The Last to Know (10 page)

Ironically, before summer’s end their mother’s photo occupied that spot, above the caption

Melissa Gallagher of Townsend Heights lost her life in a blaze that destroyed her home yesterday.

As for the pumpkin, it got left behind in the small patch of garden behind their house. Jeremiah has walked the twins over every few weeks since they moved, so that they can weed around it. But they haven’t mentioned it lately, leading him to think that maybe they’ve given up on entering it in the contest.

Guess not.

“I don’t know,” he says. “That pumpkin must weigh a ton. How are we supposed to get it there?”

“We can balance it in our wagon. It’s still in the shed there,” Lily says, like she’s thought the whole thing through.

“Why don’t you just ask Uncle Fletch or Aunt Sharon to help you?”

“Don’t you want to do it?” Daisy asks, pouting. “You were the one who helped us plant it in the first place.”

“Besides, Aunt Sharon always gets her nails done on Saturday mornings, and Uncle Fletch golfs,” Lily adds.

“Okay,” he says reluctantly. “I’ll help you.”

He leaves the kitchen, making his way through the big colonial-style house. It’s one of the biggest on the block, and one of the oldest, too. Jeremiah wonders if his aunt and uncle will ever move from here. Melissa used to say that they can afford a much fancier place with all the money Uncle Fletch has made in baseball, and that they’re just too lazy to go out and buy one.

Jeremiah passes through the big formal dining room, where nobody ever eats, and the sprawling living room with the kind of furniture you can’t get comfortable on. Which doesn’t matter, because nobody ever really sits in there. The giant-screen TV is in the family room, and there are televisions in all the bedrooms, too, but not in the living room. At the foot of the stairs in the foyer, Jeremiah glances into the adjoining den.

The French doors are closed, as always. Through the glass panels, Jeremiah can see the bookshelves lined with trophies and framed photographs of Uncle Fletch. There are more pictures of him on the wall, and some framed, matted newspaper articles and magazine interviews, too. The furniture is oversize, and upholstered in maroon leather. In one corner is a giant desk, and in another, a row of tall wooden filing cabinets. Jeremiah has never seen his uncle sit at the desk or open a filing cabinet. In fact, he spends very little time in the den. Jeremiah figures the room is pretty much just a shrine to his career as a pro player.

Jeremiah realizes that he has never set foot in the den—not on any of his occasional visits to the house with his dad, and not since he’s been living here. Suddenly curious, he reaches out to turn the handle of one of the doors.

It’s locked.

He tries the other door. It, too, refuses to budge.

Why would Uncle Fletch need to keep the den locked? None of the other doors in the house are ever locked when the rooms are empty. Not even the master bedroom.

Jeremiah abruptly releases the handle of the French door and turns toward the stairs again. No reason to hang around here wondering about the den now. He can hear his sisters’ voices back in the kitchen, chattering.

Jeremiah takes the steps two at a time. He hurries past a row of closed bedroom and bathroom doors. At the end of the hall, he slips into the master bedroom.

Already a familiar guilt has overtaken him, yet he doesn’t turn back.

Chapter 5

D
ropping her cigarette in the street beside her Honda, Paula steps on it, grinding it out. Then, grabbing her cell phone—an outdated model, far bulkier than George DeFand’s sleek state-of-the-art one—she tucks it into her pocket, closes the car door, and walks hurriedly up the sagging front steps of the small clapboard house that sorely needs a paint job. Built around the turn of the century, it must have once been a nice, decent home, conveniently located just a block from Townsend Avenue. Now the small porch is missing countless spindles from its rail, several shutters are hanging crookedly, and there’s a huge crack in one of the panels in the round stained-glass window above the double front door.

Mr. Lomonaco, the elderly widower who owns the place, has been in a nursing home in Peekskill for the past two years. Paula has been sending her rent checks to his son in California, who has made it clear that he plans to sell the place as soon as his father dies.

Paula is hoping Mr. Lomonaco will hang on a while longer—not because she particularly likes the crotchety old guy, who has made it clear that he doesn’t approve of divorced, working mothers—but because she won’t be able to afford the rent once the house is sold.

Apparently Mr. Lomonaco and his son have no idea that with the current market value and scarcity of rental properties in Townsend Heights, they can probably get twice as much as she’s paying for the one-bedroom second-floor apartment.

She has no idea where she and Mitch are going to go when they figure that out or sell the house, whichever comes first. She desperately wants to stay in town, but on her current salary she wouldn’t be able to afford anything else in Townsend Heights even if there were abundant apartments available. She’s been watching the classifieds for the past few months just to get an idea of what’s out there, and there hasn’t been a single local listing under rentals.

That means she’s either going to have to make a lot more money by the time they have to move, or move away and find someplace she can afford—like one of those downscale urban apartment complexes in Yonkers or Mount Vernon. She doesn’t think she can stand that; she really doesn’t. Mitch would have to switch schools, and she would have to commute to work, and . . .

But maybe it won’t happen
, she tells herself now as she fishes in the jacket pocket of her suit for the sterling Tiffany keyring she treated herself to on her last birthday.
Maybe we won’t have to move out of Townsend Heights.

She lifts her chin.

Of course we won’t. Sooner or later somebody’s going to realize I’m not just some small-town reporter. Somebody’s going to finally pay me what I’m worth, and then Mitch and I will get Frank off our backs for good, and we’ll live it up.

She checks the mailbox before unlocking the door. It’s empty. Good. That means Mitch is home and safely upstairs.

Someday she’ll be able to afford a sitter to stay with him after school until she gets home from work. For now she counts on him to take care of himself. If he ever needs anything, he’s supposed to either call her on her cell phone or, if he can’t reach her, knock on old Mrs. Ambrosini’s door. She’s in her eighties and lives in the first-floor apartment. She’s
always
home, except on Sunday mornings, when her daughter picks her up and drives her the two blocks to Immaculate Conception, the local Catholic church, for mass.

So far, Mitch has never had to knock on Mrs. Ambrosini’s door, for which Paula is grateful. The old lady isn’t particularly neighborly and doesn’t seem fond of children. But at least there’s an adult in the house when Mitch is home alone.

Paula steps into the dim vestibule. She can hear the evening news blasting out of Mrs. Ambrosini’s apartment. The old woman is practically deaf. There are times when her television is so loud it vibrates Paula’s bed through the floor. She used to complain to Mr. Lomonaco about it, but he never did anything. Now there’s nobody to complain to, except Mr. Lomonaco’s son, and Paula figures he’s not likely to care, either.

She walks past the old woman’s closed door and starts up the creaky wooden staircase. The steps are treacherously steep, unbroken by landings, just a straight pitch from the first floor to the second. The bannisters are long gone, too. Mr. Lomonaco talked about replacing them, but he never has. She doubts he or his son will ever bother.

Perhaps the stairway was open once, but now that the house is chopped into two apartments, it’s enclosed by a clumsily built wall. There’s a circular mark on the ceiling where a real light fixture once must have hung; now there’s only a naked bulb that does little from its lofty perch to dispel the shadows.

Paula used to fantasize about buying the house herself and restoring it. But much as she would love to own a home of her own in Townsend Heights, she doesn’t want it to be this one. Not located here, on a short block dotted with commercial buildings and homes that are too close together and, though not quite shabby, not nearly up to par with the rest of the residences in town.

No, Paula doesn’t want this small, scarred old house, situated on a tiny lot between a beauty shop and another old Victorian that provides office space for a dentist, a marriage counselor, and a Realtor.

She desperately wants to live in one of the newer, bigger homes on the outskirts of town—a house in one of the woodsy developments inhabited by seemingly perfect suburban families with their seemingly uncomplicated lives.

She wants that kind of house, that kind of life for herself and for Mitch. It’s what he deserves. Hell, it’s what
she
deserves.

She’s never lived anyplace but an apartment. Not even when she was a little girl. Paula spent most of her childhood in a dingy three-family row house in the north Bronx, raised by an emotionally distant, self-absorbed mother and a seldom-there father who held down two jobs and went out whenever he wasn’t working. Especially after Paula’s baby sister died in her crib. Both Pop and Mom were heartbroken about that.

They talked for a while about having another baby, but Mom decided she couldn’t bear to take a chance. Just in case SIDS really was hereditary, as the doctor had warned them it might be.

So it was just the three of them after that. Paula smiles remembering how excited Pop was when he realized a lifelong ambition and was finally able to move them to Westchester. Paula was a freshman in high school by then, already making plans for college and her journalism career. After she met Frank and moved out, her father stayed in the rent-controlled apartment in a downscale New Rochelle neighborhood until a few years ago, when he hurt his back and was unable to keep working. That was shortly after he was widowed.

He asked Paula to let him move in with her and Mitch. There wasn’t much room, and it meant giving Pop the one bedroom while she shared the lumpy pullout couch with her son, but what else could she do? Pop had nowhere else to turn; she and Mitch were his only family after Mom died.

So Pop moved in, exhilarated by the fact that he was actually living in Townsend Heights. He spent his days and nights mingling with the locals, making friends more easily than Paula ever has. He really loved it here.

But in the end, Paula did what she had to do. Anyway, he’s better off where he is now. She did the right thing.

She unlocks the apartment door and opens it, stepping into the small hall. “Mitch?”

“In here.”

He’s in the living room, as always, perched in front of the television watching one of those half-hour tabloid entertainment news programs.

“Hi,” Paula says, dumping her bag on a worn chair and kicking off her shoes. She allows herself to wiggle her liberated nylon-clad toes, then reluctantly pushes them back into her black leather pumps. The heels are higher than she’s used to, and the shoes might be a size too small, she realizes. But they were such a good bargain, and they looked so classy that she couldn’t resist them.

“Hi, Mom.” Mitch glances briefly away from the television screen.

“Did you eat dinner?”

“Yeah.”

“What did you have?”

He shrugs, glued to the TV.

Paula frowns and walks into the kitchen. There’s a sprinkling of crumbs on the ancient gas stove and cheap Formica countertops. An open package of American cheese and an almost-empty tub of margarine sit on the counter next to the fridge. A greasy frying pan soaks in the stained porcelain sink, and a plate—chipped, of course; they all are—sits on the already-cluttered table. On the plate are the crusts of a grilled cheese sandwich.

Paula closes her eyes briefly and yawns, exhausted.

She hasn’t slept in . . . God, how long? How long since she had a good night’s sleep? Has she ever?

She wearily picks up the plate and deposits it in the sink, then turns on the water to rinse it, careful not to splash on her suit. She has to wear it to the press conference, which is starting in—she glances at the clock on the stove, then automatically adds five minutes because it loses time—forty-five minutes.

She has to make arrangements for Mitch to stay with Blake, has to pack his things and get him over there. Still, forty-five minutes is plenty of time.

She lights a cigarette, then goes to the phone and dials Blake’s number again. She’s been trying it for the past two hours, every time she can manage to get to a phone. Nobody’s ever home.

“Who are you calling?” Mitch asks from the doorway. There’s a commercial on the television in the living room now; she can hear Old Navy’s latest theme song.

“I’m trying to reach Blake’s house.” She reaches for an ashtray. “You don’t know if they had plans to do something tonight, do you?”

Mitch shrugs. “How come?”

“I need you to stay there again,” Paula says, as the phone rings for the second time in her ear.

Come on, answer,
she urges silently as she walks back to the sink, holding her cigarette in her left hand while she dumps the dirty water out of the frying pan with her right. “Mitch, you know, if you’re old enough to make your own supper, you’re old enough to clean up the mess.”

He doesn’t reply, just stands in the doorway glowering. He starts toward the table, and there’s something furtive about the way he’s walking that makes her look up sharply.

She spots an envelope and a sheet of paper amidst the clutter on the table, right before Mitch snatches them up and glances at her to see if she noticed.

“What is that?” she asks, as the phone rings again in her ear.

Where is Blake’s family at this hour on a week night? They’re always home
 
. . .

“It’s nothing. Just homework.”

“Your fractions worksheet,” Paula tells him. “I know all about it. I had a talk with Miss Bright today.”

“Yeah, she told me.”

“What’s in the envelope?”

“Just some dumb note she wrote to you.”

Great,
Paula thinks.
You mean we didn’t cover everything in this morning’s conference?

“Did you read it?” she asks Mitch, resting her cigarette in the ashtray and holding out her hand expectantly.

“Nope.” He hesitates before placing the envelope in her palm.

“Then how do you know it’s dumb?”

“Because everything about Miss Bright is dumb. I hate her.”

Paula couldn’t agree more.

Frustrated by the still-ringing telephone at her ear, she abruptly hangs up the receiver and turns her attention to the note.

It’s written in teacher-perfect penmanship on lined, parchment-thin, old-lady-style lavender stationery.

Dear Ms. Bailey,

In light of Mitchell’s recent problems in school and the rushed quality of our meeting today, I would like to arrange another, more lengthy conference in the near future, preferably with the vice principal and school psychologist also in attendance. I sincerely hope that Mitchell’s father will be able to join us as well, as I feel it is important for both parents to be involved in this matter. Please call the school to schedule the appointment through the secretary at your earliest convenience.

Yours truly,

Florence Bright

Paula’s hands shake with anger.

She snatches the cigarette from the ashtray and takes a deep drag.

She rereads the note.

“What’s wrong, Mom?”

“Nothing,” she says, tossing it aside—for now. “I have to work tonight, Mitch. There’s a press conference I can’t miss.”

“Is it about that lady who jumped off the cliff?”

Startled, she glances at him. He wears a matter-of-fact expression. “How do you know about that?”

“Some kids at school were talking about it.”

“They said she jumped off the cliff?”

“Yeah, either that or some crazy killer got her and dumped her body.”

“Mitch! Don’t talk like that!” Paula clenches her jaw so hard it hurts. “You’re a nine-year-old boy. You shouldn’t even be
thinking
about things like that.”

He shrugs. “So I have to stay at Blake’s house again?”

“If I can reach them. I don’t know where they can possibly be.”

“Maybe they’re not answering the phone.”

“Why wouldn’t they answer the phone?”

“Maybe they know it’s you. They’ve got that caller ID thing now, you know. They can tell who’s calling when the phone rings. Last night Blake’s mom didn’t pick up for his dad’s mother when she called. She said she wasn’t in the mood to talk to her.”

“Well, I’m not Blake’s grandmother,” Paula says, irritated.

“Maybe they don’t want to talk to you, either. Maybe they know you’re going to ask if I can spend the night there again, and they’re sick of me doing that.”

“That’s ridiculous.” Paula picks up the phone and dials again, rapidly punching out the numbers as she glances at the clock.

There’s no answer.

Mitch mutters something as she hangs up the phone again.

“What did you say?” she asks him.

“Nothing.”

But it wasn’t nothing. She thought she heard the word
dad
. He said something about Frank.

“What did you say, Mitch?” she repeats icily.