Whom Dog Hath Joined (10 page)

“No thanks, Edith,” Rick said. “We only have a couple of
quick questions.”

She led us into her living room, still furnished as I
remembered from my lessons. The black baby grand piano rested by the front
window, where other houses might have a dining room. Rick and I sat on a
comfortable old couch, Edith across from us in a big wing chair with a paisley
slipcover. The smell of lemon furniture polish hung in the air, and dust motes
danced in the late afternoon light streaming in from the picture window.

“How can I help you?” she asked.

“You’ve probably already heard that there’s a false wall along
the north side of the Meeting House,” Rick said. “That’s where the body was
found. Hannah and Tamsen didn’t know it was there, but Tamsen suggested you
might know more.”

“I did know about it, way back when,” she said. “But I have
to admit I’d forgotten all about it until Saturday.”

“Was it common knowledge back then, among the members?” I
asked.

“I don’t think so.” She leaned forward. “Before and during
the Civil War, the Meeting was a stop on the Underground Railroad.”

“We’ve heard that from a couple of sources,” Rick said.

“I believe that the escaped slaves hid behind that false
wall to avoid bounty hunters.” Edith paused. “And then in the 1960s, our Meeting
was part of a network of Friends groups that helped young men avoid Vietnam.
They stopped with us for a day or two until we could arrange transport for them
to Canada.”

I looked at Rick. “That matches the time when the sneaker
was manufactured. That could be the body of a draft dodger.”

“Let Edith finish her story,” Rick said.

“You know, of course, that one of the tenets of Quaker
belief is non-violence. Very early in the Vietnam conflict several Quakers organized
an action group to try and affect public opinion through pacifist campaigns. We
collected relief supplies for the wounded in North Vietnam and for the Red
Cross on both sides.”

“You weren’t some kind of Hanoi Jane, were you, Edith?” I
asked jokingly, remembering the outcry against Jane Fonda’s actions at the
time. An image of a younger Edith in one of her mod outfits, posed against a
cannon like the ones in Washington Crossing Park, flashed through my head.

“Not at all. I picketed at a few rallies in Philadelphia,
but most of what I did was volunteer as a draft counselor with the American
Friends Service Committee. We helped hundreds of men gain conscientious
objector status and other exemptions and deferments.” She shook her head. “Many
of these young men had been abandoned by their families and friends because
they refused to fight in what they saw as another country’s civil war, where we
had no business interfering. When they learned that we cared about them and
were willing to help them, many of them broke down in tears.”

Edith pulled a tissue from her pocket and dabbed at her
eyes. “It was very emotional work, you know, because it was literally life and
death for some of them. When we were able to arrange for someone to serve in a
hospital or non-profit instead of going to war, it was the most fulfilling
thing.”

I looked at Edith. When I was a kid, I’d been impressed with
her 1960s style – thigh-high boots, tie-dyed T-shirts and big dangling
earrings. As her student, I was in awe of her musical knowledge and her endless
patience with my stumbling efforts. When I reconnected with her after my return
to Stewart’s Crossing, I’d seen her as a sweet elderly lady.

Now I was looking at her in a new way. How amazing to have
been able to make such a difference. In my years as a college teacher, in New
York, California, and back at Eastern, I’d been privileged to mentor a few
students and feel like I’d helped them. But what Edith had done was in a whole
other league.

“We had another role, much more clandestine, and that
relates back to the false wall,” Edith continued. “From our Meeting, there were
only half a dozen of us involved. John Brannigan, the headmaster at George
School at the time, was our leader.”

George School was a private day and boarding school in
Newtown run by the Society of Friends. Many wealthy parents in Stewart’s
Crossing sent their kids there to avoid the hoi polloi in the public schools.

“John was quite dashing, you know, so all the girls wanted
to be involved, but he only picked the most sensible ones.”

I looked at Edith in mock surprise. “You were sensible back
then?”

She laughed. “Oh, yes. I was quite the demure Quaker girl.” She
sat back in her chair. “I remember that John organized us in 1966, because it
was right after I graduated from Trenton State. We had a very secret rendezvous
at the edge of one of the playing fields at George School, under the trees. He
explained what he needed and asked us if we were willing to be a part of it.”

“How did the process work, exactly?” Rick asked.

“John would get a phone call from someone at another meeting.
I never knew where the calls came from. He kept that very secret. A boy,
sometimes more than one, would be heading past us on his way to Canada. John
would arrange to pick the boy up – sometimes at the train station, sometimes in
Philadelphia or somewhere out in the country. The boy might stay here in
Stewart’s Crossing for a day or two, and then be escorted on to another Meeting
closer to the border.”

“They hid behind that false wall?” Rick asked.

“Yes. Some of the boys had already been drafted, and we were
afraid if they were out in public they might be arrested.”

She looked from me to Rick. “Do you think the body you found
might be one of those boys? Because I don’t see how that could be. No one
stayed with us for very long, and surely we’d have noticed a body in that
narrow space.”

I struggled to remember the years of the draft, and the
Vietnam conflict. I knew that United States involvement in Southeast Asia began
in earnest during the Eisenhower administration, when the first military
advisers were sent to Saigon. But I hadn’t been born until 1967, and by the
time I was aware of the world around me Henry Kissinger had already negotiated
the cease-fire in Paris and the US had withdrawn all its troops.

Rick must have been thinking along the same lines, because
he asked, “When was the last time that empty space was used?”

“I wish I could remember. But it was so long ago, after all.
More than half my life.” She smiled ruefully. “And I only played a very small
part. I wouldn’t want to mislead you by just grasping at a date. But the draft
ended in January of 1973, I remember that.”

Edith sighed. “I’m sorry, the old brain doesn’t work as well
any more. But I’ll play some of the music from back then—that often helps me
remember things.”

“Tamsen mentioned that in, I guess, the early 1990s, the
storage closet that led to the false wall had a broken door, and that Eben
Hosford fixed it,” I said. “Was he part of your group back then?”

She shook her head. “No, John only recruited girls because
he thought the police would be more lenient with us if we were arrested. And
Eben wasn’t a Friend back then. I don’t know when he joined the Meeting – I was
already married to Lou, and as you know, going to synagogue with him. I have to
admit I was surprised to find Eben in the congregation when I returned, after
Lou’s death. He’s not exactly a gentle soul.”

I was disappointed. I’d been hoping that Eben Hosford had a
connection to the group smuggling the boys through Stewart’s Crossing, but it
looked like that wasn’t the case.

“George School has an archive of John Brannigan’s papers,”
Edith said. “You could check there and see who the last boys were to pass
through Stewart’s Crossing.”

“That’s a great idea, Edith,” I said. “And maybe there will
be some records of who the other people were who were involved in moving the
boys around, and who might have known about the false wall.”

“Is there anyone else you can remember who knew about that
empty space?” Rick asked.

“So many of the members who were around back then have
passed on, or moved to Florida,” Edith said. “It’s all the same to me – they go
to God, or to one of His waiting rooms. But you can’t think that one of the
Friends was responsible for this death. That’s so against everything we
believe.”

“Sadly, people betray their ideals all the time,” Rick said.
“Sometimes for good reasons, sometimes for bad. Someone could have been using
that space for years after the war was over, for a hundred reasons. Hiding,
smuggling, storing. You name it.”

“It really is awful,” Edith said. Her hands were trembling, which
surprised me. As a pianist, her hands were part of her livelihood, and I knew
she was religious about practice and almost obsessive about warding off the
effects of old age and arthritis, taking various supplements and acupuncture
treatments so that her fingers remained strong and steady.

I wondered if her hands shook was because she was upset – or
because she was nervous about the secrets that had been hidden for all those
years. Could it be that she knew more about the boys passing through Stewart’s
Crossing than she let on? .

12 – Good Reasons

I waited until Edith’s front door was closed to ask Rick, “Do
you think Edith is worried about all this stuff coming to light? I mean, she
probably broke a bunch of laws back then.”

“There’s a statute of limitations on everything but murder,”
Rick said. “And public opinion about Vietnam has changed dramatically since
then. If she didn’t kill the kid, or help cover up his death, she’s got nothing
to worry about. You made a good point about that false wall, though. The body
doesn’t have to belong to one of those boys. I’ve been going through missing
persons reports and I haven’t found any good matches.”

“You could get a list of all the members from the early
seventies on and see if any of them knew about the space,” I suggested. “I can
help with that, if you want.”

“I appreciate it. But it’s my job.” He turned to me. “So. You
said something about celebrating your release from parole. I’ve got beer at my
house but nothing to eat.”

“How about hoagies?” I asked. “We could stop at
DeLorenzo’s.”

“It’s not the same since those new people took over. But I
could suffer through a sandwich. You can drop me back at my truck, and I’ll
meet you at my place.”

I took his order, and after I let him off at The Chocolate
Ear I circled around to Canal Street, where DeLorenzo’s deli huddled against
the back wall of the post office. I went into the shop, which had been owned by
an Italian family for as long as I could remember. They’d recently sold to a
Thai couple, who had stripped the floors, painted the walls and replaced the
photos of Italy with panoramic shots of Bangkok. I missed the old place and
hoped the hoagies hadn’t changed.

I ordered the sandwiches with double meat so we’d have
something to feed the dogs and drove to Rick’s. Rascal and Rochester rushed
over to the fence in a blur of gold, black and white fur, dissonant barks and
yelps, and tongues lolling out like the unfurling of a red carpet.

I opened the gate and the dogs romped over to me. Both of
them followed me inside, lured by the smell of turkey and roast beef. Rick was
in the kitchen, opening bottles of an Oktoberfest ale from a local brewery.
“Your stuff’s in the dining room,” he said, as I laid the bag of sandwiches on
the Formica-topped kitchen table.

As far as I could tell all Rick had done in the way of
redecorating after he bought the house from his parents was to install a flat-screen
TV in the living room. But in high school we’d been acquaintances more than
friends, bonded by a chemistry class we both had struggled through, so I’d
never been to his home when his parents lived there.

 He handed me a beer. “It’s a sad commentary that I trust
you more with your Dad’s gun than with Caroline’s old computer,” he said. “How
does Lili feel about your getting the laptop back?”

“I haven’t told her,” I said. “I just thought about it this
afternoon. But she says she trusts me to make the right decisions.”

We unwrapped our sandwiches, the dogs sniffing eagerly
beside us. “And the gun?” Rick asked, as he peeled a slice of turkey off his
sandwich and rolled it up.

“What about it?” I did the same with my roast beef.

“How does Lili feel about you having a gun in the house?” He
fed the turkey to Rascal, then yelped and said, “Watch my fingers, you monster.”

“Lili’s fine around weapons. She’s spent a lot time in war
zones, and I know she’s shot everything from a handgun to a confiscated Kalashnikov
in the past.”

“Yeah, I can totally see her behind a machine gun. Be
careful if you decide you don’t want her to move in.”

I put my sandwich down. “You’re kidding, right?”

“You know her better. What do you think? Is she the type to
fly off the handle if things don’t go her way?”

“I don’t think so.” I picked up my hoagie again. “But
honestly, this came at me out of left field. I like things the way they are.
Lili and I talk a lot, and we see each other during the week and on weekends.
But we both have our space.”

“Then tell her that. But be prepared for her to say that
doesn’t work for her.”

Rick fed another tidbit to Rascal and Rochester nosed me for
his, but my mind was elsewhere. When I met Lili, something clicked between us.
I wanted to see her, date her, sleep with her. I enjoyed the time we spent
together, and I believed that I loved her. I didn’t want to lose her. But did
keeping her mean losing something else?

I looked at Rick. “You think Lili would break up with me if
I say no?” Rochester snuffled my leg and I fed him a scrap of roast beef.

“Every woman is different,” Rick said, in a tone of voice
that usually accompanied a lecture on the birds and the bees, “but every woman
is the same, too. If she brought up living together, then she wants to. Right?
She could have gone ahead and renewed her lease and never even mention it to
you.”