a Catholic blessing would work as well. Mabel and Jim were working on a ship’s cabin, a model of the luxury version they hoped to occupy on their fall cruise to the Mediterranean.

Maddie enjoyed playing hostess on these evenings and tonight she seemed to have fun refilling glasses of ice tea and plates of cookies, running back and forth between the kitchen and the atrium of my Eichler home. It took the record-breaking heat we were experiencing to get us to move all our supplies from my crafts room to the cooler atrium, and this week had qualified.

For her own project Maddie had chosen to build a miniature soda fountain. She’d worked diligently on a sign that named flavors after her own friends and relatives. In her red-striped shop, one could “buy” Ginger Grandma, Pistachio Porter, Strawberry Skip, Tutti-Frutti Tracey, and so on.

“Does this mean your goal for the year is to eat all the ice cream you can?” Karen asked.

“For now,” Maddie said.

I was happy that my granddaughter considered her life so good that all it needed was more ice cream. I also loved that she worked the spectrum of creativity, from computer programming in the morning to crafting tiny ice cream sodas in the evening.

Of all the projects, Rosie Norman’s was the most interesting and packed with meaning—she was building a half-scale room box replica, one-half inch to one foot, of the hallway of lockers at Abraham Lincoln High School.

“It’s where David Bridges, the star quarterback, kissed me,” was her only explanation the first week.

Rosie, who owned the bookstore in town, was a student of mine during my first years teaching English at ALHS, right after Ken, our three-year-old son, Richard (Maddie’s father), and I moved to California from the Bronx. Rosie had also become a good friend who sometimes watched Maddie when I had undisclosed errands at the police station across the street from her shop.

Rosie’s class was holding its thirtieth reunion at the end of the week. At first I questioned the math, but finally grasped the reality—it had been three decades since I helped distribute diplomas to my first graduating class. Faculty, current and retired, like me, were also invited to the gala weekend, most of which would be spent at the beautiful, old Duns Scotus Hotel in San Francisco. (Apparently, no one wanted to party at Abe’s Beard and Breakfast, the only motel in Lincoln Point.) Rosie had talked me into going so she wouldn’t have to walk into the opening cocktail party alone on Friday night.