Fit to be Tied

As I sat sipping my rootbeer float at the counter of the five and dime I noticed the string tied around my finger.  “Okay,” I said aloud, but not to anyone in particular,  “I tied this around my finger for some reason, but what the heck was it?”

Wanda, who just finished picking up the newspaper and wiping down the crumbs left by the elderly gentleman in the business suit said, “Again Sarah?  What happened to you writing down the stuff you needed to remember?”

“Well I kept losing the paper, so I figured it’d be hard to lose it if it was tied to my finger.  Heh, I do still have the string!”  I said laughing.

Wanda just shook her head,  “With no clue as to its reminder; Sarah what are we going to do with you?” she said, obviously not expecting a response as she moved over to take the order of a new customer.

As I played with the string, twisting it around my finger, I hoped the contact would trigger a memory. I had a vague recollection that I tied it on last night, after some argument – or more like lecture – from Jimmy again about my taking responsibility, but as usual, like a bird, the memory flew out the window that was my brain.

It’s not like Jimmy didn’t know about this when we got married, after…how many years did we date?  Whatever.  I played with the string again.  Good Lord I hoped it wasn’t something important.  I felt a buzzing in my pocket, and it took me a few seconds to realize it was my cell phone.   “Hello?” I said.  “You’re what?  You’re waiting at the hospital for me to come for my scheduled c-section?  So that’s what it was!”

And the Band Played On

The authorities were after him, but he’d managed to elude their grasp for going on six months now.  He knew he’d end up in one of those foster homes – prisons for pay his friend called them – if he got caught, but the grumblings in his stomach convinced him to take the risk.  And what better opportunity would there be then today with the Saint Patrick’s Day Parade marching through the town square?  All those people, all those purses, a veritable feast for the pickpocket.  And she (or he) would get the personal items back; all he wanted was the money, enough to buy a few meals.  He knew he had to be careful; the police already had a vague description of him.

He changed into the grey sweatshirt he’d found by the playground, and brushed his fingers through his newly washed hair, trying hard not to look like the nomadic child he was.  His mother finally succumbed to the cancer that was poverty, but he would not. He had a plan.  That was his mother’s downfall; she had no plan.  She had no hope.

As he casually walked down the sidewalk he surveyed the wall of human spectators, decked in green and four-leaf clovers.  By the second block, with the parade in full swing, he spotted his target – a small black clutch tucked underneath a woman’s arm.  She stood at the back of the crowd.  He snatched the purse from its resting place and ran as fast as he could, slipping into the procession.  Over the woman’s screams, like the good soldiers they were, the band played on maintaining their formation, providing camouflage for the boy darting in and out between the trombones and bass drums, running desperately toward his next meal.

Fair Play

Once upon a time I believed in that saying, “Life isn’t fair.”  After all, it’s what my mom always said.  That is, I believed it until last week.  You see I’m taking this chemistry course at the high school, and there’s a kid in my class named Johnny “Unitas” Jones, you know the type – the star quarterback who doesn’t know an element from an atom? Well, the teacher Mr. Harris thinks Unitas walks on water because our football team’s going to states this year – according to Harris – “on Johnny’s arm.”  As you probably know, athletes, even good ones, have to maintain a certain GPA to play.  It turns out chemistry was the only challenging class Johnny had to take, and somehow so far he managed to pull a C.  We all knew Mr. Harris “helped” Johnny with the tests and quizzes – not so much that Johnny aced them – that would be too obvious given the size of Johnny’s brain compared favorably with that of a squirrel’s, but enough to pass.  Exactly how he did it, no one could say or prove – we just knew.

Anyway, we had this monstrous unit test the Friday before the big game. During the week, while the majority of us worked in groups to complete the study packets, Mr. Harris and Johnny reviewed plays.  You’d have thought they were planning for the Super Bowl.  But here’s the good part, the day before the test Mr. Harris didn’t show up for class.  And he didn’t show up the day of either.  You should’ve seen the look on Johnny U’s face when the proctor handed him the test – like watching a silent horror film, though, not nearly as scary as his view of that final game from the bench.

Call of Duty

“I promise, if you do this for me I’ll never ask for anything again.”

“Yeah, and then I end up in prison while you’re dating the postman.”

“Hank, it’s not like what I’m asking you to do is a federal offense.  Besides,” I said as I reached across the counter to grab his hand, “I promise we’ll come visit you.”

“Very funny.” He pulled away and walked to the French doors, looking out into our neighbor’s backyard.

I followed him, wrapped my arms around his waist (without mentioning how much harder that was to do these days) and rested my head on his shoulder.  “Please,” I whispered.

He turned, breaking my grip, and faced me, “So what do I get out of this?”

“You’ll make your wife happy; isn’t that enough?”  Believing I hit a soft spot I added, “It used to be.”

“Why is it so important for you to get rid of this Tyler guy?  What’s so wrong with him?”

“He’s a pompous idiot who’s totally fooled Anna into believing that he’s right for her; he needs to go.”

“And what if Anna finds out you were the one behind his disappearance, where will your friendship be then?”

“She won’t find out; there’ll be no way she can prove it, no trail.  You’ll make sure of that. You’re the professional.  Please Mike?”  I felt his ice melting, “I’ll take Anna shopping and you can take care of him then.”

He sighed. “Okay.  After fifteen years of acting, this is the only role I can land, but I’ll do it.  I’ll give him my best Mafia boss/boyfriend impression.  He’ll be on the east coast by morning.”

I threw my arms around his neck, kissed his cheek and said, “Oh grazie, grazie my Capone!”

Repercussions

So I punched him.  It’s not my fault my parents gave birth to nine children, and that by the time they got to me they ran out of planets (thankfully choosing to save any of their progenies’ from embarrassment by naming them Uranus).  With the primary occupants of the Solar System exhausted they named me Star.    And I’d had enough of people poking fun of me for that – my pot was close to boiling over and unfortunately for Michael Walters, he turned up the heat at the wrong time.  Who knew I could throw a punch like that.  Knocked the wind right out of him.  And if it weren’t for the fact that Miss Riley witnessed it, I’d probably be riding the bus home right now.  There’s no way macho Michael would admit he’d been taken out by a girl!   But here I sat waiting for one of my parental units to show.   Principal Peters said I couldn’t leave the office until one of them came to retrieve me.

I honestly had no idea what to expect when one did.  With nine kids in the family, and me being the youngest, no one paid much attention to me, including my parents – who still seemed to be stuck in the sixties, adopting the motto, “Make kids, not war,” but never figuring out what to do after that.  So when Mom pushed the office door open, leaning against it as if she were posing for some cover shoot, I wasn’t that surprised.  With her sunglasses still on she waltzed into Principal Peters’ office.  After mere minutes she came back out, lifted her glasses and asked, “Do you want to go for some ice cream?”  What could I say but yes…and gotta love the sixties.

Relapse

Don’t ask me why, but I did.  Like an amnesia patient, I kept forgetting everything he’d done to me in the past and let him back into my life.   No explanation required; it was as if he’d just gone out to buy some ice cream, only it took him six weeks to find it.  But this time was different; it had been six months.  My friends were as tired of hearing me talk about it, as I was tired of complaining.

“It’s time to move on, for good this time,” my best friend Sarah said.  “He’s not worth it.  The man has no respect for you; he uses you like a prostitute, and the worst part is you don’t even get paid.”

In an attempt to follow hers (and everyone else’s) advice I’d already moved his clothing into storage and donated all the dog toys and accessories we bought for that puppy we were going to get, our “child,” to the neighbors.   So much for parenthood!

I’d actually signed up for and started a few college courses at TCC, seeing that I needed an occupation other than waitressing and resident chump.   I really didn’t know where I’d go with the classes, but they served as a distraction and I figured, would eventually lead to something.  I was just about to sit down and get started on the essay for my English class when the doorbell rang.

Mom was coming over to discuss weekend plans, but I wasn’t expecting her this early.  I opened the front door and there he stood on the other side of the screen, holding a wriggling brown and white Labradoodle puppy in his arms.  He simply looked at me and said, “Don’t just stand there; open the door. “  The amnesia set in again.

The Stage is Set

Because we couldn’t make up our minds, we bought enough ingredients for four cakes, all different flavors – chocolate, marble, vanilla, and Fun-fetti, as well as icings to match.  When we got back, we opted to work out of my house because of its larger kitchen. After much debate on the car ride home, we decided to start with the chocolate cake, thinking it was Joshua’s favorite.   I had a great recipe, one of my specialties to bring to neighborhood events that called for coffee, oil, and milk, so I dug through my card file until I found it.  Even though it was only 3:00 in the afternoon when we started, the wine glasses came out shortly into the preparations.  If I couldn’t put my mind to rest, at least I’d try to sedate it a bit.

Because we enjoyed the experience of our first efforts, and I didn’t want Dawn to leave, as soon as we finished making the batter for the chocolate cake and putting the pans into the oven, I suggested we clean up our mess and get to work on the vanilla cake, adding if everything turned out well we could create a four-tier concoction.  Being the friend that she is, Dawn agreed.  It just felt so right – and necessary – to have Dawn there, an umbrella to protect me from my storm of emotions.  I told her a woman couldn’t ask for a better friend.

Once all of the cakes finished baking, we left them to cool on the racks.  Each layer had its own issues regarding lopsidedness, but we figured with enough turning each would compensate for what the other lacked.

“It’s not like we’re entering them into any contest; what’s most important is that the cake tastes good, and unless we forgot an ingredient or mismeausred, that shouldn’t be a problem,” Dawn said.  “Besides, you can cover up just about any blemish with frosting, and that’s what kids love most anyway!”

“True.” We both leaned on the counter, Dawn on one side and me on the other, sipping the remainder of our wine.  “You know, I’m not going to make it until 7:30.  It’s only five o’clock now, and I’m done with making cakes.”

“You could just call the museum, what time do they close?”

“I think it’s 5:30.”

“What’s so wrong about you asking Lela when the portrait’s being moved?  You have a vested interest in the project; it’s only natural you’d want to keep track of its progress.  In fact, we could even drive over there if you really wanted to.”

“No.  I’ll call, less awkward.  Let me go look up the number.”  I went into my room, did a quick search on the Internet, found the number and dialed.  Lela sounded perturbed that someone might call so near to closing time, but when she realized it was me, she changed her tone.  I taught her a few years back, and developed a good rapport with her at the time.  We didn’t have too many occasions to interact since then, but the respect still remained.  Not surprisingly though, when I asked her if she knew when Mr. West intended to transfer the portrait into the foyer, she said she did not, but offered to put me on hold so that she could go ask Hank.  At least she knew of the intention because she said she typed an announcement and submitted it to the local paper earlier in the afternoon.  She also said she arranged to have one of the newspaper’s photographers come first thing in the morning.

I came back into the kitchen while I waited for Lela’s return to find Dawn carefully removing the cakes from their pans.  I listened to Lela’s response, thanked her for her help, and then hung-up.

“According to Hank, by way of Lela,” I told Dawn, “Mr. West arranged for several of the board members to help with the set up right after closing.  He expected everything to be in place before supper.”

“So, that means you just need to find a way to get into the museum after that?”

“Yes, and it also means Ethan’s going to know he’s an impostor.  With all those people talking while they’re setting up the new arrangement, he can’t help but learn his new identity. Please dear God let it be enough for him to get the attention he’s been craving, regardless of who people think he is.

“Whatever.  I need to get in there and talk to him, keeping in mind that he has about six hundred words left in his life bank.  But what can I say to the chief to get him to let me in?”

“That you have a lead that you need to follow up on?”

“And, what if he asks what that lead is?”

“Just tell him you’ll let him know by morning, if not sooner.  You could even have him wait outside the museum for you.  If Ethan plays fair, which as a gentleman he should, then won’t you have the information you need tonight?”

“I’m trying not to think that optimistically; I’m more of the Murphy’s Law philosophy.  Disappointments occur less frequently that way, but you’re right.  And I should have the chief wait for me so he can act on whatever I learn, as long as I don’t have to explain to him how I came about the information.  I can just see me telling him, ‘Oh, this two-hundred year old man in the portrait witnessed the whole affair and told me what he saw.’”

“You know, though. If your intelligence results in finding Joshua, somehow someday you’re going to have to explain how you came by it.”

Maybe I’ll blame it on you and your sixth sense!”

“And that’s the thanks I get?”

“Of course I’m kidding.  If my only concern is explaining how I knew what I knew, then so be it.  We’ll figure it out.  Now, after I make a date with the chief, let’s say we ice those cakes, just in case old Murphy’s wrong this time.”

The Last Meeting?

At 8:00 P.M I met Chief Michaels in front of the museum.  He just shook his head as he let me in.  “If it were anyone else Mattie, I’d still be sitting at home watching television with Brenda.”

“I know Frank, and I appreciate it.”  I rarely called him by his first name, out of respect, but tonight’s gesture gave testament to a relationship that extended beyond the professional.  “Just give me thirty minutes, okay.”

He looked at his watch, “The clock is running.  I’ll be in my car, reading.”

I thanked him again and then walked in.  There Ethan stood, in his green velvet coat, for all to admire – like a lord overseeing his minions.  He towered over his “great, great grandson” both because of his painting’s size and the fact that John’s portrait was painted while he sat in an armchair and Ethan’s while he stood.

“Looking quite dapper there, Mr. Walters.”

“Don’t you mean, Mr. Winthrop, Madam?”

The disdain in his voice put me on edge.  I sighed, and prepared for battle.  “You said you wanted to be placed in a more prominent location, and here you are.  It’s not the Met, but you couldn’t be any more visible to the public.”

“Yes, but you lied.”

“Because I had to.”  I didn’t want to tell him no one cared about Ethan Walters, that if I tried to convince Mr. West to move the portrait because it was the son of a merchant trader from two hundred years back that had absolutely no connection to anyone in this town, or possibly even country, he’d still be hanging in the portrait gallery.  “Nothing in our agreement mentioned anything about the truth, or maintaining your identity.  I kept my end of the bargain, and now Mr. Walters, it is your turn to keep yours.”

He hung there in silence for at least five minutes.  I took out my pen and paper preparing to take notes and then just waited; as the minutes wore on I felt my stomach tightening.  If he decided to renege on his word, what recourse did I have?  To tell Malcolm West that I lied?  Sure, if I confessed before the morning shoot, I’d spare myself some embarrassment, but not much.  And we’d be no closer to finding Joshua.  I wanted to grab that pompous figure in the portrait by the shoulders and tell him to man up, but there was nothing to grab.  For all I knew, as the silence wore on, his spirit left the building.  But I held out hope that his conscience would eventually overrule his pride.  And thank God, it did.  Although when he finally spoke, with my anxiety building to near heart-attack proportions, I literally jumped off the ground.

“Alright Madam. I do not condone your methods, but I rather like this new view.  So, as promised, I will tell you what happened.”

I whispered “Thank God” to myself, and then said aloud, “And please refrain from adding any extra commentary; as you said you become mute after 1,000 words, so I want to be sure I hear the entire story.  Oh, and please talk slowly, so that I don’t have to ask you to repeat anything.”

“As you wish. Shall I begin?”

I readied my pen, and said, “Please do.”

“First thing that morning, an elderly woman – about your age – came into the portrait wing with a tour group.  If it were not for those dreadful tour groups being herded in and out, most likely no one would ever enter that wing.”

I cleared my throat to remind him to keep on track.

“Yes, well.  The tour group left and the woman remained in the portrait gallery.  No one noticed or seemed to care that she stayed behind, so I suspect she merely latched onto the group to remain inconspicuous.  If she heard voices in the adjacent room she focused her attention on a particular painting to feign interest in it.  As soon as the voices faded, she simply paced back and forth in the room.  At one point she opened the exit door, apparently relieved that no alarm sounded.”

“From what Hank told me, that door’s been broken for a while.”

“Ah Hank,” he said with disgust.  “‘Tis a wonder more crimes have not been committed under his watch.”

“Please, Mr. Walters, can you just continue with the story?”  Try as I might to keep track of his words, the combination of taking notes and counting proved more of a challenge than I could handle.  If I estimated correctly, we had about four hundred words left, but I could be off.  I needed him to get to the point.

“Madam, your manners leave something to be desired.”

“And I’m okay with that.  Just tell me…” I paused to take a breath and lower my voice, “where to find Joshua.”

“After thirty minutes or so, when she heard a child’s voice and what I guessed from the conversation would be his mother’s, the elderly woman stood near the entrance to the gallery.  Shortly thereafter a young lad, the boy you call Joshua wandered into my wing.  He gave the woman a hug, and they whispered to each other.  While she held his hand, she pointed and walked toward the door, doubtless expecting him to follow.  At first he hesitated, but then she whispered to him again, and this time he followed her out the exit door.”

“That’s it?  Do you know what they said?”

“Madam, I’m a spirit, not a lip reader.”

“What did she look like?”

“Your sister.”

“What?  I don’t even have a sister!”  Mindful of the word limit, I warned myself to think carefully before asking my next questions.  Obviously Joshua knew this woman because he shied away from strangers; he would never hug someone he didn’t know.  But how many elderly women, other than myself, Dawn, and Sarah had Joshua met?  Of course I didn’t know every single person with whom Jackie associated.  For goodness sake, I only met Mark, the father of her children, a couple of days ago.  And even though she never mentioned her to me, Jackie had to have a mother.  Had Jackie kept her relationship with her mother and therefore, the boys with their grandmother, a secret, meeting with her in private?  Was it possible the woman who took Joshua that day was Jackie’s mom?

In order to answer that question I decided to get as much detail as possible from Ethan regarding a description of the “kidnapper,” and then go to Jackie with that information.  “Mr. Walters,…”

“Ah, you’re back Madam.”

“Yes, could you please try to picture the woman you saw that day and describe her as precisely as possible.”

“I shall try.  The lighting in the room was a bit dim, and she never stood directly in front of my portrait – a testament to her poor taste, no doubt, but nevertheless, I estimate her height to be just over five feet, of medium weight – ten pounds or so more than you.  The hair was brownish and short, above the shoulders.  If I had to guess an age, I’d conjecture between fifty and sixty, but as I only glimpsed her face, I could be mistaken.  That is all I recall, Madam.”

As I finished writing down his description, relieved I hadn’t used up all of his words yet, I tried to think if there were something else I needed to ask him.  But nothing came to mind, and I knew the chief would be checking his watch about now, so I said to Ethan, “I appreciate all of your help, and I will see you at your unveiling tomorrow morning.”

“And so you shall.  Good-night Madam; may you find the young lad anon.”

“Thanks.”  I refrained from adding the clichéd, “It’s been a pleasure” because we both would know it wasn’t the truth, so I simply left.

Getting Closer to the Truth

Fortunately the chief never even asked what came of my visit inside the museum.  I wasn’t sure whether he didn’t expect any results from the start – just a silly old woman whom he had to indulge because her husband and he forged an eternal bond -  or if he was waiting for me to offer information.  In either case, I managed to keep the details to myself.  After we said goodbye, I drove straight home, parked the car, and crossed the street to Jackie’s house, making note that Mark’s blue sedan remained parked out front.

Thank goodness Jackie answered the door because I wanted to speak to her alone, and didn’t want to have to explain anything to Mark.  After exchanging greetings I asked her, “Do you mind coming out and sitting with me on the front steps?  I have a few questions for you.”

She raised her eyebrows, “Um, sure.  Let me go tell Mark.”

I sat down on the top step and waited.  I tried to think of the best way to introduce the subject of her mother, but nothing sounded sensitive enough, so I finally decided on the direct approach.

She came back out with a couple of glasses of water.  I took mine from her as she sat down beside me, and I said. “Thanks.  Now, I don’t want to get your hopes up, but I have a rough idea of what the person – the woman who took Joshua looked like.”

She turned to face me, “Oh Mattie, are you serious?  How do you know?  Where can we find her?”

I put down my glass, and then took hers and placed it next to mine.  She didn’t react at all, simply sat there, eagerly awaiting my response.  I took hold of her hands and said, “As to the first question, it’s complicated.  Someday after this is all over, I’ll tell you about it; I promise.  And as to the other, Jackie dear, I’m working on it, and, in part, it’s the reason I’m here.”

“What do you mean?”

Time to put my plan into action.  “Jackie, I need to know about your mother.”

She tried to pull her hands away, but I maintained my grip.  “What does my mother have to do with any of this?”

I softened my tone hoping the contrast to Jackie’s high-pitched response might calm her down.  “My source tells me Joshua knew the woman who escorted him out of the museum last Thursday; he actually hugged her when he first saw her and didn’t offer much resistance when she asked him to follow her.”

Since I had relaxed my grip, this time she managed to free her hands and get away.  She walked to the bottom of the stairs and stared at me.  “But Mattie, there’s no possible way that woman was my mother; the only time she saw Joshua was the day he was born, when she told me how foolish I was for choosing to raise a child on my own.  After that she never came back.  Joshua wouldn’t know her from Grandma Moses!  Mattie, I swear to God it’s not my mother; it has to be someone else, but someone he knew?  Who could it be?  Where is my son?  Where is he?”

And as soon as she said Grandma Moses, I knew. Of course Ethan’s description of the woman sounded familiar to me; now it all made sense.  I knew who had Joshua; what I didn’t know was where they were. Stupid me!  Why didn’t I figure this out before?

“Mattie!  Mattie!  What’s going on?”  Jackie’s fretful pitch pierced my thoughts.

I stood up and hugged her, “Jackie, it’s all going to be fine.  Once again, I need you to trust me: Josh is safe.  Let’s go back into the house and Mark will look after you.”

She pushed away, a flow of tears washing her face, “I don’t want anyone looking after me!  I want my son!  And there’s something you’re not telling me Mattie.  What do you know?”

“I know everything will be alright.  As hard as it is, you have to believe me and let me go.”

With a little force I ushered her back into the house.  When Mark heard us enter, he came to meet us.  Together we escorted Jackie over to the sofa where she folded into a heap, sobbing.  I motioned Mark away from the sofa and whispered to him, “I need you to watch Jackie, and make sure she stays here.”

In a hushed, but harsh tone he barked back, “What, for God’s sake, did you say to her?”

“That I had a description of the kidnapper, and I thought it might be her mother.”

“Well obviously it’s not,” he snapped back.

Not wanting to match tones I paused and then said, “I know that now, but as I told Jackie, I am certain Joshua is fine.  And the only way I can prove that to you is for you to let me go.  I’ll call you as soon as I know anything.”

“Well, I don’t see as I have much choice, but I’ll tell you, if I don’t hear from you by 9:00 tomorrow morning, I’m calling the police.  If it were up to me, I’d be dialing 911 now, but I’ll wait – only because Jackie trusts you.”

With that he moved back to the sofa, sat down next to Jackie and put his arms around her slumped shoulders.  With the clock ticking, I quietly took my leave and headed straight over to Dawn’s house.

Hide-and-Seek

I pounded on her door non-stop, so that when she opened the door my fist swung into the air.

“What the…” Dawn’s contorted face softened when she saw me.

“It’s Sarah,” I said, pushing past her into the house and closing the door behind me.

She stood there as if frozen for a few seconds, and as the thaw came she asked, “What’s Sarah?  What on earth are you talking about?”

“Sarah has Joshua.”

“But Sarah’s in Maryland.”

“Apparently not – at least she wasn’t on Thursday, and we have until 9:00 tomorrow morning to find her before Mark calls in the police.”

Dawn shook her head as if trying to force all her thoughts to fall into place.   Unsatisfied with the results she said, “Okay.  Let’s start this again, this time from the beginning.”

And so I did, beginning with what I learned from Ethan to the events at Jackie’s house, all eventually leading to my revelation about the kidnapper being Dawn.  As I spoke I watched Dawn’s reactions, and knew that by the end, she agreed with me.  Of course neither one of us wanted it to be true, but she fit the description, knew Joshua since birth, and had a motive.

“Mattie, that’s incredible.  I remember the last time we visited her, how distant she seemed, how unlike herself, but to do this?”

“I know. As much as we pretended, I guess we never truly appreciated how devastated she was after the accident.  How can you unless you’ve been through it yourself?”  We both sat in silence for several minutes, and I thought about the Sarah of old – a candidate for mother/grandmother of the year if such an honor existed.  Even after her divorce, when we all worried about her state of mind, she constantly claimed she could live without that no-good husband of hers, but not without her children and grandchildren.

Dawn interrupted the silence saying, “Now, what do we do?”

“We find Sarah.  Better us than the police.  Eventually she’ll have to deal with them, but if we find her first, it’ll be with her friends by her side.  The question is where to start, and I figure it’s with a phone call to her sister in Maryland.”

“Have you checked her house lately?”

“You mean the one three doors down?” I asked.

“Why not?  It seems logical to me.  She was in town on Thursday, and she had to go somewhere.  Why not her own house?”

“But what about food…and lights?  Wouldn’t we notice the lights on at night?”

“I don’t know.  Maybe she stocked up on food ahead of time, and they’re living in the basement, or in the dark?  It is summer, and by the time Joshua goes to bed, it’s still somewhat light.”

“But how does she explain it to Joshua?  He’s four houses down from his mother and he can’t see her?”

“I don’t know Mattie.  Once we find her she can answer all of those questions for you.  I agree with your original suggestion, let’s call Betsy in Maryland.  I have a pretty strong feeling Sarah’s not with her, and that it’s been more than a few days since she last saw her.”

I used Dawn’s house phone to call, and put it on speakerphone so that Dawn heard the entire conversation, not just my half of it.  According to Betsy, Sarah left for a trip to Florida a week ago, allegedly with a guy friend whom Betsy had never met.  She offered that Sarah still struggled to get out of bed in the morning and that put a strain on her and her sister’s relationship.  So, as surprised as she was that Sarah planned or simply agreed to this trip, Betsy thought it might be the best for the both of them.  When I asked when she expected Sarah back and whether she had talked to her, as to the first she said the following Sunday, but, no, she hadn’t heard from her since she left.  Then she asked me if anything was wrong, and of course I said no, I just hadn’t talked to her in a while and wanted to touch base.  Finally after telling me she’d let her know I called, we exchanged good-byes and hung up.

“I’m guessing Sarah won’t be home on Sunday,” Dawn said.

“And I’m pretty certain you’re not going to find her in Florida either.  Are you up for a neighborhood stroll?” I asked.

“What?  We just go knock on her door?”

“What other choice do we have?  Call the police and have them break down the door?”

“Mattie, she’s not the same person we knew a year ago; the Sarah of old would never take a woman’s child from her, especially not Jackie’s.  What if she doesn’t even recognize us?  What if she panics?  Maybe we should call the police.”

“Dawn, thirty years of friendship should count for something no matter how out of her mind she is.  I feel, as her closest friends – at least once upon a time, we owe it to her to try to help her through this and protect her from as much embarrassment as possible.”

“You’re right.  Let’s go.”

The Reenforcements

Sarah only lived three houses down from Dawn, on the opposite side of mine and Jackie’s.  As far as we knew, no one had lived in it since Sarah moved to Maryland, and a landscape business maintained the outside on a weekly basis so it didn’t look abandoned.  Additionally, on occasion we’d see one of Sarah’s other two children stopping by for a few hours or so.  Tonight as we approached the house, no lights shone, and as we peeked through the closed windows – hoping no other neighbors noticed us, we saw no movement whatsoever.

Now that we stood in front of the house I reconsidered my suggestion to simply knock on the door.  Seriously, did I really expect Sarah just to come open the door and say, “Heh, it’s been a long time”?  I motioned Dawn to follow me and we walked in silence back over into her yard.  As the evening temperature settled in around 70 degrees these days we decided to sit at the patio, using the citronella candles to dissuade any bugs from joining us.  “Okay,” I said, “I admit; we need a change of plans, but still not one that involves the chief just yet.”

“Well, breaking in’s not an option.  We’d scare them both to death, and to be honest Mattie, I’m still afraid of what Sarah’s going to do when confronted.”

“I say we find a key to her house, which means contacting Rosie and Jonathan.”

“And actually telling them our suspicions?  What if we’re wrong?  And even worse, what if she’s not in there?”

“First of all Dawn, you and I both know we’re not wrong.  Everything we learned points to Sarah.  If she’s not there, we look somewhere else, but this time with the insights of her own children.  If Sarah’s fallen off the deep end, I think she’s more likely to grab a lifeline from Jonny or Rosie than either of us.”

“I agree, but which one do we contact?”

“I say both because I don’t know which of them will be of the most help.  I’ll call Jonny and you can call Rosie.  Let’s tell them we’ll meet them at the diner; let’s shoot for around ten.  We’ll try not to alarm them, but of course it can’t be entirely avoided.  We wait to tell then about letting us into the house until we meet them face to face; they’ll be suspicious enough as it is and there’s no reason to raise their blood pressure even more any sooner than we have to.”

“But, my captain, what do we tell them? We felt like having a late night snack and thought they might want to join us?”

“Um, no, but I appreciate the levity.”  I smiled. “We tell them that we need to talk to them about their mom?”

Ever the voice of reason, Dawn responded, “And if they ask why?”

“We say… I don’t know.” I shrugged my shoulders.  “What do we say?”  I looked to Dawn for some wisdom.

“That…we…that we believe their mom needs all of our help, but it’s something that can’t be discussed over the phone.”

“Yes, that would put my mind at ease!”  We both laughed.  “Okay, let’s just get this done.”  We went into the house to look up the respective phone numbers.  Dawn made her call from the kitchen and I went back out onto the patio to make mine.  Despite the somewhat early hour, from his raspy voice I worried I awoke Jonathan from a deep sleep, but he said he’d been battling a cold for a few days.  He agreed to meet us at 10, and thank goodness, didn’t ask too many questions.”

On the other line Dawn met with more resistance.  Rosie refused to accept the simple explanation we discussed; she demanded to know more, but Dawn held her ground and insisted the details had to wait until we were all together at the diner.  Like two established oak trees rooted firmly in their ground, initially neither woman budged from her position.  Tiring of the stalemate, Dawn ended the conversation by telling Rosie if she wanted to help her mother she’d meet her at the diner in thirty minutes.  Otherwise we’d deal solely with her brother.  Then she hung up the phone, barely stopping herself before slamming the receiver onto its cradle.

Dawn’s flushed cheeks mirrored the frustration in her voice as she said, “I’m sorry, I tried to be patient and understanding, but the darned woman kept pushing.”

“I know; I heard.  But don’t worry; I’m sure she’ll come. And even if she doesn’t, Jonathan will.”  To some extent I understood why Rosie persisted with her questioning, but Dawn needed sympathy more than Rosie at the moment.  “Shall we head on over and see what we’re up against?”

“As long as you go in ahead of me.  If Rosie’s there I think I’ll need some protection!”

“My money’s on you Dawn.”

“I appreciate the vote of confidence, but you’re still going in first.”

The Diner

Even though it only took us fifteen minutes to get to the diner, and we arrived five minutes early, Jonathan already sat waiting for us at a table.  It had probably been almost ten years since we last spent more than a few minutes with him after seeing him just about every day of his life until he turned around fourteen, but he greeted us as if it were yesterday.  While in the midst of catching up on his latest partnership advances, Rosie blasted into the diner, brushed past the hostess, and started yelling before she even got to our table, “What is the meaning of this?  Why did we have to come here?  Why couldn’t you just talk to us over the phone?”

As soon as he saw her, Jonathan stood up and as she spoke he took her by the arm and gently coaxed her into the seat next to him.  “Rosie dear, hush, it’s alright.  No need to get all riled up.  You know Auntie Mattie and Auntie Dawn; if they said they needed to talk to us, then there’s good reason.  Why don’t you take a deep breath and let them tell us what’s on their minds.”  And as if he were a hypnotist, Rosie did everything he asked her to.  Funny how their roles reversed from childhood; then it was Rosie taking care of her baby brother, instead of the other way around.

Dawn and I strategized somewhat on the way over with regard to how we’d present the situation to Sarah’s children.  And as usual, she nominated me as the spokesperson.  Just as I opened my mouth to speak the waitress came by, probably having waited for the storm to calm before she approached.  Except for Rosie we all ordered drinks, and I added a side of potato skins just so we seemed like real customers to the waitress.  Then I started again, “We know how devastating the loss of Rachel and little Tommy was for all of you, especially your mother.   As she said, she buried a large piece of her heart on the day of the funerals.”  Rosie’s edge softened as she fought to swallow her emotions.  Jonny moved closer to her chair and wrapped his bear-sized arm around her small shoulders.  At the same time the waitress delivered our drinks, and Rosie bowed her head so as not to be seen.  I continued, “We kept in touch with your mom for as long as she’d let us, but as you most likely know, she seemed determined to shut out all memories of her past including us.”

Jonathan agreed, “The therapist told us she needed time to grieve, but promised she’d come back to us eventually.  I think Rosie’s taken this more personally than I have.” And although she said nothing in response, Rosie’s inability to control her tears any longer reinforced Jonathan’s statement.  We all sat there for a few minutes, allowing Rosie time to recover.

Unable to string them along any more, I said, “We have reason to believe your mother moved back into her house on Reynolds Street.”  Dawn looked at me wondering why I changed directions and our plan so abruptly.  I didn’t exactly know what I expected as far as a reaction from the people sitting across the table from us, but it sure wasn’t silence.  And yet, there it hung, daring someone to break it.

Dawn took the dare.  “Did you guys know your mom moved back in?  Rosie, is that why you reacted the way you did on the phone?  You realized we figured it out?”

Jonathan spoke.  “We both saw Mom on Wednesday; for the first time in nine months she came back home for a visit.  She stayed with Rosie, and told us she’d only be here for the night and intended to head back to Maryland the next morning, even though we tried to persuade her to stay longer.”

“Then why are you not surprised that she’s still here?” Dawn asked.

Rosie, much subdued, surprised us all by replying, “Because I had a suspicion, and I shared it with Jonny.”

“Did it have to do with Joshua’s disappearance?”

“Yes, the timing was too perfect, and Mom seemed so distracted.  I swear to God I didn’t know for certain.  If I had I would’ve called someone – you, my therapist, the police – but I only suspected, and how could I turn my own mother in on a hunch, especially when Jonathan told me I was nuts?”

Jonathan added, “It’s true; I never believed it for a second.  I thought the idea of Mom kidnapping a child was absurd, just Rosie being Rosie – overly sensitive and overly analytical.”

“Then, have you been over to the house?” I asked Rosie.

“No.  I didn’t think she’d actually go back to the house, considering how close she lives to Jackie, but when you mentioned the possibility, especially considering Mom’s state of mind, I knew you were right.”

I told them both, “Well, we need to go over there tonight; we need to go now.  If we don’t get Joshua back to his mother by 9:00 tomorrow morning Mark’s calling the police.”

“Who’s Mark?”

“It’s a long story, but in short, he’s Joshua’s father, he’s watching over Jackie right now, and he knows I know more than I’m telling them.  So, how about we ride over to your mother’s house and end this ordeal for Joshua, Jackie, and your mom.”

“Only it’s never going to be over for our mother,” Rosie said.

“I know, and I’m sorry about that, but this isn’t making things better for her either.  Now do you have the key?”

Jonathan pulled his keys from his pocket and singled out one. “Here it is.”

“Okay,” I paused and looked at Dawn for some direction.  “What’s the best way to do this?”

Dawn replied, “How about we all go over there – safety in numbers philosophy, put the key in the door, and see what we find?”

“Considering the hour,” Jonathan said, “we may find Mom sleeping – if she even does much of that these days – as well as Joshua.  That could make things easier.”

Dawn suggested, “Because you two are more familiar with the lay-out of the house than we are, Mattie and I will pair off with you.”

“That’s a good idea; and because Rosie’s so worried about her mom, she can come with me and you and Jonathan can go in search of Joshua.”

“Oh Jonny, what’s Mom going to do when she sees all of us?”

“Rosie, I don’t know, but it’s not just Mom that we need to worry about right now.  Can we go?”

“Sure, let me pay and then we’ll head out,” I said.

At 10:43 our caravan left the diner with Dawn and me in the lead.

Case Resolved

We arrived at 11:01, hitting a few more lights on the way home than on the way there, or maybe just driving a little slower to postpone the inevitable.  While we stood by our cars on the sidewalk, Jonathan detached the house key and handed it to me. At that moment I couldn’t help but wonder how I ever got to be in charge of this operation.  With no time to contemplate a response, we walked up to the house in single file: me in front, followed by Dawn, and Rosie with Jonathan bringing up the rear to make sure Rosie stayed with us.  I put the key in the door, but turned and looked to my comrades before unlocking it.  Empathizing with the concern in their faces, I opened the door and we entered the house.

That’s where the first half of our search ended.  No doubt because of its close proximity to the door, Sarah sat on the sofa in front of us, her blanket falling off her shoulder and her hair flattened against the right side of her head indicating, as suspected, we roused her from her sleep.  Before Sarah had a chance to get up from the sofa and react, Jonathan and Dawn ran up the stairs to find Joshua sleeping soundly in Rachel’s old bedroom, a brown stuffed dog tucked under his left arm.  Jonathan gently cradled and lifted Joshua, not even awakening him from his slumber, and brought him downstairs.  As Jonathan carried Joshua toward the front door, his mother stood watching the event as if it were a play and she was in its audience.  He looked at his mother and shook his head.  “Mom, why?” was all he said.

As Dawn opened the door for Jonathan I told her, “Tell Jackie I’ll be over as soon as I can.”    As much as I wanted to enjoy the emotional reunion between Joshua and Jackie – the one I imagined so many times, the one that kept me on track when I felt like derailing – I knew I’d have to settle for a secondhand account.  Right now I needed to be here.

With the door about to close, Sarah started to scream, realizing she had a role as a character in this play as opposed to being merely a spectator, “Tommy, my Tommy, don’t take him away!”

Dawn quickly closed the door to shield Joshua from Sarah’s cries.

When I turned from the exit scene, I saw Rosie shaking her mother’s shoulders, tears streaming down her face saying, “Mother, mother!  It’s not Tommy; Tommy’s gone, with Rachel.  You need to stop this!  You need to come back to us – to Jonny and me.  We’re still here; we still need you!”

Rosie’s pleas penetrated the ghost that haunted Sarah, and she, for the first time since we arrived at the house, seemed to gradually come to her senses.  Sarah looked at Rosie, as if trying to understand why her daughter stood in front of her with tears running down her cheeks.  And then she looked around – seeming to wonder why she stood in her living room with a blanket at her feet.  Finally, she looked at me and I saw Sarah, the woman I knew before Rachel died; the pain in her eyes remained, but she owned it now.

“Mattie?  Rosie?  What have I done?”

“You gave into your grief Sarah,” I said.  “I understand, and I’m pretty sure eventually Jackie will understand too, but I’m going to have to call Chief Michaels in a few minutes to let him know what’s happened.”

“Oh Mom,” Rosie cried, “What will they do to you?”

“It doesn’t matter Rosie; it just doesn’t matter.  It can’t be any worse than what’s already been done to me.”  She sat back down on the sofa, as if in surrender, and reached for her daughter’s hand.  Rosie accepted and sat next to her.

I left them to comfort each other, and then walked outside to call the chief.  Although I thought I might be waking him at this late hour, he assured me that was not the case.  When I told him the abbreviated version of how and where we (meaning Dawn and I) found Joshua, I excluded the part that Ethan played in the boy’s discovery.  He asked how in the world we did it, and I just said, “Women’s intuition.”  Not one for showing any kind of emotion, Chief Michaels simply congratulated me on a job well done and said he’d be over within the hour.

It took him less than thirty minutes.  He pulled up in his cruiser, with no sirens and no one by his side.  He knew Sarah, not as a friend, but as someone who investigated the accident involving her daughter, someone who dealt with Sarah’s devastation.  He’d testify to that state at her pretrial hearing and again, much later, at trial, testimony that helped the jury find Sarah not guilty by reason of insanity, albeit temporary.   As a result and condition of the verdict, she spent six months in mandatory psychiatric treatment, but those were the necessary first steps that set Sarah on her path to healing.

The Homecoming

Since Chief Michaels allowed Rosie to accompany Sarah to the police station, clearly outside the realms of acceptable police procedures, that left me free to check in with the newly reunited Spencer family, as well as witness the first meeting between Joshua and his father.  As I approached Jackie’s house, after having moved my car from in front of Sarah’s into my own driveway, I couldn’t help but think how drastically different the mood was inside that house now as compared to just hours earlier, like sleeping through a nightmare and waking up to find it’s Christmas.

Dawn answered the door, holding a glass of what looked like beer.  She hugged me and said, “Come here.  You have to see this.”  Then she put her free arm through mine and walked me into the kitchen where everyone else except for Jonathan sat or stood eating ice cream, drinking, and laughing.  I suspect Jonathan went to meet his mother and his sister at the police station.  Jackie held Joshua in her lap, wrapping her arm around him as if not to let go, while Mark held Alex.  As soon as I came in Jackie cried out, “Oh Mattie!  How can I ever thank you?  I can’t believe he’s home!” She started to get up, but I motioned her to stay seated and walked over to her.  We embraced with Joshua in between us, and then I took the chair next to her.  Joshua seemed confused by all the commotion, and I still didn’t know what Sarah said to him to keep him from running home to his mother.  No doubt the police would be by in the morning to clear up some of those questions.  But none of that mattered now.  With mother and son reunited, life was good.  Time would tell what part Mark eventually played in this family picture, but for now he seemed to content to watch the joy on his son’s and Jackie’s faces.

I shared in the celebratory ice cream and soda, but just after midnight we decided it was time for all of us to go to bed.  I’d see them tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that.  For a while Joshua would need to get used to having his mother shadow him everywhere, and he’d have to understand – at least to some extent – the truth surrounding his disappearance, a small price to pay for having a mother who loved him so much.

Dawn, Mark and I all left together.  Jackie didn’t object when Mark suggested it was time for him to go home.  I felt a little sorry for him, but he had to earn his place and her trust, and that would take more than the few days he spent with her while she waited for Joshua’s return.  It had to count for something, but it wouldn’t erase whatever memories kept him from being there in the first place.  As we watched him get into his car he thanked us repeatedly for all we had done, and apologized for being impatient with me earlier.  Of course I said it was no problem and to be understood given the circumstances.

“It’s over Dawn,” I said after Mark pulled away.  “We solved our first case.”

“And hopefully our last.” She laughed.

“I don’t know; with my brains and your sixth sense, not to mention that annoying habit you have of questioning any decision I make, we could be the next Cagney and Lacey.”

“Yes, except this is Fartham, Rhode Island, not New York City and there are no crimes to investigate.  Mattie, my friend, you have too much time on your hands; maybe you should think about going back to teaching.”

“Maybe I should just think about going to bed.  Besides, you have a garden to build and I have an unveiling to attend in about nine hours.  Good night, and thank you for all of your help.”  With that I hugged my friend and headed home, looking forward to a deep, dreamless sleep, and hoping to put all worries – about Sarah, her family, Mark, Ethan, my future – on hold until tomorrow.

Putting the Plan in Place

The first thing I did when I got home was call Malcolm West and set up an appointment.  Fortunately or unfortunately, he was booked for the rest of the afternoon, but agreed to meet at 9:00 in the morning, before the museum opened. The sooner we met, the sooner we knew whether the plan worked, but the delay gave me additional time to get ready for the meeting.  In either case, I moved on with the copying of the will, and wrote the first official explanation of exhibit that included a small picture of the painting and the artist.  I had to admit, it looked good.  And knowing my luck, once Mr. West heard about my proposal he’d want to put it into action and ask me to oversee its development – my penance for my crime.

With the papers in place, I wrote some speaking notes for my presentation, called Dawn to let her know about the scheduled time of the meeting, and then decided to make myself an egg sandwich, sit down on the sofa and watch whatever comedy I could find on television.  I needed a distraction, but not one that required a lot of my attention or that pulled on my emotions.  With not too many options from which to choose, I settled on Legally Blonde. Laura and I watched it together when it first came out at the movie theaters many years back, and I remembered liking it then, and the fact that I watched it with her gave it added value.  So I sat, by myself, laughing out loud in spots, trying not to let any thoughts about tomorrow interfere with the enjoyment of the movie.

When it was over, I tried to pick up where I left off with The DaVinci Code, the book I started reading before this whole situation with Joshua began, but that required more concentration than I could muster.  During times like these I could relate to some of my seventh grade students from the past.  Their minds were so cluttered with social and home issues, they had no room left to process what happened in math class.  Getting them to understand the concepts was like trying to fly a paper airplane through a dense forest; there was nowhere for it to go.  That’s how I felt as I tried to read: my brain was full of concerns about what could go wrong the next day, with no room to spare for the story’s plot.  So, I put the book down and looked at the clock: 7:30, too early to go to bed, and I didn’t feel like watching another movie.  I ruled out an evening visit to Jackie or Laura, or any of my friends because I was in my lone mode, not wanting to associate with anyone right now.

I finally settled on playing some Freecell on the computer, a game I gave up for Lent last year because it took up a too much of my spare time.  Considering my list of excuses for not writing the next best American novel extended onto two pages, I decided to start crossing off some of them, with Freecell being at the top of the excluded excuses list.  But I gave myself permission, just this once, to go back on my word for the sake of my sanity. And at 11:00, after winning forty-nine games in a row, I shut off the computer and went to bed.

The Proposal to Mr. West

Before we met with Mr. West, Dawn and I thought it best to go out to breakfast together to strategize about our presentation.  I picked her up in front of her house at 8:00, and then we drove to the coffee shop near the museum, electing to sit in a booth at the back of the restaurant just to be away from traffic.  After we ordered a couple of cups of coffee and our breakfast, I showed her my exhibit piece.

“Quite impressive, Mattie.  I can actually see this taking off and being offered for every painting or sculpture in the museum.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of, and I’ll deal with that if and when the need arises.  He may just say it’s too labor intensive, that the museum doesn’t have the funding for a project of this nature.  And if you mention anything about volunteers taking up the cause, you’ll be my first recruit.”

“Mum’s the word, I promise.  So how much longer is the Rutherford exhibit on loan?”

“I believe until this Saturday.  So, I’m hoping we can encourage Mr. West to move grandpa Winthrop quickly, to not only commemorate the anniversary, but also to draw attention to the exhibit, which translates into more visitors/revenue for the museum.”

“How about I let you do the talking and I’ll be there for moral support, nodding enthusiastically in all the right places, if that’s okay with you.”

I waited to respond while the waitress delivered our plates.  Then I said, “No problem, but feel free to jump in when the spirit moves you, especially if you think I’ve missed an important point or misstated anything.  Now eat up.  We need all the sustenance we can get!”  I raised my coffee mug toward Dawn, “To Joshua’s homecoming!”

She knocked her cup against mine and coffee splashed onto the tablecloth. “Oops!  To Joshua!”

*************************************************************************

Mr. West pulled into the parking lot of the museum at the same time as we did.   After making introductions, even though I already knew him from social gatherings, we followed behind him as he led us into the museum and into his office.  I whispered to Dawn, “Why do I feel like I’m being escorted into the principal’s office?”   She tried to stifle her laugh, but snorted a bit.  Either Mr. West was hard of hearing or he just chose to ignore the sound; considering that he looked about ten years our senior, the former seemed most likely. By the time we entered his office and he showed us where to sit, the flush disappeared from Dawn’s complexion.

“So,” he said, “What is the proposal you have prepared for me?”

I said a quick prayer before I began and asked for a little inspiration from Billy.  “Well,” I paused for composure, “my proposal is two-fold,” and then I went on to explain my plan, showing him the relevant papers when they came into play.  I begged my hand to be steady when I pushed the altered will in front of him, having highlighted the pertinent sections. Thank goodness it complied.  Mr. West listened carefully during my whole pitch, took notes, even nodding his head and responding with “I see” now and then.  I gave him no opportunity for any other input because I worried if I stopped talking I’d forget what I wanted to say, get flustered and blow my sincerity.  When I finished, I looked at him and then I looked at Dawn.   She gave a thumbs up.  Mr. West just sat there, in what I hoped was serious contemplation.

“Now let me get this straight.  The man in the green velvet coat is John Winthrop I, this museum’s founder’s great, great grandfather, and you want me to move that painting into the foyer, next to his great, great grandson?”

I swallowed, and struggled to keep from looking too eager.  “Yes.  That’s exactly right.  And what better time to do it then now, considering it’s the museum’s anniversary.”

“I have to admit, since Joshua’s disappearance from last week, with the museum being closed during the investigation, admittance is down.  We could use a promotion to draw people in, especially while the Rutherford exhibit’s still on loan.”

“That was precisely my thinking.  As I said, because the museum is such an integral part of our community, I wanted to do something to celebrate its 75th anniversary.  And after visiting the New Britain museum, I realized our patrons could benefit from a set-up similar to theirs.  Of course I knew the audio tour was cost prohibitive, but the paper explanation of the artist and the piece only required research, basically translating into people’s time.  Little did I know I’d discover the familial connection between the portrait I chose to research and the museum’s founder.  It must have been fate.”

“I must say, that’s serendipity at its finest, but who’s to question such a stroke of luck.”  He picked up the will and read it again, and then flipped through the remainder of its pages.  I quickly looked at Dawn and crossed my fingers.

“I say, why not?  Let me run this by the board, and I’ll get back to you as soon as we come to an agreement.”

“And how long might that take?” I asked, holding Dawn’s hand under the table.

“I’ll call a quick session of the board right after you leave.  If a quorum’s available around lunchtime, then you should hear from me just after that, around one.  If not, then you’ll just have to wait until enough people can clear their schedules.  We only need four of us, and one of them works here on Monday’s so that shouldn’t be a problem.”

I squeezed Dawn’s hand, and then let it go.  Standing up slowly so as not to faint, I extended my right hand to shake Mr. West’s.  “Thank you so much for your time.  I know you’ll make the right decision and I look forward to hearing from you soon.  Here’s my cell phone number.”  I tore off a clean strip from my notes and wrote it down.  A business card would make it more official, but generally teachers don’t carry those.

“And thank you for all of the work you’ve done.  I expect it will not be in vain.  You’ll be hearing from me.” He shook my hand again and then Dawn’s.  He probably wondered why she was even there as the only time she spoke was at the original introduction, but it didn’t matter.  I knew why she was there, and she played her role perfectly.

We walked like two business partners out of the office and museum, but acted like two schoolgirls when we got to the parking lot, giggling and hugging each other.  Incredibly the plan came off without a snare.

“Mattie I never knew you could lie that well; you could have won an Oscar for that presentation.”

“I pinched my leg whenever I felt like smiling; that seemed to work pretty well. And to be honest, I surprised myself.”

After we finished congratulating ourselves Dawn asked, “Now what do we do for the next two hours?”

“How about we go shopping?”

“Seriously, like to the mall?”

“Heh, we haven’t done it in a while, and we need to kill time.  Besides, Charlie’s birthday’s coming up.”

She looked at me as if trying to recall the date. “Okay, so it’s not for a few months, but it will be here eventually.  What other choices do we have?”

Dawn just shook her head.  “I thought you hated shopping.”

“Well, I hate watching the clock even more.  So, let’s go.”

The News

Fifteen minutes into our trip I remembered why I disliked shopping so much, especially at the mall – too many choices with too high prices.  And most of what was offered I didn’t need anyway.  At least the mega-sized Borders bookstore provided a good hour of browsing time for both Dawn and me.  While sipping our large teas, we thumbed through a number of self-help books, gardening manuals and magazines.  I even selected a few of the motivational books about writing for purchase, but the longer I stayed in the store the more I thought about how many of the same books I had at home collecting dust on my shelves.  And that instead of buying more books, I should just sit down and get started.  In the end, neither Dawn nor me bought anything, except for the drinks.

Then we visited the pet store and even signed out a Puggle.  We couldn’t resist his big brown eyes.  Dawn and I both laughed about the number of times our children begged us to take out and play with one of the puppies, and each time we responded “no.”  But here we were, two elderly women with no interest in buying the dog, pretending like we were.  We lost interest in serious shopping not long after we arrived and much like in the parking lot of the museum after the interview we felt like two teenagers.  Only this time we were old enough to do some of the things we couldn’t do when we were kids.  So, we signed out Lord Walters, as we called him, and let him chew on our fingers, and lick our faces, making it very difficult to return him to his cage when he settled down for a nap, which is exactly the reason why we never checked out any of the puppies when we were with our children.  (And, not surprisingly, a week after our visit Lord Walters took up his new residence at Dawn’s house.)

I looked at my watch after we left the pet store, and said to Dawn, “It’s 12:40.  I wish I knew whether he managed to gather the people he needed to have his meeting or not.  The closer it gets to one, the faster my heart is beating and the more clouded my thinking.  Dawn, I’m telling you, if we don’t hear from him soon you may have to drive me to the emergency room.”

“Mattie, calm down; I’m sure he’ll call soon, and besides if you need to get to the hospital, you’ll have to take a cab.  I can’t drive your stick shift.”

“Oh, right.  And now I’m feeling guilty for being so silly when who knows what’s happening with Joshua and Jackie’s in a constant state of misery.  How could I forget about them so easily?”

“Give yourself a break, Mattie.  You haven’t forgotten about anyone.  They’re the whole reason you’re doing this in the first place.  You just needed to let off some steam while you awaited the verdict.”

“Yes, I guess you’re right.  Oh good Lord!”  Just then my cell phone rang.  My hand shook as I pulled it out of my pocket.  I looked at the call information, but didn’t recognize the number.  As I opened it to talk I walked toward the mall exit, just a few doors down from where we stood, not only because of better reception, but because I needed to move.  Dawn followed right behind me.

As I walked out of the air conditioning and into the heat of the day I said, “Oh hello Mr. West,” trying not to sound as if I’d been anxiously awaiting his call pretty much since we left the meeting.  “So, you were able to get everyone to come for lunch?”

Dawn put her ear near my phone as well and I tilted it so we both might hear.  “You say they agreed?”  I closed my eyes and listened carefully to his response, “and that they want to move quickly? …An unveiling tomorrow? …Oh, we most certainly can be there.  We wouldn’t miss it for the world.  Oh thank you so much Mr. West for acting so quickly.”  I opened my eyes and unballed my fist, feeling the imprint of my fingernails in my palm.  Dawn stepped away from the phone, and we danced a little jig while I listened to the rest of what Mr. West had to say.  “You’re quite welcome, I’m glad we could be of service… Yes, we’ll see you in the morning… Okay, good-bye.”  And just as I was about to hang up I said, “Oh wait!  Mr. West, Mr. West?”  He’d hung up.  “Damn.”

“What’s wrong?” Dawn looked at me, no doubt puzzled by my quick change of mood. “Isn’t this what you wanted?”

“Yes. But I needed to find out when he’s actually moving the painting.  If it’s tonight, then I can try to get into the museum after the move, but before the unveiling in the morning, and more importantly, before Ethan learns the real reason for his change of scenery.  Also, if I get a chance to talk to Ethan this evening, we’re that much closer to bringing Joshua home!  Otherwise my next opportunity to be alone with him won’t be until the following night.”

“Good point.  Will Hank know about the move?”

“Yeah, probably.”  I thought about it.  “Yeah, you’re right; I’ll call Hank after dinner, on the pretense that I’m thanking him for all his help getting me into the museum, and I’ll casually ask how the portrait looks in its new spot.”

“And if he says, ‘What new spot?’”

“I’ll just tell him I thought Mr. West would have moved it already.  Dawn please let it be tonight.  We are this close.” I showed her with my thumb and pointer finger less than an inch apart. “I can just see the elation on Jackie’s face.”

As images of Joshua and Jackie filled my mind I reflected backwards in time to the kidnapping itself.  “But I can’t imagine what’s been going through Joshua’s mind this whole time.  From what little I learned from Ethan, we probably know his kidnapper.  What does a person tell a child when he’s taken away from his mother?  What rationale does one use to keep the child from panicking?  I pray the damage is minimal.”

And as I stood there, remembering where we were and the range of emotions I experienced in the last fifteen minutes or so, I gave a small chuckle.  “Dawn my friend, I must seem somewhat psychotic to you right now. My head is spinning like a yo-yo playing Around the World and all I want to do is put it in the sleep mode.  Please don’t tell Laura about any of this.”

She came over and wrapped her arms around me.  “No one thinks you’re crazy Mattie, especially not me.  I understand.”  We stood there hugging each other for several minutes, no doubt a source of curiosity for passers-by.

“Now let’s go grocery shopping and buy some ingredients for Joshua’s homecoming cake,” Dawn suggested as we separated.

“Seriously?  Aren’t you afraid we might be jinxing ourselves?”

“No.” She looked me straight in the eyes, “My senses tell me he’ll be home within two days.”

“And you’re not just telling me that to make me feel better?”

“Swear to God, I’m not.”

“Then let’s go get some ingredients!”

The Probate Court

I set my alarm for 8:00; I woke up at 6:15.  Why?  I laid there for about a half an hour, initially trying to clear my mind while doing some deep breathing exercises, and then failing miserably while thoughts of the day filled my blank space.  I realized I’d only researched where to get a copy of the will, not how to get that copy.  So, with relaxation no longer an option, I made my morning cup of coffee and then went right to work on the computer, saving my stretches for later.

The beauty of the Internet is that it’s open all hours.  In a matter of minutes I found the answer to my questions through a site called dohistory.org, surprised to see that I only needed a name, not a date of death, to locate the will and that a court clerk retrieved the files for me.  For some reason – too much television I guess – I envisioned myself walking into a musky room filled with metal file cabinets, thumbing through drawers of manila folders until I met with success.  No, all I needed to do was give the docket number to the clerk and he or she would do the rest, including making a copy for a nominal fee.  Simple enough.

With hours left before the courthouse opened, I decided to go for a run to kill time, calm my nerves and alleviate some of the sadness I was feeling.  The last, and only time I went to the probate court before today was for the reading of Billy’s will.  Walking out of the courtroom that day, that whole process – so brief – felt like a door slamming on a whole chapter of my life.  Your husband’s dead; case closed.  I’m better now: life does go on contrary to what I thought then, but I can’t deny the fact that memories of that day remain.  So, wanting to prevent those thoughts from clouding my judgment too much when I headed over to 110 Main Street later this morning, I resorted to my most reliable source of therapy: running.  With ample time until departure, I mentally mapped out one of my longer courses – six miles as opposed to four, knowing I could alter the course if my legs weren’t up to it.

*********************************************************************

Although I made it the whole six miles, I was disappointed with my time of just over an hour – not quite back to that nine-minute pace I used to run with Billy yet, actually not even close.  Oh well, at least I could still run.  To make myself feel better, I said that if I really wanted to push myself, I could get myself a trainer and back into a routine, but there were more important things to worry about right now, like getting showered, getting dressed, and eating breakfast.  By the time I completed all three tasks it was 9:50.  Mission accomplished.

I pulled into one of the designated visitor’s slots in the parking lot of the Town Hall’s office where the Probate Court shared space with a number of other town offices like the town clerk’s and the assessor’s.  As I entered the reception area of the probate office, I felt my pulse pounding in my temple, and worried the nerves I felt would affect my speech and raise suspicion with the receptionist.  But fortunately many people milled about the area, some searching through the card catalogue, some sitting, probably waiting for whatever records they requested, and two speaking with the woman at the front desk.  I could just blend in with the rest of the crowd.  I read a sign above a set of short, narrow file cabinets similar to the ones my elementary school library used to own.  It said, “Begin your search here,” and gave instructions similar to those I found online.  I learned from my research that many agencies computerized their records these days, but our archaic government still employed the use of a card catalogue system, so I had to wait for the person in front of me to be done with the M-Z files.

Fortunately I was next in line, and minutes later, with little difficulty, I found John Winthrop V’s entry and docket number.  As I wrote it and all the rest of the information down on the request form, and checked off the box for a copy to be made, I noticed my hand was shaking, and as a result, my writing nearly illegible.  How did I expect to forge someone else’s handwriting when I couldn’t even master my own?  Frustrated, I crumpled my first attempt and stuffed it into my pocket, then concentrated harder on calming my nerves and my hand.  Satisfied with the second attempt, I handed it to the clerk and sat down to wait for her return.  While waiting, I wondered what brought the rest of the people to this office today.  I doubted any of them had motives similar to my own and I hoped I didn’t look as guilty as I felt, trying to bury my face in some magazine I grabbed from the coffee table in front of me, making certain it was upright.

After about forty-five minutes, during which time I actually took an interest in the article to which I’d randomly turned, and when I was the only remaining customer in the room, the clerk came out with my copy of the will.  I briefly verified that it indeed was John Winthrop V’s, but nothing more  – I’d save the reading for later in the privacy of my own home.  I then paid and thanked her for all of her help, and headed in the direction of fresh air as quickly as possible.  With phase one complete, I couldn’t help but smile as I got behind the wheel of my car.  I resisted the temptation to open the file right there; I needed to stick to my word and wait.  But instead of going to my house, I decided to pay a visit to Dawn.  Whatever I discovered when I read through the document, whatever needed to be done in order to persuade Malcolm West, I figured it would eventually require Dawn’s help anyway.  So why not expedite the process and include her in the operation from the start?  As much as I wanted to keep her out of trouble, I needed her advice and support.   She was in this whether she liked it or not.

What We Had to Do

At the same time I pulled into my driveway, Dawn pulled her little black pick-up into her own.  Good timing.  As soon as I parked I grabbed the file off of the passenger seat and walked over to help her unload her gardening tools from the bed of her truck.

“So, whose yard did you beautify this time?”  Since selling her florist shop and landscaping business five years ago, Dawn worked odd jobs, not for the money, but to keep her occupied.

“The Holloways, they decided to replace their rock garden with some actual plants.  It’s a week-long project, a couple of hours each day.  So, what’s in the folder?  Is that what I think it is?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact it is,” I said as I picked up the folder and showed it to her.  “I haven’t even looked at it yet, except to make sure it was John’s.  I wanted to wait and share it with you.”

“Yeah, you just wanted someone to share the blame!”

I laughed, “Guilty as charged.  Now let’s go see what we’re up against.”

When we went into the house Dawn had to wash up and change, and I used the faucet in the kitchen to clean the dirt from the tools off my hands.  The last thing we needed was to smudge the documents before we even got started.

It only took Dawn about fifteen minutes to transition from master gardener to primary accomplice.  She came back into the kitchen and poured us each a glass of iced tea, and then we sat together at the kitchen table with the will in between us.  We looked at each other and grinned, palms down in front of the folder.  “Why do I feel like I’m about to peek into my parents’ closet to see what I’m getting for Christmas?” Dawn asked.

“Why do I feel like I’m about to rob my brother’s piggy bank?”

“Because your conscience is better than mine?”

“Oh, Dawn!  You’re too funny.  Okay, let’s look.”  I lifted the top of the folder to reveal John Winthrop V’s last will and testament.  “It’s typed!”  I said.  I don’t know why it didn’t register before when I checked to make sure I had the right file, but it certainly took me by surprise now.  “Why did I expect it to be handwritten?  It’s not like John died in the 1700’s.  How stupid.”

“But Mattie, I think this makes things easier for you.  Now it’s a matter of matching type, not handwriting, and then simply cutting and pasting your additions onto the original somehow.  The most difficult part will be making the alterations appear seamless, as though they are part of the original document.”

“You’re right, of course.  But the problem is, I’m pretty sure lawyers weren’t using computers in…” I flipped to see when the will was signed, “1965.  Where can you find a typewriter these days?  Or, do you think, Dr. Watson, we can match the type with one of the fonts on the computer?”

“I guess we’ll have to check into it.  If the computer won’t work, someone – other than the Smithsonian -  still has to have a typewriter in their possession.”

“And not just any typewriter, one just like the one that typed this will.”

“Okay, so maybe forging handwriting would have been easier,” Dawn agreed.

“At least we only need to add one phrase in Article III, Charitable Gifts. Right before he mentions the name of the painting we insert, ‘my great, great grandfather, Ethan Allen Winthrop I.’ And then, add a line to Article IV, Specific Bequests Other Than Charitable because someone has to get the green velvet coat Ethan’s wearing.  And considering the fourth article begins on the same page as the third, once I match the type, I could just recreate the entire page.”

“You are a genius Mattie; then we don’t even have to worry about the cutting and pasting.  If only it were as easy as opening a Word document!  You could present your case to Malcolm West this afternoon!”

I looked at Dawn, grabbed her hands and squeezed them, “Can you imagine?”  I breathed in deeply, and then exhaled loudly.  “Okay, but we can’t get our hopes up yet.  Let’s go check out that computer of yours and see if we can’t get it to create some magic!”

Searching for the Right Font

Dawn suggested our first step should be to scan a part of the will into a Word document, and then play with the various fonts available in the program to see if they matched the original.  Unfortunately, on comparison, none of the Word fonts were close enough matches to create a convincing imitation.  Of course that would be too easy.

Next, we focused out search on which typewriter was most popular in 1965, the time of the writing of John’s will, and learned that the IBM Selectric – one of the first electric models along with its “typeball” that allowed for a change of fonts – was used in most offices at that time.   Although we probably could find a working model, considering the ages of our friends one of them most likely had an old typewriter stored away somewhere in her attic, before we went that route we decided to see if we could find a software program that replicated the font-type of the Selectric.  Once again, the Internet came to our aid.

Fonts4free.net claimed to provide any of the Selectric fonts at no charge to the user, and one of the samples they showed on their homepage looked exactly like the one used in the will.

“I don’t know Dawn; this seems too good to be true; what if there’s some virus attached?  Don’t you wonder why someone might offer these services for free?”

“Mattie, it’s my computer.  It cost maybe $1,200 to replace, a small price to pay for a boy’s life.  And besides, the site could be legitimate.”

“Okay.  I’m certainly game if you are.  Let’s give it a try.”

And with that she clicked on “Start download” for the Selectric font.  With each press of the mouse I gritted my teeth, but after about three clicks Dawn had an American Typewriter font added to her collection.  So far so good.  The computer still worked.  Maybe any virus associated with the site took a while to infiltrate the system.  As long as we managed to produce the document, then I’d buy her the new computer.

“Now what?” Dawn asked.

“I guess we start typing in page two of the will and see how it looks.  We’ll need to adjust the margins and the spacing, as well as match the page numbers at the bottom.  I suspect we’ll have to get rid of a line or two of the original will so that we can insert the information we want without having to create a second page.  Do you want to type or do you want me to do it?”

“Hello, which one of us spent ten years as an office manager in a law firm?  If we were using an adding machine I’d let you take over, but I think my expertise trumps your hunting and pecking.”

“I can’t argue with that, not to mention my skills decline substantially when someone’s watching over my shoulder.”

“Just tell me what to insert and where, and what to delete.”

So with Dawn typing and me coaching we created a new second page of John Winthrop’s will.  We had to take some furniture out of his specific bequests in order to make room for the coat, but otherwise, left the remainder of the original content in tact.

“Now for the true test,” Dawn said. “Print and compare.”

I stood by the printer, waiting for the verdict to come out.  I picked it up and declared, “It’s a piece of art!”

Dawn took a page from the real will and stood next to me.  I layered my copy over hers, and she held it up to the light, and then handed it back to me.  “I’m convinced! Now all we have to do is print the whole will on the same paper.”

“Covered.  I have a pack of premium paper in my desk at home, and my printer has a copier function as well.  We’re almost there Dawn; we’re almost there.  I still need to write up my ‘proposal,’ that informational piece that allegedly got me interested in the picture in the first place.  Basically all I have to do is summarize what we’ve learned as a result of our investigation, substituting facts about John Winthrop I for Ethan Walters.  And let’s hope Ethan can’t read.  I’m not sure how happy he’d be to know we lied about his identity in order to meet his demands and get him moved, meaning he still gets no respect on his own accord.”

“You know, even if he can’t read, he obviously can hear, and people will be talking about the painting.  I don’t know how you’re going to keep him from learning the truth.”

“I suppose I can hope that once he’s satisfied with the move he finds something better to do with his time, as opposed to hanging out in the museum.  But actually, once he tells me what he knows, it’s not a big deal whether he learns the truth or not, right?  It’s not like he can take back what’s been said.”

“True, but if he finds out before he tells you, then what?”

“I persuade him that I met my end of the bargain.  I succeeded in finding him a more visible location; he never said people had to appreciate him for who he was, just that people needed to see his portrait.  Now, let me get this copied, my proposal typed, and make a date with Malcolm West.  Thanks for everything.  I really couldn’t have done this without you.”

“At least not as well,” she laughed.

I hugged her, picked up the rest of the file and started to head home to make a copy of the new last will and testament of John Winthrop V.  But right before I left I had an idea, “Dawn, since you’re already in this up to your elbows, do you mind sticking your neck out there as well?”

“Now Mattie, what do you have in mind?”

“I was thinking how much more convincing my plan might sound to Malcolm West if the two of us presented it to him as opposed to just me, strength in numbers, you know.”

She sighed, “If it means getting Joshua back to his poor mother, then sure, why not?  Guilty is guilty; I’m not sure if it matters to what degree at this point.”

“Oh Dawn!” I threw my arms around her again, almost losing the file in the process.  “I owe you big time.”

“Don’t worry,” she joked, “the tab is running.”

Sarah’s Letter

With so many distractions over at Jackie’s house, my stomach reminded me that I never ate anything.  A quick check of my options when I got home revealed my cabinets were just about as empty as Jackie’s, and not being in the mood to do any grocery shopping at the moment, I called Dawn to see if she wanted to go out for a late lunch/early dinner with me. As she’d been so wrapped up in her garden work, not eating since about eight o’clock this morning, she readily agreed to the proposition, but said I’d have to wait about thirty minutes while she washed off several layers of dirt off and changed into something other than rags.

I spent the next thirty minutes finishing my laundry and going through the mail that I ignored over the last few days.  Each day I collected it from my mailbox I just tossed it onto the corner of the kitchen counter, without even checking to see if it included anything of importance – which most of the time it didn’t.  As I looked through the pile I sorted it into two new piles – throw away or keep for later.  The junk mail outnumbered the keep mail about ten to one, and most of what went into the save pile were bills, but as I neared the end of my sort stack I picked up a letter from Sarah.  At the sight of her name on the return address I felt a rush of adrenaline.  How long had it been?

When she first moved to Maryland, I think it was in August about a month after the tragedy, we talked just about every week.  Dawn and I even took a couple of trips down to see her, but as time wore on and the conversations on the phone became more and more difficult, I stopped calling.  It seemed Sarah wanted to sever any ties she had to Fartham, and try as I might, nothing I said changed her mind.  So I respected her wishes and let her be.  At least I still had Dawn, the second leg of our threesome, and as hard as it was, we learned to survive without Sarah.

I opened the letter, surprised to read how much she missed us and wanted to return “home” at last.  She inquired about the state of her house and told me to give her a call when I got a chance.  After apologizing for the way she treated me, attributing her reaction to a deep depression which this Dr. DiCicco helped her through, she signed off, leaving a cell phone number at the close.  I reread the letter to see if I missed anything, and then folded it up and put it into my pocket.  I wondered if she’d written the same thing to Dawn.

As I waited for Dawn I thought how simple my life seemed up until Thursday last week.  With my early retirement I had more time to spend with my grandchild, to catch up on my reading, to maybe even start that book I always wanted to write, and even considered enrolling in a creative writing class at the community college as a means toward that end.  Now look at me.  I’m talking with dead people, about to commit a crime, playing family therapist to my neighbor and the father of her children, and reuniting with a long time friend, how crazy is that?  Before I had time to answer that question, Dawn’s horn beeped.  Time to eat.  On my way out to her car, I stopped in the hall bathroom, checking in the mirror to see if I looked presentable.  I frowned at the sight, and then said to myself, “You need a vacation.”  Maybe in about a month.

The Serving Plate

As soon as I got into the car I pulled out the letter from Sarah and read it to Dawn.  Although happy that we might get our “old ladies club” back together, Dawn seemed a little taken back because she had not received a similar message.  I told her to wait a few days, that maybe something happened with its delivery.  In spite of her disappointment, Dawn said to celebrate Sarah’s possible return, we should go to lunch at our favorite diner, The Serving Plate, about five miles outside of town.  None of us really knew how it became the favorite, maybe because of the Italian owner, Giuseppe, who made us feel like celebrities, or the quality of the food as compared to the low prices.  Whatever the reason, we used to come here every Saturday when I still worked.  We’d even drag Jackie along with the boys every once and a while.  Joshua loved Camille, our regular waitress, because every time he came she’d crouch next to him and draw a cartoon of some sort on the paper they provided for the youngsters to color.  Maybe when Sarah returned we could get back into that routine.

“Oh my ladies, how long it’s been?” Giuseppe boomed as we waited to be seated.  “What?  You find another place to eat?  Someone treat you better than Giuseppe?”  He feigned a frown and we assured him his place was still our favorite.

“Sorry,” I said, “We’ve just been busy, not eating out anywhere.  I promise you.”

He stepped between us, putting his arms around each of our shoulders and said, “Good to hear, now don’t be such strangers; Camille thinks it’s something she said!”  He laughed and then moved on to attend to some other customers.

After the hostess seated us, someone I didn’t recognize, Camille came and took our orders.  She made a fuss similar to Giuseppe’s about how long it had been, but thank goodness didn’t ask anything about Joshua.  As this was a different time than our usual visit, we actually had to look at the menu to see what to eat.  On Camille’s recommendation we both chose the Chicken Caesar salad, mine with iced tea and Dawn’s with a Coke.

I sat back and looked around the diner.  “It’s good to be back.”

Dawn scanned the room as well, “Agreed.  How long has it been?”

“I don’t know; over a year I suspect.  The accident happened in July, and we never came back after that.”

“Well, it’s good to hear that Sarah’s getting back on her feet.  He son, Jonathan, still lives in Providence, and I think Rosie lives just two towns over, neither married or with children.  I can’t imagine how hard it’s been for them.”

“Thinking about Sarah again makes me want to go spend time with Laura and Charlie.  You just never know what’s going to happen tomorrow, a trip to the grocery store turns into a fatal accident, a trip to the art museum turns into a kidnapping – neither of which is supposed to happen in a small town tucked away in the outskirts of Rhode Island.”

“I know.  And how is it we know both parties to these anomalies?  Bad luck?  Do you ever think about that saying that bad things happen in threes?”

“Actually, yes,” I said, “But with Billy’s death, I consider the quota met.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.  Sorry.”

We sat there in silence for a few minutes, probably neither of us knowing where to go next with the conversation.  Camille broke the silence when she delivered the salads and asked if we wanted refills on our drinks.  We both said yes.

As we made our way through our salads – a good recommendation on Camille’s part – Dawn asked what my plans for tomorrow were.

“I’m going to the probate court first thing in the morning.”

“Probate court?  What happened to the town clerk?”

“Well, when I researched land records, I kept seeing mention of a last will and testament in the same entries.  And the more I thought about it, the better the option the will seemed than a deed.  Once I learned anyone could have access to a person’s will as long as that will went through probate, then I changed my planned course of action.”

“And the court’s records go back that far?”

“From what I read, records exist since the court’s inception.  And, for a small fee people can make copies of them.  Although I haven’t thought this through carefully, in the perfect scenario I copy the will, make an addendum to it that matches the writing, stating the same thing I intended to put on the note – that the reason John Winthrop bought the painting in the first place was because it was his great, great grandfather, John Winthrop I – recopying the altered will and showing it to Mr. West.  Of course the original will remains in the file, and I have to hope and pray Malcolm West never goes to the probate court to compare the two.”

“Wow Mattie; you think you can actually pull that off?”

“I’ll let you know in a day or two. If nothing else, I do believe it’s more manageable than my first plan.  Because even if I forged the note and succeeded in getting into the file unnoticed, then I still have to be able to explain how I knew that the note was in the file, and figure out how to make the paper and the writing appear over seventy years old.”

“Good point.  I still say maybe you are making a new career for yourself Mattie.”

“What? As a criminal?”

“No,” she laughed, “I’d say something in an investigative field, like a private eye or detective.”

“Um, I think I’m done once I see Joshua home safely.  Then perhaps I can use this experience to write my best-selling novel.”

“I’ll buy the first copy!”

“Thanks!  I appreciate the support.  Now, why don’t I take care of this bill and we head back home?  I think I’m going to give Laura a call and see if I can’t come over this evening.  Monday’s still a long way away.  And even though I want to, since I can’t go to sleep now and wake up at 9:00 tomorrow morning, I need to fill my time and what better way than to spend it than with my grandson?”

“Yes, Patty’s coming home with the boys next weekend, and I can’t wait.  But you don’t need to pay for my meal; I’ve got cash.”

“Forget it, I owe you for your consultation services anyway.”

“But then that would make me an accomplice!”

“Shhh.  No one needs to know!”  We both laughed, said good-bye to Camille and Giuseppe, and then drove home.

An Interlude

Of course Laura readily agreed to my coming over for a visit, and when I offered to baby-sit Charlie so that she and Bobby could have an evening out, she graciously accepted my invitation.  While Charlie and I built a fortress with his blocks to keep the evil dragons and knights from entering our castle, I thought about Joshua’s grandparents.  I knew nothing of either of them, and suspected they were the reason Jackie refused to enter into a relationship with Mark, but I felt sorry for them, for what they were missing by not being a part of their grandsons’ lives.  At 9:00 when Laura and Bobby came home from their date, however, I was grateful for the relief.

When Bobby put Charlie to bed, something Bobby’s work schedule rarely allowed him to do, Laura and I sat down with a glass of wine and I told her much of what happened since I last saw her, excluding any information relating to my efforts to find Joshua.  As much as I wanted to tell her, two things prevented it.  One, since Billy’s passing she worried a lot about my mental health.  Of late, she seemed to be satisfied with its status because she didn’t ask as many questions.  If I told her about my conversations with Ethan, she might attribute it to something other than my reality and ignite her concerns all over again.  Secondly, her husband was a police officer; I didn’t want to compromise her position with him in any way, telling her something that could not be shared with him, so, as hard as it was, I felt it best to keep all of that part of the story to myself.

Of course I swore her to secrecy about Jackie’s situation.  And I hoped that Jackie herself would confide in Laura soon.  Although they weren’t the best of friends yet, I felt Jackie needed someone like Laura in her life, and since we all spent some time together because of my connections to both of them, I thought a deeper relationship had a good chance of developing.  Despite our parenting and the fact that Laura was an only child, she turned out well and made us proud.  And over the last two years, except for outside appearances, it was hard to tell which one of us was the mother and which the daughter.  She nurtured me through the darkest and most difficult time in my life.

So, after days of surreal activity, it was comforting to sit down and catch up with one of the people I most admired, my daughter.  Eventually Bobby joined us, choosing a beer for his drink of choice instead of wine.  Normal felt good, but could only last for so long.  After about an hour more of conversation I reluctantly left that cozy setting and drove home.  Sleep came sooner than expected because the last thing I remembered was at 11:30 when I crawled into bed, I started stressing about what I needed to do when I got to the courthouse the next morning.  Usually thoughts like those kept me awake until I resolved them.  But the bed refused to let me leave, and I gave way to its solace, I suspected due in large part to the castle building hours ago.  Babysitting five year-olds – the new cure for insomnia.