SuzyQZ Writer

By Mia Ryder (pen name)

bookboxchicago33@gmail.com

“Henrietta!” screeched Aunt Lil. The minute Henny walked into the kitchen, Aunt Lil demanded, “Where did Henrietta go? I need my reading glasses.”

“It’s me, Henrietta,” Henny replied gently as she took the reading glasses from around her aunt’s neck and placed them on her nose. Aunt Lil unfolded the pages of the Chicago Tribune and soon became absorbed in a story.

Aunt Lil was once a vibrant and beloved columnist for this newspaper. To see her now, it was as if someone had shaken the gems out of her jewelry box. Dementia was a thief.

“Joseph is always hiding my glasses,” Lil muttered, irritated with her long-dead husband whom she still interacted with daily. At least she didn’t have to miss him, Henny thought. 

The Marvell family, which was composed of Henny, her mother Nancy, great-aunt Lil, and their dog Brontë, lived in a bungalow on the Northwest side of Chicago in a neighborhood called Portage Park. Henny and her mom took turns caring for Aunt Lil when Henny was in high school or her mom was working the night shift at the hospital. Thanks to the hybrid learning model necessitated by the pandemic, Henny was on call for Aunt Lil more often now. 

Henny showed Aunt Lil the book she had just found in the book box down the street. “It’s called Chantilly, and, look here, Aunt Lil, it’s signed by the author, Francis Thrash. She’s from Chicago.”

“From Chicago? Of course she is; her house is in Portage Park.”

Henny pulled out a chair and sat dumbfounded. How weird that Aunt Lil could extract that tidbit from her brain even when she didn’t recognize her family half the time. She shook her head and then began thumbing through her new book. Reading was her ultimate escape—mystery novels, mostly—especially since she didn’t get out much these days. She was so engrossed by her book that she almost didn’t notice the extra coffee cup on the table. Aunt Lil had her knotty fingers wrapped around one mug while a second one sat across the table. 

“Aunt Lil, whose coffee cup is this?”

“The man’s.”

“What man?”

“The MAN who comes to chat with me.” 

When her aunt spoke to her dead husband or a myriad of other imagined visitors, she and her mom would nod politely and sneak a smile to each other. They were getting fairly used to it. But this coffee cup …

“Aunt Lil, you know you’re not supposed to let anyone in the house when I walk Brontë.”

“Hey smart mouth, I’m the grownup and you’re the kid, remember? Anyway I didn’t let him in, he had the key your dad gave him.”

Henny tilted her head to stare at her aunt like a quizzical puppy. Henny’s father was an Alderman in their ward who died seven years ago of a heart attack, which absolutely did not explain why there was a second coffee cup on the kitchen table. Henny’s alarm grew, and she started to get that tunnel-visioned head rush that would happen whenever her anxiety set in. She took a deep breath and realized that she wasn’t going to get a meaningful answer from Aunt Lil. She humored her anyway.

“Your gentleman caller have a name?” Henny probed.

“Daniel Radcliff,” Aunt Lil replied.

“Harry Potter came to see you?”

“See for yourself. He’s coming back for a second cup.”

Henny almost fell out of her chair when she heard the toilet flush down the hall. The sound of footsteps neared, followed by a voice behind her, “Hey Henny, long time no chit chat. What up, girrrl.”

Alderman Jordanski, once her dad’s political rival and now a schmoozy family friend, sauntered in. Henny didn’t like the way his eyes drifted down to her chest or the way he flirted with her mom. But he did bring them produce and flowers from the Farmer’s Market all the time, so he must not be a complete slimeball, Henny thought. He just had the hots for her mom; gross. She really hated the way he tried to sound hip when he talked to her.

“Greetings, Mr. Jordanski. Your lingo is antiquated, but yeah, hi.”

“Oh Henny, you’re such an old soul.”

Translation: You’re a weirdo, Henny thought with a smile to herself. She was okay with that. She’d rather hang out with her dog and bury herself in a good book than congregate outside the Q-Mart with her boring classmates. And she completely shunned social media. TikTok was for clocks.

“Hey, who’s reading that piece of trash?” Jordanski had noticed Chantilly resting on the table. “I didn’t know that nut job finished her book,” he snorted.

Henny grabbed the book off the table before he could get near it. His eyes flashed menace, then squinted as he forced a smile.

“Don’t believe everything you read, Henny-kins.” 

“I found it in the book box this morning. It’s called Chantilly by Francis Thrash, like the lace. An intricate weave.” The metaphor will be lost on him, she thought.

“Right —Francis Thrash the whacko. Those book box free lending libraries went into the neighborhoods after I took over as Alderman,” said Jordanski, forever campaigning. Henny pantomimed puking behind his back, which Jordanski caught in a reflection on the toaster.

“After my dad proposed them in his last term,” Henny clarified.

“Anyway, nice chatting with you Lil,” Jordanski said, ignoring Henny’s remark.

“Alohomora!” Aunt Lil replied by casting a spell from Harry Potter.

“Yeah, aloha to you, too,” said Jordanski the Clueless.

#

It was on her walk with Brontë that Henny had spied Chantilly in the book box that morning. The book box free lending library sat between two blanket-sized front yards. It was just a wooden box on a post with a peaked roof, glass door and books crammed inside, occasionally packaged food. There was a faded cardboard “Welcome Spring” decoration stapled to the side even though it was autumn. The book box was a quaint thing that reminded Henny of the good intentions of human beings. Henny checked it whenever she passed. The last several times she had looked, there had only been the same old contents—a cocktail recipe book circa 1970, Frommer’s Guide to Spain 1999, a water-damaged Charlotte’s Web, a few well-worn women’s magazines, a self-help guide for letting go of guilt, paperback romance novels, a few packets of ramen noodles, and a can of oysters that looked older than the cocktail recipe book. Chantilly was unlike the other books; the spine wasn’t cracked and the pages weren’t stained or dog-eared. Henny ran her finger over the author’s name on the cover; Francis Thrash. The new book smell gave Henny the shivers. She snagged it and vowed to add another book and a can of soup on her next visit. That would maintain the balance of the book box—take and give, ebb and flow­—and add to Henny’s good karma.

#

After Jordanski left their house that morning, Henny set out to devour Chantilly, but it was more like the book devoured her. She was captivated by the tale of a multi-generational Chicago family and its dark web of secrets. The family was tangled up in local politics, much like her own family. That thought took her back to Jordanski. What was he doing in her house today, anyway? Why the heck did he have keys? And why did Henny feel a strong urge to change the locks? 

When Henny heard her mother come home, she realized that she had been reading for most of the day. She took a break to share some mac and cheese with her mom. 

“Did you know Mr. Jordanski has keys to our house, Mom?”

“Sure, he was going to help me get that air conditioner out of the window upstairs. He’ll come by when he can. Busy man.”

“He was here today.”

“Huh. Okay.”

“I’m not a fan.”

“Noted.”

Clearly her mom wasn’t concerned. Henny hurried to put the dishes away and get back to her book, but first, she’d pull out one of Aunt Lil’s old journals to see if one of them contained information about Francis Thrash. She and her mom saved Aunt Lil’s planners and journals for the day when they’d need to invite people to Aunt Lil’s memorial. It was practical and morbid at the same time. You never saw Aunt Lil without a journal clutched under her arm back in her heyday as a reporter. Many of her sources were listed here in her own coded system to conceal their identities. Henny thumbed through the pages looking for the name Francis Thrash. She admired her Aunt Lil and liked to think that she had inherited her once keen eye for investigation.

Sadly, there wasn’t a “Thrash” under the T’s. But Henny knew her Aunt Lil didn’t always color within the lines, even when she had her wits about her. Henny stared at her aunt’s curly-cue handwriting in the margins, trying to decipher the code she used to hide her sources. Some of the listings were accompanied by a word or phrase and a series of numbers. She combed through every page. Eventually, her eyes felt like two bags of sand so she called it quits. Tomorrow was an in-school day, so she’d have to survive a barrage of awkward social encounters and mind-numbing lectures before she could get back to her quest to find her new favorite author.

The minute Henny woke up in the morning, she remembered something she saw in one of Aunt Lil’s journals. It had taken some overnight marinating in her brain, but there it was. She remembered seeing the word “wallop” and numbers scrawled in the margin. Bingo! Henny thought, exuberated. Her Aunt Lil used to love crossword puzzles. What’s a six-letter word for “wallop?” Thrash, as in “Francis Thrash,” just like a crossword clue and solution. That had to be Aunt Lil’s code. While she got dressed, Henny’s head swam with crossword puzzle squares and other clues, like Toilet Offspring for Johnson, or Hitched Year for Mariano. Once she figured out “wallop,” she saw answers everywhere. With a breakfast bar in hand, Henny snatched the old journal off the shelf again and flipped through until she found the right page. The seven-digit number had to be a phone number. Should she call it? That would be weird. What would she say if someone picked up? “I found the book you stashed in the book box and now I’m obsessed with you”? 

Henny thought about what Aunt Lil would do back in her investigative reporter days. For Henny’s eighth birthday, Aunt Lil had gifted her niece a full set of Nancy Drew books and had gone on about the brilliance of this fictional sleuth. So, Henny would do this Nancy Drew style and follow the clues, but allow herself just one assist from technology. A modern Nancy Drew would, right? Using Google felt like cheating. But Henny remembered her dad doing reverse phone number searches back in the day when cranks would leave threatening messages. He even let her type in the numbers. 

Henny opened her laptop and tried searching for the numbers from Aunt Lil’s journal. She added different prefixes—773, 630, 312—and tried the numbers forward and backward. Backward was the trick. Something called “U.S. People Search” popped up in big, flashy letters scrolling “SUCCESS” across the screen. Her search let loose a waterfall of random information and solicitations for paid criminal background checks. They teased Henny with just the name, age, and address. There at the top of the list was Francis Thrash, age 63. Last known address was blocks away! Henny’s heart fluttered. There was no question Henny would find a way to meet her. But how to approach her? Maybe she’d just do some Nancy Drew-style observation first while she built up the nerve. 

“Henny, let’s go!” her mother called her to leave for school. As a senior now, Henny had mastered the drill—blend in, get the work done, and get out. That was the only way she could avoid the panic attacks that plagued her. Hiding behind the required face mask helped, too.

Author Francis Thrash was all Henny could think about at school. Henny was relieved when she finally made it home to resume her quest. Brontë greeted her by spinning in circles, signaling she wanted to go for a walk. Perfect,Henny thought. We’ll make sure to pass by Francis’s home. For the book box, Henny grabbed a can of tomato soup and an old copy of A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L’Engle, one of her favorites.

On the walk, Brontë did her usual sniffing around, as if it was her job to inspect and mentally catalog every form of plant life on the block. She would lock onto each scent until it was thoroughly sniffed to her satisfaction. It took an eternity to walk even a few blocks. They eventually arrived at the book box to deposit their offerings and inspect its contents. A funny thing about the book box was that Henny never saw anyone in the act of taking or adding items; she just observed the change of inventory after the fact. 

Once they made their way to the author’s house, Henny realized she had passed this house hundreds of times. It was an unremarkable brick bungalow, just like most of the houses on the block, but somehow plainer; no fall wreath to adorn the door, no chalk art to brighten the sidewalk, no cat peeping out the window. A few wet newspapers were stuck under the overgrown bushes, and the old-fashioned roll-up window shades were drawn tightly. The bungalow’s facade had a lifeless expression, like someone in a coma. This house didn’t seem suited to her vibrant author crush, but maybe she was one of those literary artists who focused on her craft and not on her home. Brontë was locked onto a good sniff, so Henny took the opportunity to stand and stare from afar. She imagined Francis inside, tapping away at her computer, or maybe even a typewriter, absorbed in her next novel. 

One of the three window shades fluttered. Henny looked away quickly so as not to get caught staring. She felt a dull throbbing in her head and heard a whisper of the words “book box” pulsing in her mind. The shade fluttered harder. Brontë looked up and froze. The throbbing in Henny’s head worsened and Henny feared this was the onset of a panic attack. She tried to steal a glance from the corner of her eye to see if anyone was nearby and might notice that something was amiss. As if the windows caught her gaze, all three shades fluttered and banged more insistently. Brontë whined and pulled hard on her leash. Henny had to sprint to keep up as Brontë pulled her back home. Henny sat with her faithful pup, petting her until the dog stopped panting and she herself felt calm enough to breathe. What the blazes just happened at that house? It felt as if the house knew she was spying and was somehow trying to get her attention. 

Despite this weird experience, Henny felt compelled to return to the strange house later that night, alone. Her curiosity won over her fear. She filled the time until then by doing Algebra homework, making spaghetti for her mom and aunt, and watching Wheel of Fortune while they ate. Henny filled her thoughts with the word games her aunt used to love and the secret code she had used to conceal her sources. She studied her Aunt Lil’s face as Vanna revealed the vowels to see if there was any spark of remembrance; she saw none.

It was near midnight when Henny was sure her mom and Aunt Lil were sound asleep before slipping out of bed. Once outside, she pulled the hood of her sweatshirt over her head. The neighborhood was dead silent. She saw the beady eyes of a possum catch the streetlight as it peered from a neighbor’s bushes, watching her, afraid of her … or maybe forher? In just a few moments, she was staring once again at the shut-eyed house of Francis Thrash. It was hard to say for how long she stood there staring at the house but not seeing a darn thing. She felt a little crazy for doing this. Yet, if she was going to get any clues out of this escapade, she’d have to move in for a closer look. Henny tiptoed across the front lawn to peer into the front windows. A soft, static-y voice repeated “book box” in her ears. How annoying and creepy, she thought. She couldn’t block it out as the chanting grew louder and clearer, “book box book box book box…” The way it channeled through her felt as if her brain was picking up a radio frequency.

Then, there she was, peeking around the corner of the house like a child–—a silver-haired lady in a prim blouse and skirt. Henny was certain she’d come face-to-face with the author depicted on the back of Chantilly. The sight of her startled Henny and she felt ashamed to be caught peeping. But the woman didn’t look angry; in fact, she just stared right back at Henny. A slow, welcoming grin stretched the corner of the lady’s mouth. Henny’s heart was pounding faster now but she took one step toward the woman. That’s when the voice repeating “book box” turned into ear-splitting feedback that felt like it would rip open her skull. Henny grabbed her own hair in two chunks and pressed hard on her head to try to stop the screaming chorus of “BOOK BOX BOOK BOX BOOK BOX.” Everything went black.

#

Henny was snuggled up on the frontroom couch with her book and a throw blanket on her lap. “Front room” is a Chicago term for the living room in the front of a bungalow floorplan, while the rest of the rooms line up behind it all the way to the back porch. She could hear her mom in the kitchen in the middle of the house talking on the phone to the doctor. “She had a panic attack in the middle of the night. A family friend found her passed out on the sidewalk in front of the little lending library.” Her mom repeatedly responded “uh-huh” to whatever the doctor was saying.

Dang, Henny thought. Just when she had come so close to meeting her author crush, she had been foiled by her stupid panic attacks. What timing. She couldn’t even remember how she got there. The last thing she recalled was staring up at Alderman Jordanski’s face from where she lay on the sidewalk. How embarrassing, of all people to find her. But she had barely noticed him in her daze, her attention drawn by the sky behind his head, a pre-dawn haze between night and day. How long had she been lying there? 

Henny loved being able to see the moon when the sky was turning blue. The moon belonged to the night, but there it was, a day-moon glowing white against the blue-gray sky. It always made her wonder if only she could see it or if others saw it, too; a strange thought to have when waking up on a sidewalk, staring at the Alderman.

This was far from the first time a panic attack had spoiled something for Henny. The episodes had occurred ever since her father’s sudden death. Her mom had tried to get Henny help again and again, hoping they’d find anything that could work for her. Henny’s doctor would tweak her dosage, and she’d once again retreat into books to avoid all the triggers. 

“Buried in a book again, Henny girl?” Her mother teased as she came back into the frontroom. “Is that the one written by the local author?”

“Chantilly, yep.” Henny held the book tight to her chest.

“Must be a good one,” her mom replied. “Doctor Dhali is going to call in your prescription, sweetie.” 

Henny felt something was different about this attack. She didn’t feel like shying away; she wanted to go back and talk to that author. When her mom went to Walgreens to get her new meds, Henny snatched a few of Aunt Lil’s journals again and went to her bedroom to pore through them.

Aunt Lil’s journals had sections for contacts, appointments and notes. Henny went through pages and pages of random details related to the stories Aunt Lil had written for the Chicago Tribune. It ran the gamut of dirt on local politicians, new building projects and the human toll of gun violence. Henny skimmed them all for the words “thrash,” “wallop,” or anything related to Francis. Something snagged her attention—a mention of her father, Henry Marvell. Her dad was serving his third term as Alderman when he had his fatal heart attack. His name was mentioned in Aunt Lil’s notes regarding a story about plans for a condo building that included affordable housing units. In this neighborhood, affordable housing was a controversial topic. Supporters thought affordable housing should be spread equitably throughout all the city’s neighborhoods, to help keep a roof over the head of the vulnerable, such as veterans, the disabled and other people who could use a break. The detractors thought it would bring in the riff raff from the ghettos and wanted to maintain a perceived “whiteness” of the neighborhood. They wouldn’t say it exactly like that, but that’s what it amounted to. Truth is, most applicants for affordable housing came from their own neighborhood. Her dad was a staunch supporter of racial justice. He ruffled the feathers of people around him who didn’t want to acknowledge the darker parts of themselves. Their mindset was “I’m all for helping people, but not in my neighborhood.” 

Although Henny was much younger back then than she is now, she had a sense of how ugly politics could get when she’d hear her parents talking about having their car towed for no reason, or a pile of dead fish left in the alley behind her dad’s campaign headquarters. Dead fish reminded her of smarmy Alderman Jordanski, and they were most likely his calling card. Everyone knew how politics worked in Chicago. Henny wondered if Jordanski ever felt guilty about how hard he had campaigned against her dad. 

Henny noticed a note scrawled out in the margin and circled in red: “Lace = tell-all novel.” Lace? Could that mean Chantilly? It had to be. Chantilly was about a local political family. She had so many questions for Francis Thrash now. 

On one of the last few pages of the journal, Henny spotted a date, also circled in red: March 6, 2015, the date her father died. Next to it were her father’s initials, HM, for Henry Marvell. After that, the notes became sparse. Some pages only contained doodles. Henny knew it was during the fall of 2015 that they began to notice Aunt Lil’s decline. It started with little things, like Aunt Lil going places and forgetting how to get back. A year later it got worse. The doctors said it was caused by mini-strokes. Being a smoker didn’t help, and neither did her high-stress profession. A year later, Aunt Lil came to live with Henny and her mom. 

Henny tore herself from her investigation to check on Aunt Lil. She found her snoozing in her chair and tucked the blanket in around her. 

“That you, Henry?” She stirred and asked about her dead nephew. 

“No, it’s me Henny.” 

“Don’t let your mom know that your dad’s been talking to me, Henrietta.”

“You got it, Aunt Lil.”  That’ll be an easy promise to keep, Henny thought darkly. She pondered how they were all connected: Aunt Lil the journalist, Francis Thrash the author and her dad the former Alderman.

“Bible river slope runner and the goose got wonder and wallop!” Aunt Lil said emphatically. Henny and her mom were used to these nonsensical outbursts. They usually just changed the subject. But when Henny heard the word “wallop” she wrote the whole phrase down so she could remember it. Could “wonder” stand for her own last name Marvell?

It was early Sunday morning when Henny slipped out to visit the author’s house again. This time she’d keep it together; the new medicine would help. She strolled by the book box and over to the house of Francis Thrash. She braced herself as she stood in front, telling herself to breathe. She heard the weird radio waves tuning in, “book box book box book box,” but this time it was a hum and didn’t overwhelm her. She saw Francis in the same spot, peeking around the corner. Henny walked toward her slowly. 

“C’mon girl,” the author said kindly, “We have so much to talk about.”

Henny followed her down the slender gangway between the houses and into her backyard. The author took a seat on the patio and motioned for Henny to sit in the other chair.

“Thank you, Ms. Thrash.”

“Please call me Francis. We’re both writers after all.”

“Okay, Francis. How do you know I’m a writer?”

“It takes one to know one.”

Henny liked Francis immediately.

“Actually, I knew your Aunt Lil the reporter and your father the Alderman. Your mom, too.” Francis continued.

“Really?”

“Oh, yes. Your dad was really something. So articulate and so fierce in his convictions. He could really get a crowd worked up.”

“I remember that not everyone liked him. But I was just 11 when he died. Do you mind if I take notes?” Henny pulled out a spiral notebook.

“That’s fine with me. Your dad’s enemies were ruthless.”

“My dad would always tell me their bark was worse than their bite.”

“Until it wasn’t.” Francis rubbed her two hands together. 

“Are you cold?” Henny asked.

“Always.” Frances waved off the concern. “Let me tell you a story about your dad and your Aunt Lil.”

Henny was enthralled; it was like being halfway through a good book —the part that makes you hope it never ends. She felt a powerful connection with this woman, as if Francis was her best friend and mentor wrapped together. They chatted and joked like they’d known each other forever. It was as easy talking to Francis as it was talking to herself.

“There was a time when your dad pushed the buttons of the wrong guy,” Francis went on. “I was working with him and your Aunt Lil; they were consulting on my novel. I overheard their phone calls and whispered discussions. You can’t believe what people appeared willing to do for the pettiest of grievances.”

“Some people are such a pain,” Henny agreed.

“You have no idea,” Francis emphasized.

There was a rustling of birds nearby; Francis looked at the sky.

“I need to go now. Same time, same place tomorrow? Let’s keep this our little secret,” Francis smile conspiratorially, eyes gleaming.

Henny nodded. Nothing would stop her from returning with her notebook for a chat before school. If her mom asked, she’d tell her that she was training for track & field tryouts in order to respect Francis’ request to keep their conversations confidential. Plus, she liked the idea of a secret rendezvous. 

“I’ll be here,” Henny nodded, suddenly feeling as light as a balloon at a birthday party.

The next day, Henny showed up as promised … and the next day, and the next day after that. Henny learned how her dad, Aunt Lil, and Francis had been the Three Amigos. They were full of big ideas to make the world a better place, starting with their neighborhood. But her dad’s constituents rarely agreed on how to go about improving their neighborhood. Heated discussions turned into bitter battles on social media. Fundraising events turned into protest rallies. Francis’s stories were colorful and filled in many of the more grown-up details that Henny was too young to understand at the time. One of her dad’s biggest opponents, Jaquelyn Garfield, had been having an affair with the chief of police. She was Jordanski’s campaign manager during his first run as Alderman, and they were still bitter over their loss. As Francis weaved through the details, the story began to sound familiar. Something in Henny clicked.

“You mean the family in Chantilly is my family?” Henny asked. 

“Yes and no. It’s fiction based loosely on fact. Journalism was your Aunt Lil’s territory. She fought for the truth. Fiction is my bag. I reveal the truth in my own way. It was getting to a point where no one knew what or who to believe, so why not spin it all into a story without any pretense of reality? I changed the names to protect the guilty.”

Henny wanted to get back home and finish reading Chantilly as soon as possible. It made sense now why she was so absorbed in the story. It had triggered memories she thought she had long forgotten. She looked at Francis Thrash and thought admiringly, I could talk with this woman forever. 

“Henny, that’s all for today. Tomorrow I will share with you the biggest story of all, the story of Operation Rat. And then it will be time for the last chapter,” Francis said with misty eyes.

Henny’s heart dropped. She didn’t want their chats to end. Francis picked up on her emotions and assured her that she would understand once all was revealed tomorrow. 

Henny returned home and went about the rest of her day in a daze. She chatted with her mom and aunt on auto-pilot. She muddled through until her at-home school day was over and she could return to her book. 

“Your nose is going to get stuck in that book,” her mom teased.

“Oh Fancy Nancy, our Henny Penny is just a wordy nerdy. Who cares,” her Aunt Lil chimed in. They all giggled and Henny went back to reading.

The next day, Henny popped awake before dawn. She was both anxious and excited to hear what Francis was going to tell her next. She was ready for the day in a matter of moments and set out just as the sky was brightening.

Henny’s mom, Nancy, lay awake as she heard the door open again. She knew Henny lied about practicing for track & field. Her daughter never came back sweaty and was always carrying a notebook around. After the incident in which Alderman Jordanski found Henny on the sidewalk, her mom had been consulting regularly with Dr. Dhali. The doctor assured her that some fresh air and exercise were good for Henny and advised Nancy to let her daughter have her space. But after Nancy got a call from a neighbor about Henny sitting on their back patio in the early morning every day, her alarm bells went off. Today, she would follow her daughter and find out what was going on.

#

Henny felt tingly anticipation when she reached their meeting spot—that, and maybe a little dread. What did Francis mean by “all will be revealed?” Henny sat in her chair and tilted her head to the sky, soaking up the crispness of the fall morning. Then slowly, that insistent voice raced in her mind, “book box book box book box.” She squeezed her eyes shut, and when she opened them, Francis was sitting next to her. The voice in her head stopped. Something was different in Francis’s eyes today; they looked cloudy, like the sky before a storm. 

“I saw it, Henny. I saw him do it. It didn’t register until much later. I saw him put white powder into one of the cocktails at the bar. He saw me watching and said it was medicine for his ulcer. But then he must have somehow switched the glasses so that your father got the one with the strychnine.”

“Strychnine. Isn’t that poison?”

“Rat poison. If the right amount is ingested, it can stop your heart. Over time, it can cause organ failure or brain damage.” She began speaking more stridently, her voice high-pitched and desperate, pleading for Henny to understand.

“Who did this?” Henny urged.

“Ed Jordanski and Jaquelyn Garfield his hateful campaign manager—both still livid after they lost the race against your father.” She spat the words out.

Henny felt a wave of shock. She watched her hero crumble and tried to process what she had just heard. Jordanski killed her dad over stupid local politics? Over who gets to fill the potholes in the street and cut the ribbons when a new business opened up? The gibberish her aunt was spewing the other day suddenly came back to her. Jordanski and Garfield. “Bible river slope runner and the goose got wonder and wallop.” It dawned on Henny that “bible river referred to “Jordan,” as in the River Jordan and “slope runner” referred to skiing, hence Jordanski. “Goose” was a reference to Garfield Goose, a popular old children’s TV show. “Wonder” must be a synonym for Marvell, for her dad. Translation: Jordanski and Garfield got Marvell and Thrash. But Francis Thrash was sitting right here, in front of her. Had Jordanski tried to harm Henny’s new friend? 

While Henny processed all this, Francis Thrash had been quiet, letting everything she said sink in. But now she continued urgently, “Henny, that’s not all I have to tell you. We need you to finish the story. You see Henny, he got me too. Not right away, but he did. He knew I could be a threat. I hadn’t really put it all together until after the fact. Good people don’t always think of the evil things that others are capable of. Yet by then, it was too late; he’d already gotten me.”  Her words choked out between sobs.

“Oh no, Francis, are you okay? Are you sick?” Henny reached out for her hands. Francis pulled away. “You will know what to do,” Francis said as she stood and walked away. “Goodbye, Henny.”

Henny felt panic set in as she watched Francis leave. She felt the familiar thumping in her head and knew that she had to get out of there. 

#

There’s a feeling that every parent knows, that icy fear that something is terribly wrong with your child. Nancy felt that now. She would help her daughter no matter what it took, like she had through her every panic episode, the same way many parents do when their children struggle with mental illness. Her senses were dialed up to full lioness mode. She concealed herself in the bushes and peeked through a tiny crack between the fence slats into the neighbor’s backyard. She didn’t want to aggravate the situation with a confrontation, but she was ready to pounce. Henny’s trespassing had to stop, and Nancy needed to know why her daughter was doing this. At first, it hadn’t dawned on Nancy that this was Francis Thrash’s house, the author of the book Henny was reading. Her husband and Lil would meet there years ago to talk politics, but Nancy had always stayed out of it. 

Henny was talking to someone, but Nancy couldn’t see who it was. She detected her daughter’s agitation nearing toward panic. She moved toward the gate, but before she reached it, her daughter bolted past her in a blind rush. Nancy took a quick peek into the backyard, but the other person had already gone. She took off after her daughter, calling her name.

Henny beat her mother home and burst into their frontroom where Aunt Lil was sitting in her chair, talking to her dead husband as usual. Henny was pacing the room and babbling when her mom caught up. 

“Henny,” she coaxed, “Will you sit please? We need to talk.” 

As mother and daughter sank into the couch, Henny started trying to explain, but her words tumbled out; “I talked to the author of Chantilly, Mom, to Francis Thrash. She told me everything. I know how dad died, how he really died. Francis Thrash saw it, and now I think she’s sick.” 

Her mom tried to hide her horror. “Henny, that’s not possible,” she gasped.

“Sick?” Aunt Lil piped in, “Francis Thrash has been dead for years.”

The words rang in Henny’s ears. She grabbed her phone and googled Francis Thrash. Her obituary was the first thing to pop up. No. No. No. She should have kept searching the internet instead of playing Nancy Drew. She threw her phone across the room. 

“I thought you knew, Henny,” her mom said but her voice sounded far away. 

How was this even possible? Henny thought, stricken with panic. She fought the sensation of the room melting around her. She ran to her room and locked the door. She craved the sanctuary of her book. There, on her comforter, was Chantilly. She grabbed it. She needed to see how the story ended now. As she flipped through the pages, the words slid off. She dropped the book back on the bed. Her head was throbbing the words “book box” in time with her mother pounding on her bedroom door. Her mom stopped knocking, and Henny heard muffled voices further away. “Hello Ed, I didn’t hear you come in.” Jordanski, her father’s murderer, was back in the house —their house. Henny looked out her window at the tree within reach, an easy climb down.

#

 “Can I get you a cup of coffee, Ed?” Nancy offered as he sat at her kitchen table.

“Please and thank you. Is Henny okay?” 

“I think that book she’s reading spooked her into an episode. She didn’t know that Francis died several months after her dad. She was too young, I guess.”

“Not too young anymore. I’d like to get a look at that book, out of curiosity. I didn’t think Francis ever finished it.” 

“I know, right? Let me see if I can slip it out of her room. She probably wore herself into a nap after that last episode. I just need to grab the key. Hang on a sec.” 

Ed Jordanski looked around the tidy kitchen and thought about the circumstances that had passed over the last several years. What was in that book? Would there be a bombshell revelation? He touched a small vial of white powder in his pocket. 

His thoughts strayed to Nancy. Nancy Marvell was a sweet lady and serious wife material now that she was a widow. His last relationship had ended badly, and the restraining order his ex filed against him was a stain on his reputation. Luckily, his followers didn’t care. Could he help being a man in love? He’s a passionate guy, Jordanski rationalized. But running the Ward was his passion above all else. Relationships were trouble. His true calling was defending the neighborhood, and he wouldn’t tolerate anyone sabotaging his ambitions. His thoughts halted the minute Nancy walked back into the kitchen. Her face looked stricken, and her eyes were wide. She gestured for him to look at the book Henny had found in the book box. Together they flipped through Chantilly —a book of entirely blank pages.

“She’s been reading a blank book for days?” Nancy queried, horrified. “And now she’s snuck out her window.” Nancy quickly grabbed her phone and car keys. She needed to find her daughter, but she’d need to hurry back for Aunt Lil. As a parting thought, she turned back to Jordanski. “You coming, Ed?” He shook his head and Nancy left without him.

#

Jordanski sat at the bar of The Council, a popular watering hole for city politicians, reporters, and political groupies. The bartender placed two draft beers from a local brewery in front of Jordanski with a nod, and then slid to the other end of the bar. This establishment had been around for decades, and the bartender nearly as long. He knew when people wanted to chat and when they wanted to be left alone, same as always. The interior hadn’t changed much either; dark wood, dim lighting, and no frills. Photographs of famous Chicagoans lined the perimeter—Mayors Harold Washington, Jane Byrne, and both Daley’s. Chicago’s history had seeped into the walls. Legendary reporter Mike Royko was next to a smaller photo of a young Lil Holiday, known affectionately to Henny as Aunt Lil. 

Jaqueline Garfield returned from the ladies’ room and sidled up next to Jordanski. She caught him gazing at Lil’s photo.

“So what’s the verdict on old Lil these days?” Garfield whispered, leaning in, her face mask dangling from one ear.

“In all the time I’ve been hanging around their house, she’s said some crazy shit. But she’s never brought up anything about the goings-on in this bar or the untimely deaths of the good Alderman Henry Marvell and the author Francis Thrash.”

“Thank God. I’d hate it if we had to bump off an old lady.” She gave him a sly half-grin.

“Bump off? You sound like you’re in an old gangster movie.”

They smiled conspiratorially. They enjoyed being thugs. Jordanski took a long sip of his beer and thought about what he wanted to say next.

“Jackie, we did what had to be done, no doubt about it. Sometimes I have to remind myself that it was for the greater good. We couldn’t let the bleeding hearts ruin our little slice of Mayberry by bringing in the riff raff with affordable housing.” Jordanski paused, shaking his head. “The idea of us being racist—you know I have a Black drinking buddy.”

“Ludicrous.”

“The rapper? No, I mean Harold,” Jordanski corrected her.

“I mean it’s ludicrous to think that we’re racist for wanting to protect the neighborhood.”

“Right, I knew that. I’m messing with you.”

“And I’ll always have something on you, my friend,” Garfield teased.

“Uh-huh,” Jordanski responded mildly.

“What about that kid, the girl with the book?” Garfield asked.

“She’s a nosey little bitch, but she’s crazier than her Aunt Lil. Non-issue.”

“How so? Wasn’t she reading that Thrashy-Trash tell-all novel?”

“That’s the thing. She was pretending to read a book, but there is no book. Thrash never finished it. All of her files and computer were destroyed after she died; our team made sure of it. So even if she started a book, it’s long gone. The girl was flipping through a book with blank pages, for Christ’s sake.”

“So with Aunt Lil’s health declining and this disturbed girl headed for the loony bin, do you think we’re finally in the clear?” Garfield moved a few inches closer. Jordanski could smell the beer on her breath. She hadn’t seen him slip the white powder in her drink when she visited the ladies’ room. 

“That’s why I invited you here today; to toast to it being over. Here’s to no more loose ends.” Jordanski raised his glass. 

#

A year had passed before Henny visited the book box again. In all that time, Henny was unable to convince her mom that Jordanski murdered her father and Francis Thrash. Her mom just kept reaching out to Dr. Dhali, who in turn, kept upping her meds. Not that she could blame them. Something about talking to dead authors and obsessive reading of a blank book that freaks people out. 

Jordanski never came over to their house anymore. It was another election year and he was looking for a new campaign manager. Plus, he thought Henny was nuts. Just as well. After sneaking out of her bedroom window that day, she returned the same evening when she was sure Jordanski was gone. She just couldn’t worry her mom that way. 

Today, exactly 12 months later, Henny opened the little door to the book box once again. This time, she placed a pristine paperback inside. Her mom had helped her learn about self-publishing and was delighted about her daughter’s new writing hobby. Henny thought about the story she had written coming out to the public. It could be dangerous, but she didn’t care. She felt changed and fearless. Henny would never again doubt Aunt Lil’s conversations with her dead husband. She would forever be humbled by the power of the book box. The book box gifted her with Chantilly. She was truly the person who it was meant for, the only person. This book was a conversation between the living and dead. Or maybe it was all a product of her imagination, a strange ability indeed. It’s long been theorized that people with mental illness hear things that sane people are incapable of hearing. The proverbial voices in their head may in fact be messages from those who’ve passed. Those voices helped Henny finish writing this novel. She saw them standing there in the yard—her dad wearing the blue tie he wore for press conferences, Francis Thrash and now her Aunt Lil, who had left them a few months ago. Her dad gave her a nod. Henny had a stack of books in her backpack, and she would drop one off at every book box she could find in Chicago. Book box, book box, book box indeed. She picked up the book one last time to inhale that new book smell. She gave herself a moment to admire the cover: Chantilly: An Unreal True Story, by Henny Marvell and Francis Thrash. Could there be anything else as satisfying as a good book? Henny didn’t think so. 

<<<<<>>>>> 

Maribeth Murphy was worried her whole family was going to hell. She knew this was likely because she hung on every word Sister Pat said in her third-grade religion class and could recite all the sins and their classifications by heart — the seven deadly sins, venial sins and even mortal sins. She also memorized dozens of saints and how they died. Many evenings, Maribeth would lay awake in her room in their suburban ranch house, reading The Lives of The Saints by flashlight under her Hollie Hobbie blanket while  listening to cackles and squeals of laughter from one of her parents’infamous cocktail parties. Every time she’d hear a swear word burst out like a skeet shot in the sky, Maribeth would make the sign of the cross.

 

Last night, she got up to go to the bathroom and saw her dad kissing Billy’s mom in the hallway. Since it was Halloween, her dad was dressed like Fred Flintstone and Billy’s mom a naughty nun. That just made it all a little more distressing. She heard her dad say “Yabba dabba doo,” in a low growly voice. They didn’t notice Maribeth drift silently around the corner in her nightie like a spirit. For that, Maribeth said a whole rosary. Maribeth’s older sister Dee Dee was in high school and she’d laugh at Maribeth’s holy ways and call her Sister Mary Elephant. Dee Dee wore her uniform skirt really short and had lots of boys come over. Despite their transgressions, Maribeth adored her family and didn’t want to see them roasting in the netherworld. Luckily, Maribeth had a plan.

“St. Cecelia was the patron saint of music and she kept singing even after her head was chopped off,” Maribeth announced at the breakfast table. Her mother Barb and dad Wally exchanged a withered look. Their eyes had little red squiggles in them from staying up way past the trick-or-treaters. The kitchen still smelled faintly of cigarette smoke and the table was sticky. “No saints at the breakfast table, honey” Barb chided weakly, “Finish your Pop Tart, you have school mass this morning.” Maribeth felt a rush blossom in her chest. She loved school mass, especially today on All Saint’s Day, the day after Halloween when all the kids could dress up like their favorite saints. “Did you pack my costume, mom?” Barb gestured toward a brown paper grocery bag by the door.

 

Maribeth constantly daydreamed about the saints and all their gruesome and fantastical stories. Her favorites were St. Joan of Arc leading the French Army disguised like a boy and St. Bernadette who endured so much suffering when her town didn’t believe she saw the Virgin Mary. The magistrate even threatened to boil her in oil! She’d chosen St. Bernadette for today.
More importantly, the saints were part of her plan for her family’s salvation. Maribeth discovered a loophole in the Catholic sinner-punishment paradigm. Once a person was deemed a saint, her entire family had a free pass to heaven. All Maribeth had to do was figure out a way to become a saint and they were in.

The third graders of Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrow School filed into the church narthex like wind-up toys on a conveyor belt. Girls in plaid jumpers giggled and boys with clip-on ties askew squirmed and made fart noises. The teacher’s laser beam glares were meant to shrink the offenders into submission. The children were divided by gender to change from their uniforms into their saint costumes. Boys in the cloak closet and girls in the crying room where moms with noisy babies went. Maribeth tore into the grocery bag for her Bernadette costume. To her horror, her monkey costume from Halloween was inside, complete with tail and banana necklace. Maribeth froze while all the other kids donned bathrobes and sandals and head scarves like proper saints. “Maribeth Murphy, get your head out of the clouds and get a move on,” her teacher insisted. Maribeth hated being singled out for not following directions. She got tunnel-vision and the room around her felt wavy. She slipped on the brown furry jacket, monkey ears, tail and banana necklace.

 

Maribeth sat in the pew with her classmates staring intently at the faces of the statues of Jesus, Mary and Joseph. She pleaded with them in silent prayer to save her from this humiliation. She inhaled the smell of candles and the Murphy’s Oil soap the nuns used to clean the pews, smells that usually brought her great comfort. She thought of her prayer table at home with its little statues and trinkets and wished she had brought a few of her talismans. Her stomach did flip flops when it was time for the parade of saints. Each student was to approach the lectern and share a description of their chosen saint. Maribeth hated speaking in front of people more than anything. The sound of her own voice in a room full of people induced a panic that made her heart pulse in her ears. As Maribeth marched to the front of the church, she heard a few of the moms in the congregation snickering. She begged all of the saints together to make her disappear. But they didn’t.

 

Her turn came and in no more than a whisper she squeaked into the microphone. ”St. Bernadette saw Mary and a monkey in a cave.” Soft laughter bubbled through the church. The children caught on and the laughter grew. Even Father Barret tried to muffle a grin at this little girl dressed like a monkey. Maribeth turned inward and the room was a blur of stained glass fragments. The floor felt like Jell-O and Maribeth fainted in a little heap of brown fur, squashing her plastic banana necklace. Father Barrett and her teacher Sr. Pat flew to her aid. She was already coming to when they helped her to her feet and walked her back to her seat.
It was at that moment that the carpet where Maribeth lay a moment ago took on a greenish glow. Out of the alter carpeting, a shrub of wild roses grew instantaneously like a time lapse photo. The congregation watched stunned into silence. The wild roses grew into an astoundingly beautiful bush, each bud glowing ethereally. Once the wild rose bush was formed, gasps and fervent prayers murmured across the church and exclamations of “It’s a miracle.” “Miracle.” “Blessed event.” “Miracle.” One of the moms started crying. Maribeth smiled, knowing the wild rose was what Bernadette used to prove she saw the Lady in the grotto.

 

 

 

 

 

            I found him passed out in the bathtub with water overflowing the sides, flooding the bathroom and dining room, warping the floorboards and twisting my heart. Earlier that day he strummed ballads on his guitar in the grass while I reclined in the hammock, wind and melody swaying me. It’s terror that consumes me rather  than anger            He got up, still a little drunk, and we jumped into action. Towels, trip to Home Depot for a wet vac, more towels. We noticed the warped floor boards the next day. “Mom, I’m really sorry.” So many sorry’s. So many times I’ve tried to say and do the right things to prevent the destruction and self-destruction, having yet to accept the powerlessness.

            Sometimes our house feels like we have a tiger with a low growl stalking us, and all the other inhabitants of the cage tip-toeing about and ducking the claws. In the next heartbeat, hilarious, clever and sweet, you never know what you might get. The sweet little face I remember staring at me, crossing his eyes to make “two-mommy’s.” Soul-stirring melodies, brilliant ideas, unique perspective. The pain seeping through the cracks, quieted only by another pour. How do you ever stop trying to save the life of the person you gave life?

I will never stop trying to save your life.

I will never stop trying to save your life.

I will never stop trying to save your life.

Even if it’s our undoing.

2

My son Sam and I lived in a cute little gray and white-trimmed Cape Cod-style house with a garden in front and a deck on the side. There was a plastic castle in the backyard even though Sam hadn’t played in it for a decade. Our last name “Blacksmith” was lettered onto the mailbox. A wooden letter “S” hung in the front hall since he was Sam and I was Sadie. The Blacksmith’s were scattered about the Western suburbs of Chicago now, but we came from a line of homesteaders in the old American West. For that reason, we all had names that sounded like we just fell off of a covered wagon. Sadie and Sam Blacksmith, my brother Delbert, my father Bartholomew, my Aunt Clementine. Our people sang plaintive ballads around campfires under starry skies and cured everything with a shot of whiskey. We had only come into the enlightenment that alcoholism was a family disease in recent years. By then we had lost our patriarch, my father, to the disease when I was in my teens. Now we had all taken different roads on similar journeys.

Maybe it was the thrill of uncharted territory in our blood, but Sam and I loved going to garage sales. It was our treasure hunt, like mining for gold, sifting through other people’s junk until we found a nugget.

Sam and I first saw the goblet with The Lord of the Rings logo and characters molded into the knobby glass on one early-morning expedition. There was even a switch on the bottom that turned on a green glow of light. Precious. We didn’t notice the SD card attached underneath the lighted base. We also missed the initials “SB” scratched into the bottom. We handed over 50¢ for this treasure and would find out later how terribly significant the SD card and initials were. It was meant for us, and no one else.

Garage sale-ing, was a verb to us and one of our favorite activities, starting back when Sam was young. It was he and I against the world then. We’d plan our route the night before and get up early to hit the rich neighborhoods first. When Sam was about 5, he thought that everything we owned came from garage sales. When people would say, “Sam, where’d you get that great T-shirt,” he’d reply “garage sale,” even if it came from Macy’s as a gift from his Aunt Clementine.

I’d been making a decent wage now so our garage sale habit was less based on need and more about a shared quest. Our garage sale obsession continued now that Sam was a teenager and his friends all had curtains of hair that hung across their eyes, rode skateboards and had their first drink. I loved that this was still something he enjoyed doing with me. There weren’t many things like that anymore. Around that same time, our house was broken into for the first time.

“Mom, I think someone is in the house!” Sam said in a loud whisper when he came into my room at 2 am. He had always had nightmares and imaginative fears. Now that he was 16, that hasn’t stopped. But this time, it was no dream. I propped myself up and stared hard into the darkness as if that would allow me to listen better. I heard the soft thud of a kitchen cabinet. My cell phone was on the charger downstairs. Damn. I pulled on yoga pants that were strewn over a nearby chair. Sam had a lacrosse stick in his hands, poised to defend the castle.

“Honey, let me see what’s up,” I whispered.

“No way, Mom,” Sam said gallantly.

“Is your phone up here?”

He pulled it out of his pajama pants pocket with a “eureka” expression on his face.

It shattered the silence as it bleeped an incoming text noise, scaring us both shitless. We scurried into the bathroom, locked the door and called 911. We stayed on the phone with dispatch until the police arrived. Only then did we emerge from the bathroom. As it turned out, the sliding glass doors to our side deck were forced open. We didn’t see any obvious items missing. My iPhone SE was on the charger in the kitchen, Sam’s laptop as on the coffee table, the TV was in the usual spot. My purse even had over $100 cash from the Lacrosse boosters T-shirt sale. One male and one female police officer took turns asking us questions. They quizzed Sam about his friends and would any of them do something like this as a prank or if they were high or drunk. He said, “no way.” I thought yes way, but didn’t say it out loud, just gave the female officer a look. She appeared not to pick up on it. They talked to us about blocking the sliding glass door with a strip of wood to prevent it from being opened, and also about getting a camera doorbell. Check and check, I would for suredo both things.

Naturally, neither of us slept well after Westmont’s finest left. Even worse, it was a school night. The next morning came fast. We finally noticed what was missing as we were fumbling around the kitchen, seeking quick and easy caffeine and sustenance. Sam had just cracked open a Red Bull and my hands were wrapped around a mug of steamy Dunkin Donuts Original from the Keurig.

“Where’s my Lord of the Rings goblet?” Sam said, opening and closing cabinet doors and the dishwasher. I helped him look over every inch of our kitchen to no avail.

“You don’t suppose the intruder took it,” I said half joking. Sam let out a half laugh at my half joke. Couple of halflings, we were. Then he left the room for a quick second and returned with something small and square.

“I forgot to tell you I found this in the base of the goblet the first time I put it in the dishwasher.’

“That’s an SD card. And when were you planning to mention it?”

“I forgot.”

Typical, I thought. Geez, no big deal, someone just stashed an SD card in our drinkware.

“What’s on it?”

“Dunno. Never checked. Haven’t thought about it until now.”

“Okay, Sam, do we have one of those SD reader thingies?”

“Not that I know of.”

We agreed we’d pick one up that night after work and lacrosse practice. I was working the early shift at the pharmacy, so I’d be off in time to go to Target for the SD card thingy and then swing by for Sam at lacrosse practice. I asked him who the text was from last night.

“Lucy. Her parents grounded her for coming home high again.”

“At two in the a.m. she needs to tell you this thing that happens every week?”

Sam shrugged. Lucy was sort of his girlfriend, though they didn’t use that term. They were both so physically beautiful in the way that teenagers can be, with slender bodies, porcelain faces and 1,000 watt smiles that got them out of many jams. Lucy had round periwinkle eyes that reminded me of a doll I once had. Lucy, Sam and their friends were full of exuberance and fearlessness, ready to embrace any risk. I’ve read about how the brain isn’t fully formed at their age, especially the part of the brain that plans and makes decisions. Faulty by design, one might say, all that youthful energy and a shortage of sense.

I got to practice and the team was gathered around the coach. I got out of my car for some air while I waited. The coach said something loud and the team responded with a grunt and shout, something like, “Fight fight, Sentinels.” The young men dispersed like noisy, bouncing jelly beans. I gave the coach a little wave, we were friendly and had engaged more than once about Sam. He looked down to avoid eye contact. Uh-oh, not a good sign. Sam and his pal Gavin threw their stinky bags and sticks into the hatch of our Honda CR-V and piled into the back seat. I looked back at Sam for an explanation.

“A few of us are suspended for four games for smoking in the parking lot.” My heart sank. Lacrosse is by far his healthiest distraction.

“Sam,” I uttered with a mix of admonishment and sadness.

“That nark James was such a pussy for telling the coach. We all had like one puff.” Sam was on the defensive and accusatory.

“Don’t act like this is no big deal. There will be consequences at home, beyond not playing lacrosse.”

“Coach said we have to dress and sit on the sidelines, anyway. So stupid.”

“Yes it was,” I said referring to his actions. “And you will be spending more time at home, too.” I said with the ongoing threat of being grounded. The rest of the drive was tense and mostly silent. I was so troubled by the incident I almost forgot about the SD reader I’d picked up. It wasn’t until we were eating dinner in front of the TV, Sam playing some zombie-killing video game, me reading my suspense novel, nibbling on taco salads. We were both masters of escapism, our denial du jour. We were nearly done eating when it popped into my head.

“Sam! Let’s see what’s on the SD.” He was startled out of zombie annihilation mode without protest. We huddled around my laptop and plugged in the cord. Sam inserted the SD card. Image files dotted onto the screen. I clicked open the first couple of JPEGs.

“What the fuck, these are pictures of me as a kid,” Sam blurted out.

I was stunned, but only said, “You’re still a kid.”

Sure enough, there was a cavalcade of photos, including first days of school from several grades, Halloween, pee-wee soccer games, Christmas morning … it was like someone raided my soul, as well as hacked my photos. Who would want to swipe all these photos?

“Are you sure this is the right card,” said Sam the skeptic.

“Of course,” I replied, “I don’t have any others.”

We re-traced the events that led to this moment together. We acquired the novelty Lord of the Ringsglass at a garage sale on the other side of town. A month later, someone breaks into our house in the middle of the night and steals it back? What the blazes could this be about. Sam had discovered the SD card hidden in the base of the glass under the light attachment. Said SD card is practically a documentary of Sam’s childhood. If this was some sort of prank, who would know we love garage sales and Lord of the Rings and who would know we’d be there that day? We were both totally creeped out.

“I’m thinking we should go to the police,” I said, “or maybe we should go back to that garage sale house?”

“Definitely garage sale house,” replied Sam, not having the best track record with the police. He’d had a few underage drinking incidents, but got away with warnings so far at this point in time.

Thinking about all of these photos in the hands of a stranger was absolutely chilling, but it also brought back a flood of memories. When Sam was a little kid, we didn’t yet have Facebook and Instagram to document every second of our children’s lives for the world to see. I went through a phase when he was young where all I would talk about was my kid, show people photos of my kid and funny things he did and said. The photos were all digital, but we still had prints made and I carried a small brag book around in my purse filled with snapshots of him through grade school. It was no small wonder why my social life was empty; I’m sure my kid talk was riveting. For a while I was also rocking that frumpy mom look—sweats, goofy T-shirts and was a little on the chubby side. But it didn’t matter. Sam was and still is my everything, my heart traveling outside my body.

I met Sam’s biological father, Jack Anderson, in my late twenties, when I was on a vacation with my best friend, a quest to cure both of our broken hearts after other relationships had blown up back home in Chicago. We were in New Orleans, captured by the spell of this magical city and it was the perfect antidote. Everything that happened felt fated. Meeting gentlemen strangers in a bar, hooking up in a shotgun house, vampires, pirates, brass bands on the street corner, psychics in the square and a burlesque show with a Parisian flair. It was a Mardi Gras fairy tale.

A couple months later, Sam was the best souvenir I ever got. My biological clock was ticking like a kettle drum, and all I could feel was overwhelming joy at the prospect of being a mother. I had decent insurance from my job as a pharmacist’s assistant. I had a great, supportive family. I could do this. Of course, I informed the bio dad because it was the right thing to do. But he evaporated into swamp fog faster than you can say “voodoo.”  I thought fatherhood must have terrified him. In retrospect, I may have scared him off. My role growing up as the oldest sibling in an alcoholic family manifested in me trying to control my relationships, and fix my poor partners into what I thought they should be. I never heard back from him after I sent him a Father’s Day card filled with baby photos when Sam was just a few months old. My note included a suggestion that there were good jobs up here in the North. Now all these years later I had no idea what became of him. Sam got especially curious about his dad when he entered grade school and kids would talk about their dads. “I’m good at math, like my dad,” one fellow student would say. Or even the kid of divorced parents would brag, “My dad is taking me fishing this weekend.” A few rotten kids would tease him about not having a dad and tell him he was going to be a faggot when he grew up because he didn’t have a dad. It infuriated me to think that was probably the rhetoric they’d heard at home from their parents.  I overcompensated as best as I could, and carried a cloak of guilt about this burden he would always bear. At one point Sam started telling everyone that his dad was a fugitive criminal on the run. It was a colorful story befitting our family heritage.

When the weekend arrived, Sam and I re-visited the house with the garage sale where The Lord of the Rings Goblet came into our possession. I found the address again in my map app and it was only a 12-minute drive. On our first visit, we had gotten there at 8 am, the first stop on our treasure hunt, and despite the early hour there were already cars lined up on the street. Not the fancy new Lexus and Lincolns of the residents, but the late-model Toyotas and the like of the garage sale aficionados. Our 2015 Honda CRV fit right in. Today, though, We were the only car visiting and it was a respectable late morning hour.

First, we sat in the car parked across from the driveway and watched the house like a couple of detectives on surveillance duty. We saw a large man walking a tiny poodle. We saw a landscaping truck rumble by, probably on its way to do a fall cleanup. At last we saw someone emerge from the house to retrieve the morning paper. Lucky for us, the paper delivery was way off its mark, so the woman had to venture out onto their walkway, giving us time to approach.

“Good morning,” I said cheerily, startling her a bit. She sported expensive yoga clothes an asymmetrical bob haircut. Her eyes narrowed in our direction. I quickly offered an explanation.

“I’m Sadie and this is Sam. We were at your garage sale.”

“Estate sale,” she corrected through clenched teeth, “We’re downsizing.” I noticed the For Sale sign in the front yard and the veins in her well-manicured hands revealing her age, perhaps an empty nester. She didn’t offer her name.

“We have a quick question for you about an item we bought.”

“We have a no returns no refunds policy,” she replied dismissively.

“Oh no, we’re just wondering how you came about the Lord of the Rings glass,” I interjected quickly before she could turn her back on us.

“It lights up,” Sam added, in case she needed a fuller description.

She considered that a moment. “We had a table where we allowed neighbors to add items and I kept a log so they could be reimbursed for their sales. Those items would have had an orange sticker.”

“It did have an orange sticker,” Sam recalled.

“Are you looking to complete the collection? I find that highly unlikely.”

“Sure, yes, worth a try,” I replied, grateful we didn’t have to disclose the real reason we were seeking the owner.

“Well you are in luck, I stuck that log of neighbor items in the recycle bin and they don’t come to collect until Monday. I’ll set the bin by the side door and you can rummage through it. That seems to be your thing, rummaging? But that’s all I can do for you today. I’m late for a date with my personal trainer. Good morning.”

I wondered if she was living the suburban cliché and fucking her personal trainer as she turned briskly and breezed away from us, leaving an ice trail. Snob supreme, but at least she was helpful, I thought. As promised, a blue bin appeared at the side door before the door was quickly shut and locked behind her. Oh what fun, we get to go through rich people’s garbage. Ugh.

As it turns out, their recycling wasn’t that different from ours, except maybe a few higher end brands versus the store brands we favor. I used a tissue from my purse to pick up each item. Sure enough, there in the middle was a yellow piece of notebook paper listing about 12 names, items and dollar amounts. At the top of the list was “LOTR Goblet, lights up” $50. The name next to it was Frodo Baggins. Great. But it was checked as paid. I wondered if anyone’s camera doorbell might have captured the mysterious Frodo Baggins. I took a picture of the list with my phone. Maybe it was worth asking the person who signed in right after him. I ran this theory by Sam.

“Well it’s probably someone around here, we might as well ask,” Sam was getting into this investigation. I loved that he was.

“The name is Hazel Beesworth,” I told him, now looking at the list on my phone screen. She had brought a stack of CDs and had been paid $5. Apparently garage sales are “get rich slowly” schemes. Sam googled Hazel Beesworth and got an address.

“She’s down the block,” Sam informed me. I was still staring at the list on my phone screen. There was something about it that was tickling my brain. Something about Frodo Baggins’ handwriting that looked familiar.

We made our way down the block on foot, letting our old Honda stand in its spot, blighting the neighborhood. Hazel’s house was another McMansion, and from her name we expected a sweet little old lady. But Hazel was a testament to expensive haircuts, tanning booths and gym memberships. Like Estate Sale Diva, she sported her Lulu Lemon’s like she was in a Fitness Magazine. Unlike her neighbor, she opened her door with a big bleach-toothed smile.

“Hi, so sorry to bother you,” I started.

“No problem, are you here for the Serenity Meeting? Come on in.”

Well this is interesting, I thought. Sam and I exchanged a split-second glance and he gave me a small that said, “Why not.”

“Yes we are. Thank you very much,” I said and then we were following her through a picture perfect home. God, I’d love to live in a house like this, something right out of a magazine. We ended up in a sunroom overlooking the landscaped backyard. Eight other women and one man filled the chairs.

Before the formal meeting started, I tried to naturally work in the garage sale topic. It came across as smoothly as chunky peanut butter.

“Hazel, are you the one who had the shaker weight for sale at the garage sale down the street?

“How would you know that?” Hazel’s serenity dialed back a few notches.

“We were at the garage sale and I thought I recognized you,” I said, trying not to let my nervousness show. I felt like an imposter. Heck, I was an imposter.

Sam jumped in, sensing the awkwardness. “We bought something at the garage sale and was wondering who sold it. It was a Lord of the Rings glass and we thought the seller might also be a fan.”

Hazel wasn’t buying it. She narrowed her eyes at us. “A fan who is SELLING their prized collectible at a garage sale? Sounds unlikely to me. But I can tell you this …”

But real people’s lives for the most part contain a series of well-laid plans fraught with unpredictable events. Any of us are a few unfortunate turns from disaster, or one lucky break from glory. Oh the arrogance to think otherwise. The denial. Especially when we take into account the fragility of good fortune and the fickleness of fate. We stay the course and hope for the best. Is the capricious nature of our lives too challenging a concept to accept and still press forward with hope and ego in tact? Why can some people see that taking care of our own can exist while also taking care of others? The taking care of others can actually serve the greater good for us all. But there is the fundamental point of difference.

Despite all our imperfections, limitations and biases, we all claw our way through the forest in search of meaning, the light that peeks through the treetops.

***

Today I was remembering when my son Smith had the chicken pox when he was three years old. I gave him oatmeal baths and covered him in calamine lotion so he wouldn’t itch. I put mittens on his hands so he wouldn’t scratch the red bumps and scar his beautiful three-year-old skin. I was distraught when he rubbed the mitten on his forehead and made a scar anyway. I cursed my mothering skills for marring him. Today at 23, he has a tattoo and a nose ring. That is all.

As I slid into my Honda this morning draped in my computer bag and purse and trying not to spill my coffee, my purse handle caught on the door and very nearly strangled me to death like it had a life of its own and a vendetta against me. Well, slight exaggeration, I was never in any true peril and my purse is rather fond of me. But it occurred to me there are a multitude of ways we women sabotage ourselves while going about the ordinary maneuverings of our days. As a feminist, I ask myself the following questions:

1. Why am I constantly apologizing for things that aren’t my fault?
2. Why do I hold myself and other women to a double standard?
3. Why do I slip into traditionally female tasks without question?
4. Why do I feel like people have to like me all the time?

It dawned on me that perhaps it has to do with the path of least resistance. Life is much easier when we take on the roles that people expect of us. People like me with rainbow sprinkles and powdered sugar. They are uncomfortable with me when I’m assertive. Heck, I’m not always comfortable with that.

What I would tell myself if I were younger and had it all to do over?

If they want you to be feminine but you feel ferocious, be a lioness.

If they want you to be delicate but you have a fire in your belly, be an inferno.

If they want you to be soft but you feel like steel, be a skyscraper.

If they want you to be quiet but you feel like screaming, be a sonic boom.