Too Quiet in Brooklyn (26 page)

He must have slept because it was the sun in his eyes that woke him. Morning sun, Ralph knew. He looked out. No one coming and he hoisted himself up to the rim of the dumpster and heaved himself over and landed on the ground on his butt.

Take it slow, Ralphie, Arrow told him. Slow. No blood. He could hear Arrow good now. Even Mr. Jensen, he could hear him good. And his brother, he came back. He saw Buster, too, but only his ears and his tongue. And his sister, too. He’d still be at home with her if she hadn’t shouted that word. She’d be alive today and she’d be taking care of his leg. It hurt, but not so bad as yesterday, so he hugged the walls and looked and ran the few blocks to where the boss’s building was, hiding between the cans whenever he saw a car coming. He stopped behind some cans across the street, waiting for two people to disappear, watching the steps and the door to his building. You can do it, Ralphie, his sister said. He felt in his pocket for the keys and ran across, up and inside the building. He took the elevator and made it into the apartment without anyone seeing him, he was sure of it. They were with him, Arrow and his sister and his brother and Mr. Jensen. He was glad he found them. They must have been hiding in the dumpster for a long time.

Ralph looked down at his pants. He must have wet himself during the night. “You wet yourself,” Arrow said and started to laugh but Mr. Jensen said not to laugh. “You’re full of dirt, Ralph,” his brother said. Ralph hated dirt. He hated a mess. There was half a piece of pizza in the refrigerator. “Don’t eat the green hairs,” his sister told him, so he ate around the green and drank the only thing he could find, a beer. He asked his sister for M&M’s but she didn’t have any, “No more, Ralph, all gone.” He was going to clean himself up, but he was too tired so he slept.

Surveillance

Circling the area a couple of times, I found a country store and picked up a sandwich for myself, asking the guy who waited on me if he knew anything about Blue Eagle, but he shook his head. He could barely speak English, but he had the grace to walk into the back of the store and ask somebody, probably the owner and came back saying, “Blue Eagle, newcomers.”

I ate in the car, staring at the map while I figured out the best way to get into the farm. On the second or third time around the road, going in circles, I noticed an advertisement for a new development. I stopped on a small side road, hauled out my laptop and pulled up the satellite image of my current location. It looked like the development kissed the western border of the Blue Eagle, so I followed the signs and parked near the model homes. I shed my hat, fastened binoculars around my neck, and became one of ten or so prospective buyers, stopping first in the office to chat up the agent on duty, a woman who looked to be in her late fifties.

“Call me Kathy,” she said and gave me her card and more brochures than I’d ever read and told her my husband and I were thinking of relocating to the country. She was in the business of selling, so she told me all about the area, the schools, how many people from New York were moving into Central New Jersey.

“The prices won’t last. It’s not heaven, not by a long shot, but you’d be hard put to find the kind of quality and value we offer elsewhere.”

I let her talk and told her I’d be back to ask questions after I saw everything.

“Don’t forget, this is a model. Are you a bird watcher?”

I looked at her as if she’d gone round the twist and remembered my binoculars. “How did you guess?”

“You’ll love it here. We have sea gulls, of course and egrets galore. The Meadowlands attract them, but there are wetlands all around this area. This morning I saw a family of herons in the retention pool. And I hope you noticed the landscaping. Be sure to take all the time you need. The view from the master bedroom is breathtaking.” She pointed to a winding staircase in the entryway.

I thanked her and looked around the living room for form’s sake, peeked into the finished basement and two car garage where I saw a couple of men discussing the merits of something or other, their arms crossed. On my way up, I stuck my head in the office again. But Kathy was busy with other customers so I headed upstairs and made my way to the master bedroom. It was decorated in a style I wouldn’t choose, frilly civil war I’d call it, done in pinks and mauves. The window covering was elaborate, but I managed to open the drapes and found a large bay window with a perfect view of the Blue Eagle. I crouched low so that no one could see me and adjusted the lenses of my binocs and looked directly into the main house. Except for spotting a dozen or so horses in some of the paddocks and a few of the gardeners weeding beds, I saw no one.

“I thought I’d find you up here.”

I turned and saw Kathy smiling at me. “How many have you spotted?” She waited a beat and when she got no reaction, she said, “Birds, I mean.”

“Quite a few egrets. Sea gulls, of course, but I’m looking for an interesting spotted owl that I heard is in the area. I haven’t seen one yet, but I have to ask if the model’s for sale. You’re right about the view. I can see for miles and miles. I looked out and the sky was still cloudy, but there were patches of blue.”

She stood by the window looking out, smiling, and hearing the distant ca-chink of coins.

“About the horse farm, though … Have you had any complaints?”

“From Blue Eagle? Not at all. It’s considered a large and successful farm and as you can see, they do a beautiful job. Many of the farms are using plastic to fence, but not these folks. They fence with four-rail. Some farmers say that’s a sign of wealth. And look at all the workers.”

“Nice people?”

She shrugged. “I haven’t met them personally. The only thing I care about is that they keep their property up and Caring Builders are very particular. They’ve sunk a lot of money into this, using only the finest materials. They’d never develop this land if there was any chance of the horse farm going to seed. No, I’d say they’ve added to the neighborhood.”

I waited, hoping she’d say more.

“I heard they’re newcomers, the owners.”

“They bought it several years ago, but the farm’s been in existence since I can remember. I grew up here. Like most horse breeders, they’re in it for the business and they’re not neighborly. They keep themselves to themselves, although …” She paused.

I wondered how long I’d have to wait for her to continue so I prodded. “You were saying something?”

She shook her head. “Just looking. See the white Mercedes? That’s the wife, Mrs. Connors. Marie. Nice lady. Goes to my church. But she keeps herself to herself, if you know what I mean.” Kathy paused. She seemed to be considering the grass. “Something, I don’t know, something dignified and sorrowful about her. She’s a gracious woman. She must be going out soon because I see one of the men just brought her car around. Usually she goes someplace about this time on Saturdays. I think she goes to the Saturday afternoon mass.”

I looked at my watch. “Oops! Running late.” I picked up my brochures. “Thanks, Kathy. I’ll be in touch, probably not until Monday. You gave me a card, right? Got to run.”

Over The Edge

Sometimes, in the middle of the night, Marie got up for a drink of water. She’d go back to bed, close her eyes, but she couldn’t sleep. She’d hear him snoring. She’d toss; she’d turn. My God, what a waste. She had brains, born into a family that valued curiosity and books, a good education and a good marriage. But she’d lived her life and had nothing to show for it except a degree, nothing to show for a lifetime. Kids, sure, but the kids were gone the moment they could read. In the end, they got out.

And what about Winston? She did love him once, didn’t she? Her mistake, and it was a whopper, like pouring molasses all over her life. Winston was gone, too. He wasn’t the man she married anymore, not the clean-cut guy with dreams, the one she fell in love with. Winston, the old Winston she’d fallen for, he’d been gone for a long time. Perhaps it was the bank, being around all that money day in, day out, counting it, figuring how to make more. That’s when he started to leave. And she’d allowed it, hadn’t said a word, smothered herself in the good life, the same as he did. She had a lot to answer for, but she became a prisoner. Funny, she was the one who had the key. She owned the prison. Locked herself inside with no job, no money, no nothing.

Thoughts like that would make her sit up and open her eyes, get her legs tangled in the sheets. Sixty-two and well-preserved, some of the young kids whispered. She tried. She exercised, played bridge, swam. Had her second lift scheduled for next week. For what? For whom? Winston had been good to her, sure, never raised his hand to her. She’d been lucky, always had the best. Need a new couch, new living room, new kitchen? Fine, no problem. Keep the apartment in the Heights? Swell. Cleaners once a week. No vacations, but that didn’t matter, she wasn’t the sit-in-the-sun type. Oh, once in a while she yearned to see another world, the Cotswolds for instance, Rome, say, but it was a passing whim. Got into cooking for a while, but she wasn’t a chef, didn’t have the creative flair with food that many women had. Liked to read, loved music, kept a respectable garden on the roof of their Brooklyn home and anything would grow in New Jersey. She was a good hostess. She did her duty by Winston.

Early on, it was about the kids, always the kids. Them, she did well, except for the youngest. Winston spoiled him. Her other boys didn’t visit, they had their own lives. She didn’t blame them. They hated their father except for Ken. The others urged her to leave.

These were her nighttime thoughts. They were unwanted, unbidden. She’d lie there for a while, the pictures of her life all knotted up. And she’d get up and open the window, look at the stars, range over the earth and sky as far as she could see—grass and trees and flowers. Horses. Shopping centers. The best cars. Jewels, clothes, big houses. The good life. But she could go anywhere in her mind. Her mind was her own. In her mind she was free.

Before the kids started coming, she thought about leaving, but something held her back. She can’t remember what it was. No guts, that was it. Then the blinders came on with the first pregnancy and she got caught up in another world. That part she didn’t regret, she loved every minute. Got involved in the Historical Society, the PTA, the garden club. Looking back on it, she wondered where the time went, but after the youngest left for college, the blinders started slipping. Still, the years kept piling and her resolve to leave kept melting.

She was like a dog inside an invisible fence until she heard Winston say, “Take the kid for a ride, you know where.” The blinders fell off. Winston said that to Harry, her Winston, the man she married, the man who fathered her children. And she had allowed him all these years, she’d enabled him. She had created Winston, bequeathed him to the world. Without her, he wouldn’t be. And if she didn’t save Charlie, there’d be nothing she could call her own.

Her only regret, leaving the horses. She’d liked them, especially Julie, an old mare the groom wanted to get rid of. Why they kept her, he didn’t know, that’s what he told her. But she put her foot down. If the boss found out, the groom told her, he’d have to tell him why. Fine with her, she’d talk to Winston if he asked, but he didn’t. Didn’t care about the expenses, must have had some work to care about now that the bank was gone. He had to be making money some way. Every day, she’d go to the barn and talk to Julie. Brought her apples, not too many, the groom said. After all, Julie had a padded stall, all the food she needed. Warm enough in the winter. Needs to be ridden, he’d told her. So she did. She rode Julie. She rode by the side of the highway. She found a path in the country and smelled the sweetness of it. That’s what it came down to—two women, her and Julie. She didn’t like the cook. Caught the cook and Winston once. Fine with her, better for her. The cook could have him.

She rode Julie, she went to the mall, she played bridge, she went to church. That was it. Face it, she was ripe for the plucking. She could go in the blink of an eye, having heard tick but not tock. And what did she have to show for her life, that she let a four-year-old die? The thought pushed her over the edge.

A Child With Chestnut Hair

And I did, I ran out of that model home like the devil herself on fire. Hoping I wasn’t too late, I hopped into the car and took off. In no time the western edge of the farm loomed into sight. What do you know, I saw the white Mercedes pull out of the drive and head my way.
Mom, don’t let me goof this
.

I let the car pass me and saw a blonde driving, a child with chestnut hair in the back seat. I almost wet my pants. I waited for the car to round the curve before I U-turned and gunned the motor until the rear end of her car was in sight. I stayed well behind, wishing I had more of a cover and hoping she wouldn’t get wise to the tail. But pretty soon the traffic began to thicken and I smelled shopping center.

I felt my hands sweating up the wheel, so I rubbed the palms one by one on my jeans, wishing the searing pain on the bridge of my nose would go away, but I could live with it.

I began to pray, but the only prayer I remembered was the grace before meals. Good enough, I said it while keeping two or three cars between me and the white Mercedes. The traffic grew heavier. The sky by now was turning an acid gray, a much lighter shade of the shiner around my eye, but I kept my foot on the gas and my mouth around the prayer.

The Mercedes turned into the mall and I followed it around a circular drive, staying well behind. The woman parked on the far corner near a Sears. I saw her get out, reach in for her purse and open the back door. She waited, shoulders bent, struggling with something, and Charlie got out holding a picture book. The woman took the book from Charlie and held onto his hand. Oh, Sweet Baby J!

This part of the lot wasn’t crowded, so I parked a couple of rows in back of her car and followed them as they made their way into Sears, through all the appliances and into the mall.

The woman looked familiar. As I walked behind the two of them, I searched my memories. From way back and far away, a Christmas party emerged. That’s where I’d seen her. It was a festive gathering for bank employees and their families. Mom introduced me to her. She was a nice lady, Mom said, but caught up in a bad situation. I remember her saying that, and I remember they hugged. Marie, that was her name. Now she looked much older but well-preserved. She wore expensive yellow linen slacks and jacket, white scoop-necked blouse. And jewelry hung all over the place so she jingled when she walked. But what grace, what style!