You Know You're A Union Worker

You know you're seriously into your union when you hear a co-worker talking about somebody at work dying, and all you can think is 'Did I just move up in seniority?" and are disappointed when you find out it was just somebody's dad that died. I'm just saying.

Sassafras, Part 12


Rick


I wanted to talk to Matt, the bartender that had been working the night Jenny died, so I had dinner at Tanner's, but Matt wasn't on duty yet when I got there. While I was eating a dart tournament started. They were getting pretty loud. After I finished eating I noticed Matt come on duty. I went up and sat at the bar and ordered another beer. Matt was busy getting ready for his shift, stocking the bar and taking out the trash. When he finished I was just getting ready to start asking him about Jenny when I saw Joan walk in. Her hair was down, but when she took off her coat I saw she was wearing the same gray dress. She looked around the bar, then walked over and sat a few bar stools away from me.

I watched Matt start to put the moves on her. He was a real jerk, but he could be smooth when the mood hit him. I could see him start to lay on the charm, but as soon as she said who she was he tamed it down. That surprised me. I would have thought a grieving sister would have been easy pickings. She was good looking enough to make me think about laying on the charm, but I just sat back and watched. She had long brown hair that she kept tucking behind her ear, but it kept slipping back out and falling across her cheek. Half the time all I could see from the side was a curtain of hair framing her nose and lips, and then she would pull her hair back and I could see her face again. It felt almost like she was teasing me, and I got so caught up in anticipation waiting for the next unveiling I had a hard time concentrating on what they were saying.

I listened to them talk, but they didn't pay any attention to me, which I didn't mind a bit. She looked like she could be the life of the party, but right then she was just a sad, lonely lady. I watched her drink a few beers, smoke a few cigarettes. She was asking questions about her sister, but nothing big. Just trying to find out why her sister died in a senseless accident, not investigating a murder. Whatever happened to her sister I hoped she was smart enough to stay out of it.

When a group from the dart tournament came over to the bar I casually got up and 'accidentally' bumped into her. She spilled a little beer on her dress so I picked up a napkin and started wiping at it.

“You know, in some Middle Eastern countries you’d have to marry me now,” she said.

“What?” I looked down at my hand pawing all over her chest. “Holy shit,” I said and dropped the napkin in her lap. “Sorry.”

“Yeah, holy shit,” She said and picked up the napkin, but there wasn’t anything left to wipe so she balled it up and threw it on the bar. “Shit. This is my favorite dress.”

“Well, can I buy you another beer to make up for it?” She looked at me and shrugged.

“You know, you look familiar. Weren’t you in the police station talking to Detective Sneider this morning?”

She hesitated for a second. “Yeah, he was telling me about my sister.”

“Your sister? You mean that waitress at Don’s?” She just nodded. “She was real nice. I liked her.”

“Oh, everybody liked Jenny.” She sounded bitter, or maybe she was just depressed. "Jenny was my big sister. I always wanted to be just like her. It's hard to believe she's gone."

"I know. I've just lived here a couple of months, but she was always real nice to me when I was at Don's. She made me feel like I belonged here."

"You should have seen her in high school. She was a cheerleader, and everybody loved her."

"I bet you were a cheerleader, too."

"No, I was a real nerd. I always had my nose stuck in a book."

"No way. You are a lot better looking than your sister."

She laughed and blushed. It looked so cute. I hadn't been expecting that. Her sister had been pretty, but she was something more. She had dark green eyes, and when she looked at me it felt like she could see right through me. There were more people from the dart tournament crowding around the bar. I asked her if she would like to go sit in a booth where we could have a little elbowroom, and she said yes.

"I was a nerd, too," I said when we sat down. "I remember when Santa Claus brought me a Commodore 64 for Christmas. I thought I was the luckiest kid in the world."

"Oh, I never got interested in computers. They are just too complicated. A book is all I ever wanted. I was the librarian's best friend."

"Computers are cool. You just need to get used to them. They're not that hard to use."

"That’s what you think. Computers give me the creeps. I think they’re the work of the Devil.”

"Blasphemy! Computers are cool. You can do anything on a computer. You can read books and write letters, listen to music, pay bills, go shopping, chat with your friends, and meet new friends. You can even have cyber sex."

"How can you have sex with a computer?" she laughed. When she laughed she lifted her chin a little and I could see the graceful curve of her neck, and the neon bar lights sparkled off her earrings.

"Not with the computer. It's sort of like phone sex. Two people get together in a chat room and write suggestive things back and forth. Not that I've ever had cyber sex."

"If they're in a room together, why don't they just talk to each other?"

"No, it's not a real room. They just call it a chat room. You would be at your house typing on your computer and I would be at my house typing on my computer."

"Well, what kind of things would you write?"

"Oh, I would write something like 'I want to run my fingers through your hair, pull you close and kiss you like you've never been kissed before.' Then you would write back, maybe ' Spank me, Daddy, I've been bad.' "

"Spank me, Daddy, I've been bad?" She laughed again and I realized I really did want to run my fingers through her hair. I looked at her lips, and wondered what she would do if I leaned over and kissed them. Probably slap me.

Liz, the waitress, stopped by our table. “Can I get you two anything? Thursday night’s special is a pitcher of beer for $4, and we have hot wings on sale, ten for $4.”

“What do you think, Joan? Want to split a pitcher of beer with me?”

She hesitated for a minute. “Sure, why not? I’ll pass on the hot wings though. Those things are revolting.”

NaNoEdMo

I don't know if it shows, but I have become obsessed with Sassafras. I know, what a news flash. The Girl and The Man are starting to sound like kids on long car rides, except they keep asking "Are you done yet?" instead of "Are we there yet?" The last few days I have been really having a hard time thinking of anything to write. I was averaging maybe three paragraphs a day if I was lucky, so I decided to take a little vacation from Sassafras. I'm not going to actually write anything on it until Saturday, but then I'm going to start back with a vengence because just like November was National Novel Writing Month, March is National Novel Editing Month. Hopefully I will be able to do a bonzai editing and finish by April. In NaNoEdMo the goal is to actually edit, and be typing, not just staring at my laptop, for 50 hours in March. About 2 hours a day, and I'm on vaction from the story the first three, so I'm going to be starting 6 hours behind. But I can do it. I'm the Little Engine Who Could.

On a bright note, I thought of what I'm going to write for next NaNoWriMo. I'm going to write the tragic tale of a woman who falls under the evil spell of NaNoWriMo and obsessess about her novel, the characters gradually taking over her every waking minute like the lifesucking vampires good characters are. It'll be sort of a biography.

On another bright note, I drove my little piece of shit car again today and managed to not wreck or kill the engine, so that was a plus. It's hard to get used to shifting. You shouldn't have more pedals than you have feet. It's just not natural. Plus, don't tell anybody, but I'm trying to take mental notes because I think eventually Rick will give Joan driving lessens, and I want to remember as much of the dialog and confusion as possible. Probably not a good thing to be doing when I should just be concentrating on driving, but like I said, those two are lifesucking vampires.

Oh, how hard it is to not open up Windows and start working on my story. Now that I'm on vacaton, I'm coming up with some ideas. I guess it's a good thing to just let the bright ideas simmer in my mind for a few days and see which ones are still bright Saturday. I never realized actually writing was so fun. Sometimes the characters seem to take on a life of their own. Suddenly they're doing something I hadn't thought of when I sat down to write. It's like the characters start writing the story. Either I'm writing a good story, or I'm having a very enjoyable mental breakdown. I'll let you decide which it is.

Sassafras, Part 11


Rick

I was off work on Thursday, so I went in to the cop shop to see what happened when Joan came in. She was better looking than I thought she would be. I guess I shouldn't be surprised that her driver’s license picture was a piece of shit. Even if I had never seen her picture I would have known it was her. She stood out like a dime in a handful of pennies. Her hair was pinned up and she was wearing a dark burgundy knee length wool coat, and glossy black high heels. When she took her coat off I could see a dark charcoal dress, made out of some soft fabric, cashmere or something, that flowed down her body like smoke. No woman in Sassafras dressed like that. I couldn’t stop staring at her, like I had never seen a woman before.

She was only in there about 10 minutes talking to Sneider. When she sat down besides Sneider’s desk I saw her run her hands down the back of her skirt, smoothing out any wrinkles in the fabric, accentuating every curve. I don’t think she had any idea how seductive that was. When she left I decided to follow her. Even if I hadn’t wanted to find out more about her sister I would have wanted to follow her. She went to the restaurant her sister worked at and met a redheaded woman with two kids. They must have been old friends from school. I was able to sit at the booth next to them and listened to them talking. Her name was Deana, but I never caught her last name.

I kept wondering what connection there was between Jenny and Sneider. He was definitely worried about her sister coming to town, but I didn't know why. I wish I knew who he called last night after talking to her on the phone. I couldn’t hear what he said, but I played enough poker to be able to tell when somebody was nervous. Did she really die in an accident? Would Sneider kill to keep his goose laying it's golden eggs? He seemed like a weasel and a real prick, but I never got the impression that he was a killer.

I thought of all the money he was raking in. I would go to the police station in the evening once or twice a week after getting off at the factory and there would be a lunch bag full of money in a desk drawer. He never said where it came from, and I hadn’t been able to find out. I couldn’t even prove he put it there. I sent a couple of the bags to Boyd, but they never had any fingerprints on them except mine. I don’t know what he had been doing with the money before I got there. Maybe he had been just spending it, or hiding it under his mattress or something.

When I started working for him I explained the money was like frosting. Everybody noticed a great big pile of it, but nobody would notice if you spread it around. They needed some cake, a front operation, some legitimate businesses that I could funnel the money into. Now he and his flunkies were owners of a bar called Tanner’s, a car wash, a little Mexican restaurant named Peso’s, and the local taxi company. I would divide the money in the bag and add it to the books for the different companies, spreading it out over time. It just looked like all four businesses were making a nice profit, even though the taxi company really didn’t make any money and the Mexican restaurant wouldn’t be able to pay it’s bills without the infusion of cash I gave it. Only Tanner’s and the car wash were actually making money legitimately.

While Joan and Deana were talking I noticed McDaniels, one of the local cops, sitting with a county cop in the booth on the other side of them. I didn't recognize the county cop, and didn't want to get close enough to him to read his nametag. I didn't want McDaniels to notice me so I laid low. When the cops left Deana started telling Joan about Sneider’s shady past in St. Louis, when her boy, about three or four, started pulling my hair. I didn’t know anybody in town knew that much about Sneider, but she didn’t even know half of it. All she knew about was the excessive force and tampering with evidence, but Boyd showed me Sneider’s file from St. Louis. They suspected him of taking payoffs even back in St. Louis but couldn’t ever prove anything. There were also a couple of witnesses against a gang leader that came up missing when he was supposed to be protecting them, but once again, nobody could prove anything. Personally, I didn’t think he killed them, but I could see him encouraging them to leave town and enjoying it.

After Joan left I followed her to the funeral home, but couldn’t think of any reason to go inside so I just sat in my car waiting for her. She was driving her sister's car, an old Nissan Sentra, and I noticed a lot of damage to the front end. It almost looked like it had been in an accident. I was going to have to check into that. When she left the funeral home she went to Wal-Mart. I paused as I walked past her car and wrote down the vehicle identification number off the dashboard to run it through the computer later. I was able to follow her around without her noticing me. She bought a couple of things, a coffee maker, some coffee, bagels and frozen dinners.

Her only other stop was the bank. I waited a couple of minutes before I followed her inside. I stood at the little counter in the middle of the lobby filling out a withdrawal slip, and watched her. She was talking to the teller, her coat folded over her arm, asking questions about her sister’s accounts, but not getting anywhere. The teller wouldn’t show her anything about Jenny’s checking or savings account. Joan asked if there was anyone there who could help her, and the teller pointed to a man sitting at a desk across the room.

I watched her walk across the room, waiting to see her sit down again, and I wasn’t disappointed. Just watching her walk across the lobby, her high heels clicking on the tile, was enough to distract me from the withdrawal slip I was filling out. She draped her coat over the back of the chair, then smoothed out her skirt again before sitting down. They shook hands and started talking, but they were too far away for me to hear what they said. I saw him shake his head a couple of times and shrug. Joan just sat there tapping her fingers on the armrest of her chair. While I was getting my money from the teller Joan stood up and put her coat on. I turned around just in time to see her walk out the door.

She just went home after that, so I went to my apartment. Like I said, my apartment was a real shit hole. It used to be the Monte Vista Motel, but it had been converted to efficiency apartments. My ‘apartment’ wasn’t much bigger than my cell in prison, but at least I wasn’t sharing it with three other men. I had never appreciated life’s simple joys, like being able to leave food laying around and knowing it would still be there when I got back, or getting dressed without feeling like people were staring at me. And baths. A little tiny swimming pool for one, the water so hot I could barely stand it. Life was good.

I pulled out my laptop and looked up the number from Jenny’s car, but there wasn’t any information about an accident. I wondered how long that car had been like that. It could have been months for all I could tell. The tape didn’t look very old, but it hadn’t rained much lately so it could have been there for quite a while.

This And That

I haven't really done much blogging that was actual blogging and not just posting Sassafras clips, so I'm going to just spew out a bunch of miscellaneous bloggage.

First, we have a bunch of new computers at work. I didn't want to start using them, but one night they made me sit through a training session. I figured watching them show me the new computer was better than actually working, but of course they picked a day when I had been up all night the night before, probably with visions of Sassafras dancing in my head. So anyway, I decided even if they showed me how to use the new computer I was still going to use the old ones until they replaced all of them with the new ones, but the next day when I walked into work my coach grabbed me and strongly encouraged me to use one of the new computers. I couldn't really tell her no without looking like a real jerk, so I humored her and worked on the new computer. By the end of the day I actually liked it. Nobody was as surprised as I was. I generally think change is bad, but these new computers are pretty sweet. After that I've stayed on the new computers as much as I can. One day all the new ones were already taken so I got stuck on an old computer and I couldn't believe how much I forgot about the old system in just a few weeks.

On a totally unrelated subject, I saw what I consider the most gay thing ever on TV last night. I'm sure everybody in the English speaking world has seen the Girls Gone Wild video commercials. Last night was the first time I had ever seen the Guys Gone Wild video commercial. What a hoot. I'm assuming the target audience for the Girls Gone Wild video collection is horny men, but unfortunately I think the target audience for the Guys Gone Wild video is pretty much the same group, except they're horny gay men. I can't imagine any heterosexual woman being interested in these Guys Gone Wild videos, at least not from the clips they showed on the commercial. Maybe the actual tapes are more enticing, but what I saw on the commercial just made me laugh. It was so funny I even rewound it so I could watch the commercial again. I told The Girl I was going to get her the "Dude, Where's My Pants" video for her birthday next month, but for some reason The Man doesn't think that is a good idea.

And now, an update on what I'm affectionately calling Momma's Little Bomb, or my piece of shit car. It is a piece of shit, but that is exactly what I wanted. Something so bad I don't have to worry about locking the doors because nobody would want to steal it. Something small that gets good gas mileage. This is the car I wanted when we ended up buying the Cadillac for The Man. We bought it from my brother, who wasn't interested in auto hygiene. I mean it was dirty. He must have left the windows down a lot, because there was bird poop in the car. Not on the outside, on the inside. This car is pretty primitive compared to what I've been used to. It doesn't have electric windows or locks. It doesn't even have a cigarette lighter. Since I don't smoke that isn't a real hardship for me, but that means I can't charge my cellphone on the way to work, so now I have to remember to check if it needs charging before I go to bed at night.

Unfortunately, it also doesn't have an automatic transmission, so I have to re-learn how to drive a stick shift all over again. It's been probably 15 years since I drove anything with a clutch. I only drove it once so far, and I didn't kill the engine, but there were a few pretty jerky shifts. I haven't driven it much because The Man won't let me drive a new car until it's up to his high standards. So far he's put in a new transmission, a new stereo and four new speakers, two new tires, an axle, a battery and a battery cable. He also worked on the windshield squirter, changed the oil, oh and cleaned the birdshit out. That's love for you.

On a slightly more depressing note, we need a new TV. Not because anything is wrong the either of the TVs we have. We have a pretty big TV in our bedroom, on a little swiveling stand that's mounted on the wall. We have it set up so we can watch TV in bed, or swivel it around and watch it in the kitchen. Two nights ago The Man was turning the TV around so we could watch it in bed and we both heard this loud snap and suddenly the TV started swiveling not only side to side but also up and down. It almost fell off the stand and smacked him in the head, and it's a big enough TV it would have probably knocked him out. I had to help him get it up off the stand and carry it to the living room, where it has been stuck ever since.

The Man thought maybe the mount just needed adjusting or something, but he looked at it today and decided it is just completely fucked. So now we need to get a new mount, and of course it broke because the TV we had hanging off the wall was an older (read heavier) TV, so when he goes out tomorrow to buy a new stand he's just going to pick up a new TV while he's at it. This thrills The Girl, because that means our old TV will be her new TV. Happy birthday, Girl. Just don't expect to be watching a new Guys Gone Wild video on your new TV.

Sassafras, Part 10


Joan


When I pulled off the highway, I decided to stop at the new Wal-Mart and bought some coffee and a cheap coffee maker, some poster board to make a photo display on for the viewing, and some odds and ends. I remembered how excited Jenny had been about the new Wal-Mart. There had been rumors that the Wal-Mart in Sassafras was going to close, but then when they put in the new highway extension they decided to just move to the overpass. Sure, Sassafras wasn’t a thriving town anymore, but the new highway gave Sassafras a direct connection to Bond and Stoneypoint. A couple of times I thought I saw the man who had been sitting in back of Deana at Don’s, but there were probably 50 men in Sassafras with dark hair and a blue shirt.

Sassafras only had one bank, the Mercantile Savings and Loan. It was in what was left of downtown. I noticed half of the stores downtown had gone out of business. There were a few still hanging on, a used bookstore, an insurance agency, a gas station, but S & P Groceries was closed, and so were the furniture store and the Dairy Queen. The building Wal-Mart used to be in was empty, the parking lot cracked and full of trash. I remembered when they opened that Wal-Mart. I had been 8 and Sassafras had been a growing town then, the biggest town in 25 miles and growing bigger every year. About a year after they built it two of the plants in town closed and even Wal-Mart started going downhill. I remember when Dad came home and said his factory had closed. It took him six months to get another job, selling insurance in Bond. I don’t guess Sassafras ever really recovered from the plant closings, but Deana said when they extended that highway Sassafras started really falling apart.

When I pulled into the bank’s parking lot I noticed that even though the big sign still said Mercantile Savings and Loan, the window said Bank of America. I guess even the bank had gone out of business, or been bought out. I went in the bank and got the complete run around. I needed a paper from probate court before I could get access to any of her banking information. They wouldn’t even tell me how much she owed on her house. I couldn’t get in her safety deposit box because I didn’t have the key. They said she didn’t even have a safety deposit box, but Billy said she had one. That was the only bank in town, so it had to be there. On the other hand, Billy was listed on the bank accounts, so if I had brought him in we could have at least found out about everything except the safety deposit box. I was starting to get angry. Jenny had some nerve dying and leaving all this behind.

That night, I started talking to Billy finally.

"You'll love New York, Billy. There are a lot of really great schools, and museums, and every sport you can imagine," I said, but Billy wouldn't listen.

"Look, I don't care what you say, Aunt Jo, I'm not moving to New York. I'm going to stay right here. I'm not going."

"Billy, you can't stay here, you still have two years of high school, and then what about college? You can't stay here."

"I can, too. I get $600 from the Marines for Dad every month, and I'll get a job. Mr. Kennedy said he could get me a job at the factory."

"I know you want to stay here, Billy. I understand. You don't want to leave your house and your friends. I don't want to be the bad guy, but you can't stay here by yourself."

"Fine, then I'll move in with Steve and Scott next door. I spend the night over there all the time."

"Billy, you...

"Shut up, Aunt Jo! I'm not going! You can't make me and I'm not going! You don't care about anybody but yourself. You never cared about Grandma, or Mom and me. You act like I'm a little kid. I'm not a baby Aunt Jo. I've been taking care of myself for years," he said. "And nobody calls me Billy anymore. Billy's a baby's name. Everybody calls me Bill. I'm not going!" He stormed out of the house, slamming the door and stomping down the stairs.

I wanted to storm right out after him and tell him he was wrong, but I knew it wouldn’t do any good. He needed to calm down before he would hear anything I said; no matter how loudly I said it. Besides, a part of me knew what he had said was true. With the hours Jenny had been working, I’m sure he had been taking care of himself, especially since Mom’s stroke.

He was also right about me. I had been more worried about how Jenny’s death was affecting me than how it was affecting Billy. I had been so wrapped up in myself I hadn’t really listened to what he said, or cared about what he wanted. Every time anybody said how important Jenny had been to them, I had actually gotten jealous of her. Saint Jenny, the patron saint of small towns and waitresses everywhere.

I really needed to do something to take my mind off everything. It was only about 7:30, and I decided to go for a walk, too. I picked up my cigarettes and put on my coat. I didn't know where I was going, I just started walking. In New York I walked all the time. I still had a Missouri driver’s license, but I hadn't even owned a car since I moved there 8 years ago. I hadn't walked down these roads since Jenny and I were in high school. We grew up in a house just three blocks from the house Jenny bought. Walking brought back a lot of memories. I passed the empty house we used to hide out in when we skipped school. It looked like somebody had fixed it up, but it was empty again now, the grass tall and brown.

I passed the house Bill Bota used to live in, where Jenny would to sneak out and meet him at night, climbing up onto the roof of the garage and then in his bedroom window. I used to think that was so romantic. I wondered who lived there now. His family had moved to Phoenix a year or two after Bill’s death. Had Billy called them? I didn’t even know their phone number, but I was sure Billy would have it. Would his whole family come for the funeral, or just his grandparents? I couldn’t remember how many aunts and uncles Billy had. Bill was from a big family. I remembered three sisters, and at least one or two brothers, but one of his sisters had died of leukemia when she was in elementary school. It was the first time I had known anybody that died. She had been in my grade, and I remember she didn’t look like she was sleeping in her casket. It didn’t even really look like her, it looked more like one of those mannequins in department stores. She had lost a lot of weight, and I could tell she had a wig on. I didn’t think she was really dead, but when she never came back to school I realized she was really gone.

When I got to the railroad tracks I started turning left when I noticed something. I was walking to Tanner's. Jenny and I used to walk there all the time. We used to hang out there after school, drinking sodas, playing pool and flirting with the bartender. But I wasn't going to pass in front of Scott's, and that was where they found Jenny's body. The way we always walked, when you got to the railroad tracks, you turned left and cut through the alley a block away from Scott's. If you walked in front you added almost three blocks and had to walk up the hill that led to 2nd street. Even if Jenny was so drunk she took a wrong turn, she wouldn't have walked up the hill, she would have turned around. That just didn't make sense.

I turned right and walked up the hill. I didn't know where they found her body, and wished I had looked at the pictures Detective Sneider had in that folder. I walked down the sidewalk until I saw light sparkling on the street, like reflecting off snow. It was hundreds of little pieces of glass, all piled up on the side of the street. I sat down on the curb in the middle of the glass. Was this where her body landed? Was this where she died? I picked up a piece of glass and held it up to the streetlight. It looked like a little diamond.

I wanted to cry. My throat was tight, like I was choking. My eyes stung, and I was sniffling, but no tears came. I lit a cigarette, trying to calm down. My hands were shaking. What I needed was a drink. I stood up and walked down the block and turned left. I could see Tanner's at the bottom of the hill, neon signs in the window winking, beckoning me like messages from heaven. Tanner's wasn't a very impressive place. It used to be a bowling alley back in the 70s, and still had a big sign shaped like a bowling ball on the roof. Across the front of the building was a long porch, with chairs and little tables but it was too cold for anybody to be sitting outside that night.
I went inside and hung my coat on one of the pegs lining the wall by the door. They were busy, but most of the people were over by the dartboards. There was some kind of tournament or something. People were cheering and clapping and occasionally booing. The bartender got me a beer. I didn't recognize him. I don't know why I had been expecting the same bartender after almost 10 years. He was short and blonde, but looked like he could kick some ass.

“What’ll you have?” the bartender asked when I sat down.

“Just a Budweiser,” I said and looked around. They still had Halloween decorations up, fake spider webs, posters of ghosts and mummies drinking beer. When we were in high school Jenny and I would have talked the bartender into letting us take the decorations down for a frozen pizza and a couple of sodas. We might have even been the ones putting them up in the first place.

"I haven't seen you in here before. My name’s Matt. Just move to town?" the bartender asked as he pulled the cap off the bottle and set it down in front of me.

"No, I used to live here when I was in school. I'm just here for a funeral."

"Oh, you must be a friend of Jenny's."

"No, I'm her sister," I said. "I was her sister. I still can't believe she's dead.”

“She was a real nice lady."

"Yeah. She was my big sister. It's not the same without her. Were you working the night she died?"

"Yeah, I was working. I wish I'd have known what was going to happen. Maybe I could have driven her home or something, and none of this would ever have happened. She was a real nice lady."

A man from the dart competition walked up to the bar and ordered a round of drinks, so the bartender went on about his business. I took a big drink of my beer, trying to drown the memory of the light sparkling off all that glass in the street. It wasn't right. It just wasn't right. Jenny shouldn't be dead. She should be sitting next to me, not on her way to Whispering Acres.

I looked around again. It felt nice being back. Maybe because it brought back memories of the days when the only things I had to worry about were homework and library fines. I thought about New York. I had fun when I went out to museums and plays, but I didn’t go to clubs or bars very much. It always felt like I was a goldfish in a room full of piranhas. Being in Tanner’s was like visiting an old friend.

When the bartender finished taking care of his customers he came back with another beer. "On the house," he said. "In memory of Jenny."

"Thanks," I said, and downed what was left in my first beer. The bartender took the empty bottle and threw it in the trashcan under the bar. "Tell me about Jenny. I hadn't seen her in more than a year. Did she come here a lot?"

"Maybe once or twice a week. She'd come in with some friends, or once in a while when she worked nights at Don's she would stop by here after work and have a beer or two. She used to bring me those great big cinnamon rolls if there were any left at the end of the day. She was nice."

"Yeah, she was nice. Did she bring you a roll that night?"

"No, she wasn't working that night. She just came in."

"Did she meet any of her friends?"

"No, just had a couple of beers and left. She didn't deserve to die like that."

"I know. She had a son, Billy. Now I'm the only family he has."

"Bill's a good kid. He comes in here every now and then, usually with those Kennedy boys. They play pool after school, horse around with each other. Nice kids. My sister has a boy, evil little brat. Anybody that meets him wants to punch him right in the mouth within 15 minutes."

I laughed. "I'm glad Billy's not like that. Right now he's being difficult. He's fighting me about moving after the funeral. Wants to stay here with his friends, but I live in New York."

"New York, huh? Were you there when the Towers came down?"

"Yeah, I saw the whole thing. It was like watching a movie. I was far enough to be safe, but I could hear it. I could feel it even. Jenny tried to get me to move back here after that, but I stayed. Now I wish I had moved back. Maybe if I had been here that night she would have been ok."

Sassafras, Part 9


Joan


I decided to go ahead and drive to Bond where the funeral home was. On the way I called work to see what ever happened with the redevelopment deal I had been working on. Maria, one of secretaries, answered, “Joan! I’m glad you called. We have all been wondering how you are doing. We have a collection going, and want to send flowers, but we don’t know where to send them.”

“I’m on my way to the funeral home now to arrange everything. I’ll call back when I have the details. I was wondering how the Long Island redevelopment deal is going. Did Frank screw it all up?”

“No, it’s still on. Senator O’Brien was disappointed that you had to leave before everything was finalized. He’s going to be glad to see you when you get back. I think he has the hots for you. You should have been the one bringing those papers to his penthouse, not Frank.”

“Don’t start. You know I don’t date clients.”

“You don’t date anybody, Joan. When you get back here, I’m taking you out to Chachi’s and fix you up with one of my cousins.”

I laughed. She was always threatening to fix me up with one of her cousins. I really like Maria, but I always turned her down. I thought about what Deana said about me being too picky. Maybe she was right. “That would be great, Maria,” I told her. “I don’t know how long I’m going to be here. At least another week. I have a lot to take care of here before I leave.”

“Take as long as you need. You know you’re Mr. Gunderson’s favorite assistant. He called just this morning asking about you. Do you remember when you put together that deal for the old Iranian embassy? Mr. Gunderson said that went so smooth he wants you to work on this new deal he has in mind for some property in Brooklyn, an old warehouse he’s thinking about converting to lofts. Do you want me to send you the file I started on it?”

“No, I don’t have time to think about work. Just put it on my desk, and tell Mr. Gunderson I can’t wait to get started on it. Just make sure Frank doesn’t hear anything about it. I don’t want him trying to pull seniority on me again.”

“Don’t worry about Frank. He’s at Senator O’Brien’s office right now. He’s been really kissing his ass. You should see him.” She started laughing and making kissing sounds.

“You’re terrible, Maria. Look, I’ve got to go. I’ll call you when I get out of the funeral home.”

“Ok. I’ll be right here.”

It took a couple of minutes to find the funeral home. I hadn’t been there since Bill’s funeral. I couldn’t believe it had been 16 years. I had still been in high school then. Before I went inside I walked out in the cemetery in back of the funeral home and looked for Bill’s grave. I couldn’t find it at first, but then I saw the little marker with the Marine symbol on it. I was shocked when I saw Jenny’s name on the marker next to Bill’s, but then I remembered she bought what they called a family plot when Bill died so she could be buried next to him. Actually, she would be buried right on top of his casket. At least I wouldn’t have to worry about paying for the plot or marker, just everything else. I wondered if she had an insurance policy. Even if all she had was one of those $1,000 or $2,000 policies banks usually throw in when you open an account it would help. I remembered the safety deposit box Billy said Jenny had. I should have stopped at the bank before I came here. I had no idea how much this was going to cost. Thank God for MasterCard.

It seemed like everyone I met since I got into town knew Jenny, and the funeral home was no exception. The receptionist was from Sassafras, and told me how Jenny had been like a sister to her. The funeral director knew Jenny from church. This was as bad as when we were in school. Jenny had been older than me, so to the teacher’s I wasn’t Joan, I was Jenny’s sister. I was still just Jenny’s sister.

They said they would take care of everything at the coroner's. They would even have a notice put in the paper. Leave it all to the friendly people at Whispering Acres. The viewing was scheduled for the day after next, Saturday, with the funeral Sunday. I picked out a pale tan casket with pink lining, a tape of some woman singing gospel music, and the viewing room called the Valley, all for the low, low price of $7,450. At least they said it was a low, low price. It didn’t seem very low to me. Jenny better have some kind of policy or it was going to take me ten years to pay for this.

When I got back in the car I remembered about calling Maria back. I told her the time and date of the wake and the funeral, and flipped through the folder for the address, then we talked for a while.

“You’re not going to try and back out of our date at Chachi’s, are you?” she asked.

“No, no, I’ll go, I promise. Are you sure you want to introduce me to your cousin? You tasted my casserole at the Christmas party last year. That was as good as my cooking gets.”

“Let me tell you something my mother told me when I was little. Men are pigs. They don’t care about dinner, they just want dessert. With a figure like yours you could make toast for dinner and they wouldn’t care. You can make toast, can’t you?”

“Yes,” I laughed, “I have the recipe for it somewhere.”

“Good. I’ll have Tony, Manny, and Carlos meet us at Chachi’s. That way you can meet all three of them and decide which one you like. It’ll be like the Dating Game.”

“No way, Maria!”

“Oh, yes way, Joan. You’re just lucky I narrowed it down to my three favorite cousins. I have 9 you know. Tony is a lawyer and Manny is a teacher. Carlos works in a bakery, and you should taste his cheesecakes. Oh, my God! They make me want to marry him. If you don’t go I’ll invite all 9 of them to lunch at the office and we can play Dating Game right here.”

“You wouldn’t dare!”

“Try me,” she said. “You need a man. When was the last time you went on a date?”

“I went to Atlantic City with Greg.”

“First of all, that wasn’t a date, you were on business, and second of all, Greg is almost 50, and third of all, that was almost a year ago.”

Was I really so pathetic that the highlight of my sex life lately was being groped in a hotel room by a man I barely knew in hopes of making a business deal? I hated to think more of that was what I had to look forward to. I had really liked Greg, and when he suggested we go to Atlantic City so he could show me some property he wanted to sell to Starburst I hadn’t thought twice about it. Even when I realized he wanted to show me more than just his property it didn’t really bother me. I never really thought about how it would look. I just thought we could take care of a little business, then have a little fun. After all, we were both consenting adults. I hadn’t had a serious boyfriend in a while and the attention felt nice.

After dinner the first night we went back to his hotel room. At first things had gone okay. Greg had a bottle of wine and turned on some music. We sat on the floor by the window and looked at the lights spread out below us. The property he was trying to sell was downtown, and I recognized it before he was able to point it out to me. I was still studying the building, a long narrow four story with balconies across the front, when he leaned over and started kissing me. I wasn’t surprised, but I was disappointed he expected me to just jump straight into bed with him. I still wanted to talk about the building.

I tried to get in the mood for romance, but I think he could tell his property excited me more than he did. He sat up and looked at me like he just realized I was covered in poison. I don’t remember what names he called me, or if I said anything. He got up, pulled me to my feet and pushed me out the door. I just stood there with my blouse unbuttoned, staring at the door. After a second he opened the door again, but just long enough to throw my purse at me and slam it shut again. I walked back to my room barefooted because I was too embarrassed to knock on the door and ask for my shoes.

There was never a second night, and he decided he wasn’t really interested in selling after all. I don’t know if he had ever been serious about selling his building, or if it had all been just a lie to get me in bed with him. Maybe if I had just kept it professional I would have been able to close another deal, but it didn’t really matter. Both of us were disappointed.

“Okay, okay, I admit, it’s been a long time since I’ve gone on a real date. I’ll go to Chachi’s with you and I’ll meet your cousins, but I’m not going to promise anything. You know how busy I am, and when I come back I’m going to have my nephew with me, so I’m going to have even less time.”

“You have to find time for love. Otherwise you’re going to die a bitter, lonely old woman. There’s more to life than work, you know? You deserve to have a little fun.”

“Okay, I’ll talk to you later. Say hi to Mr. Gunderson for me. And buy Frank some Chapstick.”

Sassafras, Part 8


Joan


While I was waiting for Deana I went ahead and called the coroner, but didn't learn anything. The person answering the phone didn't know when the coroner would finish, and didn't know when the coroner would have time to talk to me, but she would make sure he got my message. He would call me back. Eventually. Right, sure he would.

I wasn’t in a very good mood when Deana finally showed up, but Brian and Ashley were so cute I couldn't stay upset. He had spiky red hair and was just old enough to toddle all around the parking lot. Ashley looked so cute all dressed up in a fluffy pink outfit with a little hood that had bunny ears on top. Deana finally bribed Brian into calming down with promises of pancakes swimming in syrup.

"What's wrong with Brian's eye?" I asked as we walked up the sidewalk.

"What," she asked. "Oh, there's nothing wrong with his eye. I wanted to show you Ashley's Halloween costume, and he wanted to wear his, too, but I convinced him to just wear the patch. He went trick or treating as a pirate and now he wants to be a pirate when he grows up. Hey, Brian, what do pirates say?"

He ran up to me, held his hand up like a hook and said "Argh!"

When we walked in it seemed like the whole restaurant went silent. I could see a big poster hanging from the counter with pictures of Jenny and different customers. On the counter were flowers and a coffee can that they were collecting money for Billy in. Don wasn't working yet, but it seemed like everybody else that worked there came over to say how sorry they were about Jenny. Some of the customer's who didn’t even know me came over.

Finally everybody went back to their own business and Deana and I could relax. I hadn't seen her since I came back for Mom's birthday last year. She looked the same, dark red hair, freckles, and a nose just a little bit too big. It made her whole face look out of proportion, but that just made her look sort of exotic.

There was a row of coffee mugs brought in by the regulars hanging behind the counter. The waitress picked up one that said World’s Greatest Daughter and one with a dragon on the side and brought them over. She set the Daughter cup down in front of Deana, and the dragon cup in front of me. “Here, honey,” she said, filling them with coffee. “This was your sister’s cup. I think she would want you to have it.”

"So," Deana said after the server took her order for silver dollar pancakes for Brian, "tell me what you've been doing in New York. Have you found Mr. Right yet?"

"No, I've just met a couple of Mr. Wrongs, a Mr. Hell No, and a Mr. What The Hell Was I Thinking.”

Deana laughed. "You would think with all the millions of men in New York you would be able to find somebody. Brian, put that down. You don’t put ketchup on pancakes, honey.” She took the ketchup bottle away from him before he could squirt it all over the table. "Do you remember what I said happens to bad pirates?"

"Walk the plank! Walk the plank!" he said, jumping up and down in the booth and clapping his hands.

"That's right. If you don't behave you're going to walk the plank." She looked over at me. "So, do the police have any idea who hit your sister?"

"No, not yet. They have some evidence but no leads." I sat looking at my coffee. "I can't believe she's gone. She was always so happy."

“Well, don’t sit around waiting for the police to solve the case,” she said, sending a death stare to the two cops who had just got out of the booth in back of me and walked over to the cash register. “Ever since Captain McFarland had to go on disability the police force has gone to hell in a hand basket. All they ever do is write tickets up at the new highway. That new captain, Detective Sneider, is a real asshole, too.”

“Did I tell you my husband was on the town board two years ago?” she continued. “He found out before Detective Sneider started working here he was being investigated by the St. Louis police department for using excessive force and tampering with evidence, but he quit before they ever charged him with anything. Bob tried to bring it up at one of the town board meetings, but none of the other board members wanted to rock the boat. They all love Sneider because as soon as he started he talked the board into annexing the new highway. He had his officers on 24-hour patrol. They made a couple of pretty impressive drug busts at first, confiscated a lot of money, enough to afford that fancy new police station and two more police cars. They have bulletproof vests and stun guns now. They act like this is Miami Vice or something.”

“The last couple of years all they do it give speeding tickets all day long, but at least they quit hassling the people who live here. The mayor told them if he had one more complaint about somebody getting a ticket for rolling through a stop sign he was going to fire every last one of them. Remember when we were in school, and there were only two police officers, and one only worked Friday and Saturday? Can you believe there are five police officers now? One of them is in California right now training to get a drug-sniffing dog. A drug-sniffing dog,” she snorted. “Why do we need twice the police force when we have a third of the population?”

"Brian, leave him alone," she said, pulling his sticky hands out of the man's hair who was sitting in the booth in back of her.

"I'm so sorry," Deana told him.

"Oh, that's okay," he said. "I think I'll survive.”

Deana leaned over and whispered "Mr. Right?"

"Mr. Maybe," I admitted. I hadn’t been able to get a good look at him when he turned around because Brian had been standing on the bench pulling his hair, and from the back I couldn’t really get a very good look at him, just black hair and a blue shirt. At least he wasn’t wearing a baseball cap, and I didn’t see any earrings or tattoos. He looked good from the back, but I wasn’t going to date the back of his head.

"I think you're just too picky," she said. "What's wrong with him?"

"Well, besides being a total stranger you mean?"

"You're as bad as your sister. I tried and tried to set her up with friends of Bob's, but she was always too picky."

We talked for about 45 minutes. I watched Deana handle Brian and Ashley like a pro. Sometimes it looked like she had three hands and eyes in the back of her head. I wondered if I would ever have kids. Even three years ago, before her stroke, Mom had kept dropping hints about how I wasn’t getting any younger. I had just been so busy in New York, I hadn’t had time to think about anything but work. Now I wondered if Deana was right. Maybe I was being too picky.

Eventually Deana had to take Ashley to a doctor's appointment. I sat there in the booth for a couple of minutes after they left, sipping a cup of coffee and trying to decide what chore to tackle next, when my phone rang. It was the coroner. I asked him what his official cause of death was. He said it was hit and run, with alcohol as a contributing factor. I asked him what that meant, and he said she had been drinking.

Politically Incorrect

We had a little celebration for Black History Month at work. It really wasn't much of a celebration. All they did was provide lunch. I thought it was ironic that for Black History Month they had fried chicken. That just seems so wrong. That's more like celebrating Black Stereotype Month. If it was summer they would probably have had watermelon, too. I'm waiting for Irish History Month. I'm assuming they will be passing out shots of whiskey.

Putt This

I went on a family outing Sunday. We went to a big mall near St. Charles and played blacklight putt-putt golf. It was pretty fun. I hadn't been to a putt-putt golf course in a long time. Part of the fun was just enjoying the mall atmosphere. The last time I was at that mall they kept playing this loud music that sounded like Nazi marching music. This time it was normal music, and it wasn't so loud.

The one thing that I'm sure is going to come as no surprise to anybody, is that I kept thinking about Sassafras while I was at the mall. So now, what I thought was going to be the sequel to Sassafras is going to have to be the third in a series. Now the sequel is going to be the summer after Sassafras. Rick was such a hero he convinces his ex-wife to let his two kids visit him over the summer. The story is going to be one day spent at the mall. His daughter is going to despise Joan, and I'm toying with the idea of having his son be gay. Then Bill could have a crush on Rick's daughter, but she doesn't like him, her brother does. Maybe I'll just make him be a real nerd, or maybe he'll be a party hardy surfer dude. Either way, I can tell you for sure his daughter is a bitch.

Sassafras, Part 7


Joan


The police station was new, and a lot fancier than the old one. I wondered how the town was able to afford such a state of the art police station, but then I remembered reading in Jenny’s blog about what a speed trap Sassafras had turned into. They must be writing an awful lot of tickets up by the new highway to be able to pay for all this. Computers were everywhere. There were three people all huddled up around a table. While I was hanging my coat up one of the men who had been seated got up and walked over. "Hello, you must be Joan Weaver. I'm Detective Sneider, we talked on the phone last night." He shook my hand and led me over to a table against the wall.

He was tall, and thin as a rail, the kind of guy who was probably called Lurch or Stretch in high school. When he shook my hand, I noticed he had long, thin, bony fingers. This guy really needs a cheeseburger or something, I thought. For as thin as he was, he had a surprisingly deep voice. "Let's look over your sister's file and see what we can see." He opened a folder and pulled out some papers. "Now, I don't know if you want to see these crime scene photos. You don't really need to see them, but they're here if you want to. Right now, let me just read through this."

He flipped through some pages, and then pulled a couple of papers out that were stapled together. "The coroner hasn't given his official cause of death, but he should be finished this afternoon. So far, all he's saying is that the injuries are consistent with a pedestrian - vehicular accident, and that death occurred between 10 PM and 1 AM. He's waiting for some laboratory tests before he signs the final papers."

"Your sister was drinking at Tanner's bar Monday night. The bartender remembers her getting a drink around 10:30. She had been there since about 8:30 or 9. Nobody remembers seeing her leave, so we don't know if she left alone or not. The next time she was seen was Tuesday morning when a deliveryman driving past Scott's Hardware noticed her laying partially on the sidewalk. He called 911 at 5:18AM, the paramedics arrived at 5:30 and pronounced her dead at the scene."

He flipped through the papers some more and pulled out another sheet. "There was evidence collected at the scene. Part of a rearview mirror, some trim and lots of broken glass. The glass looks like pieces of a headlight, but I don't know if there is enough to get a make on what style. I'm sorry there isn't more to go on."

"I understand. I hope you're able to find out what happened. Do you know if she was with anybody at Tanner's? I just can't imagine her out drinking all alone."

He flipped through the papers again. "Well, I don't know who was there. After her body was found a couple of people called in and said they had seen her at Tanner's, but nobody said they were with her or if she was with anybody else. Why do you ask?”

"Oh, I just thought if somebody had been with her they would have known when she left. Then you could narrow the time of death a little. I'm sure you already thought of that though. I'm a Court TV junkie, so this is sort of deja vu for me. Maybe I just don't want to think that she died in a stupid accident like this. There should be suspects and motives, twists and turns and dead ends, not this. This just seems, wrong."

We talked for a couple of more minutes. He offered to call the coroner for me, but I told him I wanted to wait a little. No sense calling until he would have something to tell me. He gave me the name and number of the coroner and I left. I couldn't decide what to do next, see the coroner, the mortician, or my mother. I decided to punt and called 411.

"Good morning, what city and state please?" the operator asked.

"Sassafras, Missouri," I said.

"What listing in Sassafras?" he asked.

"Deana Thompson," I said. "No wait, Deana Hudson."

"Thank you, have a great day."

While I waited for Deana to pick up the phone I lit a cigarette and walked up to Jenny's car. Its only saving grace had been a nice paint job, and now it didn't even have that. Jenny used to joke that it always looked good when it broke down on the side of the road. Jenny didn't mind it so much because she rarely drove more than 5 miles from Sassafras. Whenever she broke down sooner or later somebody would recognize her and pull over. Some times they could fix her car enough for her to gimp it to the gas station, sometimes they would give her a ride home or to work. I'm surprised some psycho slasher didn’t kill her, but she swore she would never take a ride with a stranger. That didn't really comfort me because I remembered what a bunch of losers and psychos lived in Sassafras.

When the phone was finally answered, I forgot who I was calling.

"Hello? Hello?"

"Deana? This is Joan."

"Joan! I'm glad you called. I didn't know if you would or not."

"You know I couldn't come home without calling you at least once. Besides, I need a friend about now."

"I know. I couldn't believe when I heard about Jenny. I drove by the hardware store and there was still glass all over the road. It was creepy. She was gone already, but still. I can't believe she's dead."

"Yeah, I know. I've still got to go to the nursing home and tell Mom what happened."

"Do you think she will even understand what you're saying?"

"I don't know. Somebody has to tell her and I'm not going to make Billy do it."

"Oh, poor guy. How is he taking it? He's just 15 isn't he?"

"Yeah, he's 15. I can't tell how he's taking it. When he called me in New York he was pretty broken up, but now I think he's just numb."

"How are you taking it?"

"I don't know. It doesn't seem real, you know? I keep wanting to go to Don's and ask her when she's going to get off work, see if she wants to go out and do something tonight."

"Why don't we go ahead and go to Don's? You haven't seen Ashley yet."

"Ashley? I thought you had a boy."

"Brian is almost 3 now. Ashley is my little girl. She's just 4 months old."

"Oh, I hadn't even heard you were pregnant again. Yeah, Don's sounds good."

I was already halfway to Don's when we hung up. I sat out in the parking lot waiting for her. It wasn't the same old Don's from when we were all in school. Don’s used to be in a small building down by Main Street, but last winter Don built a new building right up by the overpass in front of the new Wal-Mart. It was big and square, like a big shoebox with windows all across the front.

The full name of the diner was Don's Mix n Match Cafe. He didn't buy dishes from restaurant supply companies, he bought dishes at flea markets and estate sales, and every time you ate there you never knew what dishes you would get. Sometimes it would be a plastic kid's plate with Barney on it; sometimes it would be part of a fancy china set. Even the silverware was a random collection of patterns and styles. He also bought dishes from his customer's, so you could come in with a box of old dishes you would have thrown away anyway and eat for free.

Sassafras, Part 6


Joan


I guess I was still on New York time, because I woke up early the next day. I was confused when I woke up in Jenny's room, then I remembered everything in a big rush. It felt like back in high school, when Jenny and I used to go out partying. I would wake up in the morning, my head spinning and my stomach heaving. I went into the bathroom and found some aspirin, then washed up.

I fixed a cup of hot tea and found a box of frozen waffles in the freezer. If I was going to stay here I was going to have to get some coffee. I watched the news while I was eating. The weather was going to get worse; it was going to rain this weekend. The funeral was going to be miserable. There was also a spot about a car that was recalled because the seatbelts didn't work, and something about a dead drug dealer from Chicago that was found last weekend in Memphis, Missouri, the county seat of the next county over. Police were investigating, but didn't have any clues.

After I ate I went back to Jenny’s room and picked out what to wear that day. Clothes were my secret indulgence. Some people had comfort food, I had comfort clothes. I told myself the wealthy clients that I worked with at Starburst Properties expected a certain image, but really I just liked nice clothes. That was one of the reasons I left Sassafras. By the time a style hit town it was already last week’s news. I was sick to death of blue jeans and t-shirts. I don’t know if any of the girls in school even owned a dress, much less high-heeled shoes.

I looked through the dresses I brought with me, and decided to wear my favorite, a simple gray cashmere dress. It didn’t have any fancy ruffles or buttons, but I loved the way it felt when I wore it. Like wearing cotton candy. I had been thrilled when I found it in a resale shop in Manhattan. As soon as I touched it I knew I had to have it.

Billy didn't get up until I was almost ready to go to the police station. I asked him if he wanted to go in with me, but he said no. I didn't blame him. He wasn't going to go to school again today, but the Kennedy boys were all in school, so he was just going to stay home. Jenny had left her purse on the kitchen counter the night she died. I picked it up and looked for her keys, but they weren’t in it. We couldn't find them anywhere, so Billy had to hunt for the spare car keys.

While we were looking I started wondering if Jenny had any life insurance policies, or a will. I never had to plan a funeral before. “Billy, do you know where your mom kept her important papers? You know, tax stuff and your birth certificate, stuff like that?”

“There’s some bills and stuff in the desk drawer, but I think she kept most of that stuff in a safety deposit box at the bank.” I looked in the desk while he kept looking for the keys. All I found was a stack of bills and bank statements. She only had $250 in her checking account, but I saw a savings account in Billy’s name. I remembered when she started that account back when he was a baby. In 15 years Jenny managed to save $4,300. There wasn’t anything saying how much she still owed on her house. Her house payment was less than half my rent payment, but she had other bills I didn’t have to worry about, like water and trash and gas. All I had was electric and the phone bill. I wondered how much Jenny’s property taxes were.

There was also a stack of papers from the nursing home Mom was in. The Home. God, I hated that place. I hated it so much I wouldn't even say its name, Sunset Manor. It was always just The Home. I don't guess anybody wants to see their parents in a place like that. I was glad Dad didn't have to go there. He had a heart attack and died at work, slumped in back of his desk. He still had his pen in his hand when they found him, like he was just waiting for his next client.

When the hospital wanted to discharge Mom after her stroke, The Home was the only place with an opening so that's where she went. I hated the place. It looked like a prison, or an insane asylum. And Mom was so vulnerable, stuck in a wheel chair, couldn't talk, couldn't go to the bathroom, couldn’t even put on lipstick.

I flipped through the papers from The Home, and couldn’t believe how much that place cost. The government paid most of it, but there were little things they didn’t cover, like clothes and personal care. The Home made Jenny pay for everything, even toilet paper. She didn’t even have a private room; she was in a room with two other women. I remembered when I went there last time, for Mom’s birthday. One of the women in her room hadn’t been much older than Jenny. She had been in a diving accident, or car accident, I don’t remember which. She was paralyzed, and had a lot of brain damage. Jenny said sometimes she looked like she knew what was going on, and sometimes she just looked vacant. I didn’t remember the other woman in Mom’s room. She was just a little gray haired old lady, but I remembered the younger woman. She could have been somebody I went to school with. It was weird seeing her lying in that bed next to Mom's.

Billy finally found the spare keys in a drawer in the kitchen. Jenny's car was in even worse shape than I remembered. It was a black Honda, probably 20 years old. The paint had started peeling in spots, and there was rust around the back tires. A piece of the grill was broken out, and there was a piece of gray duct tape covering a hole on the right side where the rear view mirror should have been, and one of the headlights was held in place with matching tape. I was glad I didn’t need a car in New York. I took the subways or busses everywhere. Sometimes I had to take a taxi, and once in a while I got to ride in a limo for work when I went to fancy events with Mr. Gunderson or one of the other partners.

I got inside and had to slam the door to get it to close. The seat was pushed back a little too far for me, and I couldn't find the lever or knob to adjust it. I had forgotten how much taller than me Jenny was. I perched on the edge of the seat, put on my seat belt and turned the key, hoping it would start. Of course, it wouldn't start at first, then I pumped it a couple of times and the engine finally turned over. I was glad at least it was automatic. I never could figure out how to drive a stick shift. Every time I had to stop I would forget about the clutch, and end up killing the engine. The teacher in Driver’s Education finally told me I should just give up and stick with manual transmissions.

Sassafras, Part 5


Joan


When I walked inside Billy was still on the computer. I was cold, so I went to the kitchen and looked for something hot to drink. No coffee, but I found a couple of packs of instant cocoa and some tea bags. I put two coffee mugs in the microwave and made up some cocoa for both of us.

"What are you reading?" I asked Billy as I handed him a cup.

"I'm reading Mom's blog," he said.

"Blog? What's a blog? Is that some king of computer game?"

"No, Aunt Jo. A blog is like a diary or journal, but it's on the computer and other people can read it if they want to. Didn't you ever read it?"

"No, I don't have a computer at home. I really don't like computer's very much. I have one at work, but I usually just wait and use my typewriter at home, or work with one of the secretaries back at the office and have them print stuff up. I guess I'm just old fashioned. Give me a pen and a notebook, and I'm happy."

"I thought you read it. She wrote a lot about you in it."

"She did? What did she write?"

Billy scrolled around a little, clicked here and there, and then swiveled the monitor so I could read it.



October 12

I talked to Joan on the phone this morning. She's so excited about a project she’s been working on for months. I don't have any idea what she really does, but listening to her talk about her job I can tell she loves it. She works for a big real estate firm, buying and selling high priced buildings in Manhattan as far as I can tell. I don't know if she knows how much I envy her. I've never had a dream come true like she has. I love living in a small town, where I know everybody and nothing bad ever happens, but nothing exciting ever happens, either. I can't believe anybody reads this blog because I lead such a boring life.

Some times I wonder what would have happened if I'd listened to my mom and dad, not gotten married so young, and then ended up widowed with a baby on the way. All my dreams died with Bill. If I didn't have a baby to think about I don't know what I would have done. Maybe I could have gone to college, or moved in with Joan and had a career and gone to fancy restaurants with exotic, foreign boyfriends.

Oh, well, no sense crying over spilled milk. I'm happy with my small town life, my crazy customers and driving-me-crazy son.



I couldn't believe she envied me, and I never even knew. She was always so happy, bragging about Billy and gossiping about work. She always had funny stories about the people she worked with, or the customers. I thought her life was perfect.

"This is all on the computer, and other people come over and read it?" I asked.

"Oh, yeah. Well, they don’t come over here. It’s on-line, you can read it anywhere. I don't think anybody we know reads it, except some of my dad's family in Phoenix. Mom writes a lot about people at work. She calls it the Asylum. Here, let me find you the entry about the guy who came in with a chicken."

"A chicken? No wonder she called it the Asylum."

He did a little more scrolling and clicking, and then this entry came up.



April 7

Crazy Mike, one of the regulars at work, came in today with a chicken in his pocket. It was just a little chicken, I think they’re called banties, and if I hadn't seen it poke it's head out of his pocket I don't think I would have even noticed it. When I was filling up his coffee I asked him what he had in his pocket. At first he denied having anything in his pocket, but it poked it's little head out again and pecked at his sleeve. It was all brown and gold, with a little puffy red comb like a racing stripe.

There was no denying it; he had a chicken in his pocket. He finally leaned up close to me, and whispered, "His name is Tarzan."

I leaned over and asked him what was Tarzan doing in Don's. He said Tarzan was lonely when he was left at home. The neighbor's cat ate all Tarzans chicken friends, and Mike was afraid Tarzan would be the next cat snack if he didn't watch out for him.

"Would Tarzan like something for breakfast?" I asked. Yes, as a matter of fact he would, so I put a little oatmeal flakes on a pie plate and passed it over to him. When Tarzan was done with his oatmeal, and Mike finished his coffee they both left.

Yes, believe it or not, this is my life.


I scrolled down and saw entry after entry, all written by my sister, but I didn't recognize the writing. She never wrote a diary when we were little. I asked Billy how long had she been writing this blog thing. He said she had been writing in it for about three years. Click, click, he had it on what he called the main page. The top of the screen was all puffy clouds and rainbows. It said Welcome to the Sassafras Asylum in big letters across the clouds. The middle of the page was all entries she had written. Down the right side was a list of web addresses, followed by a list of dates. Down the left side was a series of photos of Jenny and Billy, cartoons and little ads for web sites. It felt strange seeing their pictures on the computer monitor, like they were celebrities or something. Where did those pictures come from? I wondered if there were pictures of me floating around in the Internet somewhere.

Billy showed me how to click on the dates on the left to find earlier entries, and clicked on a couple of the addresses to go to other blogs Jenny read. I read her blog for about an hour, reading details of her life I had never known, like the fact that she was into new age hocus pocus. She learned to read tarot cards even. She seemed to believe anything she read, stuff about crystals and spirit guides, real X-Files material.

After a while I got lost on the computer. I guess I clicked one too many times and couldn't figure out how to get back to Jenny's blog thing. Billy was in his room playing a video game on one of those little hand held toys. I told him I lost Jenny’s blog. He said he would come pull it back up, but I told him I was tired and was just going to go to bed.

Ooops

For years, as long as I've had one, my driver's license expired on the anniversary of the day I got it. Or, at least, the last time I renewed it. I'm not exactly sure if they last 2 or 3 years. Then for some unknown reason, the state of Missouri decided to make your driver's license expire on your birthday. As in, my birthday last Friday. So now I have to go get a new driver's license. I'm just glad I noticed when I put my license in a new billfold I bought, because I don't remember getting the memo about the change.

Sassafras, Part 4



Joan

I tried calling a couple of times to let Billy know I was coming, but nobody ever answered. I guess he must have been over at the neighbor's. I left a couple of messages, letting him know when my plane would be in. I don't remember anything about the flight. I don't remember who sat next to me, what color the seats were, nothing. I was waiting for my luggage when I saw Billy walking up. I didn't see him until he was right in front of me, surrounded by three boys I thought must be the neighbors the woman on the phone talked about. They looked like real juvenile delinquents, with long, wild hair, baggy pants hanging half-way to their knees, and ratty looking jackets. I tried to smile at Billy, but it felt like my face had frozen.

I looked at him, thinking how much he looked like his father, which was a good thing because I don't think I could have looked at him if he had looked like Jenny. He was taller than me, but wasn't as tall as his father. I could tell he was still growing. He was thin, with short brown hair, a little lighter than his father's but not as blond as Jenny's. When he got closer I could see his eyes. I had forgotten that he had brown eyes like his father's. I had been expecting to see Jenny's eyes again. One of my bags came down the chute right then, and the boys that I thought were juvenile delinquents jumped up and wrestled it off the conveyor belt for me when I started trying to lift it up. Maybe I was wrong about them.

When both my bags finally surfaced, the two oldest neighbors, Tom and Steve, carried them while Scott, the youngest, was content to take my carryon bag. I was going to rent a car, but Billy said I should just drive his mom's car, and I didn't want to argue with him. I had to bite my tongue, because I remembered Jenny's car. It was some little Japanese car, old and worn out. Even Jenny had admitted it was a real piece of crap. She could barely afford to keep it running, but there was no way she would have been able to buy a new car. When Mom had her stroke I told Jenny she should keep Mom's car and drive it until Mom got better and got out of the nursing home, but Jenny wouldn't do it. When she realized Mom wasn't going to be getting out of the nursing home Jenny sold Mom's car and paid hospital bills with the money.

It took more than an hour and a half to get to Sassafras from the airport. I hated to admit it, but it felt good to be going home. It was like going back in time. Nobody said much on the way home. There was some talk about a video game, and something going on this weekend, but nothing about why I was back in town. When we got closer to town and Tom pulled onto the new highway I was lost. We passed a sign saying we were in the city limits of Sassafras, population 1,984. I remembered when I was in school there had been over 3,000 people in Sassafras. I could see an overpass in the distance, Wal-Mart and three or four other buildings huddled together on one side. From the exit I saw a big square building looking out over the highway with a sign across the front that said Don’s Mix n Match Café and knew that must be the new building Jenny told me the diner had moved to that spring.

When we pulled up in Jenny's driveway it was already getting dark. A light came on the porch across the street, and a woman came out and waved. I tried to remember what the woman on the phone said her name was, but couldn't remember. I waved back and told the boys to take my bags inside.

When I walked across the street I could see the woman better. She was tall, and had short spiky hair. It made her look like a neglected Chia Pet covered with dead, brown grass. That was when I recognized her, although in school she didn't look like that, her hair had been long and silky. She had gone to school with Jenny and me. I couldn't remember her name at first; just that she had been a cheerleader. She shook my hand and told me how sorry she was that this happened. As soon as I heard her talk I remembered her name, Sara Weil. She had been in the grade below me at school, and I had been two grades below Jenny. I was talking to her when a car pulled in the driveway and her husband got out. He was an older version of the three boys who were unloading my bags, tall and husky, with bushy dark hair.

"This is my husband, Phil Kennedy," Sara said. "He's the manager of the Purina plant in Kelly.”

We shook hands and said hello. It was like nobody wanted to actually say Jenny was dead. I thanked them for watching Billy, and asked if the police knew anything? Sara didn't know anything more, but gave me a business card from the officer who had come to tell Billy about his mother. Detective Mark Sneider. The Kennedy boys all walked over and joined us, bags safely stowed inside. There was a round of thank you’s and it's no bothers, then I walked back home to see what Billy was up to.

Jenny's home was small, with tan siding and brown trim. There were flower beds across the front that were full of bare branches of summer plants, a couple of big pink mums on the corners. There were still Halloween decorations up. A smiling scarecrow sat on a chair on the porch surrounded by black cats and little witches stirring even smaller cauldrons. The trees in the front yard were full of little fluttering white plastic bags tied up to look like ghosts.

Billy was sitting at a small desk in the corner of the living room, engrossed in a computer. I asked him if he was hungry, but he said no. I looked in the refrigerator, and found some left over spaghetti. I had forgotten what a good cook Jenny was until I tasted the first fork full. It was a shame she had wasted her life waiting tables when she could cook like that. She could have made a lot of money cooking at fancy restaurants in New York. Now it was too late.

When I finished eating I checked on Billy again, but he was still glued to the computer. I picked up the business card that Sara gave me. It was late, but I decided what the hell. I needed to know what was going on. I didn't want to bother Billy, so I took my cell phone out of my purse and walked out onto the back deck. It was chilly outside, so I grabbed my coat. I dialed the number on the card, and lit a cigarette while the phone was ringing.

"Hello, Detective Sneider."

"Hi, my name if Joan Weaver, I'm calling about my sister, Jenny."

"Well, I'm not in the office right now, so I don't have the file with me, but I'll tell you what I can remember. A deliveryman noticed her lying on the side of the road in front of Scott's Hardware, half up on the curb. He called 911, but when the paramedics got there she was already dead. There was broken glass and what looks like pieces of trim. We won't know for sure until the coroner is finished, but it looks like a hit and run. We collected the evidence, but I don't know if we can ID the type of car involved. Other than that, there really isn't very much I can tell you. The last time she was seen was about midnight at a bar called Tanner's. It looks like she was walking home when she was hit."

"Where is she, I mean, where is her body now? I need to start planning the funeral in the morning."

"The coroner still has her body. You would have to call their office and find out when they will release her body. I start work at 8, if you want to come in to the station and we can talk then. You can call the coroner from the station; he should be in by 9 or 9:30. I'm sorry I don't have more information to give you. It's a tragedy that such a young woman had to die like that, leaving a son behind. I knew them both from the restaurant. She was a really nice lady."

"Thank you. I'll be in to see you in the morning."

After I hung up I stayed on the back deck, smoking another cigarette, and trying to figure out what to do. Why did Jenny have to die? I felt like a bitch, but I kept thinking it should have been Mom to die, not Jenny. Then I wondered if anybody had even told Mom that Jenny was dead. One more thing for me to dread doing. I had to deal with the police, coroner, and funeral director. Then I had to find out what to do with Billy. There's no way for both of us to fit in the tiny apartment I had in New York, so I would have to move.

A tiny voice in the back of my head said to move back to Sassafras, but that was crazy talk. I had been miserable here, couldn't wait to get out. The farther the better. I had thought about moving west, maybe Phoenix or LA, but ended up in the Big Apple. That was my home now. I had a good job, and the neighborhood I lived in wasn't too bad. A little run down but not dangerous. No drive-by shootings or hookers turning tricks in the alley. Sure, I'd have to find a bigger apartment, but I had wanted to move for a while anyway. It would be hard for Billy moving and starting a new school, missing his mom and all his friends.

I flicked my butt out into the yard and looked at my watch. 6:45 and already pitch black and freezing cold. In New York the night would just be starting. The popular clubs didn't even open until 9. I stood up and rubbed my hands on my arms. Freaking cold. My breath came out in big white clouds, and then faded away in the wind. When I turned to go back inside I noticed a plaque beside the door. It showed a little figure in a blue dress and big yellow sunbonnet, bending over to water a flower. Underneath that it said, "Welcome to my happy home" and beneath that was a row of tiny red hearts. Yeah, welcome home, I thought.

New Drinkrace 2000

I decided it's time to start planning another big drinking shindig. This is going to be another movie party. I decided to have a Gone in 60 Shots party. I just can't decide if I want to use the old Gone in 60 Seconds or the new one. I'm thinking about having a double feature, but I don't know if I want 4 hours worth of drinking. I figure instead of drinking every time anybody was run over like in Drinkrace 2000, you have to drink every time they steal a car. If three or four cars get boosted at once you only have to drink once, unless you just want to pass out and then go ahead, be my guest, drink three or four times.

My biggest question is what to drink. Should I make the same Drinkrace 2000 punch as last time, or have everybody just do shots? I'm leaning toward shots because that would sure be easier, but that Drinkrace 2000 punch was damn fine. Any drink with champagne and sherbert in it has to be good.

Sassafras, Part 3


Rick

I had been working with them for about a month when they found Richie Santos's decomposing body in the trunk of his car down in the next county. Boyd told me about it and asked if I wanted out. I didn't sign up for a suicide mission, but I told him I would stay in. I didn't feel like I was in any danger. If things got hairy I would bolt out of that little hick town so fast I might end up with whiplash, but for now I was staying.

It was about three days after the news started talking about the murdered drug dealer when Jenny died. Like I said, at first I didn't think anything about it. I was actually kind of glad, because that would keep the cops occupied and they wouldn't notice a little extra snooping on my part. I was in the cop shop with Sneider the day after Jenny died, doing some creative accounting, when he got a call on his cell phone from her sister. When I heard him say he wasn't in the office my ears perked up. Any time a cop lies, there's a reason. He had to be covering something up.

After he hung up he called someone else, but I couldn’t tell who he dialed. I tried to listen as much as I could without catching Sneider's attention. He didn't seem to like the idea of a sister coming to town. I heard him say he didn't want anybody around asking questions. When he hung up the second time I asked him what was up, but he told me to fuck off, so I let it drop.

Later that night when I got home I pulled my laptop out from under the couch and turned it on. Boyd had fought to get me that laptop. His superiors hadn’t liked the idea of handing a known computer thief a state of the art laptop loaded with programs that would let me hack into just about anything but the Pentagon, complete with passwords that let me access police files nation wide. I had to explain to them that they could install a monitoring program that would record every keystroke I made, and a remote access program that would let them check the keystroke monitoring program any time they wanted to. I hadn’t explained to them how easy it would be for me to bypass those programs. Not that I did. Seven years in prison was long enough to convince me I never wanted to go back.

I snuck a peek into the phone company computer and saw that Sneider had called a number at the county sheriff’s office, but I couldn't find out who he talked to. I compared it with Jenny’s phone record. She dialed the same number the day she died. That didn’t necessarily mean they talked to the same person, but whoever they talked to worked in the same department.

I looked up my file on Jenny Bota again. I just couldn't find anything to make her a target. Blonde hair, blue eyes, the perfect girl next door. Married at 18, widowed by 19. Marine husband dies a hero in Desert Storm. Lived the small town life, joins the PTA, probably baked apple pies while her kid played baseball. She had no connection to Santos, no connection to the cops, nothing in her background that would make somebody want to kill her. I was still curious about why Sneider told her sister he wasn't in the office when I was there sitting right next to him in the cop shop, but there wasn't anything there.

I looked for any information on her son, Billy, but he didn't have a police record, not even juvenile, and the school was so far back in the Stone Age it didn't have any records on-line. All I knew about him was that he was 15, a freshman, and that he broke his ankle when he was 12 when a car hit him while he was riding his bike.

I also looked up Joan Weaver. She worked for a Manhattan real estate firm, but lived in Brooklyn. Single, no police file at all. Her bank account and credit card history showed that she had a cat or cats, loved clothes, loved books, loved eBay. Not much of a social life. Eats out a lot. The only picture of her I could find was her driver’s license. I almost didn’t find it because I was checking New York’s license bureau, but then I checked to see if there was any information on her in Missouri, an old ticket or something from her past. Even though she had lived in New York for 8 years she still had a Missouri driver’s license, using Jenny’s address. Technically, that made her a criminal, too. She looked a little like her sister, but shorter, and had darker hair and green eyes.

Then I looked up the previous snitch from the DEA, Richie Santos. He was definitely a more likely target for murder. He'd spent more birthdays in jail than out of jail, starting with a two year stint in Juvy for setting his neighbor's car on fire when he was ten. He had made his last report on September 10. Not the kid of guy I would invite over for drinks, but he didn't deserve to get shot in the back of the head while he was tied up in his own trunk.

I checked my email after that, but didn't have anything but spam. I sent an email to Boyd, telling him about Sneider's call to the county police. Maybe we needed to expand our investigation. I also told him I was suspicious of Jenny's death, but I couldn't put my finger on it. I told him her sister was coming to town, and that it seemed to make Sneider nervous, so I was going to keep an eye on her to see if anything came up.

Sassafras, Part 2



Rick

I didn't think anything when I heard Jennifer Bota died. She was just an accident victim. I knew her from the diner down at the overpass, Don's. She was a server there. I heard about it from Detective Mark Sneider, one of the cops in Sassafras I was watching. I didn't think I would ever forget the first time I met him. One of his deputies pulled me over for speeding and took me to jail instead of just giving me a ticket. I knew my plan was working.

I already knew the drill, fingerprinting and picture taking, Miranda rights and a phone call, but they skipped right over all those. Even my old friend Miranda. I had been sitting in the cell for about an hour when the deputy came back and told me to get up. I walked out the cell and followed the deputy to an interrogation room.

Sneider was waiting in the room when I got there. I had never met him, but I recognized him from surveillance pictures. He introduced himself, and asked me if I knew why I was there.

"Because I'm a thoroughly dangerous man," I said.

He answered by punching me in the mouth. He wore a large ring on his index finger, and it hurt like hell, but I had to keep from smiling. "You're here because I want you here," he said. "You're going to do what I tell you, or I'm going to violate your parole."

"You can't violate me, you dickhead. I didn't do anything. I want my lawyer."

"Shut up! I can do whatever I want. You can't do shit. The sooner you accept that the sooner you can go home," he said. "You're just an ex-con. A nobody. Nobody cares about you, and nobody would miss you if anything happened to you. Don't ever forget that."

"Is that a threat?" I asked. "Because if you think you scare me you are sorely mistaken.

"I'm not trying to scare you. I'm just making sure you understand your position."

"And just what is my position?" I asked.

"I have a business proposition for you," he said.

And that was my official introduction to Sassafras justice. He needed help. The police had a lot of money and merchandise that needed to be taken care of. They had been taking payoffs from drug couriers, keeping drugs and money they get from traffic stops, generally scraping the bottom of the police barrel.

They needed my professional expertise. I was an accountant. An accountant that did 7 years for assorted computer crimes. I had been in love with computers ever since the first computer I owned, a Commodore 64. I learned how to work on computers, write computer programs. I learned all the computer languages that came out; C, FORTRAN, COBOL, and BASIC. When the internet developed I learned the thrill of hacking into other people’s computers. My grades in college were always impressive without looking suspicious, and my parents would never have approved of the ways I found to make money. When I graduated from college and got an accounting job I skimmed from just about every client, even my less than legal clients. I created credit accounts with no monthly bills from several different banks, even stock market transactions magically appeared in cyber space.

Then one day I looked up from my desk and saw four men walking into my office. It wasn’t until they showed me their badges that I realized I was in trouble. For some reason it had never occurred to me that anybody would notice what I had been doing. I was way too smart to ever get caught. At least that’s what I used to think. Now I wonder how I made it that long without getting busted.

I had been out of prison for about four months when the DEA came to me. They needed somebody they could put inside the cop's circle. There had been a man inside, a drug dealer named Richie Santos, who they cut a deal with when he got arrested in Chicago, but he was missing and they needed somebody else. They really didn't want to use another civilian, but didn’t have any choice. They didn't know if Santos just ran off, or if the cops took him out. If the cops had discovered he was working with the DEA it would be hard to get an undercover agent in. The DEA needed somebody who didn’t need a cover, who already had a vulnerability the cops would be able to exploit, somebody with a specialty that the cops needed.

That somebody was me. My name is Rick Gilbert. At first I didn't want to get involved with the whole deal. I just wanted to lay low until my parole was over and then leave the state. Missouri could kiss my ass. But they had a deal I just couldn't refuse. I did 7 years in jail, but now I was stuck on parole for another 5 years. Until I was off parole I couldn't move or get a decent job because I wasn't allowed to touch a computer. The DEA could change that. I just had to do a little snooping and sneaking, maybe spend 6 months or a year tops, in some shitty little town in central Missouri called Sassafras. Then my life was all mine again.

I moved to Sassafras and got a job running forklifts at a dog food plant in Kelly, a town about 25 minutes from Sassafras. Not very impressive, but it was all I could get with my criminal record. There weren’t any jobs in Sassafras. Even the diner didn’t want me to wash their dishes. I think the factory must have gotten a tax break for hiring me because there were four other ex-cons working there. My apartment was a dump, but my job really wasn't that bad. I used to work summers and part-time during college in factories. I didn’t need the work, but I needed some way to explain where I was getting my money. I usually rode lifts or watched gauges and dials on giant machines. One year I worked at a factory that just made empty plastic bottles they shipped to other factories that filled them with detergent, catsup, chocolate syrup, whatever.

I worked swing shifts, some days, some nights, some weekends. I had been living there for a couple of weeks when John Boyd, the agent I was working with, told me I had to get the cops' attention. He suggested speeding. Once a cop pulled me over and ran my name, they would see my record. Santos said they had tons of money and needed a way to transfer it to some form they could enjoy. My record should make them drool. It worked. That was the night I met Sneider.

Sassafras, Part 1



Joan

My phone rang. ‘I'm going to kill him,’ I thought as I flipped the phone open. "Where the hell are you, Frank? O'Brien has been calling every ten minutes wanting to know where you are. If you don't show up with those papers in fifteen minutes we're going to lose the sale, you asshole."

Frank had been working at Starburst Properties longer than me. I shouldn’t have to baby sit him like this. He knew how important those papers were. If he didn’t get them to Senator O’Brien’s office the entire redevelopment deal I had been working on for over a year would end up in the toilet. I could have continued like that for quite some time. I was pretty pissed. But I heard something, something that sounded like crying. Then I barely heard someone say my name, but not my real name, Joan Weaver. I heard Aunt Jo. Only Billy ever called me Aunt Jo. "Billy?" I said as I sat back down at my desk. "Billy, is everything ok?"

"She's dead. Mom's dead. I don't know what to do."

"What do you mean, Billy? Did Grandma have another stroke?" I asked. I thought of my mom, paralyzed from a stroke three years ago. She couldn't walk, could only use her left hand, and couldn't speak anything but gibberish. I had only visited her in the nursing home twice since she went in. Just the day she moved in, and then again last year on her birthday, but she didn't even know it was her birthday. I'm not even sure if she knew who I was. I know it sounds horrible, but I felt such a wave of relief run through me I had to sit back and hold on to the armrest of my chair.

"No, Aunt Jo, Mom's dead. Somebody ran her over last night. She's dead," he said and then someone else stared talking.

"Hello, this is Sara Kennedy. I'm your sister's neighbor. If there is anything I can do, you let me know. Billy's good friends with all my boys. Sometimes it seems like he lives at my house. Don't you worry about him."

"What happened?" I asked. ‘Jenny's dead?’ I thought. She can't be dead. This isn't right. Somebody made a mistake. Or maybe it's a joke. Billy's playing a joke on me.

"Well, nobody really knows what happened. They found her in front of Scott's Hardware this morning. She was already dead when they found her. They think somebody didn't see her, and then ran into her and left. It's awful, just horrible."

It seemed like she kept talking for an eternity. I just mumbled something a couple of times, and then told her I had to go, but after I hung up I just sat there, staring at the picture on the calendar above my desk. A little white kitten, tangled up in ribbons, with eyes as blue as Jenny's. Then I cried.

The phone rang again. It was Frank, but I couldn't hear what he was saying. It sounded like everything was muffled, unreal. I told him I had to go, and then hung up. A part of me still wanted to know why he had been late bringing the papers to Senator O'Brien, but most of me couldn't have cared less.

It took longer than I thought to get everything ready. I had to pack and find somebody to feed Tiger and Sophie, my cats, and water my plants. I would have just thrown open a bag of dry food and let them help them selves, and said to hell with the plants, but Sophie is old, and needs medicine every morning, and I didn't know how long I was going to be gone anyway. What if I ended up staying a couple of weeks? What if once I got there, I couldn't leave?

I realized I didn’t have any close friends. There were people at work I went to lunch with occasionally, and people in my apartment building I would say hi to when we passed in the hall, but no real friends. In 8 years I hadn’t made a single friend. I finally decided to ask June, an elderly lady who lived in an apartment on the same floor I did. It wouldn’t be out of her way to stop by my apartment and give Sophie her pill in the morning, and I knew she had a cat because I’d seen a bag of cat food in her little cart she pulled after her everywhere she went. She seemed suspicious when she answered her door, but when I told her about Jenny she said she would love to take care of Tiger and Sophie for me.

I thought about the little town Jenny lived in. Sassafras, Missouri was a dying town. It was barely hanging on for years, and then they extended a highway four years ago, and suddenly the traffic that used to flow down main street zoomed past Sassafras like a day old, crusted donut left all alone in the box. It wasn't a ghost town yet, but it was in intensive care. I had been glad to get out when I got this job in New York. Sure, I lived in Brooklyn, not Manhattan, and there was no sex in this city. I worked like a dog trying to make a name for myself so I could afford to get out of my little cell of an apartment and move somewhere bigger. Someplace with a window for each of the cats, and maybe one for me to look out of, too.

But not Jenny. She loved Sassafras. It was where we were born and raised. We went to school there and our father was buried there. So was Billy's dad, Bill Bota. He joined the Marines when he got out of high school. They married when he came home on leave, even though Jenny was still in high school. When she graduated she moved to the base he was stationed at, but right away he got sent up to Kuwait, and she couldn't stand the loneliness so she moved back home with Mom and me.

They really do send someone to tell you in person when a Marine dies. They don't just send a letter or call you and say I'm sorry, your son or husband is dead. They came to the diner Jenny worked at while she was waiting for Billy to come home and sweep her back off her feet. When they told her he was gone, she just stood there, with a tray of food for a couple of farmers in her hands, and then fainted, spilling biscuits and gravy all over the officer's uniform.

I don't think she ever left Sassafras after that. She just kept working at the diner, waiting tables and joking with the regulars. Everybody knew her, and those that could were generous with their tips, especially when they found out she was pregnant. Bill never even knew. She didn't want to tell him because she worried it would distract him, and she didn't think he was going to be over there very long, anyway. He would be home soon, and then she would surprise him. She called it Operation Diaper.