The Labyrinth of Blue Towers: The Disappearance of Jack Arneson: Chapter Two

The Labyrinth of Blue Towers:

The Disappearance of Jack Arneson

(A Sewing Box Mystery)

Chapter 1: Friday, June 10, 2011, 7:21 pm

Chapter 2: Saturday, June 11, 2011, 8:38 am

The cream cheese on her bagel had melted so perfectly it practically slid into her mouth. Its texture and the smell of that toasted piece of heaven was definitely helping lift Missy’s mood. She’d woken up sad that morning, and had remained so until her first bite. She knew she shouldn’t drive and eat at the same time, but didn’t savor the idea of eating in front of other family members, for that would be rude (and make her feel more than just a bit self-conscious). Maybe she should have brought bagels and cream cheese for everyone? But no, that would make for a mess of crumbs and clotted smears that  Missy would have to take responsibility for cleaning up. Better to skip such niceties and get to the task at hand.

In the elevator, on her way up to her grandmother’s condo, she pulled out a compact from her new designer clutch. The purse was so small, but once it caught her eye when she was walking through the skyways of downtown Minneapolis on her lunch hour a few weeks ago, credit card interest rates be damned, she just knew she had to have it. It was totally impractical and her little secret. Peering in the tiny mirror of the compact, she wanted to make sure that all evidence of the illicit bagel was gone before seeing the gang. She was good to go, though for a fraction of a second she considered putting on a little mascara and some blush, but then thought better of it. Why mess with perfection? “Yeah, right,” she said aloud, as she snapped the compact closed.

As she approached the front door, she hesitated. Should she knock or just walk in? What was protocol? Why did she care? Because it was Grandma Jean's home whether she was still living there or not and that was something to be respected. She knocked and immediately the door swung wide open Her spidey-senses instantly told her that there was a great deal of commotion going on inside.

“Weeeellll, stranger! Come on in!”

It was Aunt Jeanette, in full welcome-wagon mode Her aunt's smile and affability never ceased to amaze Missy. She was Miss Social Event and could typically be counted on to be the perfect hostess for any occasion. “Aunt Jeanette!” Missy managed to get her name out moments before being engulfed in a deep, hearty hug which almost squeezed all the air out of her. Not that Missy minded; she was grateful that someone was excited to see her. Aunt Jeanette seemed flush with some kind of excitement; her skin felt slightly damp as the two women embraced. “How the hell are you? I haven’t seen you since the funeral. So good of you to join us. Don’t bother making excuses for Dorie, we all saw that one coming. You want some coffeecake? It’s in the kitchen. I just made some fresh coffee, too. Come on!”

Missy allowed herself to be dragged off toward the kitchen. As they moved through the living room she caught sight of various cousins taking down framed photos, paintings, and digging through her grandmother's desk drawers. “Shouldn't we all be going through things together?” she asked.

“If you can corral this group long enough to slow them down, you go for it. As far as I'm concerned, let 'em have it. At least temporarily. Trust me; nothing is walking out that front door without me looking at it first. And if it’s something I want? They ain’t getting it.” Aunt Jeanette spoke with such conviction that Missy couldn’t help but relax. And smile. That was Aunt Jeanette’s special gift—her strength and confidence. She always managed to put those around her at ease, unless you were on the wrong side of her. Then, what everybody called her 'Harley' side (as in Davidson) came out... and that, you did not want to mess with.

Standing side by side with her aunt, Missy was once again struck by their physical similarities; the phrase 'big boned gal' came to mind, not that Missy didn't do her best to remain at a healthy weight. During adolescence she remembered how she would pray every night to wake up the next morning with a body like her mother's, instead of that of her grandmother and favorite aunt. Oh, she'd eventually made her peace with it, though every now and then the injustice of it all would still dog her thoughts.

After Aunt Jeanette cut her a huge hunk of homemade coffeecake (which Missy expertly tore apart with her fingers so she at least appeared to be eating it), Missy was escorted back into the living room and was told to ‘go to town’. The room was already stripped down to its bare bones. All that remained were the worn, beige couch and matching armchair that Missy had grown up with, the grandfather clock, and a curio cabinet full of yellow Depression glass - a collection that was rapidly being wrapped and boxed by Cousin Deidra and her mother, Missy's Aunt Helen. Helen was the oldest of Grandma Jean’s daughters and was as serious and severe as Missy’s mother was flighty and frivolous. She was also as penny-pinching and studious as Aunt Jeanette was generous and warm. Missy took note of the sharp way Helen was barking orders at poor, befuddled Deidra and decided to steer clear.

 Moving down the short hallway towards the master bedroom, she passed by the bathroom, catching a glimpse of Cousin Eddie rifling through the medicine cabinet. Given his history, Missy knew exactly what he was looking for. So intent was his mission, he didn’t even notice her pass by. As she walked past the door of the spare bedroom, Missy caught wind of a disagreement between two of Cousin Deidra’s daughters over a stuffed animal. Apparently one of them had given it to Grandma Jean several years ago, but they could not come to an agreement as to who it belonged to now. Somebody else would have to solve that little dilemma; it sure as hell wasn’t going to be Missy.

Stepping into her grandmother’s bedroom, Missy once again felt a weight settle in her chest. So this is what happens after we’re gone: people tearing through things with no thought at all as to the feelings of the person who once owned them. This is what becomes of us, our things. Without Grandma Jean’s spirit to occupy them, everything in the apartment seemed like a hollow shell of its former self, like a fake prop in some mundane community theatre production. Suddenly the carpeting appeared dingier and more worn than she remembered. The bedroom set, now undoubtedly the property of someone else, appeared scuffed and faded; its blonde wood, no longer lustrous and robust, but pale and shabby.

Yet, despite this shift in perception, as she moved toward the foot of the bed, Missy marveled at how familiar everything felt and smelled. This room was always her favorite, for when Grandma Jean moved into the condo, she took great care to arrange her bedroom furniture in exactly the same way it had been in her North Minneapolis home. The dresser, the matching night stands and lamps, even the bed, in exactly the same configuration. Grandma Jean claimed the way things stood in relation to one another was extremely important - especially in the bedroom, for it was the only way she was guaranteed a good night’s sleep.

Missy moved around the far end of the bed, curious to see what was in the drawer of the nightstand. But before she could get there, her eyes caught sight of something as her breath flew from her body...

The sewing box!

Missy’s eyes welled with tears. It was in exactly the same place, at the same angle, as it was every night of Grandma Jean’s life. The magic sewing box had served as her own personal pirate's treasure chest when she was young. As a child she had whiled away many an hour sitting on her grandmother’s bed, sorting buttons, counting them and making pictures out of them. Strange that she had never learned to actually sew, but then that simply wasn’t part of her generation’s thing. It was part of her grandmother though - a special part. 

Lost in thought, Missy’s body jerked with a start at the sound of Aunt Jeanette’s voice. Even though her aunt spoke softly, it still caught her off-guard.

“I told everyone that they could touch whatever they like, but they were not to a lay a finger on that sewing box until you got here.”

Missy thanked her and the two of them climbed onto the center of the bed where they sat going through the many treasures inside. A favorite thimble. A fondly remembered button. The sand-filled pin cushion shaped like a ripe tomato. It was like a miniature world Grandma Jean had once created, collected and occupied. After they both had their fill, Aunt Jeanette looked at Missy through the bottom of her bifocals, her chin raised with the effort, and said, “I know you’re Dorie’s kid, hon, but you were your grandmother’s child. She loved you so much ” She then looked down into her lap as her eyes brimmed with tears.

Missy reached out and put an arm around her aunt. It was good to know that someone missed Grandma Jean as much as she did. They had a good cry until Aunt Jeanette suddenly sprang back to life, “Woooooo Okay,” she said. “Enough of that.”

She slapped Missy’s knee “Come on, girl Let’s head back into the kitchen and marvel at the number of coffee mugs one old woman can collect in a lifetime.”

They were just about to get off the bed when Cousin Eddie entered the bedroom. He paid no attention to the two women on the bed and instead went right for the dresser and Grandma Jean’s underwear drawer. 

“Young man!” spat Aunt Jeanette. “You! Stop in your tracks and go no further. I don’t know what you're looking for, but you are not going to find it in that drawer!”

Cousin Eddie turned and looked at her, his hands still resting on the edge of the opened drawer. Wordlessly, he closed the drawer slowly and without his gaze so much as leaving Aunt Jeanette’s eyes for a second, he stealthily skulked out of the room. Once he’d gone. Aunt Jeanette said under her breath, “That boy is in need some serious psychological help.”

Missy moved to close the drawer of the dresser. As she did, her eyes fell upon something she'd never seen before. It was a piece of paper, folded. It didn't appear to be ordinary writing paper from a tablet or notebook, but a page torn from some kind of a book. Missy slowly unfolded it and, finding an empty space on the top of the dresser, attempted to smooth it out. It looked like a map; some sort of diagram or floor plan. Drawn in pencil, it didn’t appear to correspond to the layout of either the condo or the old house in North Minneapolis. In Grandma Jean’s careful handwriting, areas and items were identified; 'hallway', furnace', 'bench', 'stairs', 'smooth wall', 'blonde door', 'window', 'cot', etc. On the back of the map was a list of items or names, none of which Missy recognized. She looked at her Aunt Jeanette, who had risen from the bed and joined her in front of the dresser, and asked, “What is this?”

Aunt Jeanette took the map. As she looked at it her eyes grew large, and after only a matter of seconds, her gaze met Missy’s and she said, matter-of-factly, “That’s where Jack Arneson is.”

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That's all for now.

Next Week: Chapter Three

Thanks for reading.

Some People's Lives - Janis Ian